The Surprisingly Chill Life of a Modern-Day Gladiator

It's a breezy Sunday morning in April in the year MMXVI, and I'm late to meet the senator Tacitus at the Circus Maximus. I send him a text—mi dispiace!—a perhaps unnecessarily emphatic Italian apology I feel is nevertheless warranted. Since Tacitus sends me nothing in response, I assume he is angry and find myself panicked and hustling up the cobblestone roads. Rome is a strenuous city, hilly and dense and absent of modern conveyors such as sidewalks. Sweating, I wonder about the historical accumulation of several millennia of dopamine rushes, whether it's contributed to the architectural pomposity of the place.

Approaching the Circus Maximus, I hear the screech of a sound system getting set up, the thud mic checks, then the over-amplified whine of some ancient reed instrument. The day's events, free for anyone who's willing to take the hike, is something like a glorified and historically rigorous Ren faire. On the program is a morning procession around the Colosseum, dance performances, gladiatorial contests, and a slave-market reenactment. The procession hasn't started yet, but already there's a busy canvas of people milling about in costume: men and women dressed as legionnaires, gladiators, ribboned maidens, and noblemen. The gladiators, the apparent bad boys of the group, stand around smoking cigarettes and taking selfies, but it's their anachronistically pale white legs—hidden by modern man under pants—that seem most jarring.

Weaving through the crowd and dodging lethal-looking axes and leather whips, I find Tacitus at the far end of the track under a white tent where you can buy bottles of water, T-shirts, and event programs. Tacitus is the persona Paolo Zilli, 55, plays when he's not working as Metronius, a gladiator instructor at the gladiator school. He's altogether unlike what I'd expected from a modern-day gladiator, but my notions, admittedly, are informed primarily by the show American Gladiator, where souped-up contestants in Lycra pummel one another through various obstacles of foam. Zilli is actually pretty ordinary: just a respectably fit guy who happens to love history.

This morning, Zilli, as Tacitus, is wearing a white robe lined with red velvet and flashy ancient bling: a heavy gold medallion and imperial wrist cuff. He strikes me as vaguely familiar. "It's George Clooney," he offers eagerly. "Everyone says I look like George. The only difference is our bank account." When Zilli laughs, he really does look like Clooney—the smiling eyes, the leisurely Lake Como tan. And Zilli seems to luxuriate in inhabiting multiple famous personae at once—Tacitus, Metronius, Clooney-us. He looks at the recorder I've thrust into his hand with sincere befuddlement. "We ancient Romans are not very good with technology," he quips.

Somewhere between an actor, amateur athlete, and armchair historian, Zilli's obsession with Roman history began at the age of nine, when he dressed as an ancient Roman for Carnevale, the Italian version of Halloween. His mom had sewn a tunic, and his dad had fashioned a sword with a wood shield. Since then, he's read hundreds of books on Roman history. But the former regional-level soccer player and black belt in karate says he only discovered this dream job, which combines physical exertion and historical nerdiness, only six years ago. "When you fail as athlete, you have to recycle yourself," he says astutely.

Now he is one of the five gladiator instructors who teach at the school. His daily routine is structured around the tourist season, from April to October. During that period, he will spend up to eight hours at the gladiator school, teaching two-hour workshops to mostly American tourists for around $60 a pop. The rest of the year, he works as an English translator and interpreter.

Zilli assured me that his job is anomalous and "fringe" in Italy, as historical reenacting is considered gauche and politically incorrect, sort of like a "cowboys and Indians" festival would be in the US. "Since we reenact the Roman Empire, they assume we are warmongers." He laughs. "Americans are the most curious. They are just admiring all of this. Even elderly people are jumping around and doing push-ups." I ask if this is because America is a warmongering country, but he says it's because America is a new country, with barely 300 years of history.

Instead, he shares another theory about national temperaments. "I must pinpoint that the Australians are the most eager to fight. Especially women. They hit like men!" He describes teaching a class where an Australian woman headbutted her friend so hard it broke her friend's nose. Blood gushed everywhere, but they appeared unfazed. "She was doing this thing like King Kong, laughing. Unreal! Because if you think, Australia is the biggest jail of the universe, all the most dangerous prisoners were shipped to Australia. It must be in their DNA."

Not a very politically correct thing to say, but Zilli loves to thrill and encapsulate contradiction. When I ask whether he watches Game of Thrones, he replies that he's more of a sci-fi guy. "But that's in the future!" I protest. "Battlestar Galactica is like Roman Empire in the future," he replies. But whether he's living in the past, the present, or the future, he tries to live according to the ancient code called mos maiorum, or "way of the elders."

Later, I go to visit him at the school, which is located along the Appian Way, a military road built in 312 BC. The camp is quiet: weeds pouring from crumbling walls, the soothing swish of trees swaying overhead. The serenity is transporting. Zilli is giving a presentation to a group of teenage girls about the complexities of armor. He points at a metal crotch plate on the armored mannequin.

"It's not used for protection," he explains. "If you need it, it's already too late." (The plates are used for percussive effect while marching.) Then he points to the red cloth underneath the armor. "Why red? Anyone know? Because if you get stabbed, it will be the same color."

With this same tone of blunt pragmatism, Zilli circulates the "museum"—a small room filled with various instruments to inflict physical injury: catapults, crude clubs, crossbows, wood balls driven with metal spikes that look like sea urchins—and doles out nuggets of information. Garlic was used as an anticoagulant. Non-professional gladiators had to survive 30 matches to win their freedom. Female gladiators often fought dwarves and were used as clowns in comedic acts between the real fights. A lighthearted intermission, something like the halftime show.

Soon it's time for the girls go out and run circles around the sand pit. They have to jump back and forth over a low rope, leap over a bench, do a somersault, and then snake through swinging sandbags. (Some girls, miscalculating, get cruelly socked in the head.) After the warm-ups, Zilli brings out the wooden swords. He instructs them on the "five basic moves" of defense and offense, guiding them through each sword and foot position. It's all giggles in this arena, but from across the way, we can hear another, more vengeful training session going on. The instructor is shouting: "Neck! Neck! Neck! Other side! Other side!" and then a bloodcurdling shriek before a clash of wood and metal. I hurry over to inspect the damage: It's a husband and wife match-up. Apparently (according to Zilli) it's common for couples on vacation to get carried away trying to kill each other. (What is gladiator school good for if not as an outlet for sublimated desires?)

"Yes, I'm very happy," Zilli says when I ask him about whether he enjoys his day job. "It's rewarding when people leave with their mouth like this"—he gestures the broad, ungladiatorial smile on his own face. "It's priceless."

Anelise Chen is the author of So Many Olympic Exertions, forthcoming from Kaya Press in 2017. Follow her on Twitter.