The Colosseum

From the Clocktower

Ezra

A long dinner table, piled high with mountains of whole turkeys and chickens, hams and extravagantly ornate bouquets of fruit, drinks of foreign alcohol and handmade sorbet. Exotic flowers imported from outlands have been stripped of their stems and torn apart, their petals dotting the table cloth in vibrant colors of the rainbow; a sacrifice to a beautiful layout. A small orchestra plays bubbly music, keeping the mood light as people stuff their faces with as much as they can manage. Overhead, a dangling chandelier made of crystal dazzles from the small flame in its center, shining a low light on the numerous guests at the table. I pray at every one of these meetings that it drops and cracks my cranium.

There are roughly 20 of them – representatives of lands that I've taken over, high class banks on legs, reporters that need pleasing. I despise every one of them. They leach my time with requesting these gatherings to discuss "important matters," as if we're hosting a school PTA talk. Really, I know they just want bragging rights to tell their friends that once upon a time, they dined with the greatest king this world has ever known. I can't help but think of everything else I could be doing with this frivolous meal.

For example, I could be worrying about the threat to the north: another expansive kingdom slowly edging towards my territory. Winds carry that they call this ruler the Ice Queen, and she is no joking matter. Reportedly, she has gargantuan armies of elite skill at her beck and call. Sometimes, I swear they're so close that I feel their marching steps shake my bones. But I know it's just my worry eating me up. It should take months for this Ice Queen to reach my boarders and officially declare war with my people. Still, I want to secure my position as the ultimate leader as best I can. Which is why I need to be out making precautions – not toying with my food and conversing about which gladiator will become the next Annette Stryker, who is one of the best fighters to ever exist in this era.

"They've all gotten so much more advanced," a previous winner of the games a few series ago states, chewing ham in the corner of his mouth as he speaks. Unlike most of our participates in the Colosseum, he volunteered. I suppose he's an extreme fan of brutality, like most of my citizens believe me to be. "And it's really intense, now that you've required at least a gallon of blood be spilled in each round. These kids are finding new ways to make their enemies suffer. When I was a gladiator, the training schools never taught us that."

Expectedly, eyes as hungry for my response as their stomachs are for food look to me. I've been leaning my cheek against my fist, circling the rim of my wine glass with the index finger of my other hand. Sighing, I force myself to stop. The whining song of the glass stops, and the only sound is the distant band, slowing their tempo and volume so the king can be heard. I drop my hand to the table, tapping my fingers against my silverware, clean from being unused. Things like this make me lose my appetite.

"It's roughly a gallon," I remind the previous gladiator. "I just want the winner to know more than how to kill. Killing is easy." Turning to the right, I raise two fingers and flex them – calling over my direct underling, Leon. He carries over a platter covered in a metal dome. With grandeur, he lifts the top, presenting a sleek, simple, black pistol. The firelight from the chandelier above dances against its freshly polished surface.

With ease, I pick up the gun, cocking it. Expressions at the table begin to grow sour and unnerved. What? I scoff in my head. You fantasize of the murderous games in the Colosseum, but squirm at the sight of a weapon?

"Killing takes an instant – a single, direct hit," I explain. "Any idiot can do that." The previous winner grows red in the face and casts his eyes downwards. He may have won, but it was an empty victory, in my eyes. I lock eyes with the main host of the Colosseum, who throws particular events and broadcasts them between games, painting my fighters like characters in a show rather than bloodthirsty warriors. "Tell me, Mr. Deveraux, how fun is it to watch two men stand across from each other, each with a loaded gun..." I point the barrel at his forehead, aiming between his surgery-enlarged eyes. "And watch the first gunshot end the entire game?"