Philosophia

The crowd roared. The noise echoed through the dark stone passages, into the cell in which Marcus and the others sat awaiting their fate. Above them, on the arena floor, men were being torn apart by animals – an appetizer for the fifty thousand spectators before the main course of the gladiatorial fights.

The chilling sense of dread that Marcus had been struggling against all morning suddenly seized hold of his heart and seemed to paralyze him. This was to be his first real fight as a gladiator. He had trained for this continuously for the past six months, with all the grueling rigor that training required. He was larger and stronger than he had ever been, and had been victorious in many of the practice bouts – though by no means all. But all the same, in this moment as he heard the crowd’s ferocity echo around him and imagined the desperate violence with which his opponent would meet him, he felt utterly helpless.

His head slumped forward and he held his face in his hands. “How did I get here?” he asked himself for the hundredth time.

Here he was, locked in a cell beneath the Colosseum, a slave about to die – yet he had been born a free man, a Roman. Before his calamitous change in fortunes, Marcus Postumius Tento had been wealthy and on the rise, a quaestor in the imperial province of Cilicia, assistant to the governor. In this role, he was in charge of the provincial finances; and, like nearly all such officials in the empire, had established a mutually beneficial arrangement with the governor, whereby each acquired some extra funds they were not, in theory, entitled to. Although one did not talk about this practice too openly, it seemed that everyone of importance turned a blind eye to it.

This suddenly changed when the magistrate Quintus Rutilius Lupus reported the governor’s arrangement with Marcus to the new emperor. Quintus was an ambitious and utterly unscrupulous man, frustrated with the slow pace of his career and desperate for a province. Though Marcus couldn’t prove it, he knew Quintus had himself engaged in the same behavior in the petty offices he had held so far.

The new emperor was young and idealistic, and the rumors of senatorial arrogance and corruption that Quintus sent swirling through the Roman populace added to the pressure. Marcus and the governor were removed from their posts and put on trial. The judgment: guilty. The sentence: damnati ad ludos – condemned to the games. The emperor wanted to make an example of them, to send a message that official corruption would not be tolerated.

Marcus ground his teeth as he remembered the callous and self-satisfied face of Quintus at the trial. The former governor killed himself immediately following the sentence, to avoid the disgrace of his punishment. Marcus was too attached to life to follow him.

Suddenly, he found himself stripped of all his wealth, stripped of his very citizenship. He was legally a slave, and was sent to the gladiatorial school to be trained for the games – to kill and be killed for the entertainment of the thundering masses above him.

But still, he considered, this wasn’t the worst fate that could have befallen him. He had not been condemned ad bestias, like the unfortunate victims, bereft of armor, weapons and clothing, now being ripped apart by the teeth of tigers and lions. Neither had he been sentenced to the cleaner, certain death of a beheading.

He reflected, tracing the same circle of thought he had done a hundred times before: this was not, strictly speaking, a sentence of death. He might yet live. Gladiatorial fights only rarely ended in death. More often, the loser submitted, and was granted his life because he fought bravely. Many gladiators lived long enough to retire. After five years he would be eligible to receive his freedom; perhaps sooner, if he really impressed the crowd.

“I must fight bravely,” he thought. “That is the only way I can survive.” He recalled the gladiatorial fights he had witnessed as a free man – the way a gladiator would continue almost to the very end, cut and smeared with blood yet still parrying the increasingly forceful blows of his opponent; how he might pivot to dodge the final blow then suddenly lunge forward and thrust at him, all his energies concentrated in that last desperate movement. He recalled the exhilaration he had felt as a spectator; the way the crowd adored the strongest, bravest, most skillful, most agile; all the fame and glory these accrued. He recalled the military training of his youth, all the discipline and fortitude it had drilled into him. He recalled, finally, the gladiatorial training he had just received, and all the practical skill he had acquired.

“I may be a slave,” he thought, “but I will not die like one. I will live, or die with glory.” The frigid terror that had filled his chest now retreated. He shook his head briskly, cracked his knuckles, and stood up.

He imagined the fight that lay ahead of him, imagined the desperate ferocity with which his opponent would come at him. He would need to match this ferocity, all while keeping his wits about him; he could not expend all his energy too soon or allow himself to be lured into a trap his opponent might set for him. “Yes,” he thought, “I need both prudence and courage – both to the utmost.”

“I am not a slave; I am a Roman,” he silently repeated to himself. He forced himself to imagine the worst, to imagine being slain in the arena. If he were struck down he would not, must not, flinch. He would not shamefully and hopelessly flee, would not abjectly beg for his life. He would simply await the verdict that the crowd, and the emperor, would give.

If he was to die, he knew the final blow would be quick. Right before it came, with his final breaths, perhaps he would hail the emperor – show him what a noble man he had cast to his death. Or he would curse Quintus. The crowd would ask each other, “Who is this Quintus Rutilius Lupus? Who is it that brought this noble Roman to this end, this man who fought so well and died so bravely? Was this Quintus’ action honest and just – or deceptive, ignoble, a vicious ploy to get himself a province?”

His hatred for Quintus burned hot within him and strengthened his resolve. “Yes,” he thought, “I will fight my opponent as I would fight that coward who dared not face me man to man.”

He looked over to a man sitting opposite him, who seemed to have been observing him. This was Lucius Aelius Audeo, one of the auctorati, those free men who voluntarily became gladiators for the sake of wealth and fame. At least, that is how they would brag to the other gladiators. In reality, they were nearly always driven to it by desperation. Lucius, for instance, had been utterly bankrupt, having squandered his fortune on women, wine, and dice; becoming a gladiator was the only way he could see of escaping his debtors.

When their eyes met, Lucius gave him a dark and knowing smirk. “I saw your terror,” he seemed to say. “And now I see you might just die like a man.”

Marcus quickly looked away. His gaze settled, instead, on a man sitting alone in the corner of the room, bent over himself and half shrouded in shadow. This was Stephanus, the man who had been assigned to fight him. In his late 20s, he was about half a decade younger than Marcus, and of a slightly more slender build, although he made up for this in fights with his slightly greater agility.

When he felt Marcus’ gaze he raised his head and looked back at him. His eyes were copper in the dim lamplight and his entire face appeared taut with pain. The look he gave Marcus seemed at once an urgent question and a desperate attempt to confide something to him. Marcus frowned, puzzled and somewhat concerned, yet not daring to talk with him here, so close to their fight and surrounded by the other gladiators. He recalled all he had discovered about this strange man.

He was a Greek of an insignificant family from the eastern city of Smyrna. He emigrated to Rome to try and earn a fortune, but his various schemes to this end had fallen through and he ended up all but destitute. He had therefore taken to theft to provide for himself – just until such time, he had told himself, when he was able to secure more legitimate and lucrative work. When he was finally caught, he was condemned ad ludos and sent to the gladiatorial school for training. He arrived shortly after Marcus had. Initially, he seemed normal enough, and friendly enough with the other men. But gradually, he seemed to withdraw: he spent more and more time by himself, and when with the others there seemed to always be a part of himself he kept back.

Then, late one night, Marcus awoke to the sound of hushed murmuring coming from Stephanus’ cell, which bordered on his own. One of the voices was Stephanus’; the other was the voice of a woman. Curious, Marcus got up and peered through the bars. He could just make out the back of her head, but her voice confirmed it was the serving girl – one of the slaves owned by the school, tasked with the menial chores that kept it running. She was sitting on the ground and talking with him through the bars. Her voice trembled with emotion as she spoke. As Marcus continued listening, he noticed Stephanus’ voice becoming more and more infected with the same trembling emotion.

Marcus could only catch snippets of their conversation. “He loves you,” murmured the girl to Stephanus. A little later Marcus heard her say, with emphasis: “Yes, you will see him.”

Conscious they might be overheard, she became quieter thereafter. Marcus now only caught the odd word: “suffering,” “forgive,” “glory.” After a while longer, he realized they had begun praying together. He stretched out again to sleep, his curiosity lost now it was clear their conversation concerned some religious cult rather than an attempt to escape or some erotic rendezvous.

Stephanus and the serving girl continued to talk whenever they could. Sometimes at night, whispering through the bars of his cell; sometimes in the day, while he was resting between trainings. Marcus observed all this, and his curiosity gradually returned.

The girl was a Christian, one of the other gladiators told him. Marcus had only the most general understanding of what this meant. The Christians, he knew, were a strange cult that came from the East; originally Jews who became even more depraved, they now vigorously sought converts and so spread throughout the lowest classes of the empire. There were disturbing rumors about what happened in their sacred ceremonies closed to outsiders. It was said they practiced incest and cannibalism, and worshiped either a donkey or a crucified slave.

At first, Marcus, who wasn’t particularly friendly with Stephanus, didn’t ask him about any of this. But as his curiosity grew, he found more opportunities to speak with him, and eventually asked him what he talked with the serving girl about. Marcus remembered the first time he asked this: Stephanus was reluctant to speak, and stared at him with fearful eyes. But when Marcus persisted in his questioning, showing by the gentle and confidential tone of his voice that he had no malicious intent, Stephanus began to unfold the story of his new-found faith.

Though she was a Christian, he explained, he was not – at least, not yet. He had not performed the ritual that admitted him into their community. He had known some Christians previously, back in Smyrna, and had been impressed by their honesty and kindness. Nevertheless, when he entered the gladiatorial school, his beliefs were just like everyone else: of course there were gods, a great many of them, but the best were most distant and required elaborate and expensive sacrifices. Though the lesser were more near to you, they could do much less for you. Marcus smiled when he heard this: like many of his class, he wasn’t sure there were any gods at all.

It was through Zahra, the serving girl, that Stephanus had come to the faith. He had observed her one day in prayer, and noticed the look of blissful peace upon her face. Though she was a rather plain girl, lacking in obvious charms, nevertheless that look made her radiant, gave her a sort of celestial beauty. Stephanus recalled having seen that look somewhere before. After watching her with rapt attention on several further occasions, he finally talked to her.

She shied away at first, used to the rough and often obscene manner of the other gladiators, but his persistent kindness prevailed.

“Who do you pray to?” he finally asked, after they had introduced themselves and shared a bit about where they came from.

Again she hesitated.

“Christus?” he asked, warmly.

“Christus,” she replied with a smile.

Christus – The Anointed One, a Jew whose coming, the Christians believed, had been prophesied in the scriptures of his people. He was crucified under the Roman prefect of Judea a couple of decades before the great Jewish revolt was crushed and their temple destroyed. This man, Stephanus learned, had preached perfect love for the Jewish God and generous love for others, whoever they may be. “Love your enemies,” was a prominent saying of his.

As Stephanus explained this, his brown eyes shone bright with clarity and peace.

Although Christus’ disciples expected him to liberate his people from Roman rule, the Jewish leaders opposed him and had him condemned by the prefect to a disgraceful death, the death of a slave – he was nailed to a cross and crucified.

And that would have been the end of it – except that, his followers claimed, on the third day after his death he rose to life again. His tomb was left empty and he appeared to his disciples. They touched him, talked with him, ate with him. He was indeed the coming savior, though calling his followers to a spiritual rather than a physical kingdom – at least for the time being.

“Because soon,” said Stephanus, “he will come back again”; and his eyes, previously peaceful, suddenly flashed with a cruel, consuming lust for vengeance. “We who believe in him will live with him forever in the paradise he will bring; those who have died will be raised to life again like he was. The sinful, the unbelievers, all those who mocked and tormented and killed us – they will all be condemned to burn forever in the fires of God’s wrath –”

He suddenly stopped himself, as though he had said too much. He looked down, then up again at Marcus’ face. “All will be repaid; justice will triumph,” he said, simply, his previous look of peaceful clarity returning to his eyes.

Marcus didn’t know what to make of all this. It was crazy. It seemed to turn everything upside down. The other eastern cults – what he had heard of them – made far more sense. The cult of the Invincible Sun, for instance – anyone could see the sense in his worship. Or Mithras who slayed the formidable bull. These were cults of power and glory. But what was this cult of the Crucified? Love everyone, including your enemies. Why? How? In a subsequent meeting, Stephanus had shared a further puzzling saying of Christus: “The meek shall inherit the earth.” Everyone must become as slaves in this life so they might be free in the next. Marcus despised being a slave, and longed for his former life.

And yet, there was something strangely compelling in all this. Never to resist – to never have the anguish and anxiety of resistance. To be full of love. To rise to life again – mad as it sounded – a perfectly blissful life, just because you believed and followed the Jew called Christus… He recalled the look of luminous peace in Stephanus’ eyes.

But then he recalled that other look, when Stephanus told him about the judgment of his god when Christus returned – that look of searing hate and vengeance. Marcus knew the emotions behind that look well; it was exactly how he felt about Quintus. How glad he would be – what an unmatched pleasure it would be to see Quintus slowly torn apart by lions, or hacked to death by a gladiator, cowering on the arena floor – that vile, despicable man who robbed him of his freedom and sent him to probable death, for no reason other than his own base selfishness. No, that look in Stephanus’ eyes did not signify love of enemies.

Marcus talked with Stephanus several more times about his faith. Each time, Stephanus shared more and went into more depth – partly because his own understanding was growing. And each time, Marcus noticed, he spoke about it more emphatically.

Marcus talked to the serving girl Zahra too, and during these talks he saw, even more clearly and powerfully, the peace that had had illumined the eyes of Stephanus. As she spoke with humble devotion about her lord, her whole face – indeed, it seemed, her entire body – glowed.

Once a priest of their religion came to the gate, at the dead of night, and spoke with Stephanus and Zahra through the gate. He prayed with them, gave them a blessing, and departed. Marcus learned of it later; they had not wanted to tell anyone, in case the master of the school found out. Of all the gladiators, Stephanus talked only to Marcus about his religion. The others seemed to know, however, and some would jeer at him in private: “donkey-worshipper,” “slave of the crucified.” Stephanus didn’t respond to these jibes; and the others didn’t appear to have informed the master.

Marcus was upset he hadn’t be told about the visit beforehand, or even perhaps invited to participate in it – although he had been frank about his disbelief during all their conversations. “So… you’re truly a Christian now?” he asked after he heard about it, barely concealing his bitterness. He assumed the priest had come to perform the ritual of baptism, in which the prospective Christian had water poured upon him, after which all their sins were forgiven and they could take up full participation in the community. Stephanus had explained all this previously.

Stephanus, sensing his resentment, himself grew bitter. He clenched his teeth, and gave a swift, small shake of his head.

“What?” asked Marcus, surprised. Their first fight was only a few days away.

“It is not yet time,” he replied, and walked briskly away.

The following night, Marcus heard him weeping in his cell

Though they talked again once or twice, Marcus didn’t mention what he had heard, and Stephanus didn’t elaborate on what he had said.

This was the man he was to fight.

---

The door of the cell creaked open, and the guards led the men through the winding passages into a larger room that directly abutted the arena. Through the gate they could see the arena floor, covered in white sand that was streaked, here and there, with the blood of the convicts who had been thrown to the beasts that morning. The room contained their weapons and armor, which they now began to put on. And from this room they would be released into the arena to fight, two by two, when their time came.

As he strapped on his armor, Marcus could hear the constant low cacophony of the crowd, who chatted among themselves as they waited for the main event. He walked up to the bars of the gate and gazed at the interior of the Colosseum. The sun shimmered on the blood and sand. This was a sight that used to invigorate him, when he was still a spectator. Now it inspired dread; he could feel that chilling cold feeling again begin to press upon his heart.

He turned his mind back to the task at hand: he must survive, must withstand whatever came at him, must vanquish his opponent. He brought to mind the most glorious fights he had witnessed as a spectator, forcibly imagining himself as the victor in each. “I can do this,” he thought. “And then the next time, it will be easier. And the next.” And then – he might win his freedom, earn back his fortune, and establish himself in some corner of the empire where the shame of his punishment would not find him. He would not die a gladiator or a slave.

The gladiators were now all fully armed, each with a particular style of weapons and armor, to better amuse the crowd. The guards announced the first pair, the gates opened, and they strode out into the middle of the arena. Marcus saw them salute the emperor and commence their fight, though they were soon lost to view as one forced the other toward the edge. Marcus tried to make out what was happening by the cries of the crowd.

Suddenly, the crowd howled in unison. One of the gladiators must have been wounded, perhaps even killed. A few minutes later, Marcus saw one of them walk across the arena and through the Gate of Life by which victorious gladiators departed. He didn’t see the other again.

The second pair was announced. Lucius, the auctoratus, stood up and waited for the gates to open. There was no longer a malicious smirk on his face; now he stared vacantly ahead at the bare arena. Then he shook his head violently, spat, and strode out alongside his opponent.

The next battle was fierce and protracted, and Marcus was able to see most of it through the bars. Lucius was wounded multiple times and eventually fell. His opponent loomed over him, ready to deliver the final blow.

Lucius raised a finger, the sign of submission and request for mercy from the emperor.

His opponent paused and waited.

Though Marcus could not see the imperial box from where he was, he heard the near-unanimous chant of the crowd: “Live, live, live…!”

The gladiator lowered his sword and stepped back – the sign of mercy had been given. He then raised both his arms high in victory, and the crowd, delighted both by his victory and that his brave opponent had been spared, roared louder than ever.

Medical slaves rushed toward Lucius and helped to carry him out of the arena.

“Marcus Postumius and Stephanus of Smyrna,” the guards announced.

“This is it,” thought Marcus, as he waited for the gates to open. He could sense Stephanus standing beside him, but did not look at him. As they walked together into the arena, Marcus was struck but just how vast the Colosseum was, being unused to viewing it from this perspective. Row upon row of spectators towered above him, until they were barely visible. They all seemed to merge into one great indistinguishable mass. The golden eagles of Rome gleamed in the afternoon sun atop pillars at each corner of the emperor’s box, which was placed close to the arena to ensure the best view.

He caught sight of the emperor, young but dignified, wrapped in the vibrant Tyrian purple that only he was permitted to wear. This was the man who ruled the world, seated in the largest and most magnificent stadium the world had ever seen, to which beasts and men were brought from every corner of the world to die for the delight of the Roman crowd. Rome ruled the world; that man ruled Rome.

Though he was not the emperor, not a senator, nor even a free man, Marcus couldn’t help feeling deeply impressed. The mass, the might, the splendor of it all! He had previously rejoiced in it; now he was to be crushed by it. Even Rome’s victims had to admire her.

Yes, he would fight with all he had; the crowd would cheer for him; the emperor would spare him, at the crowd’s insistence, if he fell. He would vanquish his adversary or fight so well he would leave the arena to fight again, to eventually win back his freedom.

But how would his adversary fight? Marcus glanced, at last, at Stephanus.

His brow was knotted; his lips moved, though whatever he said was too soft to be heard.

“He is praying to his god,” Marcus thought. “He is scared. If my attack is strong from the outset, it may not be hard to beat him. Besides, how well can a man fight who must love his enemies?”

Then Marcus suddenly recalled another saying of Christus, as bizarre as the rest: “If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.”

Stephanus wasn’t at all a bad fighter. Marcus knew, from their training, he could hold his own against him – could potentially defeat him. They were well matched, which was likely why they were paired together for their first fight. But this wasn’t training. How would he fight, when the result could mean life or death? How exactly would a Christian fight?

And he thought of those Christians he had seen in Cilicia, during his quaestorship, who were condemned to be devoured by beasts. They did not strive, vainly, to flee, or strain against their bonds, or plead for mercy. Instead, they prayed. One, he recalled, had even sung – some hymn to his god – right before the leopard’s teeth ripped through his thigh. They almost seemed to welcome death, almost to seek it...

And a terrible thought struck Marcus for the first time: perhaps Stephanus wouldn’t fight. Perhaps he would simply let himself be struck down, as he said his savior had done. Perhaps he would make of himself a sacrifice to his god...

In that moment Marcus felt a strange mingling of relief, disgust and horror all at once – relief that he might so easily survive; disgust that a man who could fight might nevertheless make himself a passive victim; horror that he might be the one to slay this defenseless man, so full of love and ardor, with whom he had talked so much, of whom he had grown fond, who might even have become his friend.

They reached the center of the arena and turned toward the emperor.

“Ave Imperator!” Marcus cried, and thrust his arm out in a salute.

“Ave Christus!” he heard Stephanus shout, simultaneously; and his dismay grew when he noticed that he hadn’t extended his arm. He saw the emperor rise to his feet, surprised.

The continuous background rumble of the crowd grew hushed.

Marcus turned to look Stephanus full in the face. The strain he had seen in him before had now transformed into resolution. He looked back at Marcus, gazed at him with those eyes so full of love and peaceful resignation, now also tinged somewhat with sorrow.

“He loves us,” Stephanus said. “He is faithful; he will return.”

“You – will fight?” Marcus asked, choking on his words.

“I will not,” Stephanus replied, simply. “I will not kill. If I must die, I will die – for him.”

“How can I fight someone who won’t fight back? It disgraces both of us!”

“You don’t have to fight, either,” Stephanus said, his voice growing swift and earnest. He threw down his sword and shield.

The crowd was now utterly silent.

“Come with me,” he said. “You will have eternal glory in the next life. Come! You will be baptized in blood; your blood will make you his. Rome will be overthrown; he will reign with perfect justice forever.” And Stephanus knelt down before him.

There was a hope buried deep in his pained and earnest eyes; Marcus saw it, and saw it grow in his own mind. He could, like Stephanus, simply throw down his weapons. They would both undoubtedly be executed. But others would follow, would do the same. The kingdom of Christus would come. Peace, love, self-sacrifice; everyone serving each other in his name; an end to all cruelty and violence among men. He imagined an empty Colosseum, abandoned and in ruins, a Rome without the games, a Rome full of Christians, of men on their knees, all worshiping Christus together. No more strife, betrayal, grief, or painful striving. No more arrogant unscrupulous rich men; no more poor abject slaves. All would be one, worshiping the one God, brought together in love by his Anointed One.

“Slave!” a lone voice screamed from the midst of the crowd.

“Beast!” another cried out.

“Vermin!”

“He will not fight!”

“Kill him!”

“Christian!”

“Kill him!”

“Kill him!”

The crowd began howling; the discordant cries resolving eventually into one overwhelming chant: “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

Marcus looked at the emperor; it seemed he was the only one in the whole amphitheater not joining in the chant. He was standing, still utterly dignified, holding the gathered folds of his purple toga, at the edge of the imperial box. He was watching them, waiting to see what happened. High above him, the golden eagles still gleamed in the sun. Unlike the crowd, he did not appear enraged, yet his face betrayed not the slightest trace of pity. His calm dignity made him seem to float above the seething sea of hatred and bloodlust that now filled the Colosseum. The crowd was one great beast, but he was its master. Marcus understood. This man was truly a god.

Marcus looked back to Stephanus, and was surprised to find him changed. Those eyes, at first so loving and sorrowful, now blazed with the same violent lust for vengeance he had seen flash forth the first time he talked about Christus’ return.

Marcus took a step back and raised his shield, convinced he was now going to fight.

But Stephanus didn’t budge. In fact, he seemed even more determined than before. The very hate that burned in his eyes seemed to make him desire this death more, seemed to dare the crowd and Marcus to do their worst.

Perceiving this, Marcus threw his shield to the ground. In an instant, Marcus’ disgust welled up and vanquished his horror.

“I curse you, Quintus Rutilius Lupus!” he screamed, and, quickly turning round his sword and gripping it with both hands, he plunged the point down hard through Stephanus’ shoulder, deep into his body. Blood gushed up from his mouth and split onto his chest.

Marcus hauled out the blade; blood spurted from the gaping wound, drenching his back. His body pitched forward and sprawled on the ground.

The blood began to pool in the sand.

The crowd roared.