— You have a son. Tell me about your home.
— My house is in the hills above Trujillo. A very simple place. Pink stones that warm in the sun. A kitchen garden that smells of herbs in the day, jasmine in the evening. Through the gate is a giant poplar. Figs, apples, pears. The soil, Marcus, black. Black like my wife's hair. Grapes on the south slopes, olives on the north. Wild ponies play near my house. They tease my son. He wants to be one of them.
— It's somewhere out there, my country. My home. My wife is preparing food. My daughters carry water from the river. Will I ever see them again? I think, no.
— Do you believe you'll see them again when you die?
— I think so. But then, I will die soon. They will not die for many years. I have to wait.
— But you would? Wait?
— Of course.
— You see, my wife and my son are already waiting for me.
— You'll meet them again. But not yet. Not yet. Unless...
— Not yet. Not yet.
— If only you had been born a man, what a Caesar you would have made. You would have been strong. I wonder, would you have been just?
— I would have been what you taught me to be.
— You wrote to me once, listing the four chief virtues. Wisdom, justice, fortitude, and temperance. As I read the list, I knew I had none of them. But I have other virtues, Father. Ambition. That can be a virtue when it drives us to excel. Resourcefulness, courage. Perhaps not on the battlefield, but there are many forms of courage. Devotion to my family, to you. But none of my virtues were on your list. Even then it was as if you didn't want me for your son. Commodus, you go too far. I searched the faces of the gods for ways to please you, to make you proud. One kind word, one full hug, where you pressed me to your chest and held me tight, would have been like the sun on my heart for 1,000 years. All I've ever wanted was to live up to you, Caesar. Father.
— Commodus, your faults as a son is my failure as a father. Come.
— Father. I would butcher the whole world, if you would only have loved me!
I am Proximo. I shall be closer to you for the next few days, which will be the last of your miserable lives, than that bitch of a mother that brought you screaming into this world. I did not pay good money for you for your company. I paid it so that I could profit from your death. And as your mother was there at your beginning, so I shall be there at your end. And when you die, and die you shall, your transition shall be to the sound of... Gladiators, I salute you.
