The Arena

I was lying down in front of the Colosseum. The time on my watch read four in the morning. Exhausted though I was, the persuasion of the Arena, lit up in its brilliance, was far more effective than any caffeine substitute. At this hour the Arena emitted an aura that was indescribable. My field of vision was dominated by its magnitude. Floodlights bathed its arches in a soft, golden hue, as though the light of God Itself was illuminating the structure from within. The streets are empty, save for a flashlight and a few locals. For nearly two hours, I sat on a stone block, basking in the magnificent splendour of the two-thousand-year-old death trap.

I’d long associated the Colosseum as synonymous with the concept of chaos. A bustling atmosphere conjuring visions of roaring Roman crowds, drunken, bloodthirsty hordes, and of course, the inexplicable fervour that inevitably accompanies a display of public entertainment, much less a spectacle of combat to the death. Witnessing its emptiness was similar to the feeling elicited by piloting a self-driving car, or breathing underwater while scuba-diving; It’s the kind your spirit flags because you know something isn’t quite right. I felt like I was experiencing something I wasn’t supposed to.

In the space between twilight and daybreak, I witnessed it in a way it was impossible to experience during the daytime. Away from the tourist photographers. At four in the morning, it beckoned me inside.

I entered. Surrounded by a sea of fifty thousand Romans fighting and clamouring and jockeying to find entry to the stadium. The heavy Roman heat beating down relentlessly. Linen shirts drenched in sweat, my sense of smell assaulted by overwhelming odours permeating the packed area. The bone-rattling roar of the crowd shook the ground; the wall of noise cascaded over the Arena walls and flooded the surrounding streets. It appeared the spectacle was under way. Suddenly, the air was torn apart by a sound akin to that which one would hear after a goal in the World Cup Final. However, instead of a game-winning goal, this one signalled the butchery of a human being in the name of entertainment.

I inhaled deeply. Tangible now was the unexplainable weight of a million souls who had perished not one hundred metres away from where I sat. Never before had I felt so miniscule. Solomon’s Ecclesiastical reminder, “we come from dust and return to dust,” resonated in my mind. A grain of sand in the vast desert expanse of humanity, I revelled at the illuminated arches with a newfound awe and wonder. The Arena offered me a space in which I, for the first time, grasped the significance of what I was looking at, and the insignificance of myself in the grand scope of human history.

Around 5:30am, the spell was broken by a morning jogger and the break of daylight. As I walked away, I looked back at where it stood, fully aware of its magnificence, having captivated me as it will undoubtedly captivate millions more.