Is It Thumbs Up for the Thumbs Down?

Commodus didn’t look like this at all. He, rather, famously, was the spitting image of his father, Marcus Aurelius, big old Greek style beard and all.

At the risk, somewhat, of invoking Thomas Harris' classic thriller The Silence of the Lambs, I do not wake up at night with the screaming of the adorable little calves my sister and I hand-raised on the small farm we grew up on, ringing in my ears, even though each year, a select number of those cute-as-buttons little moo-cows ended up as dour, naked, carcasses of meat hanging in the barn behind the milking parlour at the same time each year. More still were loaded onto a big truck to be driven off to - well, y'know... - but we knew this, and we accepted it, even at a tender age ourselves, because that was part of life on a farm with cows, and we also liked sausages.

I am no naive city-slicker when it comes to the fate of animals. Cows are bred for two things - milk and meat - and all of them end up, eventually, being 'processed' into something or other, usually food of some description. People are entirely free to make decisions on what they eat based on what they believe, but I can at least make my own decisions in this area based on first-hand knowledge of what happens at the coal face of the meat industry. I don't really eat meat much these days.

Similarly, I have opinions on things like fox hunting, which, for anyone not familiar with this deranged British tradition, involves a bunch of, usually rather posh, semi-drunk idiots on horses chasing a fox around the countryside until it gets torn apart by dogs. A surprising number of people who work the land out in the countryside don't like fox hunting for a couple of simple reasons - firstly, the drunk horse idiots never ask permission before stomping all over your land in pursuit of the fox, and secondly, even though we aware that foxes can be vermin and cause all sorts of mayhem in some respects, the perfectly sensible, and far more humane way, of dealing with them is by shooting them.

There are ways in which animals should be treated and ways in which they should not. But all of them, eventually, end up with the same fate at the hands of unruly humans.

There was one little cow that my sister and I hand-reared that escaped all this terror, and he was a little black Charolais bull that we named Bowser. Our parents let us keep Bowser, and he quickly became a part of the family, along with the cacophony of dogs that lived in the yard outside the kitchen window. Bowser would sit in the afternoon sun, docile and sleepy, and we would sit on top of him and sunbathe. He never seemed to mind. One day, eventually, someone came for Bowser because, like all little black Charolais bulls, he had grown into an enormous black Charolais bull, and he was loaded into a truck and taken off somewhere - you know where. So we never ate Bowser. But someone else did. Being slightly sad as Bowser was driven off is as Silence of the Lambs as it ever got, although I am quite partial to fava beans.

So it was with a similar outlook that when, at Easter of 1994, living in the south of France, my friend Jean-Luc asked me if I would like to come to the bullfighting with him. My initial reaction was 'no', but then my initial reaction to being asked if I wanted to go fox hunting was also 'no', and it wasn't until I actually went on a fox hunt that I was able to cement my position on how brutally pointless it was. I didn't really want to see a bunch of bulls being slaughtered - after all, I already knew how they died. But What better way to cement an opinion on bullfighting than to go and take a look?

As an added bonus, the Féria De Pâques, the annual 'celebration' of bullfighting in the city of Arles, took place in the compact and beautiful Roman arena that couched among the narrow streets of the city where Van Gogh chopped his ear off after going mad on absinthe. Now, that was worth a visit.

When we arrived at the venue, beneath one of the great colonnades of the 2,000-year-old amphitheatre, Jean-Luc rather surprised me by revealing that I hadn't just come to sit in the crowd and reel at the carnage; I was to don a rather utilitarian uniform and take part in the proceedings themselves.

We were part of the crew who, when the bull was dead, would come on with a horse and cart, winch the dead beast onto the back, and then take it to a team of white-aproned men deep in the arena's guts, who would soon be deep in the animal's guts. It wasn't much of a role in the day's acts, but it was one that, apparently, had a waiting list of eager, normally quite old, men clamouring for the 'honour' of taking part. Jean-Luc, who ran a company that supplied the horse and cart, had wrangled me a position on the team that I never asked for, and it seemed unavoidable to say no.

Before the day started, everyone involved in the slaughter crammed, steaming and huddled in the sepulchral dark of the arena's depths, awaiting their cue. In a narrow, arched corridor that led directly out onto the arena floor, where, 2,000 years before, gladiators had made last-minute checks of their armour and equipment before striding out into the blinding sun to face a bellowing crowd and, perhaps, death, so we did the same, only the death wasn't going to be ours.

There were armoured horses in there, sweating profusely, picadors shoving great wads of wet newspaper into their ears so they wouldn't get spooked by the sound of the bull's snorts. Matadors made last-minute adjustments to their dazzling suits of light and popped behind a curtain into the makeshift Catholic shrine for a quick just-in-case. Urgent men back-slapped and hugged each other, swapping quick drafts of brandy. A tiny but very important-looking matador, his short-cut coat sparkling like fire even in the gloom, adjusted the hat on my head because I was wearing it at a far too disrespectful angle.

"Remember," he told me, in Spanish, "We are here for death."

And I understood entirely what he meant.

It was exhilarating.

Suddenly, the big wooden doors swung open, and we struggled to adjust our eyes to the blazing spring sunshine. Slowly, the column of people, horses and wagons began to creep out onto the floor of the great arena. The place was full, and the crowd was cheering wildly as we began a procession to be presented to the president of the feria, who was sitting high on the far side of the arena. Our little team were at the rear and, just as I had been told, when it came to our turn, I walked solemnly forward, bowed, and doffed my insolent cap to whoever it was up there.

I was rather disappointed when he just waved back. Where was the thumbs-up? Or, at least, the thumb held out horizontally and then dramatically turned either up or down to signal that I should live or die?

He was no emperor! Was I being duped? Was any of the thumb stuff a myth?

As for the rest of the events of that day, that's perhaps for another time. My attitude towards bullfighting didn't change, but I did, at least, understand it a little better. I was glad that I experienced it from a unique vantage point, and the experience was unbelievable, but the cruelty of it all was astounding. The arena was, and remains, just like the grumpy yet important matador said, a place of death.

So, what is the truth about the oft-seen thumbs-up or thumbs-down gesture? Is it entirely a myth, or is there some history behind the gesture?

The image of a Roman emperor, seated in the grandeur of the Colosseum, delivering a thumbs-up or thumbs-down gesture to decide the fate of a defeated gladiator, is one of the most enduring tropes of popular culture. From Hollywood films to historical novels, this gesture has become synonymous with the brutality and spectacle of ancient Rome. Yet, how accurate is this depiction? Did Roman emperors or hosts of the games truly use such gestures, and if so, what did they signify? The Origins and Evolution of Gladiatorial Contests

Gladiatorial contests originated as funeral games in the Roman Republic, evolving over time into elaborate public spectacles that showcased the power and generosity of their sponsors. These games were deeply embedded in Roman culture, serving as both entertainment and a means of reinforcing social hierarchies. By the Imperial period, gladiatorial games had become a tool for emperors to demonstrate their authority and connect with the populace.

The contests were held in amphitheatres, with the Colosseum in Rome being the most iconic venue. The seating arrangements reflected Roman social stratification, with the emperor or host occupying the pulvinar, a prominent box that afforded an unobstructed view of the arena. The crowd, comprising citizens from all walks of life, played an active role in the spectacle, often expressing their opinions vocally and through gestures.

The question of whether the thumbs-up or thumbs-down gesture was used in gladiatorial contests is a contentious one. The primary sources provide some clues, but their interpretation requires careful analysis.

The most frequently cited source is the Roman poet Juvenal, who, in his Satires, mentions the crowd's use of gestures to influence the fate of a gladiator. He writes, "verso pollice vulgus cum iubet" (Satire 3.36), which translates to "with a turned thumb, the crowd orders." However, the exact meaning of "verso pollice" (turned thumb) is ambiguous. Some scholars interpret this as a thumbs-down gesture signalling death, while others argue it could signify a thumbs-up, sparing the gladiator.

Another key source is the 4th-century AD historian Prudentius, who describes a gesture involving the thumb (pollex) in his Contra Symmachum. He states that a thumb pressed against the chest (pollex premere) indicated mercy, while an extended thumb (pollex extendere) signified death. This description aligns more closely with the modern understanding of the thumbs-up/thumbs-down dichotomy, but it is important to note that Prudentius was writing centuries after the height of gladiatorial games, and his account may reflect later interpretations rather than contemporary practices.

Archaeological evidence, such as mosaics and reliefs, provides further insight into the gestures used in the arena. The Zliten mosaic from Libya, dating to the 2nd century AD, depicts gladiatorial combat and includes figures making hand gestures. However, the exact nature of these gestures is open to interpretation. Some figures appear to be extending their thumbs, but whether this signifies mercy or condemnation is unclear.

Similarly, the Nennig mosaic from Germany shows a referee (summa rudis) making a hand gesture, but again, the meaning is not explicitly stated. These visual sources suggest that hand gestures were indeed part of the gladiatorial spectacle, but they do not definitively confirm the use of the thumbs-up/thumbs-down gesture as it is popularly depicted.

It is also possible that other gestures were used to communicate the fate of a gladiator. For example, waving a handkerchief (mappa) was a common way for the host of the games to signal the start of a contest or to grant mercy. The crowd may have used similar gestures to express their opinions.

The decision to spare or condemn a defeated gladiator was not solely in the hands of the emperor or host. While the emperor's opinion carried significant weight, the crowd played a crucial role in influencing the outcome.

The emperor, as the ultimate authority, had the power to grant mercy (missio) or condemn a gladiator to death. However, his decision was often influenced by the crowd's reaction. The emperor's presence in the pulvinar placed him in a position of visibility and authority, but it also made him acutely aware of public sentiment.

Primary sources such as Suetonius and Cassius Dio provide examples of emperors interacting with the crowd during gladiatorial games. For instance, Suetonius recounts how the emperor Claudius, known for his fondness for the games, would enthusiastically join in the crowd's chants and gestures (Suetonius, Life of Claudius, 34). This suggests that the emperor's role was not merely that of a detached arbiter but rather an active participant in the spectacle.

The crowd's influence cannot be overstated. Gladiatorial games were a form of mass entertainment, and the host or emperor was often keen to maintain the favour of the populace. The crowd's reaction—whether cheers for mercy or demands for death—could sway the decision.

Ancient texts frequently highlight the crowd's power. For example, Cicero, in his Tusculan Disputations, describes how the crowd's approval could elevate a gladiator's status and even secure his freedom (Cicero, Tusculan Disputations, 2.41). This underscores the symbiotic relationship between the crowd and the decision-makers in the arena.

Contrary to popular belief, death was not the inevitable outcome for a defeated gladiator. While some contests were fought to the death (sine missione), many gladiators were spared to fight another day.

Gladiators were valuable investments, and their training and maintenance were costly. As such, it was often in the best interest of the lanista (gladiator trainer) and the host to spare skilled fighters. Primary sources such as graffiti from Pompeii provide evidence of gladiators who survived multiple fights, attesting to the frequency of mercy being granted.

However, death was a real possibility, particularly in games where the host sought to demonstrate their generosity or appease the crowd. The Senatus Consultum de Pretiis Gladiatorum Minuendis, a senatorial decree from AD 177, highlights the financial and social pressures associated with hosting games, including the expectation of providing a certain number of deaths.

The popular depiction of the thumbs-up/thumbs-down gesture in Roman gladiatorial contests is a compelling narrative, but its historical accuracy is far from certain. Primary sources such as Juvenal and Prudentius provide tantalising clues, but their interpretations remain ambiguous. Archaeological evidence, while suggestive, does not definitively confirm the use of this gesture.

What is clear is that the decision to spare or condemn a gladiator was a complex interplay between the emperor, the host, and the crowd. The fate of a defeated gladiator was not determined by a single gesture but by a combination of social, economic, and political factors.

References

Cicero. (1927). Tusculan Disputations (J. E. King, Trans.). Harvard University Press.

Juvenal. (2004). Satires (S. M. Braund, Trans.). Cambridge University Press.

Prudentius. (1949). Contra Symmachum (H. J. Thomson, Trans.). Harvard University Press.

Suetonius. (1914). Life of Claudius (J. C. Rolfe, Trans.). Harvard University Press.

Zliten Mosaic. (2nd century AD). Archaeological Museum of Tripoli, Libya.

Nennig Mosaic. (2nd century AD). Roman Villa of Nennig, Germany.