The Tongues of Men or Angels

Thirty-four Years after the Crucifixion

While it was still dark, people poured into the Circus Flaminius. It has nothing like the capacity of that incinerated Circus Maximus, so best to arrive early to secure a decent seat. Many of the spectators have also lately taken in the Gardens of Sallust or the Gardens of Maecenas, not to admire those imperial parks but to witness the ranks of Christianoi nailed to trees therein. Or to watch those sentenced to the flames and burned, who serve as nightly illuminations.

The plebeians who made the effort to get a good view in the theatre will be well rewarded: the day’s programme promises to be rich and varied. The first chariot racing since the fire will be held today. Almost everyone in the city, from the Emperor Nero himself to the youngest child, is a passionate supporter of one of the four great charioteering stables: the reds, whites, blues and greens. But whichever of those teams will be today’s victor, that the contest takes place at all will buoy the spirits of Rome. There are also to be some legendary tableaux acted out: the death of Actaeon, hunted by his own hounds; Laureolus killed by a bear; Prometheus devoured alive; the ravishing of Pasiphaë by a bull. And you can guarantee the acting will be first rate, because the beasts will play themselves and the screams will be real.

It’s just a couple of andabatae on the programme now. No one got up early in the hope of seeing them, but the editor has a whole day to fill, and it’s all good family entertainment.

The andabatae have been goaded within earshot of one another by iron-masked Charon and his assistants. This bout’s conceit is that two elderly men have been chosen from among the ranks of the damnati: a brace of stiff-limbed old patriarchs instead of gladiators; their beards of bone-grey concealed beneath helms with no eye-holes. But, though wrinkled, withered and diminished from who they once were, they both look of a type who might have wielded a weapon when in their florescence. One is bow-legged, as if he walked half the world in his younger days; the other, a monster to make daemons afraid of the dark. They were paired to fight because the prison guards caught them in a rancorous argument, but this will be no mere battle of wits or arthritic fists: each is now armed with an evil gladius.

‘Better you die swift by the sword,’ one shouts, the enveloping visor muffling a voice deep and with the guttural quality of a Galilean. ‘Come to me and I’ll cut you cleanly. Who knows what horror awaits the victor?’

‘Your offer is generous,’ the other replies, ‘but I am not the sort to lie down quietly. Or to strike empty air. I would offer you that same favour: the kindness of a quick death.’

Were they real gladiators, they would have enjoyed the cena libera last night: the unrestricted feast where warriors can eat and drink what they please. But these two, in the stink of a gaol-cave, dined only on a corn puls, watery as fish piss. One of them sincerely believes that it transformed into the body of his saviour-God; for the other, such ideas are blasphemy and lunacy.

But there will be time yet for other people to ponder those impenetrables. Things are currently in flux; rituals are sprung and growing, but remain pliable shoots. Some will fall on stony ground, some will be wrenched out entirely and some will become deep-rooted as oaks, tenacious as weeds.

And these two men here, clothed only in loincloths and helms scarred from former blows, share more in common than divides them. Both of them believe that the end of the world is nigh and in this, in a way, they are correct: they will most certainly die this day.

As iron whets iron, each has been sharpened through the years of interaction with the other. And now they stand, opposed and motionless, on the hot sands, listening for the slicing of air. Blindfolded before the view of thousands. Sightless in plain daylight.