The Gladiator’s Loss
The Colosseum stood empty. The baying crowds had gone home, satisfied that they had got their money's worth. It had been the highest quality entertainment the Empire could offer. Customers had thrilled at the spectacle of men fighting for their lives. Twisting and turning, thrusting and parrying, running, leaping, ducking, diving, they had fought for their very lives. They had fought hard. They had fought bravely. Blood had flowed. And, in the end, there was a victor and a vanquished.
Before the contest, both men had been lauded as heroes as they strutted around the arena, signing autographs and exchanging jests with their fans. For days groups of giggling girls had admired their physique and angled to be noticed as they arrogantly swaggered through the streets of Rome, picking up free samples of whatever they chose from the market stalls while their owners grinned in tolerant awe and thought how the patronage of one of these popular idols would increase business. The boys would ape them, of course, copying their every fancy in the hope of attracting one of those silly girls. Indeed, most of the girls would, in the end, settle for a facsimile, for obtaining a kiss or a night-time liaison was something reserved for the lucky few who would then brag about it to their friends. The celebrity could take his pick. It was all just a bit of fun.
In the hours before the main spectacle, anticipation reached fever pitch. Bets were placed, not only on the winners and losers but on who would strike the first blow, draw the first blood, lose the first eye ... Alcohol fuelled the excitement and, as the gladiators entered the arena, the roar of the crowd soared to a deafening crescendo. For a while they peacocked about exchanging the customary insults and posing to let the audience gawp at their bronzed musculature. They sneered and snarled at each other, yet only moments before they had sat side by side, like brothers, and exchanged comment on the two girls they had shared the night before, a gladiator's treat. The noise became more of a hum as the action began. At first, they merely circled each other, defensive, cagey and not breaking eye-contact. Then came the moment of that first lunge. It didn't draw blood but it cracked the tension open and the crowd began to cheer their man and to bait his opponent.
They loved the mistakes as much as the skill. As the ill-informed mob 'ooed and ahed' with the obvious ebb and flow of the contest, experienced former gladiators passed comment on technique and made prophesies about life expectancy and career prospects. They wanted drama. A quick and easy contest would not have satisfied their lust for sensational gore. They got it. Now one, then the other, seemed to be gaining the advantage. Both protagonists acquired gaping wounds and they sweated profusely. If you had looked closely, though, each man's brow began to furrow as he felt his strength begin to fail. It was fun for them no longer, a life or death struggle. His only possessions now: his weapon, his meagre clothing and his life. Brotherly comradeship be damned as each man's chance to see another dawn hovered in the balance. One fatal mistake ... But the crowd only hollered for more. Fights broke out between rival fans, who relished the sham of a non-fatal brawl, and were broken up by a complacent and tolerant armed security. Meanwhile, vendors sold souvenirs, pickpockets took their opportunities, bookies made their profits and prostitutes worked the testosterone inflamed crowd. Everyone, it seemed, was a winner.
Except, of course, for the loser. Eventually, someone had to fall, right? Too weakened from the loss of sweat and blood, too bruised and battered to stand any longer, he crumpled and passed out right in front of the VIP box. The Emperor grinned. It had been a good contest and he did not want to ruin the mood with the lame killing of an unconscious beast and send the audience home on an anti-climax. So, today, the defeated man might live. A cheer went up as the victor's arm was raised in triumph. Garlands of flowers were hung around his neck, the women flocked and he was whisked away on the shoulders of his owner's slaves. His reward, to live to fight another day, to repeat the empty pattern of an arrogant pretence which only masked the gritty fact that his life had no more meaning to it than to die dramatically for the pleasure of the bored and idle mob. The crowd dispersed and went home in happy mood.
Left in the dusty centre of the arena lay a solitary man. No longer of any interest to the mob, a defeated gladiator is no longer of value to his owner. And, so, he is left, like a wounded animal, to fend for himself, a strange kind of freedom. Dazed and in great pain, as he tries to lift himself back onto his hands and knees, the utter loneliness of his existence rushes in upon him. Who cares for the defeated warrior? Wounded, perhaps disabled or disfigured for life, how will he build a future? A former celebrity, a 'has-been', what are his skills? All he knows is how to fight. And, as hard as he tried, as much as he determinedly willed it, he could not find the strength within himself to stand.
Much later, as the sun slowly began to set over the Colosseum, it stood empty. No. It was not quite deserted. The defeated gladiator could still be seen struggling in the centre of the arena. Trying to lever himself up using the point of his sword, he repeatedly climbed so high and thought he had almost made it before his knees gave way once more and his shaking hands, slippery with blood and sweat, slithered off the hilt and he fell back down into the grimy dirt. Heart pounding and chest heaving, he determinedly tried again and again. He must do it alone or he would surely die. No-one was coming to aid him. No-one. He didn't want anyone to aid him; that'd look weak, so he must do it alone. He must.
If only he had looked up. The shadow of another solitary figure could be seen against the darkening background. Somehow, he knew that one alone had remained behind but he was not going to acknowledge him. Disgusted by the brutal spectacle of mankind as civilised beasts, this man now watched the gladiator from behind the closed and shuttered barriers which segregated the spectators from the performers. It was truly impossible to reach him. But, had the wounded man given a single yell, or even a whimper, he would have clambered over the impassable, broken through the toughest barricade and overcome every opposition in order that a man, not a beast, might use the strength of this one true friend to stand on his own two feet once more. He would have lifted him out of the dirt and forced his weakened being to move beyond that arena of certain death. Together, they might just find the exit and make it to a safe place where he might become whole again. And, being freed from the conventions of being a 'gladiator', what new identity might he not discover?
But, too proud to see, he would not even look ...
