The roar of the seventy-thousand Roman citizens was deafening. Literally. Evonne and I blended in pretty good in our scholarly robes in the upper section of the coliseum. No one noticed us as we both produced a pair of earplugs and put them in. Not that they helped that much but at least our eardrums didn’t feel like they were about to burst.
And they said rock music was the number one damaging thing for ears. I’m guessing whoever came up with that statistic had never watched a bloodbath unfold in a coliseum filled with eager bloodthirsty Romans.
As we watched the scene unfold before us and the body count started to rise, or drop might be a better term. Because the more men that fell let the viewers know that their entertainment was almost at an end, it made me somewhat proud to be an American.
Obtaining money in such places was never easy and Rome had been no exception. After wasting two precious hours at the market and doing a little jumping back a day or two- Evonne and I had been handed enough money to purchase almost everything we needed for our expedition by a few truly perplexed merchants. Which mainly consisted of robes and sandals. I pocketed the remaining denari and had set out for the arena with Evonne close behind.
Getting in wasn’t hard after a quick cash flash and a comment about the two of us being part of the senate, we had been ushered to some of the best seats to watch the sport.
I mean, if that’s what you want to call it.
Let me just go on record here to say this: blood and sand mix a little too good. For real. After a few minutes the hot sun coupled with the hot sand results in a large dark brown spot that’s usually accompanied by the body of some poor shmuck that has just given his last breath all for the sake of entertainment.
So am I proud to be an American? Yes. Yes, I am.
I glanced over at Evonne and noticed that he was watching the spectacle with a shockingly cavalier attitude about the whole thing. Then I remembered that he used to be a major league black ops dude. No doubt he’s seen stuff almost this bad. Maybe even worse. This wasn’t the case for me and I was beginning to regret my rashness in coming to the arena at all. Don’t get me wrong, my travels haven’t left me unscathed and yes, I have seen folks killed.
The crusades were rough times. Too rough to explain in a few pages in a history book. I had stayed in the Holy Land almost the whole first month prior to getting my glove. I became a squire the first day and was working for a good natured Englishman by the name of Sir Rodney of London. The real article, that guy was. From London and everything. After he'd taught me the basics of swordplay for a few weeks our camp had been attacked by raiders.
Please try and understand that I am a twenty-four year-old almost billionaire with severe fan boy like tendencies.
So at the first shouts of an attack, I had ran out of my tent shirtless and brandishing my claymore and red-crossed shield. I discovered that my glove had a grip like a crocodile’s jaws as I clenched the hilt of my broadsword and waited for the oncoming enemies.
I totally blame my inner nerd for the two lives I took that night. Had I been thinking clearly, I would’ve just zapped back to the windy city at the first signs of attackers. But I hadn’t been thinking at all, much less clearly.
Watching the blood hit the sand now and turning my head away just before the inevitable decapitation of the sod on his knees clutching at the deep stomach wound that had just been issued by the beheader, I recalled the surreal, primeval feeling that had gripped me that night and had been the cause for my sword swinging true twice.
Upon arriving back to Chicago the next day I had swore to myself not to be so foolish again. Will I defend myself if someone is trying to hurt me? Yes. Will I kill someone I meet in my travels if they’re trying to kill me? Not if I can help it.
The crowd started shouting louder, if that was even possible, to the winning gladiator to not end it too quick. At least that’s what I gathered do to the immense theatricality the victorious gladiator was flaunting to the maniacal crowd. He put a hand to his ear as if he couldn’t hear what they were screaming at him then nodded knowingly after a few seconds. He knew exactly what they wanted.
He rolled his neck once before swinging at the man’s throat, hitting the jugular vein. I didn’t need my earpiece in to know what the audience had been shouting. This was what the crowd came to see. Not just death. No that wasn’t good enough for them.
But shockingly visceral, mega-bloody, all-out-gore was what they wanted.
I had turned my attention to anywhere else but the scene before me, not caring to see the winner who was probably holding his arms up to receive the bloody shower that no doubt was already happening do to the reaction from the spectators.
Somehow I kept thinking that all those times of playing God of War should have prepared me for this. But it didn’t. This made God of War look like Winnie the Pooh.
“Master Johnson, it seems the match is over.” Evonne shouted next to my ear to be heard over the roar of onlookers. “Perhaps we should make ourselves scarce.”
Upon exiting the arena we headed west, roughly in the direction of the house of the senate, if the map on my glove was correct. The passing people were all talking about the last match. It resembled, to me, the way teens talk about how awesome a movie they had just seen was as they exited a theater. This notion was increased due to the teens we saw swinging imaginary swords at one another and talking about the highlights of the arena.
Side note: Rome is was pretty much the most amazing place I’ve ever traveled to. Coming from the guy who has personally watched the first stone of the great wall of China being laid into place and also witnessed the birth of Charles I,in the same day, might I add.
But seriously, Rome was awesome. I never really worried about people seeing my glove in my travels. I mean, yes, it is the most advanced gadget ever invented so far, but I never had anyone so far try and lift it. Good thing for them, too.
Oh yeah. I guess this is probably the best time to tell you that the glove I keep going on about wasn’t exactly made in 2012. Yes. This is the best time to tell you that. Is it the best time to tell you when, exactly, it was made and how I, the genius prodigy who graduated college with a masters degree in history at the age of twenty-two had come to obtain it? Not so much.
Suffice it to say that I’ll tell you about all that later. Maybe…
The streets were packed with Roman citizens going about their Romanly ways doing whatever it is that Romans happened to be doing at that time of a day in the great city of Rome.
Did I mention that I was in Rome?
It was A.D. 98 on a beautiful Thursday afternoon.
The day my perfect time-traveling life completely went to pot. The day I finally met her.
I should have been more alert, I guess. I mean, as I look back on it I can see that I really should have been paying more attention to my surroundings. I’m also guessing that you know now that whatever horrible shenanigan my butler and I got into on that fine Thursday afternoon in A.D. 98 didn’t cost us our lives because I’ve just told you that I learned a good life lesson from the experience.
No. We didn’t die. But I still to this day don’t know how.