INTRODUCTION
From the romantic paintings of the nineteenth century to the epic films of the twentieth, the popular image of the Roman gladiator has been of a life bloody, brutal, and short. A timeless tragic hero, compelled to fight to the death by forces beyond his control, his fate ultimately resting in the hands of a capricious emperor and a bloodthirsty mob. He is noble, honorable, and invariably doomed. He is also a he.This powerful symbol of strength and resolve has always been decidedly male.
In September of 2000, experts at the Museum of London made an announcement that would challenge such long-held preconceptions. Not only did they believe they had identified the burial of a gladiator—an achievement in and of itself—but the fragmented remains had proven to be those of a woman.
The discovery caused a stir within traditional scholarship and garnered media attention worldwide. The find was unprecedented and its interpretation controversial, certainly, but this was not the first evidence for the existence of female gladiators. Brief mentions and oblique references can be teased out of the works of several ancient writers, while a relief in the British Museum indisputably depicts two such combatants, going so far as to identify them by name.
Why, then, did this latest discovery spark such public interest? Perhaps it comes at a time when, like the Romans two thousand years before, there is a more receptive audience for strong feminine images. Where the Romans had the legend of the Amazons and Boudica, the Celtic warrior queen, we now cheer professional female athletes competing in sports once considered the exclusive domain of men and follow the exploits of fictional heroines like Xena: Warrior Princess on television.
In her time, however, the gladiatrix represented the epitome of social contradiction. Even her male counterparts, while highly celebrated and capable of achieving great fame in their lifetimes, were considered to be of the lowest status imaginable, akin to slaves, even if they had been born free citizens. A woman who fought in the arena not only went against roman cultural mores but exploded gender definitions as well.
Difficulties reconciling the conflicts inherent in her life may be reflected in the death of the mysterious woman discovered by the Museum of London team. The contents of her grave and the care taken in its preparation suggest she was a woman of some renown, possibly high rank. Yet, she was laid to rest in relative obscurity, not among the monuments and mausolea of Roman London’s notables, but out along the periphery with those of more questionable standing.
The quality and quantity of items contained in the grave—an assemblage without parallel in Britain—may allude to the beliefs of the deceased and the rituals performed at her graveside. There are the remains of a sumptuous funeral feast, including such imported delicacies as dates, almonds, and figs. Eight ceramic incense burners and the remains of burnt pinecones suggest a ceremony heavy with exotic scent. Even the cones themselves were rarities, coming from the stone pine (Pinus pinea), a species not indigenous to the area, but closely associated with the rites of the Roman amphitheater.
Also found among these goods, eight small pottery lamps, four of a type produced in Gaul and not often seen in Britain. Of these, one depicts a fallen gladiator, possibly a direct reference to the person being honored. Three others bear the likeness of the jackal-headed Anubis, Egyptian god of the dead and conveyor of souls to the underworld.
How did this enigmatic woman come to rate such an eclectic and worldly collection of artifacts? Why did she receive such a reverential but, at the same time, ignominious burial? Curators at the Museum of London argue that few career paths were available to women that could have brought them exposure to cosmopolitan ideas and obvious personal success, yet keep them at the fringes of society: She was a gladiatrix.
Celebrities and outcasts, gladiators enjoyed great admiration and rewards, but risked paying the ultimate price. What would drive a woman to such extremes? This book will explore the little-known world of the gladiatrix: the evidence for her existence, the history and legends that may have given her rise, her life training for combat in the arena, and the bloody spectacle of the Roman amphitheater in which she could well have met her end.
Camilla stepped out into the light of the arena. As if she needed another reminder of where she was, the sun felt different here. In the Mediterranean lands where she had trained and fought, the heat hit like a wall and quickly made armor burn to the touch. Here it gently warmed her back after the dank coolness of the amphitheater tunnel. This was the sun of home.
Possibly the only familiar thing about the place. Much had changed in the years since she had left. Of course, at the time, London had been little more than a smoking ruin and she had been accused of helping make it so. Since then, its inhabitants seem to have busied themselves with turning this remote outpost of the empire into a poor copy of a proper Roman town.
And how many of her countrymen, Camilla wondered, looking out at the sea of faces, had turned themselves into poor copies of proper Romans? Were they all now falling over themselves to speak a foreign tongue and live in square houses just for the right to drape themselves in bedsheets and swear allegiance to an unseen emperor?
In the distance, she could barely make out the women spectators, uppermost in the stands, laughing and waving the hems of their dresses as they would for male gladiators. If things had been different, had she stayed, would she have been among them, satisfied to be relegated to the back of the crowd?
Agave danced past, leaping and whooping, playing up to the audience, the moth-eaten leopard’s skin tied about her shoulders flapping behind her. The disp
