I'm Not Spartacus

by Robert Rubino

 

            I’m not Spartacus, but I’ve got a story to tell.

            I’m Spitacus, so whenever we had to line up alphabetically at that godforsaken gladiator academy, I’d stand behind Spartacus and we’d chit-chat. “Where you from? What school you go to? Who do you like in Super Chariot Race XCIX?” We weren’t close. Spartacus hung with the malcontents. He had charisma and a cleft chin. And a kind of clenched-jaw way of speaking, like he was holding on to a lot of hostility. A whole lot. I had acne, rotting teeth, unibrow. Hung with the nerds.

            After I left, of course I heard about Spartacus’ exploits. Who didn’t? How he quickly moved on to bigger, better things — overnight sensation in the gladiatorial ring, hooked up with a gorgeous woman, led the slave revolt against the Empire. Real folk hero for a while, everyone wanting to be like him, at one point thousands actually claiming to be him — a solidarity thing, I was told. Sounded more like a cult to me. Then he moved on to things not so good — crushing defeat, excruciating death —crucifixion, ouch. His name still evokes awe. He’s a hero. Gotta give him that.

            Thing is, I was never any good at understanding directions from people screaming at me or slurring their words, and at that gladiator academy it was all screaming, all slurring, all the time. And they used a lot of double negatives, like “Don’t show no mercy.” Huh? Confusing. Employees there — not happy campers. Plus, my hearing in one ear, the left, less than perfect. I suffered from anxiety. Panic attacks. Insomnia. Irritable bowel. I’d say: “I’m sorry, please clarify. Does thumb-up mean kill one’s opponent or spare him?” Because I’d given it a lot of thought and figured a thumb-up might very well mean “Yes, kill the sucker.” Thumb-up as a sign of “Hey, you’re doing a fine job, go right ahead and finish.” And isn’t it logical that thumb-down might mean “Ok, stop, you’ve had your fun but enough is enough, don’t kill”?

            I can’t tell you how many times I asked, but could never get a straight answer. Not from fellow gladiator trainees who thought I was intellectually challenged. “Freakin’ brain-dead dirt-wad,” is what they called me. Nor could I get a simple answer from my instructor, who thought I was insolent and would either horsewhip me or stick me in solitary with a scorpion. And I certainly didn’t get a clue from Spartacus. Prima donna. Even back then. The one time I asked him about my thumb-up thumb-down conundrum, he squinted as if I were a fly in his body ointment (the only one of us who somehow could afford body ointment, by the way — what was up with that?) and — get this — winked at me!

            So, the first time I get into the arena with real weapons, in what they called a “dress reversal,” even though we wore the same smelly loin cloths as always and I had no idea what was being reversed, I’m paired with fellow trainee Supercilius. And, ok, I never liked him, couldn’t stand his fake snooty accent, like he thought he was better than the rest of us. But I’m scared, don’t really know what I’m doing, never quite learned those complicated hand-to-hand combat techniques. So I make some moves, left-right, fake one way, double deke another, who knows what the hell I did? But before I knew it, I’m standing over Supercilius with my pitchfork to his throat, and I look up at the luxury suite for a thumb-up or thumb-down from whatever big shot is there. I get a thumb-up. I freeze, then figure it’s better to err on the side of caution, so I shove the pitchfork through Supercilius’ neck. Never saw so much blood. And remember, I worked in a slaughterhouse before I got “recruited” by the Romans.

            At first, everyone at the academy was annoyed with me. “It was a training session, a rehearsal,” they scream at me, and that’s the first time I hear the word rehearsal, I swear. “You lisping limp-dick geek freak,” they add, which I thought was redundant, but maybe they said “Greek freak.” Still, not nice. But after a day or two the folks in charge make it known that they kind of like what they call my “going rogue” and “killer instinct.” They imply I might be a diamond in the rough, a potential superstar on the gladiator circuit. Well, thanks but no thanks. I didn’t see a future in that. So when I’m given an afternoon to “let off steam” at the local town’s toga-optional beach as a reward for killing Supercilius even though I wasn’t supposed to kill Supercilius, I use that opportunity to set sail. And don’t look back. Sure, I heard rumors about them “letting” me escape, that I was deemed “too unstable, too crazy” to be a gladiator. Yeah, right. Since when did the Romans shy away from too crazy?

            Whatever. I’m alive to tell the tale. Changed my name. Appearance, too. You like the virile bald look? Shaved off the unibrow, too. And how about this tattoo of a giant eyeball on my forehead? I call it my third eye. Clever, no? Eventually I found a job in the kitchen at an upscale paleo place in Gaul. They use meat only from animals humanely slaughtered. I’m evolving. In five years I see myself as second assistant chef on the weekend graveyard shift.

            So, no, I’m not Spartacus. And nobody ever stood up in hero-worshipping solidarity and proclaimed “I’m Spitacus!” But who needs that sort of fleeting celebrity, with the sycophantic entourage, tabloid town criers and women not interested in you for who you really are deep down? Not me.

            I’m not Spartacus. I’m “Pierre” (wink). And I’m still breathing.

Read More...

January 2019