I Resist the Muses

What will they say about you after you're gone?

That I was just and honest (though the latter might be stretching the truth), strong and decisive, charming, sensual, learnèd; a good friend in peace and a valuable ally in war. I don't believe that's too much to ask. As to what they were really saying... I can tell you that, quite precisely. Geronimo Casio of Bologna wrote, in an attempt to make me a suitable example of the frailty of life and the vicissitudes of fortune,

Cesare Borgia, che era della gente,
Per armi et per virtù tenuto un sole;
Mancar dovendo, andò dove andar sole
Phebo, verso la sera, a l'occidente.

That's a good one, isn't it? Funny I'm not laughing. Because it takes some nerve to equal a shithole in Navarra with a good place for the Sun to die. I like the part about being taken for a Sun though, I'll readily admit. But good Messer Casio's words were all too soon forgotten. What I got instead what yet another shithole ditch, this time in Calle de la Rua, and a little slab: "Here, in a scant piece of earth, lies he whom all the world feared."

And then, for a long, long time, the voices were silent.

What will they say about you after you're gone?

You know, of late I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about this.

They might say that I was the sort of person who knew what he wanted and went all out to get it. The sort you couldn't say no to. They might hail me as the hero who all but turned the world on its head, who defied kings and routed armies to avenge one dearest to him. Already they have started giving me all sorts of names, names I'm still not altogether sure I deserve: Savonn the Filial. Savonn the Brave. Savonn the Minstrel King.

And then, doubtlessly, there are those who would throw a feast when I die. "Good riddance," they'd say. "He should never have been born." This used to bother me quite a bit. But then I've realised that once I'm gone, no words can hurt me, so I've given up on caring.