A Revolution- Warrior's Blood II

The gates creak loudly as they are slowly raised, letting bright sunlight blind the gladiator and his two soldier escorts. Blinking desperately to gain vision, Spartacus is shoved roughly into the arena. The white sand sends heat waves shimmering through the air and the dull roar of a huge crowd fills the ears of the gladiator. Spread throughout the arena are the weaponless slaves or condemned prisoners who are quickly being slaughtered by the trained gladiators. From the left of the now closed entrance a voice growls out, "Spartacus!" Spartacus quickly turns toward his easily recognized allies voice, just as a heavily armored but slim man charges him. Cursing under his breath, Spartacus ducks under the swinging long sword and catches the man under the arm, knocking him to the ground as the sword is flung across the sand. The two grapple about, sand flying, neither able to gain the upper hand. Winding up to elbow Spartacus in the face, the smaller gladiator leaves his side exposed long enough for Spartacus to slam his knee down, breaking multiple ribs. The injured man goes limp as he coughs up blood on the white sand. Still pinning the prone man, Spartacus yells out,"Crixus, weapon!" A few moments pass as the wounded man begins squirming and thrashing against Spartacus, gaining attention from others. Glancing around, Spartacus can see two men slowly making their way behind him, preparing to attack while he is distracted. Crixus is nowhere to be seen. Making a quick decision, Spartacus grabs the man's neck and jerks it violently to the side, then rising procures the fallen's long thin sword. Going on the offensive, he attacks a lurking man he vaguely recognizes from his sword training lessons. The unfortunate man apparently did not learn anything from his lessons and is soon decapitated, leaving only a slice across Spartcus's left bicep to his memory. Running to Spartacus, Crixus grimaces at the body, then raises an eyebrow at the long but flimsy sword his friend clutches. Spartacus shrugs. "Lucius thought the fight would be more interesting if I began without my own weapon. I had to make do." Shaking his head, Crixus chuckles sourly, "Yes, this is far more entertaining for the mob." The pair are quickly distracted as a new dispatch of gladiators are released into the somewhat settled arena, as only the finest of warriors are left. "Apparently not entertaining enough though..."

Back in a large room occupied with around fifty gladiators eating and arguing noisily, Oenomaus, Castus, and Crixus speak in hushed tones around a rough wood table. "And Spartacus' sure?" The heavily tattooed Crixus nods at the doubting Castus and attempts to reassure him. "As sure as he can be from here. We must wait until-"
"But if we are 'trayed?" interjects Castus, glaring at the slightly larger man. Almost growling, Oenomaus takes a swig of his drink and slams it onto the table, causing others to glance at the group nervously. "If we are betrayed we will hunt down the scoundrel and slit his throat in his sleep." His deep voice commands the attention of others. The room becomes hushed. Rolling his eyes at the inquisitive glances from other gladiators, Crixus smiles his gap-toothed smile at his loud and very solid friend. "Right, there is always tha'. So'long we ain't dead yet..." Castus's voice drips with sarcasm. Crixus interjects before the two truly begin to argue, "We have already sworn our oaths, thus whatever happens is now in Spartacus' hands. Castus, you understood that when this began."
"That doesn't mean imma just sit here and take my death. Tha's all." Castus leans back in his rickety chair and shrugs nonchalantly. Curving his mouth ironically which makes his facial tattoos distort, Crixus nods. "So, we proceed."

A group of ten men crouch behind a wall having just slipped out of their cells silently. At the first flash of a light one man in front waves for the others to proceed around the courtyard. Shadows move across the courtyard as about fifty men slip around the empty training grounds. The men continue to glance nervously at where the guards should be posted on the parapet, but there is no movement. Not five minutes earlier Spartacus and a few hand-picked gladiators known for their stealth had ensured a safe and covert passage for the others. The first group of men begins to climb the rough wall, a few slipping, but most making it to the top. As the first dozen make the jump outside the wall, a sigh of relief can be felt rather than heard. Then the piercing sound of a warning horn rings clear, shattering the still air. Cursing at their bad luck, the men begin to panic. Arrows bring down those left on the wall, screaming in pain and crawling back toward their comrades. Crixus and Oenomaus attempt to shout above the din, "To me! Rally toward the kitchen!" Some follow and begin to form up lines out of instinct rather than true defense. Racing back toward the shelter of the inner walls as was the back-up plan, a large gladiator breaks down the door to the kitchen and rushes in. The women inside squeal and flee in terror, the whites of their dark brown eyes betraying their lack of courage. Oenomaus, spotting Castus grasps the man's arm pulling him away from the stream of men seeking shelter. "Where is he?" he hisses out. Frowning at the rough treatment Castus shoves his arm off and sputters, "He said he would be here by now. Just wait." And with that he disappears into the crowd.

Someone begins handing out kitchen knives and utensils to the desperate men who understand that time is of the essence for their survival. The previously assigned leaders begin to work out a plan to fight their way to the roof and meet with the escapees. As the first group begins climbing the closest stairs, three others choose alternate routes for once the soldiers are distracted. Crixus, leading the men up the stairs, gasps in surprise as he opens the door to see Spartacus fighting desperately against a formation of Roman soldiers with only three gladiators beside him. Seeing his opening, Crixus, armed only with a butcher's knife, ferociously  joins the fight slowly pushing the guards along to the outer wall. Many men fall, filling the walkway with piles of bodies. But, neither side will relent. After what feels like hours to Spartacus but is in reality only minutes, he sees the first couple of men drop safely outside of the compound walls. The men whoop in victory as they take the jump and he quickly follows after making sure only a few are left. Landing on the rough ground he gathers his bearings and begins running toward the meeting place eleven miles south of the compound. Oenomaus runs up beside him trying to duck to avoid the few arrows being shot after them. "I know of fourteen dead so far and at least sixty alive. And Castus was able grab quite a bit of weapons, maybe even a wagon or two." Spartacus nods sharply. "Good. We continue as planned." 
"Any idea of the traitor?" Glancing up at the taller man Spartacus frowns. "No and I don't suppose we ever will know. They were extremely ill prepared though so it couldn't have been anyone who knew too much. Probably just rumors finding the right ears." They continue on in silence for a while, each listening to his own racing thoughts for company. "How bad is your leg?" Oenomaus rumbles, pointing to Spartacus' thigh. "My leg-" His retort is cut short as he notices the wound for the first time. The flesh above his knee is peeled back and a steady stream of blood runs down his leg. Cursing, he sits down immediately and taking a long strip of cloth offered by Oenomaus, begins binding the cut which now throbs excruciatingly. Then he rises waving off any assistance and begins running again as fast as his leg will allow him. 

Not far from the site the pair pause and look at the steady flow of men who upon reaching their destination, begin handing out proper weapons and binding wounds. The small valley is already aflutter with activity and noise. The sun is just beginning to light up the sky. Clearing his throat, Oenomaus questions, "What now, my friend?" Spartacus grabs the other man's forearm tightly. "Now," He says through gritted teeth, "we begin our revolution." and smiling broadly he finishes, "Let's give Rome hell."

Warrior's Blood I

The rusted shackles rub on the bound man's wrists and ankles, clinking loudly enough to make the guards stir nervously outside. Stretching as far as the chains allow, Spartacus begins his ritual for preparing for yet another game. His calm mind flashes back to scenes from years ago, yesterday, and that morning in random order. Breathing deeply he reminds himself of the past injuries both physical and psychological that he has faced and can feel his heart begin to pump his hot blood faster. Why do I fight? His homeland of Thrace seems almost to replace the dark cell hole with a forest of evergreens. Whom do I fight? As he stretches out his body, faces flash across his consciousness-traitors, cowards. What is freedom? He looks up at the stone wall before him where five letters have been etched. Death. Spartacus shakes his head as if to clear it from morbid thoughts and finishing his stretches, sits cross-legged on the ground. Then glancing through the bars into the dank hallway, Spartacus inspects the occupants of the cell across from his. Rome has not been kind in its selection of victims, for the damp cell holds an older man and a child. Almost hidden in the dark corner and trying futilely to get into a painless position, the aged man shifts on the rough, blood-stained stones. Opposite him sits a small child curled into a fetal position and rocking against the ground, causing a constant irritating scraping noise. With his long oily hair covering his face, the child's only distinguishing features are his long skinny legs and loose dirty clothing. A guard outside taps on the wall with his sword, roughly grunting with a thick foreign accent, "Five minutes, all prisoners." The whimper of the starving boy greets this news as the child begins rocking more violently. The old man spits vehemently in the direction of the door, his spittle catching in his scraggly beard which only adds to his demented look. Ravaged with sores and whip lashes, his body has seen the limits of cruelty. Spartacus looks on him with only pity, thinking of his own nourished, strong body that taunts others as it shows the favor he has received from the emperor already. He whispers, "You will end well, fighting. A noble death." The man's eyes go wide at the sound of Spartacus's voice and he begins screaming incoherently, throwing his face into his hands and clawing at his hair. "Silence!" A guard yells back, then glancing at a candle in the hall shrugs. "It's time anyway." He pulls out his keys and begins unlocking Spartacus's door first, pointing his sword threateningly toward him. Raising his shackled hands to show cooperation, Spartacus rises. He is soon joined in the hall by many others, some whom he recognizes from his training and others unfortunately condemned by an unjust government. The scrawny bodies providing a glaring contrast to the well-muscled bodies of the gladiators, the guards quickly separate the two groups and prod the condemned down a branching corridor. Noting the unusually large number of guards left to only a handful of men, Spartacus mumbles to himself, "A guard of ten?" Near him a burly soldier who appears to be second-in-command responds bitterly, "It would seem your reputation precedes you, Spartacus." Spartacus glares at the man challenging him to continue, but says nothing. After being ordered to move, the group travels down the corridor in silence until the leader barks out for the prisoners to be taken to their separate gates. A large man covered in dark exotic markings across his body catches Spartacus's eye and winks at him before smirking. Nodding and pausing to watch the man being led away, Spartacus is shoved roughly from behind, causing him to stumble on the uneven ground. A young soldier from the back grumbles to his friend, "Dunno why we gotta have so many of us around for this one, I mean he seems-" The boy is suddenly cut off by an elbow to the ribs from another man who watches his commander with wide eyes. But, it's too late, the general has heard. "Bardus, is it?" The commander sharply asks. The youth stands taller while his countenance seems to weaken. Stumbling over his words, he barely coughs out, "Y-Yes, General."
"Bardus, I can only hope that you will not live up to your unfortunate name. Another word from you, and you will be taking the place of our charge." and turning away, the commander yells out, "Onward." As he is marched further under the Colosseum, Spartacus almost smiles at the hidden joke, a piece of humanity in the belly of the beast. Finally the group reaches a door which leads to a dark room with two more soldiers posted at a gate on the far side. The commander motions for Spartacus to enter and follows him in, nodding for the others to leave the room. The door softly closes on Spartacus and the commander, the former sitting with his back against a wall. "Spartacus, you will not enter with a weapon today." Suddenly looking weary in the dim torch light, the rough general sighs. Spartacus glances up, his fierce features made more prominent from his intensity, but pressing his lips tightly together says nothing. The commander resumes, "I tried to convince the Emperor otherwise, but no matter, you have trained well enough. Just remember, your duties must come before your loyalties, even if-" At this, the inert gladiator rises quickly and silently, facing the general. "Do not speak to me of loyalties," he whispers, "Lucius." The name is spat out into the gloom, echoing and dragging out past memories. Lucius flinches, understanding what he has done to ruin  his own former commander. The man who was once worshiped as a genius in battle is now fought over like an exotic animal, an animal that could make one rich beyond all belief. Spartacus's eyes gleam with fury and his hands shake with uncontrollable emotion. "You are what I fight against in this arena. You, and all that you stand for." The declaration is made softly, but bitterly.  Spartacus remains standing as moments drag by with only the muted rumble of the crowd keeping complete silence at bay. And as a fist pounds on the door, the spell is broken. Lucius pushes open the door, not bothering to glance back as he calls over his shoulder, "Today you die, gladiator." Left in the darkness, Spartacus whispers to himself, "Yes, today I will be free."