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In Class Essay
Slow motion. Everything stops; it takes ages for me to fall. And then it happens. I hit the ground, slamming to dirt feeling the solidness of the earth beneath me. The stench of blood, dirt and sweat from thousands of men surrounds me. The hot sun burns my eyes, forcing them to close. I feel the blood oozing from my chest as the dry ground soaks it all up. The pain takes hold enveloping me, crushing me. Starting shallow, and beginning to implant itself into my whole being, the pain spreads rapidly though my whole body. I ache feeling everything I could have become, feeling everything I was, remembering who I had lost and knowing quite simply all these men who had faith in me were slowly dying. The pain so intense and so harsh in all its essence takes me now, even the simple thing like blinking hurts. No longer is there a point to hold on, so I let go…I relax for the first time in months and let the beautiful oblivion of death swallow me whole.
Spartacus, a broad shouldered and muscular young man, stepped into a steady repetition of blocks, strikes, ducks and swings in the large and empty training room. As he pivoted on the balls of his feet his soft soled leather boots stirred up swirls of dust that caught the warm rays of sun filtered through the thick windows. Mesmerized by his blade catching the sunlight and the laboriously beautiful movement and steps of practice, Spartacus is oblivious to the conversation of the Praetor Glaber and the weapons master.
“He seems to be dedicated to training and so far from how he has performed in practices, he has a passion and that can be beneficial on the battle field.”
“Yes, all that you say is true and we are in need of strong soldiers who are new and excited. Send him to the courtyard tomorrow when he comes to get his weapons for practice. I would like to speak to him.”
“It shall be done, Praetor.”
Spartacus begins training with the Roman auxiliary under the command of Praetor Glaber and Lieutenant Pius shortly after being recommended to them by his weapons master. A year after he was recruited Spartacus finds the life he is leading has been dragging and in result he searches for excitement.
The full moon shoots silvery beams of light onto the streets of the town brightening the areas in the open and making the shadows deeper, darker. Spartacus shrugs on his linen shirt, steps into his dark pants and pulls on his trusty leather boots. He cracks the window and lightly leaps to the ground escaping the confines of the soldier’s chambers. Setting off at a quick pace, he jogs through the courtyard and leaps over the wall heading towards the town. The moonlight shines on his white shirt and illuminates his path. Spartacus smiles as he passes a few loud bars overflowing with happily drunk men stinking of sweat and alcohol. They don’t know about her. They have no idea. He thinks to himself as the street branches off and he takes an intricate path of alleys to reach a poorly lit hostel. He ducks his handsome head through the low door way and is greeted by a sweet feminine scent and the powerful fragrance of a woody incense.
“Mahala.” He murmurs to the secretary, sliding an aurei across the desk.
“Room 23. Go upstairs, take a left, and it’s the last room on the right.” The short man behind the desk drawls, bored.
Spartacus walks up stairs, each stair adding to his mounting excitement. He finds room 23, and walks confidently into the room. On the large bed before him is a girl of immeasurable beauty. She has soft skin, a light olive color. Her thick hair falls down her back in oily black waves. Mahala looks at Spartacus with large dark brown eyes, smiling. She walks over to him and brushes her hand along his chest, unlatching a button of his shirt in its wake. His chest is dappled and gleaming with small droplets of sweat gathered from his anticipation. Mahala circles him, curling her arms around his muscular waist whispering in his ear.
“Mahala, my tender love.” Spartacus says hoarsely.
“It’s been too long.” She purrs in his ear and he surrenders himself to pure ecstasy.
Spartacus, a broad shouldered and muscular young man, stepped into a steady repetition of blocks, strikes, ducks and swings in the large and empty training room. As he pivoted on the balls of his feet his soft soled leather boots stirred up swirls of dust that caught the warm rays of sun filtered through the thick windows. Mesmerized by his blade catching the sunlight and the laboriously beautiful movement and steps of practice, Spartacus is oblivious to the conversation of the Praetor Glaber and the weapons master.
“He seems to be dedicated to training and so far from how he has performed in practices, he has a passion and that can be beneficial on the battle field.”
“Yes, all that you say is true and we are in need of strong soldiers who are new and excited. Send him to the courtyard tomorrow when he comes to get his weapons for practice. I would like to speak to him.”
“It shall be done, Praetor.”
Spartacus begins training with the Roman auxiliary under the command of Praetor Glaber and Lieutenant Pius shortly after being recommended to them by his weapons master. A year after he was recruited Spartacus finds the life he is leading has been dragging and in result he searches for excitement.
The full moon shoots silvery beams of light onto the streets of the town brightening the areas in the open and making the shadows deeper, darker. Spartacus shrugs on his linen shirt, steps into his dark pants and pulls on his trusty leather boots. He cracks the window and lightly leaps to the ground escaping the confines of the soldier’s chambers. Setting off at a quick pace, he jogs through the courtyard and leaps over the wall heading towards the town. The moonlight shines on his white shirt and illuminates his path. Spartacus smiles as he passes a few loud bars overflowing with happily drunk men stinking of sweat and alcohol. They don’t know about her. They have no idea. He thinks to himself as the street branches off and he takes an intricate path of alleys to reach a poorly lit hostel. He ducks his handsome head through the low door way and is greeted by a sweet feminine scent and the powerful fragrance of a woody incense.
“Mahala.” He murmurs to the secretary, sliding an aurei across the desk.
“Room 23. Go upstairs, take a left, and it’s the last room on the right.” The short man behind the desk drawls, bored.
Spartacus walks up stairs, each stair adding to his mounting excitement. He finds room 23, and walks confidently into the room. On the large bed before him is a girl of immeasurable beauty. She has soft skin, a light olive color. Her thick hair falls down her back in oily black waves. Mahala looks at Spartacus with large dark brown eyes, smiling. She walks over to him and brushes her hand along his chest, unlatching a button of his shirt in its wake. His chest is dappled and gleaming with small droplets of sweat gathered from his anticipation. Mahala circles him, curling her arms around his muscular waist whispering in his ear.
“Mahala, my tender love.” Spartacus says hoarsely.
“It’s been too long.” She purrs in his ear and he surrenders himself to pure ecstasy.
~*One week later*~
Spartacus stands in the training field with the commander of his legion.
“A prostitute? You left the soldiers sleeping chambers to go to a prostitute!” The commander asked his voice quiet with anger.
“Yes.”
“And do you realize that you broke the code you agreed to when you became a soldier; no women?” His voice ominously vacant of volume.
“Yes.” Spartacus replies, standing still while the commander walked slowly in a circle around him.
“Aaaggghhh!” The commander growled and with his elbow, slammed Spartacus on the back of the neck causing him to collapse and smash his face onto the bricks, breaking his nose and blackening his eye.
“A prostitute? You left the soldiers sleeping chambers to go to a prostitute!” The commander asked his voice quiet with anger.
“Yes.”
“And do you realize that you broke the code you agreed to when you became a soldier; no women?” His voice ominously vacant of volume.
“Yes.” Spartacus replies, standing still while the commander walked slowly in a circle around him.
“Aaaggghhh!” The commander growled and with his elbow, slammed Spartacus on the back of the neck causing him to collapse and smash his face onto the bricks, breaking his nose and blackening his eye.
~*Three days later*~
It was a sunny, hot day in the slave market. Lentulus Batailes was in search of a slave he could turn into a gladiator. Lentulus worked at a ludus about 20 miles south of Mount Vesuvius and he was looking for a strong, prospecting slave to win the games at the famous Coliseum. He strode into the market, confident with his purpose. He shakes the hand of the slave dealer, and looks the slaves up and down; one scrawny whelp after another. Lentulus had almost given up, when he passes by Spartacus. He smiles and hand the dealer a sack of coins.
“The one with the crooked nose.” He demands. With Spartacus’ hands shackled together Lentulus holds the chain connected to the gladiators bonds and prods him in between the shoulder blades with a stick.
Within the same year of being bought, Spartacus bands together two Gallic gladiators, Crixus and Oenomaus and together they start a riot among the slaves of the ludus.
Spartacus nods slightly at Crixus, who then taps the arm of Oenomaus and simultaneously they grab the forks they were eating with and begin hurling them at the guards. The rest of the slaves they had conversed with previously followed their lead.
“Grab your forks!” Spartacus yells, trusting a spoon into the eye of a guard. Through the hail of kitchen utensils and blood only 70 slaves, including Spartacus, Crixus and Oenomaus, escape. The 70 that break free swarm the town, taking weapons and tools on their way. The squad of soldiers that stands in their way is decimated as Spartacus and his men tramp through the town.
It’s the evening a few days later as Spartacus and the group of rebels come to the slippery sloped Mount Vesuvius. The sheer rock face of the mountain doesn’t deter the group and nimbly the escaped slaves create ropes from the ample vines to scale the side of the mountain. The slave group swings down the side of the mountain and ambushes the camp of a legion of the Roman army. The Roman army is unprepared for the attack and most of them are killed in the battle. With his success’ attention is drawn towards Spartacus and his band of slaves and soon their forces swell to 70,000 men including herdsmen and farmers. Although the group of rebels grows, negative attention is drawn to the rebels from the Roman Senate.
Over the winter of 72-73 BCE, the rebels led by Spartacus and Crixus, evade the roman army and begin training. When the spring comes Spartacus and his men move north. The Senate sends out a legion to stop the rebels and with initial success in defeating Crixus’ men the soldiers travel to meet Spartacus. Although they won over Crixus’ men, Spartacus and his group beat them easily near Mount Garganus.
Marcus Licinius Crassus commands eight legions; his charge to get rid of Spartacus and his group of rebel slaves. Spartacus and his men move to the south of Italy and Crassus sends out six of his legions to block the borders of the region and commands his other two legions, under the direction of Mummius, to take Spartacus from the back. Though ordered not to attack, Mummius commands his legions to engage in battle with the rioters and although the moment couldn’t have been better, the Roman soldiers are routed.
After a few more close calls for Spartacus and his men, they begin to move south to escape the Praetor Crassus who had been gathering the upper hand. Spartacus and his men then make camp in Rhegium, near the Strait of Messina.
Spartacus had made a deal with Cicilian pirates to take him and 2,000 of his men to Sicily where he would gather more men to join his forces and start another revolt. When Spartacus arrived at the dock to wait for the pirates, they never show up and leave the slaves without a passage to freedom. Spartacus is forced to move his men back to Rhegium and Crassus and his men drop in blocking the slaves from their supplies and attacking them while unprepared.
Spartacus tries to come to an agreement with Crassus knowing that the slaves would be beat in a battle against the Roman army but his proposition is declined. Some of Spartacus’ slaves flee to the mountains and try to escape the Roman army, but eventually Crassus and his men catch up the rebel slaves have nothing left to do but to stand and fight.
Spartacus stands at the front of his men facing the Roman army. He turns and looks sadly at his group of tough rebels.
“Kill them all.” He commands and the men rush towards their enemy. Spartacus grabs his Gladius and plunges into the battle slashing wildly in search of Crassus. He watches as slaves whom he had trained fall to the ground under the blade of the enemy. A single tear rolls across his dirt covered face revealing his real skin underneath the coat of grime. They shouldn’t be dying. Spartacus thinks to himself as he chops the arm off of a soldier, the blood spraying his trousers. There, in combat with a weak farmer is Crassus. Spartacus cuts his way to Crassus, and slices him from behind, distracting his attention and allowing the farmer to escape.
“Spartacus.”
“Crassus.” Spartacus replies and strikes out.
Their Gladius’ clash and catch the sunlight, sending spears of light into the battle field illuminating the blood and tragedy. The blades grind together and slip apart, Crassus’ blade nicks Spartacus’ arm, but the pain numb to the gladiator through the excitement of battle, the fight for life or death and the simple rush of adrenaline. The Praetor and the Gladiator fall into a pattern and it becomes a dance. One lashes out at the other and instinctively the blade swings down to block it. Crassus lunges at Spartacus and he pivots on the ball of his feet and lets the blade slide past him. Back and forth, left and right, they are the waves and the sand, constantly struggling to be on the top; the heat and the chill, fighting for power; the sun and the moon, battling for the sky. Spartacus becomes a dancer in the performance remembering glimmers of his training. Lost in a cloud of memories imagining what it would be like if he was on the other side of this battle, fighting side by side with Crassus, Spartacus lets his guard down. Only for a moment does he stall, but just enough to allow Crassus’ blade to find its way past his blocks and straight through his chest. Spartacus’ eyes reflect the constant wave of emotions he always hid under his mask of a gladiator’s tough skin. A moment of complete shock, as everything happens in slow motion. The great gladiator falls onto the sun hardened ground, the blood seeping into the cracks as the dry earth hungrily absorbs the dark blood. A flash of pain flickers across the strong man’s face as he grimaces, trying to desperately hold on to life. Then almost as if you can sense him relaxing, he closes his eyes against the bright sun and sharp pain and simply let’s go, lets his breath slow and allows his heart to come to a stop, accepting his death instead of fighting for life.
“The one with the crooked nose.” He demands. With Spartacus’ hands shackled together Lentulus holds the chain connected to the gladiators bonds and prods him in between the shoulder blades with a stick.
Within the same year of being bought, Spartacus bands together two Gallic gladiators, Crixus and Oenomaus and together they start a riot among the slaves of the ludus.
Spartacus nods slightly at Crixus, who then taps the arm of Oenomaus and simultaneously they grab the forks they were eating with and begin hurling them at the guards. The rest of the slaves they had conversed with previously followed their lead.
“Grab your forks!” Spartacus yells, trusting a spoon into the eye of a guard. Through the hail of kitchen utensils and blood only 70 slaves, including Spartacus, Crixus and Oenomaus, escape. The 70 that break free swarm the town, taking weapons and tools on their way. The squad of soldiers that stands in their way is decimated as Spartacus and his men tramp through the town.
It’s the evening a few days later as Spartacus and the group of rebels come to the slippery sloped Mount Vesuvius. The sheer rock face of the mountain doesn’t deter the group and nimbly the escaped slaves create ropes from the ample vines to scale the side of the mountain. The slave group swings down the side of the mountain and ambushes the camp of a legion of the Roman army. The Roman army is unprepared for the attack and most of them are killed in the battle. With his success’ attention is drawn towards Spartacus and his band of slaves and soon their forces swell to 70,000 men including herdsmen and farmers. Although the group of rebels grows, negative attention is drawn to the rebels from the Roman Senate.
Over the winter of 72-73 BCE, the rebels led by Spartacus and Crixus, evade the roman army and begin training. When the spring comes Spartacus and his men move north. The Senate sends out a legion to stop the rebels and with initial success in defeating Crixus’ men the soldiers travel to meet Spartacus. Although they won over Crixus’ men, Spartacus and his group beat them easily near Mount Garganus.
Marcus Licinius Crassus commands eight legions; his charge to get rid of Spartacus and his group of rebel slaves. Spartacus and his men move to the south of Italy and Crassus sends out six of his legions to block the borders of the region and commands his other two legions, under the direction of Mummius, to take Spartacus from the back. Though ordered not to attack, Mummius commands his legions to engage in battle with the rioters and although the moment couldn’t have been better, the Roman soldiers are routed.
After a few more close calls for Spartacus and his men, they begin to move south to escape the Praetor Crassus who had been gathering the upper hand. Spartacus and his men then make camp in Rhegium, near the Strait of Messina.
Spartacus had made a deal with Cicilian pirates to take him and 2,000 of his men to Sicily where he would gather more men to join his forces and start another revolt. When Spartacus arrived at the dock to wait for the pirates, they never show up and leave the slaves without a passage to freedom. Spartacus is forced to move his men back to Rhegium and Crassus and his men drop in blocking the slaves from their supplies and attacking them while unprepared.
Spartacus tries to come to an agreement with Crassus knowing that the slaves would be beat in a battle against the Roman army but his proposition is declined. Some of Spartacus’ slaves flee to the mountains and try to escape the Roman army, but eventually Crassus and his men catch up the rebel slaves have nothing left to do but to stand and fight.
Spartacus stands at the front of his men facing the Roman army. He turns and looks sadly at his group of tough rebels.
“Kill them all.” He commands and the men rush towards their enemy. Spartacus grabs his Gladius and plunges into the battle slashing wildly in search of Crassus. He watches as slaves whom he had trained fall to the ground under the blade of the enemy. A single tear rolls across his dirt covered face revealing his real skin underneath the coat of grime. They shouldn’t be dying. Spartacus thinks to himself as he chops the arm off of a soldier, the blood spraying his trousers. There, in combat with a weak farmer is Crassus. Spartacus cuts his way to Crassus, and slices him from behind, distracting his attention and allowing the farmer to escape.
“Spartacus.”
“Crassus.” Spartacus replies and strikes out.
Their Gladius’ clash and catch the sunlight, sending spears of light into the battle field illuminating the blood and tragedy. The blades grind together and slip apart, Crassus’ blade nicks Spartacus’ arm, but the pain numb to the gladiator through the excitement of battle, the fight for life or death and the simple rush of adrenaline. The Praetor and the Gladiator fall into a pattern and it becomes a dance. One lashes out at the other and instinctively the blade swings down to block it. Crassus lunges at Spartacus and he pivots on the ball of his feet and lets the blade slide past him. Back and forth, left and right, they are the waves and the sand, constantly struggling to be on the top; the heat and the chill, fighting for power; the sun and the moon, battling for the sky. Spartacus becomes a dancer in the performance remembering glimmers of his training. Lost in a cloud of memories imagining what it would be like if he was on the other side of this battle, fighting side by side with Crassus, Spartacus lets his guard down. Only for a moment does he stall, but just enough to allow Crassus’ blade to find its way past his blocks and straight through his chest. Spartacus’ eyes reflect the constant wave of emotions he always hid under his mask of a gladiator’s tough skin. A moment of complete shock, as everything happens in slow motion. The great gladiator falls onto the sun hardened ground, the blood seeping into the cracks as the dry earth hungrily absorbs the dark blood. A flash of pain flickers across the strong man’s face as he grimaces, trying to desperately hold on to life. Then almost as if you can sense him relaxing, he closes his eyes against the bright sun and sharp pain and simply let’s go, lets his breath slow and allows his heart to come to a stop, accepting his death instead of fighting for life.
Animas High School 3206 North Main Avenue Durango, CO 81301 (970) 247-2474
My Contact Information: [email protected]
Updated on: 12.12.11
My Contact Information: [email protected]
Updated on: 12.12.11