Aftermath

The Impossible Dream

Is Rome worth one good man's life? We believed it once. Make us believe it again.

Who will help me carry him?

The Senator's query was met with the solemn stampede of footsteps, and the general's corpse was met with the strong hands of supporters. And yet there was one heart that beat alone amidst the center of the Colosseum.

Blood seeped from Commodus, turning the surrounding sands a murky shade of maroon as the emperor waited for his permanent slumber. He gasped as another wisp of air escaped him. He knew that when the people of Rome referred to the cost of one good man's life, they weren't talking about him. No, they spoke of Maximus - the general who became a slave, and the slave who became a gladiator - the very gladiator that he, Lucius Aelius Aurelius Commodus, had defeated.

Yet, he could not help but wonder as he lay motionlessly, if his triumph would ever go down in history. Would they finally take his name with a respectful tongue - Commodus the Invincible? Would they remember him as the father who gave his hungry children bread - Commodus the Merciful? Or would still he be the disappointing child of Marcus Aurelius who shouldn't have been - Commodus the Imbecile? Or - even worse- , would his name disappear into thin air like the grains of sand caking his figure?

To be unknown and forgotten would be a fate worse than the most painful death - it was the sole fear that loomed over his head like the Sword of Damocles. And no one could see that sword except for him.

Loneliness was second nature to Commodus - it had been his only loyal companion. There was nothing he wouldn't have given to have the loving touch of his sister or the gentle voice of his nephew as his last earthly sensations, but perhaps he was destined for nothing but the cries of vultures. And just like those birds of prey surrounding a rotting corpse, memories began to pick at his languishing mind.

"When I am emperor, you'll be my lovely empress." The eleven year-old boy murmured as he took refuge in the arms of his elder sister. Thunder clapped as it rained heavily outside the palace. "It should be just you and me...and Rome."

"The Greatness of Rome...and what is that?" He asked his sister, years later. "Exactly. A vision. Do you not see, Lucilla? I will give the people a vision of Rome and they will love me for it. And they will soon forget the tedious sermonizing of a few dry old men. I will give them the greatest vision of their lives." All his life, he did what he had to in order to secure his throne and carry out his plans. Even if it meant taking a few lives as he had to, surely it would all be worth it - his devotion would be rewarded some day, he thought.

And when he'd finally claimed the throne, just as he'd dreamed of, he was met with nothing but mockery. With every night he sacrificed his sleep, the jeers from the citizens only grew stronger. How could he ever forget that time he took an excursion in the town square, only to find spectators watching a play that taunted him and his own reign? For the people, he straightened himself that afternoon and kept a regal smile, saving his fury and misery for the palace doors, his sword, and a hapless servant.

For the final straw on the camel's back, he was surrounded by betrayal and treachery during his last earthly days. His only family were secretly his staunchest nemeses, and they stopped at nothing to see him die.

Many a time, he never truly felt like an emperor despite having the throne for himself. It was almost as if he had never been their...

"Caesar!" A pained female voice called to him as a soft hand tapped his cheeks. "Caesar, please..." Through his feeble sight, he could see a radiant, womanly yet youthful face with light brown hair looking over him. "Guards!" She commanded as several purple capes rushed to her aide.

As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he felt anything but Caesar-like. Rather he was limp as a doll while several pairs of strong arms carried him...and the sound of hooves could be heard. Perhaps it was a chariot sent by Letus, the God of Death. Preparing for a journey to Tartarus, Commodus closed his eyes and let the darkness drape its cloak over him.

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Three days later, Commodus found himself in...his own bed. Was it all a dream? His doubt was quickly clarified by the sight of bandages and the absence of his armor. "We are glad to finally have you with us, Caesar." Galen, the physician, remarked as he stirred a tonic with honey for the awakening emperor. Commodus looked around him, surprised at the familiar dark gold decorations and the white gauzy curtains that sheathed his imperial poster-bed.

Next to him, he was astonished to find a mysterious pink piece of cloth marred with blood. "Forgive me, Caesar." Galen continued, "but when you first came in, that was the only thing that stopped the bleeding for a little while." Commodus took the cloth into his hands, running the unfamiliar material through his fingertips. "Oh...'Tis not a concern, Galen."

"Highness," a guard called from the door. "Prince Lucius wishes to see you." Remaining emotionlessly regal, Commodus silently gestured for the boy to be brought to his bedside. Lucius ran up to him and threw his arms around the emperor. "How did you do it, Uncle? How did you come back to life?" Lucius asked him eagerly. The emperor was about to tell him a tale of personal glory and the gods, when a certain sight changed his mind. Commodus's lip curled upwards as he saw, from the corner of his eye, a flurry of that familiar rosy hue scurrying across the hall. He told his nephew,

"The Pink Fairy saved me."