A commodity caged, he fell to his knees
Dominus ruled and he wanted to please.

Bought for no more than a handful of coin
sent to the dungeons, the others to join.
A brotherhood forged from fear and regret,
his future unknown, his dreams were beset.
Trained by the whip of a battle scarred cur,
his might was impressive, his cost more than fair.
To the top of the arena he killed and he maimed,
to the Champion of Capua, a title he claimed.
His celebrity grew, he won the heart of the crowd,
Crixus was known and Dominus was proud.

The wife of his master was intrigued by his lore,
she ordered his presence, requested a show.
He performed to her whims, an illicit affair,
continued whenever her husband weren't there.
His heart wasn't in it, he loved another,
a slave girl, a beauty, she was his lover.
Their love was forbidden so a secret it stayed,
they could never reveal how they had betrayed.

A newcomer was brought to the ludus he crowned,
a Thracian, a mongrel, was thrown the to ground.
The man in the dirt was no more than bone
and his eyes held the look of a mind gone to roam.
He clung to a scrap of cloth in his hand,
as his face was forced down into the sand.
Reputation he brought with his pitiful state,
the arena he'd beat and the four he had slayed.
Dominus was glad, his fortune was well,
this gifthorse was his and his purse it would swell.
He named him Spartacus, made him his own
and worked him hard until he was worn.

When he was ready, he sent him to fight,
set him a challenge, a test of his might.
Crixus he'd face in a battle of strength,
a chance he had wanted and thought of at length.
He came out the victor and Crixus enraged,
he wanted revenge and war he would wage.
He longed for the blood of his rival to spill,
he wanted the lust of making the kill.
He'd get his chance, the time would come,
and only then would he be done.

The magistrate came and the Primus was named,
they were both chosen to fight as the same.
The trouble between them was obvious to all,
but unite they must or otherwise fall.
Theocoles, the legend, the Shadow of Death,
was who they would challenge to the very last breath.
All those before had died by his blade
all those but one, who still bore his stain.
With fear in their hearts they took to the task,
of preparing themselves for a fight to the last.


For honour and glory he fought to the death,
believing until he drew final breath.
His sword was well used and he held it proud,
till bloodstained and weary he fell to the ground.
Crixus was beaten, his wounds open wide,
but with valiant effort he turned to his side.
A chance for redemption in Dominus' eyes,
shield held aloft to lift Spartacus high.
As Theocoles' head fell to the ground,
Crixus was glad, for peace he had found.