Secutores.

Secutores.

Naked he stood 
in the graffiti covered passage 
that led to the Gate of Life.
Overhead the 
amphitheatre rang with the shouts of   
the blood lusting  populace.
The memory of
the Cena Libera made the sweat
drain from his pores and trickle.
In rivulets it ran
down corded musculature
to the dust  below his feet.
Cena Libera,?
Free supper?  A celebration of
what might be his final day!
He prayed to Mars,
and sprinkled incense over the flame.
Kohl emphasised his eyes.
A cooling wash
with water soaked sponge, then rubbed with oil
to make him gleam in the light
His armour lay
on a side table awaiting  him.
He signalled his readiness.
Triangular
cloth to gird his loins, secured with belt
of  finest hand tooled leather.
Arm guard to match.
Bronzed leg guard securely fixed in place.
Short stabbing sword and dagger.
A glass of wine
then visored helmet and shield in place
he exits the Gate of Light.

Into the Arena.