I just, finally got around to watching the second season of Rome (at least the first episode of it).

I’d forgotten how brilliant this show is. Five, maybe ten minutes in, I was right back there, and by the end, I was Titus fuckin’ Pullo, savage, bloody, unbeaten, enemies at my feet.

This show makes me want to snarl and roar and swing a sword.

God dammit, where’s my slave girl, my wine skin, my blood-spattered tunic. I’m ready. Get me a goddamned time machine. This man isn’t just a character like I want to write; in my head, he’s the character I am. To steal a quote from an entirely different place, I had the rotten luck of being born in the wrong century.

I should have been a roman. I should have lived in a time when you were invited to an orgy, not a cocktail party. Where you wake up and send for a slave girl (“Go get that German slut from the kitchens, will you?”, as Atia says), where you can solve a problem by spilling blood. Fuck therapy, let’s try killing.

That world makes sense to me. Far, far more than does this one.

I can’t wait to delve further into this season; though as with Sopranos and Deadwood, I think I’ve resisted the watching because I don’t want it to end. Such things need, emotionally if not dramatically, to run off into the horizon. I do not want them finite, even if they’re better for ending before we’re ready.

Pullo can’t die. Ever. The curtain may fall on him, but he must remain, bloodied, but unbroken. Rome may fall, emperors may die by the knife or the sword, but Pullo needs to stand at the end. He’s just that kind of character.