Taste the thunder

Scene: Ancient Rome in a period we now know as 50BC. It tells us the story of the Gladiator, Marcell.

Marcell was the younger of two. As a child, Marcus, the elder of the two, had always given into his intellectual prowess. He quickly picked up Mathematics and Logic and learned to write from I to IX. Eventually he ventured into various other alphabets such as the ‘L’, the occasional ‘C’, as well the as dreaded ‘M’.

Marcell, however, sternly believed in the Olympian manner of life. Every waking moment he would spend exercising the muscle, and ironically, omitting the most important chunk of muscle of all - the Medullus. He stoutly opined that at every turn of the dial should be a prayer to the Temple of Mars, the god of war - at least that’s how much his brain allowed for him to think. He couldn’t tell an Atrium from an Asterix, but wrestled them all fondly with equal amounts of gusto. Needless to say, he'd never miss leg day.

Marcus passed out of the Augustus Roma University with a gold medal in law and had a comprehensive understanding of law and taxation. Marcell, in juxtaposition, had passed out (alive) out of the Syracuse Gladiator School with his specialized subject: Lion Taming studies. 

During this childhood, much to the chagrin of their mother and father, both were unwaveringly competitive. Marcell would often challenge Marcus to fist fights, which cause a lot of devastation to the house. It took Mother and Father a patient 14 years before they applied to the Department of declarations and had both of them declared as ‘FUBAR’.( Fucked up and beyond all repair). Needless to say, it took a toll on the Father's health.

After their college, Marcell went on to chase down a career as a lion tamer. A few years later, there came a day when the Father contracted the ill-fated plague of Old-age and but a few more breaths decided to throw him a sympathy-fuck. 

“How did this happen??” he questioned. “How do the years count backwards from 50BC to 1BC but I continue to age forward?” He would come to pass a few hours later, still puzzled at the conundrum.Mother wondered how he lived this long being this retarded. She instantly knew that the second had taken after him.

The blues of the above situation propounded a circumstance whereupon the two brothers would meet again, however, now aged and a little mature. By now, Marcus, the elder was of lesser fame, however his job of denying the Treasury of Rome of coin had substantially increased his own. Marcell on the other hand was a household Hercules name. His name resonated as much pride as it did fear in the hearts of parents and children alike. However, Marcell was of less means. He would still wake up perspiring in the middle of the night recalling the domineering laugh of the insurance company when he has requested them for a life insurance. 

“But.. but… You’re a LION TAMER!” they would exclaim, as if that logic alone were sufficient to deny him his cover. Years later, while he met his brother, he still had the unwavering fiery spirit, his body was still able and complete, with the exception of a few fingers and a chunk of his calf muscle. In his victories, the Emperor has liked his Facebook page a few times enough with the ol’ thumbs up to put food on the table, but not nearly enough to account for the scars on his back. Although denied life cover, he did get a medical insurance, with explicitly unfavourable terms.

Scene: Father’s funeral.

Marcell stepped up to the pedestal where the confused remains of their Father lay and met Marcus, where they sent him off to his ancestors. The brothers met again during the eulogy ceremonies when reluctantly, Marcell walked up to his brother to engage in one of those ‘it’s-been-a-while’ conversations. He mentioned how the coin he placed on his father’s eye was half of his life savings and the elder decided to help him out, and called him to his professional atrium, atop the his castle. 

After learning of his impoverishment, Marcus enquired, “Why dost thou get finger insurance?” Marcell proceeded to explain his insurance predicament in detail. “I only have a pinky, a pointy and thumb in both hands. My primary digit is my thumb as I need to grip my mace. But the wretch’d insurance will only cover finger insurance; and they say that the thumb is not a finger.” 

Facing this predicament, the elder sat down in thought for days. As the spiders in their webs got cozy enough to pay rent, he finally switched on his light bulb.

“By the power of Greyskull! I have devised a manner whereupon thy fingers AND thy thumb will be saved, Marcell!”

 

“Well, out with it!! Hurry now, Marcus!”

“Listen carefully: You will need to execute and notarize an affidavit whereupon you will solemnly swear that all three digits remaining on your hands are all fingers and not thumbs. They are all but digits anyway. Caesar will never be able to tell the difference; which is a thumb and which a finger!”

“You diabolical sunnvabitch. You. C’mere you.” 

 Hetrosexual Rome hugging ensued.

Marcell therefore set upon the diabolical course of action. Had the thumbs on both fingers declared as fingers, signed, stamped and notarized the affidavit. He even obtained a Royal Stone-tablet Certificate from the Department of Arms and Limbs to that effect.
 

His career blossomed like none other. His rise was meteoric and his tale retold as fairy tales to the younger. He no longer feared injuries to his ‘finger’ as he was duly protected and the lions started to adhere to his command. After a particularly epic battle, Caesar granted him the title of “Gladiator of First Chair” and he was at the zenith of his career; entertaining Rome with his claw, effective as any other predator. 

Days became months, and months became years and BC turned to AD.

Marcell’s hair grew grey and his legs weak. His claw was still potent as ever. However, the saying in Rome goes: “A Gladiator does not retire. He dies as Gladiator”

Burdened by age and the flailing gusto, his appearances in the Colosseum were hardly frequent, which angered Caesar. This prompted Marcell to fight on. As he grew older, the lions grew only more fiercer.

Finally, he was pit against the thug-iest lion on the block - Scar. Scar had a nasty reputation and, was a crowd favourite. He made a sumbitch of Simba and was looking for Naaaaaants ingonmayaaaan (or however the fuck you sing that).

As Marcell entered the arena, the crows were roaring for a good fight after a hard day of slavery work. The cage opposite him opened - Scar leaped out like a Jack-in-the-box leaving the aged gladiator stuck on his tracks. Marcell’s reaction to stimulus grew weak. Scar used a mean look and trapped him in the colosseum, dumb-founded. Three roaring attacks later, the aged gladiator was weapon-less and was on his knees, struggling, and out of all energy. He sensed his end. A pathetic sight for a once-great gladiator. A pathetic representation of the might of Caesar’s gladiators.

Bowing his head, he awaited for what was inevitable. The Final Death.

Scar kangaroo’d his legs to go for the final blow, when suddenly, his chains held him back and Scar was left with two paws in the air, testing the density of the chain. 

The crowd had gone silent. The Gladiator was puzzled. He looked up at the lion and saw he was bound down by chain and could not move forward. What or who caused this to happen? Who is my saviour?

He looked up for an answer. He found that Caesar had called to pause the fight, just before the final blow.

Caesar stood up

“The empire of Rome takes care of its subjects. The pathetic man you see in front of you, was once a great gladiator, entertaining the rulers and the ruled alike. He has served Rome well. However, he is now in the cross-roads between life and death. Rome, as a payback, offers him an option: A life with shame or a death with dignity.

A Gladiator, who lives on outside the arena, lives a dishonourable life, but a life nonetheless. A Gladiator who dies in the arena will be remembered in the history books forever. If you choose to accept this life, Gladiator, give me your affirmation. Choose now. Choose to live with dishonour, or die with honour.”

Marcell contemplated the options ahead of him (for like 2 seconds). ‘Fuck the bushido bull-shit. I don’t want to die mauled by a lion.’ He thought to himself. ‘I feel no shame in this. I have lived my life with enough honour to last me a generation or two.

Thank you Caesar! Gah! I could kiss you.You saved my balls, man!

He raised his head yet again to look at the vociferous crowd blanketing him. Imma do this with style. He spreads his arms apart, in a motion to mimic taking in the crowd. Cheekily, he looks as though he will miss their cruel faces and cheers. He looks at his final opponent. 
You ain’t getting me now, bitch. 

As a warrior, he gets up and tries to look as disappointed as possible so as to win the hearts of the crowd even after he accepts his life and not death. He finally stands up with his remaining energy. Wipes the perspiration off his brow and pushes it to the soil below. Slowly, with pride in his acting, he looks up, squinting at the afternoon sun and shows his affirmation to Caesar. Caesar looks at him.

“THEN, GLADIATOR, DIE WITH HONOUR!"

Within seconds, Scar is freed and picks him apart, limb to limb without strategy. The cheers from the crowd instantly increases, then the Gladiator hears his silence.

Why?

Why Caesar? I gave you my affirmation.

Why Caesar? Are you not a man of your word? Why Rome? Is Rome only worth so much? Was my life just a game to you, Caesar?

Why?

As the lion applied seasoning to body meat, things became clear to me.

Years ago, I had my thumb declared a finger. In affirmation, as I gave Caesar my good ol’ thumbs up, essentially, I gave him two middle fingers.

Done to death because of a court document. Done to death by an affidavit. A tiny piece of paper; the turning point. His death didn’t feel painful anymore -- Not as much as the irony at least. 

Irony. The irony was a horror.