Son of Spartacus

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The raiders came shortly after nightfall, emerging stealthily from the belt of cedar trees that stretched along the slopes of the hill above the villa. Over fifty of them, armed with a mixture of swords, spears and clubs. Some had armour: chain- mail or old bronze cuirasses, and helmets and shields in a wide variety of designs. Most of the men were thin and gaunt, used to a life of hard labour and perpetual hunger. Their leaders were different: powerfully built individuals who carried the scars of their profession. In contrast to the other men, their armour was ornately decorated and well cared for. Before they had escaped from their owners these men had once been gladiators — the most deadly fighters in all the lands ruled from Rome.

At the head of the small force rode a broad-shouldered man with tightly curled dark hair. He sat astride a fine black mare, part of the spoils of another villa attacked a month before. A livid white knot of tissue stretched across his brow and nose, the scar of a wound received only a few months earlier from a centurion in command of a patrol that had been ambushed. The patrol had been part of the force sent out from Rome to track down and eliminate the bands of brigands and runaway slaves who were hiding deep amid the Apennine mountains. Many of the fugitives were the survivors of the great rebellion led by the gladiator Spartacus some twelve years earlier, and they still carried his legacy close to their hearts. That revolt had nearly brought Rome to its knees and ever since the Romans had lived in fear of another bloody uprising. Thanks to the wars that they had been fighting outside Italia, it had not been possible to complete the destruction of the surviving rebels and over the years their numbers had swollen by thousands.

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