From /Daily Telegraph, April 14 2012
Mary Beard asks - Who were the Romans?
Some time in the early second century AD, Julius
Lupianus - a Roman soldier who had served on garrison duty along the
Danube - brought a wife back to Rome for his retirement. She didn't last
long in the metropolis, dying there when she was just 19 years,
two months and five days old. Or so her tombstone (now displayed, almost
2,000 years later, in the courtyard of the American Academy in Rome)
tells us. It also records her name, "Carnuntilla". Curiously,
this isn't a real name at all, but a nickname based on what was presumably her
home town, Carnuntum (a few miles from Vienna). Lupianus must
have called his bride "my babe from Carnuntum".
This little epitaph is more than a poignant memorial
of a marriage cut short by death. It's also a reminder of one aspect of
the Roman empire that we often overlook: that is, the extraordinary
influx of people, goods, luxuries and food into the imperial capital.
The history of Rome still tends to be told from the
centre outwards. It concentrates on the far-flung conquests of armies,
emperors and generals, on the resistance they met from the
conquered natives, and on the changes that the Romans brought to their imperial
territories (as the second-century AD historian Tacitus cynically
summed these up, "baths, togas and Latin").
But the influence of the empire on the city of Rome
itself was, if anything, more dramatic. In the space of just a
couple of hundred years (between the third and first centuries BC), imperial
conquests turned Rome into the world's first cosmopolitan city of a
million inhabitants - a place where your neighbour might come from
Scotland or Syria, and where the sights, tastes and experiences of every
single person must have been affected by imports from abroad.
True, only the billionaires of the Roman world would
have sported fine silks shipped from the Far East. But there can't have
been many Romans who didn't occasionally brighten up their staple diet
of (imported) wheat with a bit of (imported) pepper.
Consumer commodities, though, were not at the very
top of the list of imports pouring into the city. As the story of poor
Carnuntilla has hinted, it was the influx of people that defined
Rome. And most of them didn't come as brides, but as slaves - who made up
perhaps 350,000 of the city's total population of a million. "Human
resources" in this form were one of the main profits of Roman victories in
foreign wars.
In fact, until the first century AD, when the pace of
imperial expansion slowed and then stopped entirely, the vast majority
of slaves came from far beyond Italy. (Where they came from when the
Romans were no longer making new conquests is one of the great mysteries of
Roman history: partly, no doubt, they were bred at home from
existing slaves; partly they were picked up from the unwanted babies of the
poor which had been left out on rubbish heaps; but almost certainly there
was plenty of money to be made from "people trafficking"
beyond the boundaries of the empire.)
Like all ancient societies, Rome depended on slave
labour: slaves worked the fields, cleaned the houses, staffed the
libraries, rowed the boats, sorted the filing cabinets, dug the mines -- and
(let's not forget) provided a full range of sexual services for their
owners, as and when required. But Rome's version of slavery was
absolutely unique in one particular respect, quite different from the slave
system in ancient Athens, or in the American South, for that matter.
The majority of slaves - at least those working at urban jobs in
Rome itself (it was most likely different in agriculture or the mines) -
would eventually have been freed by their owners. And more than that,
if their owner was a Roman citizen, the ex-slave too became a full Roman
citizen. So, brutal as it was, slavery was often not a life sentence,
and it could also be, in a way, a fast track into Roman
citizenship for millions of men and women who had once been
"foreigners" or even "enemies".
The effect of turning foreign slaves into citizens on
the ethnic make-up of what we usually call "the Romans" was
enormous. Ex-slaves and their immediate descendants were a major element in the
capital's population - so much so that more than half the ancient
tombstones ever found in Rome commemorate ex-slaves, rather than freeborn
Romans.
The Roman citizen body was as diverse as that of any
city in the world had ever been - or, until the 20th century, would
ever be. You can still see tell-tale "foreign" names all over
the surviving epitaphs - Marcus Vergilius Eurysaces, the prosperous baker
(with a last name that would have sounded distinctively Eastern to Italian
ears), whose grand tomb playfully imitates the ovens of his professional
life, to Baricha, Zabda and Achiba, three Jews captured after a revolt
in Judaea, who ended up in Rome, first as slaves then, in due
course, comfortable Roman citizens.
Some modern historians have found this multicultural
mixture of Roman citizenship rather disquieting. In the Thirties,
Mussolini's coterie of writers loudly bemoaned the way in which the
original, rugged, "pure" Italian stock had been polluted by the servile blood
of oriental immigrants. But the truth was that the Romans had
always been a pretty mixed bunch, as their own myths insisted. Most
ancient people traced their origins back to the very soil on which their
city was built: the legend was, for example, that the first generations
of Athenians and Spartans had miraculously sprung up from the
territories of Athens and Sparta. By contrast, the Romans' myths celebrated
their foreign roots. Aeneas, the heroic founder of Alba Longa, the
forerunner to Rome, had fled the city of Troy (in modern Turkey) after its
destruction by the perfidious Greeks with their wooden horse. Romulus
himself had been a local lad, but had populated his new city by
advertising for asylum seekers.
The result is that by the first century, Rome was a
city of imported people, living off -- and sometimes making a nice
living out of - imported goods. It wasn't just that the Roman
population now could spice up their food with pepper from the East; a good
number of them were employed in the pepper and spice business. Tombstones
again give us a glimpse of the men and woman who worked at the
"pepper exchange" (horrea piperataria) and other such specialised markets - and that's in addition to all the sailors, businessmen,
money-changers and transporters involved in bringing it to Italy in the
first place.
Occasionally, we come across some really ingenious
ways of making money from imperial luxuries. One of my favourite Roman
epitaphs of all commemorates an ex-slave called Caius Pupius Amicus,
who was, he proclaims, a purpurarius or "purple dyer".
Proper "purple" in Rome could only be obtained from the little sea molluscs that
produced it in the eastern Mediterranean. It was the height of luxury,
and - to judge from this substantial memorial (which "he made for
himself while still alive") - Pupius had done very nicely out of
the business.
But it wasn't only luxuries that came into Rome. The
expansion of the Roman empire set off a vicious circle: the city grew
as it became capital of a vast empire; as it grew, its need for
food vastly outstripped anything that Italy could supply; so it
became more and more dependent on basic supplies from the empire that it
had conquered. This was not just wheat, but an estimated 30 million
litres of olive oil a year, and 75 million litres of wine. And this was the
import business that must have provided most of the work for Roman
labourers (slave, ex-slave or freeborn): one recent calculation has
reckoned that it would have taken almost 10 million individual portering
loads per annum just to disembark the basic staples from ships to the
Italian shore. The best image of the scale of this trade comes in the
unlikely form of a Roman hill - though not one of the canonical "seven
hills of Rome". This one is down by the Tiber, in what is now a flourishing
nightclub district. Its name is Monte Testaccio and it's not a natural
feature at all, but a vast ancient Roman rubbish heap, consisting of more
than 50 million broken storage jars that had once brought olive oil
from Spain.
Not that Rome was "multicultural" in the
modern British sense - and emphatically not in a liberal, tolerant kind of way.
For a start, Romans would have been amazed at our notions of
"respect" for cultural difference. No one in Rome, so far as we know, set up
an Egyptian (say) or a Lebanese restaurant, where the locals could
experiment with ethnic cuisine. There was no Chinatown here, no ancient
equivalent of chicken tikka masala. And when these people from all over the
Western world put up their tombstones in Rome almost all (apart from a
few in Greek and Hebrew) were written in the Latin they had learnt
since their arrival.
The basic idea was not separateness, but that
everything went into that diverse, changing mixture that counted as
"Roman". In a way, perhaps, it was more like the American or French version of
multiculturalism than the British.
Nor should we get the impression that there was no
Roman prejudice against foreigners either. Multiculturalism and
ethnic suspicion are often two sides of the same coin; and so it was in
Rome. The satirist Juvenal, who lived at the turn of the first and
second centuries AD, complained that the Tiber was becoming polluted by
the Syrian river Orontes (a scarcely veiled complaint at Syrian
immigration).
And his contemporary, the comic poet Martial, took
numerous xenophobic potshots at all types of "foreigner".
Greeks and Gauls get ribbed for their effeminacy, Germans for being little more than
barbarian captives, Africans for their curly hair, and so on. Yet the
(very Roman) irony of this is that Martial came from Spain.
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