text: The Civilized Pushed out into the dusty arena, Kuru looked around. A roaring crowd surrounded him, but he couldn’t understand a word. Though they obviously weren’t cheering for his victory, they’re cheering for his sacrifice. Rewind, this isn’t where the story begins. In shackles Kuru shuffled along one of the famed roads that lead to Rome, as all the roads did. All the beaten and bruised men of different coloured skin shambled along the road led by the soldiers. Kuru heard someone speak something in front of him. He realized that the words were in a language he didn’t understand. Then he heard the voice cry out in pain. The line of men didn’t slow down at the cry though, they kept marching. Rewind further, something’s still missing. His daughters tanned skin, his wife was teaching her how to work leather. Kuru was watching them as he sharpened his scythe. He smiled, the scene made him remember the times he spent learning from his father. The proper way to sharpen an edge, the best way to swing a blade, his father taught him the right way to do things. Kuru would work in their family’s field with his father and they would talk. That’s where Kuru first learned of Rome; the wondrous city, the running water, the books of letters, of laws and democracy. His memories were interrupted by a scream, then another. Kuru stood up just in time to greet a trio of soldiers as they entered his home, swords already drawn. He saw a flash of iron and was barely able to dive out of the way as the sword came down where he had just been smiling. He got to his feet as his family screamed again. The solider that flashed the iron stood between him and his family as the other two soldiers grabbed his wife and daughter and took them from their home. Kuru was confused, scared and angry, but mostly confused. He didn’t know what was happening. He took a step towards the women he loved but had to jump back to avoid being struck by the iron blade. Kuru had never fought a man, but now he had no choice. Gripping his scythe, he swung attempting to cut the soldiers legs down, but the soldiers bronze leggings stopped the blade short of flesh. Pulling back his scythe, Kuru looked at the man’s face. A smile was on his lips as he swung his sword again, narrowly missing Kuru’s shoulder. Kuru regained his balance in time to catch the soldier’s fist in his stomach. His breath was driven from his lungs. He panicked, his mouth reached for air as he fell to the ground, scythe fleeing his hands. He heard the solider speak, “Roma Invicta” right before he felt the hilt of the sword on the back of his head. Fast forward through the chained march with strangers, a march that lead him to the city he had dreamed about, and ended with him entering into the largest building he had ever seen. Fast forward to after the sword and shield had been forced into his hands and he was shoved into a dusty arena, surrounded by more people he had ever seen, screaming in a language he didn’t understand. The sword in his hands felt heavy and as foreign as the words that the people were shouting. He stepped in a circle, seeing a spectacle that he couldn’t have imagined, Rome. While Kuru didn’t understand the words spoken he could read the faces. They grimaced as they spat angry syllables at him. Fists were directed at him, thumbs pointed downward, fingers sliced throats as he looked at their eyes. Hate, anger, evil was the language they spoke. He feared the mob that surrounded him, prayed that they would be held back by the massive structure. Kuru cringed as the crowd erupted, even louder than they had been, deafening him. A man in a gleaming golden suit of armor stepped out from behind a gate. His muscles rippled beneath the metal, his chiseled face shown only one blemish, a scar from his hairline to his chin. Slowly the earsplitting noise organized into a chant of ‘Spartacus’, their hero, their God. When the man raised his sword in response to their love for him the crowd’s chant devolved back into a thunderous roar. Kuru was at a loss, the sword and shield hung limply at his sides as he watched the spectacle. The scene seemed like a dream to him, no a nightmare. Spartacus, their God, lowered his sword and pointed it in the direction of Kuru who looked to his sides, behind him, looked for what was being pointed at. Then he recognized it was himself. He began to tremble as the people’s idol began an effortless run at him. Kuru was shocked that he was able to get his shield up in time to deflect a blow from being delivered. He thought the force that was delivered may have broken his arm through the metal that protected it. The world broke into flashes of metal on metal, pain and blood. Kuru’s body burned, his chest heaved, blood and sweat dripped from his frame as Spartacus paused to rally his supporters. Even Kuru marveled at what seemed to be a marble carving of a man glistening with perspiration, standing merely feet away with his back turned. Time slowed for Kuru. He breathed in a breath that felt like ice as the peoples God turned, thrusting his sword into Kuru’s middle. Kuru looked up into the cold eyes that held the sword. He was no God, he was a monster. Falling to his knees Kuru looked to his chest, he saw blood leaking from around where the metal entered him. His hands trembled as they slowly reached up to the sharpened blade. In slow motion his fingers wrapped around the blade, red flowing from where they touched it, and pulling the sword out from whence it had entered. Existence spun in Kuru’s eyes, the hard dirt hit his side. As the world faded to black Kuru heard the name of his reaper cheered. So this is civilization, he thought.