Libercontrarian

Crushed between the wheels of capitalism and big government.

Spartacus To The Gladiators

I was fathered by a fine man, a Warrior-Teacher. He served our nation through its' longest and coldest war, and when he tragically passed 17 years ago just the other day, still relatively young, he bequeathed to me a curious relic.

See, he had an artistic soul, and was compelled as a young man in the 60's and 70's to produce some fine works in a variety of media - pen, pencil, oils, carpentry.

I have several of the paintings, and they are as striking today as they were when I was a child. My most prized possession, however, is a worn piece of calligraphy which hangs, fading and warped from years of mistreatment, on my gun room wall.

It is a message from Spartacus to the Gladiators.

I have looked for this piece on the internet and have never been able to find it. I would like very much to see the book he took this passage from so I can see the context in which it is written. It is presumably a recollection of the words said by Spartacus to his Gladiators as he urged them to join him in revolt, and what they must certainly have known was suicide - for they would directly challenge the authority of the state of Rome. Few who did that before Spartacus or after lived very long. As it stands, it is the very quintessence of The Warrior Spirit:

Ye call me Chief, and ye would do well to call him Chief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and has never yet lowered his arm... Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of more savage men. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to tend the flock, and at noon I gathered my sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, a neighbor's son; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared our rustic meal...

Today I killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold, he was my boyhood friend. He knew me - smiled faintly - gasped - and died.... I told the Praetor he was my friend, noble and brave, and I begged for his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral pile, and mourn over his ashes. Aye, on my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that favor, while all the Roman maids and matrons, and those holy virgins they call "vestal," and the rabble shouted mockery, but the Praetor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, "Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans!

O Rome! Rome! Thou hast been a tender nurse to me! Aye, thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher sound than a flute note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through rugged brass and plaited mail, and warm it in the marrow of his foe! To gaze into the eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smooth-cheeked boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay the back, Rome, 'til they yellow Tiber River is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze they lifeblood lies curdled!

Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! Hark ye you lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but tomorrow he shall break his fast upon your flesh, and ye shall be a dainty meal for him.

If ye are brutes, stand here like fat oxen waiting the butcher's knife; if ye are men, follow me! Strike down yon sentinel, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work as did your sires at old Thermopylae! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that ye do crouch and cower like base-born slaves beneath your master's lash? O Comrades! Warriors! Thracians! If we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle.

posted by: underwhelmed at March 15, 2008 07:47 | link | comments |

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