Chapter 1 – Fugitivus
The forests beyond Capua swallowed them whole — rebels, slaves, brothers-in-blood. The smoke of Batiatus' villa still smeared the night sky, red as the gods' own wound, but already the chase was on. Roman horns echoed in the distance, hounds bayed, boots trampled the earth.
Spartacus led with fury, Crixus with pride. The men followed because they had no other choice. But fear gnawed at them. They were hunted beasts now, marked for death.
Ivar walked among them, twin swords strapped to his back, green armor hidden beneath a cloak. His sea-green eyes studied the trees, the ground, the men themselves. Every breath was calculation.
They reached a riverbank at dawn, the rebels splashing water on their faces, drinking deep. Spartacus crouched with Varro's absence still heavy in his eyes, rage sharpening him more than rest.
"We cannot stop," Spartacus growled. "Glaber hunts. His soldiers will be upon us by nightfall."
Murmurs of dissent rippled through the group. Hungry, wounded, exhausted. Some wanted to scatter. Others whispered of surrender.
Crixus snarled, fists clenched. "Let them break! Better they die in the wilds than slow us."
That was when Ivar spoke. His voice cut through the noise like steel.
"Scatter, and Rome wins. Stand, and Rome bleeds."
All eyes turned to him — a boy, but no longer seen as such. He crouched at the river's edge, running his hand through the current, listening to the water's song.
"The river runs south. Roman boots will follow the banks. We take the ridge above, and we become ghosts. We starve them of sight, of sleep, of hope. Kill their scouts, let fear rot their hearts before steel touches their flesh."
Silence. Then murmurs of agreement. Even Oenomaus, grim and scarred, gave a nod.
Spartacus studied him for a long moment. "You think like one who has led men."
Ivar's gaze was steady. "I think like one who has survived."
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The Ambush
By nightfall, the plan was in motion. Romans marched along the river, torches blazing. Hounds snarled, noses to the ground.
They never saw the shadows on the ridge.
At Ivar's signal — a sharp whistle like a bird — the rebels struck. Stones tumbled down, torches snuffed, blades flashing from the dark. Spartacus roared as his sword cut through the first line, Crixus bellowed as he split a soldier's helm.
Ivar moved with cold precision. He slit throats in silence, twin blades weaving a dance of death. A spear whistled past his head — he turned, short sword burying in the soldier's belly, long sword slicing across his neck. Blood sprayed, hot and bright.
The Romans broke. Some ran into the river, dragged by current. Others fled into the woods, screams trailing like banners.
The rebels stood victorious. For once, not hunted — hunters.
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Aftermath
The men cheered, drunk on triumph. Spartacus grinned, blood on his teeth, raising his sword. Crixus spat into the river, muttering, "A boy led us into this. A boy."
Oenomaus corrected him, voice firm. "Not a boy. A gladiator."
Ivar sat on a rock apart, cleaning his blades, eyes on the moon's reflection in the river. He whispered a quiet thanks to the gods, his voice too low for others to hear.
Spartacus approached, crouching beside him. "Your plan saved us. Without it, we would have bled in the river."
Ivar shook his head. "The gods saved us. I only listened."
Spartacus studied him, uneasy at the calm certainty in his voice. But he said nothing.
In the dark, among whispers of freedom and blood, the legend of Twin Steel grew louder.
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⚔️ Do you want me to continue straight into Chapter 2 (Episode 2 – A Place in This World), where Spartacus and Crixus argue over the rebellion's direction and Ivar begins to emerge as the voice of balance, or pause to sketch how Rome is reacting to the name Gemina Ferrum spreading beyond Capua?