by R W Sowrider
Pompeii, Italy
1 st Century AD
“It is a beautiful day for a dump, is it not, my good friend?” Rowen said to Francesco as the two young men entered the public latrine.
“It sure is,” Francesco replied, patting Rowen on the back. “I cannot wait to empty my bowels with you and all these other fine folk.”
The sun was shining brilliantly upon the open-air, horseshoe-shaped toilet facility located in the city center. It was an engineering feat able to service over two dozen defecators at any one time.
Along the perimeter was a stone bench with holes cut into it every few feet on which to sit upon and do your business. Water flowed steadily underneath, swiftly washing the excrement away.
In front of the bench was a footrest with a small trench of running water to scoop and rinse with when your business was finished.
As they stepped through the entrance, Rowen admired the marble elephant head and ran his hand down the smooth trunk from which water gushed underneath the benches.
The entire city was decorated with beautiful stone carvings and statues which served as ever-present reminders of Pompeii’s culture and sophistication.
“I can’t go anywhere in this city without feeling an enormous sense of pride,” Rowen said to Francesco.
“Indeed,” Francesco replied, as they squeezed past a string of gentleman and overheard a symphony of plops into the water below .
They found a couple of empty spaces toward the back of the U, lifted their togas up, and let out contented sighs as they took their seats.
“I can’t imagine not having this,” Rowen said, unable to wipe the grin from his face.
“Yeah,” Francesco agreed. “If you’re not relieving yourself at an open-air public facility, you’re not living your life right.”
“There’s just nothing better,” Rowen said, briefly able to wipe the grin from his face as a slight grimace took its place while he helped push his business along. “Here we are, united together in a glorious celebration of nature’s most basic of needs.”
“True intimacy,” Francesco said, nodding. “And all the while we get to converse and debate the matters of the day. Anyone not doing it like this is doing it wrong.”
“And not just with our friends,” Rowen continued, surveying the multitude of gentleman crapping in their vicinity. “But with everyone. Regardless of whether one is rich or poor, we come together here as one, all with an equal voice.”
“Indeed,” Francesco replied, pondering this last bit. “While this wondrous human experience is enhanced by discussing politics with strangers …” Francesco lowered his voice and gave a sideways glance at a long-haired, emaciated young man in a tattered tunic. “Perhaps we needn’t hear everyone’s opinion.”
“Nonsense,” Rowen replied, emphatically. “Lending an ear to everyone is what has made this city great.”
“So you don’t think we’ve gone too far?” Francesco asked. “You don’t think that despite there being clear differences among us, that this notion of equality hasn’t gotten carried away?”
“Not in the least. I think we have the perfect amount of equality. In fact, I think that this is the golden age of equality. ”
“Certainly, our women would all agree with you. They’ve never had it so good. They’re clearly the weaker sex in just about every category, and yet they’re treated as if they’re practically our equal.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course.”
“Are you sure? While men engage in romantic affairs with impunity, women can be exiled for doing so.”
“Oh, come on. Affairs are a natural part of male behavior. It’s how we’re constructed. It can’t be helped.”
“Also,” Rowen added. “They can’t vote or hold political office, and they’re raped quite frequently with no means of recourse.”
“Phooey on that. It’s not like we force them to marry their rapists or burn them to death when their husbands die like they do in some cultures.”
“Phooey on that!” the emaciated fellow chimed in, glaring at Francesco. He had light skin, light eyes, and a rather high-pitched voice. “Do you understand the kind of hardships our society puts upon women?! It’s outrageous! Women are integral parts of our society, as much as, or even more than men are. They should be treated as fully equal to men. Including the right to vote, the right to hold political office, and the right to not get raped all the time!”
While Rowen was taken aback by the stranger’s sudden outburst, Francesco burst into laughter. “You think women should be fully equal?!” he asked, condescendingly.
“Yes,” the frail-looking fellow replied, defiantly. “Not only do I think it, but one day it will happen. Mark my words!”
“How could that possibly happen?” Francesco replied, turning to Rowen. “How could the inferior sex become equal? It’s not natural, is it, my good friend?”
Rowen pondered the idea for a moment. “I suppose it doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“You see?” Francesco said, turning back to the young man. “You’re talking nonsense!”
“But,” Rowen interjected. “What if someone had been trying to get laid?”
“What do you mean?” Francesco replied.
“Like, in order to sleep with a woman, what if a man in political power offered up equality?”
Francesco was incredulous. “What?! To get pussy? Who would decide to do that?! Just take it!”
“You’ll see,” the emaciated fellow again chimed in, ominously. “Maybe not today … maybe not tomorrow … but someday. Someday, society will wise up and women will be treated as equal – as they should – and they’ll look back upon fellows like you as brutes.”
Francesco laughed, dismissively. “Sure, why not?! And then maybe not that day … or the day after … but someday. Someday after that, society will wise up again and look back upon those people as pussies. Now would you get out of here you rabble-rouser, you’re ruining my crap.”
In a huff, the young waif scooped a handful of water from the small trench, splashed his butthole with it, and stormed off.
“What do you think, Gilgamesh?” Francesco said to his head slave who was sitting attentively at his side. “Do you think women should be treated as fully equal?”
“Women?! Fully equal?!” Gilgamesh replied, flashing a did-you-just-go-full-retard-on-me? look. “Now that’s a notion I can wash my ass with.”
***
“Zeus’ tit!” Francesco cried out in consternation. “Would you look at this?!”
After finishing their business, Rowen and Francesco decided to head to the Colosseum to take in the early afternoon wild beast feeding. As they made their way along one of the main thoroughfares, Francesco came face to face with some horrifying graffiti:
Francesco is mediocre
“Can you believe this? How dare some scoundrel drag my good name through the mud!”
“It is an outrage,” Rowen sympathized.
“Gilgamesh! Have that one clean it off at once,” Francesco shouted, pointing to one of his other slaves.
Gilgamesh promptly slapped the man on the back of the head. “Find some supplies without haste and remove that monstrosity!”
***
“The end is nigh!!!”
As Rowen and Francesco approached the entrance to the Colosseum, they encountered a disheveled man screaming the phrase at passersby careless enough to make eye contact.
“What do you suppose that vagrant is on about?” Francesco asked Rowen.
“Why, I think he means to preach to us.”
“For what? To inform us that the end of the world is coming?”
“I believe so. I think he means to warn us so that we can prepare.”
“But it doesn’t even make sense. What’s there to prepare for? If the end comes, it’s over. … It’s literally the end.”
“I agree, my good friend.”
“What can possibly be done once everything ha
s ended?! Nothing! It’s all over!”
“Perhaps he means that the end of this world is coming, but he knows a way to get a leg up in the next one.”
“The next one?! If there’s a next one, then it’s really not an end at all, is it? Sounds more like some kind of checkpoint or intermission. This lunatic is really testing my patience … and my patience is failing !”
Francesco grabbed his head slave by the shoulder. “Gilgamesh,” he shouted, pointing to another one of his slaves. “Have that one give that schizoid a stern kick to the groin.”
Gilgamesh promptly slapped the subordinate slave on the back of the head. “Shake a leg and go punt that man’s twig and berries!”
***
“It is a beautiful day for an exotic animal feeding, is it not, my good friend?” Rowen said to Francesco as they settled into their seats.
“It sure is,” Francesco replied, patting Rowen on the shoulder. “I hope the beasts are famished.”
The sun was still shining brightly, and the atmosphere was electric at the city’s crown jewel. A packed house of over 6,800 people were chomping at the bit for some much-anticipated entertainment.
Even more so than the open-air public latrine, the Colosseum was an engineering marvel adored by all.
The magnificent limestone structure was three stories high with terraced bleachers from the ground-level up. The main field was made of sand and concrete and was built a full 15 feet underground. Along the perimeter wall was a series of openings with sliding steel-barred gates allowing entrance and exit as desired.
Beyond these openings, as well as below the main field, was an elaborate labyrinth of halls and holding cells unseen by the spectators.
However, what made the Colosseum stand out as a true architectural masterpiece was not the size or the sight, but the sound. The ingenious design allowed for even the slightest peep from a competitor to ripple through the bleachers all the way up to the highest row. As such, nary a last breath went unheard by even those in the cheapest of seats.
Another testament to the culture of equality.
“They had best not bring out any herbivores like that buffoon giraffe they peddled out there last time,” Francesco said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer called out from the broadcast box in the first row. “From the House of Titus, I give you Dungi, a lethargic slave who was more interested in eating than working.”
“Booooooo!!!!!!!” the crowd shouted as a heavy-set man was pushed through one of the gates onto the field.
“Dungi,” the announcer called. “Since eating is your favorite thing in this world, perhaps you’ll enjoy an exotic beast eating you!”
Wide-eyed, Dungi back-pedaled toward the center of the field, anxiously surveying the grounds.
Without warning, a tiger burst through a gate across the field and beelined it for Dungi.
“Also from the House of Titus,” the announcer called, “a Bengal tiger all the way from India. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Peaches!”
The crowd erupted in applause as the tiger leapt at Dungi, knocked him to the ground, and quickly went to work ripping him apart limb by limb.
“Take that, Dungi!” Rowen screamed as Peaches bit into his abdomen, growling as she ripped out his entrails.
***
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer called once they had removed a sated Peaches from the field. “From the House of Romulus, I give you Nabu, a whiny slave who couldn’t take a beating without back-talking incessantly.”
“Booooooo!!!!!!!” the crowd shouted as a defiant man with an abundance of scars on his back and legs was pushed through a gate onto the field.
“Nabu,” the announcer called. “Since back-talking is your favorite thing to do in this world, feel free to sass this African hippopotamus as it mauls you to death! Go get him, Chompers.”
The crowd erupted in cheers as an enormous hippo charged Nabu at an alarming speed. Paralyzed by shock and fear, Nabu failed to even attempt to move out of the way. At top speed, the hippo plunged its head square into Nabu’s chest, sending him flying into the wall and shattering practically every bone in his body.
“Take that, you whiny bitch!” Francesco jeered as Nabu’s gray matter seeped out of his cracked skull and onto the ground.
“This sure takes the stress out of life, doesn’t it, my good friend?” Rowen said to Francesco as the Colosseum workers made their way onto the field to escort the hippo out and clean up the mess that was Nabu.
“It sure does,” Francesco concurred.
“While I can’t imagine a more satisfying form of entertainment, do you suppose it might be a bit overboard?”
“Overboard?! Don’t be ridiculous. These soulless monsters aren’t just slaves, they’re criminals. Haven’t you been listening to the introductions?”
“I suppose you have me there,” Rowen conceded. “But what about the practice of slavery in-and-of-itself? Perhaps subjugating human beings is not the right thing to do?”
“Oh, come now. It’s as natural as breathing. For as long as there has been civilization, there has been slavery. In fact, without slavery, civilization itself would not be possible. How do you think our glorious empire was built?”
Assuming this was a rhetorical question, Rowen waited for Francesco to continue.
“… Well?” Francesco asked, intent on receiving an an swer.
“By massive amounts of unpaid labor.”
“Precisely. They’re the backbone of our economy. Without them – and without the keen oversight of intellectual superiors such as you and I – we’d still be living in the Stone Age.”
“But still, now that we’ve advanced this far and have a more refined and enlightened ideology, shouldn’t we reconsider whether it is just to enslave fellow human beings?”
“Nonsense,” Francesco replied without missing a beat. “They are the spoils of war. We are not simply picking people out at random, we are putting our defeated foes to good use. I’d go so far as to say that we’re doing them a favor. Taking them from the ashes of some backwater hellhole and bringing them to the pinnacle of sophistication.”
“I suppose you’re right in that they’re going from no civilization to the greatest civilization in history, but the fact that they’re branded, whipped, and sometimes even killed seems a little questionable. Perhaps we should treat them a little more fairly?”
“More fairly?!” Francesco repeated, incredulously. “They’re treated more than fair. They’re only beaten when they’re not working hard enough or when we need to get them going. Like whipping an ox when ploughing a field.”
“Are you suggesting that they’re on the same level as livestock?”
“Yes, most of them are indeed as useful as farm animals. … Oh wait, you meant that the other way, didn’t you? In that case … ummm … sorta? I suppose some of them might not be as low as a beast of burden – the ones who are able to speak a word or two of our language anyway – but there’s no denying that they’re a vastly inferior ethnicity. I mean, c’mon, they’re savages. Have you heard of some of the Gods that they believe in?”
“… ”
“For instance, they pray to some bizarre God called Mithra. And when they gather together to worship, they somehow eat his flesh and drink his blood to become one with him. Can you think of anything more disturbing or more barbarian?”
“My goodness, no.”
“And have you not heard of some of the food that they eat?!” Francesco turned to his head slave. “Gilgamesh, isn’t it true that the people of your home country eat stews containing dung beetles?”
Gilgamesh smiled sheepishly. “It is true.”
“You see?” Francesco said, flashing Rowen a self-satisfied smile.
At the precise moment that Francesco finished speaking, Ganesha—God of Reason, Intellect, and Outlandishly Phallic Noses—struck.
Rowen’s left eye began to twitch and his cheek muscles spasmed uncontrollably.
“Oh boy,” Francesco sighed. “Do you need to have an epileptic seizure every time you think of a decent counter-argument? Your face is hard enough to look at as it is.”
“S-s-s-s-sorry,” Rowen replied, as the convulsions came to a halt. “I’ve got it. It’s so simple.”
“Go ahead, spit it out.”
“If you were born there, you’d do it to.”
“What do you mean?” Francesco said, furrowing his brow.
“If you had been born where Gilgamesh was, and were raised by his parents, and had grown up in his community, you’d probably eat the flesh of that God and drink his blood, too. I don’t know how, or why, because it’s the most insanely disturbing thing I’ve ever heard; I mean, it sounds like something only a serial killer would do, but nonetheless, you’d probably think it natural. And if you’d grown up eating dung beetles, you’d probably think them sweet. Right, Gilgamesh?”
Gilgamesh shook his head furiously. “Oh no, they are not sweet. They make vinegar look like sugar. But they give you great energy.”
Francesco nodded as he contemplated Rowen’s point. “I think you may be onto something there, my good friend. And if you are, then certainly the case must apply in reverse. If they were born here, they’d do it, too.”
Rowen tilted his head, not quite getting Francesco’s gist.
“If Gilgamesh had been born in my place, and I in his,” Francesco continued, taking hold of the broad leather belt that was wrapped around Gilgamesh’s waist, “it would be me wearing this belt with Gilgamesh’s name on it.”
Gilgamesh smiled.
“Yeah, I bet you’d like that,” Francesco said. “He wouldn’t think twice about it. It would be as natural as breathing, because that would have been the culture he had grown up in. There’s nothing that can be done, really. Anyone growing up in our shoes would of course believe the same things that we do, and eat and drink the same food and wine that we do, and beat the living shit out of one of their slaves if the dimwit brought out a fruit tray containing green grapes instead of purple grapes. Hell, even if something that we engage in were hypothetically immoral, it couldn’t possibly be our fault because it’s simply a product of the time and culture that we live in. Isn’t that right, my good friend?”
