Philologus smiled. “Because I got a job!”
“What?” Julia’s tears were slowing, and her face started to light up.
“Yes, I got a job. It’s dirty work, but the good news is the work won’t be done for a very long time. I’m digging grave tunnels at the quarry. Senator Pudens, he gave me an old pickaxe and told me where they were digging, and I just showed up and signed on. I have a job!”
Marcus smiled. “Congratulations!”
Stachys seemed skeptical. “Wait. If you’re digging grave tunnels, you’ll be a social outcast, no better than a gladiator, a pimp, or an actor!”
Marcus jumped to Philologus’s defense. “Stachys, old man, you’re going to have to get used to the idea that Way-followers are already social outcasts. As long as we reject the traditions of Rome, we’ll never be seen as good Romans.”
“Yes,” Philologus agreed, “and you heard Paul’s letter to the Way-followers at Thessalonica. People are going to fall asleep. Way-followers, who will need a decent burial. Maybe I can help with that. We’re going to need to take care of our dead as they wait for the resurrection. In fact, we could organize our gatherings as funeral clubs. That way everything would be legal.”
Young Clemens joined the conversation. “He may be right. . . . Funeral clubs collect dues, so we can collect money to help take care of the widows and orphans. Funeral clubs allow both men and women, free and slave, and so do we. Funeral clubs have banquets, we have the agapē meal. It’s perfect. Actually, it’s kind of poetic. Our security is in the cemeteries.”
“Well,” Marcus said thoughtfully, “we can’t make a decision on that until Peter arrives. For now, let’s get ready for the gathering.”
In another part of the city, in a butcher’s apartment on Long Street in the valley between the Quirinal Hill and the Viminal Hill, another gathering of Way-followers was beginning their evening meal. The host greeted the group’s leader. “Salve, Aquilinus!”
“Salve, brother. But I’ve told you—everyone calls me Linus.”
“Linus, then. How is your father, old Herculanus?”
“He’s well, thank you for asking.”
“Ah! Ephebus. Linus, you remember Ephebus. He serves in the house of Narcissus. And this is Bito, from the imperial house.”
“Salvete, brothers. Now, everyone! Everyone! Let’s gather for the prayers.”
After the prayers and petitions, Linus opened a scroll and read a story about a man named Daniel. He was thrown to the lions, but the one true God protected him, and the lions only licked his face, like harmless puppies. Then Linus set the scroll aside and said, “This story of Daniel happened a long time ago. But here we are in such an age that congratulates itself for being civilized, and yet people are still thrown to the lions. True, many of them are condemned criminals, but does that mean they cannot be saved? Iesua would say no, they can be saved. Iesua would say it’s not too late for anyone to turn their lives around, turn over a new leaf, and start fresh. Brothers and sisters, I know that you gathered here are not likely to commit the kinds of crimes that would result in your execution. But I want you to consider whether you are participating in murder by going to the spectacles and witnessing, yes, even cheering, for the death of those men who end their lives in the arena. Some of them, their only crime was to be a slave and be unfortunate enough to be sold to the gladiator school. Here in the midst of these three days of games and shows, I believe that we Way-followers should not be attending them—even if we are ridiculed for avoiding the circus, the theater, the arena. Iesua himself said you are blessed when they ridicule you.”
Peter looked up into the heavens and prayed. The small gathering of sailors and passengers lifted their eyes and their hands, and when Peter’s prayer was done, they walked off singing, and the sailors headed back to their work, still singing the hymn. Peter’s eyes scanned the horizon. He thanked his Lord Iesua, the one who was before Abraham was, for the colorful sunset that painted the sparkling water. But he could not see the coastline, and that worried him. He looked forward to reaching Ostia, where the ship would finally drop anchor. Peter thought about another time when he had longed to get to shore and drop anchor. It was the time a storm almost capsized his boat—that is, until Iesua calmed the sea. And now the Way-followers were tossed about on the rough waters of the empire. Peter thought about the anchor. He thought about how it could represent stability in times of tribulation and how it could stand for the peaceful, safe harbor of heaven. The Way-followers would need a symbol to unite them. Maybe the anchor could be such a symbol—standing for the stability of the faith and the hope of peace in eternity. Peter smiled. He could not think of a better symbol to represent the Way-followers and their good news.
The city was dark as a tomb but just as loud as if it were daytime. Stachys walked with his torch, dodging the carts and wagons, trying to stay out of sight of the night watchmen. The carts made an ear-splitting scraping sound as their iron-rimmed front wheels skidded on the paving stones to turn the corners. Mule drivers shouted at each other as the carts maneuvered past one another on the narrow roads. Porters unloaded their cargos, and the bakers began their nightly work. A large, loud group of people coming from a banquet sang their way down the street, surrounded by bodyguards with torches. Someone yelled about a cart wheel running over his foot. Stachys was startled when a group of people started banging pots and pans together to call the moon back to share its light.
Eventually Stachys found Urbanus by the warehouses. He started to say something to Urbanus, but Urbanus pulled him into an open warehouse stall and put his hand over Stachys’s mouth. Urbanus crouched down and motioned for Stachys to do the same. There they waited.
Finally, Stachys whispered, “What are we waiting for?”
“You’ll see. Now be quiet.”
“Hades! It never fails. Always at the worst time, I have to go to the forica.”
Figure 5.8. The Roman forica was the public latrine, which was equipped with a running water flush system. Since most people did not have bathrooms (beyond the chamber pot) in their homes, everyone expected to use the public facilities regularly.
Urbanus rolled his eyes. “Just hold it.”
After a silence, Stachys whispered, “Urbanus, do you believe that there is one high god over all the other gods? “I don’t know. Some of the philosophers teach that there is. I suppose it makes more sense than all that rigmarole on the top of Mount Olympus. But how would I know?”
“The Way-followers believe in only one God. But it’s not just a high god over the other gods. It’s only one God. And the truly strange thing is, they say this God loves us. Isn’t that weird? I know what love is between a man and his lover. But between a god and a man? They say this God cares what happens to us. Can you believe that? They say this God cares what happens to us, and then when we die, we go to paradise to be with this God.”
“If that were true, then why don’t they just kill themselves so they can get there sooner?”
Stachys stuck out his bottom lip. “That’s a good question. I’ll have to ask Marcus. They don’t fear death, but they don’t seek it either. And if one of them dies, the others are sad.”
“The philosophers say that when you die, you come back and start all over again. That’s probably what happens.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. Trouble is, you can’t remember the previous life, so you really do have to start over. You figure it out, or you don’t. I guess the high god cares what you do, in the sense that he wants you to figure it out. But he doesn’t go out of his way to help you. Then again, if Plato was right, why did they make Socrates kill himself? . . . Now, be quiet and wait. Soon you will be avenged for being mistreated. I want you to see this with your own eyes.”
After a while they heard the brass nails of military boots coming along on the paving stones. Stachys was afraid it was one of the night watchmen. Urbanus made a sign for Stachys to be quiet. Then someone in the uniform of the Praetorians
walked by the stall where Urbanus and Stachys were hiding. As he walked on, five gladiators stepped out from one of the other stalls and blocked his way. Stachys was shocked to see that the Praetorian was Geta, and then even more shocked when the group of gladiators started beating him with their fists and with clubs.
Urbanus defended his actions. “I hired the gladiators. Just to send the message to Geta that he can’t threaten my freedman. I had to do something to answer the affront to my honor.”
The gladiators finished their beating and ran off, leaving Geta lying motionless in the street. Urbanus waited for a short time, then stood up and slowly approached. Stachys followed but stayed behind Urbanus. Urbanus kicked Geta. “Va cacá!”
“What?”
“He’s dead.”
“No! Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. Hades! They weren’t supposed to kill him.”
“What do we do?”
“Grab his legs.”
“What?!”
“Get his legs. We have to get rid of the body before the night watchmen come along. You have to help me.”
Stachys took Geta’s legs, and Urbanus took his arms, and they dragged his body to the Tiber and rolled it into the churning water.
6
THE DAY OF SATURN
STACHYS DID NOT GO TO URBANUS’S HOUSE. He knew it was disrespectful to miss a morning visit to his patron’s house, but given what had happened the night before, he was willing to risk Urbanus’s anger in order to distance himself. And, he reasoned, a little prayer couldn’t hurt, even if he had decided not to be baptized. So he went to the morning prayer gathering but kept to himself, avoiding conversation with Maria or Marcus. At several points during the meeting, Stachys closed his eyes and started to try to talk to the Lord Iesua, only to get distracted or find it difficult to put together the right words to express his fear and anxiety over his role in the death of Geta. Stachys desperately wanted to avoid any consequences, and in fact he couldn’t even bring himself to think too much about what those consequences might be, let alone articulate them in prayer, but he remembered once hearing Marcus say that when you can’t find the right words to pray, the Holy Spirit prays for you. At the time, Stachys had thought that was very strange, since Roman prayer depended on saying exactly the right words. How could the Way-followers pray without knowing the proper words? He didn’t know how it could be true, but now he found he was counting on it.
Marcus ended the morning prayer gathering with a plea for his people to avoid the spectacles. “I know it’s the third day of games, but we Way-followers should not be supporting the idolatry and brutality of the gladiator games and the shows in the theaters.” He couldn’t help glancing at his mother. “They turn humiliation and death into entertainment, and we can’t be a part of that. Our commandments tell us not to bear false witness, which is what the plays do, and not to kill, which is what the games do. If we are not allowed to do something, we’re also not allowed to watch it for entertainment. It makes us part of it. It makes us guilty of it.” The people nodded their heads, but Marcus knew that some of them were planning to go to the games directly from the meeting. A few of them didn’t even wait until they were out of sight of Stachys’s house to look at their tokens and compare where they would be sitting in the amphitheater.
When Stachys told Maria what had happened during the night, she looked at him without saying anything for a long time. In her mind, she was a bit surprised at herself and how calm she was able to be, but then she had felt very distant from Stachys ever since the question of a tutor for Tertius had come up. Now as she looked at him, she could not remember why she ever thought it was a good idea to try to make a family with him. She shook her head and finally spoke. “I understand that you didn’t kill this man and that you were put in a difficult position by your patron. But it’s now clear to me that when the hard decisions come to you, you protect your career before you protect your family. Stachys, if you won’t protect your son, I will. I’m sorry to say this, but if you hand your son over to a tutor, you and I are through.”
“What?” Stachys didn’t see that coming. By leaving him, Maria would be risking her very life. “You would sacrifice your own safety? You would be homeless, with no income. You would be putting yourself and Marcus in danger.”
“Marcus is a grown man. As for me, I would rather risk my own security than stay with a man who would sell his son’s innocence for a career advancement.”
“But a woman on her own . . . I mean, if you had family here, or a dowry to get back, but you have nothing. No one. You would be opening yourself up to all kinds of dishonor.”
Maria just folded her arms and looked away from Stachys.
“Maria,” Stachys pleaded. “It’s not that bad. It’s just a difference in our customs, really. I mean, who are these Way-followers anyway, to tell us Romans what to do and how to live? What gives them the right to try to get me to live by their rules?”
“Some things are always wrong, Stachys. Always. Our rules are meant to protect the innocent. And it’s not as though you and I have a registered marriage. I take my things, you keep your things, and we part ways. It’s very simple. I promise it won’t take too much time out of your day. Maybe our table isn’t for you. Maybe you and I are not right for each other.”
Once again Stachys found himself having to step out of his own house to find the space to think.
Most of Rome’s elite would be at the Amphitheater of Statilius Taurus, on the south end of the Field of Mars at the bank of the River Tiber. Stachys decided to wander in that direction as he tried to figure out what to do next. But before he could come to any conclusions, he found himself at the amphitheater, and so he went in and found his way to a seat in the men’s section. The sacrifices were just ending, and as wine offerings were poured out to honor Mars and Apollo, the wine dripped down the altar and soaked into the sand as a foreshadow of the blood that was about to flow there.
Maria left the house and found Tertius with his grammar school class. They were meeting in the street near the teacher’s apartment. Maria apologized to the teacher, making excuses for Tertius, and then took him from the class. She was determined to protect him, even if it was not her legal right to do so. She took him to Senator Pudens’s house, where she planned to ask whether Tertius could spend the day with Pudens’s daughters, away from the games and out of harm’s way. When she arrived at Pudens’s house and was shown into the atrium, she found Marcus there, along with young Clemens. They were talking with the senator about the plan for smuggling Peter into the city.
Gladiators and the Arena
The English word arena is actually just the Latin word for “sand.” It was in the sand that the gladiators fought and died. Although the earliest gladiator contests were in the open fora, by the time of our story, most of the fights took place in the amphitheaters.
An amphitheater was a theater in the round. Imagine two Roman theaters put together so that instead of a semicircle with the stage on the flat side, the amphitheater had an oval-shaped pit in the middle surrounded by stadium seating. The Amphitheater of Statilius Taurus may have been the only true amphitheater in Rome at the time of our story, though we don’t know exactly where it was. However, it’s important to keep in mind that gladiator contests were also held in fora, in circuses, and possibly also in theaters. The Colosseum was not built yet—it would not be built for another thirty years.
Like the other spectacles, the gladiatorial games always began with some form of pagan ritual. And like the theater, an amphitheater had separate seating for men and women. There was also a section for schoolboys, with their tutors nearby to watch over them.
A typical day at the amphitheater might begin with public executions. If one went to the arena in the morning, one might expect to see criminals who were sentenced to die ad bestias, that is, by the wild beasts. Other executions were conducted by making two condemned criminals fight to the death. In the afternoon the professional gladiator
s would be paired off and fight.
Most gladiators were slaves, bought by the trainers as an investment and then trained to fight. Some volunteered for various reasons. They got a signing bonus, which may have been the incentive if the person was in debt. There were even a few female gladiators. It seems that there were enough gladiators that most of them only actually fought a few times per year. Of the ones who died, most died in their first or second fight, but if they survived to the third fight, odds were better that they would survive for some time. If a gladiator lived and fought honorably for three years and then put in another two years of service as a trainer, they earned their freedom. Gladiators could rent themselves out as hired security guards on the side, and with the prize money from their victories they could buy their freedom. Some became quite rich and famous, with their portraits and busts on display in the homes, shops, taverns, and bathhouses of their fans.
We should keep in mind that not all fights ended in the death of the loser. If the gladiators were slaves, they were considered valuable property, in whom a significant investment had been made in terms of training and food. Even if the gladiator was not a slave, trainers were acting as booking agents, and so it was in their best interest to make matches that resulted in both gladiators surviving. Owners were not in a hurry to lose that investment just because their man lost a match—especially if they had money on the match and lost that as well. In any case, there was such a thing as an honorable defeat, and if the crowd—and ultimately the emperor, if he was in attendance—felt that the loser’s life should be spared, then he would have lived to fight another day. The truth is, many of the matches were probably more like a form of sparring than a fight to the death. The gladiators probably did try to draw blood, but they probably also tried to avoid mortal wounds.
A Week in the Life of Rome Page 14