The Roman Colosseum was a better view than in postcards sent by his friends, as Cay looked more closely outside of the barrier. The intricacies were much to be appreciated, Roman architecture had always triumphant with its’ never ending supply of excavated ruins and newly discovered temples.
History is beauty. It gave birth to people who had the gift of molding and sculpting, in turn conceiving its’ child--- In the shape from carved wooden idols to monuments that dwarfed humans. Today, these children mostly took the form of abstract statues and sky-reaching towers, challenging whatever is around or up there that history was indeed on side of the Homo sapiens. Hence, we have not gone extinct, yet.
The queue was long, as expected for a typical Saturday, everywhere was crowded aside from small streets with only the appreciation of people who inhabited them. There were carriages with exhausted horses bound with, Pakistanis wearing caps and selling Gelato directly underneath the boiling sun, and confused visitors looking for the entrances. It was a smudge on the picture of Roman beauty. They would have to bear with.
Judas placed his backpack along with his belt and phone on a rectangular grey plastic tub and slid it onto the conveyor belt, where two security personnel with sharp eyes but lazy manner stared at the monitor projected from the X-ray, spotting for suspicious items. Cay obliged to do so as well, they did not have a choice but think the procedure would live up to the standard of the conservation of history. They circled and tighten their belts, and inserted whatever that did not belong in the bags into their pockets, the only difference was that Judas did not wear a watch. Cay was wearing his only one, the rest were broken and only the gift from Jenna a year ago still survived.
Within the weathered façade of the Colosseum laid two accessible floors for visitors, the entrance lead to the first floor. It was a crowded space where you only seldom squeezed into a space meant for four people. They did not like the prospect of squeezing through sweaty men under the blazing focus of the sun, only Judas kept his resilience, Cay cursed; The second floor was unusually spacious, compared to the first floor, which gave them the sufficient privacy to appreciate the scenery. Within the rail was the ring itself, with its’ stones that were once supports of the original surface. Still, you can picture it in your mind, how it was like to be the spectator, the forced gladiator, or the caged lion, hungry for whoever was in the ring.
There were several groups, guided by what appeared to be locals or enthusiastic Italians not in Rome, paid or volunteered. The hustle and noise did not matter, they both had fully absorbed the atmosphere of the once cheering rings and bloody fights taken place, centuries ago.
It started to drizzle, then came pouring shortly after. Cay and Judas did not want to stay there for long, for fear of sweaty men and distracting tour guides. They ran outside into the rain, away from the shelter of the historical slaughter house, which had been meant for the Roman’s self-destruction.
The rain stopped after some time, but they kept on running. Judas wanted to do the opposite but could not get Cay to stop. His essence was replaced by a gladiator’s tenacity, dodging any obstructive obstacles, all the while maintaining its’ gracious movement harnessed from previous bloodshed from centuries ago.
*
Judas has yet seen a dead body yet, after delivering the rest of the supplies from the lorry. As it trudged away from the wet and slippery mud, he turned for the administrative tent that looked bigger, and less shabby than the rest. He was assigned to one of the tents between the makeshift medical centre and the rest of the refugee “homes”, that was how it was.
He unpacked along with the other newly-arrived volunteers, a middle-aged cheery-looking man went up to him, Judas had to stand up to greet the incoming person.
“Hi, call me Mark.”, he sounded American, but Judas could not pinpoint the whereabouts of the accent.
“Call me Judas.”, they shook hands, then let go immediately.
“Judas huh? What a name. But I’m not going to ask why, maybe next time.”, Mark chuckled.
“Right, any idea what we’ll be doing next? I can’t recall the whole schedule.”
“We usually follow the routine, get ourselves assigned to any post, whether it’s helping to clear some shrubs for more tents, check whether the poor souls have the necessary provisions they need, and sometimes the unusual.”
“The unusual.”, it was not a question, Judas raised his skeptical left eyebrow.
“Yes, you’ll probably get one sooner or later.”, Mark replied, sounding confidently sure.
They went on with their unpacking and Mark left him, saying the usual American ‘See Ya Later’ slogan. Judas wondered whether there was no age restriction in using that sentence.
His first task was to check with the refugees to see if they have all the provisions assigned, and were not stolen, or faked stolen. As he went from one tent to another, accompanied by a local translator who was also a victim of the crisis, he noticed most of the tents were packed with families of two or three. The intimacy between nucleuses of unfamiliar people made Judas uncomfortable, but not sure how they felt. Some were worse than others before the holocaust. The Rohingyans have been left astray by the governments, nationless on their papers, trapped with bloodthirsty and well-organized individuals without a care from the outside world.
Judas pitied them, like any other who came near with the homeless, the hurt, the hopeless. Most of the refugees had their provisions checked, only a few supplies from a handful of tents were claimed to be missing. Anything missing would had to be left to the officials, Mya said before. Judas was just doing what he was told, the only extra responsibility he could exercise was to sympathize with the Rohingyan refugees and to offer a few encouraging words, provided helpful with translation by his companion.
What a world, Judas thought, curse the bloody government and burn it all. The anger came unexpectedly after he had reported the list of missing provisions to the personnel at the administrative tent. He knew he could not take it out on anything, for fear of upsetting the already accursed atmosphere of the camp. He hated coming here, not because of what he had seen, but what he could have done.
Dinner was the same as everyone in the camp, but cooked by assign volunteers, the privilege of helping the damned. It taste3d bland, Judas thought about the Sunday roast he had every Sunday with his family back in England. He was not always present, but only turned up whenever there’s food on the table, ignoring his parents as much as possible while he finished the last of the gravy.
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