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For many people, Rome’s Colosseum needs no introduction: it is one of the most popular tourist attractions in the world, a well-recognized symbol for Rome, and a model for countless other stadiums, both now and in the ancient past. As we shall see, it’s one of the few ancient structures whose “hype” and allure are actually justified: in its time, it was the Radio City Music Hall’s Christmas Spectacular a thousand times over, the Super Bowl on mega-steroids and high-grade cocaine, and the Hunger Games with hundreds of victims. And all of this frenetic, frenzied spectacle occurred hundreds of days every year for the many centuries when Rome was at its height. The Russel Crowe movie Gladiator comes closest to replicating the magnificence of the Colosseum and its extravaganzas, but it still falls short of reproducing the nearly non-stop shows that were regularly played out within this structure. Yet, beyond the blood and gore that most people associate with the Colosseum—some of them self-righteously clucking about the cruelty of the Romans--the mindful traveler must look beyond the stones and spectacles to reflect upon how this remnant from ancient Rome speaks to us today on matters pertaining to our own humanity, or lack thereof, putting a pointed finger to our hearts. But first, a review of the stones and spectacles, themselves aspects that can let our imaginations soar.

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A Spectacle of Stone and Blood

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In a way, the Colosseum might not have happened, or at least be located where it is now, had the emperor Nero (54-68 A.D.) not been such a megalomaniac about erecting a grandiose palace that at the time gave “over-the-top” entirely new meaning. In 64 A.D., the Great Fire of Rome destroyed a large swath of Rome’s most prime real estate, including the Palatine and Esquiline hills adjoining the present location of the Colosseum. No sooner had the embers cooled than Nero expropriated most of the area to build his Domus Aurea, the Golden House, which in addition to magnificent rooms decorated with gold, had extravagant porticos, pavilions, and gardens, including a small lake and a colossal bronze statue of himself, the latter two adornments located where the present Colosseum stands. When the emperor walked into the nearly completed palace four years later, he allegedly exclaimed, “At last, I can live like a human being!” He didn’t get much of chance to luxuriate in it, because later in 68 A.D. he was chased out of Rome and had to kill himself before he fell into the hands of a Roman general vying for the throne—the story goes that, too chicken to do it himself, he had his faithful slave knife him into eternity. A harbinger of the devastating chaos Rome would endure two centuries later in the “Crisis of the Third Century,” when 26 emperors reigned over a 50 year period, the 68-69 period was the so-called “Year of the Four Emperors,” when a succession of generals from the outer provinces occupied the Imperial Palace, finally ending with the accession of Vespasian, the general who had been successfully fighting the great Jewish revolt in Judea. Unlike Nero, Vespasian, who ruled for ten years, was in present day parlance an adult, a sane no-nonsense leader who restored Rome’s finances, didn’t “luxuriate” in anything, and practiced good government. To him, Nero’s Golden House was an obscene affront, an insult to the dignity of Rome and its people, and throughout his reign it was stripped of its fine marble and furnishings, filled in with dirt, and built over by public buildings, one of which was the Colosseum, which the emperor regarded as a gift to the Roman people.

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For the first one thousand years of its existence, the Colosseum was called the Flavian Amphitheater, after Vespasian’s family name. The gigantic Colossus that Nero built to himself—it originally was in the vestibule of his new palace--was one part of his Domus which was preserved, and it stood right outside of the Colosseum. It was reworked into a statue of Apollo or Helios, the sun god, with a spikey crown representing sun rays. At times, some emperors would put their sculptured heads atop it. The Colossus was moved closer to the Colosseum in the early 2nd century to make room for the nearby Temple of Venus and Rome—apparently it took 24 elephants to move it. The Colossus, which has been estimated to be from 99 to 120 feet tall (approximately one-third the length of a football field), survived into the early Middle Ages, and was regarded as a symbol of Rome’s eternity, eventually being torn down for its bronze around 800 A.D., with only its brick base remaining there today. By 1000 A.D., the amphitheater was finally being called the Colosseum, after the Colossus, but by then, the once-imposing amphitheater was only a pathetic shadow of its former greatness.   

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Most likely, much of the Colosseum’s construction—it was built over the filled-in artificial lake of the Domus Aurea--was financed from Vespasian’s “general’s booty” from the spoils of the Jewish revolt. In the first years of his ten-year reign, Vespasian started construction of the Colosseum, which, except for the uppermost fourth level, was almost completed when he died in 80 A.D., a considerable engineering and architectural feat over such a short period of time. Although not known with certainty, it is likely that thousands of prisoners from the Jewish revolt were brought to Rome to augment the legions of slaves already there. Around the amphitheater were built barracks for gladiators, a training school for gladiators, enclosures for wild animals, many shops, and housing for the hundreds of permanent staff employed to keep the many intricate parts of the Colosseum functioning properly. Although much of the outer wall has vanished, the remaining façade of the Colosseum consists of three levels of continuous arcades separated by half-columns. In addition to the classical harmony of these repetitive arcades, they more evenly distributed the weight of the façade’s immense blocks of stone, which were held together not with mortar but with an estimated 300 tons of iron clamps, now long gone—the numerous holes throughout the building’s exterior mark where they once were. Indeed, the complex balancing and counter-balancing of the pressures and thrusts of the Colosseum’s immense walls and outer arches, along with the interior labyrinth of stairways, vaulted arches, and passageways, once again testifies to the engineering and architectural genius of the Romans, whose visions of grandeur and beauty seemed to know no bounds. The half-columns of the lowest level had Doric capitals, with Ionic and Corinthian capitals for the second and third levels, respectively; this ornamentation mimicked that of the Theater of Marcellus, which was built nearly a hundred years earlier.

 

Undoubtedly there were statues of gods, emperors, and other dignitaries gracing the numerous upper arches, and decorating the very top level were large bronze shields. Much like modern stadiums that need to get people in and out quickly and efficiently, the ground level had 80 entrances marked by large porticos atop which were gilded bronze horses and chariots. Two of these entrances were reserved for the emperor and the highest elites (including the Vestal Virgins), and two were used by the gladiators (one for the victors to exit by and the other for the dead to be brought out). At the very top of the Colosseum, jutting out from the wall were 240 stone structures to support tall wooden masts which in turn supported the velarium, an elaborate canvas or linen awning that could be released and retracted as needed to provide shade from the sun and shelter from rain for two-thirds of the seating area. Such an amenity was standard for amphitheaters back then—those of Pompey and Nero had been outfitted with them—and although not specifically documented, it isn’t a stretch to imagine that the Colosseum’s awning, like that of Nero’s, was dyed to imitate the sky, perhaps with a sun, moon, and stars. A special contingent of sailors from the navy, reportedly a hundred of them, was stationed full-time at the Colosseum to operate the velarium’s complicated system of ropes and pulleys harmoniously, to the beat of a drum—they took their work very seriously, since there were occasions in the Colosseum’s history when the velarium malfunctioned and the emperor in attendance had a fit and ordered some of them to be thrown into the arena with wild beasts as an example to the rest.  When the emperor sponsored the games, the entertainment was usually top-drawer—if there were glitches, those responsible would often pay with their lives.

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At the time, the Colosseum was the largest building of its kind in the empire, and it overshadowed the cityscape, gleaming in the Italian sun. What we see today is estimated to be only one-third of its original size, so much of it having been carried off over the past 1000 years for other buildings or else having long ago crashed and crumbled due to general neglect and the many major earthquakes regularly plaguing the city.

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 The current interior of the Colosseum doesn’t give a good idea of its appearance in ancient times. There were distinct levels of seating, which reflected the rigid social hierarchy of Roman society. The lowest two levels, paneled with fine marble walls and floors, were reserved for the elite, including the Vestal Virgins, senators, high-ranking administrators, and visiting dignitaries, much like the box seats reserved for the rich in today’s arenas. The emperor’s box was on the northern side of the arena (to your left as you enter), and on the other side of the arena was an enclosure for the Vestal Virgins, who were highly revered for their guaranteeing the security of Rome by tending to the sacred flame in their temple in the Forum--the flame purportedly dated to Rome’s founding. The higher seats, probably wooden, were packed with the lower classes, with women and the poorest confined to the very top level. The very poor, who depended upon the dole of grain, had free seats, but most others had to pay an admission fee. Most scholars estimate that the amphitheater could accommodate up to 50,000 spectators, although some propose a capacity up to 80,000. The arena is oval-shaped and consisted of a wooden floor with sand atop it (Latin harena means sand)—the sand was sometimes dyed red to disguise the blood routinely shed on it. The floor vanished long ago, and today we can see what was beneath it and out of sight of the audiences: the hypogeum, a two-level underworld of narrow passageways and tunnels, cages for wild animals and prisoners, and elaborate mechanical lifts, some probably powered by hydraulic machines, that would suddenly propel up into the arena wild animals, gladiators, actors, condemned prisoners, elaborate scenery, and whatever else that would amuse and entertain—imagine the audience’s delight when seemingly out of nowhere a cloud of sand appears from the arena’s floor to reveal fearsome lions or gladiators decked out in gleaming armor. This maze-like warren was dark, noisy, crowded, and smelly as taskmasters would ensure that slaves and other workers operated the pulleys and ropes to disgorge the animals and humans on cue into the bright light of the arena right overhead.

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The special effects and wonder of Radio City Music Hall’s annual Christmas Spectacular in New York City, with its rotating orchestra pit, multiple stage levels, thundering pipe organ, and multiple special effects simply do not compare with the non-stop frenzy of just a typical day at the Colosseum, which usually started with a parade of gladiators, priests, magistrates, litters bearing statues of gods, and soon-to-die criminals, with blaring horns and loud drums announcing the pending entertainment, incense billowing from myriad torches and candelabras and rose petals showering down on the spectators. Radio City’s camels, sheep, and donkeys for its Living Nativity conclusion cannot measure up to the hundreds—hundreds—of wild animals killed on an average day at the Colosseum. Over the 100 days of the inaugural games hosted by Emperor Titus in 80 A.D., over 9000 wild animals were killed. When the emperor Trajan (98-117 A.D.) celebrated his victory over the Dacians, 11,000 animals were slaughtered, and 10,000 gladiators fought in the games. The number of humans killed during these imperial fetes is not recorded.

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Plays were sometimes performed in the Colosseum—the scenery for some of them was quite impressive as it would pop up suddenly from the arena’s floor--and early on, before Titus’s brother and successor Domitian (81-96 A.D.) built the hypogeum, the arena would be flooded for mock naval battles. But throughout its nearly 400 years of operation, the main attraction—and the reason the Colosseum fascinates so many tourists today—was the gladiatorial games, interspersed with slaughter of wild animals and gory executions of criminals, from morning to night and all on a scale that is difficult to imagine. Although there were variations according the budget of the dignitary putting on the show, the availability of animals, and whether it was a special occasion or celebration, the schedule of the games was fairly consistent—the details of each game were advertised well in advance, including the name of the sponsor, what special event was being celebrated, the type of animals to be killed, and any special amenities such as food and prizes for the attendees. In the morning, after the ceremonial parade, above, there would come the Venationes, fights between wild animals or between hunters and wild animals; not only would there be lions, tigers, bears, and leopards—they often would appear suddenly from the hypogeum, surprising the hunter—but also giraffes, ostriches, hippopotamuses, and deer. If the hunter was someone important—the emperor Commodus (180-192 A.D.) loved to kill animals in the Venationes—he would be safely ensconced on a raised platform. Over the centuries, the relentless slaughter of wild animals resulted in many of them disappearing from their natural habitats—by the time the games ended in the 6th century, there were no more elephants in northern Africa or hippos in the lower Nile or lions in the Middle East.

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During the lunch break, criminals, enemies of the state, and prisoners of war would be tortured and executed in the arena—the methods varied but were always violent and gory, often with more wild animals. The sponsor of each game, usually a magistrate or politician, sought to outdo the others, and he used imaginative, eye-catching ways to dispatch the criminals to please the crowd.  After lunch was the main attraction, the gladiatorial contests, which involved skill, strength, and resolve and, unlike the offerings earlier in the day, were conducted on a largely level playing field—no pathetic pairing of an ostrich against a tiger or an unarmed criminal against starving lions or wild dogs. As with the intricacy and complexity of the Colosseum—in a way, it was a living, breathing organism--the role and status of gladiators in ancient Rome was complicated and nuanced, and both literally and figuratively, these fighters were the lifeblood of the amphitheater.

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The Lifeblood of the Amphitheater

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Much like people today, most Romans were fascinated by gladiators—archeologists have uncovered little action figures of them which children played with. Images of gladiators were engraved on jewelry, lamps, and ceramics, and frescoes and floor mosaics in the finest homes featured them in combat, often with exotic wild animals. Nonetheless, in the class-conscious Roman society, they were regarded as the lowest of the low, on par with prostitutes, criminals, actors, and slaves—calling someone “gladiator” was regarded as an insult. Although mostly slaves and prisoners of war, gladiators could also be retired soldiers, citizens who craved fame and riches, women (whom the crowd regarded as curiosities, until they were banned in the 3rd century), and even senators and magistrates who either had fallen on hard times, sought the adulation of the amphitheater’s cheering crowds, wanted the attention of lovely and powerful women (see below), or deemed themselves to be absolutely fabulous fighters. For the poor, who had zero chances of moving up in society, enrollment in a gladiatorial school meant food, shelter, and a chance at fame and fortune. Gladiators were a thriving business—for their trainers and owners—and agents crisscrossed the empire for promising recruits, an activity closely supervised by imperial edicts about the trade in gladiators. Regardless of their former rank or their reasons for becoming a gladiator, all of them had to sign a contract with their owner and undergo rigorous training in harsh and austere gladiatorial schools, which were almost like prisons—on the other side of the Colosseum’s main entrance, just across the busy street, are the ruins of the largest such school in Rome, which had small cells for housing up to 2000 gladiators as well as its own small stadium for training and small shows, which devotees enjoyed attending (sort of like the previews held for Broadway shows a few weeks before the official opening). Much like highly trained soldiers—indeed, many schools were located next to military barracks, and soldiers often were trainers at the schools and even owned their own fighters--gladiators were regarded as professional fighters, even entertainers, and there were at least a dozen different types with their own distinctive armor and weapons.  Gladiators often had their own unions and burial societies—much that we know about them comes from inscriptions on the many tombstones erected for them. The Romans often fetishized gladiators: their sweat and blood were thought to have healing powers and to bring sexual prowess and fertility, and women of high rank often consorted with them, sometimes even eloping with them—Faustina, daughter of emperor Antonius Pius (138-161 A.D.) was referred to as “the favorite of the gladiators.” The Latin word for short sword was gladius, which was also used as a coarse word for penis.

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There was always an underlying tension between the Romans’ admiration of gladiatorial skill and strength and the knowledge that these fighters were in most cases slaves and thus sub-humans not deserving any consideration. Although fighting in the arena could result in death, more often than not most gladiators were able to avoid demise even in defeat, especially if they had fought well and kept the spectators on the edge of their seats—their owners had spent a lot of money on training them and were not keen to see some of their fighters routinely topped off in every match. By the time of Augustus, the demand for skilled fighters was greater than the supply, tempering any sponsor’s tendency to be blasé about wholesale slaughter of these trained combatants—the crowd’s blood lust could be more easily satisfied by the wild animal hunts and execution of criminals. Some fighters made their career without bloodshed by demonstrating great agility and special techniques against their opponents. Gladiators were given medical care and were patched up whenever possible—the great Roman physician Galen spent part of his training at a gladiatorial school--and in the arena the fights matched contestants of similar build and skill, and were monitored by referees, who enforced the rules of engagement and ensured a fair fight. The gladiatorial superstars—they had fans just like sports stars today, especially among Rome’s lower classes—could eventually retire with money and even citizenship. But the less successful ones would end up leaving the Colosseum feet first. When a fighter was down and his opponent’s sword was pressing into his neck, he would raise his left index finger to concede and ask for mercy. Technically, the organizer of that day’s games, often the emperor, had the final say, but he usually bowed to the howls and shouts of the crowd, who might spare the downed gladiator or demand to see gushes of blood from his neck. Whereas past historians said that a “thumbs down” gesture from the mob meant death and “thumbs up” meant he could live to fight another day (often later that same day), other scholars say that it was the other way around.

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Using inscriptions on gladiators’ gravestones, scholars have concluded that the average age of death was their mid-20s—at least one, however, lived to age 90--and that from one in five to one in ten bouts ended in death. Moreover, ancient sources indicate that most of the games in the Colosseum didn’t involve gladiatorial combat—there were lots of animal hunts and chariot races, plus, of course, gory executions—with most shows featuring gladiators held at the end of the year, to coincide with the Saturnalia, the feast to Saturn that linked death with rebirth. And contrary to popular belief, before the fights the Gladiators did not shout to the emperor, “We who are about to die salute you!”

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Gladiatorial fighting extended back to the earliest days of Rome, even to the Etruscans who lived in Italy before Rome’s time, and were at first associated with funerals of important aristocrats. Slaves, condemned criminals, and prisoners of war were forced to fight to the death at graveside as a blood-rite commemoration of the deceased, a sort of human sacrifice wherein their blood purified the soul of the departed. These contests gradually lost their connection with funerals, and they became grander and grander, lasting several days and entertaining the public. At immense personal expense (he was financially on the bones of his ass at the time), Julius Caesar famously held a spectacular fete, the largest of its kind to date, with hundreds of gladiators as an ostensible memorial to his father who had been dead for two decades.  By the first century B.C., politicians and other high-ranking worthies held these contests to curry favor with the masses. Their popularity eventually resulted in the state taking them over and incorporating  them into the civil fabric, staging eye-popping extravaganzas for religious festivals, or to commemorate a god, or the anniversary of an emperor’s assuming the Imperial Purple, or to honor a visiting potentate—practically any special occasion was a reason to hold games.

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Of course, the aristocrats and emperors recognized the political usefulness of the games, since they diverted people’s attention from their otherwise shabby and bleak conditions. Napoleon once remarked that if it weren’t for belief in God, nothing would keep the poor from rising up and cutting the throats of the rich; in ancient Rome, as nowadays, most people didn’t really believe in a God, but Monday night football and the Colosseum’s blood and gore could keep their minds off of affairs of state. When the emperor sponsored the games, no expense was spared, and the Colosseum became a de facto venue for adoration of the imperial cult’s god-like power. When the emperor attended the games, usually with members of the Senate, the Vestal Virgins, and other high magistrates, people felt that interfacing with the imperial mystique legitimized them as the People of Rome, coequals of the Senate as memorialized in Rome’s famous moniker S.P.Q.R.—Senatus PopulusQue Romanus, the Senate and People of Rome. Of course, from the reign of Augustus, the first emperor, neither the Senate nor the people had the final say in anything, but just as most nations have their own unique mythology to obscure the terrible truths about themselves, the fiction of S.P.Q.R. was part of ancient Rome’s genetic code. On occasion, this interface between the masses and the emperor in the Colosseum was opportunity for them to vent their grievances, as if they really mattered: the emperor was always accompanied by a contingent of his bodyguards, the Pretorian Guard, who often provided crowd control and could have easily and without any compunction butchered the entire lot of them had it been ordered to do so.

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More Than Just Blood Lust

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The psychological and moral aspects of gladiatorial combat—death as entertainment--are perhaps difficult for us to understand today, but they speak to the very core of ancient Roman beliefs and values, which are far more subtle and nuanced than just reveling in seeing a man’s throat cut. There was a very close connection between the ethos of gladiators in the arena and that of soldiers in the army, which was the lynchpin of the empire and its most important institution, protecting Rome from hostile peoples at its borders. Not only did soldiers enjoy the games, often becoming trainers in gladiator schools and after retirement sometimes joining them in the arena, but both professions also epitomized the ancient Romans’ deep and rigid adherence to honor in combat and in dying. Soldiers on the battlefield were expected to die rather than give in to defeat; for example, the army was notorious for the ritual of "decimation" whereby one in every ten soldiers of a unit which showed cowardice in battle were randomly selected for brutal beatings to death by the remaining comrades of their unit. Likewise, a defeated gladiator was expected to accept the verdict of the crowd and not grovel or beg for mercy, redeeming himself from his lowly status by accepting death with dignity and courage and thereby paradoxically conquering death. Equanimity in death was the highest Roman virtue, which the crowd paid good money to see played out before them, a constant reenactment of what they believed had made Rome great. Shakespeare intuitively understood the Roman soul, at least that of the great Romans, when his Julius Caesar cast aside his wife’s fears about his going to meet the Senate in the Theater of Pompey on the Ides of March:

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“Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.”
― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

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Of course, most people in the audience at the Colosseum—from the elite at ringside to the poor in the uppermost nose-bleed sections—feared death like all of us, but seeing it in the arena, especially as it was accepted by the defeated gladiators, probably reassured them, at least for the time being, that death can be confronted without terror and even triumphed over. For many spectators, the violent slaughter in the arena provided a deep, cathartic release and affirmation that, unlike the lifeless bodies being carted out, they were still alive. It was the same psychological reaction most of us have when we gaze on the myriad deaths around us—from war, crime, and disease—with calm, equanimity, and ultimately false bravura.

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Whereas the psychological bond between the audience and the gladiators reflected the Roman belief that honor can be reclaimed by stoically accepting death in the arena, their outlook on the wholesale carnage of animal hunts and mid-day slaughter of criminals is perhaps easier to understand. Rome was a rigidly hierarchical society that had no sympathy or tolerance for anyone who deviated from its strict rules and laws. Thus, the criminals and enemies of the state threatened civil stability and deserved cruel deaths, which in turn reassured the audience that Rome’s power was supreme and absolute, that order had been restored. The killing of wild animals from all corners of the empire reenacted Rome’s subjugation of the known world, while also reminding the audience of how Rome’s reach had extended to the most exotic areas of the world. Finally, because the core of the empire, especially Rome, had been insulated from the violence of warfare—the legions protected the borders for centuries—the gladiatorial contests were reenactments of war and reminders of the military basis of Rome’s greatness.

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The Longest Running Show in History

   

For nearly two centuries after its inaugural games in 80-81 A.D., the Colosseum was going full-tilt almost 200 days a year, but by the mid-3rd century, the exorbitant cost of the games was becoming so extreme that some sponsors impoverished themselves, and edicts by the emperors tried to rein in the cost, but to no avail. The infamous “3rd century crisis,” which almost ripped the empire apart with 50 years of non-stop civil war, famine, and plague, strained the imperial purse to its limits, although the masses still clamored for the games. The pagan elites—writers, philosophers, even some of the emperors—despised the games because of their encouraging idleness in the lower classes, many of whom were already on the state’s dole of grain. Even the advent of Christianity under Constantine the Great in the early 4th century didn’t extinguish gladiatorial games—Church theologians didn’t fault the games so much on moral grounds as they objected to the pagan celebrations connected with them. By the late 4th century, when Christianity became the empire’s state religion, celebration of pagan festivals in the arena ended, depriving the crowd of many colorful ornamentations of the games, as well as the many pagan holidays associated with them. Thereafter, by fits and starts, emperors in the early 5th century, motivated more by the immense expenses of the games than their Christian duty, attempted to ban gladiatorial combat, which finally ended for good around 438 A.D. Although by then strapped for cash, the emperors continued to keep up the Colosseum and repair the damage caused by wear-and-tear and Italy’s notorious earthquakes—there was a serious one in 443, when part of the arena collapsed, and also in 477, when the city reportedly shook for 40 days. The last repairs were done in 508 by King Theodoric, who although a barbarian Goth, did his best to patch up Rome’s increasingly shabby infrastructure. After that, the record is silent about any further repairs to the Colosseum.

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Despite the end of gladiatorial combat in 438, wrestling contests and wild animal hunts continued in the Colosseum for another century, until the 530s. By then the population of Rome had condensed markedly, and the ongoing Gothic-Byzantine wars laid waste to the countryside and large parts of the city. There was no longer a western emperor or rich magistrates to finance anything grand at the amphitheater, and in the later 6th century only a few plays, juggling displays, and acrobatic shows would be staged in the arena that once had hosted spectacles of animal and human slaughter on an industrial scale. There is no historical record of the final show put on in the Colosseum, which, like Rome itself, was quietly enveloped by the morass known as the Dark Ages.

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As with most of ancient Rome’s grand edifices, little is known about the Colosseum in the early Middle Ages. In the late 500s, a small chapel, now long gone, was built inside of it, and the arena became a cemetery. In the very early centuries of the Dark Ages, a hospital, various religious communities, renegade monks, and the desperate and dispossessed poor carved out shelter in spaces once reserved for the crowds, wild animals, and gladiators. According to Krautheimer, by the 11th century, use of the Colosseum became more organized and monetized by the Church and Rome’s powerful families, as most of its many arcades, rooms, and vaulted areas were rented out as housing, stables, storerooms, and shops for blacksmiths, coppersmiths, cobblers, butchers, lime kilns, and leather works. The few surviving copies of the leases show in fascinating detail the precise demarcations of how the Colosseum’s spaces were divided up. Around 1200, one of Rome’s powerful families took it over as its fortress, converting it into a castle of sorts, which provided strategic control of access to the pope’s palace at nearby St. John Lateran, allowing the family powerful leverage over who sat on the Throne of St. Peter. Indeed, the entire area of the Colosseum and the adjacent Arch of Constantine and the ruins of the massive Temple of Venus and Rome became a small village at the very edge of the inhabited abitato of Rome, enclosed by walls and guarded by defensive towers built with stone from these ancient structures. Throughout Medieval Rome, the cityscape was dotted with similar “suburbs” centered around massive ancient ruins and controlled by other powerful families.

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Massive earthquakes in 1231 and 1349 collapsed the south side of the Colosseum, and the debris was used to build churches, palaces, and ordinary hovels in the city. By then the Colosseum was a de facto stone quarry. One wonders whatever happened to the exquisite marble walls and flooring, most of it undoubtedly precious porphyry, that adorned the imperial box where the absolute ruler of the known world was once comfortably ensconced—perhaps parts are now incorporated into a church alter or side chapel, or were pulverized into tiny stones for use in multicolored Cosmatesque floors in churches or Medieval mansions. Undoubtedly the expanses of marble seats and the many statues both in the outer arches of the façade and scattered throughout its interior were thrown into lime kilns to make mortar. The numerous bronze decorations—the gleaming ceremonial shields encircling the uppermost level of the façade, the many ornate candelabra and incense posts embellishing the interior, the massive, august sculptures of deities and emperors stationed at every turn, the imperial eagles atop elegant columns, the bronze chariots pulled by horses over the 80 entrances—all of these heroic bronze decorations had long ago been melted into armaments, as were the iron bolts holding the exterior together. One wonders what happened to the immense velarium that shaded the spectators from the hot sun—perhaps ripped apart and used for clothes or curtains—or exactly when the hundred or so sailors tasked with operating it finally scattered, never to return.

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By the 16th and 17th centuries, the Church tried to turn the Colosseum into a major money-maker, and Pope Sixtus V (1585-90) wanted to turn it into a wool factory to provide honest work for Rome’s prostitutes, who for centuries had plied their trade in the Colosseum’s innumerable nooks and crannies (he died before it could be done). From the 14th to 19th century, religious orders were located in the Colosseum. Whereas the Arch of Constantine was protected by the Church because it commemorated the rule of Constantine the Great, who tolerated and favored Christianity, religious significance was not attached to the Colosseum until 1749, when Pope Benedict XIV proclaimed it a sacred site that was sanctified by the blood of Christian martyrs. He consecrated it to the Passion of Christ, installing in the interior the Twelve Stations of the Cross, which to this day are celebrated by the pope every Easter. However, associating the Colosseum with martyrdom of Christians in ancient Rome is highly conjectural: first, there are no ancient records about such martyrdom (and Christian historians of the time were usually reliable in documenting such things), and second, up to the 16th century, the Church, which was assiduous—obsessive--in its martyrology, recording the slightest details of the most obscure martyrs, had never mentioned the Colosseum as a site of martyrdom. Certainly, there were probably some Christians here and there who ended up in the noontime slaughter of criminals, enemies of the state, and other deplorables; but most likely the major venue for killing Christians was the nearby Circus Maximus, which was much larger (audience capacity of up to 250,000) and was directly attached to the Imperial Palace. Finally, the Colosseum was not listed among the holy sites for pilgrims visiting Rome in the early Middle Ages. But rightly or not, the Colosseum is today regarded as a symbol of Christians’ sacrifice for their faith—a cross stands in the arena--and Pope Benedict’s designating it as a place of martyrdom ended its being used as a stone quarry.

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In the 17th through 19th centuries, the Colosseum was a destination for serious botanists, since over the millennia it had become home to over 600 species of flora and fauna overgrowing the ruins and sprouting up from the flooring and between the blocks of the walls. Bird migration, the outward expansion of the city, and seeds transported in the feces of the myriad animals brought to the Colosseum from all over the known world contributed to the plethora of plant life there. In the late 19th century, efforts were made to reduce the plants in order to prevent further damage to its structure, but at last count, several hundred species remain. By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, restoration projects were undertaken in earnest, and a supporting buttress was built to stabilize the outer wall.

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What we see today of the Colosseum is only one-third of its original size and is just a skeleton of its once glorious self. But the remains of the towering outer wall, with three levels of arches and half-columns, are evocative enough. Yet even our fertile imaginations cannot conjure up its past magnificence: the white marble exterior gleaming in the sun, the densely packed crowds shoving towards the 78 entrances, the blinding reflections of the gigantic bronze shields encircling the top rim, the velarium flapping overhead in the breezes as the sailors wrestled with its pulleys and ropes to shade the imperial box, the litters of the Vestal Virgins bobbing over the masses as they wended their way to their special entrance, the brusque shouts of the Pretorian Guard pushing apart the crowd to make way for the emperor with his 24 lictors and various dignitaries of state in tow, the ominous beating of military drums and blaring of trumpets echoing from the inner arena--and all the while with the scores upon scores of august statues elegantly poised in the three stories of arches serenely looking down on the entire scene as they have done for centuries.

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A Finger to Our Hearts

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But in addition to being one of the most monumental proofs of Rome’s unparalleled greatness—perhaps only the Pantheon eclipses it in majesty and awe—the Colosseum and its times should challenge us to look within our own selves, to see our own reflections in the images of Romans cheering their favorite gladiators or laughing at a particularly gruesome execution. From what we perceive to be our advantaged perch of early 21st century civilization, we might tut-tut condescending disapproval, even self-professed horror and disgust, of the unending torrent of blood, human and animal, that stained the arena’s sand for nearly four centuries. Many of us self-righteously—smugly—tell ourselves that nowadays, with our belief in the value of each human being, we are light years away from the savagery and brutality of the ancient Romans. Had he known of our smug assertions of higher morality than his Roman compatriots, St. Augustine (354-430 A.D.), one of the Church Fathers, would probably have smiled at our naïve presumption of moral superiority. He once wrote about a young man, deeply committed to Christ and his teachings, who had steadfastly refused to go to the games with his friends, citing his moral revulsion at human butchery as entertainment. However, one day his friends finally prevailed, and he joined them ringside at the arena. At first, he covered his eyes, to avoid witnessing what he regarded to be a sin. But as the frenzied shouts of the crowd swelled, he succumbed to the allure of the arena and opened his eyes to gaze on the pageantry of violent combat and death: he quickly and involuntarily was caught up in it, baying for blood and gore along with everyone else. Many of us would be no different today and in fact already delight in violence not much different from that of the Colosseum’s, thrilling in the adrenaline rush when a football player is wiped out with a hard tackle, or a boxer is knocked out with a vicious punch that sends teeth and blood spraying out, or a wrestler is smacked in the head mid-air. We might reply that the violence in our sports rarely results in serious injury or death, but we now know, thanks to medical science, that the head trauma of football and other contact sports very often results in dementia later in life—a century ago, it was termed (in Latin) dementia pugilistica. Indeed, what is worse, a swift death in the arena or a slow debilitating demise from losing your mind? How many people at the Indianapolis 500 feel a visceral thrill when a race car swerves off the track and crashes into a ball of fire? Our retort—ultimately, a copout--of “well, they should know what they’re getting themselves into” is akin to the same rationalization many ancient Romans used with regards to the gladiators. That may be so, but it begs the question of whether, and to what extent, we are our brother’s keeper. Centuries from now, if humankind doesn’t extinguish itself and civilization progresses upward, people may look on our present society’s obsession with violent sports the way we regard the games at the Colosseum. There probably is little difference between bloodied faces--and bruised, addled brains—in today’s sports and a slit throat in the arena of the Colosseum, and the transition from the former to the latter is easier than we would like to think.   

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Garrett Fagan’s The Lure of the Arena: Social Psychology of the Crowds at the Roman Games (Cambridge University Press, 2011) explores how the psychological forces that compelled the Romans to attend the games are the same as those which motivate us today. These forces were not unique to the ancient Romans and are part of our own psyches—the psychological makeup of 21st century humans is the same as that of Romans two thousand years ago. If Hitler had embellished his Nuremburg rallies with public executions of Jews, homosexuals, criminals, and other “undesirables” thrown to wild dogs or lions, do we honestly believe his adoring audience would have turned away in disgust? How many Americans would today eagerly attend violent slaughter of terrorists, serial killers, child killers, and pedophiles, rationalizing that their gross transgressions against the social order merited merciless punishment? Public executions in Europe extended into the 20th century, many involving beheadings and draw and quartering of the condemned. In America there was the brutal extermination of Native Americans, as well as lynching of African Americans and destruction of their homes and businesses.  And as we have seen, today’s violent contact sports are big business where the brains and bodies of participants are risked to entertain the masses. Beneath the thin veneer of modern civility and decorum is a deep blood lust for violence and slaughter which the ancient Romans would recognize. Our kinship with crowds of the Colosseum is all the more glaring when we realize that nowadays many of us really do believe in the inherent value of each human being. The ancient Romans had no such pretensions—for them, slaves, prisoners of war, criminals, and gladiators were subhuman, not deserving any consideration or mercy.

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The above musings render the Colosseum much more than just a reminder of ancient Rome’s past grandeur. Rather, the ruins of this once-great amphitheater hold a mirror up to our own hypocrisies, weaknesses, and foibles, challenging us to see ourselves in the legions of people who were once drawn to it, and to reorder our own moral sensibilities and values.