The Comic History of Rome

by Gilbert Abbott À Beckett

According to the strict letter of the Roman law, a master could treat, or maltreat, his slave in any way he pleased, either by death, sale, or punishment. Though the slave could hold no property, he had the power of taking anything he could get, but simply as a medium for conveying it to his master. So thoroughly were the slaves looked upon as articles of traffic, that they were liable to be pledged or put into pawn—a position in which they were the subjects of a melancholy sort of interest.

The demand for slave labour in Rome was caused by the annual consumption of the free population in war, at whose bidding many who should have remained to cultivate the land, were sent forth to plough the ocean. The result was a redundancy of slave population, accustomed to agricultural labour of every kind, and which, having been already brought under the yoke, had become sufficiently brutalised to do the work of oxen. The chief supply of slaves was drawn from the prisoners taken in war, and an army was generally attended by dealers, who, in case of a glut, could frequently buy a lot cheap; and at the camp of Lucullus they were being picked up for about three shillings and three-pence of our money—or four drachmas. In Rome it was usual to sell slaves by auction, and, as if the poor wretches were not already low enough, they were knocked down by the hammer. The dealers were in the habit of practising the same sort of tricks to conceal the defects of a slave, as are, in these days, employed to hide the faults of a horse, and it was customary therefore, in purchasing, to require a warranty. The character was often suspended on a scroll round the neck, and their chief recommendation consisted in a guarantee that they would neither commit suicide, nor steal—having no tendency to make away with either themselves or their master's property. There was a considerable variation in the value of slaves, and fancy prices have been known to be given for some curious specimens of captive humanity. A fool has been known to fetch 20,000 sesterces—about one hundred and seventy pounds—a sum that would seem to show that folly was scarce; but when we remember how wise a man is required to make a fool, we may take it for granted that the wisdom comprised in the subject of the bargain was the rare and costly part of it. Literary men were often exposed for sale like cattle when they happened to be slaves, and the useful hack, or occasionally the literary lion, might be seen chained to a pen in the public market-place. Slaves had no distinctive dress; and when it was once proposed to give them one, the measure was rejected, on the ground that it might show them their numerical strength, and that if they once saw their power by obtaining their livery, they might attempt to take up their freedom. It was deemed better to keep them in the dark, by clothing them in sombre colours, and their numbers not being manifested to them by any peculiar dress, it was not likely they would unite in order to redress their grievances.

There is, however, something elastic in human nature, which causes it to rise after being trodden on. Such was the case with the slaves, who began to swell with indignation, which was rendered particularly tumid by the inflated and inflating eloquence of one Eunus, a Syrian, who was a member of their own body. This individual possessed the art of oratory in a high degree, and there is nothing more stimulating to the breeze of discontent than the breath of an enthusiastic demagogue. He persuaded the slaves to revolt, and while preaching to them the doctrine of equality, he claimed to be not only their leader, but their prince and ruler—a species of practice which is not uncommon with the propounders of the most levelling theories. Pretending to possess the gift of prophecy, he predicted that he would be a king one day; and the rich, putting a mimic crown on his head for a few hours, jeeringly told him that he had been a king one day—or at least half a day, and that his prediction had been therefore verified. The slaves, however, put faith in him, and shouldering their spades, axes, poles, and hatchets, made themselves, as well as their implements, the tools of Eunus. No less than 70,000 slaves acknowledged as their head the man who taught them that they ought to have no head at all, and he urged them to a merciless massacre of their vanquished foes, while inculcating the doctrines of humanity. Rage without restraint, and revenge without reason, were, however, of no permanent avail, and the slaves under Eunus were soon routed by the disciplined forces of the Consul, Rupilius. He besieged Tauromenium; and the slaves, by being completely shut in, were altogether shut out from the chance of obtaining provisions. Their condition from day to day was so desperate and monotonous, that, with nothing to eat, they furnish but sorry food to the historian. Having swallowed their last morsel, the inhabitants could not satisfy their hunger by bolting the gates, and Rupilius was admitted within the city. Eunus escaped into a cutting in the rocks; but when he relied on the friendly shelter of the cave, he found it a hollow mockery. His retreat was discovered, and he was taken into custody with his cook, his confectioner, his butler, and his buffoon, who, with the exception of the last, must have held sinecures in their master's limited establishment. The buffoon must have been worked the hardest of the party, for the pursuit of mirth under difficulties is one of the most melancholy tasks that can be imposed on the professed humorist. Eunus himself was transferred from his subterranean cellar to an underground cell, where it is said he was devoured by rats; but happily this horrid tale receives no authentic ratification at the hands of history.

The Servile War had not yet ceased, when Attalus, the King of Pergamus, died, and left no sign; for there was no succeeding king's head for the crown of Pergamus to rest upon. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Attalus left no heir; for had there been any inheritor of his qualities as well as his title, the perpetuation of a nuisance would have been the deplorable consequence. The man was so thoroughly wicked that it is charity to pronounce him mad, and we accordingly set him down as a lunatic, though we feel scarcely justified in acquitting him of his many crimes on the single ground of insanity. He is said to have been so much addicted to the practice of poisoning his relations, that he found it cheaper to grow his own plants; and he cultivated the hemlock, or the night-shade, as others grew their own faba or cicer, their beans and chickweed. Death lurked at the root of everything his garden contained, and it is probable that he sent many a present of putative mushrooms to his unsuspecting kindred. So odious had he become, that it is said he would have been murdered, if he had not died a little too soon for the arrangements of the assassins to be completed. Having been in the habit of expressing his will very briefly in his lifetime, it is not surprising that he should have left at his death a will, so short, that it purported to say in four letters all he desired. His last testament was comprised in the characters P. R. H. E.; and all his property was supposed to be represented in this small collection of capitals. The Romans affecting to be initiated in the meaning of these initials, declared them to signify, Populus Romanus hæres est, Let the Roman people be the heirs of my property. Regarding these letters as letters of administration, the Romans possessed themselves of all the effects of Attalus; but the will was disputed by the next of kin, one Aristonicus, a natural brother, whose claim to succeed, as a member of the testator's line, was stifled by a rope, with which the unfortunate claimant was cruelly strangled.

Arrest of Eunus.

Pergamus became a Roman province under the name of Asia Proper—a species of appropriation which there was nothing to justify.

Rome was now in the position of a man who had outgrown his strength, or rather of an adult still wearing the clothes of its infancy. Its measures had been adapted to a social body which had since spread itself in all directions, while the constitution, with which it was clothed, had not been extended to the new growth; and the extreme points of the Republic were therefore reduced to all sorts of extremities. The people at large had become so miserably poor, that they were easily bribed to become the tools of their own further abasement; and they were not only ready to sell themselves for a mere nothing, but to lend themselves to almost anything.

The tribuneship, which had been originally a purely popular institution, had changed, or rather lost, its character. Instead of being stationed outside the entrance of the Senate House, to prevent the door from being opened to abuse, the Tribunes were, by a law of C. Atinius, constituted ex-officio members of that aristocratic body. The design of the tribuneship was to insure to the people a certain number of friends invested with high authority; but the people were eventually anxious to be saved from their friends—a result that is by no means rare in ancient or modern history. As the bitterest vinegar can be made from the most generous wine, the sharpest of despots is often created out of the blandest of demagogues.

So great had the power of the Tribunes become, and so much had it been abused, that even the Senate grew jealous of it; and a law was enacted to bring the tribuneship under the operation of signs and omens. These were interpreted by the Augurs, who of course had the power of reading in the lightning, and hearing in the reports of the thunder, whatever it suited their purpose to circulate.