Arena

Arena

It was nothing like I had imagined.

They hadn't warned me sufficiently about the noise or the dust or the stench. Holy Mother-in-law of God! The smell!

I'd knocked about, time-wise; I was no stranger to the ancient bazaars of the Middle East where camels were slaughtered in the dirt in front of "butcher shops" during midsummer heat waves, and where I'd been forced to step delicately around metallic-purple coils of steaming entrails that were home to battalions of ecstatic flies. Or Old China, where the carcasses of freshly skinned cats and ducks hung in stifling heat, putrefying almost as one watched. And Indochina, where open drains carried sluggish rivers of foetid, lumpy raw sewage to some destination I didn't want to know about.

But this stench was solid and stultifying.

I was standing in the deep shade of the stone archway leading out from under the stone terraces where thousands of human beings were screaming themselves hoarse. Thousands of unwashed bodies crushed together in the unappealing Roman midsummer heat, beside themselves with bloodlust. Alternately shrieking instructions and admonitions to their current hapless favourite, and sweating profusely all the while. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a fellow competitor -- or should I say conscript? -- shifting nervously from foot to foot, his short-sword scabbard clanging annoyingly against the wall. Couldn't blame him, really … at least I was safe from harm. He was going to die. I was on holiday. For him, this was death row. A fleeting thought with an image of Kirk Douglas in that great old flick, Spartacus , pinged briefly into my mind:

"Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant!"

What a crock! If I had been this poor bastard in the real world I'd have preferred to jam my sword up their collective posteriors as my salute, with the aging Caesar Decrepitus first in line! Up yours, you mindless, asinine Citizens of Rome with nothing better to do in this tarnished Golden Age of civilization except sit on your idle arses and watch a continuous display of live death. Well, at least with the benefit of hindsight I knew how their particular movie would end. I almost smiled.

My gaze was drawn out into the open arena, where a huge, shiny, black bugger of a man was in the process of driving his trident into the face of his much smaller white-skinned opponent, skewering him to the ground. Very effective procedure, too, as however much the poor sod thrashed about he remained pinned to the gore-soaked sand like a bloody butterfly to a board. The crowd loved it. Then lesser mortals rushed out and dragged the impaled insect out of view, leaving a long, red smear in their wake. The Nubian gladiator drew himself up and flourished his dripping weapon at the crowd.

They down-thumbed his efforts, he having taken too long in their opinion to despatch his fleeter but weaker opponent. Mr Nubia 476 AD would now face another bout, and another, until he, too, succumbed to the depraved and insatiable desires of the crowd. He knew it well enough, too, and for a minute I thought he would rush the barrier. But he just slumped away, his awesome odor pummelling me as he shouldered past into the tunnel, eyes glazed.

I drew in a long breath through seriously clenched teeth and, for the hundredth time today, questioned my sanity. Sure, Time-Sport™ 2040 Inc guaranteed that whilst I couldn't be killed or maimed or even seriously injured or my money back, I could feel some temporary pain, and may receive minor cuts and contusions if I wasn't careful and thank you have a nice holiday. I just hoped that I enjoyed the experience as much as their brochures assured me I would after all the WorldEuroCreds this interactive holiday had cost me.

The incumbent next to me in the butcher's queue jumped forward after a sharp prod in the nethers by a grizzled, one-armed, one-eyed, gravel-voiced veteran of the fights. This job was his supreme reward for surviving a hundred fights against all odds … to live out his days in this stinking dark corridor, herding poor terrified, unfortunate miscreants to their deaths day after day after day. No dignity left for this old gladiator, however free he might be, only an ignominious and brutal end. It showed in his bitter face. Another jab, this time in my own backside, and I realised then that my neighbor and I were to fight together against some unknown foe(s).

I swallowed what little saliva was left in my dust-caked mouth, and stepped into the blinding sunlight for my 15 minutes of fame. The noise was a rock. I remembered what the instructors back home had told me -- hold the shield up in front, poke the sword underneath and wait for the right moment to kill. It had seemed so easy back in the air-conditioned Time-Sport 2040 Fight Simulator ™ , weaving, blocking the incoming sword with my shield, and then a savage thrust up and under into the guts of my opponent. No problem. Then a moment to bask in the glory before blinking out of the arena and arriving safely back in the Time-Sport 2040 Ezi-Retrieval Chamber ™. Easy. What they didn't explain to me was that my opponent might not be human.

I glanced at my swarthy companion and noted that his face was considerably paler than before, for from the opposite gate, leaping from heavily barred cages, were what I assumed to be six huge, bawling lions. They were not happy little pussies, either, and the air fairly smarted from their roars of displeasure. Great maned heads swung this way and that, and yellow fangs drooled thick ropes of silvery saliva as they gauged their position. What they saw was a high stone wall protecting the degenerate and debauched Citizens of Rome from harm, but directly across the arena, and at the same level, two miserable, puny and urinating human beings. They chose the easier course, and without further ado, charged.

The noise from the terraces was deafening, and I knew that all they wanted was to see us disassembled by these foul beasts. Nice lot, the Romans were, at this late stage of their crumbling culture. The lions stopped their headlong dash twenty yards away, and stood swaying, glaring fixedly at us with inhuman yellow eyes, tails lashing the hot, thick air behind them and nostrils familiarising themselves with our attractive scent.

Ancient films about some jungle dude I think called Tarzan raced through my mind, and it seemed that all one had to do to defeat the so-called King of the Jungle was to fall back and stab upwards.

Ol' Tarz made it seem so easy with his quaint homemade knife.

My initial reaction, after pissing in my toga, was to reverse up into the safety of the dark corridor behind and press the Time-Sport 2040 Fale-Safe Emergency Return Activator ™ button implanted behind my left ear. I didn't care how much it cost, or how much scorn and ridicule I'd receive back home, I wanted out, and NOW! Of course the old soldier was no fool, he'd been pushing cowards out of his dank corridor for years … he'd barred the entranceway with a large, heavy wooden panel on rollers the minute he'd finished encouraging us out into the sunshine. There was no escape that way. I paid a bit more attention to the unfolding scenario in front of me while scrabbling behind my ear for my salvation, and with a quick glance at my quivering partner, hunkered down desperately behind my shield to blink out.

Ripping the sky apart with an humungous scream, one of the less patient animals chose to make a dash at my companion. I hastily stumbled clear, leaving the poor fellow plenty of space. No sense in both of us getting mauled in the first encounter, I thought. Besides, he might get lucky and kill the thing. One fewer for me to worry about. The lion made a leap at him, batted away the ineffective shield and, without a by your leave, crunched the man's head forthwith in its slavering jaws. The sound was like a big, meaty egg being dropped from a great height. So much for that theory. I'm out, thought I, and as I reached for the magic button to take me home, a 100-ton battering ram crashed into my back, knocking me flat on my face in the hot sand. The shield went flying, and the sword with which I was to nonchalantly dispatch the beast(s), to the delighted roars of the crowd, flew from my sweaty grasp and clanged against the stone wall. The howls of approval from the massed sadists above almost, but not quite, drowned out the irate bellowing in my ear.

As I slowly, carefully reached to press the button a plate-sized, razor-tipped paw whacked into the side of my head, knocking me almost senseless. Somehow, with extreme fear as an incentive, I touched the spot, and to my horror discovered that the entire side of my head was flayed open, and my ear gone. All I got for my effort was a tiny, crumpled electronic device that had stuck to the blood and wet flesh on my hand. My guaranteed ride home …

Then for reasons best known to itself the lion leaped off my back and bounded away towards its cronies. A spirited confrontation then developed between, I assume, the rival factions of Liondom, and I rolled myself over painfully, trying desperately with trembling, blood-slicked fingers to find the required spot on the tiny device. I wanted to go home.

It failed to respond.

Feverishly, I pressed harder, more urgently. Then with some surprise and an involuntary grunt, I watched a spear blade emerge almost miraculously from the front of my Time-Sport 2040 Leather-Sim, All-Weather, Full-Protection, No-Pierce Tunic ™.

I was puzzled for a brief moment, as the point was followed at a steady rate by a long, red-stained wooden shaft. What's that thing doing growing out of my chest, I thought? I'll never be able to fit into the Time-Sport 2040 Retrieval Chamber ™ now, I thought.

At least I'd get my money back …

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