Arena: A day in the twilight of the Colosseum

The noise swells to a deafening roar. It's like a hurricane. He recognises this feeling from the sea when it starts to rage and roar. He's afraid every time, but hides it behind his scarred, ugly face. Everyone here does that, but their bodies tremble with fear, whether they are part of the massive machinery of the Colosseum or must venture out onto the sand.

It is hot in the depths of the giant arena, very hot. Hundreds of slaves are busy ensuring that the performances run smoothly. They hang from the hydraulic cables that can raise entire floor panels to provide a fitting backdrop for the killings, and they shovel tons of clean sand onto the arena floor to clear away the bloody sand.

They also turn the cranks on the ingenious water transport systems. The plants need water just as much as the captive humans and animals do. The stench of rotting meat for the predators clings to the stones as much as the smell of faeces and urine. Outside, this particular stench goes unnoticed. But woe betide anyone who descends the steps into the depths of the Colosseum. Not many people do so, and even the slave traders do not deliver their cargo in person. They send them via hired guards.

Most of those delivered here are poor wretches whose sole purpose is to keep the machinery running with their muscle power, to clean the stones of blood, vomit and other filth, and to feed the people and animals. These slaves forget daylight the moment they come down here. They never realise that their lives have begun in the semi-darkness of the Colosseum. No one ever emerges from here into the daylight. Anyone who ends up here has no need of another master.

Sometimes women are present to keep the gladiators in good spirits. There are different ranks among these unfortunate souls. The more famous they are, the more attractive the women. The most famous gladiators are visited by veiled women from the wealthiest families in the city. Gladiators who are not yet free are usually not allowed to leave their quarters, but the occasional break is overlooked if high-ranking Roman women – whether bored wives or jaded patricians – pay well enough.

Today is a big day for the arena, as many death sentences have been handed down in recent weeks, and they are being carried out today. The most gracious lord has ordered an arena chariot battle, and the arena master has clapped his hands and threatened to curse all the slaves and engineers down to the hundredth generation if they fail to fulfil this wish. Thanks to the arena's amazing hidden machinery, it can be transformed into a desert, a forest, or almost any other landscape in a short time. The floor panels are filled with earth or vegetation and raised. Everything runs smoothly. The slaves know every move. They brace themselves against the ropes or move the wheels where sand or water power is insufficient. The whips would usually do the rest, but that isn't even necessary.

The real problem was that the unfortunate men had no experience with chariots. They were murderers, robbers and pickpockets. As always, a few innocent people got caught up in it, too. Simply climbing onto a chariot and taking the reins is not enough. Chariots are not farm carts. During the rehearsal, there was utter chaos and two of the delinquents met a hasty death beneath hooves and chariot wheels. The arena master then had the dubious idea of putting less experienced gladiators, or those who had been sidelined due to injury, on the chariots to ensure that the criminals wouldn't die within a few breaths.

They hadn't been told that they wouldn't be leaving the arena alive. Furthermore, rumour had spread that whoever fought bravely and was still standing at the end would be pardoned. This spectacle took place this morning. The archers, who had taken up positions at the gates, guaranteed that no one would survive. Here, a boring performance was feared more than the wrath of the gods. They held back anyway. The emperor's wrath would be far worse.

There had already been two intermissions, and now he stood there, letting the ever-growing roar in his ears carry him back to the open sea, where he had spent part of his life until he fell into the hands of the Romans. He had once been part of the arena committee, until the emperor noticed his mechanical skills and ingenuity and gave him a special position here. He had never told anyone his true name, which hardly anyone here could pronounce. He lets them call him whatever they like and says nothing about it.

Today, he is particularly glad for the tremendous roar, as it drowns out the screams of the unfortunate souls facing off against the great cats from foreign forests, and the death cries of the animals he knows. His home is the jungle, where spotted hunters stalk their prey silently because they are hungry. A shiver runs over his black skin when he sees new condemned prisoners arriving, whether human or animal.

When the arena is empty and he is supervising the maintenance work, he looks up at the blue sky and can hardly believe that it is the same one as before the Colosseum was built. He thinks it must be stained red with the blood of those slaughtered here. As the sun sets over Rome and paints the arena flaming red, he is convinced that it is.

© 'Arena: A day in the twilight of the Colosseum': A tale from ancient Rome by Ilona E. Schwartz (translated by Izabel Comati), 04/2026. The illustration shows a detail from the painting 'The Colosseum in Rome' by Fedor Mikhailovich Matveev (painted around 1825).