In fact, without Maximus needing to remind them, everyone had already spotted the conical peak rising abruptly from the plains to the south, towering into the clouds. Its upper half was dark and obscure, while the lower half was lush and verdant. Faint wisps of smoke hovered around the summit...
The group stood dumbstruck, staring at the renowned and peculiar peak of Italy. Even the bold Cross couldn't help but swallow nervously, saying with slight unease, "Is this Vesuvius?"
"Yes," Spartacus responded in a hushed tone, as if he feared disturbing something. "That's our destination—Hevistos's forge."
Although they could see Vesuvius, there was still quite some distance to cover. By now, it was dusk, and the gladiators were unwilling to travel through the night. Spotting a farmhouse nearby, they rushed over.
The farm had a courtyard that wasn't particularly large, surrounded by a fence made of densely arranged wooden slats interwoven with short shrubs. It was merely a marker of territory to keep strangers out, yet it proved no obstacle for the fearsome gladiators. They crashed through the fence, kicked open the wooden door, and found seven or eight individuals trembling in terror in the courtyard. They hadn't scattered but instead stood protectively around a young man in their midst.
One elderly man, summoning his courage, shouted, "Who... who are you?! How dare you... trespass on Master Dionysius's land!" His voice barely faded before an earthen dog nearby began barking even louder.
Without hesitation, Cross stepped forward and delivered a kick. The dog yelped in agony, flew into the wall, and collapsed to the ground with its legs twitching. The people in the courtyard turned pale as ashes.
Spartacus looked at them thoughtfully and asked, "Who's Dionysius? Judging by the name, sounds like a Greek?"
The young man, as if humiliated, trembled as he spoke, "My... my father is a Roman citizen, an important councilman in Napolet. He has enough wealth to pay for my ransom. But if... if you dare to harm me, he will surely send Napolet's army after you—"
"Think Napolet's army is stronger than Capua's?" Cross sneered dismissively, triggering a burst of laughter among the gladiators.
Spartacus, however, responded earnestly, "We are not bandits. We are warriors waging war against Rome, fighting for freedom!"
Though the young man tried desperately to conceal his emotion, his gaze toward Spartacus carried the air of someone looking at a joke.
Spartacus appeared unbothered and scanned the others. "Are all of you slaves?"
Surprisingly, the elderly man forgot his fear and proudly declared, "I'm a Roman citizen!"
"I... I'm a freedman," two others answered together.
The remaining four hesitated before nodding, admitting they were slaves.
"Would you be willing to join us?" Spartacus asked them gently, his tone becoming kind. "That way, you'll gain your freedom and no longer have to fear being oppressed."
The four slaves exchanged glances, then lowered their heads without saying a word.
"Don't kid yourself. They're all... family members of my household. They won't leave to be bandits—" The young man couldn't help but interject but was promptly punched in the face by Cross. He fell backward, blood streaming from his nose.
"Shut up, brat, or I'll be sure you lose your miserable life!" Cross threatened vehemently before turning back to the slaves. "If you keep staying silent, I'll chop you to bits and feed you to the dogs!"
The terrified slaves trembled all over but still shook their heads in refusal.
Enraged, Cross drew his short sword and swung twice in the air in their direction. "Ungrateful bastards! What use is keeping you alive?"
The slaves immediately knelt on the ground, pleading desperately for mercy.
"Enough, Cross." Spartacus's face darkened, but he suppressed his anger and said sternly, "Our brothers have worked hard all day and are both hungry and exhausted. Hamilcar, you and Maximus take these people and make sure they prepare food. If they refuse to cooperate, you may deal with them as you see fit."
Spartacus then looked at the young man lying on the ground and continued, "Antonix, take this guy inside. We need to have a proper chat with him."
Antonix walked forward, grabbed the terrified young man, and lifted him as if he were just a chick.
"What... what are you going to do—" The elderly man stepped forward to block Antonix but was shoved to the ground with a single push.
He scrambled to his feet and kowtowed repeatedly. "Please, I beg you to spare my young master! Please—"
"Work hard and do what you're told. If you do well, we might consider sparing your young master." Hamilcar replied coldly.
The elderly man saw a glimmer of hope and quickly stood, ingratiatingly saying, "Please instruct us; we will do our utmost!"
"How many sheep do you keep?" Hamilcar asked, glancing toward one side of the farmhouse. Even though the gladiators caused quite a commotion when flooding into the courtyard, the sound of bleating sheep was unmistakable.
"Forty-five," the elderly man answered.
"Who's skilled at slaughtering sheep?" Hamilcar asked again.
The elderly man pointed to two individuals.
"Slaughter twenty immediately and cut them up for stew."
"Twenty?" The elderly man hesitated, clearly unwilling. "These are prized Attica sheep that produce fine wool—"
"Want me to slaughter all of them instead?" Hamilcar's eyes widened menacingly, silencing the man into submission.
Hamilcar instructed several gladiators to bring the two slaves to the sheep pen behind the farmhouse to conduct the slaughter. Turning to Maximus, he explained, "Typically, eight people can barely manage with one fat sheep. But for us gladiators, with our appetite and today's exertion, three or four could take down a sheep. These twenty won't be enough, but feeding everyone to the brink after such a long absence of meat might actually make them ill. Soup is the best option."
Maximus listened intently to every word.
"Who's the cook here?" Hamilcar demanded.
"...The women are inside." The elderly man hesitated briefly before pointing toward the kitchen.
"Ha, so you've hidden women here!" Some gladiators cheered with excitement, heading eagerly toward the kitchen.
Spartacus roared, "Stop right there! Are you a bunch of stallions who've never seen mares? You harm those cooks, and who's going to make your meals?"
Though Spartacus typically treated others kindly, his temper was formidable when he erupted. The gladiators froze in place, too scared to make eye contact or retort.
"Hold yourselves back for now," Spartacus softened his tone, then smiled and added, "Once we're settled and have made a name for ourselves, what kind of women couldn't we find? You seriously want a cook tougher-looking than a man?"
Laughter rippled through the courtyard.
Hamilcar quickly led the others into the kitchen, asking as they walked, "Do you have flour ready here?"
"Yes," the elderly man replied.
"Enough to make round loaves for each of us, two apiece?"
The elderly man looked around at the gladiators crammed into the courtyard and said hesitantly, "...It should be enough, but with so many people, it will take a while to prepare."
"No rush. Just take your time; we've got plenty of it."
Hamilcar's words sent a chill through the elderly man's heart. It was clear these bandits had no intention of leaving tonight.
Inside the kitchen, two women huddled in hiding. They weren't nearly as terrifying in appearance as Spartacus suggested, but they weren't particularly attractive either. They were wives of two freedmen, and only after Hamilcar promised, "As long as you prepare dinner, you and your husbands will be spared," did they reluctantly begin boiling water for porridge, washing vegetables, and cooking fish...
The others, under the elderly man's supervision, busied themselves—some chopping firewood, some stoking flames, others kneading dough, fermenting, and baking...
Hamilcar paced solemnly within the cramped kitchen, supervising their efforts, much as he had done earlier that morning in Flora's rear temple kitchen.
Maximus stood silently at the kitchen door, watching as Hamilcar orchestrated everything to perfection.