So there I was in Castel Sant’Angelo. I went up to some guns that were in the charge of a bombardier called Giuliano the Florentine. He was staring out over the battlements to where his poor house was being sacked and his wife and children outraged. He dared not fire in case he harmed his own family, and flinging his fuse on the ground he started tearing at his face and sobbing bitterly. Other bombardiers were doing the same.
Autobiography of Benventuo Cellini
Night came on and the enemy were in Rome. Those of us in the castle, especially myself with my constant delight in seeing unfamiliar things, stayed where we were, contemplating the conflagration and the unbelievable spectacle before our eyes. It was such that it could only be seen or imagined by those in the castle. But I shall not begin describing it; I shall just carry on with the story of my own life and the events that really belong to it …
The painter meanwhile did not abandon the light attachment by which he was enchained, and one day, on returning to his house from one of these secret visits, he was seized by a violent fever, which being mistaken for a cold, the physicians inconsiderably caused him to be bled, whereby he found himself exhausted, when he had rather required to be strengthened.
Thereupon he made his will, and, as a good Christian, he sent the object of his attachment from the house, but left her a sufficient provision wherewith she might live in decency. Having done so much, he divided his property among his disciples: Giulio Romano, that is to say, whom he always loved greatly, and Giovanni Francesco, with whom was joined by a certain priest of Urbino, who was his kinsman, but whose name I do not know. He furthermore commanded that a certain portion of his property should be employed in the restoration of one of the ancient tabernacles in Santa Maria Rotonda, which he had selected as his burial place, and for which he had ordered that an altar with the figure of Our Lady in marble should be prepared.
All that he possessed besides he bequeathed to Giulio Romano and Giovanni Francesco, naming Messer Baldassare da Pescia, who was then Datary to the Pope, as his executor. He then confessed, and in much contrition completed the course of his life on the day whereon it had commenced, which was Good Friday.The master was then in the thirty-seventh year of his age; and he embellished the world by his talents while on earth, so is to be believed that his soul is now adorning heaven.
After his death, the body of Raphael was placed at the upper end of the hall wherein he had last worked, with the picture of the Transfiguration, which he had executed for Cardinal Giulio de’Medici, at the end of the corpse. He who, regarding that living picture, afterwards turned to consider that body felt his heart bursting with grief as he beheld them. The death of Raphael caused the cardinal to command that his work should be place on the high altar of San Pietro in Montorio, where it has ever since been held in the utmost veneration for its own great value, as well as for the excellence of its author. The remains of this divine artist did not receive the honorable sepulture which the noble spirit they had been informed has so well deserved, nor was there any artist in Rome who did not deeply bewail the loss sustained by the departure of the master, or who failed to accompany his remains to their repose.
The death of Raphael was in like manner bitterly deplored by all the papal court, not only because he had held the office of chamberlain to the pope but also because Leo X had esteemed him so highly that his loss occasioned that sovereign the bitterest grief. Oh most happy and thrice-blessed spirit, of whom all are proud to speak, whose actions are celebrated with praise by all men, and the least of whose works left behind thee is admired and prized!
When this noble artist died, well might Painting have departed also, for when he closed his eyes, she too was left, as it were, blind. But now to us, whose lot is to come after him, there remains to imitate the good, or rather the excellent, of which he has left us the example, and, as our obligations to him and his great merits well deserve, to retain the most grateful remembrance of him in our hearts, while we ever maintain his memory in the highest honor with our lips. To him we owe the possession of invention, coloring, and execution, brought alike and altogether to the point of perfection for which few could have dared to hope; nor has any man ever aspired to pass before him.
Sulmona, in the mountains about 90 miles east of Rome, is one of my favorite little cities in Italy. Ovid was born there during the five-day festival of Quinquartus, which opened the military campaigning season, (“the first day stained with the blood of combat in armed Minerva’s festival”) in the year “when both consuls died at Mutina.” For us, that’s 20 March 43 BC[E]. Tristia (Sorrows), his first poems from exile, includes a sketch autobiography. In it, Ovid calls out to the reader, “Listen posterity, and find out who this “I” was, this playful poet of tender passions you read.”
Ovid’s life began and ended outside of Rome. He declares Sulmo mihi patria est, (“Sulmona is my fatherland”) The initials of his phrase—SMPE—were made the emblem of the city and it appears around town, in sites refined and commonplace, like Rome’s SPQR. That line was written in Tomis, modern Constanta in Romania located on the Black sea at the margin of Roman civilization, where he died c. 17 AD.
The poet was the son of an established equestrian family and not one whose status was created in the recent civil war (“I was heir to an ancient line, not a knight new-made by fortune’s gift”).
He had a brother, a sort of twin, who had been born on the same day a year before him. Both boys were educated in Rome. The brother embraced oratory and the prospect of a public life (“My brother tended towards oratory from his early years; he was born to the harsh weapons of the noisy forum.”). The young man died just after his twentieth birthday, leaving Ovid bereft, “My brother had just doubled the first ten years of life, when he died, I went on, part of myself lost.”
Ovid was born to be a poet (“even as a boy the Muse was drawing me secretly to her work”). The father discouraged this propensity, admonishing him, “Why pursue useless studies? Maeonian Homer himself left no wealth behind.” He tried to give up poetry and actually started on a public careerby holding minor judicial posts, but young Ovid couldn’t help himself, “I tried to write words that were free of meter. / But verse came, of itself, in the right measures, / and whatever I tried to write was poetry.”
Late in life Ovid expressed relief that his parents had died before the disgrace of his exile occurred. His piety evoked in him fear that this guilt might be known on the other side of the tomb:
I’m fortunate my trouble wasn’t while they lived / and that they never had to grieve for me / Yet if the dead are left something more than a name / if a slender ghost escapes the high pyre / if news of me has reached you, spirits of my parents / and my guilt is proclaimed in the courts of Styx / know, I beg of you, it would be a sin to deceive you / the cause of my exile was an error not a crime.
trans. A.S. Kline
Ovid was the last superstar of the golden age of Latin literature. He is usually as the youngest of the trio of great Roman poets. The other two giants were a generation older. Horace was the role model of poetic versatility, “many-metered Horace captivated us when he sang his polished songs to the Italian lyre.” The master of Roman epic was more remote, having died when Ovid was in his early 20s, “Vergil I only saw.”
His immediate circle of poet peers came of age in the early years of Augustus’ rule, “Often Propertius would tell about his passions, by right of that friendship we were united / Ponticus too famous for epic; Bassus for iambics / were members of that mutual circle dear to me / [ … ]and greedy fate granted / Tibullus no time for my friendship / He came after you, Gallus; Propertius after him / I was the fourth after them in order of time.”
Youthful Ovid expressed what his readers experienced themselves. Thalia, “the joyous one,” was Ovid’s muse. Corinna was his flesh-and-blood inspiration and the star of Amores, his early poems about a young poet pursuing love. Ovid says this woman, the pseudonym was taken from the name of a Greek poetess, “stirred my wit, she who was sung through the City.” He had a habit of falling in love, but maintained this affairs were untainted by lechery.
Soft, and never safe from Cupid’s arrows, / was my heart, that the slightest thing could move. / But though I was such, fired by the smallest spark, / no scandal was associated with my name.
Scandal came later. Augustus sent Ovid away from Rome as an exile in 8 AD, by which time Ovid was known as Rome’s greatest living poet. Ovid is coy about the details, acknowledging a carmen, a poem, and an error, an indiscretion. Ars Amatoria (The Art of Love), a dissection of the methods of seduction, was the poem. Poems about sexual adventurism didn’t jibe with Augustus’ program of family values. The indiscretion was the more immediate cause; it seems to have involved Ovid’s friendship with members of the imperial family who were attempting to position themselves as successor to Augustus. Here Ovid got off easier than some others who were executed or whose conditions of exile were harsher.
The cause, too well known to all, of my ruin, / is not to be revealed by any testimony of mine. / Why tell of friends’ wickedness and servants’ harm? / I suffered things no less evil than exile itself. / Yet my mind refused to succumbed to misfortune / and proved invincible, relying on its own powers.
Ovid outlived his contemporaries and surpassed them. In exile on the Black Sea, poetry remained a natural consolation.
Here, though the noise of weapons surrounds me / I ease my sad fate with such song as I can / Though there’s no one to listen to me, / still this is the way I pass, and deceive, the days
And, he claims, condemnation didn’t inhibit his readership back home.
My Muse, you grant me solace, you come as a rest from, and a cure for, care / You are both guide and friend, who spirit me / from the Danube to a place in the midst of Helicon / you’ve given me something rare while still alive / the honored name fame only grants us when we’re dead / Nor has envy, that belittles present things, attacked any work of mine with malignant teeth/ Though this age of ours has produced great poets / has not been unkind to my gifts / and though I set many above myself, people say / I’m not inferior, and I’m the most widely read of all.
How far into the future did he assume his readership would persist? He couldn’t have known he’d be almost as famous today as he was on the day he departed from his home, which was close to the Capitoline hill, for the last time, “I went like one carried off before his funeral.” Or could he?
So if there’s truth in the poet’s prophecies / I’ll not be yours, earth, though I die today / Whether I’ve won fame through fashion or through poetry itself / It’s right that I thank you, honest reader.
On his travels, beyond being feted by local dignitaries, Dickens examined the penal system in the places he visited. In Rome, he witnessed and wrote a vivid account of the execution by beheading of Giovanni Vagnarelli, who had been convicted of the robbery and murder of a pilgrim on her way to Rome.
He preserved us a moment of Rome that no longer can be experienced. The scene is just outside Santa Maria in Cosmedin, the beautiful church featured in the film Roman Holiday, where Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck visit the Bocca della Veritá.
Dickens’ account was published in the collection Pictures from Italy. Read the entire essay below. It’s really good.
The abolition of capital punishment by civil authorities had its origins in Italy. Tuscany, in the eighteenth century, was the first state to do away with it. The government of the Papal States was the last to impose it. The last execution in Rome took place just a few years before the Eternal City became the capital of the newly unified Kingdom of Italy in 1871.
Charles Dickens: “When Mastro Titta Crossed the Bridge”
On one Saturday morning (the eighth of March), a man was beheaded here. Nine or ten months before, he had waylaid a Bavarian countess, travelling as a pilgrim to Rome – alone and on foot, of course – and performing, it is said, that act of piety for the fourth time. He saw her change a piece of gold at Viterbo, where he lived; followed her; bore her company on her journey for some forty miles or more, on the treacherous pretext of protecting her; attacked her, in the fulfilment of his unrelenting purpose, on the Campagna, within a very short distance of Rome, near to what is called (but what is not) the Tomb of Nero; robbed her; and beat her to death with her own pilgrim’s staff.
He was newly married, and gave some of her apparel to his wife: saying that he had bought it at a fair. She, however, who had seen the pilgrim-countess passing through their town, recognised some trifle as having belonged to her. Her husband then told her what he had done. She, in confession, told a priest; and the man was taken, within four days after the commission of the murder.
There are no fixed times for the administration of justice, or its execution, in this unaccountable country; and he had been in prison ever since. On the Friday, as he was dining with the other prisoners, they came and told him he was to be beheaded next morning, and took him away. It is very unusual to execute in Lent; but his crime being a very bad one, it was deemed advisable to make an example of him at that time, when great numbers of pilgrims were coming towards Rome, from all parts, for the Holy Week. I heard of this on the Friday evening, and saw the bills up at the churches, calling on the people to pray for the criminal’s soul. So, I determined to go, and see him executed.
The beheading was appointed for fourteen and a-half o’clock, Roman time: or a quarter before nine in the forenoon. I had two friends with me; and as we did not know but that the crowd might be very great, we were on the spot by half-past seven. The place of execution was near the church of San Giovanni Decollato (a doubtful compliment to Saint John the Baptist) in one of the impassable back streets without any footway, of which a great part of Rome is composed – a street of rotten houses, which do not seem to belong to anybody, and do not seem to have ever been inhabited, and certainly were never built on any plan, or for any particular purpose, and have no window-sashes, and are a little like deserted breweries, and might be warehouses but for having nothing in them.
Opposite to one of these, a white house, the scaffold was built. An untidy, unpainted, uncouth, crazy-looking thing of course: some seven feet high, perhaps: with a tall, gallows-shaped frame rising above it, in which was the knife, charged with a ponderous mass of iron, all ready to descend, and glittering brightly in the morning sun, whenever it looked out, now and then, from behind a cloud.
There were not many people lingering about; and these were kept at a considerable distance from the scaffold, by parties of the Pope’s dragoons. Two or three hundred foot-soldiers were under arms, standing at ease in clusters here and there; and the officers were walking up and down in twos and threes, chatting together, and smoking cigars. At the end of the street, was an open space, where there would be a dust-heap, and piles of broken crockery, and mounds of vegetable refuse, but for such things being thrown anywhere and everywhere in Rome, and favouring no particular sort of locality. We got into a kind of wash-house, belonging to a dwelling-house on this spot; and standing there in an old cart, and on a heap of cartwheels piled against the wall, looked, through a large grated window, at the scaffold, and straight down the street beyond it until, in consequence of its turning off abruptly to the left, our perspective was brought to a sudden termination, and had a corpulent officer, in a cocked hat, for its crowning feature.
Nine o’clock struck, and ten o’clock struck, and nothing happened. All the bells of all the churches rang as usual. A little parliament of dogs assembled in the open space, and chased each other, in and out among the soldiers. Fierce-looking Romans of the lowest class, in blue cloaks, russet cloaks, and rags uncloaked, came and went, and talked together. Women and children fluttered, on the skirts of the scanty crowd. One large muddy spot was left quite bare, like a bald place on a man’s head. A cigar-merchant, with an earthen pot of charcoal ashes in one hand, went up and down, crying his wares. A pastry-merchant divided his attention between the scaffold and his customers.
Boys tried to climb up walls, and tumbled down again. Priests and monks elbowed a passage for themselves among the people, and stood on tiptoe for a sight of the knife: then went away. Artists, in inconceivable hats of the middle-ages, and beards (thank Heaven!) of no age at all, flashed picturesque scowls about them from their stations in the throng. One gentleman (connected with the fine arts, I presume) went up and down in a pair of Hessian-boots, with a red beard hanging down on his breast, and his long and bright red hair, plaited into two tails, one on either side of his head, which fell over his shoulders in front of him, very nearly to his waist, and were carefully entwined and braided!
Eleven o’clock struck and still nothing happened. A rumour got about, among the crowd, that the criminal would not confess; in which case, the priests would keep him until the Ave Maria (sunset); for it is their merciful custom never finally to turn the crucifix away from a man at that pass, as one refusing to be shriven, and consequently a sinner abandoned of the Saviour, until then. People began to drop off. The officers shrugged their shoulders and looked doubtful. The dragoons, who came riding up below our window, every now and then, to order an unlucky hackney- coach or cart away, as soon as it had comfortably established itself, and was covered with exulting people (but never before), became imperious, and quick-tempered. The bald place hadn’t a straggling hair upon it; and the corpulent officer, crowning the perspective, took a world of snuff.
Suddenly, there was a noise of trumpets. “Attention!” was among the foot-soldiers instantly. They were marched up to the scaffold and formed round it. The dragoons galloped to their nearer stations too. The guillotine became the centre of a wood of bristling bayonets and shining sabres. The people closed round nearer, on the flank of the soldiery. A long straggling stream of men and boys, who had accompanied the procession from the prison, came pouring into the open space. The bald spot was scarcely distinguishable from the rest. The cigar and pastry-merchants resigned all thoughts of business, for the moment, and abandoning themselves wholly to pleasure, got good situations in the crowd. The perspective ended, now, in a troop of dragoons. And the corpulent officer, sword in hand, looked hard at a church close to him, which he could see, but we, the crowd, could not.
After a short delay, some monks were seen approaching to the scaffold from this church; and above their heads, coming on slowly and gloomily, the effigy of Christ upon the cross, canopied with black. This was carried round the foot of the scaffold, to the front, and turned towards the criminal, that he might see it to the last.
It was hardly in its place, when he appeared on the platform, bare-footed; his hands bound; and with the collar and neck of his shirt cut away, almost to the shoulder. A young man – six-and-twenty – vigorously made, and well-shaped. Face pale; small dark moustache; and dark brown hair.
He had refused to confess, it seemed, without first having his wife brought to see him; and they had sent an escort for her, which had occasioned the delay. He immediately kneeled down, below the knife. His neck fitting into a hole, made for the purpose, in a cross plank, was shut down, by another plank above; exactly like the pillory. Immediately below him was a leathern bag. And into it his head rolled instantly.
The executioner was holding it by the hair, and walking with it round the scaffold, showing it to the people, before one quite knew that the knife had fallen heavily, and with a rattling sound.
When it had travelled round the four sides of the scaffold, it was set upon a pole in front – a little patch of black and white, for the long street to stare at, and the flies to settle on. The eyes were turned upward, as if he had avoided the sight of the leathern bag, and looked to the crucifix. Every tinge and hue of life had left it in that instant. It was dull, cold, livid, wax. The body also. There was a great deal of blood. When we left the window, and went close up to the scaffold, it was very dirty; one of the two men who were throwing water over it, turning to help the other lift the body into a shell, picked his way as through mire. A strange appearance was the apparent annihilation of the neck. The head was taken off so close, that it seemed as if the knife had narrowly escaped crushing the jaw, or shaving off the ear; and the body looked as if there were nothing left above the shoulder.
Nobody cared, or was at all affected. There was no manifestation of disgust, or pity, or indignation, or sorrow. My empty pockets were tried, several times, in the crowd immediately below the scaffold, as the corpse was being put into its coffin. It was an ugly, filthy, careless, sickening spectacle; meaning nothing but butchery beyond the momentary interest, to the one wretched actor. Yes! Such a sight has one meaning and one warning. Let me not forget it. The speculators in the lottery, station themselves at favourable points for counting the gouts of blood that spirt out, here or there; and buy that number. It is pretty sure to have a run upon it.
The body was carted away in due time, the knife cleansed, the scaffold taken down, and all the hideous apparatus removed. The executioner: an outlaw EX OFFICIO (what a satire on the Punishment!) who dare not, for his life, cross the Bridge of St. Angelo but to do his work: retreated to his lair, and the show was over.
The Ara Pacis Augustae is an altar dedicated to the goddess Peace located in Rome. The role of Augustus in initiating a period of peace and prosperity was a key component of Augustan ideology. The altar was consecrated on 30 January 9 BC. The Roman Senate had commissioned the monument on 4 July 13 BC to honor the return of Augustus to Rome after he had spent three years in Hispania and Gaul.
Here is what Augustus says about the Ara Pacis in the “Res Gestae,” an account of his career that was inscribed on bronze tablets placed outside of his mausoleum, which will be open to visitors again this April.
On my return from Spain and Gaul, in the consulship of Tiberius Nero and Publius Quintilius, after successfully arranging affairs in those provinces, the senate resolved that an altar of the Augustan Peace should be consecrated in the Campus Martius in honor of my return, and ordered that the magistrates and priests and Vestal Virgins should perform an annual sacrifice there.
Originally the Ara Pacis stood in the Campus Martius along the urban segment of the Via Flaminia (the modern Corso), though outside of the pomerium, the sacred boundary of Rome.
The Campus Martius was a flood plain. Over time silt deposits from flooding covered the monument. Fragments of the monument were uncovered over time, and a dedicated effort of recovery was performed during the Fascist regime.
The museum that housed the Ara Pacis was inaugurated in 1938. Like other artifacts from Roman antiquity, the Ara Pacis was employed as an adornment of Fascist ideology.
The Fascist-era building was replaced by one designed the Richard Meir in 2006. Like the building it replaced, this museum is located adjacent to the mausoleum of Augustus, between the tomb and the Tiber.
The Fasti of Ovid, a group of poems that describe the religious festivals of the Roman year, is the only extant literary reference to the Ara Pacis.
In 8 AD, Augustus sent Ovid to exile due to “a poem and a mistake,” according to another of the poet’s works in exile, Ex Ponto. The Fasti were composed as part of his petition for permission to return to Rome. The quality of his writing remained high, but no poem or friend could bring him home; he died in Black Sea relegatio in 18 AD after ten years away from Rome.
My song has led to the altar of Peace itself. This day is the second from the month’s end. Come, Peace, your graceful tresses wreathed With laurel of Actium: stay gently in this world. While we lack enemies, or cause for triumphs: You’ll be a greater glory to our leaders than war. May the soldier be armed to defend against arms, And the trumpet blare only for processions. May the world far and near fear the sons of Aeneas, And let any land that feared Rome too little, love her. Priests, add incense to the peaceful flames, Let a shining sacrifice fall, brow wet with wine, And ask the gods who favor pious prayer That the house that brings peace, may so endure. Now the first part of my labor is complete, And as its month ends, so does this book.
Ipsum nos carmen deduxit Pacis ad aram: haec erit a mensis fine secunda dies. frondibus Actiacis comptos redimita capillos, Pax, ades et toto mitis in orbe mane. dum desint hostes, desit quoque causa triumphi: tu ducibus bello gloria maior eris. sola gerat miles, quibus arma coerceat, arma, canteturque fera nil nisi pompa tuba. horreat Aeneadas et primus et ultimus orbis: siqua parum Romam terra timebat, amet. tura, sacerdotes, Pacalibus addite flammis, albaque perfusa victima fronte cadat; utque domus, quae praestat eam, cum pace perennet ad pia propensos vota rogate deos. Sed iam prima mei pars est exacta laboris, cumque suo finem mense libellus habet.
I love how Suetonius pushes all the right buttons to make the reader love and despise the Caesars. Caligula was his most sustained hatchet job. This grim and menacing figure, even when played with the charm of John Hurt in I, Claudius, makes Nero seem merely to have been a petulant boy operating under the influence of affluenza.
After reading 57 chapters of Rome gone bonkers in Seutonius’ life of Gaius, we all know that Caligula has it coming. Our narrator tells us, “While he was running riot and laying waste in this way, a number of people had the idea of making an attempt on his life … Many prodigies foretold his violent end.”
Ita bacchantem atque grassantem non defuit plerisque animus adoriri … Futurae caedis multa prodigia exstiterunt.
His murder—undertaken during public games and performed in a passageway beneath the palace—was dramatic and messy.
“On the ninth day before the Kalends of February … There are two versions of the rest of the story. Some say that while he was speaking to the boys Chaerea, approaching from behind, gave the emperor’s neck a deep cut with his sword, shouting, “Take this!;’ then the tribune Cornelius Sabinus, the other conspirator, ran his chest through from the front. Others report that Sabinus, who had arranged for soldiers who were in on the plot to get rid of the crowd, asked Caligula for the password following usual military practice. When Caligula replied ‘Jupiter,’ Chaerea shouted ‘Let it be so!’ As Caligula looked behind him, Chaerea split his jaw with a blow. As he lay with his limbs twisted up, repeatedly calling out that he was alive, others finished him off with 30 blows. All acted on the signal, ‘Again,’ Some even stabbed him in the nuts.”
VIIII. Kal. Febr. hora fere septima … Duplex dehinc fama est: alii tradunt adloquenti pueros a tergo Chaeream cervicem gladio caesim graviter percussisse praemissa voce: ‘hoc age!’ Dehinc Cornelium Sabinum, alterum e coniuratis, tribunum ex adverso traiecisse pectus; alii Sabinum summota per conscios centuriones turba signum more militiae petisse et Gaio ‘Iovem dante Chaeream exclamasse: ‘accipe ratum!’ Respicientique maxillam ictu discidisse. Iacentem contractisque membris clamitantem se vivere ceteri vulneribus triginta confecerunt; nam signum erat omnium: ‘repete!’ Quidam etiam per obscaena ferrum adegerunt.
My first apartment in Rome was just down the street from the grave of John Keats. The non-Catholic cemetery is a beautiful place. In those early days I would visit often, or at least look through the grated aperture in the wall close to his tombstone.
Here lies One Whose name was writ in Water
At that time you would ring the bell and the caretaker or the old woman who looked after the cats would unlock the gate. Now the place has been made an institution and they sell post cards, discourage the presence of “too many cats” and have spiffed up the place in way that makes you wish they’d left it the way it was.
Twenty years passed before I visited the Keats-Shelley House by the Spanish Steps. It was a Saturday in the summer and even in that season if you’re out early the weather is fine and the streets mostly empty. I was alone in the museum. The room where he died is the part that interested me. The artifacts are not authentic but merely an approximation. Roman law required all the objects that were in the presence of a person with tuberculosis be destroyed after death. That occurred in this case.
Keats’ friend the painter Joseph Severn (obit 1879) looked after the poet during this final illness. They were strangers in town and had little money. Fear of Keats’ illness made them unwelcome guests. Severn wrote a series of letters informing others of their circumstances. Here is part of a letter dated 15 January 1821, five weeks before the poet’s death.
Poor Keats has just fallen asleep. I have watched him and read to him to his very last wink. He has been saying to me, “Severn, I can see under your quiet look immense twisting and contending. You don’t know what you are reading. You are enduring for me more than I’d have you. O! that my last hour has come. What is it puzzles you now? What is it happens?” I tell him that “nothing happens, nothing worries me beyond his seeing, that it has been the dull day.” Getting from myself to his recovery, and then my painting, and then England, and then – but they are all lies; my heart almost leaps to deny them, for I have the veriest load of care that ever came upon these shoulders of mine. Keats is sinking daily. He is dying of a consumption, of a confirmed consumption. Perhaps another three weeks may lose him forever. But I pray that some kind of comfort may come to his lot, that some angel of goodness will lead him through this dark wilderness.
letter of severn
It so happened I was due in London a day or two after that visit to the Keats-Shelley House. I stayed with a friend in Hampstead, just down the street from Keats House there. In Keats’ time it was almost country, now it’s a green and posh place in the city. Here he wrote a number of poems, including “Ode to a Nightingale.”
Fade far away, dissolve and quite forget / What thou amongst the leaves hast never known, / The weariness, the fever and the fret / Here where men sit and hear each other groan; / Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, / Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; / Where but to think is to be full of sorrow / And leaden-eyed despairs, / Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, / Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Servius Sulpicius Galba was the first man to fall in the year of the four emperors. It seems his old-fashioned ways and his lack of finesse in the political realities of the principate led to his failure as emperor and his murder in the Forum 15 January 69.
Here’s some of what Tacitus and Suetonius tell us about the man and his times.
Tacitus on the death and character of Galba
Galba’s body lay abandoned for many hours. Later under cover of darkness it was abused by soldiers and other men. Finally, Argius, his confidant and one of his former slaves, buried it in a humble grave at his old master’s villa. Galba’s head, which had been mutilated then impaled on a pole, was found the next day at the tomb of Petrobius—a freedman of Nero whom Galba had executed—and was placed with the body, which had already been cremated. This was the end of Servius Galba. He lived with good fortune for 73 years through the reigns of five emperors. He was happier under the rule of others than in his own. His family was of ancient nobility and possessed great wealth. Galba himself was of middling genius, being rather free from faults than possessing virtues. He was neither careless of reputation nor one to boast of it. He was not covetous of the property of others; he was frugal with his own, and greedy with the state’s. Kindly and complacent toward friends and freedmen, if he found them honest; if they were dishonest, he was blind even to a fault. But his high birth and the terror which the times inspired masked the truth, so that men called wisdom what was really indolence. While he was a younger commander, he enjoyed a reputation for his military service in the German provinces. As proconsul he governed Africa with moderation and, when he was already an old man, ruled Hither Spain with the same uprightness. He seemed a man of renown in private life, and in everyone’s opinion he was capable of being emperor had he never ruled.
Galba in the Forum and on the Via Aurelia
Galba was stuck down beside the Lacus Curtius and was left lying just as he was until a common soldier, returning from a distribution of grain, threw down his load and cut off the head. Then, since there was no hair by which to grasp it, he hid in within his clothing, but later thrust his thumb into the mouth and so carried it to Otho, who then, handed it over to his followers, who set it on a lance and paraded it about the camp with jeers, crying out from time to time, ‘Pretty boy Galba, exult in your vigor!’ The special reason for this insolent joke was, that the report had gotten around a few days before, that when someone had congratulated him on still looking young and vigorous, he quoted Homer: ‘As yet my strength is unimpaired’. Then the abused head of the former emperor was bought by a freedman of Patrobius Neronianus for a hundred pieces of gold; he had it thrown aside in the place where his patron had been executed by Galba’s order. At last, however, his freedman Argivus deposited the head with the rest of Galba’s body in the emperor’s family tomb in his gardens on the Via Aurelia.
Galba was a blueblood
Galba, who succeded Nero, was in no way related to the house of the Caesars, though he was, without doubt, of very eminent birth. His own line was a great and ancient one, for he would always have it included in the inscriptions on his statues that he was the great-grandson of Quintus Catulus Capitolinus. When was emperor he even had in his entrance hall his family tree put on display, in which he traced back his father’s origins to Jupiter and those of his mother to Pasiphae, the wife of Minos.
Galba’s mysterious cognomen
It is not clear why the first of the Sulpicii to have the name Galba acquired it, nor by what means. Some people think that, having besieged a town in Spain without success, he eventually set fire to it with torches smeared with galbanum. Others think it was because during a lengthy illness he made repeated us of galbeum, that is, remedies wrapped in wool. There are some who believe that it was because he looked very fat, which the Gauls term galba, while other take the opposite view that it was because he was very thin, so that he resembled the insect which lives in oak trees and is called the galba.
Galba as a youngster
Servius Galba, who became emperor, was born on the ninth day before the Kalends of January in the consulship of Marcus Valerius Messala and Gnaeus Lentulus, in a villa on the hill near Terracina, on the left as you travel toward Fundi … It is common knowledge that, when he was still a boy and, along with his contemporaries, was paying his respects to Augustus, the emperor pinched his cheek and said, “You, too, child, will have a taste of our imperial power.”
Galba the physical man
He was of medium height, completely bald, with blue eyes, a hooked nose, and hands and feet so crippled by arthritis that he could not endure wearing shoes for long, nor could be unroll books for even hold them. On his right side, his flesh extended and hung down so far that it could hardly be kept in place by a bandage.
Galba in love
His sexual preference inclined toward males, but only those who were especially tough and in full manhood. They say that when Icelus, one of his long-standing favorites, came to him in Spain bringing news of the death of Nero, Galba not only welcomed him publicly with the most ardent kisses but begged him to have his body hair plucked at once, then took him aside.
Truman Capote wasn’t much of a sightseer. Still, he seems to have had a wonderful time in Rome, the city with more sights to see than perhaps any other. He was more interested in examining personalities, especially the bigshots who opened the world to him. And he always had a pet companion. He lived with his crow Lola at 33 Via Margutta, a little street not far from Piazza di Spagna.
We settled for the winter in Rome, first at a hotel (the management of which expelled us after five days, and was not even a first-class establishment), then in an apartment at 33 Via Margutta, a narrow street often painted by bad painters and renowned for the number of cats who dwell there, unowned cats sheltering in the overgrown patios and existing on the charity of half-mad elderly women, crones who every day tour the cat jungles with sacks of scrap food.
Here he is writing to his high school teacher Catherine Wood on January 3, 1953.
I am freezing in Rome. I have two electrical heaters but they just barely take the chill off the room. The floors are marble—absolute ice. I can hardly hold this pen. Princess Caetani arranged for me to have a private audience with the Pope. It was supposed to last 15 minutes, but I stayed more than half-an-hour, an extraordinary man, so really charming and beautiful.
You can read about Lola, the apartment and the neighborhood in Capote’s posthumous collection of essays, Portraits and Observations.
Our apartment was a penthouse; to reach it one climbed six flights of steep dark stairs. We had three rooms a balcony. It was because of the balcony that I rented it; after the vastness of the view from the Sicilian terrace, the balcony offered, in contrast, a miniature scene as tranquil and perfect as firelight: several Roman rooftops, faded orange, faded ocher, and a few across-the-way windows (behind which episodes of family life could be observed).
When the sun was out Lola always took her bath on the balcony balustrade. Her tub was a silver soup dish; after a moment of sprightly immersion in the shallow water, she would spring up and out, and as though casting off a crystal cloak, shake yourself, swell her feathers; later, for long bliss-saturated hours, she drowsed in the sun, her head tilted back, her beak ajar, her eyes shut. To watch her was a soothing experience.
Today Rome’s a little bit like it was when the priest Mercurius at San Clemente became Pope John II on 2 January 533. This man was the first pope to be called something else after his election since it seemed less than good that the head of the church should carry the name of a pagan god. His move didn’t inititate the tradition of newly elected poples adopting a pontifical name. That began in the tenth century.
John II, also called Mercurius, the son of Proiectus, Roman born from the Caelian hill, was pontiff for two years, four months and six days. He was bishop in the time of Gothic king Athalaric and the emperor Justinian.
Liber Pontificalis – Life of John II
He was pope at the end of the Gothic interlude in Italy, on the eve of the Roman reconquest. In the years before imperial armies entered Italy in 535, Justinian performed cultural diplomacy by and making a statement of faith in line with papal doctrine (“written in his own hand” scripto cyrographo proprio) and making gifts of liturgical objects made of gold, silver, silk, and ivory and jewels crafted in Constantinople.
Justinian’s gift giving might have included some objects in San Clemente that date from the career of John. Before you head down to the scavi, look for his name in the new (twelfth-century) church. Some of the liturgical furniture there was first used in the ruined church below. The sculpted marble panels and columns were made in Constantinople and were set in place with he was priest at San Clemente still with the name Mercurius.
Find his papal monogram on the schola cantorum, then read his name Mercurius on the columns that were the balustrade of the altar then to frame the tomb of the Venetian Giovanni Venier 900 years in the future.