The latest gladiatorial well-being survey results are low. Compared to other lanistas in the province, the scores are in the bottom quartile—bad enough for a senator to threaten to dress me up like a wild pig and have me hunted in the Colosseum. To improve the results and help take your mind off your godforsaken existence, on the first Tuesday of every month right after sword practice and just before I release the lions on you, I’ll be providing cupcakes.
Join me and your colleagues in the tea room from the third hour. It will be a chance to network over a sweet treat with other gladiators who, in a few days, will try to clobber the life out of you.
You said in the survey that our culture is too performance-focused and that my scrutiny on KPIs—both ripping people’s spines out of their bodies and keeping yours intact—can be exhausting. So now, at least once a month, you can put down your shield and enjoy casual conversation and a vanilla Funfetti cupcake with whipped cream frosting.
Of course, I’ll cater to those with dietary requirements. Due to Blasius the Bludgeoner’s anaphylaxis, all cupcakes will be nut-free. They will also be vegan due to Crispus the Crippler’s newfound concern for animal rights. Although, I note he had no problems kneecapping the liger that came close to devouring him during his last fight.
I know rumors are spreading about possible restructuring. So this Tuesday, while you wonder if you’ll be judged for eating a second strawberry jam butterfly cupcake, I’ll say a few words about how much I value each of you. Then while you put your helmet back on to hide that you’re stuffing your face with that second cupcake, I’ll gloss over that I’ll be streamlining operations and reducing headcount by literally reducing heads.
You also said in the survey that your lack of freedom and pay of zero denarii are concerns for work-life balance. But there’s no other lanista, at least that I know of, who provides cupcakes and also runs a monthly opt-in meditation session—“Close your eyes, breathe in and out for five counts, ignore the cries for the sweet release of death from the other room, and notice the sensations in your legs, assuming Crispus hasn’t crippled you yet.”
I don’t mean to climb up on my high horse and go after defenseless plebeians, but surely I’m not the only one who thinks the quality and dedication of gladiators is declining? In my day, before I won my wooden sword of freedom, a gladiator would be happy with the occasional simple pleasure of watered-down wine. There was no need for benefits like “win a coaching session with the Emperor,” casual tunic Fridays, or pizza parties.
Speaking of the Emperor, I’ve invited him along on Tuesday. He’ll stop by, say “Salve!” and answer a few questions. Please don’t ask about Carthage, why Rome wasn’t built in a day, or if he’s still sleeping with his sister.
To show I truly do care, this Tuesday, instead of using the company denarii, I’m going to home-bake my famous frappuccino cupcakes complete with espresso butter frosting, laurel wreath-shaped fondant, and a pinch of imported Indian cinnamon.
I look forward to connecting over a tidbit—if you survive until then.