St Paul’s Labyrinth. Jeroen Windmeijer

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СКАЧАТЬ the venatio, the staged hunt of exotic beasts, comes the spectacle of public executions. During today’s underwhelming opening act, in which a few criminals were merely beheaded, many took the opportunity to relieve themselves in the catacomb latrines.

      The executions are inspired by stories from ancient Greece and the public appreciates the creativity with which they are carried out. After the eagles have eaten their fill of entrails and the four men have died – as in the tale of Prometheus – four wooden ramps are wheeled into the arena. In the middle of each ramp is an enormous boulder. Convicts are brought out to recreate the Sisyphean task of rolling the rocks to the top of the ramps, a feat which they naturally all fail to accomplish. The sound of their breaking bones travels all the way up to the third tier.

      Another group of men is sent into the sweltering arena. They have gone without food and drink for days and must now attempt to reach the bread and jugs of water that dangle from the stands on long poles. To the crowd’s delight, just before they grasp them, the poles are raised high above their heads, making the bread and water as unreachable as they were for Tantalus. When the public’s attention begins to wane, starved dogs are released to rip the men apart.

      Now, eight men covered in oil and pitch are brought into the ring and tied to stakes. Roman boys, none of them a day over twelve, shoot flaming arrows at the prisoners until they eventually begin to burn. The men scream as they meet their fiery end and a murmur of approval rumbles around the amphitheatre. This may not have been inspired by a Greek story, but it is a novelty that has never been seen before.

      A late arrival makes his way to the stands and looks for a seat on the end of one of the benches. He is small, and his legs are crooked, but he looks sturdy, with eyebrows that meet above a long nose. He is a charismatic man and he radiates the serenity of an angel. A brief look at the young man who is already sitting on the end of the bench is all that is needed to create space. He takes his seat and sets his small earthenware jug on the ground next to his feet.

      While the dead criminals are dragged from the arena and the patches of blood are covered with fresh sand, musicians and fools do their best to entertain the public with acrobatic antics. The crowd cheers as dozens of boys and girls enter the stands carrying huge baskets of bread between them. The distribution of bread at the games began two years ago in Rome and was so popular among the commoners that the practice rapidly spread to every corner of the Empire. The boys and girls walk up the steps, throwing hunks of bread into the crowds. A forest of arms reaches up to meet them where they land. Once caught, the bread is swiftly tucked beneath cloaks, leaving hands free to snatch another piece.

      ‘Panem et tauros,’ the youngster says mockingly to the old man next to him. Bread and bulls. He takes the chunk of bread that has fortuitously landed in his lap and, without looking, sullenly hurls it in a huge arc behind him.

      But this is what most people have come for today; for the bread, but mostly to see the bullfight.

      The editor muneris, the sponsor of today’s games, orders the release of the bull by raising his arm in an impressive saluto romano. A deafening cheer fills the arena. The editor looks around the crowd, then, gratified, returns to lie on his couch. He picks up a small bunch of grapes from the lavishly spread table next to him and watches as the gigantic, wildly bucking bull enters the amphitheatre. The animal has been force-fed salt for days and denied even a drop of water. It has spent the last twenty-four hours in a stall too small for its enormous mass while its belly was battered with sandbags to cause internal bleeding. The game has been rigged before it has even begun. He cannot win today.

      Now the ministri, the attendants, enter the arena. They taunt the bull with huge capes, assessing its strength, intelligence and fighting spirit. They wave the brightly coloured cloths with great bravado, skilfully dodging the bull’s charges. Gasps of awe pour down from the stands and into the arena, like the waters of a river tumbling down a mountainside.

      The bull is judged worthy of the fight. Four venatores, hunters, come through the four gates of the battleground on horseback, each one clutching a verutum, a hunting spear, in his right hand. They enter like gods, wearing only loincloths. Spiky leaves of laurel are woven into their hair. Their horses, protected by heavy armour, are visibly frightened, but their vocal chords have been severed and they can make no sound.

      They close in on the bull from four directions and it does not know which horse to attack, but the circle closes tighter and tighter around the bull until it is forced to launch itself at the nearest rider. As soon as it approaches one of the horses, the rider stands up in the stirrups to plunge his verutum into the bull’s neck, bearing down upon it with the weight of his entire body. The venatores each charge at the bull in turn, goring the bull’s neck at least once before retreating to loud applause. The bull is dazed and its head lolls as blood drips onto the ground from its wounds.

      Then the mactator arrives, the star of the show, the bull killer, the man who will finish the job. He is a mountain of a man, dressed in a simple, short tunic, arms bare and lower legs covered by protectors. In each hand, he carries a pole as long as his arm, decorated with ribbons and ending in a barb. He walks towards the bull in a straight line. The more determinedly he follows this invisible path, the more the crowd admires his courage. Most of them are sitting again now, and instead of the cheers and yells that made all conversation impossible moments ago, there is silence, as though they are collectively holding their breath. The bull responds to the new threat heading towards him by scraping the sand with its hoof. With a guttural roar, the mactator commands the attention of the whole arena. When he is within a few steps of the bull, it charges. The taurarius, the bullfighter, spins neatly to avoid the attack, and before he finishes his pirouette, he drives a barbed lance between the bull’s shoulder blades. The arena explodes with joy, so graceful was the parry, so perfectly aimed the lance. Now the mactator runs away from the bull. Then, he circles back towards it, and with an impressive leap, lands his second spear next to the first.

      Those who assume that the bull has given up are about to find that they are mistaken. The animal seems to know that this is its last chance to wound his attacker. It summons all its strength to lift up its head, while blood gushes from its wounds and long, bloody strings of mucus hang from its mouth.

      The taurarius approaches the editor’s box, bends one knee on the sand and bows his head. The editor gives a small nod of approval, upon which the venator at the eastern gate comes forward to place a special headcovering on the mactator’s head – a soft, red conical cap with a point that falls forwards – and hand him the linteum, the half circle of red flannel, draped over a wooden rod.

      The taurarius walks back to the bull. He waves the cloth tauntingly, and from somewhere, the beast finds the energy to make a few desperate lunges. The enthusiasm of the audience’s reaction spurs the bullfighter on to take even greater risks. This is the most dangerous stage of the fight. One moment of distraction could be fatal. The bull, stunned by pain and fear, could still mortally wound the mactator in a last attempt to avoid death by goring his unprotected belly with his horns.

      But the liberating blast of a trumpet is already sounding and the venator comes scurrying over from his post at the western gate. In one hand he carries a light, curved sword – with a hilt in the form of a snake, the falcata – and in the other, a flaming torch. He hands over the falcata and takes up position behind the bull’s left flank. This is the hora veritatis, the hour of truth, when the mactator will end the beast’s suffering by plunging the sword between its shoulder blades and piercing its heart.

      He stands before the exhausted animal. It is too tired now to even lift its head. He places his hand on its forehead and forces it to the ground, a flourish which brings a sigh of admiration from the crowd.

      A СКАЧАТЬ