These were the warm-up acts. Their job was to get the crowd in the mood for the main attraction. It was like the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.
“Glory to Rome!” announced a man holding a big megaphone. “Glory to Emperor Titus!”
“Glory to Emperor Titus!” the crowd shouted back.
The tenth emperor of Rome—Titus Vespasianus Augustus—had only been in power for two months. So he wanted to win over the citizens of his empire. Loaves of bread and other goodies were tossed to the grateful masses. Perfumed water was sprayed on the sweaty crowd. For the children in attendance, little wooden balls called missilia were given out. Anything to keep the people happy—and the emperor in control.
That’s why gladiator games were held in the first place, of course. They distracted the citizens from their everyday lives and gave them a way to blow off a little steam. The average Roman man may have led a hard life, but watching two other guys fight to the death made him forget about his own problems, at least for a little while.
Vendors walked through the crowd selling food and wine. Children played with gladiator action figures made of clay. People waited patiently under the hot sun. But the crowd was starting to get restless. They wanted more than “pomp and circumstance.” They wanted blood.
In the Palestra Grande next door, the gladiators looked away when Fred the Red approached. Nobody wanted to make eye contact with him. Nobody wanted to be chosen to go first.
“I’m starved,” David said to Luke. “I wonder if they’re going to feed us anything.”
“You should have had a few of those dormice when they offered them to you,” Luke replied. “That stuff was good.”
Fred the Red walked directly over to Crustus, the limping, toothless pig thief.
“You’re up first,” Fred the Red said simply. “Get ready.”
There was a look of resignation on Crustus’s face. He closed his eyes for a moment to say a silent prayer. Two guards took him by the elbows to escort him to a stone archway with an iron gate that separated the Palestra Grande from the amphitheater. Before the guards could take him away, Luke and David went over to him.
“Good-bye, Crustus,” David said, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good luck.”
“I will need it,” Crustus replied.
A hush came over the crowd.
“Citizens and free men of Pompeii,” bellowed the announcer through his megaphone. “Welcome to the most spectacular gladiator games ever to be presented, thanks to your great emperor Titus.”
The crowd roared in approval.
“Our first competitors,” hollered the announcer, “are Julianus the slave of Herculaneum . . . and Crustus the criminal pig thief!”
The crowd roared again.
“They will fight to the death. What shall be their fate?”
“Death!” chanted the crowd. “Death! Death! Death!”
One of the guards handed Crustus a sword and gave him a shove toward the iron gate. Two other guards pulled ropes on either side of the gate to slowly lift it up. Crustus walked through the stone archway. The gate was lowered behind him. There was another roar from the crowd as he stepped into the arena, and yet another one when his opponent entered the arena from an archway on the far side of the amphitheater.
Luke, David, and some other gladiators edged forward to try to see the action through the bars, but the guards pushed them back. David didn’t really want to watch anyway. He never liked the sight of blood.
“I don’t know how to fight,” David whispered to Luke. “What about you? Have you ever been in a real fight?”
“No, but I’ve seen a million martial arts movies,” Luke replied. “And when I was little, me and my friends used to have pretend fights in the backyard. We used sticks as swords and garbage can covers as shields.”
“Me and my friends fought with light sabers,” David said.
Luke and David couldn’t see the action going on inside the arena. But they could hear it—the slash of one metal sword hitting another one, over and over again. The grunting and the cries of pain. People in the audience screaming and cheering.
“Fight boldly for your life, Crustus!” a voice in the crowd hollered.
With each clanging blow, David cringed. He could only imagine what was happening inside the arena. He knew his turn might be next.
After a few short minutes, a gasp was heard, a roar, and then silence. The fight was over. The crowd clapped in approval. The musicians started playing again. David rushed over to Fred the Red, who appeared to be in charge of all the gladiators.
“What happened to Crustus?” he asked.
“He is dead,” said Fred the Red. “Next!”
David sank to his knees.
“He was a good man,” he moaned.
“What makes you think he was a good man?” asked Fred the Red. “He stole another man’s pig.”
“But he was hungry,” David said.
“Hunger is not a justification for stealing,” explained Fred the Red. “The deviant criminal must be punished to show the citizens what happens when one breaks the laws of the land. There is no other way to sustain law and order.”
“Is it fair to die just for stealing a pig?” asked David.
“We will all die one day,” Fred the Red explained. “Some die sooner than others. That is the only difference. It pleases the gods.”
There was no point in having a philosophical discussion about right and wrong with Fred the Red. David sneaked a peek at the timer. There were 69 minutes left. A little more than an hour. He ran over to Luke, who was off to the side, stretching his legs as if he was getting ready for a track meet.
“Crustus is dead,” David told his friend. “We’re doomed, dude! We don’t know how to fight. Either we’re gonna die out there or the
