I finally meet my maker, silent among the
arena crowd. Once exiled northward, his hands will petrify me - and
my merciful lioness - into a monument fiercely muscular, in the
custom of this cursed Rome.
And if upsucked from Pictish ooze, two million
tides hence, to face your many questions, I raise now only one.
Here’s my distant death: who will behold
yours?