Cast into the Past: Rome

A Community Writing Challenge

This is a collection of responses to a small writing challenge I shared: imagine suddenly finding yourself back in time in Rome, as yourself, and write what happens next.

Some people survived. Some didn’t. All of them had fun with it.

I’ve gathered the entries here so they can be read together and enjoyed in one place. Thanks to everyone who participated.

Levi Brendle of Between Cross and Culture

Stars exploded behind my eyes as Jonas’ boot cracked against the side of my head. This was supposed to be an exhibition match… friendly… but something had shifted. Suddenly I was fighting to remain conscious.

Before I could bring my guard back up, he followed the kick with a sharp lead knee. My head snapped back, the world went white, and I hit the mat—then nothing.

I don’t know how long I was out, but slowly the darkness thinned. I expected to feel canvas beneath me. Instead, something hard jabbed into my spine… like a tree root.

Blinking through the fog, I pushed myself upright.

What is this? I was alone, and this place was definitely not the kickboxing club. All around me stood trees—not pines or oaks like back home in Bossier, Louisiana, but olive trees, heavy with ripened fruit.

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“How did I end up here? Am I still dreaming?”

I pinched my arm. Pain. So… not dreaming.

I got to my feet and patted myself down. Still in my kickboxing shorts. No shirt. No shoes. No phone. No luck.

“Balls,” I muttered. This had to be some kind of hazing ritual. I was still the new guy at the school, and these things happened.

I found a worn footpath winding through the grove and followed it. As soon as I cleared the last row of trees, the breath left my lungs.

A city stretched before me; nothing like Bossier or anywhere in Louisiana. At first it shimmered like a pale mirage rising from the plain, dust and smoke drifting between two distant hills. But as I walked closer, the haze took shape: arches rising from the earth, rooftops packed tightly together, weathered and sun-baked, crowding the horizon.

People soon appeared along the road. None were dressed in anything modern—no jeans, no T-shirts. Most wore knee-length beige tunics tied at the waist with cord. I remembered seeing drawings like these in my high-school textbooks.

I also realized how out of place I must have looked: a head taller than most men, ghost-pale thanks to my English heritage, and wearing nothing but fight shorts.

As I stood frozen, unsure what to do, two city guards sprinted toward me.

“Ibi tu, desine!”

“What?” I said.

They repeated in unison, louder this time. “Desine!”

I didn’t understand all of it, but the message was obvious. I stopped and raised my hands.

“Quis es? Unde venis?” one demanded.

It clicked! They were speaking Latin. I’d taken two years of it in high school, but that was years ago and very rusty.

“Uh… nomen Levi,” I managed.

The guard frowned. “Quid tibi hic negotium est? Levi nomen Iudaicum est. Non Iudaeus videris.”

My Latin wasn’t nearly good enough for that. Thinking quickly, I tried:

“Ubi Britannia… Latin malum est.”

Both guards exchanged a look.

“Ah. Barbarus.”

And without another word, they bound my hands and marched me toward the city—straight into a waiting dungeon.

The inside of the dungeon was dark and damp. The only light came from a single torch flickering in a wall sconce on the far side of the room.

The air stank of feces, rot, and stagnant water. I knew immediately I was in for a long night.

Time passed; minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell, before a jailer finally appeared. Without speaking, he motioned for me to stand. I rose quickly, and he loosened the iron shackles that pinned my wrists.

He led me through a side door into a smaller room. It was dim, cramped, and looked unmistakably like an armory. A single desk sat near the entrance, but behind it hung every kind of weapon imaginable.

The jailer pointed at the racks, then at me.

I hesitated. Was this… an execution? Were they asking me to choose my method of death?

But no, that wasn’t right. I recognized some of the items: nets, spears, short swords, helmets, shields. Not torture implements, gladiatorial gear.

My pulse quickened. One moment I had been sparring in a kickboxing club… the next I was standing in ancient Rome being ordered to choose how I’d fight for my life.

“Festīna, servus!” the jailer barked.

Then again, sharper: “Elige, aut ego pro te ēligo!”

Choose, or he’d choose for me. Even if I couldn’t parse every word, the pressure was obvious.

I scanned the wall fast. Nothing with a long blade. Nothing with too much unfamiliar weight. Then I saw something; like a hybrid of boxing gloves and brass knuckles.

I grabbed the pair and slid them onto my hands. The fit was almost perfect, as if they’d been made for me.

The jailer nodded. “Ah… caestus.” Then, almost approvingly: “Novus ēlectio.” A new choice.

He led me out of the armory and down a narrow hall that ended at an iron grate. Beyond it, I could hear the low roar of a crowd.

“Bona fortūna… opus erit tibi.” Good luck… you will need it.

The jailer stepped back through the door and slammed it shut behind me.

I stared at the grate, heart pounding. Whatever waited on the other side, I was going to have to face it—alone.

The grate creaked open, and my pulse quickened. I stepped through the archway slowly and emerged into a brightly lit arena. The stands were packed… thousands of people… and the roar of their voices slammed into me like a wave.

Then the smell hit.

A choking mixture of blood, sweat, and offal punched straight up my nose and nearly turned my stomach inside out. Thankfully, I hadn’t eaten since before the kickboxing match; there was nothing to lose.

I forced a breath and scanned the arena.

I wasn’t alone.

At the far end stood another fighter he was my height, though maybe thirty pounds lighter. He gripped a spear awkwardly, hands too high on the shaft, stance too narrow. Untrained, I noted… but still holding a spear, while I was wearing ancient Roman knuckledusters.

“Well,” I muttered, “let’s make this a good show. Maybe they’ll let me go if I win.”

I advanced cautiously. The man watched me with wide, frightened eyes. Maybe he was faking it; but maybe he wasn’t.

I edged into range. He panicked and thrust.

Just as I suspected… slow, unrefined. The spearhead sailed harmlessly above my right shoulder.

I circled left. He shuffled to match me and tangled his own feet. He stumbled.

There was my opening.

I lunged forward, seized the spear shaft, and ripped it from his hands. Then I hurled it as far across the sand as I could. Before he could recover, I snapped a side kick into his torso.

The air blasted out of him. He folded, clutching his stomach, and hit the dirt. I knew the fight wasn’t over. Not here. Not in this place.

I stepped in and drove an elbow into the side of his temple.

He went limp.

The crowd exploded into cheers; thunderous approval rolling over me like heat.

When I looked toward the exit, I spotted the jailer waving me over. I jogged back toward him.

“Bene factum,” he said. Well done. “Nunc cum vicisti, edēs.”

I understood the first half, not the second, but I hoped it meant food.

We left the arena, but we didn’t return to the dungeon. Instead, he guided me to a small room. Inside was a crude bed, a rough table with bread and wine, and a narrow window that let in the faintest evening light.

I had survived today.

Tomorrow… who knew?

I didn’t know how I had ended up here, but one thing was clear: If I ever wanted to get back home, I would have to fight—and eventually, I would have to escape.

---

Tina Crossgrove of Existential Dread and Other Hobbies

Paws in the Forum

I am small. I am swift. I am Rome.

I slink through the Forum, weaving around the edges of flowing togas and between sandaled feet as humans argue about things that do not concern me. The price of a swath of foreign fabric–sheer and liquid, brought here from a land called Seres by the Parthians. A cut of meat for the master. Which gladiator will survive the sand pits and which will not.

Humans think they rule this city, but they do not notice the important things: the warmth of a sunbeam on a stone wall, the smell of fresh fish by the Tiber, the vibration of tiny feet scurrying beneath the market stalls.

I notice.

Survival is simple. Follow the baker with the soft hands and the sweeter-smelling bread. Lurk next to fish and meat stalls in the market and dart quickly on silent feet when kindhearted merchants toss scraps within reach. Ignore the senators—they have teeth for words, but no gentle words. Slip past the temple steps before the priests spot a shadow where it should not be.

At night, I climb the aqueducts, watching as lamps flicker to life, dancing across the city below like fireflies. Olive oil smoke clings to the night air. The echoes of the day linger still. The faint clang of a ritual bell from a temple. Sand hissing beneath chariot wheels in the Circus Maximus. The whispered secrets of patricians.

Occasionally, a soldier tired from patrolling, slips into a brief restless sleep muttering about the endless campaigns of Augustus’ legions in a faraway place called Gaul. I brush against his leg. One soft purr, one gentle nudge, and he slides awake, returning to his night watch.

I have allies. The pigeons chatter warnings. The alley cats share scraps. Rats scurry through abandoned insulae, carrying messages in their squeaks.

But not the dogs. Never the dogs. They snarl and snap and would break my body if I allowed myself to be caught.

I am playful, occasionally. A curious child follows me, enchanted by the promise of my soft fur or lured by my delicate chirrups. We play a game of cat and mouse. They give chase, the small bulla meant to protect them from harm tapping against their chest as they run after me. I allow them to get only so close before padding away and slipping out of sight.

Others try to snatch me, to scoop me up and carry me to where they think I should be–a grain store, their own home, outside the city walls. I hiss, I bite, I scratch. Freedom is not theirs to take. Rome is not meant to be tamed. It must be survived with wit, stealth, and the occasional sharp claw.

Some nights, I dream of the Tiber’s deeper waters, where fish shimmer like jewels and no human foot can follow. But dreams are luxuries. Survival is not found in the warmth of hearths, the soft sighs of sleeping children, or the kindness of merchants. Only in the constant, quiet knowledge that they cannot catch me.

I am small. I am swift. I am Rome.

---

Wendy Russell of Sass&Sage

HOW WENDY WAS DECLARED A WITCH IN ROME

I arrived in Rome on a Tuesday, which in hindsight was deeply unfortunate because the omens for Tuesdays were famously touchy — so really, the Romans never stood a chance.

One moment I was minding my business in Whangārei, the next I was standing on the Capitoline Hill in my Doc Martens, clutching my phone like an idiot. I had exactly one second to take in the marble, the togas, the overwhelming smell of goat, woodsmoke, and far too many unwashed men in one place, before a priest shrieked and dropped the entrails he was supposed to be divining.

“Her tunic bears the face of a demon!” he cried, pointing at my graphic T-shirt. Rude, I thought. This is vintage Def Leppard, ya dick.

A senator squinted at my phone as it lit up with a notification from Substack.

“It glows with inner fire! She summons messages from the underworld!” he squawked.

“She carries runes!” another pointed excitedly at the shopping list I’d hurriedly scribbled on my hand in biro.

A crowd gathered as if conjured, all elbowing each other for a better view, which never happens when a woman in her 50s was involved.

Within about thirty seconds, the crowd had settled on “sorceress” — mostly because I refused to explain where New Zealand was, which they took as deliberate obfuscation.

I was dragged before a magistrate, who regarded my outfit with the flared-nostril look of a startled horse, and asked if I had brought any curses with me.

“I mean… not on purpose,” I said, which was the wrong answer.

A small boy prodded my Doc Martens with a stick and yelled, “Her shoes are made of dragon hide!”

The crowd gasped.

Decision made.

“To the Tarpeian Rock!” someone shouted, and within minutes I was being marched across the Capitoline past statues glaring down as if personally offended by my appearance, accompanied by a mix of senators, street vendors, and three very excited children eating figs.

Halfway there, I noticed one of the soldiers walking beside me.
And look — if I squinted, tilted my head, and ignored the helmet, he bore a vague resemblance to Patrick Swayze.
Dirty-Dancing era, not Ghost, which felt promising.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I leaned toward him and tried my best survival strategy:

“Look, handsome… surely we can talk about this somewhere more… private?”

He went crimson. His helmet slipped sideways.
Then he immediately yelled, “Behold, she bewitches my mind!”

Which, shockingly, did not help my case.

They gave me a moment to speak my last words, and I panicked and said, “This feels unnecessary.”

Which they apparently took as a threat.

And that is how I, Wendy, The Confusing, was ceremonially yeeted off the Tarpeian Rock for the crime of accidentally existing in the wrong century.

(For the record, the fall wasn’t even that impressive.
Ten out of ten for drama, four out of ten for execution, and absolutely zero stars for customer service.)