He crumpled before me as the crowd thundered in approval. Underneath my shimmering metal mask I breathed hoarsely. Adrenaline rushed through my battle-hardened body. My sweat glistened chest gleamed in the hot sun. Sand clung to my feet poking through dusty sandals. On my left arm a metal bracer ran from my shoulder to my wrist, encumbering my movement. In my right hand I held a sharp sword. The giant arena, that I was forced to preform in sat millions of visitors who wished to see blood spilt on the white sand.

They screamed, yelled, cheered. Death was their entertainment of choice. The only world that I knew was here, among killers, among animals, among gladiators. The coliseum had become our home, or at lest our grave yard. We as a group of people only knew few basic principles of being a slave, to fight, to kill, to survive. Murdering other human beings became more of a ritual to us than anything else. The silence of the multitude, then approval of the emperor, and then the sickly sound of steel cutting against bone and flesh.

The crowd of course loves it. They scream for death and lust for flowing blood. When a man killing a man is not enough they bring forth beasts. Tigers, lions, bears are just a few of them. Man and animal alike have mixed their blood on the battlegrounds of this accursed arena. I have been only so lucky as to be alive at this very moment, though I cannot say the same for my opponent.

As I drew my wet red blade from the body of my fallen enemy the crowd roared. Trumpets blared, intertwining with the enrage chanting of the fans. It was my name they screamed Milo the destroyer over and over again. Milo. Come to think of it I thought my name, above others, was a kindly one. Yet here I stood over the body of the man I had slain, his lacerations oozing. This man could have been a father, a brother, a son. I had become numb to the many killings I had preformed, with each one becoming easier.

The sound of grinding steel halted my train of thought. I turned quickly hoping to find the source. A huge gate opened before me as twenty armed guards came marching towards me. The masses booed and shouted insults as the men created a circle around me and quickly guided me back to the tunnel from where they came. As we descended down the dark pathway I could hear the ruckus of the crowd slowly fading away. Stonewalls created a prisonlike scenery. Iron bars enforced that look.

The coolness of the lower level allowed me to un-tense my muscles.

“This way gladiator,” one of the guards gestured to a cell filled with a single wooden bench hanging by steel chains and straw covering it and the floor. As I sat my strained being on the hard bed as a man littered with jingling keys hanging from his body locked the door behind me. I lay on my back and tried to slow my raspy breathing. I had one more fight. One more and I would be free. It was customary for a champion of the arena, after winning many battles, to be set free. My winning streak has been thirty-two kills; the body I left in the sand raised that count by one. Thirty-four was the perfect score. That number was my freedom.

Gladiators are not chosen; they are taken, and stolen. My small family of six was abducted from me. I was thirteen. Their shouts of terror still ring in my ears. Recalling that day from the actives of my memory is a task I preform with ease. We were eating a small meal of beans and rice. Then they came, Romans clade in blood red armor and holding viscous spears. My father rose to attack them, to protect us. My mother screamed as they thrust the sharp shaft through his body, lifting him from the floor and tossing him onto our rickety dinner table.

“Get the boy!” one shouted. Rough arms encircled me as I kicked and struggled to get away.

“Mother!” I called desperately. The last image that caught my eyes was that of my mother kneeling in her husband’s blood as a Roman strode over to her, grabbed her hair, drew a blade, and swiftly decapitated her. Her headless body fell limply on the floor as her murderer smirked under his feathery helm. He walked over to me, carrying her expressionless head and held it by my teary eyed face. The perfume from her hair wisped up my nose as tears dripped down my cheeks.

“Greeks, such a mighty people,” the well dressed killer kneeled so that we were eye to eye. My mothers crown still hung by his clenched hand.

“Not so much anymore,” in rage I spit in his face, and watched it dribble down his chin. He struck me as my world went black.

In my prison cell I fell off my bed as I sluggishly called for my deceased family. Cold sweat dripped down my face. I huddled up and wiped my sweaty face as my raggedy beard scratched my arm. How many years have I spent here? I turn my head to gaze upon faint white chalk marks. Seven years. As soon as I had entered into slavery a man had bought me with intent of warfare. Though I blame him for buying me, I credit him for training me.

“When your strength wanes, your body falters, and your spirit is crushed then you know you must fight even harder!” Titus use to proclaim. I was his apprentice, his slave, his son. Titus spent endless hours seeing to it that I would survive in the Coliseum. He even went to trouble of putting me into smaller skirmishes. I still bear the scars from fighting older men twice my size. Their graves bear witness to their defeat.

The old man’s training kept me alive. Titus had been a champion among gladiators, cutting down any who stood in his way. His fighting tactics were supreme, and better than any fighter of his day. His signature weapon were two twin knives; more fit for carving than anything else. Titus was unstoppable, unbeatable, invincible in my eyes.

Before he passed into the void he said the most profound statement, “Milo, let my training be applied in your life. May my strength, my speed, my skill, and my courage be your own.” As I kneeled by his frail form he slowly slipped from existence; his knives held crossed on his cold chest. The day after his passing I was sent to Rome to ‘perform’. Ever since I have honored his life by winning and staying alive.

Partials of broken daylight began to shimmer through a rusted grate on the ceiling.

A guard came too my door, “The emperor requested that you be released until your premiere fight this afternoon.” His silver chest-plate and bracers shone from excessive cleansing.

“So you are saying the emperor has requested a killer to roam the streets of Rome until he is ready to kill again?” I asked, my voice dry from un-use.

The man unlocked my cell door, “It is what he has requested and it shall be done accordingly without question.”

“Very well Roman, lead the way,” I responded with bitterness in my voice. Romans… the proud scum of the earth, willing to sell other man for sport. I followed the scrawny man through many passages until we came to the exit of the prison. How long ago was it when I last saw the light of day? The bustling of the crowd and the smells of the market overpowered my senses.

“Take your leave gladiator, but remember you have till this afternoon. If you are not back by that time, your chance of freedom will no longer be.”

“Very well Roman, I take your word,” I stepped down stone stairs and too the ground level below. The crowed streets bustled with life as energetic bodies moved too and fro. Rome had gotten bigger since I last was out, though that was years ago. I cam in bundled in chains and came out bundled in a tunic. They never let gladiators roam free. The cobblestone pavement felt warm under may sandals as I strode forward, itching to take in the entire city.

“Pastries, come get your fresh pastries!” a man behind a counter called out. So many smells wafted at my nose, some sweet, some bitter, and some salty. Part of the crowd knew who I was. I was deemed a killer and a savage in the coliseum. Yet I was loved by them and feared by all. As luck would have it the guard who had lead me out was kindly enough to provide me with a hooded cloak and I drew up its rough cloth to spread shadows across my face. In Rome the houses and stores are tightly nit together and separated by ally-ways and main streets. I took to the allies.

The clay rooftops somewhat shaded me from the blinding sun. Scattered here and their beggars covered in tattered rags softly called for lose change. One bold one wobbly stood and touched my shoulder.

“Sir, if you could led me something, any extra money that may burden you.” I looked upon this man in his stooped position and felt sorrow for him. We were both prisoners, one of poverty, one of war. This man and I had nothing, yet we were forced to make something of it. It was almost as if civilization expected us to conceive statues without giving the items necessary in order to gain it.

“Man, I have very little time to walk among free men. Before long I must return to my pit to fight for my freedom. But I can make you a promise, if I win my profits of the victory will belong to you.”

Tears weld up in his eyes, “You are Milo! The great warrior of the coliseum, you promise is most kind. I thank you so much,” he grabbed my hand and shook it violently.

“But in turn you must promise me something,” I stated pulling my hand away from the man’s vibrating one.

“What? Anything I would do for you. You have given me hope. Your wish is my command!” he proclaimed.

“Share the profits you have gained with your fellow brothers in poverty,” I gestured to many other slowly moving bodies that were scattered two and fro on the cobblestone.

The man gulped, “Very well, I shall do as you ask,” his gaze traveled to the ground.

Putting my hand on his shoulder I ask, “What is your name?”

“My name is Felix,” he looked up to me and asked, “What of you? How will you live if you give your winnings to the poor?”

“My good sir, freedom is living. Poverty is a cruel slave master. How can I live rich when I know so many are in bondage,” grabbing both his shoulders I continued, “That’s what makes us different than the Romans Felix. All they care about is wealth and statues. The wealthy just become more and more rich while the poor just sink deeper and deeper into poverty. We must make a difference.”

Felix looked off into the distance, seemingly entering to another dimension of thought. Then a smile drew across his warn face.

“Milo you are a wise man, I will do as you ask,” he paused, “I would like to help you as much as I can in your journey for freedom. I am not strong, but my mind works better than my body.”

“You are as noble as you are kind my dear Felix and yes I would much enjoy your company. My time of short freedom is drawing to an end and your friendship would be much appreciated.”

Flex’s smile spread even more across his face, “I know a place we could go for the day. I have some friends I would like you to meet that I think might interest you.”

I grinned, “Lead on my companion.” For a while we seemed to be going nowhere. The endless streets boggled my mind. As we traversed down the warm roads of Rome I studied my friend’s figure. He was slim, though next to me many a man seemed fragile.