Pain has a clarity all its own. It sharpens the world to a knife edge, stripping away uncertainty and leaving only what matters. Survival. The next breath. The next step.

  Three days had passed since the avalanche separated us from Tarax. Three days of struggling through deepening snow, Sura's injured ankle growing worse despite the bindings I crafted from strips of my cloak. Three days of dwindling strength as hunger gnawed at our reserves.

  We had lost nearly everything in the slide. My sword and knife remained, along with the clothes on our backs. No food. No flint for fire. Only the small wooden amulet Sura wore remained of our former life.

  "We need to find shelter," I said, supporting Sura as we trudged through knee deep snow. The storm had finally passed, leaving a crystalline landscape that sparkled beneath a cold sun. Beautiful and deadly.

  "There," she said, pointing to a rocky outcropping perhaps half a mile ahead. "I can make it that far."

  I knew she lied. Her face had grown pale, her breathing labored. The wound on her forehead had scabbed over, but the ankle continued to swell. Still, I nodded as if I believed her. Sometimes hope is more important than truth.

  We pressed on, each step a small victory. The mountains around us stood indifferent to our struggle, ancient peaks that had watched civilizations rise and fall, armies march and retreat. Rome was merely the latest power to believe it could tame these heights. The mountains knew better.

  By midday, we reached the outcropping, finding it deeper than it appeared from a distance. Not a true cave, but a hollow beneath a massive boulder, protected from the wind and hidden from casual observation.

  I helped Sura inside and used snow to erase our tracks as best I could. Then I gathered what meager comforts the wilderness offered. Pine boughs for bedding. Bark from a birch tree that might be chewed for its slight nutrition. And after an hour of patient work, fire.

  The flames were small, fed by the driest twigs I could find, but they brought warmth and, just as importantly, hope. Sura watched me work, her eyes reflecting the firelight.

  "You should have left me," she said when I finally settled beside her.

  "Never," I replied.

  "The Romans hunt you specifically. Without me slowing you, you could have reached the resistance camp by now."

  "And what would I be without you?" I asked. "Just another warrior running from Rome. You give my flight purpose."

  She smiled faintly. "Fine words from a man who once claimed not to believe in destiny."

  "I believe in choice," I corrected. "And I choose you, always."

  We fell silent, conserving energy as the short winter day faded toward dusk. The cold intensified with the darkness, pressing against our small sanctuary like a living thing. I fed the fire carefully, aware that its light might attract unwanted attention but knowing we would not survive the night without its warmth.

  "Tell me of your home," I said, hoping conversation would distract us both from hunger and cold. "Not our village, but where you were born. You never speak of it."

  Sura looked surprised by the question. In the years of our marriage, I had rarely asked about her past. Perhaps because I sensed pain there.

  "It was a small settlement near the river Nestus," she said after a moment. "Smaller than our village, barely twenty families."

  "Your parents were seers as well?"

  She shook her head. "My mother died bringing me into the world. My father was a metalworker. He had no patience for visions or omens." The firelight played across her features, softening the lines of exhaustion. "The gift came from my mother's line."

  "When did you first know you had it?"

  "I was seven," she said, her voice taking on the rhythmic quality of a practiced storyteller. "Playing by the river with the other children. I saw a boy from our village slip beneath the water. Not the real boy, but a shadow of what would come. I tried to warn them, but they laughed." She paused. "Three days later, it happened exactly as I had seen. After that, they feared me."

  "And your father?"

  "Sent me to live with my mother's sister in another village. She had the gift as well, though weaker. She taught me to control it, to interpret what I saw." A sadness entered her voice. "Two years later, Romans came to her village. They called the seers witches, blamed them for a sickness that had struck a nearby Roman outpost."

  I could guess what came next. "They killed her?"

  "They took her. I never learned what happened after. I hid in the forest until they left, then wandered until traders found me and brought me to your village." She touched the amulet at her throat. "This was hers. The only thing I have left of that life."

  I took her hand, feeling the strength in her slender fingers. "You never told me."

  "Some wounds are best left undisturbed." She looked into the fire. "But perhaps it is time for truth between us. The road ahead grows darker."

  "You have seen something?"

  "Fragments only. Chains. Blood. An arena filled with shouting voices." She met my gaze. "And you, standing at the center of it all."

  I had long grown accustomed to Sura's visions, her glimpses of possible futures. Usually, they came as riddles, open to interpretation. This one seemed unnervingly specific.

  "Rome will not have me," I said with more confidence than I felt.

  "I pray you are right." She leaned against me, her body trembling slightly with cold despite the fire. "Rest now. I will take the first watch."

  "You are injured. Sleep. I will wake you if needed."

  She did not argue, a measure of her exhaustion. Within minutes, her breathing deepened into sleep, her head resting against my shoulder. I watched the night deepen outside our shelter, stars emerging in the clear mountain sky. In another life, I might have found beauty in it.

  Now I saw only the vast distance between us and safety.

  Morning came with a biting clarity. The temperature had dropped further overnight, and Sura's condition had worsened. The ankle had turned an angry purple, and fever flushed her cheeks despite the cold.

  "We need to find help," I said, examining the swollen joint. "It may be broken, not just sprained."

  She nodded weakly. "There are settlements in these mountains. Small ones. The Bessi live scattered across these heights."

  "Can you travel?"

  "I must," she replied simply.

  I fashioned a crude crutch from a pine branch, binding it with strips of fabric from my tunic. It would help, but not enough. The journey would be agony for her.

  We set out as the sun cleared the eastern peaks, its light blindingly bright against the snow. I led the way, breaking trail through the deepest drifts, turning frequently to check on Sura. Her determination never faltered, though pain lined her face with each step.

  By midday, we had covered less than two miles. Too slow. At this pace, we would die in these mountains, either from exposure or starvation. I was considering carrying her, despite knowing it would exhaust me too quickly, when I spotted smoke rising from a valley to our west.

  "Look," I said, pointing. "A settlement, perhaps."

  Sura squinted against the sunlight. "Or a Roman patrol."

  "Either means fire and shelter. We have little choice."

  She nodded, accepting the risk. We altered our course, heading toward the smoke. The descent into the valley proved treacherous, the slope steep and slick with ice beneath the snow. Twice I had to catch Sura as she lost her footing, the second time nearly sending us both tumbling down the mountainside.

  As we neared the source of the smoke, caution reasserted itself. I helped Sura into the shelter of a stand of pines and moved forward alone to investigate.

  What I found was neither settlement nor patrol, but a lone traveler camped in a small clearing. An old man sat beside a carefully built fire, cooking something that made my empty stomach clench with longing. His horse, a sturdy mountain breed, was tethered nearby.

  I studied him from concealment. His clothing marked him as neither Roman nor Thracian, but something between. A trader, perhaps, or a wanderer. He seemed unarmed except for a walking staff leaning against a nearby tree.

  I weighed our options. Attack and take what we needed? Approach openly and seek help? The first choice went against everything I believed, yet Sura's life might depend on immediate aid. The second exposed us to potential betrayal. Romans paid well for information.

  In the end, necessity decided. I stepped into the clearing, hands empty and visible.

  The old man looked up, unsurprised, as if he had been expecting company. "I wondered when you would show yourself," he said in accented Thracian. "You watch with the patience of a hunter, but the hunger of the hunted."

  "We mean no harm," I said cautiously.

  "We?" His eyes, remarkably clear for one of his years, scanned the tree line. "Ah, I see. Your companion is injured. Bring her. The fire is warm and the meal nearly ready."

  I hesitated, suspicious of his easy acceptance. "How do I know we can trust you?"

  He laughed, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "You do not. Nor do I know if I can trust you. Yet here we are, two travelers in a cold land. Trust must begin somewhere." He gestured to the fire. "Bring her before the cold takes a greater toll."

  Something in his manner decided me. I returned to Sura and helped her to the clearing. The old man watched our approach with keen interest, rising to his feet with surprising agility.

  "Sit," he instructed, indicating a place near the fire. "Let me see the injury."

  Sura exchanged a glance with me before extending her leg. The old man knelt, his movements deliberate as he examined the swollen ankle.

  "Not broken," he declared after a thorough inspection. "But badly sprained. The bindings were well done, but insufficient." He reached into a leather satchel and produced a small clay pot. "This will help with the swelling and pain."

  As he worked, spreading a pungent salve over the injury and rewrapping it with clean cloth, I studied him more carefully. His age was difficult to determine. The white hair and lined face suggested great years, yet he moved with the ease of a much younger man. His hands, applying the salve with practiced skill, bore the calluses of one accustomed to labor.

  "You have medical training," Sura observed.

  "I have lived long and learned much," he replied simply. He finished his work and returned to the fire, stirring whatever cooked in the small pot suspended above the flames. "Eat. Regain your strength."

  The meal was simple. A stew of dried meat and wild roots, more flavorful than its humble ingredients suggested. We ate slowly, savoring each mouthful after days of near starvation.

  "You have our gratitude," I said when the edge of hunger had dulled. "I am Spartacus of the Maedi. This is Sura, my wife."

  "I know who you are, Spartacus of the Maedi," the old man replied. "The Romans have spread word of you even to these remote heights. A substantial reward awaits anyone who delivers you to them."

  My hand moved toward my knife. "And you seek this reward?"

  He regarded me with something like amusement. "If I wanted to betray you, I would have done so while you watched from the trees. A signal fire would have brought the nearest patrol within hours." He shook his head. "No, I have no love for Rome or its gold."

  "Then why help us?" Sura asked.

  "Because the wheel turns," he said cryptically. "And those who stand against Rome deserve what aid I can offer." He looked at me with sudden intensity. "But know this. The path before you leads to places darker than these mountains. I can ease your journey for a time, but not change its course."

  His words echoed Sura's vision uncomfortably. "You speak like a seer."

  "No. Merely an old man who has witnessed much." He rose and moved to his horse, returning with a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. "Take these. Food for several days, a flint for fire, and herbs for the ankle. Enough to reach the settlement three valleys west of here."

  I accepted the offering with caution born of a lifetime's suspicion. "Why would you part with such valuable supplies?"

  "Because I have more than I need, and you have less." He gestured toward the western mountains. "The settlement is small, just a few Bessi families. They keep to the old ways and harbor no love for Rome. They will shelter you until the woman can travel more easily."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "And the resistance camp Tarax spoke of?"

  The old man's expression grew guarded. "Further north, in the highest valleys. But the routes there will be impassable for weeks after the recent storms." He studied us thoughtfully. "Rest. Heal. The mountains have stood against Rome for generations. They will continue to do so while you regain your strength."

  We stayed with him through the afternoon and into the evening, sharing his fire and learning what news he carried. The old man, who never offered his name despite our questions, knew much of Roman movements throughout Thrace. Their campaign of subjugation continued, village by village, tribe by tribe.

  "They seek to secure their northern frontier before turning their legions against each other," he explained. "Civil war brews in Rome. The generals gather their forces."

  "Tarax spoke of this as well," I noted. "Rome tears itself apart, yet still finds strength to oppress others."

  "Such is the nature of empires," the old man replied. "They consume others even as they consume themselves."

  That night, we slept beside his fire, the first true rest we had known since fleeing our village. In the morning, he was gone. His horse, his supplies, any trace of his presence, all vanished like morning mist. Only the bundle he had given us remained, along with a crudely drawn map showing the route to the Bessi settlement.

  "Was he real?" Sura asked, bewildered by his silent departure.

  I touched the bundle, solid enough. "Real, yes. But perhaps not what he seemed."

  "A guardian spirit, sent by the gods?"

  I had no answer that satisfied either her or myself. We gathered what remained and set out westward, following the map's guidance. Sura moved more easily now, the old man's salve having reduced the swelling considerably.

  The journey took two days, easier ones than those that had preceded them. The weather held clear, and the old man's provisions sustained us well. By the afternoon of the second day, we sighted the settlement. A cluster of wooden structures nestled against a cliff face, smoke rising from several chimneys.

  We approached openly, too weary for stealth. A sentry spotted us before we reached the outermost buildings, raising an alarm that brought several armed men to meet us. They carried spears and bows, their stance hostile until they noted Sura's injury and our obvious exhaustion.

  "We seek shelter," I called in the Bessi dialect, which differed only slightly from our own. "An old man directed us here. He said you would aid those who resist Rome."

  The men exchanged glances. The eldest among them stepped forward.

  "What old man?" he asked suspiciously.

  I described our benefactor, watching their expressions grow increasingly confused.

  "No such man dwells in these mountains," the elder said. "Not among our scattered communities."

  Before I could respond, a woman pushed through the gathered men. Middle aged, with iron gray hair and the bearing of one accustomed to authority.

  "Bring them in," she commanded. "Questions can wait until they have warmed themselves."

  The men hesitated only briefly before complying. We were led to the largest structure, a communal hall with a central hearth. The warmth inside was almost overwhelming after so long in the bitter cold.

  The woman introduced herself as Rhea, leader of this small settlement. "We are few," she explained, "but we maintain the old ways. Rome has little interest in such poor pickings as we offer."

  "Yet you resist them," I noted.

  "In our own way." She studied us with keen eyes. "You are Maedi. Far from your tribal lands."

  "Romans destroyed our village," Sura explained. "We fled north, seeking the resistance Tarax spoke of."

  Recognition flickered in Rhea's eyes at the name. "Tarax visits occasionally, bringing news and sometimes warriors for the cause." She gestured to Sura's injured ankle. "But you are in no condition for such a journey now. Rest here until spring. The passes north will not clear before then."

  The offer was generous, more than we could have hoped for. Yet I felt uneasy accepting such charity.

  "We can work," I said. "Hunt. Help defend your settlement. We will not be a burden."

  Rhea nodded approvingly. "Good. We have no place for those unwilling to contribute." She assigned us a small hut at the edge of the settlement, previously occupied by a family lost to sickness the winter before.

  That night, for the first time since our flight began, we slept under a proper roof. The narrow bed was stuffed with pine needles and covered with furs. Simple comforts that seemed luxurious after what we had endured.

  "We could stay here," Sura whispered in the darkness. "Build a life away from Rome's reach."

  I wanted to agree, to believe such a simple solution possible. But Rome's shadow stretched long, and grew longer with each passing season. No corner of Thrace would remain untouched forever.

  "For now," I replied, unwilling to spoil this moment of peace with harsher truths. "Until you are healed. Then we decide."

  She pressed closer, her warmth driving away the lingering chill in my bones. "I have always followed where you led, Spartacus. But perhaps the gods led us here for a reason."

  The gods or an enigmatic old man who vanished with the dawn. Either way, we had found temporary sanctuary. I would be grateful for that much.

  Winter settled fully over the mountains, transforming the landscape into a frozen wasteland. Within the settlement, life continued with the steady rhythm of a people accustomed to the harsh season. Game was hunted when weather permitted. Stores were carefully rationed. Children were taught the old stories around evening fires.

  I found my place among the hunters, my skill with bow and spear earning respect. Sura's ankle healed slowly but steadily. As a seer, she was initially viewed with superstition bordering on fear, until a fever swept through the settlement and her knowledge of healing herbs saved several children. After that, her counsel was sought regularly, particularly by the younger women.

  Weeks passed. Snow piled deeper around our small hut. On the rare clear days, I would climb to a high point overlooking the valley and scan the horizon for any sign of Roman patrols. None came. Perhaps they had abandoned the hunt during the worst of winter. Perhaps they believed us dead in the mountains.

  I allowed myself to hope, briefly.

  Then, as winter began its slow retreat before the first whispers of spring, everything changed.

  It began with riders approaching from the east, three men on exhausted horses. Not Romans, but Bessi from another settlement. They brought news that chilled worse than any mountain wind.

  Romans had established a new outpost in the eastern valleys, larger than any previous garrison in the region. From there, patrols ranged widely, methodically searching every settlement, every cave, every possible hiding place.

  "They search for someone specific," the lead rider reported to the gathered community. "A Thracian warrior who killed Roman soldiers. They offer gold for information, death for concealment."

  All eyes turned to me. I stood, acknowledging the unspoken accusation. "I am the one they seek. If my presence endangers you, I will leave immediately."

  Rhea raised a hand for silence as murmurs spread through the gathering. "The Romans were coming regardless of your presence, Spartacus. They conquer methodically, leaving no valley unclaimed, no tribe free." She addressed the community. "We have long known this day would come. Now we must decide. Surrender or resist."

  The debate raged through the night. Some argued for submission, believing survival possible under Roman rule. Others preferred flight deeper into the mountains. A few, led by the settlement's younger warriors, called for armed resistance.

  Sura and I listened without contributing. This was not our community, not our decision to make. Yet their fate had become entangled with ours.

  Near dawn, Rhea approached us as the arguments continued in the communal hall.

  "Your presence complicates matters," she said bluntly. "Not because we fear harboring you, but because the Romans will be particularly thorough in their search, knowing you might be here."

  "We will leave with the morning light," I offered again.

  She shook her head. "To what end? They hunt the mountains for you already. Here, at least, you have allies." She looked toward the eastern horizon, where the first hint of dawn lightened the sky. "No, I have another proposal. One that might save both you and this settlement."

  Her plan was both simple and terrible. I would surrender myself to the Romans, but not as Spartacus of the Maedi. Instead, as an unnamed Thracian warrior captured by the Bessi settlement. They would deliver me to the Romans as proof of their loyalty, claiming the reward while establishing themselves as cooperative subjects of Rome.

  "They may still garrison soldiers here," Rhea acknowledged, "but they will be less likely to raze the settlement or take our young men for auxiliaries if we demonstrate our usefulness."

  "And what of Spartacus?" Sura demanded, her voice tight with anger. "You would sacrifice him to save yourselves?"

  "No," Rhea replied calmly. "I offer him a chance. The Romans do not execute every prisoner. Many are sent south, sold as slaves or conscripted into their armies. If they do not recognize him as the specific warrior they hunt, he may survive."

  "May survive," Sura repeated bitterly. "As a slave."

  "A living slave can escape. A dead rebel has no future." Rhea looked at me. "The choice must be yours, Spartacus. But know that if you refuse and attempt to flee, I cannot guarantee this community's protection. There are those who would betray you for Roman gold."

  I studied her weathered face, finding no malice there. Only the cold calculation of a leader responsible for many lives. In her place, I might have made the same proposal.

  "You ask much," I said finally.

  "I ask what the gods themselves demand. Sacrifice for survival." She rose to leave. "Consider carefully. The riders depart at midday with our answer to the Romans."

  When she had gone, Sura turned to me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "You cannot seriously consider this."

  "I must." I took her hands in mine. "She speaks truth. The Romans will find us eventually. Here, alone in the mountains, our chances dwindle with each day."

  "As a slave, your chances are worse."

  "Perhaps not." I thought of the old man's words, of Sura's visions. Chains. Blood. An arena. "If the Romans do not recognize me, I become just another captive. Valuable for my strength, not my name."

  "And we are separated regardless," she said, the words barely audible.

  This was the truth neither of us had spoken aloud. Rhea's plan offered no place for Sura. She would remain in the settlement, protected by the fiction that she was one of them.

  "Temporarily," I insisted, though I had no right to such certainty. "I will find a way back to you. Or you to me."

  She withdrew her hands from mine and touched the amulet at her throat. "The visions never showed our reunion, Spartacus. Only you, surrounded by death."

  "Visions show possibilities, not certainties. You taught me this yourself."

  She fell silent, her gaze turned inward. When she spoke again, her voice had taken on the distant quality it held during her communion with whatever gods granted her sight.

  "There is a path," she said slowly. "Narrow and dark, winding through shadow. I cannot see where it leads, but it exists." Her eyes refocused on me. "If you choose this sacrifice, do not lose yourself to despair. Remember who you are. Remember our people."

  "I will carry them with me always," I promised. "As I carry you."

  Her composure broke then, and she wept against my chest. I held her through the remainder of the night, memorizing the feel of her in my arms, the scent of her hair, the sound of her breathing. Memories to sustain me through whatever lay ahead.

  At dawn, I gave Rhea my decision.

  They came for me at midday, as promised. Six warriors from the settlement, led by Rhea herself. They bound my hands with rope, roughly enough to leave marks but not so tight as to cause lasting damage. An elaborate performance for any who might later question the circumstances of my capture.

  The settlement had gathered to watch. Some faces showed guilt, others relief, still others a quiet respect. Sura stood apart, her expression carefully neutral, though I could read the storm behind her eyes.

  "The Romans have established a camp two valleys east," Rhea announced loudly. "We will present this prisoner as proof of our loyalty to Rome. In exchange, we ask only to be left in peace."

  Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd. The fiction satisfied their need to believe themselves honorable despite the betrayal. Only Sura and I knew the fuller truth.

  As they led me away, I looked back once. Sura stood unmoving, her hand at her throat, clutching the wooden amulet that had survived when all else was lost. In that moment, she appeared not as my wife but as something greater and more terrible. A seer of old, witnessing the unfolding of fate.

  The journey to the Roman camp took the remainder of the day. We traveled in silence, the Bessi warriors uncomfortable with their role in this drama. Only Rhea spoke, providing final instructions as the Roman standards came into view.

  "Give them no name," she advised quietly. "Be sullen, resistant, but not openly defiant. They value strength but punish pride." She met my gaze, something like regret in her eyes. "May your gods protect you, Spartacus of the Maedi. Perhaps one day you will understand why this was necessary."

  "I understand already," I replied. "Survival requires sacrifice. I only pray the price is worth the purchase."

  Roman sentries challenged us before we could approach closer. Rhea called out in crude Latin, explaining their purpose. After a brief consultation, we were escorted into the camp.

  It was larger than I expected, easily housing a full century of legionaries. Temporary structures had been erected against the winter cold, but there was a permanence to the layout that suggested this outpost was intended to last. Another step in Rome's methodical annexation of Thrace.

  We were brought before the commander, a lean, hard faced man of middle years. He wore the insignia of a centurion but carried himself with the authority of higher rank. His Latin, when he spoke, was clipped and precise.

  "You bring a prisoner?" he asked, studying me with cold assessment.

  Rhea bowed, the gesture awkward but appropriately submissive. "A warrior captured attempting to steal from our settlement. We offer him as proof of our loyalty to Rome."

  The centurion circled me slowly. "Strong. Well formed. He fought?"

  "Fiercely," Rhea confirmed. "He killed one of our hunters before we subdued him."

  "Your name, Thracian?" the centurion demanded.

  I remained silent, staring past him as if he were beneath my notice. A calculated risk. Too much defiance would earn immediate punishment, but complete submission would suggest a broken spirit, less valuable to Roman purposes.

  The centurion struck me across the face, a practiced blow that split my lip but caused no serious damage. "Your name," he repeated.

  Still I kept silent. Blood trickled warm down my chin.

  "No matter," he said finally. "Names mean little where you are going." He turned to Rhea. "Your settlement has done well. Rome rewards loyalty."

  A small pouch of coins changed hands. The price of my freedom. Less than I might have expected, but significant to a community struggling to survive the harsh mountain winters.

  "We ask only to be left in peace," Rhea said, echoing her earlier words to the settlement.

  "Peace comes through submission to Rome," the centurion replied. "Remember that, and your people will prosper." He gestured to the guards. "Take him with the others. The slave caravan departs for Philippopolis with the dawn."

  As the Bessi delegation was escorted from the camp, Rhea glanced back once. Our eyes met briefly before she turned away. I harbored no resentment toward her or the settlement. They had done what was necessary for survival, as I had. The real enemy remained Rome.

  I was led to a crude pen at the edge of the camp, where perhaps twenty other prisoners were already confined. Men and women both, Thracians of various tribes judging by their clothing and tattoos. Some bore wounds from recent fighting. Others showed the gaunt faces of longer captivity. All wore the same expression of dull resignation.

  My bindings were removed and replaced with iron manacles linked to a long chain that connected all the prisoners. The Roman guards performed their task with businesslike efficiency, neither cruel nor kind. To them, we were merely cargo.

  I found a space against the wooden walls of the pen and settled in to wait. Around me, the other prisoners watched with the wariness of those who had learned to expect betrayal. None spoke. Communication would come later, when patterns of trustworthiness emerged.

  As darkness fell, the temperature dropped sharply. No shelter had been provided beyond the pen itself, and no fires burned within our enclosure. The prisoners huddled together for warmth, tribal divisions temporarily set aside in the face of greater misery.

  I remained apart, conserving my strength and studying my surroundings. The Roman camp followed the standard design I had heard described by traders and travelers. Organized, defensible, with sentries posted at regular intervals. Escape seemed impossible, especially while chained.

  Yet as the night deepened and the camp settled into the quiet rhythms of an army at rest, I found myself remembering Sura's words. There is a path. Narrow and dark, winding through shadow.

  Not here, perhaps. Not now. But somewhere ahead, an opportunity would present itself. I need only survive long enough to recognize it when it came.

  I touched the split in my lip, feeling the blood still sticky there. Rome had marked me with its first casual violence. There would be more to come. But I had been a warrior before I became a captive. Would remain one even as a slave.

  The centurion was wrong. Names meant everything. And mine, though I kept it silent for now, would one day be spoken with fear throughout the empire that sought to break me.

  I am Spartacus of the Maedi. And this is not the end of my story, but merely a dark chapter in a tale still unfolding.

  Around me, the other prisoners slept fitfully, their chains rattling with each movement. Above, stars wheeled in the cold mountain sky, indifferent to human suffering. And somewhere to the west, Sura waited, clutching her amulet and perhaps glimpsing fragments of the future I now moved toward, step by inevitable step.

  Chains of fate, indeed. But even the strongest chains, forged by the mightiest empire the world had known, must eventually break. When they did, Rome itself would tremble.