The Colosseum is a broken stone ellipse in the middle of Rome, four tiers high where it still stands. Half the outer ring is gone, quarried over centuries for palaces and churches, so the building shows its own cross-section. You look straight down into the exposed hypogeum, the two-level basement that the arena floor once hid. The travertine glows honey-gold at low sun, pocked where iron clamps were prised out. It stands about 48 metres high, and from the platform the tiers of vaulting curve away on both sides.
It rose from a lake. Vespasian drained the private pleasure pond of Nero's Golden House and began an arena for the whole city on the reclaimed ground, public space in place of one man's excess. Finished around 80 AD, it could hold something like fifty thousand people, sorted by rank from marble seats near the sand to wooden benches at the top. A day here ran to a fixed order: hunters against imported animals in the morning, the killing of condemned prisoners at midday when much of the crowd went out to eat, and the gladiators last. Its arches stack in the three classical orders, a working textbook of Roman engineering in travertine, brick and concrete.