I
Betrayal in the Thracian Hills
The wind howled through the Thracian hills like the wail of a dying god, a ragged, mournful thing that carried the crushed pine and the copper tang of blood scent across the rugged slopes. It was a cold wind, biting and cruel, the kind that sought out the gaps in a man’s armor and settled in the marrow of his bones.
Spartacus shifted his weight, his boots sinking an inch into the half-frozen mud of the ridge. He gripped his spear tighter, the ash wood rough and familiar against his callused palms. It was a good spear, balanced and sharp, but it felt light in his hand today.
Behind him, the breathing of his tribesmen was a collective rasp, loud in the waiting silence. They were a ragged host, the free men of the Strymon, fierce warriors with braided hair matted by wind and grease, their arms intricate with tattoos of serpents and suns that rippled over corded muscle. Their cloaks of wolfskin and bear pelt flapped violently in the gale, snapping like banners of defiance.
Spartacus did not turn to look at them. He knew what he would see: fear masked by bravado, eyes wide and white in dirt-smeared faces. They looked to him, their chieftain, their shield. They expected a miracle, or at least a victory.
He looked down. In the shadowed valley, the light was failing, the sun choked behind a ceiling of iron-gray clouds that promised snow before nightfall. Below, the barbarian horde surged like a black tide, a festering wound upon the earth. They were a plague of locusts, axes gleaming dull and hungry in the twilight. They had come from the high peaks, driven by hunger and the lust for plunder, burning the outlying farmsteads and putting the old to the sword.
He thought of Suro then, his husband, waiting back in the village with the children’s and the old ones. The man with quick laugh and hands that knew every scar on Spartacus' body. Suro had begged him not to go, his dark eyes fierce with worry.
"The Romans are no friends to us." he'd said, pressing his lips to Spartacus' neck in the dim light of their hut. "They'll turn on you the moment the blood dries."
Spartacus had sat heavily upon the sleeping furs now. "Would you have our bones picked clean by crows?"
"Better crows than eagles." Suro murmured, the fight draining out of him as he crossed the distance between them. He sank to his knees between Spartacus’s spread thighs, his hands, callused from the loom and the field, resting on Spartacus’s knees. "At least the crows wait until you are dead."
Spartacus reached out, threading his fingers through Suro’s hair. He pulled him close, until their foreheads rested together. He could smell the sour wine on Suro’s breath, mixed with the earthy musk of his skin. "I will come back. I swear it by the Great Mother."
"Don't swear." Suro whispered, his voice cracking. "Just make me forget. Make me forget the you're not going to be here morning comes."
His hands moved up Spartacus’s thighs, urgent and demanding, seeking the warmth beneath the rough wool of his breeches. Spartacus groaned, a low rumble in his chest, as Suro’s deft fingers freed him. His cock sprang free, heavy and half-hard already, the fear of the coming battle had stirred his blood as much as his lust.
Suro did not hesitate. He took Spartacus into his mouth, hot and wet and tight. He worked him with a desperate hunger, bobbing his head, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head. Spartacus hissed, his head falling back, his hands gripping Suro’s hair, tightening with every pull of Suro’s mouth. It was a wet, sloppy sound in the quiet hut, obscene and holy all at once.
Spartacus couldn't last like that, not with the dread of the morrow hanging over them like a shroud. He gripped Suro by the shoulders and hauled him up, ignoring his protest, and threw him back onto the pile of wolfskins.
"No more talk." Spartacus growled. He shed his breeches, kicking them aside, and crawled over his husband. Suro lay sprawled, his tunic hiked up to his chest, his legs falling open in invitation. He looked beautiful and vulnerable, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cock stiff and weeping clear pearls against his belly.
Spartacus spat into his hand, slicking his palm, and reached down to coat himself and Suro’s entrance. Suro gasped when Spartacus’s finger probed him, arching his back. Then he lined himself up and thrust forward, groaning as he pushed past the tight ring of muscle. Suro cried out, a sharp sound that was half pain, half pleasure, his head thrashing against the furs. Spartacus sank deep, burying himself to the root, feeling the hot, wet velvet of Suro clench around him.
They moved together with a frantic rhythm, a clash of skin and sweat. There was no gentleness in it, only the desperate need to feel alive. Spartacus pounded into him, the slap of their hips loud and sharp. He watched Suro’s face, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in a silent scream of ecstasy, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Look at me." Spartacus commanded, his voice a rasp.
Suro’s eyes fluttered open, dark and hazy. He reached up, his nails digging into Spartacus’s shoulders, drawing blood. "I am yours."
The end came upon them swiftly. Suro’s inner walls clamped down, milking him, and Spartacus felt the coil in his belly snap. He drove in one last time, holding himself deep as he poured his seed into his husband, a hot flood that seemed to draw the very marrow from his bones. Suro cried out, his own release spurting hot across his stomach and Spartacus’s chest, his body shuddering in the aftershocks.
Spartacus collapsed atop him, their hearts hammering against each other like trapped birds. He buried his face in the crook of Suro’s neck, wishing he could stay in this moment, in this warmth, forever, and let the rest of the world burn.
But now, as the battle cry rose from his men's throats, he pushed the memory down, focusing on the enemy ahead.
The Romans were arrayed to the east, their legions a disciplined wall of shields and pila, the eagle standards snapping in the wind. Legate Gaius Claudius Glaber rode at their fore, a tall man with a patrician's sneer and armor polished to a mocking shine. Spartacus had met him only days before, when the legate had ridden into their village with promises of a better future.
"Join us against the Maedi" Glaber had said, his voice smooth as oiled leather. "And Rome will reward your loyalty."
Spartacus had spat at his feet, but the elders had prevailed. Better to fight with the devil you could see than alone.
Now, as the horns blared, Spartacus led the charge down the slope, his boots pounding the earth, his spear thrusting forward. The Thracians followed, a whirlwind of fury, crashing into the barbarian flank. Axes met shields in a cacophony of splintering wood and screams. Spartacus drove his spear into the chest of a Maedi raider, feeling the blade punch through leather and bone, hot blood spraying his face. The man gurgled, clutching at the shaft, and Spartacus twisted it free with a grunt, already seeking the next foe.
Around him, the battle unfolded as brutal as a pack of starving wolves tearing into a fresh kill, all teeth and desperate fury. His kinsman, the burly Duron, cleaved a barbarian's head from his shoulders with a two-handed swing of his falx, the curved blade whistling through the air. Another Thracian, young and eager, fell screaming as an axe buried itself in his thigh, blood pouring like wine from a cracked jug. Spartacus waded deeper, his muscles burning, sweat stinging his eyes. He parried a blow from a hulking Maedi with a shield boss to the jaw, then rammed his knee into the man's gut before plunging his dagger up under the ribs.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the Romans advance, their lines unbroken, pila flying in deadly arcs. One struck true, impaling a barbarian chieftain mid-charge, the man toppling like a felled oak. Glaber's cohort pushed forward, swords flashing, but the legate himself hung back on his horse, barking orders. Spartacus cursed under his breath. The Romans fought well enough, but they cared nothing for Thracian lives spilled on their behalf.
The tide turned as the Maedi faltered, their war cries turning to rout. Spartacus pressed the advantage, his men howling triumph as they hacked down the fleeing foe. But then, chaos erupted on the Roman flank. A knot of barbarians had broken through, surrounding Glaber's mount. The legate's horse reared, and he tumbled to the mud, his helmet flying free. Swords rose to end him.
Spartacus did not hesitate. He sprinted across the blood-soaked field, leaping over a dying man, his spear arm cocking back. The first barbarian turned too late. Spartacus' cast struck him between the shoulder blades, the point bursting from his chest in a gout of red. The second swung wildly, but Spartacus ducked low, driving his short sword up into the man's crotch, twisting until the warrior collapsed, clutching his ruined manhood with a high, keening wail.
Glaber scrambled to his feet, face pale beneath the grime, and Spartacus hauled him up by the arm, shoving him toward safety.
"Move, Roman!" he snarled. The legate nodded, breathless, his eyes wide with gratitude. Together they fought back to the lines, Spartacus' blade a blur, fending off the last desperate lunges of the Maedi.
As the battle ebbed, the valley fell silent save for the moans of the wounded and the crackle of cookfires being lit. Spartacus wiped his sword on a dead man's cloak, his chest heaving. His tribesmen gathered around, slapping his back, their faces split in grins. Duron clapped him on the shoulder. "You saved the Roman dog. What reward will he give for that?"
Spartacus spat into the dirt. "A pat on the head and a boot in the arse, likely." But Glaber approached then, flanked by his centurions, his posture straightening as if the fear had never touched him. "Thracian…" he said, clasping Spartacus' forearm in the Roman way. "you have my thanks. Your valor turns the day."
The words tasted like ash, but Spartacus nodded curtly. Alliance, for now. He turned away, scanning the field for his men, counting heads. Too many gone, but the village would stand another day.
Word came at dusk, as the sun bled red across the hills. Thracian scouts, swift as shadows, slipped into the camp with grim faces. They pulled Spartacus aside, away from the Roman sentries.
"The eagles march on our villages." one whispered, his voice trembling. "Not the Maedi… your Roman allies. They burn huts, take grain, slaves. Men screaming in the fields."
Rage ignited in Spartacus' gut, hot as forge-fire. He gripped the scout's shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "How many? Which way?"
"A cohort, heading north to the river holds. Glaber's orders, they say."
Glaber's orders. The momentary alliance shattered like cheap pottery. Spartacus stormed back to the central fire, where the legate held court with his officers, wine cups in hand. The Thracians had been dismissed to their own fires, but Spartacus cared not for protocol. He shoved through the Roman ranks, his bloodied armor drawing stares.
"Glaber!" he roared, voice cutting the night. "Your dogs pillage my people? After we bled for you?"
The legate rose slowly, his face a mask of feigned surprise. "What madness is this, Thracian? My men secure the flanks, nothing more."
"Lies!" Spartacus drew his sword, the blade catching the firelight. His tribesmen rose behind him, hands on hilts, a low growl rising from their throats. The Romans tensed, hands drifting to weapons.
Glaber's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Stand down, barbarian. You forget your place. Rome aids you out of pity, not partnership."
Spartacus lunged, but Duron and another held him back. "We ride now." he snarled. "Stop this, or blood answers blood."
Glaber laughed. "Ride, then. But defy Rome, and you defy the gods themselves."
Spartacus wrenched free, signaling his men. They mounted in haste, horses snorting in the chill air, and thundered north into the night. The hills swallowed them, the path lit only by moonlight filtering through the pines. Spartacus' mind raced… Suro, the village, the betrayal. He would end this pillage, drive the Romans back.
They crested a rise overlooking the river valley, and there it was: flames licking the thatched roofs, screams echoing like the cries of the damned. Roman soldiers, helmets glinting, dragged Thracian men from their homes. Grain sacks bulged on mule backs, jewelry glinting in greedy fists.
"For the village!" Spartacus bellowed, spurring his horse down the slope. His tribesmen followed, a thunder of hooves and war cries. The Romans scattered at first, caught unawares, but discipline reasserted itself. Centurions barked orders, forming a hasty shield wall by the riverbank.
Spartacus leaped from his saddle mid-charge, sword raised, crashing into the first soldier. His blade bit deep into the man's neck, severing the spine in a spray of arterial blood. The Roman gurgled, collapsing, and Spartacus pressed on, hacking at shields, his falx whistling. Around him, his men fought like demons. Duron's axe shattering a legionary's helmet, another Thracian's spear pinning a pilum-thrower to the earth.
But the Romans were no green levies. They rallied, pila whistling through the air. One struck Duron in the shoulder, the barbed head tearing flesh as he fell. Spartacus roared, pulling it free and turning on the thrower, driving his sword through the man's visor in a crunch of bone and metal.
The fight devolved into a melee of mud and blood, the river churning red where bodies fell. Spartacus fought with the fury of a cornered wolf, his arms aching, breath ragged. He glimpsed a Roman dragging a children toward the trees, the boy’s face twisted in terror. He charged, tackling the soldier, pummeling his face with fists until it was pulp, then rising to slit his throat.
Yet for every Roman felled, more poured from the shadows. Hoofbeats announced reinforcements, Glaber's main force, torches blazing. The legate himself rode at the head, face thunderous.
"Traitor!" he shouted, pointing. "Seize the Thracian dog!"
Spartacus' men faltered, outnumbered, the tide turning against them. He fought on, back to a burning hut, sword arm numb. A blow caught him from behind. Hands seized him, chains rattling as they bound his wrists. He thrashed, kicking out, but a pommel cracked against his temple, stars exploding in his vision.
They beat him then, methodically, as if breaking a stubborn mule. Fists and boots rained down, ribs cracking, blood filling his mouth. His armor was stripped away, tunic torn to rags, leaving him bare under the stars. The Romans laughed, prodding his naked form with spear butts, mocking his Thracian tattoos, his manhood exposed to the chill.
"Look at the barbarian's pride" one jeered, grabbing Spartacus' cock and twisting until it turned purple and he grunted in pain. "Thinks he's a warrior.
They dragged him to the Roman camp, chains biting into his ankles, the ground scraping his skin.
Glaber's tent loomed, silk flaps glowing from within. The legate awaited, wine cup in hand, his armor shed for a simple tunic that clung to his broad frame.
"You disappoint me, Thracian" Glaber said, circling him like a buyer at market. Spartacus knelt in the dirt, bloodied and defiant, eyes locked on the Roman's. "I saved your life today and you repay with the blood of my Romans on your hands? I should cut off your head right here and take it to Rome as a victory token for my people." He stepped closer, gripping Spartacus' jaw, forcing his head up. "But perhaps you can still serve."
Spartacus forced his head down and spat at Glaber's feet "Your Rome is a viper's nest. You burned my village while I fought your wars. I'll serve no more." his voice came out with a low growl.
Glaber's laugh was sharp, devoid of humor. He released Spartacus' jaw with a shove, sending the warrior's head snapping back. "Defiance suits you, Thracian. But it ends tonight." He snapped his fingers toward the tent flaps.
Two burly guards entered, Their eyes gleaming with anticipation. Titus, the taller one, carried iron manacles that clinked ominously. Marcus, stockier, bore a coiled whip at his belt. They seized Spartacus by the arms, yanking him to his feet.
Spartacus stood defiant, but the manacles clamped around his wrists, chaining him to a wooden post in the tent's center. His arms stretched high, forcing his body taut. Glaber rose, circling again, trailing a finger along Spartacus' sweat-slicked back. "Such a fine specimen wasted on barbarians." He nodded to the guards. "Show him Rome's mercy."
Titus stepped forward first, unbuckling his belt. His cock sprang free, already hard and veined, thick as a gladius hilt. He grabbed Spartacus' hair, yanking his head back. "Open wide, dog." Spartacus clamped his jaw shut, but Marcus pried it open with brutal fingers, nails digging into cheeks. Titus thrust in without preamble, the salty head shoving past teeth, filling Spartacus' mouth. He gagged, bile rising, but Titus fucked deeper, hips slamming forward, balls slapping against chin.
Glaber watched, on his makeshift wooden throne, stroking his own cock through his satin tunic with one hand, while the other held a sacred wine goblet. He watched Spartacus' eyes watered, throat convulsing around the invading shaft. Titus grunted, pounding relentlessly, using the warrior's face like a sheath. Saliva dripped down Spartacus' chin, mixing with tears of rage. He tried to bite, but Marcus' grip held firm, twisting until pain forced compliance.
After minutes of merciless face-fucking, Titus pulled out, strings of spit connecting his glistening cock to Spartacus' swollen lips. He only stroked himself twice, then erupted, hot cum splattering across the Thracian's face, ropes landing on cheeks, forehead, dripping into eyes. Spartacus blinked through the sting, cursing in Thracian.
Marcus shoved Titus aside, his own cock shorter but girthier. He rammed into Spartacus' mouth, grunting as the tight heat enveloped him. "Suck it or I'll whip your balls raw, dog." Spartacus refused, but the threat loomed. Marcus pistoned harder, forcing gags and retches. The guard's hands clamped Spartacus' head, holding it still for brutal thrusts that bruised the back of his throat.
Glaber discarded his tunic, revealing a lean, muscled torso scarred from Roman campaigns. His cock stood rigid, circumcised and flushed. He moved behind Spartacus, kicking the warrior's legs apart. Rough hands spread ass cheeks, exposing the tight ring. No preparation, no mercy, Glaber spat once on his palm, slicking his shaft, then pressed the head against the entrance.
Spartacus bucked, muffled protests lost around Marcus' cock. Glaber laughed coldly. "Fight all you want. Rome takes what it claims." He thrust forward, breaching the resistance with a pop. Spartacus' body arched, a raw scream stifled by the dick in his mouth. Inch by inch, Glaber sank in, the dry friction tearing, blood slicking the way. Fully sheathed, he paused, savoring the clench of unwilling muscles, then began to fuck, slow at first, building to savage slams that rocked Spartacus against the post.
The tent filled with wet slaps and grunts. Marcus came next, flooding Spartacus' mouth with bitter seed. He held the warrior's nose pinched, forcing swallows or suffocation. Cum overflowed, spilling down Spartacus' neck as he choked it down. Marcus withdrew, wiping his cock on the Thracian's hair. "Good dog."
Glaber gripped Spartacus' hips, nails drawing blood, pounding deeper. Each thrust targeted the core, prostate bruised under assault. Spartacus' own cock, traitorously half-hard, swung untouched, leaking heavily pre-cum despite the pain.
Glaber reached around, fisting the warrior's shaft roughly. "See? Your body knows its master." He jerked hard, syncing with his fucks, forcing unwanted pleasure amid agony. Spartacus growled, hating the sparks igniting in his gut, but his hips jerked involuntarily.
The guards watched, cocks hardening again. Titus moved to Spartacus' side, pinching nipples until they bled, twisting the dark peaks. Marcus fetched the whip, lashing Spartacus' back in red welts that split skin. Each crack drew blood, heightening the torment as Glaber rutted on.
Glaber's pace quickened, sweat dripping onto Spartacus' back. With a roar, he came, flooding the abused hole with hot spurts. He stayed buried, grinding as seed leaked out, mixing with blood. Glaber stepped back, cock softening. "Your turn, men."
Titus took position behind, his longer cock spearing in easily now, lubricated by Glaber's load. He fucked like a beast, hands bruising shoulders, while Marcus forced his way into Spartacus' mouth again, the cycle renewing.
Spartacus' world blurred with pain and humiliation. Titus' thrusts were erratic, chasing release that came quickly, adding his cum to the mess inside. Marcus followed suit in the warrior's throat, pulling out to paint the face anew.
Hours passed in the tent's dim light as Glaber joined again, taking Spartacus' ass while Titus claimed his mouth, Marcus whipping flanks to keep him alert. Cum filled him front and back, dripping from every orifice. They pissed on him too, golden streams marking territory, washing away seed only to replace it for more.
Finally, as the morning crept near, they unchained him, letting his battered form crumple to the dirt floor. Glaber knelt, gripping chin once more. "Rome prevails, Thracian. You'll serve or die trying." Spartacus, eyes burning with unbroken fire amid the ruin, whispered, "Never."
But as the guards dragged him to the slave pens where hundreds of other Thracians were wounded and unconscious. Spartacus slumped, the taste lingering, chains heavy. But in his mind, fire kindled. Revenge. For the villages, for his men, for Suro. Spartacus closed his eyes, picturing his husband's face and his touch. It fueled him, a spark in the dark.
He would break these chains, one way or another. Rome would bleed for this night.
