The Tongues of Men or Angels

Eight Years before the Crucifixion

The gladiators move towards the centre of the arena, with stilted, unnatural steps. Each holds a gladius — the short sword favoured by the Romans — but has no shield. Their feet are bare. The hot sand of the arena is perhaps the last sensation of touch they will ever know, except the blade of the other. They are clothed only in loincloths and simple armour: each of their sword arms is protected by lizard scales of beaten iron — otherwise injury might end the contest too speedily — and each man wears a large helm with a sweeping brim and a face covering. The helms are scarred from former blows. These gladiators are not among the first to wear them. Many men have already died in them. The gladiators most certainly know this. Perhaps they weep. Only they know if tears fall, because the helms they wear have no eye-holes. But probably they don’t. Probably they wept last night. Probably they barely slept last night. But now there is just this. Now they can only do what they can do, even if that is only to die. They are damnati: criminals condemned to death in the arena. And they are andabatae, who fight blind, for the viewing pleasure of the Roman crowd, who love such hilarities.

The band strikes up; the enormous hydraulic organ booms its buoyant notes, joined by the caw of long brass stork-leg trumpets and a drum that beats the rhythm as if on a galley ship. Blah-ta-dada-blah, and two men edge towards each other. They swing blades in front of them as they come, like inept reapers. Sightless in the sunlight.

Those spectators in the good seats have canopies above them to create shade. Slaves sprinkle water on the plebeian mob, to ease the heat a little. All paid for as part of the sponsored spectacle. A man called Pilate of the Pontii Equestrian Order is the editor; he has organized all this, paid for all this. It is said he seeks office. Of course he seeks office. You don’t near bankrupt yourself in such ostentation for love of the common man.

Pilate isn’t in his conspicuous, elevated seat at the moment. He’s probably gone to urinate or something — it will be a long day. These andabatae are just programme-fillers anyway. No one comes to the circus to see this crap, but they make the crowd laugh. Who wouldn’t laugh to see two blindfolded men slashing their way nervously towards each other? Tilting their helmed heads when they think they hear their opponent. Walking flatfooted, so as not to risk slipping, like old folk on ice.

They made the damnati piss before they entered the arena. It’s cleaner that way. More dignified. Men either take the punishment bravely, or they don’t. But all men take it. Previously they may have had choices in life. But now there is just this.

To some it may seem strange that they don’t pull off their blinding helms and run, or try to fight their way free. But it is not only resignation that prevents them. There is some pride to be salvaged in dying correctly; there is a right way and a wrong way to do this. One of them may even walk out alive from the sands after the fight today. Not to freedom, but to a temporary respite. A chance to die in another arena another day. There are no prisons in the Roman world, there are only gaols. Imprisonment is not a punishment: it is the waiting period before the trial or before the sentence is carried out.

One of the damnati it disoriented now. In his flailings with his sword he has finished facing the wrong way entirely and is setting off towards the place he started, still slashing in front of him. Many in the crowd are in tears of laughter at this. But, then, who could fail to be amused by such a sight: a man condemned to die, bewildered like that.

One of the arena guards prods the andabatae until he is facing something approximating the correct direction once again. The guard is dressed as Charon, the ferryman of the underworld, visored with a mask of iron set in an implacable expression, covered with a black cloak, which must be exhausting in this heat — but his is still an enviable role among those who must set foot on the sands. He carries a staff, one end finished with a steel spike. It is this he uses to goad the andabatae when they stray too far apart. Sometimes they fling wild slashes at him, but they cannot reach the end of the goad. It is futile to fight the goad. Though arguably it is equally futile not to. The result will likely be the same. The other end of Charon’s staff is tipped with a hammer. This he uses to crush the skulls of the fallen, if so directed by the crowd and the editor of the games, who today is a man called Pontius Pilate.

Life in this world is so cheap that often it has no price at all. But here it does. Here in Rome in the arena everything has a precise cost. All has been calculated by he who pays, in a weighted gamble that such entertainments will bring him to the fore of public life and secure him a post in some province from which he can wring far greater wealth, from extortion and bribery.

And it’s perhaps not the best system for running an empire, but these are relatively early days for Rome. Over time the Romans will improve, bringing sanitation and trade, education and engineering to the places they conquer. Bringing a paid-for peace, the pax Romana. For the moment, though, there is no pax, just taxes and crosses.

All this is, of course, irrelevant to the andabatae; they may not even know who has sponsored their deaths today. They are almost upon each other now. They can feel the change of pressure when the other cuts the air. They can hear from the crowd that they must be close. They crouch and duck as best as blind men can. They stab and slash and try not to puke. They know that one of them at least is about to die and can only do their amateurish handicapped best to try not to be him. But none of that much matters, except to them. And to the Roman mob, who, of course, find this hilarious; who wouldn’t? The sand will be raked back ready for the next combat and the world will hold one less person, that’s all. The death of a single man will never change much.