“Today,” Pompeius continued, “A story for your grandchildren. You will pass on to them the lesson learned first by Epirus, then by Carthage, both to their undoing: no army, no creature on earth is a match for Rome’s indomitable legions! Never before have the monstrous beasts you are about to see fought so close to the city walls. Not until today! I give you…the African War Elephant!” A fanfare sounded while Pompeius crossed back to his seat. As his section of fence was bolted shut behind him, from the shadows of the proscenium, a small, dark and barefoot man, wearing nothing besides a loincloth and a willow switch backed onto the stage. He spoke foreign, halting words and gently tapped his branch on something lingering in the shadows.
“Quick, Ciro, fill my cup.” Pompeius turned to dominus, noting how his wife clung to him. “Tertulla, there is absolutely nothing to fear. We rehearsed with bears yesterday, and no one received so much as a scratch.”
Crassus said, eyeing the few feet between the iron bars and where they sat, “Bears? You might as well have practiced with puppies.”
My lady did not look reassured, but even she, like the hushed crowd, was struck by the wonder of the animals being led into the light. The elephants were over ten feet tall at the shoulder, fifteen feet in length, with long, curving white tusks that flanked their drooping trunks. Their ears, thin and veined, were larger than the feathered fans that waved us cool in summer. It should have been the most terrifying site any of us had ever seen, yet their eyes looked out at us with benign intelligence and unutterable sadness. I thought I must be ascribing human feelings to the moist, black orbs which gazed at us, but when the creatures’ trainer, having lined nine of the elephants up on the left side of the stage returned to lead the second group out, there was no mistaking the tears that stained his dusty cheeks. When all were assembled, he walked up and down the line of eighteen males, reaching up to pat their cheeks, soothing them with lies. As he passed, several of the animals blew gusts of air or raised their trunks to sniff at him.
“Do they not look ridiculous?” Pompeius asked. “They are as brainless as they are massive. I know, for I hunted them in Africa back when Sulla was dictator.”
“They look vulnerable,” Tertulla said, “but I see no sign of stupidity, nor any indication of aggression. They just stand there.”
I could not restrain myself. I leaned forward to our host and said, “Aristotle has studied these creatures. He has called them ‘the animal which surpasses all others in wit and mind.’”
“And fierceness,” Pompeius said. “And fierceness.”
As if having heard us, one of the animals let out a low grumble and swung his trunk to curl it about his neighbor’s. Another down the line raised his snout and trumpeted, answered by an exclamation of astonishment that rose as one voice throughout the amphitheater. Many patricians seated in the front rows stood and clambered up the aisles to the laughter of those already seated high up. We held our ground. Pompeius rose to calm the people’s fear. “To represent our brave legionaries in today’s exhibition, behold the hunters of Gaetulia!”
Behind him, from each side of the stage, eight tall, olive-skinned men costumed in Roman military tunics, sandals and helmets entered the fabricated arena and lined up, their backs to the audience. Their shields were not Roman, but small and round, painted with designs of white and brown. If anyone looked ridiculous, it was they. There was one, nearest Pompeius on the other side of the bars whose bronze helmet bore the black and white plume of an ostrich feather. He, like all the others, balanced a long, smooth lance in his right hand, much different than the Roman shield-piercing pilum. The legionary spears were tipped with soft iron, meant to be thrown once to disrupt an enemy’s line, bending upon impact lest they be hurled back at our own troops. These African weapons, with their flat, leaf-shaped spearheads were designed for deep penetration.
The gates through which the Gaetulians entered clanged shut, startling the animals. They brayed and bumped into each other, clearly becoming more agitated at the sight of what they recognized as their assailants. Their trainer had retreated to the far right corner where Pompeius had stood before the statue of Venus. The little man leaned with his back against the bars, eyes closed, hands pressed together. I doubted his prayers would be heard.
Several of the animals took a step or two forward on the stage. Others made strange and unsettling sounds. “The people must see we are their masters,” Pompeius said, pointing. “Kill them; start with that big one near the end.” He turned to Crassus, pointing straight down through the iron fence. “I’ve had a store of weapons laid in against the wall. Fear not, the hunters will never run out of javelins.”
The soldier with the ostrich plume said something to his men and stepped forward. He hefted his spear, calling out to his victim, motioning with his free hand. Stepping forward with his left foot, he threw the javelin with such speed and grace the spear cut the air as if it had been loosed from a bow. The point entered just below the animal’s left eye, deftly skirting the armament of muscle and bone to rend the soft center of its life, killing it instantly. Its legs, lifeless pillars, buckled; the corpse crashed to the stage, snapping the spear with a stomach-twisting crack as the creature hit the ground. On both sides of the fallen giant, the animals screamed and side-stepped away in terror. The elephant furthest to the right smashed into the fence with force enough to break several of the iron crosspieces, shoving the marble Venus into the column behind it. The head of the goddess broke and fell, then the body toppled in a crash that sent the animals in a wild-eyed search for safety. The crushed trainer lay in a crumpled, lifeless heap, spared the sight of the carnage to come. Perhaps his prayer had been answered after all.
The audience’s cheers were ecstatic.
Rather than charge and retaliate, the elephants appeared desperate to escape. Javelins were now being flung at them by all the hunters. Believing the place where they had entered the arena was the way to their salvation, they bunched about at the rear of the stage, crying out as they pressed against the bars, being wounded all the time in their flanks and legs. Their grunts and cries, pitiful wailing notes were pressed indelibly into every ear. Tertulla turned away. Our eyes met and I could see the water welling brightly in hers. The crowd grew silent, their jubilation extinguished.
Suddenly the elephants turned and rushed away from the rear of the stage, stampeding toward their executioners, stumbling over the bodies of those already dead or dying. At first we could not discern the reason why they reversed direction, but then we saw that men with torches had appeared at the rear of the theater, jabbing with their flames, denying the stars of this last day of celebration their freedom.
“Madness!” Crassus shouted, grabbing his wife. “Stay here, Alexander. Be my witness.” They were already up and moving. Truth to tell, had I wanted to flee, my legs would have betrayed me.
The Gaetulians circled round to the right. The elephants, only ten remaining now, ran wildly toward the curving fence, straight at us. Iron had never looked so flimsy. Pompeius crouched horrified, his hands clutching the wreath on his head. His guards and lictors huddled about him.
The animals’ flanks were exposed, and the hunters loosed a barrage of javelins that thumped and tore into their thick hides. Instinctively fleeing from the source of these new wounds, the victims collided with their brothers, the entire herd smashing headlong into the barrier just beyond us. The fence folded outward over the first rows of seats like a jaw dropping. I saw two men knocked flat and bloody by the iron bars; there may have been more. These were not senators, who had already fled to higher ground, but fools looking for a better view.