by Daisy Dunn
When bankrupt and in need of funds, Caligula concentrated on wickedly ingenious methods of raising funds by false accusations, auctions, and taxes. He ruled that no man could inherit the Roman citizenship acquired by any ancestor more remote than his father; and when confronted with certificates of citizenship issued by Julius Caesar or Augustus, rejected them as obsolete. He also disallowed all property returns to which, for whatever reason, later additions had been appended. If a leading centurion had bequeathed nothing either to Tiberius or himself since the beginning of the former’s reign, he would rescind the will on the ground of ingratitude; and voided those of all other persons who were said to have intended making him their heir when they died, but had not yet done so. This caused widespread alarm, and even people who did not know him personally would tell their friends or children that they had left him everything; but if they continued to live after the declaration he considered himself tricked, and sent several of them presents of poisoned sweetmeats. Caligula conducted these cases in person, first announcing the sum he meant to raise, and not stopping until he had raised it. The slightest delay nettled him, and he once passed a single sentence on a batch of more than forty men charged with various offences, and then boasted to Caesonia,1 when she woke from her nap, that he had done very good business since she dozed off.
He would auction whatever properties were left over from a theatrical show; driving up the bidding to such heights that many of those present, forced to buy at fantastic prices, found themselves ruined and committed suicide by opening their veins. A famous occasion was when Aponius Saturninus fell asleep on a bench, and Caligula warned the auctioneer to keep an eye on the senator of praetorian rank who kept nodding his head. Before the bidding ended Aponius had unwittingly bought thirteen gladiators for a total of 90,000 gold pieces.
While in Gaul Caligula did so well by selling the furniture, jewellery, slaves, and even the freedmen of his condemned sisters at a ridiculous overvaluation that he decided to do the same with the furnishings of the Old Palace. So he sent to Rome, where his agents commandeered public Conveyances, and even draught animals from the bakeries, to fetch the stuff north; which led to a bread shortage in the City, and to the loss of many law-suits, because litigants who lived at a distance were unable to appear in court and meet their bail. He then used all kinds of tricks for disposing of the furniture; scolding the bidders for their avarice, or for their shamelessness in being richer than he was, and pretending grief at this surrender of family property to commoners. Discovering that one wealthy provincial had paid the Imperial secretariat 2,000 gold pieces to be smuggled into a banquet, Caligula was delighted that the privilege of dining with him should be valued so highly and, when next day the same man turned up at the auction, made him pay 2,000 gold pieces for some trifling object—but also sent him a personal invitation to dinner.
The publicans were ordered to raise new and unprecedented taxes, and found this so profitable that he detailed his Guards colonels and centurions to collect the money instead. No goods or services now avoided duty of some kind. He imposed a fixed tax on all foodstuffs sold in any quarter of the City, and a charge of 2½ per cent on the money involved in every lawsuit and legal transaction whatsoever; and devised special penalties for anyone who compounded or abandoned a case. Porters had to hand over an eighth part of their day’s earnings and prostitutes their standard fee for a single act of intimacy—even if they had quitted their profession and were respectably married; pimps and ex-pimps also became liable to this public tax.
These new regulations having been announced by word of mouth only, many people failed to observe them, through ignorance. At last he acceded to the urgent popular demand, by posting the regulations up, but in an awkwardly cramped spot and written so small that no one could take a copy. He never missed a chance of making profits; setting aside a suite of Palace rooms, he decorated them worthily, opened a brothel, stocked it with married women and boys, and then sent his pages around the squares and public places, inviting all men, of whatever age, to come and enjoy themselves. Those who appeared were lent money at interest, and clerks wrote down their names under the heading ‘Contributors to the Imperial Revenue’.
When Caligula played at dice he would always cheat and lie. Once he interrupted a game by giving up his seat to the man behind him and going out into the courtyard. A couple of rich knights passed; Caligula immediately had them arrested and confiscated their property; then resumed the game in high spirits, boasting that his luck had never been better.
His daughter’s birth gave him an excuse for further complaints of poverty. ‘In addition to the burden of sovereignty,’ he said, ‘I must now shoulder that of fatherhood’—and promptly took up a collection for her education and dowry. He also announced that New Year gifts would be welcomed on 1 January; and then sat in the Palace porch, grabbing the handfuls and capfuls of coin which a mixed crowd of all classes pressed on him. At last he developed a passion for the feel of money and, spilling heaps of gold pieces on an open space, would walk over them barefoot, or else lie down and wallow.
1 Caesonia was Caligula’s fourth and final wife.
THE PUMPKINIFICATION OF EMPEROR CLAUDIUS
Apocolocyntosis
Attr. Seneca the Younger
Translated by Martha C. Nussbaum, 2010
In AD 54, Emperor Claudius died, allegedly after consuming some poisoned mushrooms. The question was, would he be deified after he died? The curious title of this satire, which was in all probability written by Seneca the Younger (4 BC–AD 65), is a play on the words for ‘apotheosis’ and ‘gourd’ or ‘pumpkin’. The story is a parody of the Roman practice of deifying ‘good’ emperors. Claudius was physically disabled but an able ruler who granted Roman citizenship to many peoples overseas.
Claudius began to gasp for breath, but couldn’t find the exit.
Then Mercury, who had always been delighted by Claudius’s wit, took one of the three Fates aside and said, “You horribly cruel woman! Why do you allow the poor man to be tortured? Won’t you ever give him a rest from his long agony? It’s been sixty-four years now that he’s been wrestling with his life. Why do you hold a grudge against him and against the Republic? Let the astrologers be right for a change. They’ve been predicting his death every year—no, every month—ever since he became emperor. But still, it’s no wonder if they make mistakes and nobody seems clear about his final hour. For nobody ever realized he was alive. Do what has to be done:
Give him to death: let the better king
Reign in the empty hall.
But Clotho replied, “By Hercules! I wanted to give him just a teensy bit more time, so that he could confer citizenship on the last remaining stragglers”—for he had decided to see all Greeks, Gauls, Spaniards, and Britons wearing the toga. “But since you like the idea of keeping some foreigners for breeding stock, and that’s what you are insisting on, so be it.” Then she opened a small box and brought out three spindles. One belonged to Augurinus, the second to Baba, the third to Claudius. “These three men,” she said, “I shall decree to die in the same year, just a few minutes apart. I won’t send him away without companions. For it is not right that a man who has been accustomed to seeing so many thousands follow him, precede him, and swarm around him should suddenly be left all alone. He will be satisfied with these pals in the meantime.”
So she spoke; and, spinning the thread of fate
On a dirty spindle, snapped it, putting an end
To his royal stupid life. But Lachesis,
Sweeping her long hair up in a fancy knot,
And crowning her brow with the Muses’ own laurel,
Pulls from the snow-white skein a shiny thread
Of white wool, guiding it with happy hand.
As she spins it out, it magically changes color.
Her sisters stand amazed: common wool
Has suddenly been changed to precious metal.
On that lovely thread a Golden Age spins down.
There is no end. Spinning the happy fleece
They joyfully fill their hands. Work is sweet.
The task goes rapidly, without effort.
Easily the delicate thread winds round
The whirling spindle. His years exceed those
Of Nestor and Tithonus. Phoebus too
Is there: he helps them on with singing,
Happy about the times to come. With joy
He now plucks the lyre, now helps the spinning.
With his voice he enchants them, making their work easy.
While they heap praise on their brother’s lyre and singing
They spin out more than was their custom. Praise
Makes their work exceed the normal human life span.
“Don’t make it shorter, Fates,” Apollo says.
“Let him live beyond the span of mortal years,
That man so similar to me in grace
And beauty, and no less skilled at singing.
He will give happy years to his weary people.
He will break the long silence of the laws.
As Lucifer scatters the stars in headlong flight,
As Hesperus rises when they return at night,
Or as, when blushing Dawn dissolves the shadows,
Ushering in the day, Sun in his splendor
Looks at the world, and speeds his chariot on
From the starting gate: such a Caesar now
Approaches. Such a Nero, now, all Rome
Will gaze upon. His radiant face blazes
With gentle brilliance; his lovely neck
Displays the beauty of his flowing hair.”
So said Apollo. But Lachesis, since she too had a weakness for such a good-looking man, indulged it lavishly and gave Nero many years from her store. As for Claudius, they told everyone
With celebration and auspicious words
To send him out the door.
And in fact he gushed out his life, and from that moment on he ceased to have even the appearance of being alive. (By the way, he died while he was listening to the comic actors, so you can see that it’s not without reason that I’m afraid of them.) His last words heard among mortals—after he had let out a louder sound from that part with which he found it easier to communicate—were as follows: “Good heavens. I think I’ve shat myself.” Well, I don’t know about that, but he certainly shat up everything else.
It would be superfluous to report the subsequent events on earth. You know them very well, and there’s no danger of losing sight of what public joy has impressed on people’s memories. Nobody forgets what makes him happy. Listen now to the business transacted in heaven. My informant will be held responsible for the accuracy of this report.
A messenger came to Jupiter saying that a man had arrived, fairly tall with very white hair. He seemed to be making some kind of threat, for he kept shaking his head back and forth. His right foot dragged behind. The messenger said that he had asked him what country he came from. The man stammered something unintelligible; his voice shook and his speech was garbled. The messenger couldn’t tell what language he was speaking. He wasn’t Greek or Roman or from any other familiar place.
Then Jupiter ordered Hercules, who had wandered all over the world and seemed to be familiar with all its countries, to go and figure out this man’s national origin. Hercules was pretty upset at the first sight of him, even though he had always been undismayed by monsters. When he saw that weird face, that strange gait, and heard that voice—which sounded like nothing belonging to a land animal, but the sort of hoarse barking sound that a walrus usually makes—he thought that his thirteenth labor was at hand. When he examined the creature more carefully, it looked rather like a human being. He therefore approached and, as was very easy for a guy from Greece, said:
Who are you? Where from? Describe your city and your kin.
Claudius was delighted to discover that there were classical scholars there; he hoped that they would appreciate his historical writings. So he too spoke with a line from Homer, signifying that he was Caesar, and said:
From Troy the wind blew me to the coast of Thrace.
(But the next line would have been truer, and equally Homeric:
And there I sacked the city and destroyed the people.)
A discussion ensues among the deified as to whether or not Claudius should be made a god, and if so, what kind of a god he should be. Augustus, the deified late first emperor of Rome, is staunchly opposed to Claudius’ deification. He sees him as a murderer, who killed members of his family and many others, including his wife Messalina. Claudius witnesses part of his own funeral and is then led down to the Underworld.
The freedman Narcissus had taken a shortcut and gotten there before him. Shining clean, fresh from a bath, he came to meet Claudius and said, “Why do the gods condescend to visit mortals?” “Get going,” said Mercury, “And tell them that we are here.”
Before he had finished speaking, Narcissus flew off. Everything slanted down, making it an easy trip. So, even though Narcissus had gout, it took him only a moment to get to the door of Dis, where Cerberus was lying—“the hundred-headed beast,” as Horace says. Narcissus had a favorite little dog, an off-white bitch, so he was rather upset when he saw that shaggy black hound, not the sort of thing you’d like to meet in the dark. In a loud voice he said, “Claudius will soon be here.” Amid cheering they came out singing, “We have found him; let us rejoice.” Here were Gaius Silius the consul designate, Juncus the praetor, Sextus Traulus, Marcus Helvius, Trogus, Cotta, Vettius Valens, Fabius, and some Roman knights whom Narcissus had put to death. In the middle of this crowd of singers was Mnester the actor, whom Claudius, observing the proprieties, had made shorter than Messalina by taking off his head.
Soon the rumor spread that Claudius had arrived. The first to rush out were the freedmen Polybius, Myron, Arpocras, Ampheus, and Pheronaotus, all of whom Claudius had sent on ahead of him, so that he would never lack for attendants. Then the two Praetorian prefects Justus Catonius and Rufrius Pollio. Then his advisors Saturninus Lusius, Pedo Pompeius, Lupus, and Celer Asinius, all ex-consuls. Last of all came his brother’s daughter, his sister’s daughter, his sons-in-law, his fathers-in-law, his mothers-in-law—all relations, clearly. And forming a receiving line they came to greet Claudius. When Claudius saw them, he exclaimed, “‘The whole world is full of friends.’ How did you all get here?” Then Pedo Pompeius replied, “What are you saying, you paragon of cruelty? You ask how? Who else sent us here but you, you murderer of all your friends. Let’s go to court. This time I will show you the defendant’s table and the judge’s bench.”
Pedo led him to the courtroom of Aeacus, who presided over cases brought under the capital homicide law. Pedo asked for permission to bring a charge against Claudius and read the indictment: thirty-five senators killed, three hundred twenty-one Roman knights, and others “as many as the grains of sand and the motes of dust.” Claudius couldn’t find a lawyer to represent him. Finally Publius Petronius turned up: an old crony of his, and a man fluent in the Claudian tongue. He asked for a continuance; he was refused. Pedo Pompeius read the accusation to loud cheers. The defense attorney began to try to argue his side of the case. Aeacus, a most fair-minded man, told him he couldn’t. Having heard only one side of the case, he condemned Claudius, saying:
Were you to suffer what you inflicted on others,
Straight justice would be done.’
There was a long silence. Everyone was struck dumb, stunned by the novelty of the idea. They said that such a thing had never happened. To Claudius, though, the idea seemed more unfair than novel.
There was a long discussion about the sentence, what he ought to suffer. There were those who said that Sisyphus had pushed his load for a long time; that Tantalus would die of thirst unless someone helped him; that at some point poor Ixion ought to have the brake put on his wheel. But it was decided not to give a respite to any of the old-timers, lest Claudius at some point expect the sam
e consideration. A new type of punishment would have to be dreamed up for him: some futile task involving the hope of a goal without any result. Aeacus then ordered him to play dice using a dice-box with a hole drilled in the bottom.
And already Claudius was starting to chase after the dice that always kept falling out, and he was getting nowhere:
Whenever he tried to throw from the echoing dice-box,
Both dice escaped from the hole cut in the bottom.
And when he boldly picked them up and tried
To throw again, like a man who is always
On the verge of playing, always trying to play,
The dice would cheat his hope. Always the stealthy
Double-dealing die slipped through his fingers.
Just so, touching the highest mountain peak,
Sisyphus drops the load from his shoulders,
But in vain.
Suddenly Gaius Caesar turned up and asked to have Claudius as his slave. He called witnesses who had seen him beating Claudius with whips, canes, and his fists. The decision of the court was read out: Aeacus gave him to Gaius Caesar. He, in turn, gave him to his freedman Menander, to be his law clerk in charge of petitions.
Historically Claudius was in fact deified after his death.
THE STORY OF BRITAIN
Agricola
Tacitus
Translated by Alfred John Church and William Jackson Brodribb, 1876
Agricola, father-in-law of the historian Tacitus (c. AD 56–c. 120), was a highly successful governor of Britain. He conquered the island of Mona (modern Anglesey) and prevailed over the Caledonian tribesmen at the Battle of Mons Graupius in what is now Scotland. After this victory, the Emperor Domitian recalled him to Rome in AD 85, allegedly out of jealousy at his success. Tacitus prefaced his account of Agricola’s achievements with a potted history of Rome’s involvement in Britain prior to his arrival. Considerable progress had been made since Julius Caesar first invaded in 55 and 54 BC, and Claudius led a more successful expedition in AD 43. Tacitus had a particular interest in the characteristics of foreign peoples. Below we encounter the Silures, a tribe of south-eastern Wales, the Brigantes, of northern England, and Boudicca, who led the tribe of the Iceni in the area surrounding modern Norfolk.
