Gladiator

We are the Gladiator's feet.

Before the games begin, we wait impatiently, sandal-clad and tapping a rhythmless tattoo. When we are released, we run from confinement, our soles slapping the hot sand and grinding gravel. We pause, shifting our stance to meet an oncoming attacker. Shuffle, shuffle, shift, shuffle, shuffle. We dance lightly, constantly rebalancing the weight above us, the weight that determines our action. When a body falls before us, we run to our next victim, our next opponent, our next challenge. We run eagerly, knowing nothing else but the shuffle, shuffle, shift of attack and run. We are the Gladiator's feet.

We are the Gladiator's arms.

We flex and relax in anticipation, eagerly awaiting our chance. As the feet take off, we pump, pushing the weight further. The attacker barely focuses on anything but what we do. We rise, the hands clutching the weapon. Tense, clenched, and pumping with adrenaline, we hack down, feeling the impact of our weapon as it strikes with accuracy. We relax, but our shoulders swivel, taking the rest of the weight with it. We swing around, hacking, slicing, catching our weight when it falls. We catch the blows of other arms, blocking, bruising, bleeding. The adrenaline does not allow us to feel the pain, pushing us instead to continue to fight. We begin to grow weary, the blood thick in our veins; we rise too slowly, we swing too late. But still we fight, for it is our duty. We are the Gladiator's arms.

I am the Gladiator's torso.

I am ignored for the most part, but I am most needed. Strong and enduring, I have spent long years in hunger, in pain, and exposed. The back of me is bare, open to attack; the muscles that are so defined bear scars from lashing, without an ounce of fat to protect me. My front is hard, like rock with a skin cover, from years and years of fighting for my existence. Though the arms swing and the feet run, it is I that keeps the weight in balance, I that strains under an attacker's sword. I am the most aimed for, for it is I who protects the heart. My bones create a cage, and that cage must be protected. And so I must be deft, agile. I shy away from the swordpoint, I sacrifice my balance to keep the heart safe. I suffer wounds, scratches and deeper injuries, but still I go on, constantly shifting in order to maintain balance. Sweat stings my wounds, hot, sticky, painful. It is my pain that is most easily ignored, yet so greatly important to survival. I am the Gladiator's torso.

We are the Gladiator's hands.

As we wait, we nervously clutch our weapon, feeling the rough leather of the sword's handle against our palms. We wipe the sweat off against our simple tunic, comforted slightly by the feel of the cloth. Just before we are released to fight, we fold around the leather handle of the sword, a symbol to fight against distraction as the head bows and the eyes close. When we are finished, we raise our sword, determined and deadly. The scars on the back of us remind us why we are here, and as the feet take us into the hot sun and the arena, we begin our own kind of dance. We do not forget who we are. We are the Gladiator's hands.

I am the Gladiator's brow.

Sweat trickles down me in the head and threatens to enter the eyes, which would sting and blind them. The hands wipe it away. I am broad and lined; the hair that used to cover me has been shaved, causing me to burn in the sun. I do not fight. I merely wait, anticipating the end of the battle, for if the battle ends and I still feel, I am offered a crown of laurel leaves, which indicate the body's victory. I exist for the purpose of holding a crown, and that purpose is enough. I am the Gladiator's brow.

We are the Gladiator's eyes.

Flicking back and forth, blinking constantly, we betray our nervousness. The hands save us from the trickling sweat which threatens to blind, but nothing can save us from the fear that will not allow us to rest. We examine the men around the body, noticing weakness and strength, nervous habits and calm collectedness. Some are confident. Some are not. We turn forward again, closing briefly as the mind commands, then opening at the sound of a metallic click. We are being released. The men and our body charge out, and we flicker from attacker to attacker, noticing anything and everything but their faces. We purposefully glance around fallen bodies as though they are not there. Squinting against the bright sun and its reflection in the sand, we take a moment to glance up at the crowd. But our duty is not forgotten, and we look away, finding our arms and hands another attacker. We are the Gladiator's eyes.

I am the Gladiator's mind.

It is I who commands the body, who swings, dodges, runs, falls, dives, kills. The body's survival depends on me. I am the one who processes the information the eyes give me and produces a solution, resulting in commands to the rest of the body. I am quick, clever. I am proud. But it is also I who remembers the body as it used to be, before it was forced into this form of slavery. I remember the feet before they knew the shuffle, shuffle, shift of attack. I remember how they used to run freely, without stopping, simply to feel the dirt under their soles, to feel the warm sand between their toes. I remember the arms before they bled and bruised. I remember how they used to be thin, and how their subtle strength used to haul the body up the tree it climbed. I remember the torso before it became a cage, before its back was scarred, before it suffered. I remember how little it had been exposed to the sun, and how it used to be softer, because there was no need for muscle. I remember the hands before they became calloused and hard, before they knew only the roughest material, the hottest sand, and the lukewarm water. I remember the feel of soft skin as my hands stroked my wife's face for the last time, and the smooth wood of my carvings. I remember when the brow was covered by dark locks, and had no use for a crown. I remember when it bore nothing more than my mother's loving kiss and my father's blessing. I remember when my eyes knew nothing of blood and death, when all they knew were the faces of those I loved and the beauty of the earth around me. All this I remember until I am told to fight. Then, I am the Gladiator's mind.

I am the Gladiator's heart.

I am protected by a cage of steel, by muscles made of rock, by deadly arms and swift feet. It is I who beats relentlessly before the doors to the arena are opened. Though I have no part in the fight, my purpose comes later. It is I who causes the eyes to well up with tears when the mind remembers the fall of a recent comrade. It is I who overflows with compassion when I see the wounds of the other gladiators, and I who causes the mind to decide to help them. It is I who can go days without food in order to feed an ill brother. I am overwhelmed with sorrow when the mind remembers how things used to be, and I who longs for the past. I am what keeps the Gladiator human. I am the Gladiator's heart.

I am the Gladiator.

My story has no importance. I fight, I kill, I survive. This is my existence.
I stand in the doorway of the arena, tapping my feet, rubbing my hands on my tunic, closing my eyes for a quick prayer. My heart pumps blood, adrenaline makes me nervous and eager. I am ready for battle. My mind is clear and focused, and I can think of nothing else. Though I am talented and popular in the arena, I loathe the killing. I avoid looking at the faces of my victims as they die, or they haunt my dreams.
The arena doors open, and I am released, my sword deadly and prepared. I cut down my first victim without a fight; he is inexperienced. I chop, hack, slice, kill. A delicate dance evolves as my feet shuffle in the sand and gravel. A body falls, and I turn away. My stomach lurches and I can feel the sweat dripping from my neck. I pause, certain that I am in no danger, and look toward the stands, finding the King's box quickly. For a moment, I consider the barely visible faces that watch me carefully. Some of the members of the box cheer; I can see that the King is cheering. The Queen is not; she sits gravely in her seat, eyes forward. I hear a noise behind me and return to the fight.

My opponents are dead; my comrades lay dying as well. The King leaves his box to make his way down, finding me the only one still standing. Smiling and applauding, he announces me the winner, grabbing my wrist with his pale, soft hand and raising it above our heads. The crowd erupts in applause as the Queen steps forward, the crown of cool laurel leaves in her gentle hands. Her face is stony, her eyes are lowered as she raises the crown, capturing the attention of the crowd. I kneel silently, wearily before her and she lowers the crown onto my brow. As I stand, she curtsies, acknowledging my talent. Our eyes meet, and there is a mutual understanding that we live in a world we cannot change. I turn away, longing but afraid of such an understanding, and raise my sword to the crowd. As the stands once again erupt with deafening applause, it only says one thing: You are the Gladiator.

I am the Gladiator, I repeat to myself. I have been made a Gladiator, and a Gladiator I will remain until the day of my death. Though my body serves me well, it will age. I will grow weary, slow, tired. In this arena, I will meet my death, and I am the Gladiator until that time.

I am the Gladiator, I say again, looking at the Queen. My hand grips my sword as I raise it once again to the sky.

I am the Gladiator.