Filed Under : by Greg L. Miller
Sunday, June 19, 2011
It is Halloween in Rome, Italy. Locals and foreigners are on edge for it’s the devils night. There are four of us from NMU and we want to have fun. We are heading towards the Arena. Exotic smells of Italian baked goods make me hungry. A loner, who must have been a thief, comes upon us. He has deep pain in his eyes and is verbally ruthless. Relentlessly he verbally attacks one of us. We are traveling college students on Halloween leave with NMU’s Vienna program. Police officers stop the Italian as he threatens to brandish a knife and cut our friend down. Male machismo sweeps us in a current of racial tensions I do not understand. Visually, unlike the coliseum and the majority of Italy, there is nothing cute coming from the local or the people watching on this block. Beggars and merchants watch without caring. Dark currents of hate roll from the man’s poised body; he appears to be on verge of snapping like a tight rope coming to its burned end. What does a person who begs have to lose when they see a rich American flaunt his ego? We move on. Most Italians are not like this. This was the first time we experienced hostility. Italy is known for its tourism and excellent hospitality.
Soon I am in the arena with one other NMU student. The breeze from the Mediterranean feels stale as its brushes upon two thousand years of history. Voices from the past whisper dreams and fears as blood once poured freely on the sand under my feet. Today there is no blood, no killing. I have a bean bag; we decide to play a quick game. The cloth in my palm is coarse to the touch. The tight ball shifts in my palm as tiny beans readjust to fit the contours of my hand. The hacky sack is blue and orange; it was purchased earlier in the semester from a Guatemalan at the cultural center in Austria in 2002. It only cost two euro.
Matt, another student from NMU, misses the hacky sack as I bounce it back to him off of my left foot. Dust lifts from the ground. The same ground which experienced blood once shed for both honor and pleasure. I can’t help but smile. Ancient sand blown walls rise around my dwarfed personage, giving visions of past Roman glory. The coliseum is known as the Amphitheatrum Flavium, receiving its name from past Roman emperors, Vespasian and Titus.
Matt is 5’6 and by every definition is considered handsome. He is one of the preppy cool guys. His friendly voice drifts with the wind, “Greg, I’m going to kick your butt. You need to work on your left foot technique. Try counterbalancing your weight.”
The hacky sack flies towards me; I bustle with anticipation as the spirit of the coliseum speaks through its pillars and walls, whispering expectations of perfection. Matt’s eyes are full of fury as he too imagines being a great gladiator. 50,000 seats emptily cast judgment on our performance. Another time in history and there would have been screaming spectators clamoring for one of our deaths.
A thousand years ago the coliseum was used for entertainment as gladiators with and without mercy killed each other for the glory of Rome. It wasn’t always a gladiator arena. The yellowish/beige walls have seen much; including mock navy battles, animal hunts, public executions, reenactments, and theatre performance. Later in history it was used by the Catholic Church as a place of symbolic importance for religious institutions.
I miss the bean bag as it skittles near a pillar. If I was a gladiator perhaps I would have been killed. A salty breeze enters the pit which is no longer a flat surface. Rather, the main floor has been removed and many pillars stand where sand used to be. Sometime in the last hundred years Rome excavated and remodeled the remnants of the chambers and rooms that were once underneath the sand. The first layer is called the hypogeum. Earthquakes in the 1300’s and lighting in 200 AD destroyed entire wall segments.
Matt excitedly expresses, “You’re making this too easy for me bro.”
I pick up the sack by using my right foot; I launch it back at Matt. I am losing by one point. Earlier we decided we were going to play to ten, I currently have 6. The other NMU students opted to partake of the adventure; they did not want to pay an admission fee. Pictures of Nike and tennis shoes don the walls of the arena.
Many tourists quietly pass around us but no one bothers our competition. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last in which foreigners make a spectator of themselves in front of an imaginary audience. My attention drifts to a pillar looking like it could have had a bowl placed in its base. The bean bag soars near me, putting me behind by two. As I reach for the bean bag I see carvings on the side of the bowl. Reaching out I brush the clay. My mind jolts as I feel a small vibration connect. The age of the place no longer matters, the stones and gravel is charged and very much waiting a new era when gladiators will once again fight for honor and blood.
I reach inside the bowl, wondering why there is no sign saying ‘please do not touch’. Dew from the morning cakes the burned reddish clay. Moisture from the dew collects on my finger tips. I brush it upon my lips pretending it’s a blessing before I fight to the death. My vision fades for a moment as my imagination blurs the past into the present. I forget who I am; or rather, I am someone else. Maybe I am a warrior from a lost tribe, taken from my village as women are raped by Ancient Roman soldiers who weren’t ethical. The men are dragged into an arena to fight for Rome’s entertainment. Who is my opponent? Will it be a noble warrior, a criminal or Christian who won’t put up a fight? Will I be forced to kill a brother or a fellow villager I grew up with? Was there an alternative to dying in the arena?
My imagination ebbs as I enter the moment, but I don’t lose connection with the desire to win. In the arena you win or lose; live or die. I will not be dishonored by the 50,000 ghost spectators who once watched in fervor. With fierce determination I kick the bean bag to Matt. We no longer compete as equals to see how long we can get the hacky sack to remain in the air. No, now it’s a battle. The point is mine as I make him trip in the dust.
Matt’s ego is hurt, “I won’t give up that fast fatty.” I’m overweight, but he doesn’t make me feel conscious for its friendly banter.
Looking up I envision the crowd screaming their approval. Matt attempts to get a point but I crush him as I deftly counter the bean bag a second time. The score becomes even. He says something I can’t hear so I merely laugh as I puff out my chest. I am going to crush my enemy for the glory of Rome. Matt understands what’s happening as he too becomes a character from the past. Visitors gape as he pretends he is a German barbarian who has been captured. He tells me no Roman dog will draw his blood. He miserably fails in kicking the hack sack. A large predator smile radiates from my face as I turn around, my imagination can see Caesar overlooking the battle. I am now the Roman champion and there is no question I must destroy my enemy. We have an audience of maybe twenty to thirty.
The old coliseum dissipates in my imagination as years of decay evaporate. In place lie the beauty and the glory of the Roman Empire. Green plants and colorful clothes drape over balconies as servants graciously feed fruit and pour alcohol beverages to the masses. Soldiers line the sides of the pit, making sure no fighter plays against the rules. Archers await the final blow, always aware of the fights, for in the end the masses will always get what they want. Emperor Vespasian recently conquered the Jews and flourished the arena with riches beyond belief. Water irrigation which are aqueducts connect water supplies from the Tigris River. The coliseum once stood as Nero’s lake. To the Romans, nature was meant to be ruled. The water bowl is no longer an ambiguous clay bowl, but rather it’s now used to clean the blood off of the hands as thousands of animals are sacrificed to the gods. The hypogeum is underground. The level underneath the first floor has dozens of working tunnels. If you lose a limb you can expect to have the surgeons fix you in these tunnels.
I fight for the masses; I find their fervor is intoxicating. The bean bag hits Matt on the leg; he manages to bounce the small bag twice but then loses it. He curses and I laugh. I tell him to prepare to die with honor. A few clouds dot the sky. A breeze picks up and Matt asks for a second to prepare. I can smell the ocean, it smells fresh and salty. I briefly wonder if gladiators experienced this. Reaching out I brush a hand upon a pillar. Its surface is rough and jagged. There isn’t much of a smell outside of dust. I get the slight impression I can smell visitors and maybe the food from the market. Matt says he is ready; I am not prepared as I see the hacky sack hit the ground near me. Now the score is even. Next point wins the favor of Rome and the coliseum. I have the hacky sack.
I hear fear in Matt’s voice as his confidence falters, “This is unbelievable.”
Looking down at the sand I decide to take my shoes off. The sand is soft. There is no glass or garbage, just sand and pebbles. More people gather on balconies marked off limits for visitors. A few unattended children dangle on metal pipes put in place for people won’t fall. There must be thirty to forty people watching. They look on in silence; they appear to want to see a fight and entertained. I salute Matt just as I have seen in the movies. He salutes back and says he will crush his enemy and hear the lamentation of my woman. I laugh as I remember Conan the Barbarian saying the very same thing.
The breeze neutralizes the sweat on my brow. I did not want to lose my vision. I quickly wipe my forearm on my brow to make sure no sweat congregates when I least expect it. Being a hand to hand combat fighter earlier in my life taught me to keep a firm control of my body and surroundings.
I launch the bean bag towards Matt. To my dismay it softy arcs towards him and he easily kicks it back. I don’t miss. I catch the bean bag with my left foot and double tap the hacky sack in the air. It flies right back at him. Like a pro he kicks it back. Back and forth the hacky sack goes. The crowd is now cheering; they seem to be acting like spectators would from Ancient Rome. They too forget what it means to be modern. The barbarian does not give up and either will I. Back and forth, the only sounds are the dull thuds of a hacky sack being kicked. The breeze dies down. Sweat starts to build on my brow as we easily pass the bean bag 6 times. Another three passes and I feel shortness of breath. I never passed a hacky sack so much, I think I’m about to win but Matt does an amazing save as he ends up triple bouncing the hacky sack while bouncing it off of his chest.
I almost lose my balance but manage to use a pillar near me to keep my footing; I kick the bean bag back at him very hard. He misses. The crowd on both levels goes wild. I look up towards the balcony and see a family from Asia. Matt goes the distance in being in character, after saying he can’t believe he lost he falls to his knees in defeat. I walk over to him and pick up the bean bag that lies in the sand. Looking up I see the Asian family on the balcony. The crowd instantly goes quiet as I pretend the Asian family is Caesar. The child sticks his right hand out and points his thumb upwards, sparing his life just as Caesar would have done in Ancient Rome. I reach for Matt’s hand and help him up. We are back in the moment. Teens and children swarm the arena but none of them have a bean bag. Regardless, they all start pretending to be gladiators. Together we head back to our friends who are waiting for us in the market square. We want to experience a few wine bars before the night sets in.
I see Beggars sit in the ally, silently beseeching compassion as dark shawls hide their faces. Babies extended as they wale to any who could offer a better life. Or maybe the babies are there to make you donate. Plastic cups and empty alcohol bottles line the streets, forever surrounding the poor and needy. They are modern gypsies.
A homeless person stumbles into the group. His swagger sweeps the ally not leaving you room to maneuver. At first glance he appears to have a leg deformity but this is a ruse. As quick as lighting his left hand brushes Zack’s rear pocket. Thankfully his passport is in the other. Just as fast the deformed man is gone, leaving only a terrible smell of piss and shit.
The market blurs as we quickly make our way through. Enchanters and magicians can be seen this Halloween. Woman try to have us place our hands in threads as they attempt to entwine visitors hands in twine. They whisper your future as saucy eyes show their lustful intent. These girls smell of lavender and exotic flowers I cannot name. We pass, not wanting to get robbed or to catch a venereal disease.
We soon leave Conciliazione Street, the Citta del Vactino awaits in all its splendor. We soon forget about thugs and beggars as we buy wine by the bottle. The Vatican has much security, guards with sub machine guns make us feel safe. The papal enclave greets my vision. Created by Pope Alexander VII the court yard faces a window in the Vatican Palace. There is no pope to give a blessing but in my limited world I sense God all around. Walking past four columns I witness the piazza and can just imagine millions praying and worshiping. Today is the day of the devil and the place is empty. I walk towards the fountain, feeling kin to what they felt thousands of years ago. I submerge the bean bag into the Vatican Fountain, now it is blessed.
By Greg L. Miller
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