By PETER BOTA
My Name is Marcus.
My once-gleaming blade, now caked with rust, was yours.
Master, what happened to you on these Aegyptian shores?
Your heroic heart pierced by traitor’s steel!
Your skillful tongue and swift mind, a hunter’s trophy.
The battles we fought, the foes we slew,
The loot we gained, the triumphs we cherished.
I remember Julia’s face, fair as Sol itself.
Death claimed her and brought along our hope.
How vicious blood brothers shed each other’s blood.
If ‘twere not for that arrow I took in thy stead,
I’d’ve been at your side once more then!
But now, I am a broken man in a foreign land,
And you, Pompey, laid even lower.
Oblivion, more ravenous than the eagle we bore,
For what are the mighty with their might gone?
Great hearts forgotten before their bodies grow cold,
I curse the fates for not giving you better!
But I must, however poorly, my last duty do,
And lay my lord to rest on foreign shores,
With the waves the mourners,
Driftwood his pyre,
And not even a fire to call his own.
And thus together, general and soldier,
We shall fade into the mists of time.
Our day has gone, what did it even matter?