The man's fingers slither through his hair like so many snakes seeking prey. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The turmoil in his heart weighs on him. For years, even decades, he has tread his own path to enlightenment. Searching, ever searching. Until a bright, crisp morning his search was over. The epiphany that came was deeper than the ocean, more mysterious than the dark side of the moon, and more sublime than any church service he'd ever heard of. In his very soul, he now know he was an artist.
Though he knew it is always challenging to chase one's dreams, his avant-garde movement was fraught with difficulties he had not anticipated. The path of the artist is a lonely one. Misunderstood. Mistreated. Misrepresented. All he desired was to share his brilliance with the world. To just share a sliver of the glory he found in his mind to illuminate the plebeians. To help them to realize the squalor their lives have become.
Another deep inhalation from his nose allowed him to clear his mind, or would have had the putrid stench of his room not assaulted his senses. He coughed and hacked on the thick air. Glancing around the room, he glared at his surroundings as though debating on whether to define the area as repugnant or abhorrent.
The walls were a deep brown of stone and enclosed him on three sides. His window, six cubits above him, allowed the rays of sun to fall on the floor. The dust from the floor lazily drifted through the rays, making the beams of gold almost appear as solid, rectangular prisms. A cot made of a wooden frame and leather straps stood against the far wall. Another sniff broke him from his reverie and reminded him of his purpose of finding out where the odor came from in his room.
A clay pot lay by the foot of the cot, which he realized had never been emptied of this morning's evacuation of excrement. He stood slowly, a squelching sound accompanied his rising, and walked to the pot. With care not to spill, he carried it to the front of the room, passed it through the bars slowly, and threw it with his might in the direction of the stairs. The sound of cracking pottery was followed by the splash of liquid and he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.
Glancing back to his throne, his heart effused with joy. A bit more work and it would be complete. He just need a few more materials. Muffled screams filtered through the walls and footsteps approached his room.
"Gladiator," the centurions barked. "It is your turn."
The artist smiled. They always mistook his profession, not realizing his true calling in life. He left to the arena to collect supplies.
"So that is Left-Legs-Lacerius?" a junior guard asked.
"Aye."
"Why do they call him that?"
"Boy, open your eyes and look at what his so-called throne is made of!" he said in disgust.
The man's fingers slither through his hair like so many snakes seeking prey. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The turmoil in his heart weighs on him. For years, even decades, he has tread his own path to enlightenment. Searching, ever searching. Until a bright, crisp morning his search was over. The epiphany that came was deeper than the ocean, more mysterious than the dark side of the moon, and more sublime than any church service he'd ever heard of. In his very soul, he now know he was an artist.
Though he knew it is always challenging to chase one's dreams, his avant-garde movement was fraught with difficulties he had not anticipated. The path of the artist is a lonely one. Misunderstood. Mistreated. Misrepresented. All he desired was to share his brilliance with the world. To just share a sliver of the glory he found in his mind to illuminate the plebeians. To help them to realize the squalor their lives have become.
Another deep inhalation from his nose allowed him to clear his mind, or would have had the putrid stench of his room not assaulted his senses. He coughed and hacked on the thick air. Glancing around the room, he glared at his surroundings as though debating on whether to define the area as repugnant or abhorrent.
The walls were a deep brown of stone and enclosed him on three sides. His window, six cubits above him, allowed the rays of sun to fall on the floor. The dust from the floor lazily drifted through the rays, making the beams of gold almost appear as solid, rectangular prisms. A cot made of a wooden frame and leather straps stood against the far wall. Another sniff broke him from his reverie and reminded him of his purpose of finding out where the odor came from in his room.
A clay pot lay by the foot of the cot, which he realized had never been emptied of this morning's evacuation of excrement. He stood slowly, a squelching sound accompanied his rising, and walked to the pot. With care not to spill, he carried it to the front of the room, passed it through the bars slowly, and threw it with his might in the direction of the stairs. The sound of cracking pottery was followed by the splash of liquid and he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.
Glancing back to his throne, his heart effused with joy. A bit more work and it would be complete. He just need a few more materials. Muffled screams filtered through the walls and footsteps approached his room.
"Gladiator," the centurions barked. "It is your turn."
The artist smiled. They always mistook his profession, not realizing his true calling in life. He left to the arena to collect supplies.
"So that is Left-Legs-Lacerius?" a junior guard asked.
"Aye."
"Why do they call him that?"
"Boy, open your eyes and look at what his so-called throne is made of!" he said in disgust.