For a man offorty five, he was in tremendous shape, but years in the arena had lefttheir toll in scars and stiffness. His hair was thinning, and worrylines had taken refuge on his forehead like castle fortifications. Allin all, the expected result of the life he lived. Spiculus gave onefinal glance, and then walked on.An eastern woman awaited him in the next room, a lute in her hand andthe slightest of clothes drapping over her perfect form. Spiculusadmired her beauty for a moment, and then took a step into the perfectlyclear waters of the bath.Utter bliss filled Spiculus as he sunk to his neck in the waters. Yearsof ache, feelings that the gladiator was so used to that he hadforgotten what it felt to be without them, evaporated into oblivion. Itwas like releasing a breath that he didn't even know he had beenholding.For what seemed like an eternity, Spiculus soaked in the warmth, thesoothing sounds of the servant's enchanting tune washing over him.Then, so subtly that not even. I expect jostling. Impatience. A maddened collective need to push through the crowd and escape the close-knit confines of steel and aluminum and a monster they cannot stand, nor understand. But there isn’t. Just movement. Serpentine. Cold. Just warm bodies hiding cold blood moving from one place to the next before clocks tick and the cycle begins again. I’m merely the un-caged, potentially violent entertainment to get them from point A to point B without falling asleep. I imagine they’ll send messages from their strange phones. Tell a friend what they saw on the ride home. Sympathies and horrors exchanged. And move on.Forget.Easy as eating granny’s warm apple pie.The bizarre nature of the moment brings forth a rage I thought buried for good, a part of me that prefers cold stone, colder iron and a pallet thinner than a deck of cards. When the company of fellow convicts feels more sociable, more natural, and less like rats scuttling mindlessly for their one bit of happiness, their one.
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