(an original epic poem by R. Samuel Braden)
1. It towers high above the city like a mountain tall,
With stone-cut arches in its face that beckon unto all.
The great Arena, it is said’s like no place else on earth,
For here the greatest legends all compete to show their worth.
2. Anticipation builds as people stream in from all sides,
With eagerness to see the place where life and death collide.
The whispers of the crowd are like the wind upon the trees,
As Hades waits with sharpened scythe, their hunger to appease.
3. Then down below the creak of doors is heard and voices hush,
As out there roam a pack of boars that seem not in a rush.
They wander off across the ring and paw the ground to see,
That if, perchance, within this place a morsel there might be.
4. Then suddenly the stillness is erupted by the roars,
As lions leap from cages and fall on the hapless boars.
But ‘ere they can enjoy their bloody meal upon the sand,
There springs forth yet another troop of Jackals o’er the land.
5. The fighting reaches fervor as the beasts are set upon,
Half-starved they fight and mangle as to claim a meal they’d won.
And as the sands run red with blood, the crowd is going wild,
For these great beasts have given all, in spectacle beguiled.
6. Then deathly howls rise up from among the beasts of prey,
Where claws have torn and teeth have shorn their life blood all away.
It is a far more gruesome sight than I have seen before,
But th’crowds are not yet sated, and they bellow out for more.
7. Attendants clear the field of fallen carcasses and bone,
The last of nature’s pride and fury whimpering alone.
And as the conch horn sounds the intermission from the fray,
The final battle is prepared to end this bloody day.
8. Now hither to the ring of strife where clamored all awry,
We come unto the spectacle of men ‘twere sent to die.
An ending of a hideous task, a bath of crimson stains,
Where those left standing at the last shall claim their brutal gains.
9. The metal cages open at the ends on either side,
And horn calls bellow out across to hark the coming tide.
Where blood will flow and people show support for land and king,
The great Arena echoes back the savage cheers they bring.
10. Now one steps forth with sword held high, a zeal burns in his eyes,
For he will stand and fight this day amid the battle cries.
His sun-baked skin is dark and scarred with countless marks of pain,
A life that’s marked in service to the sword whence comes his gain.
11. Across the field another comes with axe and whip held tight,
He screams a pagan curse aloud and charges to the fight.
The whip he lashes at his foe as if an ox to drive,
While with the axe a mighty swing, the man’s head to deprive.
12. But with a swiftness like the wind the scarred one makes his move,
He throws himself beneath the swing, his quarry to reprove.
Then spinning ‘round he thrusts with blade and runs the axe-man through,
And as his lifeblood drains the crowd is jostling for a view.
13. Then more pour forth from all around with weapons of all kinds,
A massacre for pleasure as the glut for empty minds.
The cheering of the crowd reaches a fervor at the sight,
As clash of steel and screams of men their senses do delight.
14. Then at the last the horn call sounds as one remains alone,
The scarred man turns his eyes to gaze up at the royal throne.
If he has been found worthy a full pardon he could win,
For it would mean the gods have shown their mercy o’er his sin.
15. A hush now falls again as every eye turns to the king,
How will he judge the man who’s fought and given everything?
Then to his feet the monarch stands and holds his scepter high,
And ‘midst the cheering of the crowd the fighter starts to cry.
16. His chest is gleaming with the sweat and blood of victory,
With streaks of red and marks that said: here was a man made free.
And in the gath’ring darkness of a fading sun that day,
A man has come, a fight was won, and some are gone away.
