“Nor am i,” said Dio.
“But why not?”
“Lucius, I haven’t attended a gladiator show since I became a freedman,” said Epictetus. “I certainly don’t intend to see this one simply because it promises to be bigger and bloodier than any that’s come before.”
“And you, Dio?”
“Perhaps you’ve never noticed, Lucius, but philosophers are seldom seen at gladiator shows, unless they wish to stand up and address the crowd about the evils of such spectacles. I don’t think even our free-speech-loving emperor would welcome such an interruption on this occasion.”
“But the gladiators won’t even appear until later in the day,” said Martial. “Before that there’ll be a whole programme of spectacles-”
“I am well aware of the typical entertainment offered at such events,” said Dio. “There will be the public punishment of criminals by various ingenious means, intended, ostensibly, for the edification of the crowd. But take a look at the faces in the stands; are the spectators uplifted by the moral lesson, or titillated by the humiliation and destruction of another mortal? And there will undoubtedly be animal exhibitions; these, too, are educational, or so we are told, since they give us a chance to see exotic creatures from far away places. But the animals are never simply paraded for our perusal; they’re made to fight one another, or hunted down by armed men and killed. Yes, yes, Lucius, I know: you’re a hunter yourself, so you appreciate an exhibition of fine marksmanship. But again, is it the hunter’s skills the spectators applaud, or the sight of an animal being wounded and slaughtered? And all that bloodshed is merely prelude to the gladiator matches, where human beings are forced to fight for their lives for the amusement of strangers. Since at least the time of Cicero there have been those of us who object to the spectacles of the arena, which debase rather than elevate their audience. The fact that such games have now been given a grander venue than ever before may be cause for the poet to celebrate, but not the philosopher.”
“But don’t you want to see the building?” said Lucius.
“You yourself have called it a monstrosity.”
“I’m not in love with it, as Epaphroditus is. The thing is too big and too garish for my taste. Still, there’s never been a place like it, and this is the opening day. All of Roma will be there.”
“All the more reason for a philosopher to stay away,” said Dio. “It’s one thing when a city holds its gladiator shows at some rustic spot outside the gates, in a natural setting where there’s no pretense about what’s taking place – men sitting in the dirt, watching other men kill each other. But to take these blood sports and display them in a palatial setting, surrounded by beautiful statues and fine architecture, as if killing were simply another artistic endeavour to be appreciated and enjoyed by sophisticated people – that in itself is offensive. No man who considers himself a philosopher can lend his presence to such an event. Epictetus and I will find something better to do. You’re welcome to join us, Lucius.”
“Ha!” Martial waved back the philosophers and put his arm about Lucius’s shoulder. “You won’t lure Pinarius away from the most exciting event of the year to go sit on a hilltop and listen to you grumble about your bunions and how they must have been sent by the gods to test your endurance!” He pressed one of the tokens into Lucius’s hand. “Now take that, my friend, and hold on to it tightly, and don’t let any philosopher talk you out of using it. Come along, then, everyone who’s coming.”
They parted ways in the street outside the house. Lucius watched the philosophers walk up the hill. Epictetus used his crutch. Dio took small steps and walked slowly to match the younger man’s pace. Lucius felt an urge to join them, but Martial grabbed his toga and pulled him in the opposite direction.
The open space around the Flavian Amphitheatre was thronged with people. A small crowd had gathered to watch a mime troupe perform a parody about a brawny gladiator and a senator’s wife who lusted after him behind her husband’s back. Street vendors moved through the crowd, offering good-luck charms, freshly cooked bits of meat and fish on skewers, little clay lamps with images of gladiators, and tickets for excellent seats so crudely stamped that they had to be counterfeit.
Long lines began to form at the entrances, radiating outwards from the amphitheatre, but there was no waiting at the gate to which Martial led them. The finely dressed men and women going in were clearly of a higher class than the citizens in ragged tunics queuing up at the other gates.
Once through the entrance, they found themselves in a finely appointed vestibule with a marble floor and elegant furniture. The railings had ivory fittings and the walls were exquisitely painted with pictures of gods and heroes.
“It reminds me of the Golden House,” said Epaphroditus. “See that mosaic of Diana in front of the steps? I’m almost certain that was lifted stone by stone from the anteroom to Nero’s bed chamber.”
“It makes sense that the Flavians would have stripped the Golden House to decorate their amphitheatre,” said Lucius. “But surely the entire structure isn’t decorated this elaborately.”
“Of course not,” said Martial. “This is the section for important people – magistrates, visiting dignitaries, Vestal virgins, and friends of the emperor, such as yours truly. Only the best for my companions! And look, just as I promised, there’s a splendid buffet laid out for us right here in the vestibule, and free wine. What a privileged existence is the life of the poet!”
They mingled in the vestibule for a while, eating and drinking, until a horn sounded and a crier came through the room, calling for all to find their seats. The men in togas and the women in elegant stolas began to drift to a marble stairway that led up to bright daylight. Lucius and his friends followed the crowd.
Epaphroditus had described the scale of the amphitheatre and the way it was laid out; Epictetus had compared it to the circular valley, now vanished, at the summit of Vesuvius. But no amount of mere description could have prepared Lucius for what he beheld from the top of the steps. For a moment his mind could not take it in; as the sound of fifty thousand people created a single dull roar, so the sight of so many people in one place registered as a kind of blur, an undifferentiated mass of humanity in which no individuals could be perceived. But, little by little, as he stood on the landing, he began to regain his bearings, and his mind began to perceive what was near and what was far.
Lucius had never experienced anything like that first moment inside the Flavian Amphitheatre. That instant alone, so disorienting that it was almost frightening, yet so unique and thrilling, was worth the excursion. Dio and Epictetus were fools, he thought, to deprive themselves of such an experience, which was surely to be had in no other place on earth.
He realized that he was standing not in full sunlight but in brightly filtered shade, and looked up to see awnings like sails that extended from the uppermost parapet all around the building. As he peered upwards, squinting, he saw that men were working the complicated rigging, adjusting the angle of the awnings to block the sunlight.
Martial pulled at his toga. “Stop gawking like a bumpkin. You’re holding up the crowd. Come along.”
They found their seats. The great bowl of the amphitheatre encircled them. Below, jugglers, tumblers, and acrobats of both sexes, wearing scanty but brightly coloured costumes, were already in the arena. Some were so close that Lucius could see their faces. Others were small in the distance. The scale of the place confounded him. Somewhere nearby, a water organ was playing a lively tune.
“Have we missed the beginning of the show?”