The Arena of Death
Ante Diem IV Nonas Quintilis-
These words are written by a shaking hand. Fear consumes every waking hour of my fading life. I cherish sleep, for with sleep comes escape from the world and my prison. I am not only in this prison, this confining, damp cell, in body. In mind, I am imprisoned also, held prisoner by my jailer Fear. Yes, I fear death, but it is not only my own death, that I fear.
I am sentenced to die. I am to be beheaded, as is the most popular punishment for the crime I have committed. What crime, you ask? I stole a loaf of bread—a single loaf of bread—from a market stall. Did the Roman soldiers care that my family is starving? No. Did they even consider that I had no other choice but to steal, to feed my family? Of course not, they are brutal and indifferent to the struggles and trials of common folk.
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