The Greatest Gladiator

A hush descended on the festive crowd. The cries of the hawkers, the gossip of the matrons, the raucous laughter from the cheap seats all ceased as Emperor Titus ascended to his purple-dyed canopy. As he raised his right arm, they shouted with one mighty voice, fifty thousand strong, “Ave Caesar! Ave Caesar! Ave Caesar!”

In the gloom beneath the stadium, Burun registered both the silence and the tumult and he knew his moment had come. Burun was a giant, even amongst his own Lycian stock, whose men had the shoulders of bullocks. Their Roman neighbours often added, unkindly, that their women had the bullocks’ faces. Burun flexed his arms and stretched as the slave slathered him with olive oil and scraped his massive body clean. Unlike the swordsmen who would feature later, Burun was naked except for an ox-hide loincloth and thick bands protecting his forearms. He carried a heavy chain wrapped about his left hand and a massive studded club in his right. At the last minute Burun threw a lion-skin cloak across his shoulders: this was his trademark and symbol and he wore it with the teeth framing his forehead, just as Hercules had worn the impenetrable skin of the Nemean Lion.

What would he face this time, he wondered. The leopards and lions had given him little trouble in the past. They were predictable: he stopped their ripping claws with the chain wound around his leather-clad forearm, then, keeping his throat well protected he finished them with a blow from his club, usually to the face or the back of the head. Sometimes he played them for a while to give the crowd a bit more for their money. They loved a bit of blood. And they loved him, Burun “The Earthquake” they called him. That was the name he had earned early in his career, when he defeated a pack of wolves by staring them down and thumping his club on the ground as he advanced towards them. “Keep the pack together, humiliate the leader, never let them get behind you,” he whispered the mantra to himself and smirked. That worked with men too. Knowledge like this was what had made him the highest paid gladiator of all time, his four year career unheard of in this perilous profession. And he was a professional, a free man fighting for wealth and glory, not some miserable slave or prisoner.

Burun breathed deeply into his barrel chest, and exhaling, chanted a prayer to Hercules to grant his muscles strength and his mind, clarity. And again the god granted them – Burun could feel the power pulsing through him as he strode to the gates, which swung open before him. And there it was, the glorious Flavian Amphitheatre, the largest in the world. Emperor Vespasian had built it on the ashes left by the madman Nero, a palace of pleasure for the Roman people. Burun bowed deeply before the young Caesar, who nodded at him in approval. Then Burun slowly raised his club and roared, the sound echoing back to him from the stands as the crowd took up the cry, ”Earthquake! Earthquake! Earthquake!” stamping their feet in unison.

Just as the chanting reached its greatest pitch and volume, the gates at the opposite end of the arena burst open, and the six handlers threw off the ropes restraining his adversary…

For just a moment Burun’s proud heart failed him, and his stride faltered. The hysterical crowd sensed his fear and there was a collective gasp – had The Earthquake met his match at last?

The bear raised herself on her hind legs and sniffed the air. The human smell, the smell of her captors and enemies, was overwhelming and it maddened her. She lumbered into the vast open space of the arena: there must be a way out, a way back to her forested gully and her cubs.

Burun had mastered himself; he must not let the bear smell his fear. He had nothing but respect for these huge dark beasts who fought as he did, with great strength and greater guile. The bear had sensed him and she was on the alert, circling him slowly, back on all fours. Burun knew that he had only one chance, to swing his heavy club with all his strength, right on the nose and forehead, the bear’s only vulnerable point. Knocking her senseless was his only hope against so formidable an adversary.

The crowd screamed as the bear reared up and staggered towards their hero. She swatted at him with a huge paw and those scimitar claws. Burun fended the blow with the chain on this arm, but the force of her casual blow had knocked him to the ground and shredded his cloak. There was a little blood, nothing to worry him. Recovering his feet, Burun swung a mighty blow, catching the bear behind her left ear. She shook her head, stunned, but she did not fall. The crowd went mad with excitement and terror. Burun brandished his great club a second time, but the bear batted it from his grasp and he felt the sting of claws across his chest. And then, what he had feared most, the fatal rush of air from his lungs as the bear gripped him in her powerful arms. Burun felt the rising panic as he fought in vain for air, but the bear’s strength made him weak as a child in her arms. One by one he felt his ribs crack, the blood burst from his eyes and mouth. He would never again see the rugged green hills of his homeland or feel the embrace of his dear fat wife with her dark, gentle cow’s eyes. This would be his last embrace.

Death was painful and all men fear the darkness. But beyond the pain now, Burun smiled. His would be a grand funeral, attended by every dignitary, including Titus Caesar himself. And then he, the humble farmer from the end of the Empire, would lie in a marble tomb engraved with the Twelve Labours of Hercules as befitted the greatest gladiator of the age.

 

The Discovery of Food

My mother was easily the worst cook in our neighbourhood. Back in the early sixties, she was a liberated career woman – the only mother I knew who worked outside the home – and she expressed herself through her cooking. That is to say, her approach to preparing meals clearly expressed her fury and frustration with all aspects of domestic life. She would crash pots around, carelessly slap meat on the grill and leave it to smoke and curl, and boil vegetables until they lost their colour and structure and it was impossible to identify potato, cabbage or pumpkin. Sweets was icecream or fruit. Get it yourself.

Your own family is ‘normal’ until you’re old enough to have a few broader life experiences, so I grew up not caring much about food. It was fuel. I had a range of preferences just slightly narrower than my mother’s narrow repertoire. Then I spent a day at the house of my Italian friend, Vicki de Luca. What a revelation: it changed everything! First there was the garden. Her grandfather (whom she called “Nonno Giuseppe” and who hugged and fussed over her in a way I could never imagine my dour Scots grandfather doing) had an entire backyard devoted to fruit and vegetables. The only thing I had to compare it to was the illustration of the Garden of Eden in my Children’s Illustrated Bible. Lush green and purple grapes hung from the vines overhead; tomatoes and eggplants (what were they?) burst from great green bushes taller than me. Lemons, oranges, olives. Nonno Giuseppe pulled a couple of carrots from the rich earth, dusted them off and offered them to us. I followed Vicki’s lead and bit into the most intense, carroty carrot I had ever tasted.

Together we collected tomatoes, lettuces, onions, more carrots and a lot of unfamiliar leaves and herbs to take inside. On the way back to the house we passed the outside laundry where something involving steam, feathers and women talking loudly in Italian was taking place. Vicki gently steered me away – “You don’t want to see in there,” she said.

Inside the house another team of women was engaged in rolling dough, chopping vegetables, frying something delicious that made my mouth water (onion and garlic), endlessly checking the huge wood stove, chattering and laughing. Vicki and I were given jobs to do, and I found myself enveloped in a wonderful ritual where food was grown and prepared with love, companionship and the skills of a long tradition.

Finally it was time to eat. I was pretty much full after soup with a couple of chunks of warm, crusty bread from the oven, but there was much more to come: pasta with steaming fresh tomato sauce; roast chickens with Nonno’s vegetables, a huge layered chocolate cake, cheeses, grapes and figs. We kids were given sweet wine with water to drink. I had never tasted alcohol before, but Vicki’s Uncle Cesare insisted we all had to try his home vintage. I felt my face glowing. Some of the foods were just too alien and intense for my WASP palate, but most of the dishes were glorious, and the family were clearly delighted that I thought so. The meal just went on and on, the three generations of Vicki’s family relaxed and talked in their musical language, occasionally inviting me to eat some more, and telling Vicki her friend was “bellisima”, which, as a scrawny freckle-faced kid I certainly was not.

As Vicki walked me to the front gate and I thanked her for a great day, she grasped my arm and said anxiously, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Somehow I knew exactly what she meant. There was still a lot of prejudice about “New Australians” and their foreign ways. I shook my head, smiled and waved goodbye.

Mum greeted me at the door and kissed me on the forehead. “Pooh, you smell of garlic!” she said, laughing. “Ready for dinner?”

“No thanks mum,” I said with complete honesty. “I’m not hungry.”