Underfunded

It was pretty ‘sunny’ for a basement. They sure had done a bang up job on those solar panels. Bruno found it ironic that a few hundred years ago ‘solar panels’ were used to absorb solar energy, and now it was something that emitted fake sunlight. That’s marketing for you. 

If the sun had been real, he might have melodramatically wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow as golden rays drenched the crumbling stumps of columns. He also might have worried about skin cancer, no progress on that in a thousand years, either. But ruins don't need sunlight, so like most old and no-longer-particularly-useful things, he, and the Roman Forum, were sealed in a crypt, like a dead pope. 

He tried not to think about the fact that one day the funding would run out, the solar panels would turn off, and he would be left in the darkness to crawl his way out or be buried alive, in-crypted. He laughed cynically to himself. You never know when someone will decide it’s time for budget cuts. 

Bruno had spent his whole 80 year career down here below the hustle of New Rome. They had finally started over, to “Make Rome Great Again!”. But a ‘New' Rome didn’t seem compatible with the idea of being ‘great again’. Rome was great because it was old. He could stand to be made great again though, his knees were acting up. 

Funding was the problem, on both counts. Over the years, Bruno watched the slow bleed of the Ancient Conservation Trust. He tried appeals, applying for grants, calling for volunteers. Nothing. Not a drop of new funding in years, not since the media frenzy with the starling that snuck down the elevator shaft. Interest in the Roman Forum had peaked for a glorious 24 hours, donations flooding in. "Beautiful!" "Poetic!" Then the bird died. “Tragic!” “Poetic!” "The frailty of life” then all was forgotten again. He’d cut his own healthcare budget to keep the project alive. 

That was the blessing and the curse of media; even in the oldest cities in the world, old didn’t sell, sensation did. No funding for ruins, no funding for knees. He would go to sleep tonight dreaming of the good old days of socialized medicine. At least back then you knew waiting a decade for a new knee would eventually pay off.

He had a plan though. He would create ‘sensation’ before being ‘old’ did him in. He was building an ossuary. Not of bones, the idea made him shudder, but of the husks of old electronics. A spectacle of derelict cell phones, crystalline safety glass, strands of conduit; enduring tech junk remade as a temple. The digital and the ancient, juxtaposed. The media would catch it, he would sell tickets, and finally, god willing, he could retire knowing the Trust was well funded. Someone else would take over, and he could visit every day with his new knees to point out all the things they were doing wrong, the customary role of old people. He deserved it. 

A bent hubcap finished the sinuous neck of Neptune's great serpent. That was ten of the twelve gods of the pantheon done now. Ceres was progressing slowly, the goddess of harvest demanding generous sheaves of conduit he was still struggling to unearth from the Colosseum, remnants of the latest botched restoration, a masterclass in quality ‘government work’.

The Colosseum was breathtaking at this time of day, the false sunlight tracing dramatic arched shadows on the arena floor. He begged his knees for stability as he gingerly descended the stairs. He was much too old for this. His second skeletal refresh was long past due. He was in prime condition for heckling and pointing, not stair climbing. Soon. Rebuild the Trust, secure the funding, then he could be done. 

The sun flickered, then the sky went out. Bruno teetered, landing hard on his backside. The afterglow of the solar paneled sky burned orange and purple in his retinas. 

He coached himself to breathe. Damn budget cuts. At least he was prepared for this. He refused to be buried alive. He patted his pockets, seeking the tiny flashlight he always carried, just in case. 

Nothing. Empty.

A strange noise came from the darkness above. A mild buzzing, a few metallic pings. Then only his thundering heartbeat. Bruno stilled, listening. His ears weren't what they used to be, what part of his body was? Maybe he imagined the sound.

A very loud thud, close. The skittering of shifting stones. Not imaginary.

He groped in the darkness. Where was his flashlight? 

Bruno squeezed his eyes shut and imagined the stairs, picturing where he was. Only a few steps down and he would be just above the arena floor. The flashlight couldn’t have rolled far. A few minutes of searching, and if he didn't find it he would go in the dark. If I do die down here, he thought, maybe someone will find me and the media attention will help get this place funded again. Maybe martyrdom and a fancy crypt wasn’t so bad.

Heartened, he slid down the steps one by one, until his foot nudged up against something solid. The bottom then. He felt around for the flashlight.

Searing brightness made Bruno clamp his eyes shut as the lights came back on. Not the day of reckoning after all. He blinked his eyes open against the light. Before he could register any sense of relief, he saw a face staring back at him. 

His horrified shriek echoed around the Colosseum. His foot was wedged against an honest-to-god fresh dead body, thrown into the arena like the gladiators of old. 

His shocked body let out a manic giggle. Someone was trying to hide a body down here, and it wasn’t his. He pictured the bust of Caesar, thumb pointing upward. Today he got to live. And better yet, there was no way this wouldn’t make a sensational headline.