As Valerius glanced over towards his awaiting men — a hundred horsemen and two hundred heavy infantry, he could see in each of their eyes their desperate anticipation to race down the hill. They had suffered too many defeats and saw many of their countrymen die at the hands of Hannibal’s army. They wanted — no, needed to bloody their swords, and with each new chorus of cries emerging from the camp, Valerius had to urge his men to be patient, just a little while longer.

He saw many horrors in his long life; too many battles and too many wars, death and mayhem were nothing new to the old veteran. This, however, was different. The very thought of fellow Romans, the survivors of Cannae being tortured to death for sport, by lowly slaves, was unbearable. If it were in his power, he would race down the hill on his own and slaughter them all, to the last with his bare hands. However, just getting on his horse some nights was a challenge. He knew that, one way or another, this was his last war.

Finally, Valerius knew it was time. If all went as he had planned, Gaius and the dozen men that went down there with him should have removed the outer guards and made ready the attack from within. If not, he knew, as capable as his men were that they didn’t have the manpower or time to spare to take the whole camp if it were defended. The sun would be rising soon, within the next two hours, and he doubted that there were enough captured Romans down there to keep the gladiators occupied past morning. So time was not on his side.

Now was the time to act.

With only a whisper Valerius turned towards the nearest officer, a boy, too young to be a centurion, and gave the word for the men to mount their horses and make ready.

The message was quickly relayed from man to man.

Slowly, and with as little noise as possible, save for a few words from the horses as they were mounted, Valerius and his single cavalry cohort began their slow and careful march over the hill and towards the gladiator camp, which was under a mile from their current position. They would shock the enemy with speed, while the infantry swept in behind them and slaughtered the stragglers.

He didn’t order his men into a full gallop, not yet. He led from the front, spreading his men out wide. Their horses moved steadily in a parade pace. Always he kept his eyes ahead, expecting every minute the horn to sound, warning the gladiators of his riders approach. However, after the first quarter mile, he heard nothing save for the continuing cheers and screams that carried for miles in all directions.

Within a half-mile, Valerius increased his speed, which was followed by his men. Now the ground started to rumble ever so slightly as the clattering of armor and weapons fill the blackened horizon.

His heart started to race. He felt young again, filled with the anticipation of the charge. He hadn’t done this in so long. This was how his men were supposed to fight — their enemy straight ahead — no tricks or traps, just man and iron.

The outer walls were in sight. As he had hoped and expected, Gaius had not failed in his given task. Not a single gladiator sentry was in sight. The whole camp was undefended.

With a thunderous roar, Valerius cried-out as he drew his spear and kicked his horse into a full gallop. He outpaced the rest of his men for a fraction of a second as the horsemen cried out, drew their weapons and charged at full speed.

A moment later, an alarm did sound as there was no hiding the fact that the gladiators were under attack. Only now it was too late to mount any kind of proper defense.

The low makeshift wall couldn’t stop the horses from leaping over it, or breaking right through it.

Valerius remained out in front of his men, ahead of them by a few yards as his horse leaped feet first over the wall. He was smiling like a boy as he saw his target, a lone gladiator, a dark-skinned man who froze with panic in his eyes as he saw the still screaming Valerius come right at him.

Valerius struck before the slave could do anything to defend himself.

As the man’s head split, the spear rattled terribly in his hand, which nearly caused him to lose it; he held on and continued forward, never stopping as more and more slaves ran out in front of him.

Those he did not kill outright his horse slammed into. With its weight and momentum, dozens of slaves were trampled by the wall of horsemen who followed Valerius.

Blood spattered across his face as his blade cut across another man’s throat. This time, he did lose his spear as the blade, which had quickly become dull and useless stuck as it hit bone.

Quickly, he drew from behind him one of three smaller throwing spears. It didn’t take long before he found another rebel slave as he threw the spear at a woman who had charged at him; a small dagger in hand. His aim was true as the shaft tore between the woman’s breasts.

No sooner than he had thrown the first spear did a second man run up beside him, trying, or more so hoping that he could trip the horse and force Valerius down to the ground.

Valerius thrust, the spear just barely managed to clip the man across his face, tearing deeply into his left cheek. It wasn’t a killing strike, but he went down regardless.

Valerius had his last weapon in hand. Now deeper within the camp the gladiators were starting to rally. The early, easy victories were harder fought as he caught sight of a number of his men go down; either their horses tripped, or they were hit by a well aimed arrow or spear throw. Still, not all the gladiators were willing to fight as large groups were running, most weaponless as they ran in the opposite direction of the Roman horsemen.

He caught sight of one large group of fleeing slaves; a mixture of men and women who raced towards the northern walls, and for a moment, he thought about given chase. He could easily catch them and drop three, maybe even five of them before he had to veer off. However, the group stopped dead in their tracks as a larger party of tattered, beaten and tortured freed Romans ambushed them.

Valerius' smile widened as he watched his countrymen, after having seen their comrades mutilated and tortured for hours, carried out their vengeance on their jailors. Those few with weapons hacked at the wall of panicked bodies while the others dog-piled the rest, beating them down, man and woman alike with their bare hands or whatever they could find on the ground. A few Romans died during the process, but their numbers were too great to be stopped. And across the camp, the scene was repeating as the gladiators soon found they had nowhere to run.

Valerius caught sight of his next target, a lone man who looked more like a child who couldn’t have been older than fifteen. More than likely he was a runaway slave who had joined this army. At the moment, Valerius did not care about the boy’s age or the frightful terror that was in his eyes, as he glanced back, while still running as fast as his young legs could carry him.

Valerius yelled something. He didn’t really know what he had said in the heat of the moment as he took aim while in a slow gallop. It just came naturally. He wasn’t typically a person, at least in his age to taunt his enemies before he killed them. However, in his carelessness, caught up in his youth as he bore down on the running boy, he failed to catch sight of the real threat.

Just as he was about to unleash his spear, Valerius’ grip on his weapon was suddenly knocked free as he felt a very sharp and extremely painful sting hit him right in his arm pit.

The old veteran yelled in agony as he knew from experience that an arrow had struck him just above his armor.

In near full gallop he wasn’t able to hold on the reins of his horse as he fell off his animal and tumbled into the blood-soaked ground where the arrow that stuck out of his armpit snapped from the impact, where the head was pushed deeper into his body.