I walk into the Coliseum cautiously

I walk into the Coliseum cautiously. As soon as I step one foot onto it’s ground, I hear the jeering, the screams of the innocents. With each step the sound grows clearer, the ring of metal on metal growing more distinct. My already tense body tensing more when I see an ancient Roman peddler parade past me, brandishing the bottle of sweat taken from one of the gladiators. I immediately know that he is from a later age in Rome, seeing as it was then that gladiatorism had become professional rather than mere slaves.

More and more spirits gather round me, speaking in a dead language to all who don’t see. I, however, hear ‘dead’ languages whenever I step foot onto old grounds. As with these. I silently thank my old Latin teacher for all of his help, so I can at least understand the gist of the conversations swirling about me. The screams grow louder, piercing my throbbing skull. The moans of the damned are coming from beneath me, and I can detect the faint smell of the tar-covered Christian bodies burning as light.

I step out into the sun, which makes a horrifying sight come into view. I see person after person, innocent after innocent get killed, either eaten by way of animals, or brutally murdered by that of their kindred. My breathing grows haggard as I step onto the rebuilt floor, touching the sand strewn across it. So much blood has been spilt here.

I damn those that made this curse thrice over! I briefly wonder why this particular place has me so worked up. Have I not seen countless battlefields filled with those of the brutally murdered? Realization hits me much like the sword of the samnite would befall me.

This could have been me, had I been born thousands of years ago. I could have been that Christian burning on that cross, or the thief forced to steal, then thrown to the ravenous, tigers, suffering from malnutrition.