A droplet of sweat reaches the tip of his nose,
to meet the scorching grains of sand beneath his feet.
The gaze of determination as he thrusts at his opponent
let the wealthy experience his power.
A gladiator he was.

Slipping from the grasp of her majesty,
he called himself a free man.
Followers came from towns, villages, and cities,
with the willingness to stand by his side.
A leader he was.

Men multiply,
bracing to fight for their freedom.
Rows of Romans responded,
awestruck by the brute force of the barbarians.
A general he was.

Rebel conflict arose.
A split between his army, threatened their power.
Refusing to lay down the acquired freedom,
resisting the Roman fleet was their only option.
An inspiration he was.

Cornered, a sea of blue crashed behind,
and a sea of red stirs ahead, closed in as chances diminished.
With the final thrust of his blade,
his name sticks like the sword in his enemy.
Spartacus he is.