It was precisely during that moment, when the co-owner of the Gold faction and the emperor-in-waiting, Domitian, commanded the merciless execution of an innocent child, solely to spite a man who had offended him, that I exclaimed, "God forbid this despot prevails." Domitian's imperial brother, Titus, though not a paragon of virtue, was at least moved by the grandeur of the opening day spectacles at the Flavian Amphitheatre, better known as the Colosseum, with its Cirque du Soleil-esque performances. But the grisly spectacles involving friends forced to slay each other, or the horrors of family members being butchered or ex-lovers' heads being bitten off by crocodiles after their tongues were torn out, were not Titus's cup of tea.
Alas, Domitian emerged victorious in the end. Even as Titus accurately listed his brother's shortcomings to the Praetorian guards, who were now his executioners, Domitian screamed, "Shut up!" in a voice that cracked comically. Tenax, sneaking up from behind, suffocated the monarch. Domitian took Titus's slow death as an opportunity to gloat, dabbing his own tears on the dying man's face. The murder weapon? A banner adorned with the Roman eagle and the motto "The Senate and the Roman People," two entities that had relinquished control of Rome since the rise of the Caesars. Choke on your so-called norms!
But here's the crux: When Tenax assassinated Titus, it marked a triumph not only for the show's most vile antagonist, Domitian, but also for its protagonist and enigmatic anti-hero, Tenax himself. As much as I wished for Domitian's downfall due to his meddling with grain shipments, I also wanted Tenax to prevail with his Gold faction, his betting tavern, his army of street urchins, and his unparalleled bond with Cala. I yearned for him to concoct even more twisted schemes, like feeding treasonous senators to crocodiles amidst the screams of thousands of yokels (and a few horrified senators, to be sure).
This, ultimately, stands as the most ingenious move by the writer-creator, Robert Rodat, in shaping this narrative: by intertwining the fates of our favorite protagonist and our least favorite antagonist. Every triumph is marred, every defeat holds a spark of hope. It leaves us torn between wanting things to happen and not happen simultaneously — much like the senators who offered the feeblest "Hail, Caesar" in history in response to Domitian's ascension, we simultaneously accept and reject it. This is indeed masterful storytelling.
The ignominious fate of Scorpus, who had been both a captivating anti-hero and an unbearable villain during his stint on the show, mirrors this complexity. After receiving a taste of his own medicine, courtesy of the young Spanish brother Elia, who ran Scorpus into a wreck, just as Scorpus had done to his own brother Andria, Scorpus's journey on the show came to a close. This was another fascinating and unexpected turn, akin to benching your star quarterback by running him over with a bus. It left our feelings about Scorpus in limbo, as the man died without any real reckoning for his past deeds. He was bid a tearful, jovial farewell by Tenax and had a massive turnout at his funeral; yet none of these people truly knew him.
The intricacies of the narrative deepen further as it transpires that Scorpus is not the sole victim of Elia's scheming. His brother, Fonsoa, too, stumbles into the wreckage and succumbs to his injuries. Moreover, the list of major characters meeting their fates is far from over. Titus falls victim to an assassin's blade. Consul Marsus and Domitian's lover Hermes are devoured by crocodiles. Viggo and Kwame engage in a forced duel, driven by Domitian's threat to their loved ones—Viggo's son and Kwame's sister Jula. Judean queen Berenice, loyal to Emperor Titus, is assassinated by her own people while presenting damning evidence of Tenax and Domitian's treason. However, her sacrifice becomes a moot point as a bribed navigator appears in the coastal region of Ostia, bearing witness to Domitian's betrayal before Titus.
The show's masterful manipulation of events and characters is truly remarkable. Each missed opportunity to strike or save a life feels like a pivot point in the narrative, even amidst the numerous such instances. It continues to amaze me how the series extracts compelling narratives from seemingly stock characters. Antonia's grief over the loss of her husband, Marsus, is portrayed so convincingly by Gabriella Pession, leaving the viewer deeply moved. Alessandro Bedetti, as Hermes, portrays the character's anguish, despair, and terror with such intensity that it's almost unbearable to watch. (If these scenes cross the line for some viewers, I understand; it's indeed a harrowing tale, especially considering the CGI lions as the primary source of danger elsewhere.)
Elsewhere, Caltonia, a shareholder from the Blue faction, performs a rare feat among the patricians: she does the right thing. She seeks out her former colleague Salena, apologizes for her past behavior, and offers to pay the legal fees to reclaim Salena's shares from Marsus's family. While this undoubtedly benefits Caltonia's position vis-à-vis Antonia, there's a sincerity in her offer that is undeniable. Perhaps I'm easily swayed by the sight of former adversaries cooperating. (Indeed, I am.)
Cala's family dominates much of the finale's narrative, mirroring Kwame's centrality in the Amphitheatre's opening games. Pressured by Berenice and Antonia, Cala betrays Tenax to save Jula. Kwame, with Titus's approval, grants Jula the wooden sword of freedom, transferring the reward for her brother's bravery. The story arc involving Aura and her lover, suddenly transformed into gladiators yet never engaging in combat, feels truncated. Jula reveals her pregnancy to Alia, and the two set out to start a new life together. Kwame, forced to kill his best friend and the white lion, while witnessing the murder of the boy he had promised to protect, vows vengeance against the Romans.
Once Domitian's triumph over Titus became evident, the pivotal question hovered: would Kwame's mother, Cala, escape Tenax's wrath? We've witnessed by now that the gangster possesses a softer side, yet having his cherished chamber of riches ransacked and his fate entrusted to his enemies by the sole individual he deemed trustworthy... it's a bitter pill for a seasoned assassin to swallow. Indeed, he waits patiently in his magnificent abode—once the residence of Scorpus, whom, as Tenax mocks, spent nights not in brothels—plotting her demise. His demeanor is unwavering, almost convincing her that her fate is justified, but he intends to execute the task without remorse.
Cala employs two tactics to defuse Tenax's rage. Firstly, she possesses a striking resemblance to the actress Sara Martins, and the fleeting glints in Tenax's eyes, particularly when they're close, betray a fleeting thought: "This woman is... irresistible." As she places his hand over hers as he chokes her, an unsettling chill courses through the air. The echoing sounds and the eerie moonlight in the chamber lend a seductive tension to the scene.
However, her second strategy is simply being her authentic self with Tenax: honest and unwavering. Yes, she betrayed him, and she'd do it again in a heartbeat to safeguard her children. But that's the sole reason she'd ever turn against him. Beyond that, Cala's honesty towards Tenax is absolute. And it's why, she explains, she's the only person he can entrust with his gambling empire and its illicit sidelines, now that he's ascended to the prestigious position of Emperor Domitian's master of games—a role once held by none other than Julius Caesar, as Tenax proudly notes. He'll require a trusted ally to keep his Caesar in check.
Ultimately, I found "Those About to Die" far more engrossing than anticipated after the initial episodes. Perhaps there was a more refined method to introduce a myriad of characters in a short span without resorting to clichés, but if there was, Rodat, Roland Emmerich, and their team managed to carve their path. They succeeded, thanks to the stellar performances of actors who seemed to relish their roles and intricate writing that pushed the characters to their limits, only to reveal they could shoulder the weight every step of the way. How could I truly complain about a series that concludes with Iwan Rheon's growling voiceover, narrating over an image of the mad-eyed Jojo Macari proclaiming himself emperor of Rome, uttering, "Let the games begin"? Indeed, not much can be said. Absolutely nothing at all.
