The eleventh century equivalent to the modern Blue Guide, a travel book titled The Wonders of Rome, instructed medieval tourists on the function and identity of the Colosseum with spectacular confidence. It was “the temple of the Sun . . . disposed with many diverse vaulted chambers,” and in the middle of what we now know was the arena a colossal statue of Jupiter or Apollo was said to have once towered over the massive structure. Another medieval theory postulated that the amphitheater was actually a palace of Vespasian and Titus, “a brave attempt,” as Keith Hopkins and Mary Beard note, “to make sense of a remembered connection with those emperors” (150). In fact, from at least the early medieval period until the fifteenth century, the memory of the Colosseum as an amphitheater—the most important, mind you, of the hundreds that dotted the landscape of the western Roman Empire—was lost. Most visitors to the Colosseum today are unaware of this overlooked wrinkle in the history of Rome’s most popular ancient monument, just as most travel books focus almost solely on its classical past. Keith Hopkins and Mary Beard aim to correct this temporal prejudice with The Colosseum, a brilliantly concise book that chronicles the monument’s construction, history, and reception over the course of nearly two thousand years.
Don’t be fooled: The Colosseum is not a mere travel book. Nor is it a scholarly tome stuffed with heady academic debates of little to no interest to the non-specialist. Keith Hopkins and Mary Beard take on some of the most commonly held assumptions about the monument, an arena bathed in the blood of thousands upon thousands of animals and humans alike, and turn many of them upside down. They tackle both modern and ancient perspectives toward the Colosseum, its architectural history as the world’s most impressive amphitheater, traditional interpretations of what happened on the sand inside the arena, and how the Colosseum transformed from the Flavian Amphitheater, to the so-called Temple of the Sun, to a wonderland for enthusiastic botanists. Despite its small size, The Colosseum never shies away from the most important questions about the amphitheater, especially with respect to how we, as modern visitors, marvel at its architectural splendor despite our moral repulsion to what happened inside its walls.
“The Colosseum was very much more than a mere sports venue,” Hopkins and Beard note early on. Indeed, much has been said about how Rome’s sociopolitical hierarchy was embedded into the very fabric of the amphitheater. Senators and other elites sat closest to the arena, male citizens of lesser importance sat behind them, and women and slaves were confined to the uppermost rows (ironically, where most visitors desperately hope—and usually cannot—visit). The Colosseum was “a political theater in which each stratum of Roman society played out its role.” Typically, Hopkins and Beard proceed to make an even more sophisticated point, and keenly note how the Colosseum was one of the only venues where Rome’s disenfranchised citizens could confront their emperor. The Forum, they claim, was much too small and it was too difficult to “concentrate the popular voice” inside the immense Circus Maximus. The Colosseum, on the other hand, packed emperor, senators, and nearly 50,000 citizens into the same confined space. It was an ideal location for the city’s populace to show “their collective muscle in front of the emperor,” especially if he had started to flout their concerns (41). In a political scheme where the people lacked democratic power, this was of crucial importance. Hopkins and Beard appropriately emphasize this point.
Of the many impressive accomplishments of this book, the statistics Hopkins and Beard calculate in an attempt to better understand gladiatorial spectacle may prove the most intriguing. With all of the available evidence (on tombstones, in literature, and from the known number of amphitheaters) and certain suppositions taken into account, the numbers that they arrive at are informative and astounding. They calculate, for instance, that there were approximately 16,000 gladiators fighting outside of the capital annually, with up to 20,000 (according to Pliny) in imperial training camps. Add those numbers up, and you have “something like a quarter of the strength of the Roman legions combined” (93). Given these figures (and under the further assumption that gladiators fought at least twice a year), Hopkins and Beard go on to propose 8,000 deaths per year from gladiatorial combat, which would constitute around 1.5 percent of all twenty year-old men in the empire. Ultimately, these statistics contextualize the importance of gladiatorial combat to Roman spectacle—after all, a massive amount of effort would have been needed to replace those who had fallen in the arena—and provide us with a sense of how bloody the sport really was. “Gladiatorial shows,” Hopkins and Beard soberly remark, “were a deadly death tax” (94).
What did the Romans think about all this? Hopkins and Beard are eager to tackle this question directly, positing that the Romans were not as blind to the ethical concerns about gladiatorial combat as is commonly believed. They cite a law passed in the principate of Marcus Aurelius that abolished the tax on the sale of gladiators and stated that the treasury “should not be stained with the splashing of human blood,” and that it was morally reprehensible to acquire money from what was “forbidden by all laws of gods and humans” (120). Here, in 177 CE, and in the principate of an emperor who, in his Meditations, claimed to have found gladiatorial shows “boring,” the Romans were deeply critical of the cruelty associated with the most famous spectacle in the arena. While ethical opposition to blood sports was not as pervasive in the Roman world as it is in our own, the law nevertheless points to the fact that at least a sizable portion of the population apart from the Christians abhorred gladiatorial violence. What can we make of this? Hopkins and Beard reach a sensible conclusion: while the ethical boundaries of the Romans “were drawn in very different places from our own . . . that does not mean that they had no ethical boundaries, or ethical doubts, at all” (121).
The Colosseum is, in the end, one of the most enjoyable non-specialist books written on the ancient world. Those who have read Keith Hopkins or Mary Beard’s work before will not be surprised to find their prose here delightfully easy to read and understand. I highly recommend The Colosseum to those hoping to visit the amphitheater in the future and to all students of ancient history looking for a break from dreary academic writing. While The Colosseum is primarily aimed at the general reader, astute classicists will nevertheless find much to think about and digest from the conclusions drawn by Hopkins and Beard. It will not disappoint.