“We refuse to continue to be treated as traitors of the Republic!” screamed a man named Plabius and his wife, Aelia. This bashful statement was far from wise, as Rome had brought Carthage to its knees following its decisive victory and the Second Punic War to a swift end. Praetor Celsus Cornelius scoffed, “You claim you are of Roman blood, yet we have reports that you have done just the opposite, conspiring against us in your act of assisting the Carthaginian scum.” “Please,” begged Aelia, “We are Romans, hailing from nearby Pisa! You must believe us!” “Nonsense!” raged Cornelius, landing a blow against her face with clenched fist.
“I do not have time for games. Licinius, show these so-called ‘Romans’ how we treat enemies of the Republic.” “Praetor,” mused Licinius, “Should we not review the most recent evidence we have received?” “You question my authority, do you now Senator?” “No Praetor, I do not.” His guards then forcefully restrained the couple, with another group fetching crosses. “Let this be an example to all who claim themselves Roman or otherwise but instead conspire against us behind closed doors!”
Promptly, the woman screeched with an unbelievable, shrill tone as she was pinned to the cross. Her husband was forced to stand idle for quite some time before he too was hoisted upon the tool of his demise. The crucifixion was complete. Cornelius, bending down to eye level with their son, who was but a young boy, mused with most dastardly smile, “Remember your place. Oh and have a most joyous time in Corsica. Get this rat out of my sight.” The boy, tears streaming down his face, was chained and dragged away helplessly.

He awoke to the rocking of a ship along a most rugged voyage. Many succumbed during the trip, he himself nearly being among them, but the kindness of an old man ensured his survival. “Gratitude,” the boy said as the man gave him his portions of food. Upon arriving at the destination, the boy and a large quantity of slaves were thrust upon fields of farmland, expected to harvest grain, the most prevalent crop and means of subsistence on the island. A slave, hailing from Carthage, jested mockingly, “You Roman dogs have not bested me yet!” only to be beheaded at the sight. “Any more degenerates out there?” yelled a Roman soldier. Silence quelled the people.

The boy was assigned to work under Cnaeus, the most prominent land owner in Corsica. His cruelty was so unmatched among land owners that he required the protection of a retired centurion, Varius. Varius served two roles: the obvious bodyguard but also the executioner for any who attempted to flee. After a few months had passed, the boy began to gain favor with Varius. “You are unlike all of the other slaves here; there is a certain fire in you.” “I merely enjoy working hard and with a certain vigor,” the boy retorted.
As he gained the respect of Varius, he was shown more and more of the art of the sword. Almost always, the maniacal Cnaeus would desire the blood of the fleeing slaves to be spilled in combat, so gladiatorial-esque matches would be devised. Here, the boy learned the ebb and flow of combat, studying each tradeoff, each technique with increasing vigilance. “One day, perhaps soon, Cnaeus will need a new bodyguard. I see how diligent and watchful you are as I engage in combat, so I will teach you my ways so that you may assume that role in future times,” proclaimed Varius. “I am most appreciative,” said the boy.

For the next decade, the boy, who under Varius’ guidance became quite the man, developed impeccable fighting skills. Varius became like a father to him, and the mutual respect among them was quite noteworthy. One fateful March night, the man lay in bed fitfully. This moment, he believed, was the moment to strike. The rapport which he gained with the other slaves over the years had developed well, quite to his liking. The past decade was well spent as he gained support of the plan which he had concocted over many years in the making.
Additionally, he was certain that Varius would join the slaves in their cause.

At that moment, the plan came to fruition. Upon freeing the first group of slaves, anarchy ensued. With whatever farming equipment they had scavenged, the slaves were able to free other slaves and kill the guards presiding over them. The process continued among the refuges scattered across the network of farmland. Making their way to the exit out of the farmland, they were intercepted by Varius and a small group of other retired centurions. “Do you think me so foolish as to believe I did not know of your plan?” roared Varius. “Varius, please, join our cause. You know my story. I am a Roman as you are, but the Romans have done us a most unfortunate disservice.”
As all of the centurions raised their swords, Varius said with conviction, “No, I will take care of this myself. I loved you like a son, but you leave me no choice. You are a slave, like any other, and I will do what I must.” Varius and the man exchanged blows, with the former expressing quaint surprise. “You have learned much,” Varius grinned. Each strike was blocked accordingly; it seemed a standstill for quite some time. Weariness and fatigue as a consequence of old age settled in, necessitating a quick end to the exchange for Varius. The special move which killed many slaves in the past was utilized by Varius.
Inches away from certain death, the man suddenly countered, disarming him and sending both his and Varius’ blades through Varius’ chest. “How, how did you know?” Varius groaned. “I learned that move – and how to counter it – from the very best,” the man exclaimed triumphantly. “If you were my son and I knew of your desires, I would have named you Liberticus,” Varius solemnly muttered as he crumbled to the ground. The other centurions, weary as they were, were not able to keep up with the ferocity of Liberticus and those slaves who too possessed knowledge in the art of combat. Attrition became the deciding factor; nonetheless, the body count rose on both sides. When all was said and done, Liberticus amassed the support of forty slaves.

Their journey through the fields of Corsica was one peppered only with minor conflicts, as the Roman legions had not yet established the most engulfing foothold on the island. By the time Liberticus reached the edge of Corsica, he and his followers were at odds. Should they sail the short distance from Corsica to the nearby island of Sardinia? There were some slaves who possessed remarkable nautical skill, so that option was viable. Or, perhaps, they could wait for more Roman ships to arrive and annex them and the goods housed upon their hulls. Hanno, a Carthaginian slave who possessed great might and a confidant of Liberticus, suggested they move to Sardinia, the larger of the two islands, so that more may join their cause. After deliberation and several nights of thinking, Liberticus concurred.
The next day, the ships along the coast were stolen and the rebels pressed onwards. Upon arriving on the shores of Sardinia, nine swords were instantly unsheathed. Unlike the tactics employed in escaping Corsica, which relied upon stealth, there would be no such chance here. The Roman soldiers charged with tenacity, cutting down nearly a dozen slaves. After witnessing this grisly sight, Liberticus ordered the remaining slaves to fall back behind him. It would be him, Hanno, and Gisgo, another Carthaginian slave skilled in combat, against this group.
The Romans, underestimating the trio, first sent three of their own to engage in combat. This would prove a costly mistake, as they were easily defeated. Then, the remaining six lunged with impatience. This impatience was capitalized on by Liberticus. As two Romans charged at him, Liberticus quickly crippled the first soldier, sidestepped, and then stabbed the second one through the chest. Gisgo, a master at disarming his foes, would do just that, easily dispatching the now-defenseless three troops he faced. Hanno, in a bout of fitful rage at the loss of approximately a quarter of the rebellion, slit the throat of the last remaining Roman of the group who begged for mercy.
For the next month or so, the slaves, who now numbered about thirty, lived in hiding, using the grain as subsistence. The rapport which developed among Liberticus and his peers was nothing short of awe-inspiring; newly freed slaves would call him the “Bringer of Grain,” for he did his best to act as a messiah to those people who once held no hope. As time passed though, Liberticus knew they would lose by attrition. One stormy night, he confided in the woman who he was deeply infatuated with. She too was once a Roman citizen who was falsely accused of assisting Carthage in its futile war with Rome. “Caelia, we are engulfed by the Romans,” Liberticus wearingly said.
He spoke the truth; Rome literally had the rebellion cornered on all sides. “If we head back West to Corsica, Rome will only send more forces against us. If we head to the most eastern and southern parts of Sardinia, we will be crushed.” “How do you know this?” Caelia said. “I sent out a number of scouts, and what they have seen is not promising,” replied Liberticus. “The East is densely populated by Roman soldiers, and the South has little in the way of slaves who could bring aid to our cause or grain to keep us alive. I cannot make this decision. I need release.” “Relax and calm yourself,” Caelia said soothingly, embracing him with a passionate kiss. The storm grew stronger with much rapidity. Gusts of wind violently battered across the refuge, the blades of grass bobbing up and down viciously, shaking in deference to the
strength of the storm. Eventually, the storm finally let up, and tranquility was reestablished and reaffirmed.

The fateful decision was deduced by Liberticus. “We move to the North, where we will claim the ships on the most prominent Sardinian port and sail away,” Liberticus spoke unwaveringly. His followers were hesitant to do so, weary of the certain death which follow. “I know that throughout the past two years you have questioned where my allegiances lie. Yes, I am of Roman blood. But no matter, for I have learned that the ‘Republic’ which my parents once worshipped is but a corrupt façade for underlying treachery. I, like so many of you, seek only freedom; we are no different in intent. So, please, I ask you to push for liberty one final time.” “Liberticus, Liberticus, Liberticus!” shouted the slaves in unison.

It all came down to this. There were nearly thirty Roman soldiers guarding the harbor. “Charge!” Liberticus screamed. There would be no clandestine approach here; a full on assault, perhaps derivative of desperation, was utilized. These Romans proved to be far more elusive than the group of nine upon the western shores of Sardinia, easily killing around a third of the slaves. Liberticus, Gisgo, and Hanno were able to even the odds and, with the aid of the other combat-oriented slaves, brought the Roman numbers down considerably.
When all was said and done, the ground was littered with around forty-five slaves and all thirty Romans. The battle was won, but the loss of so many was crippling. Liberticus was engulfed by shock and visibly distraught, but Gisgo brought him back to his senses. “We must press onwards!” exclaimed Hanno. The remaining fifteen slaves commandeered the smallest vessel, in effect trading off strength for speed.

And so, they had escaped, finally unshackled from the taut grasp of Rome’s arbitrary chains. Liberticus and Caelia embraced, their warmth suspended for what seemed an eternal duration. Freedom, unequivocal freedom, once but a distant dream, became a reality. “We have lost countless today, but their sacrifice will not go in vain,” Liberticus cried. “We are free men and women now – all of us.” Relief – of escape and of future dreams – brushed across the ship.
In the distance something loomed. As it got closer, Liberticus’ heart sunk to unfathomable depths. He had underestimated the reach of Cornelius, the man who had condemned him to slavery all those years ago. Knowing what was to come, half of the slaves merely leapt to their deaths, believing drowning to be a more fitting escapism. The rest were captured by Cornelius. Caelia was spared no such expense. As she was pierced through the heart by Cornelius’ blade, she peered one last time into the eyes of the gravely agnozied Liberticus and uttered, “Thank you … for setting us free.” Upon returning to Rome, all were crucified. “How does it feel to watch all whom you have ever held close fall, to lose everything you have ever gained as it crumbles to the ground?” sneered Cornelius. Liberticus, in his final words due to the claws of asphyxiation, retorted smugly, “It is better to die a free man than to live a slave.”