SPARTACUS
I
For some time I thought that they would not forget me —
but clearly, I was wrong.
There are thousands of reasons to forget,
the reasons to remember are always fewer:
for example, in your day and age,
a concert where others sang and you listened,
the crafting of a story or a building to house your gods
(although the gods themselves would have no use for them),
or something that sooner or later would happen, like a first kiss —
these deserve, for most people,
more remembrance
than, say, six thousand ancient crosses along the Via Appia
and six thousand men dying upon them.
(For two thousand years I’ve carried them on my back,
asking myself questions warriors should never ask.)
II
My wife was not particularly beautiful,
but she was mine, so I loved her.
Once she told me, in faraway Thrace —
(our winters are cold as doomsday!) —
that she felt that one spring she’d give birth to a girl
whose mouth would resemble a lily so much
that those who saw her wouldn’t need to ask her name.
My wife often spoke such nonsense,
and I didn’t think much of it,
I kept my head down and busied myself with some task
until her trance passed,
as I found her scary with her red hair flaring
even brighter than usual on those occasions.
But now I miss that vision she had:
the lily-mouthed girl growing in the snow,
with her foretold name and birthtime,
in spite of anything,
in perfect certainty,
without a single doubt.
III
To be honest, I am somewhat calm:
I was fearful and cautious for as long as I could be.
But when our plan to escape was uncovered,
they would most likely have killed us.
How could I not fight as fiercely as I did?
After the siege, I was put in charge,
and when even Vesuvius, son of Zeus, fell to me so easily
I was soon surrounded by swarms of soldiers
fighting battles with my name on their lips.
I cannot hide it– this pleased my heart,
and I no longer counted Crixus and the others.
For a while, I believed I was unbreakable,
plotting what I’d do when I ruled Rome —
all of it: luxury, cities bearing my name, and the women.
But then death came and cleared my thoughts,
though at first, it wasn’t mine;
there were heaps of bodies, a sea of the dead,
and those who died near me kept their eyes fixed on me,
eyes like open mouths, spitting out circles of words
always swirling, spinning without end,
mostly questions, the kind I ask myself.
IV
No, I don’t know if I had another choice.
I don’t know if, among those who died around me,
there were some who might have lived
long lives, until their beards turned white,
who might have won or bought their freedom
if they’d become a bit cunning,
patient, courteous
and they’d have died happy, pain-free, at peace.
(or maybe they’d all die torn apart in the arena).
I don’t know if it’s better to dare less.
I don’t know if it’s right to share with others
the bread of madness, to convince yourself
by seeing others thrive on it.
I can’t say if it is fair
that it wasn’t enough for me to dream alone.
Translated to English: Manjola Nasi