A LEGACY IN CHAINS

© Israel Centeno

1

The sweet, lousy odor of rotting fruit and stale wine wafted through the air, filling his nostrils and causing his stomach to churn. It was a smell that clung to him like a shroud, a constant reminder of the life he had been forced into. He swallowed hard, fear and thirst warring within him, making his throat feel as dry as the sand in the arena. His heart thundered in his chest, racing like a wild horse as he contemplated what would come.

“Are you ready?” whispered one of the other gladiators, a tall, wiry man with eyes that held a dangerous glint.

“Can’t say I am,” he responded quietly, wiping sweat from his brow. “But it’s not like we have much choice, now do we?”

He was in the dungeon with the others, the dank and dimly lit place where they had spent countless nights awaiting their fate. But today was different. Today, they would rise up and fight back against those who had tormented them for so long. They would take control of their destinies or die trying.

“Remember the plan,” another gladiator hissed, his voice barely audible over the clamor from above the patio. “We need to get to the kitchen and seize the instruments. Only then can we stand a chance.”

“Gods, I could use a weapon right about now.” He couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment – only the gladiators on the patio were allowed to carry weapons, leaving them defenseless unless they could reach the kitchen.

“Patience,” the first gladiator warned. “The party has just begun. We must wait for the perfect moment to strike, or we’ll be cut down before we begin.”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to control the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. He had never wanted this life to be a pawn in someone else’s twisted game.

“Focus,” the second gladiator urged, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’ve survived the arena more times than any of us. You can do this.”

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to push aside the fear and focus on the task. They had been waiting for this day, planning and preparing for the moment they would rise against their oppressors. And today was that day.

“Alright,” he whispered, determination filling him like a fire. “Let’s do this.”

This was the atmosphere two thousand ninety-four years ago in Capua, minutes before Spartacus became the most famous in history. His rebellion will end on the cross. His body will be a nobody’s corpse at that moment. It wouldn’t be any other option to feel the rage of freedom while they could strike the Romans and suffer defeat. They will be an example to other slaves to not follow a path without hope.

Ninety-four years later, another man will be hanged on the cross. They will be the name that history will recollect, but the second one will claim victory with his defeat, will clean victory, and that victory will be the victory of all who were in the chain, the weeks and the less, the outcast of the world and that victory even will defeat death

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he entered the arena. The sand was scorching hot beneath his bare feet, and he winced at the pain. He couldn’t let it distract him, not when his life was on the line.

“Fight well, brother,” one of the gladiators said, clapping him on the back before stepping back into the shadows.

He nodded, eyes scanning the crowd for any weakness in his opponent. But all he saw were sneering faces, eager for blood.

The horn sounded, signaling the start of the fight, and he lunged forward, his sword flashing in the sunlight. His opponent was quick, but he had faced worse odds before. He dodged a blow and swung his blade, feeling it connect with flesh.

A roar went up from the crowd, cheering on their champion. But he didn’t care about them – he only cared about surviving this day.

His heart pounded in his chest as they circled each other, waiting for an opening. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, but he refused to be distracted.

“Come on,” he muttered, hoping to goad his opponent into making a mistake.

And then, finally, it happened. His opponent stumbled, just for a moment, and he saw his chance. He lunged forward, his sword aiming for the other man’s heart.

It was over in an instant. The crowd fell silent as he stood there, panting, his sword dripping with blood. He felt a triumph mingled with relief that this fight was done.

But he knew there would be more to come. He was a gladiator, after all, and his fate was never truly his own.

2

Chains clinking against stone echoed in the dungeon, a constant reminder of their captivity. He sat with his back against the cold wall, his eyes closed as he tried to steady his breathing.

“Hey,” a voice whispered, and he opened his eyes to see the wiry gladiator from before crouched beside him. “You ready for this?”

He nodded, his throat too dry to speak. The plan had been forming in their minds for weeks, and now it was finally time to implement it.

“Good,” the other man said, standing up. “We’ll need all the strength we can muster for what’s coming.”

They stood silently for a few moments, listening to the faint sounds of revelry from above. It was almost enough to make him forget where they were, but then the smell hit him – rotting fruit and stale wine, just like in the arena.

“Come on,” the wiry gladiator said, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go make history.”

As they made their way through the dungeon, he couldn’t help but feel a wave of anger rising within him. They had been treated like animals, forced to fight for the entertainment of others. But today, that would end.

The door to the courtyard was heavy, but they pushed it open with all their might. Sunlight flooded in, blinding him momentarily.

“Charge!” someone shouted, and they ran forward as one, their feet pounding against the hard ground.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and fear, but he pushed it aside and focused on the task. They were outnumbered, but they had a chance.

“Kill the slaves!” one of the Roman soldiers shouted, and they surged forward, swords flashing in the sunlight.

He dodged a blow and swung his sword, feeling it connect with flesh. The sight of blood made him feel sick, but he pushed on, determined not to let his fellow gladiators down.

“Die, you dogs!” another soldier yelled, and he felt a sharp pain in his side. He stumbled but managed to stay on his feet.

“Keep going,” the wiry gladiator said, his voice hoarse. “We’re almost there.”

And then, finally, they saw the kitchen, filled with weapons of all kinds. They ran forward, their hearts pounding with excitement.

“Grab what you can,” the wiry gladiator said, and they scrambled to collect swords, shields, and anything else that could be used as a weapon.

“Alright,” he thought, holding a sword tightly. “Time to show them what we’re made of.”

He charged back into battle, his heart full of determination.

Today, they would take control of their own destinies or die trying.

3

The sunset over the hills casting a blood-red hue across the sky. The air was thick with the scent of death and despair. Marcus stood silent, watching as thousands of slaves and insurgents were hung on crosses along the Via Apia. He could hear their screams echoing through the streets, their bodies writhing in agony.

“Is this what we fought for?” Marcus muttered under his breath, anger boiling inside him.

“Silence, soldier,” his commanding officer barked. “This is the price of rebellion.”

Marcus clenched his fists, feeling a wave of disgust wash over him. He knew he had to be careful with his words around these men, but he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Is this justice?” Marcus’ voice trembled with anger as he stared at the officer. “To hang people like they’re nothing like they’re mere animals?”

The officer’s face twisted into a sneer. “Watch your tongue, boy,” he hissed, jabbing a finger at James. “For what purpose was the cross made? To dispose of garbage? To treat people like animals? Right! These were not innocent men and women. They dared to challenge the Republic, and for their treason, they met their rightful end on the gallows.” His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he spoke, relishing in his power over life and death.

Marcus gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to lash out. He knew it was useless arguing with these men. They were blinded by their loyalty to the Republic, unable to see the cruelty and injustice before them.

As the last of the bodies were hung on the crosses, Marcus turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer. He knew he would never forget the horror he had witnessed today, and he vowed to himself that he would fight for a better tomorrow, where justice and compassion ruled above all else.