by Randy Singer
Tiberius would not be at the games, of course, but the people didn’t care. Sejanus would preside, and Tiberius would foot the bill—what more could one ask of the emperor?
Two days earlier, this same arena had been the scene of the always-popular chariot races, the drivers churning four abreast around the barrier down the middle of the oblong arena. Fortunes were made and lost in the betting.
The night after, thousands of slaves covered the floor of the arena with sand and brought in an elaborate set for today’s games, replete with shrubs and trees, transforming the arena into an African landscape. The games would begin with a hunt.
Seating for the event was carefully segregated. Sejanus, a few select senators, the imperial slaves, and the Vestal Virgins would take their seats under the red tile roof of the emperor’s box. Other senators, resplendent in their gold-trimmed togas, sat on both sides of the box. Equestrians like me were entitled to the spacious seats closest to the arena floor, stone benches with plenty of leg room. Above us, on wooden seats, sat the other Roman citizens—the freedmen. Women were allowed only in the top rows.
My seat next to Seneca was almost directly across the arena from the emperor’s box, and I had the perfect vantage point to watch both the games and Flavia’s reaction to them. My own family’s seats were several rows higher and farther from the center of the arena, but today I was with Seneca, and friendship had its privileges.
Fashionably late, the trumpets blared, the flutes played, and a colorful procession arrived from the emperor’s palace. The sun was low in the sky on my side of the stadium and reflected off Sejanus and his cohorts, the long, polished trumpets blinding to the eyes. Sejanus, wearing a purple toga, led the procession, and the crowd erupted. He was followed by the Senate’s two consuls and a handful of other senators. Next came the Vestals, who seemed out of place in their white satin robes and elegantly braided hair. I noticed that Flavia was a few inches shorter than the other Vestals, but she held her head high and looked majestic as she took her place a few seats down from Sejanus. If she abhorred the games, she didn’t let on.
After the cheering subsided and the crowd sat down, the condemned criminals were paraded through the arena. They were chained and humiliated, staring at the sand in front of them. The guards held placards over their heads, informing the crowd of their crimes. The good citizens whistled and jeered at the prisoners, though the taunting seemed halfhearted. The criminals were a mixture of freedmen and slaves, all noncitizens, accused of murder or sedition or stealing from the state treasury. There were men of every skin color and nationality imaginable, and my advocate’s heart, always the champion of the underdog, assumed they might have avoided this punishment if they could have afforded a better lawyer.
After the parade of the condemned, the gladiators entered. They were all huge, carrying a variety of weapons, looking ready to kill. Their bodies had been massaged, oiled, and well fed—the lanistae looking after their investments. A dead gladiator, one lanista had told me three days earlier during my research, was an expensive gladiator.
Sejanus stood and announced the name and record of each gladiator, then waited for the traditional salute: “We who are about to die salute you!” Sejanus would nod, and the next gladiator would step up.
Money began changing hands all around me, and friendly arguments broke out about which ludi trained the best gladiators and which weapons were the most lethal. If only the Romans cared this much about law or politics or philosophy.
Seneca began making his own snide comments, mimicking the others around us, saying he wanted to bet on this man or that man because he liked the color of his shield. I admired the courage of the gladiators and told Seneca as much.
“You want to hear about real courage?” Seneca asked. He told the story of a German gladiator who went off to the lavatory before a show, the only place where he wouldn’t be watched, and choked himself to death by jamming one of the lavatory sponges on the end of a stick down his own throat. “That man defied everyone, choosing the manner of his death!” Seneca said.
“And that makes him a hero?”
“My favorite gladiator of all time.”
CHAPTER 11
The morning games were run with impressive precision. A metal fence was erected around the arena floor, and exotic animals were turned loose, only to be hunted down with deadly efficiency. Archers and javelin throwers showcased their accuracy, dropping lions, panthers, and even bears in their tracks. In one chaotic and colorful moment, twenty-five ostriches were released simultaneously, their wings flapping in a frenzied attempt to escape. They were dead within minutes.
A wild boar gored a hunter midway through the morning, but otherwise the only blood spilled on the arena sand belonged to the beasts. After two hours of slaughter, the place was littered with animal carcasses, and I understood why everyone entering the gates had been handed a small container of incense.
By noon the crowd grew restless, and the lottery began. We had been handed numbers as we entered that morning, and as the morning’s set was deconstructed, the master of the games ordered the animals dismembered and called out numbers. This person won an ostrich leg! Another the carcass of a wild boar! The prizes all seemed to go to the freedmen crammed into the third and fourth tiers, which was fine with those of us in the lower seats. We could buy our own wild animals.
The real slaughter started at lunchtime. Soldiers paraded the criminals out again, one at a time, to be executed in front of the crowd. The first was beheaded, a quick and painless death, but that was just a warm-up. Next came a crucifixion. People around me, snacking on nuts and dates, placed bets on how long it would be before the man’s legs were broken and he gasped his last breaths. Watching the soldiers pound spikes into the man’s wrists and feet nauseated me.
There was a burning as well. The prisoner, who had been covered in oil and tar before he was tied to the stake, let out a bone-chilling scream when he caught fire. The crowd shrugged it off, neither applauding nor turning their heads.
One after another, the prisoners came, men condemned for serious offenses against the state. The only ones who drew the slightest crowd reaction, a smattering of applause or gasps, were the ones attacked and savaged by the wild beasts.
There could be no dispute about the deterrent effect of what I was witnessing—these images would stay with me for a very long time. But unlike most of the crowd, I knew too much about Rome’s system of justice to assume that these men all deserved to die.
I knew that many of these men had been represented by the weakest advocates Rome had to offer. The whole affair added more urgency to my desire to be a lawyer. I couldn’t stop all the executions—trying to slow down the gladiator games was proving challenging enough—but perhaps I could stop a few of them. At least I could ensure that a few truly innocent men didn’t walk into an arena full of Roman citizens and sacrifice their lives in order to provide a few minutes of entertainment over a lunch break.
I diverted my eyes more than once and found myself studying the reactions of Flavia and the other Vestals. While people around her chatted, Flavia watched the proceedings imperiously, never once taking her eyes from the carnage at hand. I pictured her at seven or eight years old, having just been chosen for the honor of being a Vestal, being forced to watch naked men set on fire. While other girls were being tucked into their beds by their mothers, Flavia had been a Vestal in training, and part of that training was learning not to flinch at the worst violence that depraved human minds could conceive.
Halfway through the lunch intermission, Seneca had seen enough. “Come to my house tomorrow morning, and we’ll finish the letter,” he said. “I’ve got work to do this afternoon.”
Part of me wanted to leave with him. But in truth, another part wanted to stay. I had already endured the worst, and the crowd was starting to file back in. The gladiator fights were at least sport. These were men who had a decent chance of surviving, some of whom would earn their freedom. In fact, many of
them—those who had been born freedmen—were entering the arena by choice. Since I was working to shut this entire enterprise down, shouldn’t I at least experience firsthand what I was up against?
I expected the gladiators to fight one pair at a time but was surprised to hear four sets of names announced for the first round. They each took their spots in different parts of the arena, ensuring that every segment of the crowd had a set of gladiators fighting directly beneath them.
When the contests began, shining metal and glistening bodies locked in deadly combat, and the crowd’s energy rose to a fevered pitch. It was hard to take it all in—and I found my head swiveling from one fight to the next, clued in by the roar of the crowd.
As I watched, I couldn’t help but put myself in the sandals of the gladiators. What were they thinking? How much adrenaline must be coursing through their veins? What did it feel like to kill or be killed?
In Greece, I had grown to above-average height and had more than held my own in athletic contests with heavier men. I was quick and strong for my size. But the gladiators were cut from different cloth. I had felt small while visiting their training camps three days earlier, intimidated by their chiseled muscles and intense stares.
I knew that I wouldn’t last five minutes against any of them.
The first death occurred less than fifteen minutes into the fighting. A Thracian at the far end of the arena had quickly subdued his opponent, who now knelt before him. The victor looked back over his shoulder at the imperial box, and the crowd roared its disapproval. Thumbs were turned down everywhere, even in my section of the arena by men who had barely watched the fight.
The virgins and senators in the imperial box had their thumbs down as well, including, to my surprise, Flavia. Her face was stern and unyielding, no different from the others.
When Sejanus frowned and turned his thumb down, the defeated gladiator lifted his head, exposing his neck. The Thracian placed the tip of his sword against the man’s neck, and I diverted my eyes just before he finished his opponent off. An appreciative roar went up from the crowd, and then it was on to the next fight while men around me settled their bets from the first one.
Similar scenes were repeated throughout the afternoon, time after time, until the sand was soaked with human blood.
Naturally, Sejanus had saved the premier match for last—the only match that would occur by itself, the center of attention for all 150,000 screaming spectators. Before this featured match, there was a brief break so the slaves could dump fresh sand over the blood-soaked portions of the arena and rake the surface to give the two combatants a level field.
The first of the two gladiators to emerge was a Gaul—a stocky man with red hair covering his body, his biceps as thick as my thighs. He was heavily armed in the style of a Roman centurion: a straight, double-edged sword; a long, rectangular shield; a belt studded with metal; a scaled arm guard made of leather; and two silver shin guards. The man’s name, according to the program, was Celadus, which literally meant “crowd’s roar.” When he emerged from the tunnel, his helmet in hand, the crowd did exactly that.
Celadus boasted fourteen fights on his record but looked like he had been in the arena far longer than the seven years or so it would have taken to accumulate those fights. His skin was leathery and scarred, his face covered by a ragged red beard. He marched over to the imperial box, raised his sword to the emperor, and did a complete turn so the entire crowd could adore him. As the cheering died down, he put on the helmet—a large bronze headpiece with a red plume crest and an ornate grille that protected every square inch of his face.
His opponent came out next, a taller and thinner man with a clean-shaven face and curly blond hair that seemed strangely out of place in the arena. This man went by the name Mansuetus. I felt immediately drawn to him. His name meant “gentle,” which showed he had a sense of humor. He smiled at the crowd—the first gladiator who had done that—as if he might actually enjoy a nice little fight on such a sunny day. He wielded the armor of an ancient Greek warrior from the Thracian tribe: a smaller rectangular shield, a curved sword called a sica, leg guards that rose to midthigh, and a helmet with a side plume, visor, and high crest that left his face exposed.
He bowed deeply before the imperial box, swinging his arms out in a flourish. The crowd hissed and whistled while a few men around me shouted their approval. When he straightened back up, I noticed a subtle nod from Flavia and a look of concern that I hadn’t seen when she observed the other gladiators. It seemed to me that she started to mouth something to Mansuetus and then thought better of it. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought they caught each other’s eyes for just a moment.
A satirist once said that being a gladiator was like being Adonis. Women chose them over children, country, and husbands. Yes, women proclaimed loyalty to their families, but steel in the arena, and the gladiators who wielded it, was what they really craved.
Perhaps I was being overly sensitive as I thought about Flavia’s reaction to Mansuetus. I had no claim to her affections, no right to be jealous—I had only met her once. But still I felt an intense interest in her well-being. The punishment for a Vestal who violated her vow of chastity was well-known and merciless. Surely she wouldn’t risk that! Surely she wouldn’t risk her exalted station as one of Rome’s most esteemed women for a forbidden affair with a gladiator.
The fight started slowly, both men circling and sizing each other up as the crowd watched in hushed silence. If the lesser fighters had been this deliberate, the crowd would have hissed, and a lanista would have whipped the men into action. But here, in this final bout, the champions had earned the crowd’s respect, and the audience savored every moment.
It was a classic case of speed and agility against brute force. Celadus stalked Mansuetus, moving relentlessly forward, protected by his oversized shield and bronze helmet. But the gentle Thracian was light on his feet, staying just out of reach of the Gaul’s sword, looking for the opportunity to outflank the man and get behind his armor.
When they finally engaged, the Gaul rained down one blow after another on Mansuetus’s shield. Mansuetus backpedaled, and the crowd rose to its feet. In a flash, almost too quick for my eyes to follow, the Gaul struck two hard blows. The first, aimed at Mansuetus’s head, was deflected by the Thracian’s shield. But the second, a backhanded blow that sliced across Mansuetus’s calf, exposed muscle and drew blood.
Mansuetus made him pay. In striking the blow, Celadus had leaned too close. Mansuetus pivoted and pounced, slicing the Gaul’s shoulder, drawing blood himself. Celadus staggered back a step or two, glanced at the wound, and quickly reengaged. The deadly dance of thrusts and counterthrusts continued, Mansuetus hampered by his wounded leg while the Gaul seemed barely able to hold his shield with his left arm.
The crowd found a cadence with the gladiators, who grunted and growled as they rained their blows against each other, swords clanging against shields, occasionally slicing through to draw more blood. Neither of the men backed down, and I glanced toward Flavia, who was watching with her hand to her mouth, cringing with worry as Mansuetus became streaked with crimson.
Even the jaded men around me realized they were seeing the type of valor that was not to be mocked. “It’s a shame,” one said soberly, summing up the thoughts of us all, “that one of them has to die.”
The end came in a most unexpected way.
CHAPTER 12
Mansuetus was the first to do it. After twenty minutes of fighting, blood and sweat streaked his body, and sand clung to his wet skin. The smile had long disappeared from his lips. He stepped away from the encounter and gave his adversary a subtle nod. As they kept a wary eye on each other, both men slowly removed their left hands from their shield straps and placed the shields on the ground. The crowd hushed, and those around me stood on their toes, shading their eyes from the sun, trying to get a better look. Even Sejanus and the Vestals stood in curious disbelief.
Mansuetus crouched down, keep
ing his eyes on the stocky Celadus, and placed his curved sword on the sand as well. This brought a few shouts of displeasure, which quickly crescendoed into whistles and hoots of disapproval. A lanista who had been stationed near the edge of the stadium took a step toward the fighters. Who would have thought that these two gladiators, of all men, would need to be whipped into action?
Celadus crouched and placed his sword on the sand as well, stepping back from the weapon with his eyes still glued to Mansuetus. Flavia inched forward, almost to the edge of the imperial box.
The crowd turned on the fighters with a vengeance. Jeers rained down from the third and fourth tiers and were soon echoed by the patricians below. “Finish the fight!”
“Battle to the death!”
“Cowards!”
The man in front of me shook his head in disgust.
An ironic grin curled Mansuetus’s lips, his white teeth contrasting brilliantly against his grimy face. He circled to his right, as did the Gaul, until they had completed a half circle and stopped in front of the other man’s armor.
Each knelt slowly, deliberately, and picked up the other man’s sword and shield. The crowd, catching on quickly, screamed its approval. The lanista stepped back. Apparently the gladiators had agreed, even before stepping into the arena, that if the fight had not concluded by a designated time, they would switch armor and finish each other off with unfamiliar weapons.
When they reengaged, the crowd was in a frenzy. Romans loved a good surprise. And what could be better than this—gladiators who feigned a truce only to fight more viciously than they had before?
But this time the match was uneven. Mansuetus had a greater reach, a longer and heavier sword, and he was quicker. He was strong enough to adapt to the heavier armor, and even with his wounded leg, he seemed unstoppable. The Gaul, not used to dodging and weaving, continued to plow straight ahead, nullifying any advantage the lighter armor might have afforded. The two men stood within arm’s length of each other, exchanging blows, but the advantage now lay entirely with Mansuetus.
