Winter was setting in. As Lepidus and his legates walked into a clearing, the rush of air filled the vacuum of space with a biting chill. He pulled his cloak about his frame, and seemed unaffected. But the band of slaves huddled together before him shivered with discomfort. The question was what was it that sent the chills down their spines. Was it the blowing winds or the pro-praetor’s cool demeanor.

“What is to be done with them?” Lentulus finally spoke.

“They are all to be crucified.” Replied Lepidus. The expression on his face never changing. There was no glee in his victory, but no sign of remorse for what he had made up in his mind had to be done. “These people, roman subjects and slaves alike, must learn once and for all that these rebellions only hurt themselves. I want these slaves divided evenly among the 17 major cities of the province. Once at their destinations, they are to be crucified. The whole lot of them.”

Those slaves in the front ranks began to murmur. “We are to be crucified!” Panic spread across the dirty faces of the condemned.

One tall Gallic man stood above his peers speaking in a broken latin. “Better to die a man than to serve as a roman dog.”

Lepidus was in no mood to admire such brazen spirit. There would be no allowing of these men to die feeling as though they were martyrs to enflame further unrest. “Have that man’s tongue removed before he leaves this ground.”