"Stonefaced, expressionless, they watch me, watch the little Roman as he sobs above his scales, and if they feel disgust at this display it is not sharper than my own. They pass a glance between them, and the grey man shrugs. They're going to kill me now. Kneeling upon the floor, I close my eyes and I await the blow. A final silences falls.
I open my eyes. The men are gone.
They saw it on my face. They saw me as a man already slain, not worth the killing. Rome is dead. Rome is dead, and where shall I go now? Not home. Home is a stage facade of paper, peeling, faded by a sun of cheap pyrities. I cannot go home, and who, who else will have me?"

Alan Moore 
The Head of Diocletian
Post AD 290