I.

It’s true. He was born poor with the name

Carpophorus and once at the coliseum

he jumped into the arena and drove off

a raging bear with a fistful of flaming straw,

and that is how he was granted the chance

to be a slave to the arena’s best bestiarius.

And that is how he learned how to handle

lions, foxes, elephants, leopards, how he

became known for his ability to fight them:

no weapons, snapping their roaring necks,

choking them to death with a stiffly curled

bicep before Rome’s mad throngs. But it was

his work with the animals that made him.

II.

It’s not like you’d think. It’s surprisingly

hard to train an animal to eat a man, unless

directly provoked, their instincts are to run.

So you need to start with a cub that hasn’t

been taught to fear. You need to build up

the big cat’s ego, give them slaves pretending

to be afraid, have them fall in a faux agony

whenever the cats give them the lightest swipe.

Cover the slave in meat. When the cats attack

they’ll be immediately rewarded. As the big cats

get bigger, let them go after live slaves. Break

the slave’s arms, knock out their teeth so they

cannot injure the big cats. Remember: the cat

needs to be convinced he can always, easily win.

As the confidence builds, give the cats children,

give them women, get them to point where they

will attack uncrippled slaves, stronger slaves,

but always have a blade ready if it looks like

the slaves might win. Never let the slaves win.

III.

And like this, Carpophorus created wild animals

so perfectly trained that they’d starve in a butcher

shop, not realizing that the immobile slabs of meat

were food, not even by scent because they’d lost

the taste for anything but man. Carpophorus became

so well know the crowds screamed his name. Even

when he was sentenced to death for a killing leopard

more valuable than him in a fit an anger, in the arena

he merely had to stand straight, call the animals

by name, and not a single one would touch him.

So, was it his ego? Power? Or was it the challenge?

He saw his next feat under the stands, where things

like that can be purchased for money. But it wasn’t

spectacular: usually a willing woman and dog,

sometimes a jackass. The first sign of resistance

from the woman, and the beast would dismount.

The woman had to ply the beasts, stay still, stay

quiet. And where was the fun in all that? But

that was how it had to be. No one could teach

an animal to rape, they said. And it was born.

Carpophorus, he understood his animals, their

needs, their triggers. Like all good bestiarii,

he kept the sexes separate, knew that the males

didn’t know what they were missing, knew that

animals moved on instinct, moved as trained,

were compelled by scent. When the females

came into season, he collected it with cloth

that he catalogue and numbered. He found

women from under the stands who would

willing wrap themselves in this clothes,

hunch on to the ground and wait. He picked

only the tames males, those that didn’t startle

at noise, who didn’t freeze when confused.

He released them in the pen and waited.

IV.

The women matched with bulls and giraffes

usually didn’t survive. As the animals grew

more confident – sinking their dewclaws

into the soft meat of a woman’s neck, snapping

torsos if the struggle became too much – more

were lost, but Carpophorus knew there were

even more who’d be willing, ready to perform,

properly broken down enough not to care

about anything but their promised pay.

And wasn’t it worth it? The first day he showed

his animals in the big arena, the crowd went mad,

screamed for more, threw women into the pit

just to see it happen again. Carpophorus didn’t

tell anyone how he did it; told them it was

a special amulet, then traded the amulet

for his freedom. No one cared that the amulet

didn’t work for anyone else, because they had

Carpophorus, who snapped the necks of lions

with his bare hands, who trained a tiger to stare

blankly at a wounded elk, but charge blood-lusty

at the Caesar’s latest enemy, who could bring out

a young girl and call her Europe, bring out a bull

and call him Rome, and raise his hands in victory

as the bull mounted, as the bull bellowed, as the bull

ravished and ravished, as the crowd screamed.

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz has been published in DM, McSweeney’s Internet Tendancies, Rattle, Pank, Barrelhouse, Monkeybicycle, decomP, Umbrella, and The Other Journal, among many others. Her books include: Words in Your Face: A Guided Tour Through Twenty Years of the New York City Poetry Slam and the perfectly sublime Everything is Everything. For more information, please visit her website: www.aptowicz.com.