When you imagine ancient Rome, the image of gladiators locked in mortal combat is one of the first that springs to mind. You can see it now, right? Thousands of rabid fans, simultaneously losing their shit over an event that was the perfect midpoint between SuperBowl and public execution. We think of the gladiator as the ultimate symbol of some kind of unique Roman cruelty or bloodlust, but that’s missing the point. Gladiators — literally “sword men” — were a method by which Romans could consume brutal violence as entertainment, but also come to terms with their own mortality via status dramatization. Before they were called gladiators, they were known as “bustuarii” — funeral men. The gladiator was steeped in the imagery and symbology of death, and not just because of the nature of his work. The first time that the gladiator shows up in Roman history is at a private funeral in 264 BCE, the culmination of millennia of violent funeral traditions in the Mediterranean world.
In the ancient Mediterranean, the most common form of funeral ritual was the burning of a body on a funeral pyre, though many cultures added flourishes of their own. For example, when the warlike Mycenaean Greeks lost a king or great warrior, the blood of prisoners of war would be spilled near the pyre. This would supposedly satisfy the bloodlust of the fallen, and they could pass unobstructed into the afterlife. However, this ritual bloodletting had additional benefits for the family of the fallen hero. For one, it’s a handy way to advertise the guy’s heroic legacy, to which his survivors are theoretically the heirs. Kind of like when Augustus deified Caesar so he could claim he was descended from a god, you know?
The Greeks, creators of the Olympics, also sometimes held athletic contests to honor the dead. Homer’s Iliad features examples of both: Achilles sacrificed a dozen Trojan captives at the funeral of his cousin, best friend, and lover Patroklos (yay, Greece!). Later, after Achilles himself died, his fellow Greek heroes held games in his honor. The Romans were the leading Homer fanboys of the ancient world, so it’s not surprising that they would adopt these practices themselves. Their unique flourish was combining the two into a single event: ritual battle at the pyre.
As Rome developed into a republic, lavish funerals became useful as a campaigning tool. Families of prominent citizens — not necessarily mighty warriors or even soldiers — began to posthumously embellish the reputations of the deceased (and therefore his surviving relatives) with a heroic funeral worthy of a Homeric demigod. That prestige could be parlayed into a run for office, so the funeral battles became more and more spectacular. They proved so valuable at promoting political brand awareness that capturing, training, and fielding these combatants became an industry all its own.
Over the centuries, the games lost their association with funeral ritual and became something more analogous to professional sports. The gladiators were divided into distinct classes with weapons and armor unique to each. Other events were added to the card, including spectacular executions inspired by myth and battles involving wild animals. Citizens were expected to have favorite events and performers, and the games became a vital part of Roman identity politics. By the days of the Empire, the games were considered so vital that private citizens were barred from promoting them; organizing gladiator battles became an official function of the Roman state. Over the centuries, thousands died in agony while hundreds of thousands cheered it all on, and all of it can be traced back to that fateful funeral service in 264 BCE, when a few ambitious Romans decided to make some slaves kill each other in front of grandpa’s grave.
