Lysippos The Gladiator (Λύσιππος ο Γλάδιστος)

-From The Meletic Tales.

In the heart of Rome, beneath the arches of blood-soaked marble, the name of Lysippos echoed like thunder. A Greek by birth, torn from his homeland as a child, he had been raised not with lullabies and lessons, but with the clang of iron and the scent of death. The ludus was his cradle, and the arena his proving ground. From his earliest memories, he was shaped into a weapon—his sinews hardened by the whip, his mind dulled by the call for carnage.

For years, Lysippos knew no other life. His victories piled like the corpses he left behind, and the crowd, ever thirsty for spectacle, bellowed his name as if it were a chant to the gods, yet with each kill, something in him receded further—a quiet voice, hidden in the chambers of his soul, whispering that he was meant for something more.

One autumn morning, Rome’s sky hung low and grey like tarnished silver. Lysippos had just defeated two Thracians and a Numidian in the arena, his body bathed in sweat and blood, his heart unshaken. That afternoon, he was permitted to walk the Palatine Hill, a rare reward from his lanista for a particularly savage bout.

It was there, amongst the cypress shadows that he met the man who would alter the course of his life.

The old philosopher stood near a fountain, speaking softly to a few curious listeners. His cloak was plain, and his face bore the calmness of one who had long since made peace with the world.

Lysippos paused, arms crossed, his scarred frame towering over the others.

The old man turned, as if sensing his presence. ‘You are the one they call Lysippos, are you not?’

‘I am’, said the gladiator gruffly. ‘And you are?’

‘I am Philoxenos. A seeker of truth, and a student of To Ena, the One’.

Lysippos raised a brow. ‘You dare speak in riddles to a gladiator?’

‘I do not fear men who fight beasts. I speak to the man who fights himself’, Philoxenos replied.

Lysippos frowned. ‘What do you know of my battles?’

‘Only that they are not finished, even when the arena is empty’.

Something in those words struck him. He could have turned away, but instead he remained. The others, perhaps bored or bemused, drifted off — but Lysippos sat upon a stone bench, arms resting on his knees.

‘Speak, old man. Tell me of this battle of which you speak’, he said

Philoxenos smiled. ‘The battle within—against pride, fear, wrath and desire. The greatest contest known to man. Unlike the arena, there is no crowd. No victor’s laurel, but if you win it, your soul is free’.

From that day on, Lysippos returned to the hill often. He listened to Philoxenos speak of To Ena—the One—the source of all being. He learnt of the six virtues of Meleticism: temperance, reason, fortitude, perseverance, humbleness and wisdom. Each word, each teaching, unravelled the knot of pain and confusion within him.

‘Why was I taught to kill?’ He once asked Philoxenos. ‘What meaning is there in blood?’

‘There is no meaning in blood, only in choice. Now, you are free to choose otherwise', the philosopher answered.

The months passed. The crowds still shouted for Lysippos, but he returned to the arena no more. Rumours swirled. Some said he had fallen ill. Others claimed he had joined a strange sect of thinkers who denied the gods and taught of an unseen unity.

When word reached the emperor Septimius Severus, he was incensed.

‘A Greek dares to insult Rome by spitting on his glory?’ He bellowed. ‘And the fool who teaches him dares poison others with this heresy?’

Severus ordered Philoxenos arrest. The philosopher was dragged from his modest abode in the Subura, questioned, and sentenced to death for sowing dissent and undermining the imperial order.

Lysippos arrived too late. He found Philixenos’ lifeless body lying beneath a fig tree outside the city walls. His old master, who had never struck a man in anger, had been beaten like a criminal and left to rot.

Kneeling by the corpse, Lysippos wept for the first time since he was a boy.

‘I shall avenge you’, he whispered as he held his corpse.

That night, with his dagger and cloak, he slipped into the city and intended on reaching the imperial villa, but he would learn that the emperor was not in Rome. That night, he had a dream that was more a vision.

He saw Philoxenos, not as a corpse, but as a being of radiant calm.

‘Lysippos, vengeance is a chain, not a liberation. You were freed. Do not forge new bonds’, the vision spoke.

‘But they killed you!’ Lysippos cried.

‘Then let my death plant a seed—not of hatred, but of transformation. You were born again through Meleticism. Let others be reborn as well’.

He awoke with the dawn. As he wandered the city in silence, a trumpet sounded from a nearby watchtower.

‘The Emperor is dead!’ Cried a soldier. ‘Septimius Severus is dead!’

Lysippos looked skywards. The clouds had parted, and a golden beam lit the place where he had seen Philoxenos last.

He dropped the dagger. For some time, he stood in a garden, motionless. The early Roman sun shimmered through the olive branches above, and birds had begun to stir in the silence. His clenched hand slowly uncurled. He looked down at the dagger lying in the grass, the morning dew glinting along its blade like tears. He left it there.

The days that followed passed like the breeze, unnoticed. Lysippos wandered through the city in a haze of reflection, barely responding to those who called his name in wonder or recognition. Even the lanista who had once profited from his brutal triumphs offered gold and women to lure him back—but Lysippos said nothing and walked on.

He returned to the fig tree where Philoxenos' body had been discarded, and there, in solitude, he dug a grave with his bare hands. The earth was dry and stubborn, but he did not stop until it yielded. He wrapped Philoxenos' bones in a plain cloth, the only offering he had, and placed them gently into the soil.

He whispered, ‘Forgive them. Forgive me’.

He carved a stone marker with the edge of a broken amphora. It read: ‘Teacher of virtue. Sower of peace’.

In the months that followed, Lysippos disappeared from the public eye. His name ceased to be shouted in the taverns or scrawled in the dust of the Colosseum’s walls. People forgot, as Rome always does. Another champion rose to take his place, hungrier for blood, more willing to be consumed by the roar of the mob.

Lysippos was not idle. He travelled south, to the coastal towns of Campania. There, far from the echoes of the arena, he rented a modest dwelling overlooking the sea. Fishermen and traders came to know him not as a gladiator, but as a quiet man who taught in the mornings beneath a cypress tree. Children gathered around him first—drawn by the calmness in his voice —and then came the parents, the widows and the outcasts.

He spoke not of gods or thrones, but of Meletic virtues. 'The soul is like a flame. If you feed it with anger, it burns recklessly. If you feed it with patience, it becomes a light’, he said one day.

A man scoffed. ‘What do you know of patience, gladiator?’

Lysippos did not flinch. ‘Enough to know that a blade can slay one man — but a virtue can free thousands’.

With time, a small circle of listeners gathered regularly. They came not to be led, but to learn. Meleticism, which Philoxenos had once whispered in shadows, now took root in the open.

One of his earliest pupils was a boy named Nikomedes, the son of a freedman. Frail in body, often mocked by other children, Nikomedes sat close to Lysippos, always watching, always listening. One day, he asked:

‘Master, were you ever afraid?’

Lysippos smiled. ‘Every time I stepped into the arena. Not of death, but of what I was becoming’.

‘And what did you become?’

‘Awakened. Eventually', he professed.

In time, Nikomedes would become his closest student. To him, Lysippos entrusted Philoxenos' writings—fragments of scrolls that had survived hidden in a clay urn. Together, they transcribed, reflected, discussed. They debated the nature of To Ena, and the harmony of the nous. Lysippos never demanded faith—only thought, and attention.

‘To Ena is not a god’, Lysippos would explain. ‘It is not above us or below us. It is in us. It is us, and yet it is also beyond us. To understand it, we must first abandon the desire to control or personify it’.

Nikomedes, ever inquisitive, once asked, ‘And what of the soul? Is it separate from the mind?’

Lysippos smiled. ‘The soul is not a region to be mapped, nor a vessel to be filled. It is the experience of true essence—our ousia. Mind, body, soul— they are harmonies, not hierarchies’.

They spent hours beneath the open sky, observing the shifting light across the sea, contemplating the rhythms of nature. Every lesson was drawn not from abstract theory alone, but from life itself.

‘The tree’, Lysippos said one morning, pointing to an ancient olive trunk nearby, ‘teaches temperance. It does not demand from the soil more than it needs. When the wind comes, it does not resist to the point of breaking’.

‘Then must we be like trees?’ Nikomedes asked.

‘No. We must be like ourselves—but aware, observant and grounded. Trees know no ego. Man’s task is more difficult, for we must choose what they do by nature', Lysippos responded.

In time, other students joined them. A former Roman scribe named Decimus, whose fingers still bore ink stains; a widow called Lysaia, whose grief had driven her to solitude until she overheard one of Lysippos’ talks and felt something stir again within her; and a group of young craftsmen who sought to understand whether Meletic virtues could guide their work.

‘They can. For every act done in balance, with care and intention, is a reverential act', Lysippos told them.

His teachings were simple in form, but layered in meaning. He urged no followers to abandon their duties, nor to shun the world. Instead, he encouraged them to bring consciousness into their every deed—in speech, in silence, in work, and in rest.

One evening, as the sun dipped into the horizon, Nikomedes brought a question that had long troubled him.

‘Master, I have thought often on what you taught me of ego and self. But what of legacy? Do we not all wish to be remembered? To leave something behind?’

Lysippos looked out at the waves. ‘Legacy is a whisper in the wind. You may sow virtue and still be forgotten. You may commit great evil and be praised for centuries. What matters is not how long your name survives, but whether your actions reflected To Ena in you’.

‘Then you do not care if no one remembers you?’

‘No. What I care for is the present moment, lived rightly. That is eternity enough’, he said calmly.

Nikomedes nodded slowly, but the thought remained with him. He admired his teacher greatly—not as a hero, but as a man who had wrestled with his own soul and emerged wiser.

In their third year together, Lysippos led a series of dialogues with his students focused on the six Meletic virtues. Each week, they explored one virtue not through lectures, but through discussion, silence, and examples from daily life.

‘Let us begin with temperance’, he said. ‘What is it?’

‘Restraint?’ Offered Lysaia.

‘Yes—but not merely in indulgence. It is restraint in judgment, in reaction, in desire. It is the pause before the act. It is the sip of water when one could drink the entire jug’.

Decimus added, ‘Then is it weakness?’

Lysippos smiled. ‘It is the greatest strength. The beast charges. The fool speaks. The wise man waits’.

They moved next to fortitude—which Lysippos described not as hardness, but endurance.

‘Fortitude is not the crushing of emotion. It is the holding of pain without surrendering to it. It is continuing the path when all is dark, not because you must, but because it is right’.

When they came to reason, Nikomedes asked, ‘But what of love? Is it not unreasonable?’

Lysippos answered, ‘Love guided by reason becomes compassion. Love without reason becomes obsession. One lifts, the other consumes’.

He was no ascetic. He did not teach the abandonment of joy or the pursuit of purity. He lived simply, ate sparingly, but laughed often. His warmth was not forced. It was born of years of reflection and reconciliation.

Perseverance, he explained, was the quiet companion of every virtue. ‘To do good once is easy. To do it always is the struggle, and that is the path’.

On the day they discussed wisdom, Lysippos was especially thoughtful.

‘Wisdom begins with questions, not answers. It thrives in stillness, and grows through mistakes. A wise man does not fear being wrong—he fears being certain without knowing why’, he said.

Finally, they arrived at humbleness.

‘The final virtue is the gate through which all others pass. Without it, temperance becomes pride, fortitude becomes arrogance, and wisdom becomes vanity’.

‘How do we know when we are humble?’ Someone asked.

Lysippos chuckled. ‘When you no longer ask’.

That evening, after the last light had faded and his students dispersed, Nikomedes remained. He watched Lysippos prepare a simple broth.

‘Master, you once told me that vengeance was a chain, but what if we see injustice now? What if it continues? Should we not act?’

‘We must act, but not from hatred. From clarity. From virtue. There is a difference between action and reaction', he replied.

‘What if we fail?’

‘Then we rise again—not to win, but to remain just’.

In the following year, Lysippos and Nikomedes began to organise Philoxenos' fragments and their own reflections into a scroll. It was not meant as a doctrine, but as a guide—a living document that could grow and evolve. They titled it Logoi Eilikrineias—Words of Sincerity.

They wrote not in formal verse, but in dialogues, parables and maxims. Amongst the most cherished sayings was: ‘The man who conquers himself is greater than the man who conquers ten thousand others. For the latter may rule the world, but the former is free’.

They shared the text with others. Some people copied it by hand. A physician in Neapolis found solace in its words and began teaching his patients how to heal both body and soul. A sculptor in Syracuse carved each virtue into the columns of a public fountain. A senator’s daughter read it in secret, hiding the scroll within the folds of her robes.

‘There is no need to convert the world. Only to awaken a few—and let them awaken others in time', Lysippos said to Nikomedes.

One winter, a stranger came bearing troubling news: a Roman magistrate had declared Meletic gatherings to be subversive, inspired by whispers that Lysippos was spreading impiety. His past as a gladiator spared him arrest — for now—but others were questioned.

Nikomedes was angered. ‘How can they fear peace? How can they see virtue as a threat?’

Lysippos, unfazed, replied, ‘Power fears what it cannot control. And the soul in harmony cannot be ruled by force’.

‘Then should we fight back?’

‘No. We remain as we are. Still water reflects more clearly than waves', he said.

As the cold months waned, Lysippos’ health grew more fragile. He no longer led the morning talks beneath the tree, but listened as Nikomedes began to speak in his place. The student had grown into a teacher—calm, eloquent and measured.

One evening, by candlelight, Nikomedes knelt beside his master. ‘They call me teacher now, but I am still learning', he said.

Lysippos placed a hand upon his shoulder. ‘Then you are ready’.

The years passed, and word of the ex-gladiator’s teachings began to reach further afield. Travellers from distant cities arrived, eager to hear from the man who had turned his back on blood and found peace. Some were sceptics. Others were desperate. All were welcomed.

One visitor, a former centurion, challenged him directly: ‘Do you mean to tell me that war is never just? That vengeance is never honourable?’

Lysippos replied, ‘I have slain men who begged for mercy and spared those who would not. Neither act gave me peace. The only just war is within’.

‘Within?’

‘Against ignorance. Against impulse. Against the self that believes it owns all things’.

The centurion stared, then slowly nodded. ‘You fight well’.

In his fiftieth year, Lysippos became ill. He felt it first in the joints—a dull ache that no longer eased. Soon, his breath became shallow, his steps slower, yet he never complained. When asked, he only said, ‘The body fades, but if the soul remains clear, there is no sorrow’.

Knowing that the end approached, he called for Nikomedes. ‘I have taught all I know’, Lysippos said as the younger man sat by his bed. ‘Now teach others what you discover’.

‘I shall’, said Nikomedes, tears in his eyes. ‘How shall I speak of you to others?’

Lysippos smiled faintly. ‘Speak of the Meleic virtues. Let the rest fade, as it should’.

‘But your name—’

‘Is dust. Only what I became matters’, he replied.

That evening, as the sea wind whispered through the shutters, Lysippos passed into stillness. No crowds mourned. No imperial decree honoured him but those individuals he had taught wept and lit candles. They carried his body to the same fig tree where Philoxenos had been buried. They placed him beside his teacher, as he had wished.

On his stone they wrote: ‘He conquered himself and was victorious'.

The decades passed. The Roman Empire faltered and rose again in fragments. Emperors changed, temples crumbled, but in certain quiet places, beneath olive trees and in shaded courtyards, the honourable name of Lysippos was still spoken—not as a gladiator, but as a guide.

Nikomedes carried his teacher’s words across the Aegean, to Delphi and Ephesos. Others carried them further, to Gaul, to the edges of Africa. They called it the Meletic Way—a path not of prayer, but of practice.

Nikomedes often returned to the fig tree in later years, sitting in quiet contemplation beside the twin graves. The stone grew weathered, the carved letters softened by time, but their meaning remained clear in his heart. Sometimes, when the wind blew through the leaves, he imagined he heard Lysippos’ voice: ‘Remain just. Not for reward, but because it is right’.

Visitors came rarely, but when they did, Nikomedes welcomed them not with ceremony, but with questions. He taught them what he had learnt—that the bravest act is not survival, nor vengeance, but the gentle, persistent practice of the Meletic virtues that were exemplified by Lysippos.

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