Chapter 23. Gladiator Fight.

March 23, 2003

Born a free man, at this hour I was a captive Roman slave. This civilization, the civilization of Rome, not only plundered my home and stole my property, but what is much more significant—it destroyed my freedom and family. For what reason did it do this to me and to those like me? Did my life, which took place hundreds of kilometers from the center of this vicious empire, in any way offer any resistance to the free existence of the Romans, did my life, which truly originated at a considerable distance from Rome, create all sorts of obstacles to the lives of the Romans? For what reason did they enslave us and destroy our calm and peaceful life? For what reason did we, born free people, we, born of the same flesh and blood as the women of Rome, have to become servants and slaves to the Romans? Only because they possessed strength? But what then distinguishes them from ordinary animals, for in nature the right of might reigns everywhere, but not the might of right?.. Rome! Having found myself for the first time within the limits of this city, even though I was bound by steel bars, my nature significantly comprehended the essence of that capital, perhaps one of the greatest civilizations in its baseness—they themselves created gods for themselves and they themselves overthrew them, from soulless stone they created the most brilliant works of architectural thought, every centimeter of which had an exceptional spirit, and in their totality a unique soul, they, being in a state of freedom, were even more despicable slaves than I: they were slaves to lust, prejudice, and vice—in this city, from its first house to its last, everything was permeated with the spirit of vice, but this vice was attractive, it was exquisite, it was passionate, and therefore even deeper and more unpredictable in its manifestations. The large columns of Rome remind me of the bulky crowns of those very trees under the shade of which I grew up in a distant wilderness of this world—in this was all of Rome: it did not accept nature as it was—it destroyed it in order to erect its own will, its own thought, and its own feeling in its place. The togas of the Romans remind me of the waves of those very spaces where I was born, grew up, and lived—in this attire was all of Rome: donning a free toga, it was limited and shackled, mentally and sensually—by the wavy shackles of self-created prejudices. Their majestic bridges, connecting some banks with others, were not able to unite these people, for each of them was driven only by mercantile feelings: the thirst for wealth, power, fame, physical satisfaction—being Romans, and therefore, according to their own words, possessing imperishable principles and exceptional pride, they were never united, for in a state of searching for their own benefits there can be neither allies nor friends. The one who does not want to understand and accept this will repeat the fate of Caesar—in Rome there can be no friends and allies: in Rome there are enemies everywhere—these people are united only by citizenship, but not by national interests. And they enslave us, free people, only in the name of their own gain, for no truly flourishing nation and civilization will ever want to absorb another—nations are not destroyed by other nations: nations are destroyed by people. My ideas, the ideas of a slave, of course, in the eyes of the Romans, were extremely different from the reality that prevailed here—being a thing, I was a person, and being a person, I was a thing: every one of their actions that awakened admiration in their souls was despised by me—the murder of a person was for them equivalent to the destruction of a thing. They could not understand this, for they were not those things—they called themselves people. Their brilliant historians praise the greatness of their own nation, they deliberately give the Romans virtues that are not inherent in them, and also with a certain intent hide the vices inherent in them—rewriting the same picture, they give it, as they believe, more and more refined and exquisite masks, not at all realizing that they are turning this canvas into just a chaotic totality of colors, into a bulky, albeit motley, spot: being zealots of high principles, the most revered of which for them is the principle of freedom, they, by destroying the freedom of others, very rudely despise and corrupt what they call sacred and sacral from high rostrums—crimes that a Roman commits against other peoples are not crimes in Rome, but at the same time the good, in one way or another manifested by this empire, which is thoroughly furrowed by the worms of vicious morals, is called good by it. This empire is built on contradictions, and therefore its fate is only one—ruin: a colossus, whose foundation are clay legs, is unable to withstand the difficult trials of never-sleeping times. I, a person captured by Rome, a Roman slave, now look into the eyes of the people around me—I see in them the history of Rome: the history of vicious valor and virtuous sin. In the eyes of each of them I see Romulus and Remus, but I never see the Capitoline wolf there, the nature that gave life to these people, which allowed them to become great kings. Here is another moment, and having overcome a chaotic multitude of well-fed and thin streets of Rome, having overcome an countless number of well-fed and thin minutes of being in Rome, my nature, frantically admiring the very spectacle that appeared before its eyes at this hour, looks at the tirelessly raging plebs—an ocean of emotions is contained in the stone shackles of the Colosseum: this cannot but fascinate even me, a resident of the primordial flesh of existing nature. The Colosseum! A majestic structure! A pile of harmoniously tailored stones! The greatness of the Colosseum is not in itself, it is in the people who created it, despite the fact that these people are criminals in my eyes! A kaleidoscope of analogies, images, and memories rushes through my head, like a swift river from places related to my flesh—in Rome even the Tiber is cold and insensitive… The plebs are frantic! They want nothing more than to see my torment, my blood, my death. This is the culmination, the highest peak of this civilization! When it is thirsty to watch others die, it dies itself—when it enslaves, it becomes a slave itself… mocking others, it is mocking itself! The crowd! Its faceless face is cruel! It constantly shouts only one word—and this word is: "Death!" But what did I, a half-wild inhabitant of a secluded wilderness of the sublunar world, do to them, the inhabitants of the Roman Empire, that was bad? How did I sin against them? My lands are far from these places, and my children have nothing to share with the children of Rome—so why should I die by their will? For what reason did they shackle me, like a wild animal? Only for the sake of fun and entertainment?! Civilization! Not wanting it myself, by its own will, I came out with it to a gladiator fight! I, armed only with my hands, my strength, and my mind, for some reason am now forced to fight against people in armor and with swords—one against all, against the crowd, against the whole world, which in those moments is against me: this is more than just a struggle—this is a struggle of instinct against reason! Looking at their sharp swords, I realize the futility of my endeavors, but I will fight, I will not give away my own life cheaply! The crowd! This sea, this chaos despises me, my life, which is now on a small, insignificant raft among the raging ocean! Looking at its strength, I feel insignificant—it is in such minutes that empires are closer to collapse than ever, for it is such minutes that create new Spartacuses: being in a state of delight, they do not at all realize the true reality—wolves cornered are many times more dangerous than freely wandering lions and panthers… Here, a moment, and I take another uncertain step among the spaces of the Colosseum arena: inside, on the battlefield, it is empty, but there, in the stands, there is not a single empty seat—here, on the sand, the arena is silent, while there, in the stands, it roars, like hundreds of thousands of wounded beasts. Here, in the arena, I, a captive slave, am alone—there, in the stands, there are tens of thousands of them, free citizens: we look at each other, we despise each other—this is our gladiator fight. After a short, insignificant amount of time, lions were released into the arena. My legs trembled. In my head, thoughts of the colossus with clay feet arose—these feet were all those of my thoughts, principles, and feelings that previously gave me strength: my fantasies and illusions were cut by the harsh reality of the snow-white teeth of those wild beasts—in those very minutes I remembered God. I had not remembered and had not thought about Him for a long time, but when death approaches or we are overcome by some problems, difficulties, obstacles, we always find our refuge in faith and God—the Almighty, despite numerous betrayals, will never refuse you His shelter, food, and warm clothing: what shelter, food, and warm clothing are for a person—he determines it himself. Immediately praying to the Almighty with a request for forgiveness of all sins committed and not committed by my nature, in my mind suddenly, like a kind of ancient, eternal, multi-thousand-year-old leitmotif, only one, full and at the same time devoid of any meaning, chain, chain of words arose and was permanently repeated: "Do you believe in Me?! If you are sure of Me, then accept everything that will happen to you—I do not wish you evil! Any outcome, no matter how sad it may seem to you at first glance, will in any case lead you only to victory—realize this: you are not able to calculate the final results of events that at first glance are positive or negative, and therefore do not say what is bad for you and what is good! Just believe in Me! Don't think about the form, show feelings for the essence—don't think about the flesh, worry about your soul!.. " The lions were hurriedly approaching my mortal dust—it's good to think about God at a considerable distance from the lions, it's good to listen to God's speeches when there is no danger nearby! However… suddenly, in a single moment, several dozens of gladiators in armor and with swords appeared in the arena—they entered into a fight with the lions and defeated them. Experiencing at that moment contradictory sharp emotions and feelings, I thought about those words that a voice, unknown to my consciousness, repeated cyclically, like an ouroboros, without stopping a little while ago—and I doubted Him! Did I not deserve punishment for this reason? Why was I pardoned by the Almighty? The crowd rejoiced with indescribable fury—while I, being inside the arena, silently turned to my God with prayers. Looking at the crowd, I distinguished joy—looking at the arena, I distinguished the corpses of lions: the crowd adores when something living dies, when something free is enslaved, when something rich loses—the crowd adores when they lose, and always hates when they gain… The blood is scarlet on the sand of the arena—the plebs beg the gladiators to kill me: now I am alone here—alone in the arena, alone in the Colosseum, alone in Rome. I alone can never defeat this empire of prejudices, and therefore my only fate is death—the Almighty has His own goals for me: He is not on my side, for He is above positions, sides, and views—the Almighty is on the same side as the sky. My legs are trembling—this would be a reason for contempt for the people among whom I was born, there, in the wilderness of this world, but here, in Rome, where I am just a thing, the price of which is a few grams of silver or gold, despite the fact that I am made of the same material as every Roman, I have no reputation: here, in Rome, my thoughts and feelings do not have full liquidity—Rome, unlike Greece, is only interested in flesh, only in matter. Is not the very fact that wives are chosen here not for their virtues, but for their inherent beauty, an example of this? It is for this reason that every centimeter of Rome is permeated with the lowest and most sensual adultery… In a single moment, having left the very state that is customary to be called the state of exaltation in every enlightened society, Peter Hawkins, an American soldier, who is now in the Iraqi city of Nasiriyah, instantly realized that all this time, the time when he was a captive Roman slave in the Colosseum, his nature, which was partly disfigured by deep scars, invariably looked into the mirror, into his own blue eyes—his sacred essence at this hour entered into a gladiator fight with reality, where, it must be admitted, reality without much effort won a truly stunning victory, for it returned Peter Hawkins from Rome to Iraq: it destroyed even the slightest hopes of Peter Hawkins' sacred essence regarding the fact that this vision was indeed a reality, and the present reality was a vision.