The Tongues of Men or Angels

Twenty-four Years after the Crucifixion

This arena is small, provincial. It’s probably in Galatia or Asia or somewhere, judging by how hot it is. But it might be in Hispania or Gaul, or even Britain, if this is just a particularly sultry summer’s day. It is hard to tell precisely where this is because all Roman arenas are as similar as their shields. The Romans have a certain manner of doing things and it involves making each new place where they arrive identical to everywhere they have been. Often the natives — who previously had different ways and might have got a little stuck in them — initially don’t approve of this. But once a sufficient proportion of the men of fighting age have spilled their innards onto the fields; once enough families, split, raped and wretched, have been sold into slavery; once an adequate number of villages have been razed to the ground and their shrieking occupants put to the sword, the locals generally come around. Rome is a civilizing influence, after all. And arena sports are just one of the many marvels of civilization they bring.

This being a provincial arena, though, the band isn’t up to much. There’s a man on some kind of trumpet, curled like the shell of a snail, another beating a goatskin drum, and that’s about it. But to judge by the blood seeping into the sands, the morning’s games have been good.

It’s just a couple of andabatae on the programme now, condemned criminals, flailing about at each other in helms with no eye-holes. It’s not the best of the arena sports, but you would have to have a heart of stone not to laugh a bit. To add to the fun, this first one is rather fat: his flesh wobbles with his every thrust into the empty air. He’s so corpulent, in fact, that you could bet his penis has all but disappeared into the flappy folds of his groin. Really they should make him battle unclothed to be even funnier, but he wears a loincloth, like all the damnati. Most men don’t fight well when they’re naked: they instinctively feel bested and defensive. For andabatae, who can’t see anyway, you wouldn’t think it would make much difference, but seemingly it still does. What is really hilarious currently, though, is that the fat man’s adversary isn’t even out on the sands yet, so the flabby fool is wasting his energy slashing away like this.

But here comes his opponent now, prodded out from one of the arena entrances. The iron-latticed portal that closes behind him is quite poorly made, ill-fitted for filling the doorway. Wherever this place is, it is apparently somewhere with a dearth of decent blacksmiths.

Logically, they should have chosen an absurdly skinny man as the second fighter, to make the contest even more entertaining, but perhaps they were out of luck in the ranks of those sentenced to the arena, because he is quite normal-sized. He is altogether unremarkable, in fact. We cannot see his face beneath the all-concealing helm, but his body is distinctly Everyman. He could be a neighbour or the fishmonger. The only thing we know for sure is that he is a donkey thief, because the programme announcer said so, and this land — wherever it is — would doubtless be a better place with a bit less animal larceny. The crowd was jeering too much to hear what the announcer said the fat guy had done, but you can be pretty confident that it, too, was something well deserving of this fate.

They do a lot of proclamations at the arena: it’s a good way of getting information spread, particularly among people who are illiterate, as virtually everyone probably is in whatever Empire’s-edge place this is. There’s a messenger waiting to do a proclamation after this bout. Some important news has just arrived: there’s been a change of emperor.

He’s already been in power a few months, truth be told, but it takes a while for news to filter to the provinces. He’s only seventeen, the new chap, a bit of a turn-up for the books. Claudius held power for thirteen years, a good spell, but now he’s dead and his adopted son Nero is the ruler. Doubtless there will be some big shifts in Rome, but round here nothing much will happen, except the face on the few newly minted coins in circulation will be different. Imperial intrigues don’t amount to a whole lot in Bithynia or Cappadocia or wherever the hell this place is.

At least one man will never even hear the news. It’s probably going to be Fatty — he looks exhausted already from his strikes at emptiness. Though a layer of lard is a definite advantage in some ways: there’s extra weight behind your blows and it keeps the vital organs better protected from sword cuts. And you never can tell with the andabatae anyway: one lucky slash can sometimes decide a fight. Other times they manage to get a grip on one another and stab and grapple in a brutal brawl that might see both injured before it’s through. Prone on the sand to have their skulls smashed by Charon’s hammer.

They are close to each other now and they know it. Inching their feet onwards, pushing little mounds of sand as they come. The one who strikes first will give away his position and be left open if he misses, but might just land a devastating wound if he connects. What are they thinking, under those helms? Have they reached a point of strange warrior-calm, a readiness to face this and do their utmost to win? Or, like the Empire itself, do they keep moving forwards only because if they stop they may collapse?