Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 55

                The squat, yet tall cylindrical building is unmistakable. I’ve arrived in the right place.

                The Colosseum towers above me. Just as the picture in Penny’s guidebook suggests, the top right section is missing, like a giant has stooped down and taken a big bite out of the stone.

                I climb to my feet and put a hand on each knee for support. I can still hear them. The screams inside the building. I realise how many people must have died in that arena. There must be thousands of spirits, thousands of years old who just stay in the place, because the terror won’t let them leave. I felt it myself, like an anchor rooting me to the spot. The claws of a thousand terrified human beings.

                I wonder if you feel it when you’re alive. You can’t hear it of course, but I wonder; if you stand in the queue, waiting to be charged entry, can you feel the pressure of all the lost life hanging in the air. Or even at night, if you were brave enough to break in, would you hear an echo, a footstep and blame it on a trick of your overactive imagination.

                Some places are drenched in human blood. They must act like sponges for human souls.

                I flick open Penny’s guidebook and turn to the page on the Colosseum. I read:

                Underneath the arena floor, now visible from above, there were a series of interconnecting access tunnels, meaning gladiators and dangerous creatures such as lions and tigers could be placed into the arena from underneath using lifts and pulleys. The arena was sometimes also used to stage sea battles. The arena would be filled with thousands of gallons of water, and two opposing ships would wage war…

                Penny had underlined the whole section in green pen. She must have thought it was cool. I can imagine her standing here, seeing the scene in ancient Rome. She’d loved knowing about ancient  history. There wasn’t a myth or legend under the sun she didn’t know; something she only ever shared with me. She even used to write her own stories about gods and monsters when she was little. The ones she knew just weren’t enough.

                At least I know where I ended up. In a cell used to keep gladiators before they were sent to their deaths. I had no way of knowing where I’d emerge. It was a danger of travelling by picture not memory.