Yet every campaign exacts its price. Crixus, brave and headstrong, fell in battle—cut down while trying to secure a flank. His death was a fissure beneath the surface of the revolt. Men wept openly. Spartacus, who had barely cried in the ludus’s dim light for fear of showing weakness, stood in the rain and let the grief unspool. The loss made him fiercer, but it also made the war longer. Without Crixus’s reckless courage the army lost some momentum; without his laughter the nights were quieter.
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