Let savage Memphis speak not of the Wonders that are her Pyramids; let Assyrian labour glory not in its Babylon; let the soft Ionians win no praise for their Temple of the Crossroads Goddess [Artemis]; let the close-packed altar of antlers lure no crowds to Delos; let not the Carians’ immoderate praises elevate their Mausoleum, swaying in empty air, unto the stars. Each labour resigns its title in favour of the Amphitheatre of the Caesars, and Fame shall speak of one marvel in place of all. (Martial, De Spectaculis; Martial, 2015, p. 3)
Here, where the Colossus of the Sun views the stars close at hand and towering cranes rise up in mid-street, the hateful halls of a bestial king once dazzled, when in all Rome stood just one house. Here, where the spectacular Amphitheatre’s hallowed bulk is being raised up, was Nero’s lake. Here, where we marvel at the baths—gifts to the people, swift in coming—a regal estate had robbed the poor of their homes. Where the Claudian Portico spreads out generous shade, ended the palace’s most distant wing. Rome is given back to herself, Caesar, and under your guardianship her former master’s pleasures belong to her people. (Martial, De Spectaculis 2; Martial, 2015, p. 3)
He said: ‘If you drag my body to that place and sit me down there, do not imagine you can turn my mind and my eyes to those spectacles. I shall be as one not there, and so I shall overcome both you and the games.’ […] When they had arrived and had found seats where they could the entire place seethed with the most monstrous delight in the cruelty. He kept his eyes shut and forbade his mind to think about such fearful evils. Would that he had blocked his ears as well! A man fell in combat. A great roar from the entire crowd struck him with such vehemence that he was overcome by curiosity. Supposing himself strong enough to despise whatever he saw and to conquer it, he opened his eyes. He was struck in the soul by a wound graver than the gladiator in his body […] As soon as he saw the blood, he at once drank in savagery and did not turn away. His eyes were riveted. He imbibed madness. Without any awareness of what was happening to him, he found delight in the murderous contest and was inebriated by bloodthirsty pleasure. (Confessions 6.8; Augustine, 1991, p. 100–1)
Here arches are piled up on arches! As though the city of Rome, collecting up the memory of all her past military victories, had wanted to build all her triumphal arches into one circular building, the Coliseum. The moonlight which shines on it is the most appropriate sort of lighting for this place, both natural and heavenly, illuminating this long-famous and yet still fascinating-to-contemplate place. The dome of the deep blue Italian night-sky hangs above this vast and wonderful ruin and echoes its shape.
That was really hard to do! And I’m not sure I’ve got it right, either, or even quite understand it. What’s all that stuff about the skies assuming hues that have words, for instance? All the same, I found out something really interesting that I’d never noticed before – about how cleverly Byron had collapsed the idea of the Roman triumph with the triumphal arch and so made the Colosseum into the epitome of the Roman Empire. I also discovered how many ideas Byron had compressed into single words, e.g. ‘natural’ and ‘mine’. And I also discovered that his verse is way better than my prose.
ARCHES on arches! as it were that Rome, | A |
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, | B |
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, | A |
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine | B |
As ’twere its natural torches, for divine | B |
Should be the light which streams here, to illume | C |
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine | B |
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom | C |
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume | C |
Archaic Torso of Apollo We cannot know his legendary head with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso is still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could a smile run through the placid hips and thighs to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life. (Rilke, 1995 [1908])
When I look at this almost limbless body, what I see is an ideal of manhood: a strong, finely-toned trunk with sculpted abdominal definition. I imagine that the model for such a sculpture might well have been an athlete of great prowess, as the representation exudes vigour and strength. The provenance of the statue is not clear to me but it seems to be modelled on a classical ideal. From a twenty-first-century perspective, the anatomy of the nude figure appears correct, though the pubic area is missing.
The perfection of your marbled, stylised exterior is what first stands out: a perfectly chiselled, finely wrought torso signalling your masculine prowess. You exude strength and virility. Yet you are forever stuck in this pose, a beautiful, near-limbless trunk of worked alabaster, a tribute not just to some Greek ideal but to the conceit and skill of your maker. Were you sculpted to order to decorate a temple precinct or were you a model athlete whose Olympian splendour distinguished itself and demanded to be recorded? I wonder what you would say, noble statue, if you could talk, what tales you would tell. Would you speak of martial deeds or of epic contests? Perhaps you were just brawn, something to be gazed at, a male equivalent of the beautiful Venus de Milo, lacking skills of elocution and rhetoric? We shall never know. Your history must be pieced together from fragments and from ancient texts. Are you the ancient equivalent of a twenty-first-century gym junkie? A Mr Universe? A winner on the TV show Britain’s Got Talent? Who knows. Today you stand before a crowd of twenty-first-century onlookers, both virtual and real. I wonder what you make of us.