A short story of historical fiction

Copyright, © 2012 by Bob Siegel

 

 

 

Rome 404 A.D.

“Somehow I never believed it would happen,” Alexander says as we walk down the gladiator’s tunnel toward the Great Coliseum.

 

I do not answer him, at least not with words. I cannot speak right now. But I do agree. I never thought it would happen either. Oh yes, I knew from the moment they sold me to gladiator school that I’d have to someday fight to the death but I was hoping it wouldn’t be with my friend.

 

Alexander places his hand on my shoulder. I shake it away fiercely. He looks surprised. I don’t blame him but it’s too painful to look at him.

 

I have pictured this day for the longest time. I dreaded it. I even had detailed nightmares about it. But I never thought I’d be matched against Alexander. Not only was he my friend, he was my only friend.

 

Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it could happen, so I put it out of my mind. Yet, here we are, about to begin my very first public match!

 

Up to now, my only sword fights have been practices and practices aren’t to the death. Today will be different. Today will be the real thing!

 

I see the gate off in the distance. My life flashes before me, especially my childhood. They say this is to be expected when a man comes to the end of his time. Is it a bad omen? Does this mean I am the one who is about to lose? Or is it possible that just knowing I could die accounts for the vivid images from my past?

 

I was born a slave. I never knew my father. My mother was a sweet woman but she died of a bad fever when I was only seven years old. I did learn from Mother that our nationality was Greek. One of my ancestors had been captured centuries ago during the Battle of Actium, a crucial and fatal sea conflict that Greeks remember with horror. It soaked up the last precious drops of our independence.

 

I grew up learning to break horses for a merchant in Laodicea. He sold his horses to Roman charioteers.

 

Truth be told, I never really thought of my self as a slave growing up. Naturally I grew up understanding what the title meant.  I knew that’s what I was called. But unlike the man who is captured and becomes a slave, I never experienced anything else. There was nothing to compare it to.

 

As my skill with horses developed, I found myself more and more content. My master treated me well because I was making him a wealthier man. He was generous with his wealth. I had good food, good clothing, plenty of leisure time at the end of the day, and pleasant company from others in the household; slaves, sons and daughters alike. My work was as fun as it was challenging. I never expected my master to sell me off as I’d seen him do with others. Why should he? I contributed so keenly to the success of his business.

 

But the day came when business began taking a turn for the worst. I was in decent shape physically, so a gladiator school recruiter offered my master such a large sum that he couldn’t resist; eight- thousand sestertius. I was nineteen at the time, in my prime.

 

Even with the horse business going sour, I was still surprised. It had seemed as if my master had some kind of affection for me, as though I were one of his own sons.  In any event, he treated me as well if not better than his real children. But I must have been wrong. Nobody sells their son off to certain doom at the great Coliseum.

 

That first night in the strange new gladiator school, I found myself crying during training. One of the older athletes started ridiculing me. He then reached over and slapped me hard in the face. That was when I met Alexander for the first time. Alexander pulled the snake like ruffian off of me and reminded him that everybody felt scared on their first day.

 

This was followed by Alexander’s brief warning to all the others: “If any of you wish to die before going into the arena, you just try bothering him again! Just try it!”

 

After that, Alexander and I became friends. He had been a gladiator a little over a year. In addition to his more advanced training, he was often ordered to assist  in the instruction of  novices such as me..

 

When I first asked Alexander if he’d been in any matches, he told me that he’d fought and won three times but he didn’t sound very satisfied. The others bragged about their victories. Alexander was different. He seemed to take no delight in killing another human being.

 

I wondered if winning a game would make me feel proud or guilty. Either way, I was promised a very brief life. Even the strongest, most skilled gladiator was given horrible odds. He was not expected to survive more than ten matches. Most of them died before the age of twenty-five and many perished at a much younger age.

 

Back in Laodicia I once overheard my previous master’s son ask why it was deemed acceptable  for young men to die in the arena since he had been taught that Romans were civilized people, not butchers, or murderers or barbarians. Master answered by saying something about gladiator games being different because they were a mere sporting event.

 

And now, here I am about to enter the center of this sporting event! This is it! My moment of truth has arrived!

 

Alexander and I are at the gate waiting for it to be opened.

 

“Talk to me,” Alexander says. “Marcus, we can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”

 

I still don’t speak. Alexander is about to say something else when the gate opens up. We are quickly ushered into the arena.

 

Thousands of cheers are coming from the stadium. The Master of Ceremonies has just finished explaining the rules to a very enthusiastic crowd. Even a member of Emperor Honorius’ royal family is here, sitting proudly in an honored seat, wearing purple robes just for the occasion.

 

The gladiator games are a very popular event in Rome. People come from all over the Empire to observe this cherished, wild spectacle. Never in my life have I seen so many happy people in one place. Of course, its easy for them to feel festive. They are not about to die. I am. Or, if not me, my good friend will die instead. I’m honestly not sure which fate would be worse. Naturally I’m afraid of dying and I always told myself that if I had to fight, I would. But Alexander was the only decent companion to be found during those nine months of gladiator training. Living without him would not seem like much of a victory.

 

I’m still unable to talk as we continue toward the center of the arena. He was always better at words than me. I’m so filled with emotion, I fear that I will start crying if I try to talk. Tears, of course, would mean certain death to a gladiator. The crowd would turn against me in an instant! Pleasing a crowd quickly is one of the first things a warrior learns. Alexander had explained it to me. He said that cheering fans provided the kind of inspiration which helped a man fight better and when you’re fighting for your life, you need every advantage you can get.

 

“We’re down to the last minute,” Alexander says. “Are you not even going to say goodbye? Whoever lives or whoever dies we will never be able to talk again.”

 

Finally I speak. “I’m afraid.”

 

“Well don’t let them see your fear or the crowd will …”

 

I interrupt him. “I know. You’ve told me many times. I get it! Please the crowd! I get it!

 

“All right. Then don’t forget. And each time they cheer, try doing something a little differently. Keep them guessing…”

 

“OK. Stop! I don’t understand. Why do you continue to teach me, even now? Do you care more about my life than yours?”

 

The commander of the games repeats those famous, dreaded words, “We who are about to die, salute you!”

 

This is it!

 

I reach for my sword. Alexander does the same. There is sadness in his eyes. “Remember what I taught you. Be aggressive, not just defensive.”

 

Our swords hit each other with such force, I fall back. I stand up quickly and position my shield. This is all it takes to end my indecisiveness. I realize that I am not going to spare Alexander’s life. I am going to save my own, if I can, if it’s at all possible. He’s more likely to be the victor, but I am going to at least try. It gives me no pleasure facing up to this truth but there isn’t much time to think. This is not a drill. I am on stage and I know what I have to do. I have to live even if it means Alexander is going to die!

 

“No!” The voice comes from an older man who has entered the arena unnoticed.

 

I never saw him before. He isn’t a gladiator or a Roman official. He is dressed in a simple garment that I recognize, the clothing of a monk. I have to look twice to be sure I am not imagining things. The man is  slender, short, old, and hunched over. His mostly bald head shows a little bit of gray hair.

 

Needless to say, an arena is the last place were one would expect to see a minister. I had come upon monks before in other situations, but I had never spoken with one, nor did I know anything about them except that they had something to do with Christianity. I do not believe in religion. Why should I? If there is a God, he doesn’t seem to care about us slaves.

 

The monk stands between us and faces the crowd. He shouts at them again.  “Citizens of Rome, surely you are better than this! Such evil must stop!”

 

His cry is more piecing than a jackal. It is difficult to believe that such a commanding voice can come from one so lowly; a small, pitiful looking shell of a man.

 

People in the crowd start to murmur. I hear a few ask, “Who is this man?”

 

Others say, “Is he out of his mind?”

 

“Out of the arena!” One of the guards shouts.

 

But there is no stopping this unusual, tired looking person. He speaks again.

 

“We are better than this! We are Christians!”

 

It sounds so odd when he calls them all Christians. It is true that Christianity has become the official religion of Rome, but from what little I have heard, Christianity is supposed to be a peaceful religion. One would not think this monk was talking to a crowd of Christians. This mob of men and women came to enjoy two men fighting to the death. What was the difference between them and their ancestors who also cheered at gladiator games centuries ago, as far back as the time time of Julius Caesar and Spartacus, before there even was a religion called Christianity? Christian Rome and Caesar’s Rome. There is no difference as far as I can see.

 

And yet this monk….He himself is certainly different.

 

He shouts again, “My God, people! Have you no shame? Is there not a flicker of conscience left in your souls? We celebrate life, not death! In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, stop this madness!”

 

Now the crowd gets louder and angrier. Romans enjoy their games, even Christian Romans and they have very little patience for people who want to interrupt the fun.

 

“Get him out of here!” Some shout.

 

“Kill him!” Others add.

 

All at once, I am hit by a few stones. I realize that the stones are not meant for me. People are trying to hit the monk.

 

“Maybe we’d better move to the side,” I say to Alexander, “Until these guards get their orders.”

 

But an order has already been given because the commander wastes no opportunity. I hear the monk cry out. I turn around in time to see him fall to the ground with a sword in the center of his heart. The sword comes from Alexander. Evidently he’d received his signal from the commander.

 

At first, the crowd applauds. Then something very unusual happens. The clapping stops and the voices die down. A cold, confused silence moves over the Coliseum. It is quite eerie.  If I wasn’t standing here myself in the center of all the chaos, I never would have believed it. Thousands of people sit in the stadium but it is so silent, you could hear a stick fall to the ground. The monk may have seemed like nothing more than a nuisance while shouting at the crowd, but evidently his sudden death and peaceful, lifeless body is having a chilling effect. Maybe the death of somebody other than a gladiator makes it hard to continue thinking of the games as “mere sporting events.”

_ _ _

 

It is night time now. I’m back in my quarters with fellow gladiators. I overhear the others talking about what had happened. There is little else on anybody’s mind. I don’t feel like jumping into the conversation.  Everybody else seems to have a lot to say, not merely the decent gladiators, but the ones I don’t care for, the ones who would not be missed if they lost their next match.

 

By now, the monk’s name has become known, Telemachus. Each man has his own opinion of Telemachus. At first they talk about how weak and out of place, a thin, humble monk looked in the middle of our great Coliseum.

 

Then somebody says, “He may have been weak physically, but he certainly wasn’t weak inside! When have you ever seen a more courageous man? We go into the arena because we have to. Nobody forced Telemachus.”

 

“But somebody did force him,” Alexander says. “His god forced him, Jesus Christ.”

 

Obviously Alexander is feeling tormented since Telemachus died at his hand. Maybe it comforts him to assume that Telemachus could not have died without God being involved.

 

As I said, up until now, I have not been very interested in Christianity. I only know that many Romans accept the religion as true without giving it much thought. But there are also a few fanatics (as we call them) who make Jesus the defining point of their lives. Telemachus was obviously one such fanatic. But who am I to make fun of him? I could have died in the arena. Instead, Telemachus died in my place. This makes me wonder for the very first time about that person Jesus who was said to have died for everybody. Say what you will about these religious mad men, Telemachus had been loyal enough to become like the one he followed. I at least owe him the courtesy of respecting his memory.

 

Anyway, this is how I  interpret the event as my life continues, short as the life of a gladiator is likely to be. As for the way everybody else remembers Telemachus, only time will tell. I cannot say. I only know this: There is already a rumor going around that the imperial government is never again going to allow a gladiator game in Rome. I hope this is true. Perhaps my life will go on for a while after all.

 

 

 

Author’s Note: This story is fiction inspired by fact. Marcus and Alexander are created characters.

Did the Roman gladiator games really stop because of a monk named Telemachus or is that story a mere legend?

It is not a legend! Telemachus was a real person who interfered with a gladiator match in response to his Christian convictions. He lost his life because of his courageous stand and the gladiator games were abolished afterward by the emperor.

 

If you enjoyed this short story from Bob Siegel, you may enjoy reading his novels, novels such as:

The Dangerous Christmas Ornament: A fun, adventurous novel that kids have not been able to put down and yet it teaches them Judeo-Christian values!

The Dangerous Christmas Ornament

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