The two stood face to face, each with their own wounds clearly visible allowing the slightest glimpses of blood that shimmered in the scorching sun and fueled the enthusiasm of the anxious crowd. The colosseum was hot as the sun burned down on these two battered men. Why were they forced to fight to the death? and for what? For the sadistic pleasure of the crowd. These men, both slaves, both forced into the same sick institution by the infamous Rome. They had grown to be like brothers, having to face the same misery day after day, being put to the test. The taste of dirt was thickening in their mouths due to the dust that would occasionally lift off the ground when a breeze passed. They starred each other down, daring the other to make the first move.
The cheering crowd only grew louder and louder, deafening screams that pleaded for the thrill of murder. The emperor sat, with a banquet of food at both of his sides. His round belly barely left him a view of the battle stage. Two men left, death would soon be upon one of them, only the Gods knew who, although if the emperor were a gambler he would bet on the larger man.
The larger man had rippling muscles that twitched under the heat. He had a few cuts here and there but otherwise he was in good condition to fight. The other man was clearly smaller, although only because he was short, he still had lots of muscle on him and he wouldn’t go down without a fight even though his wounds seemed to be substantially worse than the larger man. Finally the bigger man, who was clearly the stronger of the two got on his knees. The crowds screams grew quiet as they watched in confusion and astonishment. He said, “This world holds nothing for me, and I can only pray for the destruction of Rome,” he took his sword and held it at his neck. It was dead silent, even the emperor stopped his indulgence of the fresh grapes by his side in order to watch what would happen next. It seemed ages had gone by when suddenly he slit his own throat and lay dead on the ground. People gasped, why would a man do such a thing as take his own life?
The smaller man watched the blood soak into the thirsty earth and remained speechless, nor did he move from his spot. Could it be, could it be that he had won? But what for. This man that lay before him, he showed these Romans that although he was a slave he was not owned by them. He could not be forced to die in the way that they had intended, he would die by his own accord, by his own choice.
The Romans could not deny him the right to be with his family even if they had brutally murdered them because death was only the beginning. The only thing keeping this man from his family was life itself, but life had become less of a barrier and faded into a more delicate, fragile matter that could easily be broken if one had the motive. He had shown courage, strength, and hope to any and all prisoners who feared the Romans. Yet, only the Gods can decide a mans fate, and the Romans could never take that away.
The other man looked around at the people surrounding him, the people that were so eager to watch another human being die a bloody murderous death. The killing of human beings had formed into a sport, a maliciously disturbing sport that human kind had created as a source of entertainment. The man knew this, and he had played along in their little game, only hoping to survive. But he knew this man had made a higher impact than he ever could.
He looked at his sword and felt an overwhelming urge to plunge it into his stomach, show the Romans that their power was limited and that he was free and he didn’t need to answer to their authority. But he thought of his daughter, and his wife, so far away from him that it seemed like a different lifetime that they were together. He needed to stay alive for them, he needed to survive. As much as he wanted to show the Romans that they had no control over him or his death he couldn’t bring himself to commit suicide. So he stood there and a whisper spread throughout the colosseum on the lips of the crowd “and then there was one.”
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