Chapter 4 – Empty Hands
The village burned before the rebels even reached it. Smoke curled into the sky, black and thick, carrying with it the screams of the living and the silence of the dead.
Roman soldiers had struck first, leaving corpses sprawled in the dirt, homes ransacked, children clinging to mothers who could no longer rise.
When Spartacus and his men entered, the villagers scattered like frightened birds. They saw not saviors but another army, blades dripping, faces hard with vengeance.
Crixus spat into the dust. "Leave them. They are not ours to carry. Rome made their choice — we cannot unmake it."
One of the rebels, blood still streaked across his arms, snarled in agreement. "We waste steel on weaklings. They only slow us."
The words hung in the smoke.
Then Ivar stepped forward. His sea-green eyes swept the scene — the corpses, the trembling survivors, the frightened children staring at the armed slaves. His voice cut clean through the chaos.
"If we abandon them, Rome wins without drawing another blade."
The rebels fell silent.
Spartacus turned, frowning. "We are hunted, boy. Every mouth we add bleeds our supplies, weakens our step."
Ivar held his gaze, unflinching. "And every soul we abandon proves Rome's truth — that we are beasts. That freedom is only slaughter. If we wish to be more, we must carry them. Even when it slows us. Even when it bleeds us."
He pointed at the villagers, his voice rising. "Rome will not fear beasts. Rome will fear an army of men who protect, not devour."
Crixus growled, ready to argue, but Spartacus raised a hand. His jaw clenched, his chest heaved — but his eyes softened.
"You speak sense beyond your years," Spartacus said quietly. "We will take them."
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The Burden of Mercy
The rebels carried children on their shoulders, guided trembling elders, shared what little bread they had. Some muttered curses, others kept silent, but none could deny the fire Ivar had lit.
That night, by the campfire, one of the villagers approached Ivar. A woman, her face streaked with soot, bowed low. "We have nothing to give. Only thanks."
Ivar placed his hand gently on her shoulder. "Thanks is enough. Survival itself is gift."
She looked into his eyes, and for a heartbeat, saw not a boy but something older, harder — as if the storm itself stared back.
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The Rift
Later, Spartacus sat apart, watching the villagers eat their first warm meal in days. Crixus stood at his side, scowling.
"You let a child sway you," Crixus said. "We weaken ourselves with every step."
Spartacus' jaw tightened. "The boy sees truth. Rome paints us as animals. We must prove them wrong."
Crixus spat. "He speaks as though gods whisper in his ear."
Spartacus said nothing. But his eyes flicked toward the fire, where Ivar sat with children gathered near, telling them softly of the stars above. The sea-green glow of his gaze reflected in their wide eyes.
And Spartacus wondered if perhaps Crixus was right.
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⚔️ Do you want me to move directly into Chapter 5 (Episode 5 – Libertus) — the spectacular rescue from the arena, where Ivar fights in his green armor before the roaring crowd again — or pause to add a short Roman perspective showing how senators and soldiers are beginning to whisper Ivar's name alongside Spartacus?