clattering armour in the arena tunnels, and not one soft pillow for rest.
This must be life, for no death could give such freedom to the mind for self-torture.
My divinity, my emperor, my Domitian would love to witness this game where I fight myself. But this one he is denied.
He may think he has a right to my pain, and in truth, if there is such a right, this emperor did have it. For he trusted me to pursue my own self-interest. And he did not know that within me was a lunatic waiting for the worst possible time to take charge of my life. If not a lunatic, then myself, hidden so well from Rome, the mobs, and the emperor, that ultimately it hid from me.
None knew the real Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus when all thought they did. What they knew were their own fancies and what my retainers fed to the city in darkest rumours, so flagrant only the well-fertilized Roman mind would root in it.
They said many things about me when everyone thought they knew Eugeni. They knew so much about me. They said I fought in the arena because I would die naturally without the cheers of the mobs. They said an Eastern god gave me the power of eternal victory when I was a baby. They said I had a powerful hex on all my opponents. They said I refused to hear the names of my enemies. They said I only fought gladiators who had cursed the name of the people and the senate of Rome. They said I fought rarely because I felt the gladiators of today lacked the skill of yesterday. They said I fought rarely because I had become afraid. That I had become too slow. Too old. Too rich. Too thin. Too fat.
They said I slept with lionesses. With the empress. With our divine Domitian himself. With both. With no one.
They said I fought for whole provinces and revelled in my wealth. They said I gave my money in donatives to the legions facing the barbarians in the North for every yellow head that rolled, in vengeance for my father who was an officer most brutally tortured by the barbarian, priest of Apollo most brutally tortured by the barbarian, a scholar most brutally tortured by the barbarian, a patrician who had fled his seat in the senate to join the legion and was tortured by the barbarians.
Or Gauls. Or Jews. Or Parthians. Or Scythians. Or Dacians.
But most liked Germans. They thought them the wildest. And success in the arena was not so much what went on in the sands but in the minds of the crowds.
Just to see death was nothing. One could wait near the aged for that. But to see one's fears or hates performed in blood, that was the arena. And it was in the mind.
The disaster started, like most truly thorough cataclysms, with a promise of benefit. And it was my mind that was to blame. Perhaps if the negotiations for the match had not taken place on the latifundia themselves, I would have been more suspicious about the sponsors of the games.
But knowing that I trusted no one but myself for the final examination of who would be matched with me, they placed the young man in the middle of the latifundia, so that I had to see these vast farmlands they were willing to trade for my appearance.
I had latifundia. I hate the smell and sweat of the thousands of slaves who labour in these fields without even knowing where they are, only that if they work, they eat. They are the lowest slaves, not even having names on bills of sale, but going with the latifundia, one hundred more or less. And by that, meaning they are not even important enough to be numbered exactly: twenty-eight hundred field workers, one hundred more or less.
All the way through these lands south of the city, near Brundis ium, I had kept curtains drawn on my litter. If I could have trusted another to tell whether an opponent was fast enough or trained enough for a good performance, I would not have gone myself.
I did not care that the family sponsoring the games had sold off its armourers and tanners and carpenters from these latifundia and replaced them with field slaves beside cold forges and
This must be life, for no death could give such freedom to the mind for self-torture.
My divinity, my emperor, my Domitian would love to witness this game where I fight myself. But this one he is denied.
He may think he has a right to my pain, and in truth, if there is such a right, this emperor did have it. For he trusted me to pursue my own self-interest. And he did not know that within me was a lunatic waiting for the worst possible time to take charge of my life. If not a lunatic, then myself, hidden so well from Rome, the mobs, and the emperor, that ultimately it hid from me.
None knew the real Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus when all thought they did. What they knew were their own fancies and what my retainers fed to the city in darkest rumours, so flagrant only the well-fertilized Roman mind would root in it.
They said many things about me when everyone thought they knew Eugeni. They knew so much about me. They said I fought in the arena because I would die naturally without the cheers of the mobs. They said an Eastern god gave me the power of eternal victory when I was a baby. They said I had a powerful hex on all my opponents. They said I refused to hear the names of my enemies. They said I only fought gladiators who had cursed the name of the people and the senate of Rome. They said I fought rarely because I felt the gladiators of today lacked the skill of yesterday. They said I fought rarely because I had become afraid. That I had become too slow. Too old. Too rich. Too thin. Too fat.
They said I slept with lionesses. With the empress. With our divine Domitian himself. With both. With no one.
They said I fought for whole provinces and revelled in my wealth. They said I gave my money in donatives to the legions facing the barbarians in the North for every yellow head that rolled, in vengeance for my father who was an officer most brutally tortured by the barbarian, priest of Apollo most brutally tortured by the barbarian, a scholar most brutally tortured by the barbarian, a patrician who had fled his seat in the senate to join the legion and was tortured by the barbarians.
Or Gauls. Or Jews. Or Parthians. Or Scythians. Or Dacians.
But most liked Germans. They thought them the wildest. And success in the arena was not so much what went on in the sands but in the minds of the crowds.
Just to see death was nothing. One could wait near the aged for that. But to see one's fears or hates performed in blood, that was the arena. And it was in the mind.
The disaster started, like most truly thorough cataclysms, with a promise of benefit. And it was my mind that was to blame. Perhaps if the negotiations for the match had not taken place on the latifundia themselves, I would have been more suspicious about the sponsors of the games.
But knowing that I trusted no one but myself for the final examination of who would be matched with me, they placed the young man in the middle of the latifundia, so that I had to see these vast farmlands they were willing to trade for my appearance.
I had latifundia. I hate the smell and sweat of the thousands of slaves who labour in these fields without even knowing where they are, only that if they work, they eat. They are the lowest slaves, not even having names on bills of sale, but going with the latifundia, one hundred more or less. And by that, meaning they are not even important enough to be numbered exactly: twenty-eight hundred field workers, one hundred more or less.
All the way through these lands south of the city, near Brundis ium, I had kept curtains drawn on my litter. If I could have trusted another to tell whether an opponent was fast enough or trained enough for a good performance, I would not have gone myself.
I did not care that the family sponsoring the games had sold off its armourers and tanners and carpenters from these latifundia and replaced them with field slaves beside cold forges and
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