Peeps at Many Lands: Ancient Rome (Yesterday's Classics) by James Baikie

are the dressing-rooms for the gladiators, the cells for the prisoners who are to fight with wild beasts, the dens for the beasts themselves, and the horrible place where the dead bodies of the vanquished are dragged.
    The arena is separated from the lowest row of seats by a marble wall, high enough to keep the spectators well beyond the reach of the leap of the most savage lion or tiger. Around the top of this wall are ranged the seats of all the great folks. At the two opposite ends of the shorter axis of the arena are two stately chairs of gilded bronze, each raised on a marble dais. In the higher of these sits the Emperor, and in the other the presiding magistrate, or editor. Close to the Emperor are the priestesses of the goddess Vesta, the Vestal Virgins, who are the most sacred beings in Rome, and whose judgment here to-day, for mercy or for the opposite, will mean life or death to many a poor soul in the arena. It is not often that the Vestals vote for mercy, women as they are, and saints as they are supposed to be. Beyond them, all round the ring, sit the aristocracy of Rome, dignitaries of Church and State, great ladies, famous soldiers. Behind, again, and higher up, are the lesser gentry, the knights and their ladies, the wealthy commoners, and so forth. And then, tier by tier, the audience rises in height and increases in numbers, but sinks as steadily in dignity and importance, till in the top rows of all, among the gods, you have all the unwashed rascaldom of the Suburra and the Tiber flats, who live on the free bread of the State, and on what they can steal, and do no harder work than attending a show like this, or perhaps cutting a throat on a dark night.
    Now the sailors from the fleet at Ostia have drawn the great purple awnings to screen us all from the sun, and hidden pipes have thrown a spray of delicate scent into the air, so that we are all as comfortable as possible—50,000 of us at least; some would say nearly double that number. The Emperor, who is looking anything but well (indeed, he has only a year to live), has signified his gracious pleasure, and the editor gives the signal for the games to begin. Out from one of the great dark doors which open on the arena comes the long procession of the men who are about to kill and be killed for a day's amusement to the Roman crowd. They march in order round the arena, Samnite and Thracian, Mirmillo and Retiarius, and all the other types of the horrible trade, decked with fantastic adornments, and clad in equally fantastic armour. Under the high brazen crests of the helmets with their gaudy feathers, strange impassive masks of perforated metal look upon you, so that the gladiator can see nothing of his opponent's face. Only an occasional flash of an eye behind the visor betrays that he is fighting with a man, and not with a brazen monster. The great shields are overburdened with tasteless ornament, the sword arms of the champions shapeless in their swathings of leather. As the procession winds round the arena, shouts are raised for this or that gladiator who is a favourite with the public for bravery or skill.
    Now they are in front of the Emperor's seat, and as they pass the ruler of the world, every arm is raised in salute, and a thundering chorus rises: "Hail, Cæsar! Those who are about to die salute thee." Completing the circuit, the procession breaks up in the midst of the arena, the men are matched in pairs, and blunt weapons are distributed for a few minutes' preliminary fencing. After the champions have shown their skill for a little in this harmless fashion, the editor's voice is heard: "Lay down now your blunt swords, and let the fight with sharp ones go on." Down in the arena, two men come forward—the lanista, who arranges the contests, and the herald, who proclaims the name and the equipment of each fighter. The latter blows his huge horn and announces that the first fight will be between the heavy-armed fighter Gaius Avilius, and the Thracian