I am dying, Maximus. And when a man sees his end, he wants to know
that there was some purpose to his life. How will the world speak my name in
the years to come? The philosopher? The warrior? The tyrant? Or will I be the
Emperor who gave Rome back her true self? You see -- there was a dream that
was Rome. You could only whisper it. Anything more than a whisper and it
would vanish. And I fear it will not survive the winter. Let us whisper
together, Maximus, you and I.
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