The Arena of Life

The crowd cheered loudly as they watched two armored gladiators fight to the death. They could hear the ringing of metal and the shouts of the two men as they traded blows. Some of the crowd members were screaming over each other to be heard--they cheered furiously as they rooted their champion on. The crowd’s cheers were annoying; they were like a thousand flies all buzzing around a carcass. The two men ignored them. They were too focused on fighting each other--any distraction could prove fatal if they paid attention to the crowd. The gladiators were in the Colosseum. The greatest spectacle in Rome. This was not just a game. It was life and death. Only one could come out on top; and that person had to be the strongest and the fiercest fighter.

As the men traded fierce blows, they circled around each other like wolves. They were constantly searching for an opening that would give them a fighting edge to win the match. But these opponents were no ordinary gladiators--they were the elite. They had been fighting in the arena so long that they had become the undisputed champions. But they had never fought each other. In fact, this was their first time fighting against each other. So both gladiators knew this was going to be a long fight--and a bloody one.

The men were like bulls in a ring. They were strong and powerful. Both were armed with swords and knives. They had no shield. But they had been allowed to wear their armor. The first gladiator was a big bull of a man. He wore a black helm with horns sticking out of his head. He was naked from the waist up. His hairy chest rippling with muscle. He was like an ox. Sweat poured down his body as he fought to keep pace with the second gladiator who was a lot smaller and swifter. The second gladiator wore a gold helm with a face shield--so nobody knew what he really looked like. He also wore a golden cuirass-- he looked like he walked out of a Greek legend. He fought like he was Achilles. The crowd called him the Heros Graecus. Yet nobody knew where he came from, other than the island of Greece. But he was swift, fast and the most beloved of the arena. The crowd cheered for him the most.

The two gladiators continued to fight--but it was clear they were losing energy and stamina. Their blows were becoming less frequent as they both realized they were a match for each other. They kept their distance but still continued to circle each other. Every now and again, one of them would reach out to try to swipe the other but their move would end of being blocked. The crowd began getting impatient. They sounded now like a bunch of angry hornets. They wanted to see more blood and gore. And even a death.

Suddenly, the big ox gladiator broke out of the circle and rushed for a spear that had been tossed in the arena. He grabbed it and just as quick aimed it right at Heros Graecus who was running towards a small covered hill. But before he could make it, he took the spear in the thigh and went down. The ox gladiator now had the edge; the match was decided. Heros Graecus turned to face his opponent who was now walking slowly toward him. Heros Graecus was on his knees. The spear sticking out of his thigh and blood running down his leg. He was not going anywhere. He knew the fight was over. But his golden helm concealed his face--showing nothing of his fear and anger.

The crowd erupted into an uproar. Some were shouting to see Heros Graecus’ head and others were screaming at Heros Graecus to get to his feet. But neither gladiator was listening. They were focused on each other. Heros Graecus threw down his sword and waited for the ox gladiator to get into ear shot. As the ox gladiator got closer, Heros could see his friend's face for the last time. The ox gladiator looked at Heros helm--instantly locking eyes. He had piercing black eyes--and they showed his frustration and anger, and his sadness.

“Be quick, my old friend.” Heros Graecus commanded gently. The spear in his thigh made him sit on his knees in an uncomfortable position. The sand and the sun was hot. His sweat was making everything sticky. But he could feel his energy and strength run into the ground like his blood.

“Heros, I am sorry. Forgive me.” The ox soldier begged quietly. Their conversation was heard only between them. The crowd was wild, screaming that it was like white noise in the background.

Heros Graecus nodded. “Yes, but I must ask a favor of you Durus. Please watch over my son, he will need someone to look out for him and train him for when the time comes.”

Durus, the ox gladiator nodded slowly. He took his sword in his right hand, holding it up high, ready to give the death stroke. “Of course. He will grow up to like my own.” Promised Durus.

“Thank you, my friend. I will see you in Elysium. Farwell.” Said Heros. He then stretched his neck back, exposing his throat for Durus. And with a clear cut, Heros was dead. The crowd cheered. And the Emperor who had been watching from his covered pavilion throne smiled in satisfaction.