Reluctant Warrior

Light floods the small cell, illuminating its cold stone walls, condensation forming shining droplets in the corners. I squint against the harsh glare of the torchlight, my eyes sensitive from hours in the dark, and it wasn’t until after a few moments that I can make out the shadowy figure standing in the doorway.

“Come along,” barks the Roman guard, jerking his head towards the exit. “I haven’t got all day, Gaul.”

I glare at him, taking my sweet time as I stand, my knees stiff from sitting.

My name is Cassius. I am a man, not the savage you believe me to be.

The Roman taps his foot impatiently as I grab my shield from beside the bench. I straighten and brush past him, out the exit. He follows, a flickering torch in one hand and his short gladius sword, tense and ready to slash me if I try anything, in the other.

I know these passageways well. I have been here since last night, when I was transported from the gladiator school to this arena. The Colosseum, they call it. The main ring is above ground, but down here is where the show’s made. It’s a labyrinth of dark, humid stone passageways, lined with cells for prisoners, slaves, and animals alike.

Yesterday, when I was returning from my practice fight, I had heard a terrifying sound erupt from behind one of the doors. It had started as a subtle growl, like the pounding feet of a thousand men in the distance, but growing steadily louder until it reached a guttural, deafening roar. I had leaped away from that door in alarm, more frightened than I had been even in the practice fight. My guard had laughed at me, and continued to push me down the hall.

“What was that?” I had asked, too shocked to prevent the question.

The guard had shaken his head, chuckling. “One of the beasts, Gual. A lion.”

I wish that a lion’s roar was my biggest fear right now. For today, I fear that it is my last. I am not afraid to admit that I do not look forward to death, even though it is imminent, definite.

“Halt,” the guard commands when we reach a door at the end of the long corridor. He pushes past me to open it.

Sunlight surges through the doorway, causing me to be blinded yet again. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the sun’s brilliance. The guard prods me into a small, roofless holding area, his gladius to my bare back. I stumble as I pass through the doorway. The air is brisk, the sky is a brilliant cerulean, and the birds are singing their sweet melodies.

I want to curse the gods for taunting me with their beauty and splendor, when this could very well be my last hours breathing.

I notice that I am shaking, trembling. Before this moment, I had been numb with defeat and hopelessness. I had denied that this day would ever come. But that disconnected state of mind has given way to heavy, suffocating fear, the realization that I am destined to die, a beast to slaughter.

I feel a surge of anger towards the gods, the Romans, myself. Why have the gods allowed this to happen to me? Have I not been a faithful servant, following them wholeheartedly, serving them correctly? And why do they favor the Romans that hate my people, the Gallians, so? Why do they believe they have the right to rip the life, the future, the chance of a wife and children, away from a young man such as I? And finally, who am I to give up on myself so quickly? I am a strong man, am I not? I am a fast man, am I not? I am a brave man, a man with nothing to lose, so why shouldn’t I win?

I need to win.

The guard rummages through a large wooden crate beside one of the walls. I stare at the sky, wishing that I had wings like a bird to fly into the azure empyrean above. The clanging from the guard suddenly ceases, and he straightens. In his callused hands he holds armor, a rounded, smooth helmet, and a dagger.

I look at him sadly, and remain silent. He thrusts the protective cloth and metal at me, but I don’t reach for it.

My name is Cassius. I do not believe in throwing myself at death.

“Foolish Gual. Put this on,” snaps the Roman, eyes flashing. “You’re going to need it.”

I reluctantly take it from him, and slowly strap a cingulum around my waist, an ocrea to my left leg, and a galerus over my right arm. Even though I have often had practice fights in this armor, I feel more like a condemned man with every piece I fix to my body. When I’m holding my shield, my entire left side is protected, but my right feels extremely vulnerable and exposed.

With the dagger in my belt, I slide the helmet over my head, unable to shake the feeling that I won’t be free from it until I am lying in the grave.

The eyeholes are small, and I can feel panic bubbling in my chest when I realize the lack of peripheral vision. My dark curly hair is plastered to my forehead from sweat, and I can feel my breathing becoming rushed and anxious. The helmet has suddenly become tight and suffocating.

I reach up to yank it off, but it has locked into place. I tug at it fruitlessly, feeling my panic growing with every passing moment. I have to get it off. I can’t go out there!

I’m hyperventilating, my vision blanking out, and before I know it, I’m on the ground. The cruel realization of death is stabbing me over and over. When I realize that, I wonder how it will feel to be stabbed for real, and the cycle repeats. I don’t even care that the guard is seeing me like this. I’m not a coward, but knowing that I may walk into that arena and return as a corpse is too much for me to bear.

In less than a few seconds, my anxiety has intensified into a full-blown panic attack.

Suddenly, the guard raps a knuckle against the side of my helmet, the clanging noise carving through my fear. I flinch and lower my arms, breathing hard. I can feel my heart racing beneath my skin, blood pounding through my ears. Lying on the dusty stone floor, I wait a few moments before allowing myself to rise shakily to my feet.

The guard watches me indifferently, making no move to help me. But when I finally feel that my knees won’t buckle beneath me, he is suddenly in my face, where my vision is best. The man is a good head taller than I, and his breath, hot and moist, has blows directly through the holes in my helmet.

“Listen up, Gaul,” he commands, his startling blue eyes narrowed into slits. “There isn’t much time until you go in there,” he points at the door that leads to the arena. “But you need to get a hold of yourself before you do. You panic in there, and you get a sword in the back. So focus. Otherwise, you’re a dead man, and the Emperor won’t be happy with a weak fight.”

He clears his throat and shrugs. “Plus, your master is probably hoping to make some good betting profit out of you. So if you want to keep your life and your back in one piece, I’d fight well, long and hard, if I were you.”

With that he walks back to his post near the door leading inside.

I swallow hard, my Adam’s Apple bobbing. I’m still recovering from my fit, and the guard’s advice was not exactly what I would call encouraging. I decide to ignore him, and try to conjure up helpful, calming thoughts to focus my mind. As always, my mind immediately drifts towards the topic of family.

Being a slave, I know that it is foolish to even think that if I survive this, I might be able to see my family again. And yet, that hope is all I have, that belief is what keeps me standing there, what helps me get through each day.

But even though my family is constantly on my mind, I never allow myself to focus on any member specifically, for fear of severe heartache. I never allow the name Cecilia to enter my mind.

Curses.

I find myself dwelling on her, the beautiful woman I never had the chance to claim as my wife. In these last moments before what I know may be my last, I allow her image to flood my mind’s eye.

She was tall, for a woman (the top of her head reached my nose), and her skin was a dark olive, smooth and flawless. Her hair was dark as night, cascading down her graceful back. And her eyes. Oh, those eyes. Whenever she looked at me, I felt as though I would be sucked right into those black orbs, sparkling with blue specks throughout. And when she smiled, those stunning eyes would crinkle around the edges and her teeth would shine, and that was all I ever needed to wash a hard day of work away.

We had been so happy. Engaged only last month, we had lain in the orchards and dreamt of our future together, how many children we would have, and how when we were old and our backs couldn’t stand straight, we would still kiss every night. We had plenty of time before that, of course. I was twenty-one, she was only nineteen.

I am suddenly ripped from bitter-sweet memories by the creaking of the wooden door to the arena. The guard jerks his head toward the foreboding opening to the dreaded stadium. My heart drops to the dirt floor with a thud, and I feel the familiar tug of panic at my lungs.

But then I think of Cecilia, and what would become of her if I fail. I think about how I will never see her again if I allow fear to dig its claws in too deep, and that gives me a sudden surge of strength.

My name is Cassius, and I will be resilient.

I roll my shoulders and turn to face the open doorway. I can face this, with my love of Cecilia, and the favor of the gods on my side.

Hopefully.

“I will win this for you, my love.” I whisper inside my helmet as I stride forward, out into the arena.

“I swear it.”