Time flies

IN MEMORY-- ll Vl lV BCE

 

The lady stands stark still. Her alabaster tresses tumble down her shoulders, partially cover her naked breasts. Clear silver blue water spouts in fine drops from the crown on her head. Surely they must feel to her like a soft spring rain. It all lies at her feet in a pool of liras.
 Early every morning Antonio brings his steel bristled broom to scrub away the grit, any mold, spit, paper wrappers that destroy the perfection around him. Narrow orange clouds drift slowly, become the color of lemons from his small orchard. Antonio rakes up many lira that are used to keep the lady lovely. He does not take all, leaves them to tease the wish-makers.

 

Antonio moves on to his friend. The many marble chips on his almost bare torso look like scars, lots of scars. He touches them, pats the naked thighs of this once young gladiator. Though no one can hear him, he manages to barely whisper. 'Good morning, Spartacus. Who but I knows how strong, how brave you were, what has given you your place of honor in Rome?' The silence is broken by street cleaners, carts and wagons.  A lean and dirty looking man waves to him 'Hey, stop peeping under the gladiator's leather skirt.' An elbow and fist tell the annoyer to back off. 

 

He again silently talks to Spartacus. 'You saved so many young men from sure death, you formed an army and won against the Syrians, the Greeks. You don't know how many books, stories, movies have told and retold each generation what a great man you were. If I had been a slave when you were fighting in the arenas, I would have died with the first blow, or before that. Fear would have been enough to close my eyes forever. When I take care of you, I feel strong myself. It is like electricity comes out of your body. Sorry, Spartacus, you don't know what electricity is, do you?' Antonia knows he blabbers gibberish, looks forward to being with his favorite statues. He moves on and sweeps up horse manure as he heads back to the shoddy wooden building that holds all of his equipment. He polishes brass knobs, makes sure the drinking fountains work and are clean. He drinks some of the pure clean water himself and feels refreshed. Daylight begins. The cobblestone streets await the flower vendors, the souvenir shoppers.

 

Antonio stops, confused, doesn't know where he is for a moment. He blinks and blinks again. A shreik zooms from his mouth. Spartacus is gone! Running like a wild man, 'Policia! Policia!' The words echo against the cold stone walls. Dazed, he manages to get his cell phone from his rear pocket and get the policia. 'The statue, the statue of Spartacus is missing from the Navaronne. It is gone, disappeared. Come quickly!'

 

In moments the policia swarm over the empty area where Spartacus has stood for 400 years. The Chief walks in circles, giving meaningless orders. Newspaper reporters flock to the empty space. Cameras flash. Insanity is rampant. Antonio is questioned over and over. He has no sensible answers, is of no help.

 

His other work is being neglected. There are angels and swans to be scrubbed, liras to be removed and turned into the office. Worried, down-hearted, he walks towards the lovely, nameless lady whose alabaster hair falls over her breasts.  'Mon dio,' he staggers, almost faints. Spartacus, all 10 tons of him, are standing next to the lady.

 

He runs, shouting, 'Policia! Policia, come quickly, come quickly!' They come, rifles, tasers ready to capture the thieves. They too are astounded to find Spartacus in a new place. The reporters are thrilled with this amazing story, push each other to get the best angles. Fights begin. By noon something like calm has been restored. How did this happen? How will Spartacus be put back in his place?

 

Antonio alone believes he knows what has happened. He sees the faintest  smile on Spartacus' lips, the lovely lady's eyes have opened after 500 years of sleep. He does not mention this to the authorities.

 

Spartacus has won yet another battle.