Gladiatorial tango
Literary research is a wonderful thing. I'm writing a novel (in fact, it's practically finished) about the daughter of Caratacus , who was the leader of British resistance against the 43 AD Roman invasion. The great Roman historian Tacitus reports that after eight years of guerrilla fighting with the warlike Silures in modern south-eastern Wales, Caratacus with his wife and daughter was captured by the Romans and taken to Rome in chains, there to be paraded through the streets of the city and afterwards, presumably, executed. But the great man - chains and all - made a big speech in front of the emperor, was pardoned and - as far as anybody knows - spent the rest of his life in Rome. As did his wife and daugher, whose life I am imagining.
Among the poeple she meets in Rome are assorted British and Roman personages (some real and some imaginary) and a couple of gladiatrices. Gladiator girls. (Yes, they did exist. Really.) And, indeed, a gladiatorial fight.
Now I know nothing about fighting. So I read a couple of books, which told me a great deal but not exactly how a fight might have happened. I could have watched Spartacus, but I quile like historical accuracy. So I went to an open-air museum last September where a Roman Day was held, and buttenholed a couple of re-enactment gladiators from a group called Amor Mortis and asked them a heap of questions. Both of them turned out to be archaeologists in real life, so they knew what they were talking about. They were exceedingly helpful, explained in great detail all the stuff I wanted to know and even staged a bit of a fight for me.
And then they said, casual-like, that they held open training sessions over the winter, and why didn’t I come along to one of those to get a bit of first-hand experience of gladiatorial combat.
So I got quite excited. And then I had to wait, quite a while, because it turned out that the training sessions wouldn’t start until late January.
Yesterday, as a matter of fact. I’d almost - but not quite - stopped being excited when I rolled up yesterday morning. I didn’t have a clue what to expect. I’m not the fittest person, my co-ordination isn’t great, I have done a little bit of self-defence training but really not very much. The other new chap (I was the only woman come to take part in the training) had 12 years of martial arts training under his numerous belts and muscles everywhere that I could see. And if I hadn’t been so excited (I mean. Gladiators.) I’d very probably have wondered what the hell I thought I was doing there, and sidled away quietly. I’m so glad that I didn’t. Because, for one thing, although I huffed and I puffed rather, so did the martial arts chap. Have you ever tried running in soft, ankle-deep sand, while keeping up a pugilistic-type posture and contentrating on your legwork? I suddenly had about seven legs, and they all hurt most unpleasantly. Gladiators (well, these gladiators, anyway) train on sand because they fight on sand. Indeed, the Latin (and Spanish) word arena simply means sand. Sand is good for not slipping on, it soaks up blood very nicely and is softer to fall on than stone.
It is, though, a bitch to run in. You almost have to wade through the stuff, and your thigh muscles let you know exactly what they think of that. So we practiced lightly running forwards, and then backwards, and that is worse.
Then the swords came out, which aren’t swords so much as knives - the blades measure about 20 centimetres / 8 inches - because gladiatorial combat is pretty much hand-to-hand. Imagine boxers with knives and shields and you get the idea. Training swords are made of wood (presumably to avoid losing too many trainees at early stages). Training weapons, shields and helmets in Antiquity were twice as heavy as the real things, to build up strength and also so that a gladiator on a real fight suddenly had a lot of energy to put into the actual fighting. I’m rather glad that modern training equipment doesn’t follow tradition in that respect, because a gladiator helmet is plenty heavy enough as it is. (Around 3.5 kilos / half a stone.) It’s totally enclosed, with a kind of grille over the eyes and heavily padded inside which means that you can’t hear anything except for the rattling of the blooming helmet; and can see about as much as a blinkered horse. It doesn’t do much for your spatial awareness, but it is an excellent thing to wear when somebody whacks you over the head with a sword (wooden or real).
I found this out during the exercise where everybody took turns at standing in the centre of a circle and tried to fend off attacks from the others. Let's put it kindly and say that I did not excel at that exercise. But the helmet came in handy. Then again, had I not worn the helmet I might have been a bit quicker at reacting. Or just turning round without teetering.
Apparently training over the following weeks will involve more wearing of helmets, because thy restrict your breathing and so when you exercise a lot wearing one you build up your strength. Or something. Is that even logical?
Anyway. I’m so going to go back. I’m hooked, even though (or just possibly because) I was completely bloody limp by the end of the session, and my thigh muscles are screaming at me today every time I try to move. It’s the endorphins, I think, and the adrenaline. And it seems I’m fit enough to cope. Just. Which is highly gratifying.
I’ve been puzzling about the attraction. So there’s the coolness factor. (I mean. Gladiators.) There’s the sheer physical satisfaction of having run around and sweated a lot and still remain standing and conscious at the end of it. There’s the very real pleasure of learning how to fight. Like most women, I’ve had my breasts grabbed and my arse pinched by men on packed trains, or a night-bus shelter in one case; just because they want to and they think I’m a woman so I must be available and willing. I’ve had the looks and the wolf-whistles and been called a frigid bitch when I indicated that I wasn’t pleased to be looked at like a piece of meat and/or propositioned. Shit like that happens. And when it happens, especially when it’s a deserted street at night, I make a fist in my pocked and walk away. I know better than to get into a fight, because men are strong and know how to fight and I don’t.
But.
See.
Now I’m learning to fight. With a little wooden training sword, and it’s show-fighting and so you’re not meant to actually kill anybody. But still. I learn the motions. I learn to use my body in attack mode. If I keep on and keep up with the training, I’m going to be a good deal fitter at the end of it.
All of that feels very sweet.
And there’s another thing. The dancing.
There was this excercise where you put your arms up and out and push your palms flat against those of your partner. And then you push each other, but in such a way that your shoulders remain roughly parallel, and your palms together, so that you’re always at that same (close) distance, and move with one another as much as against each other.
Dancing tango is a lot like that. The thing with the shoulders is exactly the same. Except, of course, in tango, when you have a man and a woman dancing, the man leads and the woman follows. I sucked at tango, because I didn’t do the following thing very well. It irked and irritated me. Why the hell does the man do the leading and I do the following? Why don’t we reverse roles every so often?
I do love tango music, and I had a couple of very enjoyable dances. But the principle of it annoyed me. I thought that what I should do is find a queer tango class and dance with women, & learn both to lead and to follow.
But now I think maybe I’ll just stick with the gladiator fighting. There is a kind of dance in that, a reciprocity, a leading and following, action and reaction. And I get to use a sword.
Literary research is a wonderful thing.
Among the poeple she meets in Rome are assorted British and Roman personages (some real and some imaginary) and a couple of gladiatrices. Gladiator girls. (Yes, they did exist. Really.) And, indeed, a gladiatorial fight.
Now I know nothing about fighting. So I read a couple of books, which told me a great deal but not exactly how a fight might have happened. I could have watched Spartacus, but I quile like historical accuracy. So I went to an open-air museum last September where a Roman Day was held, and buttenholed a couple of re-enactment gladiators from a group called Amor Mortis and asked them a heap of questions. Both of them turned out to be archaeologists in real life, so they knew what they were talking about. They were exceedingly helpful, explained in great detail all the stuff I wanted to know and even staged a bit of a fight for me.
And then they said, casual-like, that they held open training sessions over the winter, and why didn’t I come along to one of those to get a bit of first-hand experience of gladiatorial combat.
So I got quite excited. And then I had to wait, quite a while, because it turned out that the training sessions wouldn’t start until late January.
Yesterday, as a matter of fact. I’d almost - but not quite - stopped being excited when I rolled up yesterday morning. I didn’t have a clue what to expect. I’m not the fittest person, my co-ordination isn’t great, I have done a little bit of self-defence training but really not very much. The other new chap (I was the only woman come to take part in the training) had 12 years of martial arts training under his numerous belts and muscles everywhere that I could see. And if I hadn’t been so excited (I mean. Gladiators.) I’d very probably have wondered what the hell I thought I was doing there, and sidled away quietly. I’m so glad that I didn’t. Because, for one thing, although I huffed and I puffed rather, so did the martial arts chap. Have you ever tried running in soft, ankle-deep sand, while keeping up a pugilistic-type posture and contentrating on your legwork? I suddenly had about seven legs, and they all hurt most unpleasantly. Gladiators (well, these gladiators, anyway) train on sand because they fight on sand. Indeed, the Latin (and Spanish) word arena simply means sand. Sand is good for not slipping on, it soaks up blood very nicely and is softer to fall on than stone.
It is, though, a bitch to run in. You almost have to wade through the stuff, and your thigh muscles let you know exactly what they think of that. So we practiced lightly running forwards, and then backwards, and that is worse.
Then the swords came out, which aren’t swords so much as knives - the blades measure about 20 centimetres / 8 inches - because gladiatorial combat is pretty much hand-to-hand. Imagine boxers with knives and shields and you get the idea. Training swords are made of wood (presumably to avoid losing too many trainees at early stages). Training weapons, shields and helmets in Antiquity were twice as heavy as the real things, to build up strength and also so that a gladiator on a real fight suddenly had a lot of energy to put into the actual fighting. I’m rather glad that modern training equipment doesn’t follow tradition in that respect, because a gladiator helmet is plenty heavy enough as it is. (Around 3.5 kilos / half a stone.) It’s totally enclosed, with a kind of grille over the eyes and heavily padded inside which means that you can’t hear anything except for the rattling of the blooming helmet; and can see about as much as a blinkered horse. It doesn’t do much for your spatial awareness, but it is an excellent thing to wear when somebody whacks you over the head with a sword (wooden or real).
I found this out during the exercise where everybody took turns at standing in the centre of a circle and tried to fend off attacks from the others. Let's put it kindly and say that I did not excel at that exercise. But the helmet came in handy. Then again, had I not worn the helmet I might have been a bit quicker at reacting. Or just turning round without teetering.
Apparently training over the following weeks will involve more wearing of helmets, because thy restrict your breathing and so when you exercise a lot wearing one you build up your strength. Or something. Is that even logical?
Anyway. I’m so going to go back. I’m hooked, even though (or just possibly because) I was completely bloody limp by the end of the session, and my thigh muscles are screaming at me today every time I try to move. It’s the endorphins, I think, and the adrenaline. And it seems I’m fit enough to cope. Just. Which is highly gratifying.
I’ve been puzzling about the attraction. So there’s the coolness factor. (I mean. Gladiators.) There’s the sheer physical satisfaction of having run around and sweated a lot and still remain standing and conscious at the end of it. There’s the very real pleasure of learning how to fight. Like most women, I’ve had my breasts grabbed and my arse pinched by men on packed trains, or a night-bus shelter in one case; just because they want to and they think I’m a woman so I must be available and willing. I’ve had the looks and the wolf-whistles and been called a frigid bitch when I indicated that I wasn’t pleased to be looked at like a piece of meat and/or propositioned. Shit like that happens. And when it happens, especially when it’s a deserted street at night, I make a fist in my pocked and walk away. I know better than to get into a fight, because men are strong and know how to fight and I don’t.
But.
See.
Now I’m learning to fight. With a little wooden training sword, and it’s show-fighting and so you’re not meant to actually kill anybody. But still. I learn the motions. I learn to use my body in attack mode. If I keep on and keep up with the training, I’m going to be a good deal fitter at the end of it.
All of that feels very sweet.
And there’s another thing. The dancing.
There was this excercise where you put your arms up and out and push your palms flat against those of your partner. And then you push each other, but in such a way that your shoulders remain roughly parallel, and your palms together, so that you’re always at that same (close) distance, and move with one another as much as against each other.
Dancing tango is a lot like that. The thing with the shoulders is exactly the same. Except, of course, in tango, when you have a man and a woman dancing, the man leads and the woman follows. I sucked at tango, because I didn’t do the following thing very well. It irked and irritated me. Why the hell does the man do the leading and I do the following? Why don’t we reverse roles every so often?
I do love tango music, and I had a couple of very enjoyable dances. But the principle of it annoyed me. I thought that what I should do is find a queer tango class and dance with women, & learn both to lead and to follow.
But now I think maybe I’ll just stick with the gladiator fighting. There is a kind of dance in that, a reciprocity, a leading and following, action and reaction. And I get to use a sword.
Literary research is a wonderful thing.
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