Prisoner Of The Colosseum

Chapter 1

The sun was a violent shade of orange, bathing Rome in fire as it drowned on the horizon, painting the sky in vivid shades of crimson and purple. The city itself was cast in shadows, fragments of light trying to escape through doors before it was inevitably enveloped in darkness.

There were many roads; most were narrow and stank of the sewer, the putrid smell stamped into the bricks that formed an excuse of a pavement. Cottages and small two story houses seemed to be carved from blocks of stone, their edges rough and unpolished, stacked like blocks or strewn across streets like they had been knocked over by a giant and re-built wherever they had fallen. There were at least a hundred of these houses, with roofs made of browning hay and windows with bars in an attempt to bring down the crime rates. A few carriages stood unattended, huddled in small groups in corners. Stalls lined the roads, their colourful banners and goods like bright pieces of fabric in a patchwork of grey and black.

There wasn't much greenery. A few plants that managed to squeeze themselves into the city were stuffed into cracks in the dirt, and they were little more than weeds with paleing leaves. Occasionally, you might spot a wildflower, but it would have wilted the next day. Nothing ingenuous ever survived here.

The few men and women that scurried around barely nodded hello to each other, preferring to keep their eyes on the ground. A few guards leaned against barrels, sharpening their swords and barking at random citizens as they returned home. Orphaned children and beggars huddled under rags.

The whole town was suffocating, desperately hanging on to their last breath. Smoke encircled the city, heavy and thick as it blanketed the air and weighed down the sky.

There were people, and there was life.

But the city looked dead.