Spartacus

I was Thracian by birth and sold to the ludus at Capua, under Lentulus Batiatus. The arena trained my hands for the crowd’s pleasure. Chains taught me the rest.

In 73 BCE, with Crixus, Oenomaus, and many unnamed, we broke the doors with what the kitchen yielded—spits, knives, cleavers. We seized arms from the racks, took to Mount Vesuvius, and when Glaber tried to pen us there, we climbed down on twisted vines and struck his camp from behind.

Word ran through fields and villages; the enslaved and the poor came to our fire. I set watches, took what we needed in raids, and drilled men whose first arms were kitchen iron and seized blades. We moved quickly, beat Varinius, then the consuls Gellius Publicola and Lentulus Clodianus. I turned north, thinking to reach the Alps and let men find their own roads home. Not all agreed. Crixus’s band split away and was destroyed.

Then the Senate gave the task to Crassus, harsh with his legions. He threw up trenches and forts to confine us in the south. We broke through, dearly, but were brought to battle near the Silarus. I fell with a sword in hand; no one claimed my body. Along the Appian Way, they nailed up six thousand of ours so all would see. I left no letters. Romans told my story; you may ask what they chose not to hear.