by Quinn, Jack
The Forum Romanum was a huge open area paved with large rectangular granite tiles surrounded by merchant stalls and shops under porticoes with multicolored awnings extending from the roofed buildings behind them and supported by decorative columns interspersed with statues of famed statesmen and generals. This was the central district in which public business was conducted, political opinion and gossip of every nature exchanged among professional and upper classes of that thriving metropolis of one million citizens, freedmen, servants, slaves and paupers ruled by Emperor Tiberius Caesar.
I did not see more of that splendid Roman capital nor hoped to do so, for once interred in the bowels of the worlds largest and most famous amphitheater, we would leave the city through the same route or not at all. My first sighting of the Circus Maximus75 loomed above us as the cheers and screams of two hundred thousand or more spectators erupted within, as we entered the broad shadow cast down from arched walls and dark, familiar carcere below, sending an involuntary chill through my bones on that warm spring day.
Upon settling into the barracks Fabian had rented for us under the stadium, we soon learned from the members of neighboring familiae that the citizens of Rome, thrilled by the bloody gore of hundreds of humans and thousands of animals in a single day, were far more sophisticated than their counterparts in the provinces in their penchant for the unrelenting, merciless slaughter of men and beasts. Since my initial observation of that mindless exhilaration stimulated by those awful games, I have never been able to reconcile the lust for cruelty and bloodshed with a society that produced some of the finest writers, orators, architecture, roads, aqueducts and libraries, plus countless little ways to increase the ease of daily human existence.
Nubian and I trained for three days before the first contest was scheduled for our familia. Hidden behind the retaining walls of the arena, we were allowed to watch other gladiators hack each other to pieces. The first few contests were a sobering example of the vicious aggression of those murderous professionals that we had rarely seen in the provinces, the spectators an equally menacing source of death in their callous, facile call for the execution of cowards, incompetents and yesterday’s heroes alike.
Fabian decided to open with his strongest contest: Nubian and me. His strategy was to either establish a solid standing for his troupe immediately, or if we failed, to reconsider his options. As fate would have it, we were scheduled to appear late in the day, after the crowd had witnessed a series of uneventful chariot races and several hundred unarmed noxii and captured Gauls who had been dispatched too quickly by starving beasts, followed by a procession of inept gladiatorial pairings in which they demanded the killing of every loser.
As Nubian and I entered onto the sand from our opposite corners, the voices of the insatiate crowd began a growling a low murmur of disapproval at the prospect of a crippled, runt retiarius pitted against the monstrous black secutor. The tone of the crowd became querulous, however, when we stood shoulder to shoulder and our first opponent trotted from a carcere, the spectator shouts increasing to standing approbation as four more swordsmen from other familia ran toward us. That match against those five deadly men was one of the shortest, yet most exhausting contests I had spent in all of my five years on the sand, resulting in those terrifying murderers in faceless brass helmets startling my sleep with a full sweat almost as often as the nightmare of my first kill.
The match was more equal than ever. Fighting desperately back to back, Nubian became completely occupied by two adversaries, myself battling another pair, and the fifth circling his four comrades awaiting an opening to inflict a disabling blow. Because of that dancing threat, I dared not use my rete to fully ensnare a man, for another would certainly pounce while I was thus engaged. So I was forced to use it to trip them or pull down their shield for a clear thrust with my fascina. Despite the screams and chants of enthusiasm from the spectators, I was tiring quickly and believed the longer we fought, the greater the certainty we would perish. I shouted the Aramaic word to end it immediately, and Nubian’s response was a downward chop that smashed the round wooden shield of the Thracian to splinters, then a backhanded swing between manica and helmet that nearly severed his head from body. During the next few minutes, Nubian mortally wounded another, and we disabled the remaining three in rapid succession: a myrmillo clinging to Nubian’s legs, another kneeling before me, blood flowing in full stream from the provacator under my net. When my senses returned, I heard an unusually ambivalent crescendo from the crowd, in part disappointment at the swift defeat of our opponents, depriving them of a prolonged bloodier fight, part anger at our adversaries for succumbing, and a unanimous call for the deaths of our three wounded opponents, mingled with a thin thread of esteem for our victory.
An imploring look from Nubian gave me no alternative. He could administer a death blow to a man who threatened his life, but was still incapable of murdering an unarmed man prostrate at his feet unless the crowd would demand his own life if he refused. I pulled my pugio76 from my belt, and in a sudden uncontrolled rage at the screaming audience, Nubian, the failed gladiators on the ground, my circumstances, and my own weak mind, I thrust deep, merciful cuts into three spinal cords in seconds.
Back in the barracks, Fabian watched closely as a physician washed and sutured a gash in my cheek I had failed to notice, that ran from left ear to the point of my jaw. Retiarii are one of the few gladiators who do not wear helmets, and our specialty is recognized among the cognoscenti by the scars on our faces or loss of an eye. I had earned other cuts and gashes on my body over the years, some on my skull under my thick thatch of tightly curled hair, but until that point had miraculously avoided major disfigurement to my visage. Since my beard grew light and sparse even at twenty-three years, I had always shaved it and decided to continue that gentile practice even as the surgeon sewed me, in spite of the broad, raised scar he promised.
I rested for several days before resuming practice with Nubian, listening carefully to the new tactical instructions our special doctore had devised with Fabian to counter even more powerful competition than our first deadly Maximus quintet we were sure to face in the future. At the end of a fruitful but tiring session the following week, a slave came to summon me to the lanista’s office. Fabian bid me to sit, which I correctly surmised did not portend well for the conversation at hand.
“The lust of these people for variety and mayhem is boundless,” he began. “I have lost three experienced, valuable men since we came here.”
The ‘value,’ I thought, was more the problem than the men, but I remained silent.
“A wealthy editor has approached me with an offer of 30,000 sistertius.”
“Holy Moses!”
“I am offering one-third of those to you.”
My stomach felt like I had swallowed a stone of iron. “For what?”
“To enter into combat against the Nubian.”
I stood without thinking. “Never!”
“Sit, Shimon.” He had not called me by name for years.
“I refuse. No amount of money will cause me to fight that man.”
“Ten thousand sistertius would purchase your freedom,” he reasoned. “You could go home.”
“No.”
“I will give him 1,000 sistertius.”
“He cares not for money.”
“If you kill him, I will add 5,000 sistertius to your bonus.”
“No.”
“He would never kill you.”
I had been responding on blind instinct until then, when I realized that was precisely my problem. “I know.”
Fabian did not always relate to the inner workings of the human spirit, but he was not a stupid man. He pondered for several moments before his reply.
“If he will not kill you, the outcome could be missus or stans missus.”
I pointed at the ceiling and the muted thunder of the spectators over us. “Do you honestly believe that mob would let one of us live or call a draw?”
His
expression hardened, and I realized he was under a great deal of pressure from some powerful Roman citizen. “You have taken the oath and will fulfill it on the morrow.”
“Or what, Fabian?”
“I will have you both stripped to your subliagaculum and fed to fifty starving lions.”
To his credit, I later learned that Fabian had been threatened with expulsion from the Circus Maximus and every other amphitheater in the provinces if he did not produce the requested spectacle of the Black giant battling the diminutive, red-haired cripple. So be it. I informed Nubian of our fate slowly, with as much reassurance as I could gather, presenting the same rationale in even more positive terms than Fabian had used to couch the pairing to me. Yet despite his initial reluctance, the thought of us dying between the sharp teeth and claws of the same animals he had hunted with such élan in his homeland, forced his agreement. Or so I thought.
That night before our fateful match was passed in half dozing, starting awake in a full sweat, agonizing over every possible horrible split-second decision I would be forced to make on the hot, bloody sand in the morning. At one point, I woke in complete darkness, the candle between Nubian’s pallet and my own snuffed, only the bare outline of the exit tunnel visible at the far end of the barracks. A strange sensation caused me to reach out for reassurance of the black man’s presence, which resulted in my hand searching an empty blanket. I sprang to my feet, moving as fast as possible without my brace, stumbling over an unconscious guard at the tunnel entrance, increasing my gait in near panic as I spied an indistinct form kneeling huddled halfway down the passageway, his torso jerking in violent, irregular spasms as I pushed more speed from my twisted limb, cursing it and me and my God. I lowered my shoulder to slam the full impact of my body squarely against the back of the choking Nubian, dislodging the wet sponge he had stuffed down his throat to erupt from his mouth against the tunnel wall, out of reach of that sobbing, desolate, prostrate creature.
The editor who had coerced Fabian into scheduling our contest was Julius Cronius, Senator, a wealthy politician intent upon gaining popular support from his constituents by sponsoring seven consecutive days of games for which he had posted bills and hired no less than three hundred slaves to carry placards around the Forum and streets of the City announcing the weeklong festivities that were to begin with the contest between Nubian and me, about whom all of Rome had apparently been gossiping since our victory over five renowned swordsmen.
That morning, reports filtered down to us of tens of thousands of men and women in the white togas designating their exalted status as citizens of Rome clogging the chill, pre-dawn alleys and streets of the City, jostling one another for position to assure themselves of the best possible seats for the opening event. Below the stadium, Fabian observed his two sullen chattels in the equipment room, Nubian immobile in bare feet, a red loincloth cinched at the waist by wide belt of shiny brass. A slave tightened the leather straps securing his scaled metal arm guard, then wrapped quilted padding around his calves before affixing knee-high brass greaves around his tree-trunk calves.
I had been issued a blue subliagaculum held in place by a thick balteus77. Sitting with closed eyes, attempting to breath normally, I tried to relax the tension that threatened to cramp every sinew of my body, as my slave tied layered padding around my left net arm and both calves with strips of leather. He strapped my brace on the twisted leg, and finally bound the flared protection of the decorated tinned-brass galerus78 onto my shoulder. I slipped my hand into the loop of the restraining cord of my net, the only weapon allowed in our quarters, as I watched a slave present Nubian with his large ornate shield and helmet of polished brass, its smooth surface designed to make my thrown rete slide off without snagging.
I slapped the big man on his back, and in Aramaic said, “Remember our talk.”
He nodded at my allusion to our conversation after his aborted suicide regarding my strategy to direct our contest with the same commands I had used to coordinate our paired battles against others.
“What did you tell him?” Fabian wanted to know.
“To fight hard and expect a draw.”
The lanista nodded uncertainly. “I was forced to do this.”
Within the hour, I would learn that he was not referring just to matching us against one
another in conflict. Fabian turned away quickly, and led us down the tunnel to an observation platform behind a restraining wall where we could see the entire sand and people filing noisily into the tiered seats opposite. As the sun rose behind us, a parade of public administrators, senators, magistrates, priests, augurs, idle and working rich, plus other dignitaries filed into the front rows surrounding the Imperial Lodge. Colorful flags and banners lifted in the soft breeze that often waned in the heat of the day; the section to be occupied by the Vestal Virgins protected from direct sunlight when sailors unfurled the huge colored awning over the first twenty rows from which spectators in preferred seats would lounge, as sweat-drenched contestants below clashed for their pleasure on the burning, blood-stained sand in the harsh rays of a blazing sun.
Shortly after the amphitheater seemed to have filled to excess capacity, the undulating din pounding our ears suddenly reached a greater crescendo as a the high notes of a hundred tuba79 announced the entry of Emperor Tiberius Caesar standing with his smiling young wife in his regal chariot of emblazoned gold drawn by a dozen prancing black Arabian stallions driven by a massive charioteer in full military armor. The paunchy, balding figure waved laconically to the crowd with one hand, the vehicle rail grasped in the other. His entourage included at least fifty smaller racing chariots preceding his own, as they rolled majestically around the arena perimeter followed by seven white mares pulling as many personal chariots, a demure, waving Vestal Virgin in each.
The jabbering spectator excitement diminished from maximum volume to expectant hush when the Emperor ascended to his throne in his box. He raised his arm and voice to the sponsoring editor across the arena behind us: “Ludi incipien!.80”
I had never before seen a pompa81 or participated in the opening event for a day of games, which is usually reserved for bestiarii killing wild animals, chariot races, and the mass slaughter of noxii, nor had I ever seen a crowd so large and so savage until that morning. The sweat was already pouring into my headband as Fabian took our weapons to the editor Julius Cronius for probatio armorum82 seated out of our sight above and behind us, then inserting my double edge pugio in my belt, while Nubian hefted his long scutum and Fabian ushered us out from behind the barricade into the arena to the unrestrained yelling, screaming horde of 250,000 sadistic men, women and children around us.
We two marched across the arena side by side, massive Black secutor and short retiarius, bare toes digging into the cool, clean, early morning harena before the Emperor with clenched fists on our chests, shouting the tribute, “Ave Caesar, morituri te salutamus!83” At which Tiberius removed his attention from a conversation with a man beside him to give us a feeble wave of his hand with a distracted nod. Nubian gave me a wan smile before lowering his helmet down over his face, then turned to jog ahead of me to center sand. I followed at a pace that would minimize my limp, and to the startling realization of the incredible chant erupting from the crowd: “Sine missus! Sine missus! Sine missus!84”
That was what Fabian seemed so guilty about! He had signed us up for a match in which the loser would be killed, regardless of the qualities most admired by that blood lusting mob, courage or virtus85. Nubian stood awaiting me to the continuing roar of the spectators, completely unaware of the fate of one of us, ready to perform in a manner he believed might spare both our lives.
I could not think what to do. If I tried to best him, he would falter and the crowd would call for me to kill him. If I held back and fell under his might, they would call for my death, which Nubian might refuse, and a team of gladiators would be loosed to kill us both. In total frustration, I began to execute our agreed strategy, shouting the Aramaic in
structions that only he could hear over the cacophony from the stands.
“Feet!”
I threw my net at his ankles to trip him, but his leap in the air avoided the toss.
“Thrust!” I called, and he lurched at me with his sword, which I sidestepped and parried with my trident.
We managed to maintain the enthusiasm of the crowd in that manner, until they tired of close calls and began calling for blood. We were both working hard at our farce under the incipient heat of the rising sun, though something had to change or the crowd would turn ugly against both of us. In apparent anticipation of that, the editor must have made a signal to an associate near a carcere, because two mounted hoplomachae came trotting out from under the stands with their long javelin spears resting casually on their shoulders, without helmet or shield, circling us. Nubian realized immediately why they had come: if one of us did not make a kill very soon, the horsemen would dispatch us both. The spectators became more animated at the sight of the prancing stallions and began shouting the word usually reserved for a kneeling loser: “Igula! Igula! Igula86..”
There was nothing for it; yet I had to try something to keep us alive.
“Thrust!” I told him, and when he did, I moved only slightly and took his sword point in my upper arm. A moderate ovation went up from the stands, yet clearly they were in the mood for more than a bleeding gash from this highly publicized contest.
