ROME — "Try this," hisses Petronio, clamping a metal tube around my left arm.
Attached to the tube is a bronze plate that rests crookedly on my shoulder. Like everything else in the armory, it's too big. The tunic flaps, the sandals flop and the belt keeps dropping to my feet.
Petronio shakes his head.
"You're very puny, but there's nothing else to be done. Out you go." I grip my sword and stride into a Roman dusk to become a gladiator.
The arena is a field behind a bus station on the old Appian Way, where Spartacus and several thousand rebel gladiators were crucified. I and other novices are to learn how to fight, kill and die with dignity.
Inspired by the image of Russell Crowe glowering from posters for Ridley Scott's film, stressed office workers are flocking here for the $112.50 course, open to those in good health and over 18. It usually lasts two months, but tonight we're cramming. Theory, training, hailing Caesar and combat in under an hour.
A few veterans are already hacking away and throwing nets at each other. But I must take some pointers from Korakos, a specialist in lunging. Students take names from emperor Nero's 11th Claudia legion.
Sweat streaming down his bare chest, black hair pulled into a ponytail, Korakos punctuates his advice with jabs of his sword, a short steel number called a gladius. Like all the weapons, it is blunted.
"The first thing to remember is balance. If you lose your equilibrium you get this in the belly." Jab. "You must not swing in an arc. It leaves your body wide open. To this." Jab, jab. "Lunge for the kill and miss and you're totally exposed. To this." Jab, jab, jab.
The instruction continues. We learn to balance on the balls of our feet and strike for the belly during the secutor, a classic combat involving two adversaries, each armed with two swords and a shield.
The costumes and weapons have been made by Gruppo Storico Romano, which was founded in 1994 as a club for lovers of ancient Rome and branched into gladiator teaching. Attendance and media interest have soared since the "Gladiator" movie portrayed arena slashers as steely, honorable professionals, a perception the Gruppo is keen to reinforce.
The memoirs of emperor Hadrian are cited: "At first I was disgusted by the combats between gladiators. . . . but then I started to understand and to appreciate their ritual value."
Michael Whitby, a history professor at the University of Warwick in England, says the reality was far more savage and sadistic than the film. Pitched battles between slaves and prisoners of war gave the baying mob thousands of decapitations, skewerings, bashings and mutilations in one afternoon.
"It is difficult for us to get a handle on the level of killing. It was remorseless, with different styles of killing in case people got bored. They loved it."
A train rumbles incongruously overhead but the fighters appear not to notice. A fisherman snags, loses and snags again a doomed murma. Some have athletic torsos, plenty do not. Tonight's batch are mostly bankers.
Korakos, a/k/a Giuseppe Coluzzi, 32, looks hurt when asked if this is how he vents frustration after a day of snotty customers. "Assolutamente no!" He is here to keep history alive. Any more pop psychology would invite a jab in the belly.
Time for combat. My head disappears inside a leather mask. The arena, a patch of grass walled by waist-high canvas, is scuffed with skidmarks. There is a beefy man with a gladius, shield and iron-face mask, but no Emma. "Men don't fight women," explains Beefy.
Seconds later our swords are clashing. Korakos's wise words dissolve as I find myself hacking into attack. My enemy retreats before the onslaught and I rush ahead. My swings grow wild — a backhand, a forehand, a smash. He's on the run.
Except he's not — he's a sly Beefy waiting until hubris exposes me to a swift thrust to the bellybutton. His sword tip grazes my belly and I reel back in surprise and lose balance. Strike one. Korakos shakes his head. Next up is Petronio, a/k/a bank teller Pietro Gallone, 48. A bearded legionnaire, he whirls a short sword, smiles, yells "Attack!" twice and charges.
A quick one-two leaves me reeling but I regain my balance and attempt a sneaky thrust towards the groin. Petronio jumps back in alarm. I charge as he sidesteps to the left and whirl so as not to lose sight, but the shoulderplate is in the way and his sword presses on my chest. Strike two.
Sweat pours into my eyes, so I peel off the mask and reconsider tactics for the final fight. Too wide, mouths Korakos from the sidelines, you're swinging too wide. He nods approvingly to the corner where Emma is holding her own against an Amazonian while another woman scores points.
I had expected swords to be a size leveler, but heftiness is proving a distinct advantage. The final opponent is bearded, stocky and wastes no time with shouts. Silent and staring, he has been studying my previous bouts.
Tramping to within 2 feet, he opens with an uppercut to the breastbone. Deflected by a fluky clockwise slash, he tries it again and almost nicks my chin, but hesitates as I swing wildly at his nose. We clash swords, backwards and forwards in grim attrition, then he goes for the legs.
A sudden downward jab that Korakos had not mentioned. Better to deflect it with a low sweep, or slice at the exposed chest? I am deciding when his sword flicks a knee. Not fatal, but in real combat enough to cripple. Strike three. I am an extremely dead gladiator.
I lay down my sword and shake hands with my conquerors. They are sympathetic. I have potential, I am small and can move quickly - a few months' training and I could be the one standing over prostrate opponents. Really.
It is dark and the other combatants wind down. Helmets, tunics and weapons are returned to the armory and they slip into suits and jeans. Legionnaires flirt with the Amazons as they head for scooters. Among those who attend regularly are accountants, students, musicians, traffic wardens and sales reps.
There seems to be no political undertone, no Mussolini-style hankering for lost glory. Asked why they attended, some said exercise, others nostalgia, but the obvious appeal is escapist role-playing.
It's easy to snicker. The gladiators are holding themselves up to ridicule and know it. They are unusual, because Romans are conformist and deplore eccentricity. Step out of line and bang! goes your bella figura, your reputation. In Rome today, it takes courage to step into the arena.