A Life Redeemed

I finally got my short story written and edited! :) Hurray!
You're probably aching to read it, so here you go (and if you find any mistakes, be sure to tell me about them!). Warning: the first part might be a little graphic for younger readers.

-------------------------------------------

A Life Redeemed

---

by Esther Rose

The sand was bloody, but I could not back down now. The crowd roared behind me—in front of me—on
all sides, their hatred glowing from a ferocious light that seemed to illuminate everyone. It was a light of hate, a light borne of darkness. Faces swam in front of my bleary eyes, faces I never wanted to see again but ones I hated with an intense hatred. Faces I knew would always be with me, always hurt me to think of. Young faces.

I couldn’t bear to do it, but I knew I had to. It was my job. Either they die, or I…I hated to think of the outcome.

I held the sword closer, its keen edge at my side, but ready to strike when the time came. The noise increased, and I knew that now was the time. Now, or I would be forever dead. “Kill them. Kill them. Kill them!” The throbbing screams of the people pulsed in my veins. My victim stood there, unwavering, her clear brown eyes looking straight in mine. “You Christian, you—you PAGAN!” I forced between gritted teeth. I had to say it. I had to force myself to say it. Otherwise, I could never kill her.

Number one. I remembered the commanders harsh, angry tones—Number one, make her FEEL the pain. I gritted my teeth, and hit her in the ribs.

A piercing scream ripped through the air. I recoiled, shocked that I had actually done it. The blood on my knife—and the blood flowing from her gushing wound—told me all. I felt sick. Fear gripped my heart, and for an instant I wondered how in the world I had ever gotten myself into such a dilemma.

She wasn’t dead yet! The reality hit me, and I realised with sickening dread the awful truth. I would have to hit her again. I trembled, thinking of what I was doing. Even being a hardened gladiator still didn’t change the fact that I was killing an innocent woman—a woman, moreover, that had held a suckling son a few weeks back. After looking into her eyes again, I raised the sword to deal the death-blow. I would get this over with—quickly.

What happened next I can’t clearly remember. All I know is, that while I paused for a moment, trembling, she stretched out her hand. She grasped my shaking wrist, and guided the sword to her throat. It was all over. As she fell to the sand, a smile on her lips told me she had found something I hadn’t seen yet. She looked happy.

Fear gripped my heart.

That night was ugly terror. My mind kept replaying the scene. My heart kept wondering, questioning, always asking the same question: WHY did she guide the sword to her throat? It doesn’t make sense, any way I look at it! Fear was my constant enemy.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

It all began the day that they came. Two young women, three men. As they were being led past our cell, I saw her—dark hair, hanging in damp clusters on her back. Dark brown eyes, tattered clothes that looked like they may have once been a noblewoman’s. Down her face tears fell, thick and fast. Over and over she mouthed the words, “Jesus”, and “my baby”. Her name, I later learned, was Perpetua.

Being a gladiator, I did not have many privileges. I was a slave, almost less than a slave in Roman eyes. My only use in life was to shed blood to appease the Roman people. After they came, life mostly went on the same—the same training, the same drills, the same tests to make sure I was ready to fight in the arena. All through those dreary days fear flickered in my heart. Fear that this time, perhaps, I would really die. Fear that I would be the next one to be dragged off the bloody sand through Porta Libitinensis, the gate of death.

Somehow, I always lived. After each event, I would look, amazed, at my surroundings and find that I had not died. I watched as men stronger, more fit than I, and more skilled, left never to return again. The thought that I would be next lay as a cold chill on my spine, whether waking or sleeping.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The day came when they were to die. I don’t know why they chose me to finish them off in the end. I was not there until the very end, so I did not learn of the details of their ordeal until later. As I stepped onto the field, to do what had been commanded to me, fear like none I had ever known before gripped my chest. What happens if I die now? I thought, within a few weeks, if I did not die before then, I will be free. What if I died now, though? All these years of hoping would be wasted!

Somehow, I managed to do my duty. Somehow, I lived, even though I was sure many times I would die. The day I was handed the wooden sword, the rudis¹, I knew in my heart I would never come back to the theatre again. Even though many men before me had gone on to teach in the gladiatorial schools, I knew I could not. I must not. A fire in my bones was preventing me from going on. I had to find out who those Christians were.

Even as I stepped onto freeman’s soil, I knew in my heart that I would never be completely free. Fear still dogged each step I took, fear flooded my heart whenever I heard the all too familiar crash of steel-on-steel. Fear that I would be taken back to the arena haunted my every thought. I could find no escape from it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

When I met them, I knew they were somehow different. Different, and yet familiar—very familiar. It was a quiet, overcast day when I met them. Instantly, the face of Perpetua flashed in front of my eyes, and I wondered if they were Christians. Several times after that, I visited the baker’s shop again, and after several lengthy talks they invited me to their home. After several weeks, I learned that they were, indeed, Christians.

From that time on, my longing to know more about them grew deeper. After they invited me to their church, I was able to talk to one of the leaders there. He answered my questions, and I was very impressed with the simplicity and utter sincerity of the man.

After many weeks of visiting and talking to them, they explained my need to ask Jesus to be Lord of my life, how I needed to be set free from my sin so I could be a truly free man. After asking Jesus to take over, I entered baptismal classes. The fear I had carried so many years was instantly gone! I now had a hope in my heart, and I was excited to see what Jesus might do for me in the years ahead.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He leaned across the table, his eyes intent on me. “Who did you say?” he asked, shock spreading across his entire face.

His expression made me cringe. “I—I said Perpetua.” Hesitating now, not quite so sure of myself. He leaned back, rubbing his hand over his shaved head. The chair squeaked as he shifted his weight, then clunked as the front two legs hit the ground. He stood up, and stared out the window, unseeing. After what seemed like ages he turned back to me. His face was full of pain. He must have seen my fearful face, because he came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. I rose to meet him, to face whatever doom awaited me on my feet.

He smiled wanly, trying to ease my fear. “Have no fear,” He said, his voice shaking a little, “I am just overcome with emotion because of your mention of Perpetua.”

What does he mean? I wondered wildly, did I just get myself into a bad standing with the deacon...or worse? He noticed my questioning eyes, and said, “I know—knew—Perpetua quite well before...before she left us for a time.” His eyes had a sad, far away look in them. He seemed to forget that I was even there, so lost in thought was he. After a moment he said softly, “She was my wife.”

I gasped. Fear once again mushroomed in my heart, and I took a step backward. “Oh—I—I—I’d better

leave.” I stuttered. What am I going to do now? I killed this man’s wife!

This seemed to bring him out of his reverie, and he looked at me with eyes alight. “Oh, don’t go yet!” He said, grasping my shoulder again and then stepping behind the table to retrieve something from a crevice in the wall.

He held an old roll of parchment out to me, and I took it hesitantly. “What—what is this?”

He smiled, and opened the roll, pointing to the first words. “The Passion of the Holy Martyrs, Perpetua and Felicitas...”

I looked back at him, awe dawning on my face. “This is—this is the story?”

He nodded, his grey hair shining as a halo over his beaming face. “It is. When you have time, I know you will be blessed by reading this.”

“Why, thank you,” I said, “This is a treasure.”

He smiled, a tear sliding down his old wrinkled cheek. “It is.”

As I turned to leave, the roll securely stowed under my tunic, he placed his hand on my shoulder. “Never forget, son,” he said, his voice deep and meaningful, “Never forget that Jesus was with you all the way, directing your every move. It was her time to go to Him, and you were just one of the stepping-stones on the way to Jesus.”

I smiled, tears filling my own eyes. “Thank you, Titus!” I said, hugging him.

Note

you can read the story of Perpetua for yourself here:

http://www.earlychristianwritings.com/text/tertullian24.html

^{1. Giving the rudis to gladiators symbolised giving them freedom. Gladiators who had won their freedom sometimes became free-lance bodyguards for the wealthy, other times they went on to become trainers in gladiatorial schools.↩}