I Can't See!

He whipped the reins. His horses ran faster. The arena screamed with Roman spectator’s wild demands for the competitor to win. The rain beat his beloved Bonito and Chico as they dashed, two and two together, towards the finish line up ahead. He lashed those reins so hard he heard possibly a crackle as they ordered to quicken the horses’ already thundering hooves pummeling the darkened sand under their mighty legs.                                

I’m sorry, Bonito and Chico!        

His decorated chariot leaned. The competitor squinted through the pouring rain. His father, he knew, watched from above. The Roman governor always crowned the winner but decapitated the loser.

No matter who it was.  

The competitor jerked his eyes away from his horses—one of his friends was up ahead!

“Come on, come on!” He muttered darkly under his breath, and encouraged Bonito and Chico. Two golden cups at either end up ahead. One more slap, one more smack! He knew they would sense his betrayal, and he would regret it forever. Bobo’s arm was descending behind his friend’s chariot.  

“Go faster, Bonito. Chico, gallop!”  

The horses snorted and neighed. After crossing, the competitor extended an arm up in celebratory victory! He noticed the other racers behind him, but their anger lost to the deafening sound of the spectators’ congratulatory remarks. As Bonito and Chico came to a stop, the competitor barely waited for the chariot to halt before he hurled himself away and dashed over to his animals. Screaming in victory, he slapped their necks, hugging and kissing their soaked black and brown bodies. Then he raised a fist for all to see. More cheers filled the stadium.     

Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed and dragged him to a designated area. A huge silver-armored gladiator guffawed, pointing at an axe sitting at a corner in the dirt. The wide-eyed competitor looked back: his friend had won. One of the officials placed a leafy crown on Faustus’ head as he stood tall and proud. The competitor looked up. His father was not looking at him but at his friend. The competitor’s neck was thrust onto the tree trunk.

His stomach gurgled. He opened his mouth, and wished he had never looked. Stretchers of disemboweled people were passing, some of them staring lifelessly right at him. He looked back—Faustus was standing there, a simple, unfazed look. He shuddered. His friend didn’t move.  

“He’s useless.”             

The competitor looked over. The rain doesn’t stop the governor’s words about his own son.

All I want is a position within my father’s empire. And this is what I get—death. Maybe in the afterlife, I’ll be a horse. Yes, a stallion reigning free with Bonito and Chico. Stampeding past my father! The competitor grinned, waiting eagerly to enter through the door of death.

The gladiator showed off before he swung that axe high above his head, and then dealt the blow—

A huge jerk, and the competitor snapped to attention. A racer glared back at him, but the competitor was glaring ahead, hungry eyes hell-bent on that prize. He bent forward, slapping his reins as he looked smilingly before him. It’s me they’ll love! He hit Bonito and Chico hard. His father might even slap a hand on his shoulder. If not, he’d stamp a hoof right past his father’s worthless self.

Bonito’s big nose was centimeters from the finish line.

But Bobo’s arm had already gone down!

The competitor looked—Faustus’ chariot had stopped miles yards ahead of him. Suddenly, the competitor had an idea. Bonito and Chico charged forward. The competitor drove the beasts around the arena until they were besides the archway. Then he steered them to the right, and the threesome fled the colosseum.    

The rain beat harder. His reins spanked his friends, but the former racer blinked back tears. As soon as they’d reach a safe place, he’d rub their necks and kiss them goodnight. They’d understand.

Bonito and Chico’s screams echoed throughout the surrounding city side, ripping right through crowds of peasants, common folk and families. Women yelped and screeched, children cried and jumped out of the way and men threw angry fists as confusion overtook everyone outside this side of the colosseum. Charging towards an open gate, the competitor knew Bonito and Chico would lead him away forever. Somewhere, they’d live peacefully. Somehow, he’d live a new, better, life. These horses would do more than pull his chariot—they’d be swift steeds, carrying him. A faithful emperor around the world who won wars and lead mighty empires.

The rain poured. The competitor slapped those reins. Suddenly, Chico buckled, and Bonito slammed his hooves into the soaked earth. The horses fell, tripping over the chariot’s chains behind them. The whole thing fell with a mighty splintering crash. The competitor had lunged for the earth. Just the animals’ panic was enough to burn vengeance within him towards anyone who dared touch his Bonito and Chico!       

The competitor found himself thrown towards the ground again; this time, he looked up into the face of the Roman governor. He braced himself. The gladiator’s cold laugh came from afar. His father smirked—the loser caught running away would be robbed of life by the sword.

The competitor could never raise a word to his father. His own son could never speak to this man of power and authority. He was royalty--not a mere slave.

Also, he hated the man in charge of his very life—

Suddenly, the competitor had an idea. When he exited the colosseum and quickly restored the chariot, Bonito and Chico, he guided them inside towards the gladiator. Steering the chariot to the left, the competitor ripped a whip from a random guard and wound it around the axe. It was yanked out of the huge man’s hands, and swung right at the competitor. But he jumped clean away from it, and the axe swung around, its handle falling right into his hand.   

Smiling victoriously, the competitor pumped his arms, and the spectators went crazy. He drove his chariot through the finish line. Rapturous glory encased him. His chariot kept going around and around the arena, the pounding of crowd’s roaring words spreading his smile wider and wider.             

He saw his father.

He was standing. His thumb was down. His frown was turning into a victorious smile.

The competitor drove the chariot, Bonito and Chico galloping out of the arena again. Holding up the axe, he dropped it next to him inside the chariot. Moving it so it was in front of him in the chariot, the competitor didn’t need the spectators’ glorious words to know he had just challenged his father—and won.     

That gladiator would never forget. In fact, he’d thank him!       

I can be a stallion when I die. For now, it's his throne I need to claim. 

The competitor drove and drove, Bonito soon neighing exhaustedly. Chico followed with heavy panting. He pulled the reins, slowing the horses down over by a bank. Ensuring he was miles and miles away from the colosseum, the competitor then settled, unharnessing Bonito and Chico. They drank until, it seemed, until the lake dried up. The competitor hitched them back to the chariot and rode.  

Days and nights, they journeyed. Food was never scarce for any of them, for the competitor had enjoyed more than mere morsels of bread and cheese and wine he had stolen from taverns and shops. When he awoke one morning, Bonito and Chico were gone! Whether someone scared them off or they were taken, he didn’t know. He hitched new horses to find them, but this couple knew nothing about driving chariots. He ditched these weak animals for better, stronger ones. He drove. The rain never wanted to end.       

He whipped those horses. But they failed to get out of the mud, and panicked until they were exhausted. The competitor failed to rescue them from the ditch. Suddenly, he found himself roped and dragged backwards by his arms. Searing pain sent him screaming throughout the dusk air, and then he was lifted up by his ankles. Carried also by his wrists on the back of what looked like a cart. A peasant’s cart.

A peasant taking him hostage!    

Filthy thing! The competitor struggled to free himself. Then he realized he had mighty strength. Not like Hercules or Samson, but he could muster enough stamina to stretch this heavy, thick rope away from the wood and off of him without much sweat and grunting. The competitor pushed, and the rope just loosened obediently. After untangling, he lunged off the cart and searched for his chariot. Failures or not, those horses needed to guide him towards Bonito and Chico!    

Suddenly, more ropes attacked the competitor, their hissing snaps causing him to blindly attack that peasant! He was not going to be dragged back to that worthless colosseum. More ropes snaked out at him. He hissed and punched, grabbed and yanked, but the competitor soon blew tired breaths.      

“Your father—he will talk with you!”

Only the competitor’s mouth was freed as he was thrown at the sandals of the Roman governor. He looked up and over—Faustus was standing adjacent, the crown upon his head. He stood there, eyes blank, mouth frowning. Faustus leaned over to the man on his throne. Then, he stood back up, swallowing hard, his eyes shimmering with fear.  

“Disrespect comes at a high price.” His father looked at him as if he were to look at the ground. No color or feeling were in those cold, hard, dark eyes. The competitor blinked, lowered his gaze and turned away. A soft hand touched him. He looked, but there was no one there. He looked back at his father. His eyes shimmered with terror. He searched. No one was there. Did his father see that which he did not?    

“Father…what’s going on?” He dared.    

His father’s mouth trembled. The competitor wished the rain would stop. The touch happened again, this time under the competitor’s chin so that he looked up. He saw something like a white garment. A finger, white and transparent, went side to side, like he was being told no. Now this invisible thing had to chastise him, too?

The competitor looked besides him. This throne was supposed to have a real leader on it. He would best his father like no one else, especially Faustus, if he were emperor. The competitor looked back. The invisible figure wasn’t there—but he felt it, on the sole of his foot.

Put me on this throne! He ordered it.

Could it read minds?  

He looked at his father, avoiding eye contact. His looked down at him, he felt. He glared so hard at the ground he was surprised it didn’t burn up. Conspiracy to dethrone this man streamed through the competitor’s head. Then—wildly—he grabbed a nearby guard’s sword, shoving it right into Faustus’s chest. The competitor then turned to the man on the throne, staring murderous daggers at him.

He returned a simple look: Kill me, and you’ll wish you were never born. 

The competitor rose, yanked the sword from a dead Faustus and struck his face, the former glad the rain blurred the scene. Once the man fell forward, the competitor ensured he would never rise again. Ordering guards to put him under the gladiator’s axe, the competitor sat upon the throne, commanding Faustus’s burial.

All was done.            

After his coronation, the competitor continued driving in the rain. He also drove his empire. To utter ruin.

Over time, the tyrant (his new title throughout Rome) ignored the figure’s touch. He vowed to slaughter anyone else who dared win against him. Races were glorious if someone wore the crown. Anyone facing him must win their own race, or die. The tyrant would lie awake, unable to sleep because of the violent nightmares from which he would emerge screaming, only to fall back into bed, guards attending his every need. Soon, the tyrant fell into a deep sleep. Everyone, from peasant to spectator, shuddered at his title. Some whispers of revolt, but he ignored them, although he ordered guards to guard every archway, door and gate. The tyrant struggled to sleep, his eyes unable to close lest they would never open again.  

Driving one day in the rain, the tyrant held up his axe. The crowds went crazy. Grinning pompously, the tyrant fired up the crowd until the roars rose above that of the competing rain. The rain tried, but it didn’t drown out the crowd.           

The tyrant, try as he might, couldn’t avoid the angel’s warnings about his violent attitude. He actually told it to leave permanently when it told him to stop his massacres. He stole his father’s throne, and the tyrant couldn’t risk any more distractions. His proud display of the axe spread a great smile on his face—and the crowd craved its daily entertainment.     

The tyrant held on to the chariot with one hand, his restored Bonito and Chico circling the colosseum. He squinted at his held axe. This axe was taken to cut my old life from my current one. Now I can stop the whispers.           

He was told to use the axe for woodworking. His empire was falling to pieces.  

People want you dead. You could’ve been great—not like you wanted your father. But the competitor neglected this truth, continuing to glory in his bloody games.     

He began to really get annoyed whenever he heard the voice. This and that touch would go. Forever. Like his father. Like Faustus. 

He ordered someone to make him his own chariot; this one was his father’s. Once it was made, he hitched Bonito and Chico, driving away from the servant. One day, while the tyrant was fast asleep in his bed, this servant ordered two guards to attack him. Succeeding, they brought him to the very gladiator from whose axe he stole. The tyrant’s eyes darted between this axe-wielding man and the servant. The servant’s smile ignited a flame of rage within him. He strived to free himself and show this nothing of a nobody some manners, but got stuck. He jerked back. Those ropes—they were here!     

The tyrant roared. The gladiator’s axe rose. And then all was quiet.

That servant won. Over the angry, proud tyrant who disrespected an empire.

The servant soon became an empress, restoring the empire to greatness. It flourished. The servant married but raised no heirs. She shocked the colosseum by turning her thumb down to whomever she condemned to death. The innocent went free, while the guilty were decapitated. Like the tyrant. The empress wore her title proudly. Like the crown her beloved brother, Faustus, wore after that game so long ago.     

When the empress was driving around, her crown glistening in the sparkling rain, the crowds screamed with praise and honored her with showers of flowers. That night, the rain pouring endlessly, the empress felt a light touch by her side. Hearing a voice, she halted the chariot, Bonito and Chico stopping. Some servants questioned the confusion. The empress told them to attend her husband. They bowed and left.           

The tyrant’s decapitation doesn’t bring Faustus back, so decapitation doesn’t justify his death. She ordered a nearby guard to tend to her horses and chariot. Joining her husband in the back of the room somewhere within their palace, she heard him say he buried the tyrant’s axe. And whoever stole it or threatened the gladiator again would be buried with it. 

The empress disagreed vehemently. Riding again the next day, she thought of Apollo, her husband’s second in command. Dark thoughts clouded her mind.

You think your husband’s second in command needs to die to avenge the tyrant? Death has already been dealt to the tyrant.

The empress didn’t ignore the voice, but she didn’t agree to it, either. Whenever she rode over the buried axe, the crowds roared. Whispers went around that this ruler and her husband was ruling an empire destined to stay. Even the wind seemed to howl triumphant as her husband emerged victorious from every battle, war and skirmish.      

The rain reminded her of the tyrant’s tears. Or those that should’ve been.       

Look at the good that’s been happening. You can’t deny justification when you’re already standing on that which has justified the tyrant’s murderous reign.

One day, her husband suspected that the tyrant survived his decapitation. The empress, confused, claimed she saw his demise with her own eyes. Her husband objected—he grabbed and hurled the axe away. The empress had a dream that night. Arising screaming from her bed, she trembled, but her husband reassured her. She fought his words, removing herself to the colosseum. Riding on her chariot, she retired to bed after a few hours. The next night, she argued with her husband.     

“I can’t reign—there’s no justice!”                                                          

The empress fled her palace. The husband sought her, but she ordered Apollo to come with her. He strived to help her understand the matter. She resisted, a knife always in hand. They slept in separate tents. She glared daggers at him, holding the knife ever tighter, especially whenever she saw him. He lost sleep fearing he’d never wake up again.                       

One morning, the empress and Apollo fought.

“Yes, Faustus is dead. But so is he.”           

Apollo returned home. Her husband told him he planned to divorce her. A servant reported the empress’ struggles. When she returned, no one would dare interrupt her. Her chariot went unridden for months. The angel came and went, whispering truth. 

Decades later, the empress rode over that axe in the colosseum by day (in the pouring rain) like the tyrant had with his stolen axe. Her empire rose, it seemed, above the clouds.   

The rain, she deemed, sang for her husband and her forevermore.