Italy 2013 Challenge- Day 4 "The Way Out"

"The Way Out" - soft pastel, 300x420mm

Today, we go back to the Roman Coliseum to get one person's perspective from the inside. Follow this link to hear the original music written for this story (and finished only an hour before I posted this!).

The Way Out

By Mark Ivan Cole

I don’t want to go out there.

Not today. Not anymore.

Not against this boy.

Not for the roar of the crowd, the laurel wreath.

Not anymore.

I’ve done this too many times. My knees are crumbling. My ribs ache with every breath. That unlucky cut from the last fight still seeps a little.

I can’t go home again.

No one goes home once they’ve made it to Rome.
This crowd cares more about the fighting style, the armor and the weapons than about the warrior. No, I can’t go home, not even as an urn of ashes, bumping along on the back of a donkey.

When word finally makes it to my father that I’m gone, he may tell his fellows of my exploits, real and imagined, as if they were his own. He may extoll the cunning of my swordplay and exaggerate the strength and skill of my opponents.

But I will not be there.

None of this will matter.

After a few weeks (a few minutes!) the memory of my career will be pushed aside for something more interesting, more exciting.

But now, listen to that crowd. Another contest has ended. They cheer only for the victor. Whomever that may be, they care not.

Tonight, money will change hands, bragging rights will be flaunted over flagons of beer, legends will grow out of thin air made thicker with alcohol at another feast held at some rich politician’s house, attended by beautiful people, all there to see and be seen.

One of these nights, I will no longer perpetuate it all.

I will be the corpse they drag from the arena with a hook, the carcass from which they strip the bloody armor, the meat that gets tossed in with the rest of the sausage. They’ll hand my sword and shield to the next poor bastard healthy enough to get stuck here.

This boy they’ve pitted against me is young and strong, probably stupid—a farm slave like me who turned out to be better with his fists than with his hands, faster with his mouth than with his brain, sharper with a sword than with a plowshare—too much trouble for the slave master and probably worth something as gambling fodder.

The arena is his salvation and his curse. It’s a swift and decisive court, but I question its justice: one contest to prove your worth, but the judgment is final only if you lose. The trial simply continues if you win.

Look at him. I wore that look myself, years ago. Freedom awaits, or death; he does not know which. But I know: they don’t grant freedom here. They don’t need to. They don’t want to.

My hand grips my sword. I can feel the blood rushing through me, whether I wish it or not. The crowd roars again. They know what’s next.

It’s time.

Perhaps I can give this young fellow one night of glory before someone else finishes him off.

If the thumbs go down for me tonight, I’ll drop to my knees and cleave to his thigh as custom demands. I’ll lean back and expose my throat as I’ve been taught. I will have a dignified death, if for nothing but the show. May his sword be sharp and his cut deep and clean so the searing wand of Hermes and the crushing mallet of Charon find my soul has already flown.

I’ll give this boy a good fight first, though. I owe him that. I owe myself that.

We’ll see whom the coliseum crowns tonight.