A Pathological Case in Pliny

Hirto corde gigni quosdam homines proditur, neque alios fortioris esse industriae, sicut Aristomenen Messenium qui trecentos occidit Lacedaemonios ... —Plinii, Naturalis Historia XI. Ixx. The guards sleep they breathe uneven Conversation with the Trees the sharp cicadas And knots of pine the flames Have stirred to talk: their light Shows him rolling in his bonds As if he dragged his bones Again beyond a tall And ghosted mist of blood; He took three hundred lives And will not give his own for capture Even. The smell of searing Hemp and flesh startles As the scream of birds— Should wake the guards of men Or dead. The fire flares and frames A running giant his wrists Caught between his thighs; A burned and awkward god. Once he tried the foxes’ Paths out of the shattered quarry. No way now. One may Kill his hundreds; still No way. How can he live Without his heart. Throw him To the ground and prepare knives! Do they by their hate Or wonder break the breast He shut to fear? Mock Or pray as they cut flesh Crush ribs and lay all open To the alien chill of air? No scream tears From him; the tiny veins Along his eyelid swell And pools of sweat gather at its corners. But they do not see his Slowly swinging eyes. They watch his heart; its brown Hair is whorled and dry.