The Coliseum's Death

by Kim Schuelke

 

Clang! Clang! Swords clashed and swung in the hot air of ancient Rome. Provacator (challenger) and secutor (pursuer) eyed each other warily, knowing that timing was crucial to survival. First century Romans were cheering and screaming like modern day football fans. The coliseum was packed out.

            “Kill him! Kill him!” screamed the men and women. They could see the flood of sweat on the provacator’s brow; he couldn’t hold on much longer.

            “Let’s see some blood!” someone shouted.

            “Kill him! Kill him!” chorused the crowd.

            “In the gut! Get him in the gut!” someone else cheered.

            Suddenly, a third man appeared in the stadium.

            “Get out of there, you!” commanded the prefect, or referee, of the games.

            “No! This must stop!” the third man demanded. He grunted and groaned as he tried to safely force the gladiators apart. They shoved him out of the way, slamming his body against the rough, stone wall.

            “No!” he repeated and charged back toward the gladiators.

            “It was just getting good!” an angry spectator complained.

 He picked up the biggest rock he could find and lobbed it at Telemachus, the intruder. Others quickly did the same. Soon the whole audience of eighty thousand people was stoning Telemachus. He stumbled back, waiting for the barrage to stop.

            For just a moment the short, sandy haired hermit from the desert hesitated. He could stop now, and escape with his life. How many more would die in these games though? So many of them were Christians! How could they claim to follow Christ and yet murder each other? Had the whole world gone completely mad? No! He struggled back up, his body aching and bleeding. Again, he placed himself between the gladiators.

            “Death!” declared the prefect.

            In a flash, Telemachus lay on the ground, a gladiator’s sword shining from between his ribs . . .

            A hush fell over the crowd. In a far high up corner of the stadium, one man stood up, turned away and walked out. Another followed him, and another. In chilling silence the stadium emptied out, until all that remained were the prefect and the two gladiators.

            Provacator and secutor silently faced each other. The provacator, his sword buried in Telemachus, turned on his heel. Head hung low, he strode away. The secator boldly presented himself to the prefect.

            “I am finished,” he said, “Never again.” His sword clanged to the ground as he strode away.

            In the solitude of the stadium, the prefect rose from his seat and went to stand beside the slain body.

            “Telemachus,” he whispered, “Truly you were a man of God.” A single tear slid down his cheek. “Forgive me.”

            Never again was there another gladiator game in Rome. One obscure man was convicted by God of the sinfulness around him. Willing to be a living sacrifice, he did not let anything stop him from standing against the tide of sin. Telemachus died, but because of his commitment to serve God, thousands after him lived.