A strange tiredness fell upon me as we toured Rome's ancient coliseum. I fell behind the others to rest a few seconds, but when I sat, I felt my eyes close, and sleep pulled me beneath the surface. As I lost consciousness, I heard the cheering of thousands of rabid fans.
Suddenly, I was a gladiator, a sword in my hand. My whole history flashed before my dreaming eyes. I had been a Centurion in the Roman Army, one of Emperor Nero's favorites because I told him stories of the wars I'd seen. But after years of his friendship, I had done something to make him angry. No one ever told me what. I had been given as a slave to the master of the gladiator school, forced to fight and kill or die myself.
And now, this sword awaits Nero's thumb. Down, and I will kill again. Up, and this poor man I conquered in the ring --this coliseum built on blood -- this man will live.
What say you, Master?