Another nod to the competitions of old as we wade through another Olympics.
Back in the days of coliseums and gladiators, there were female gladiators.
Yes. Those beastly, killing, fighting machines.
A female gladiator was called a gladiatrix, or gladiatrices, for several of them. They were rarer than their male counterparts. But “rare” did not mean less as far as their duties were concerned. Gladiatrices served the same purpose. They executed criminals, fought each other, and fought animals in Rome’s various fighting pits.
But perhaps you knew that. Because maybe, just maybe, you secretly watched Zena: Warrior Princess.
I did not see the series, but I know it was around. Trust me. I know it was around. Regardless. I have a lot of questions about those gladiatrices. Like. Did they have to go home at night and fix dinner? Put the kids to bed? Those sorts of things. And what were their husbands like? Nerdy Roman accountant types? Street Sweeper?
And then there is this:
“What did the first century Christian say about the lion that killed his wife?”
“I’m Gladiator.”
And we all can be gladiators, in our own, good ways.
