Flipping Through Pages

There’s so much possibility in a blank page. Anything can happen in 

the blink of an eye. A mere wink. Mysteriously, we can enter into any 

historical time like walking through a darkened hallway, past our fears, 

and open a hidden door to another world. As William Faulkner once 

said, the past isn’t even past, and hence through inductive reasoning: 

The Pharaohs, Emperors and even Caesars still live and gloriously rule 

their empires if we look hard enough. Remarkably, the Battle of Troy and 

Gaugamela still wage on in their bloody entirety and in the background, 

the Persians and Greeks are going about their ordinary days. Beyond a 

doubt, the Revolutionary and the Civil wars are still happening with 

General Grant yet trying to corner the fierce and wily General Robert 

E. Lee in the Battle of the Wilderness and Fredericksburg with high 

casualties. Time, in fact, doesn’t exist as generals are giving their orders 

on horseback, men are marching to their so-called deaths, and victory 

and losses are being celebrated and mourned. For you see, the truth as it 

has tragically been confined to this world of solid shadows and terrifying 

amusement is much bigger than the human mind can comprehend, and 

for the most part, we are like antique furniture. Some of us resemble 

Roman cutlery and plates, others are upright and narrow Victorian 

chairs, whilst many resemble beautiful Puritan desks and lamps, and 

still others are Colonial chairs and dining tables.

But we can open an amazing history book, and dust off its cover, but if 

we are more fortunate, we can open The Book of Nature, and relive those 

times, and see for ourselves the splendor of many different people in 

stories that are stranger than fiction. If we travel at the speed of thought, 

we can be transported, far away, on a hot day near the Mediterranean 

to see ourselves dressed in a white toga and sandals talking to a Roman 

Senator, and discussing politics and the conquest of the Huns. While 

there in ancient Rome we buy things with this strange coinage in our 

purse. We’ll also see that the Sun never looked more splendid as it 

sparkles in the sky like a radiant jewel without a peer of any kind. Of 

course, you and I press on in these ineffable adventures, walking further 

down the road nodding to the people whom we somehow know and 

smelling cena, delicious bread dipped in wine, and here, we behold the 

Colosseum, at last, filled with our fellow Roman citizens.

They await gladiatorial contests! 

We joined Junius, Tiberius, and Cato, old friends from Macedonia, 

as the exquisite food calmed our growling stomachs. Magnus would join 

us later. We took our seats in the Coliseum as tens of thousands roared 

as the first gladiatorial contest began featuring Vergilius, a slave from 

Crete, and Marius, a free man. They were trained thraeces who wore 

their red tunics and could wield their swords and shields like Heracles 

himself. Many bets were being waged and from what I had been told, 

the Emperor Commodus was in attendance with his son and mistress. 

The Sun exposed everything under its glare: It boiled down 

contrivances, circumstantial events, and personalities and players until 

the essence itself rose like a froth.

They began fighting and circling one another like tigers. Contrary 

to popular opinion, gladiators did not often fight to the death. Most 

of the time it was eschewed as too costly. But today would be different 

as this was a personal grudge match. There was bad blood between 

Vergilius and Marius, and it was going to be spilt. They taunted and 

hurled insults at each other: “Proditor!” “Barbarus!” Vergilius who 

had a handsome face and a slender build ferociously attacked – and 

then cleverly retreated so as to espy his opponent’s strengths and 

weaknesses. In full bluster, Marius swung his sword right and left, and 

then overhead, cursing aloud, but Vergilius was well trained in the art 

and easily defended himself. 

Marius was by far the stronger and more stocky one. His gruff 

personality was more suited to gladiatorial bouts and the bettors had 

favored him. 

The Roman crowd cheered. Life in the Republic, sometimes faltering, 

was both harsh and mundane, but they enjoyed these bread and circuses 

as a respite. 

They put on a great exhibition of swordsmanship. An anger rose in 

Marius and a passion and fury in Vergilius as they were tied to each 

other in bonds stronger than steel. They began wearing each other 

down as the crowd roared, for more. The Sun, half frowning above the 

Coliseum, was forcing them to finish this brutal bloodshed. Oddly, 

mirth bubbled up as I was drunk from the wine, and listening to 

everyone shouting encouragement and obscenities in ancient Latin as 

I understood everything perfectly well since the heart of all languages 

is the same.

Finally, Vergilius parried and thrusted in a brilliant move as Marius 

shifted his weight and defense to the wrong side. Vergilius then 

stabbed Marius deep into his thigh drawing blood as the Roman crowd 

boisterously cheered and the ten year old girl next to me began to sob. 

Hobbled, Marius retreated like a wounded lion. Bravely, he fought 

in a crouched position deflecting many blows with his shield as 

Vergilius circled his prey and taunted him in elegant poetry that he had 

memorized for such an occasion. 

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” 

Vergilius had conquered his worthy foe and wanted to bask in the 

glory while prolonging the bout to gain more prestige and coins from 

the Roman crowd that would be thrown to him. He jabbed Marius 

cutting him the way a bull would be worn down before the matador 

killed his prize and raised his sword in victory. 

“He should just finished him,” Cato shouted. “I can’t stand such 

shows of pomp and glory.” 

“If he killed him too quickly, my friend, you would be disappointed, 

too,” Junius retorted with an easy smile. 

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I placed all my gold on Vergilius!”

The men boisterously laughed. Marius deflected another lethal blow 

as he was growing fatigued. 

Tiberius ate more meat and spat some of it out. He had been 

uncharacteristically silent watching the bout with a sullen face as 

though suffering from distemper and a creeping malaise. 

“This bout only shows that the strong get stronger and the weak get 

weaker,” the general rebuked them all. “If Rome is to remain strong, we 

must not pamper ourselves but regain our strength and cunning like 

in the days of Caesar. Not engage in these bread and circuses that only 

fatten the rabble.” 

“Tiberius, you were a great general against the Huns. But this is 

merely theater,” Magnus said joining us after finishing some business 

in the Senate. “You expect too much of others, I’m afraid because you 

always demanded too much from yourself.” 

“That may be so. But you cannot escape the fact that we have become 

an indolent Republic.”

The gladiatorial bout wore on as the Sun was now glaring down. 

Vergilius circled his prey while preening himself like a peacock. But 

Marius continued to fight from a crouched stand even striking a few 

blows at Vergilius’ feet, and if he lasted much longer, he would become 

Rome’s newest martyr and stories would arise about his bravery.

Admittedly, I was enraptured by the Colosseum, the gladiatorial 

bout, the Roman crowd that thirsted for blood and even the wine 

that was making my head swoon, without any kind of nagging mores. 

Indeed, I had become a free Roman man who spoke Latin and lived by 

the laws of this land as stark and unforgiving as they were. 

Vergilius then feigned a charge and hit Marius with his own shield 

and overpowered him with his deadly thrusts. Marius collapsed as 

Vergilius stabbed him between the shoulder blades and he let out a 

horrible moan as the inveterate warrior who had once seemed immortal 

was killed, at last. Blood soaked the clay ground. The crowd cheered 

and women adored Vergilius as he would soon win his own freedom 

after nearly ten years a captor. 

Finally, you and I left the Colosseum and the boisterous crowd that 

would watch other gladiatorial bouts and even Emperor Commodus 

who would fight a bear and a panther from a raised platform to quell 

the incessant rumors about his general competence and cowardness.

Can’t you remember?

Magnus had enjoyed the gladiatorial bout that proved a needed 

respite from the continual pressures of the Senate and all the debates and 

the backstabbings as we emerged from the Colosseum where battalions 

of soldiers had been put on alert. We headed down cobblestone streets 

towards the Baths of Caracalla as the azure skies were unblemished 

except for the cirrus clouds that floated high above.

“I always enjoy these spectacles.” 

“Why?” I asked my friend. 

“Because although the Warrior may win and win again, he will 

ultimately be defeated by the Poet, the better man. So, we have hope 

that someday, perhaps, in a long distant future, we may be sanguine 

about our chances and win the inner battle like a Socrates or Plato, or 

even a Jesus of Nazareth.”

A small Roman girl grabbed my hand with such celerity. I thought 

she wanted a bronze coin or something. Or perhaps was a small nymph 

cleverly foisted upon me by a mother seated in the shadows. 

Her voice rang like a set of chimes in a pristine forest: “How do you 

like Rome?” “I like it fine,” I said. “Will you stay here?” “My journey is to 

simply chronicle what I see here.” “Well, do not lie then, Daniel, for we 

have too many liars.” “What do you mean by that my little one?” “Write 

about us as we are and not how they think we were.” “Whom do you refer 

to?” “Your scribes for they have fools for readers and readers for fools 

where you come from.” “They have, indeed, my little imp. But how do 

you know about our times when we have sophisticated unsophisticates 

and many learned men that are ignorant about being ignorant?” 

With that, the nymph disappeared – a wisp on the wind. With 

unbeguiled eyes, I saw her, Minerva herself, with long flowing hair 

running over the Seven Hills of Rome as my vision grew dark once 

more as I traversed through the long dark tunnel again and I returned 

to my own time. Slowly, I turned the page to this novel and began taking 

copious notes and drawing a meticulous outline of what I had just seen 

with my very own eyes, if not the very fiber of my being. 

My journeys through The Book of Nature, or The Akashic Records, 

as called by the ancient Hindus, where I was to meet famous personages 

and ordinary people, alike, intertwined as both the foreground and 

background of many histories, however, were just beginning. From 

strange vistas, like from mountain peaks, I saw mankind’s own journey 

like Dante Alighieri which will be too incredulous for some, outright 

lies and slanders to others, but the far reaching truth to the few who 

truly have eyes and who have ears and who want to know more than 

mere shadows and changing outlines upon a cave wall.