Chapter 1 – Enemies of Rome
The winter wind cut sharp across the hills. Below, a Roman supply column wound its way along the valley road — hundreds of men, wagons groaning under grain and steel, banners snapping in the cold.
At the ridge above, the rebels watched. No longer dozens, but thousands. Farmers with scythes, freed slaves with stolen swords, gladiators with scars thick as armor.
And at their head stood Spartacus.
His eyes burned with fire, his voice a hammer on steel. "Rome names us animals! Let us show them we are wolves with teeth enough to tear empires!"
The rebels roared.
Beside him, Crixus raised his sword, muscles taut, pride shining. "Blood and glory!"
The roar grew louder, shaking the stones beneath their feet.
And then Ivar stepped forward.
Cloaked in green-scaled armor, twin swords strapped to his back, sea-green eyes burning like torchlight in the dark. His voice did not roar. It cut. Calm, sharp, certain.
"Strike not for vengeance. Strike not for pride. Strike because Rome believes us weak. Today we prove them wrong."
The army stilled. Thousands listened to the boy who no longer looked like a boy.
"Gemina Ferrum!" voices cried. "Twin Steel!"
The chant rolled like thunder, mingling with Spartacus' name. Two legends, side by side.
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The Attack
The signal was given.
Rebels poured down the ridge like floodwaters breaking a dam. Arrows rained, rocks tumbled, steel clashed. The Roman line staggered, shields bracing against the tide.
Spartacus struck first, sword cleaving through shield rim and bone alike. Crixus was a storm of muscle and rage, cutting down men as if they were wheat.
Ivar moved differently. Cold. Precise. Twin blades flashing in deadly rhythm. The long sword hacked a shield apart, the short sword slipped beneath ribs, and in the same breath he spun, cutting another man's throat.
A centurion lunged at him, spear thrust low. Ivar caught it with the hook of his longsword, twisted, and slammed his short blade through the man's throat. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc.
The rebels cheered as the wagons fell into their hands. Rome broke, soldiers fleeing into the hills, leaving grain and steel behind.
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Aftermath
The rebels feasted that night, bellies full, spirits high. For the first time, it felt like more than survival. It felt like victory.
Yet Ivar sat apart, polishing his blades, his sea-green eyes reflecting the firelight. Spartacus approached, lowering himself onto the rock beside him.
"You speak like one who has led armies," Spartacus said.
Ivar's voice was steady. "I speak like one who has survived long enough to learn from Rome's mistakes."
Spartacus studied him for a long moment. "They chant your name as they chant mine. Half fear you, half worship you. What do you make of it?"
Ivar shrugged, never looking up. "Legends do not matter. Only survival does. Let the gods do with my name as they will. My blades remain mine."
Spartacus frowned, unsettled. But he said nothing.
Behind them, the chant rose again.
"Spartacus!"
"Gemina Ferrum!"
"Freedom!"
And Rome, for the first time in centuries, trembled at the sound.
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⚔️ Do you want me to move straight into Chapter 2 (Episode 2 – Wolves at the Gate) where the rebels seize a city and Ivar masterminds the siege, or pause for a Roman perspective interlude — Crassus hearing about Spartacus and Ivar for the first time, and deciding how to break them?