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Gladiatorial Dramatic Reconstruction. Written by: Harry Ord The crumbling plaster facade of Lucullus' bakery on the Street of Mercury was what one would call functional rather than aesthetic. The particular function it served best was as a surface for grafitti artists and poster painters to exercise their skill and realize their inspirations upon. It was hard to tell what colour the wall had originally been because it was so marked and discoloured by generation upon generation of scribblings. If in years to come anyone ever wanted to get a comprehensive idea of the social life of Pompeii (a ridiculous notion, to be sure) they could just sift the epigraphic strata on that wall. There are some people of a romantic outlook who can look at a wall and say things like 'if these stones could speak, what tales they would tell'. In the case of the wall outside Lucullus' bakery, the stones did not merely speak; they sung, loudly and eloquently. They sung in a thousand voices of the whole rich tapestry of human existence. The music flowed from tender lovelorn cries of the heart like: 'I want to bust Venus' damn head with a club. If she can break my heart, why can't I bust her head?' to the slightly more business-like: 'My body is yours for 2 copper coins'. It got there by a circuitously meandering route through the floodplains of the everyday tedia of life such as: 'A bronze jug has been stolen from my shop...65 sesterces reward for its return', and on the way washed around harder outcroppings of biting social commentary such as: 'Lucceius is an idiot', and even public spirited warnings such as: 'Don't piss here - the stinging nettles are long' But just a few nights ago many of these literary pearls had been washed away under the pale light of the moon with a slapdash coat of white-lime paint, and an altogether more popularly exciting announcement had been painted in elegant red and black calligraphy: PRO SALVTE IMP VESPASIANI CAESARIS AVGVSTI LIBERORVMQVE EIVS OB DEDICATIONEM ARAE T ALLEI NIGIDI MAI IIVIR GLADIATORVM PARIA XX PVBNABVNT POMPEIS IIII III NON IVL VENATIO SPARSIONES VELA ERVNT HIC SCRIPSIT AEMILIVS CELER AD LVNAM [GLADIATORIAL SHOW IN HONOUR OF HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS VESPASIAN AND HIS SONS, ON THE OCCASION OF THE CONSECRATION OF THEIR TEMPLE. CITY MAGISTRATE TITUS ALLEIUS NIGIDIUS MAIUS WILL PRESENT AT POMPEII ON THE 4TH AND 5TH JULY TWENTY PAIRS OF GLADIATORS, WILD-BEAST HUNT, FREE GIFTS AND REFRESHMENTS ALL SEATS IN THE SHADE THIS POSTER WAS PAINTED BY AEMILIUS CELER BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON] "We're going to have a holiday with a two day gladiatorial show!" Echion the fish-oil merchant wiped the grease from around his mouth and casually tossed the chicken bones onto the mosaic floor of his host's dining room. "And not just a hack troupe of gladiators but a real professional squad. Freedmen and volunteers for the most part." Echion selected another drumstick from the platter and used it as a baton to punctuate his discourse on the virtues of his crony. "My old friend Titus Nigidius has a big heart and a hot head. You never know what he'll be up to next. Maybe this, maybe that, but something at all events. I'm a close friend of his and he does nothing by halves. He'll give us cold steel, no quarter, and a slaughterhouse right in the middle where all the stands can see it. And he's got the wherewithal - he was left millions when his poor father died and even if he spent two hundred thousand his pocket won't feel it and he'll go down in history. If he really does it, he'll make off with all Norbanus' votes. I tell you, when he runs for Aedile, he'll win the election at a canter! After all what good has Norbanus done us? He put on some half-pint gladiators, so done in already that they'd have dropped if you blew on them. I've seen animal killers fight better. He must have got them off a lamp. They ran around like chickens in a backyard. One boy did have a bit of spirit but even he had no initiative, he just fought strictly according to the training manual. In fact, they were all flogged afterwards, there were so many shouts of "Give them all what for!" from the crowd. Just plain yellow, that's all. 'Well, I've put on a show for you', he says 'Yes, and I'm clapping you' says I. 'Reckon it up, I'm giving more than I got. So we're quits'" "Cold steel and a slaughterhouse? Really?" Arrius, the host of the dinner party, was the owner of a small firm that specialized in decorative wall painting and mosaics. As an artist, he would in no way describe himself as a lustful man of blood (nor indeed would anyone who knew him) but he found himself excited by the prospect of the forthcoming show all the same. It promised to be a grand occasion, and there were precious few of those these days. Ever since the devastating earthquake of a few years ago [February of AD 62] the town had been a little depressed and was even now still getting to grips with the task of reconstruction. Arrius was not exactly a fanatic for the arena but it was traditional entertainment and was generally very exciting. Of all the spectacles offered there, he by far preferred to watch the trained gladiators. It was a preference shared by the vast majority of amphitheatre goers. Compared to the other arena shows; the wild beast slaughters, the circus animal shows, the public executions, the athletics and boxing contests, none had quite the same popularity or appeal of the trained swordsmen, nor generated such passion or fanaticism among their supporters. The show tomorrow was being sponsored and presented by a local town magistrate ostensibly out of public spiritedness and generosity, but in fact (as was tacitly well understood) purely in the interests of currying favour with the voters when he came to run his campaign for election as Aedile. All this was quite normal. If he were to be elected as Aedile, then part of his responsibilities would be for providing publicly sponsored shows and events so this was a good taster of what his election might provide. The sponsor, Titus, of course knew this too and by all accounts, he had spared no expense to put on a good show. In his current office of Duumvir he was allowed to put on one show during his term of office and was even entitled to draw a small amount of public funds to finance it. The amount of the public subsidy depended on his position but it was never really enough to cover all the necessary expenses and presenters of shows, if they wanted to make an impression, always had to dip into their own pockets. Even though by law he was not allowed to hold games for two years before running for election to another post, it was a fact that the memory of a good show would not harm his popularity with the public when it came time to vote for him. The shows were strictly controlled and only those officially approved; generally local councillors or magistrates or those with special permission from the authorities could sponsor them. In actual fact, in principle only the emperor himself had the right to present shows although he regularly granted permission to his trusted representatives and even obliged certain office holders to provide them. Arrius had arranged to attend tomorrow in the company of a knowledgeable aficionado friend who could explain some of the finer points that he would normally otherwise miss. Echion's assertion had piqued his curiosity since he had never seen or even heard of a real 'slaughterhouse' among trained fighters. Arrius continued; "The last gladiatorial show I saw, ages ago now, was almost all fought with wooden swords, and the tickets for the performances that were fought with real swords were twice as expensive." "Well, maybe not exactly a slaughterhouse, then." Echion conceded, speaking past a mouth full of spiced chicken, "Gladiators are expensive, after all. Whether they're from the big imperial schools or belong to a lanista [a private gladiator trainer] a big lump of cash has been sunk into each of them even before they get into the arena. That's not something we normally realize. Remember your gladiator comes in basically three types. You got the ones who are from the big imperial schools, that means they are state-owned, so to speak, and Caesar (that basically means you and me with our tax money, of course) foots the bill for all their training and upkeep. Then you got the ones who belong to a familia gladiatoria [a privately run gladiatorial troupe]. You get familiae only down around here and in the provinces. The big Ludus Magnus school in Rome supplies all the fighters for the shows up there. Nearly 2,000 men they have there, can you believe it?" "The three imperial schools have about 8,000 gladiators altogether at any one time." Interrupted Lucius Pomponius Scapula. He was Arrius' particular friend and the resident walking, talking encyclopaedia of all things gladiatorial. It was he who had agreed to take Arrius to the show tomorrow and explain it to him. "And that's not counting the wild beast fighters. Add them in and you probably double that total number or even more. Plus the gladiators who are privately owned too. I can't imagine how many of those there are altogether. I know of at least three familiae around here of between 20 and 30 men each." Echion continued; "Yeah. Anyway, like I was saying, with a familia, the lanista will manage them himself and it's him who pays for all their training and upkeep. That costs a pretty penny I can tell you. But he is also the one who collects the fees for hiring them out to people who want to sponsor shows, and he takes a big cut of their prize money of course. The fighters are mostly slaves who belong to the lanista but by law he has to let them keep at least some of their winnings." At this Lucius was seen to nod sagely and mouth the words; "One fifth" to himself. Echion continued unawares; "He might also get some condemned criminals dumped on him of course and there's always some free men who fancy the life and want to volunteer." "The gladiators are graded depending on their status as well as on their fighting experience." Lucius again, "At the top are the volunteers. They get preferential treatment. They sign on and swear an oath like the others but they can buy themselves out of the sport any time they want to. If they've got the money. Often of course they are there in the first place precisely because they haven't got any money. Then there's the slaves. They're the property of their owner just like any other slave is and just like any other slave they'll generally get their freedom eventually. If they survive long enough. Then at the bottom of the heap are the condemned criminals. Usually part of their sentence says how long they have to stay in the school and how many times they have to fight. They get kept in the most basic living conditions in the schools but if they survive the term of their sentence then they go free at the end." "Yeah." said Echion dubiously, not certain whether he liked to be interrupted and have his thunder stolen like this. "Anyway, my point is that they all belong to the lanista who's sunk a lot of his own money into them just to get them into the arena, so if one gets killed or put out of action then the sponsor of the show who's hired him has to pay the butcher's bill, and gladiator meat don't come cheap. Hiring them for a show is dear enough but you've to pay more if one of them gets chopped. Every time the sponsor of a show gives the old thumbs down he's waving goodbye to a fortune. So that's why you'll often get only sham fighting." "To hire a middle grade fighter for a show will cost you only about eighty sesterces." Lucius interjected with some more expert commentary. "That's what you pay if he survives. And if he wins, his prize money is added on top of that of course. Purses are at the discretion of the sponsor but never less than a few hundred sesterces even for the low grade men. If he dies or is disabled in your show then you pay four thousand sesterces in blood money. His owner will make you sign a legal contract first in which you agree to pay the amounts stipulated. The hire fees and blood money will be more expensive if the gladiator is higher grade of course. Last year I know that the imperial exchequer made about 30 million sesterces from the proceeds of hiring out gladiators from the imperial schools for shows and from taxation on private familiae. That figure goes up and down of course from year to year but it's pretty typical. The magistrates in the city of Rome itself are obliged to provide shows at certain festivals and they are also obliged to draw their fighters from the imperial schools for them. Most of the shows we see here also have imperial gladiators in them too. They're usually good quality performers and reasonably priced." "Yeah." said Echion, clearly becoming increasingly exasperated at the interruptions. "Then there's also the freelance professionals," he continued, looking sidelong at Lucius to see if he was going to be allowed to finish. "These are the real tough nuts. Boys who've gone right through the mill, won their freedom and gone back for more because they like it or don't know any other life. With pro' gladiators, it's a whole different game. Pro's have their professional reputation to think of so they're pretty much obliged to provide quality. They set their appearance fees depending on their popularity and keep all their prize money. If they've got a big following of fans then they can pretty much charge what they like, and the sponsors will pay it too! It's a big prestige...prestige..." Echion furrowed his brow as he tried to make the unfamiliar word fit his meaning. "It's good for the sponsors if they have big names in their shows. But like I said, Titus is doing us proud. Most of them he's hired are freedmen and volunteers. Mostly from the imperial schools but also some pro' freelancers too. And I got us a good deal on our tickets from my pal Festus, the ticket-scalper, and old Titus'll see us alright for a good show tomorrow don't you worry. A good serious scrap, loads of excitement and buckets of blood" "That's as may be, but some of us appreciate the contests for something slightly more than 'buckets of blood', you know", announced Lucius, "Sword fighting is a noble art and a manly virtue. It's a joy for aficionados to see it practised by skilled professionals. If you just want to see blood then you should go to the wild-beast hunts or the public executions." "So are you still whacking the old training-post yourself, then Lucius?" asked Arrius. Like many young men with the time and the money to spare, Lucius enjoyed the physical challenge and stimulation of 'combat' and trained in sword fighting as a pastime. He was known to spend hours at a time striking with a practice sword at a wooden post set in the ground in imitation of a man, all in accordance with the latest gladiatorial training principles. He had even employed a professional trainer, an ex-gladiator of course, to guide him in his endeavours. You could see posters advertising the services of such men painted all over town although most ex-gladiators found their way back into the sport as trainers or referees or took employment outside it as body-guards. Others even re-entered the arena to fight again, either with their old school or they hired themselves out on a freelance basis. Arrius' own doorkeeper slave, Scaevola, was an ex-gladiator. A surly, scarred old dog with a face like a fist, but at least he kept unwanted visitors away. He had been manumitted when he won his freedom from the arena but found himself on hard times outside and eventually sold himself into slavery again. It was a common enough situation. "I still dabble in the gladiatorial arts, yes", conceded Lucius, "There's nothing in the world to beat having your weapon in your hand and facing a challenging opponent for sheer thrill and excitement!" Lucius' pretty wife Drusilla Pomponia leaned over to Arrius and unabashedly cupping her hand around his ear whispered into it that her husband ate enough barley to feed a cart horse because gladiators ate it to build muscles. As far as she could see, though, the only result was that it gave him nothing but the flatulence of a cart horse and she had yet to see him ever really thrilling or exciting her with his weapon in his hand. Oblivious to the playful slur on his manhood being delivered sotto voce beside him, Lucius continued his monologue on the fighting arts: "Combat demands physical fitness, a mastery of technique, a disdain of risk and above all total concentration. The surroundings, the heat, the spectators; all these disappear into the background of your mind until only your opponent and your own movement remains. Then you are truly alive!" "So, Achilles!" cried Arrius, "No chance of you taking the gladiator's oath then and entering the fight game professionally? How does the oath go? Remind us." Arrius raised his right hand and began the gladiators' oath; "'I solemnly swear to submit to being burned to being bound to being beaten..." "Hey, I know places where the ladies charge you extra for that sort of thing...", chortled Echion, as he plunged a large lump of fish clumsily into the sauce dish, splashing much of it onto the table top. "'... and to die by the sword', Lucius completed the formula with relish, "I would rather fall on my sword than prostitute myself in the public arena. The gladiatorial arts may be noble and edifying, yes indeed, but everyone knows that gladiators themselves are the lowest of the low. Even the professional freelancers. I pray to all the gods that I never fall so low in my fortunes that I have to resort to that for my bread. It's even worse than being an actor in the drama theatre - though not by much. My poor dear mother would die of shame." "Aha! so you 'praise the art but despise the artist', like the Greeks do?", taunted Arrius playfully. "Bugger the Greeks!", retorted Lucius with a laugh, "Everyone knows they're nothing but the dregs of society; slaves, destitutes, no-hopers, criminals, suicidal types not right in the head..." "And some say the pros are no better than whores. Both sorts sell their arses for the pleasure of others." Echion's mind was still apparently on the same track. He began dabbing at the tabletop lake of spilled fish sauce with a large piece of bread which he then stuffed wholesale into his cavernous mouth. "Is this gladiators or Greeks we're talking about now?", murmured Arrius' wife Julia with her own special blend of refined elegance and whimsicality. Arrius began to smile enchantedly into her warm brown eyes when suddenly there was an explosion of vulgarity from Echion's end of the couch opposite. "Both! Hah! Uuurgh!" coughed Echion loudly, but indistinctly, as he tried to shout, breathe, chew, swallow and laugh at the same time. Inevitably he failed to do any of those and choked instead. Gobbets of soggy bread splattered from his mouth like pumice from an erupting volcano as Arrius' slave, Hector, slapped Echion vigorously on the back. Perhaps slapping rather more vehemently than was strictly necessary in the interests of saving his master's guest from choking to death. Reclining on the couch opposite Echion was Sulpicius Macro the shoemaker. He ignored the impromptu cabaret and responded to the Hellenophobic slur: "Oh, come now, weren't the fighting heroes of Homer Greeks? The brave Spartans at Thermopylae? The great Alexander the...errmm...Great?" Sulpicius, the great soppy philhellene, felt duty bound to defend his heroes, although he was a little incommoded at the moment by a traitorous string of pork. This had inveigled itself between two of his back teeth as immoveably as Pompeius at the siege of Perugia and had so far resolutely defied all his attempts to dislodge it. As Arrius watched in puzzlement as his guest contorted his face into a series of bizarre and alarming expressions, he pondered on the apparent contradiction of a cobbler who loved books. Sulpicius was a great man for literature, and, to give him his due credit he had in fact amassed quite an impressive private library. He had as many as ten books; in both Greek and Latin. Classics like Homer (of course) and also some more contemporary works too like Virgil and Ovid. Even modern stuff too like the Satyricon of Petronius. Arrius had asked to borrow that last one because he thought it was a philosophical work. When he got it he found he had to hide it from Julia and read it in secret. It was certainly "philosophical" alright, but not in the way he had expected. Sulpicius also had in his home, Arrius knew for a fact, a similarly "philosophical" painting showing mythical heroes and heroines performing various bestial sex acts with each other and a variety of legendary creatures. He also owned a mosaic that had Homer's heroes enacting scenes from the Iliad and Odyssey while dressed impeccably correctly in modern gladiators' outfits. Arrius' knew this so precisely because his firm had executed both commissions (business is business, after all) but the sheer, outrageous, almost inspired, vulgarity of the subjects had truly astounded him, and even now the very thought of it still often made him smile. When he saw his guest finally move to explore the back of his mouth with his fingers, Arrius beckoned to Hector and ordered a toothpick to be brought for Sulpicius. Lucius it appeared was meanwhile unimpressed by tales of the martial prowess of the Greeks. "Perhaps" he said dubiously as he watched Sulpicius open wide and dig fitfully at his back molars with the bronze needle Hector had just given him, "But I would like to have seen any of your Greek heroes go up against the gladiator Asteropaeus." Lucius warmed to his theme, "Outright winner of one hundred and seven fights with sharp steel. One hundred and seven. An incredible record! He was a slave of course, but the skill of the man with a sword was breathtaking. One hundred and seven fights and nobody ever touched him, not a mark on him, not a scar. One hundred and seven." He enunciated each syllable in the number in a tone of almost religious awe "Just think about it. As I remember, all your Homeric heroes soon ended up dead one way or another, on the wrong end of a spear or murdered in their baths. And what about that new boy they're all talking about who fought in Satrius the priest's show? Marcus Attilius his name is, a myrmillo at the Neronian school. His very first time in the arena and he goes through the opposition, some of them fourteen and fifteen fight veterans, like shit through a goose! A boy that talented and that hungry will go far!" |