SPQR

by Mary Beard

  It is, however, Cicero’s short-lived second marriage to Publilia, then in her early to mid teens, that sticks out from the all other stories. Cicero and Terentia had divorced, probably at the beginning of 46 BCE. Whatever the main reasons for the split – and Roman writers came out with plenty of unreliable speculation on the subject – the latest surviving letter from him to her, written in October 47 BCE, suggests that relations between the two had changed. Just a few curt lines to a wife he had not seen for two years (partly because he had been away with Pompey’s forces in Greece), it amounts to a couple of instructions for his imminent arrival. ‘If there is no basin in the bathhouse, have one installed’ is the basic gist. Just over a year later, after considering other possibilities – including Pompey’s daughter and a woman he deemed ‘the ugliest I have ever seen’ – Cicero married a girl at least forty-five years his junior. Was this usual?

  A first marriage at around fourteen or fifteen was not remarkable for a Roman girl. Tullia was betrothed to her first husband when she was eleven and married by fifteen; when Cicero in 67 BCE refers to betrothing ‘dear little Tullia to Gaius Calpurnius Piso’, he means exactly that, little. Atticus was already considering future husbands when his daughter was just six. The elite might be expected to have arranged such alliances early. But there is plenty of evidence in the epitaphs of ordinary people for girls being married in their mid teens and occasionally as young as ten or eleven. Whether or not these marriages were consummated is an awkward and unanswerable question. By the same token, men seem generally to have married for the first time in their mid to late twenties, with a standard age gap in a first marriage of something like ten years, and some young brides would have found themselves married to an even older man on his second or third time around. Whatever the relative freedoms of Roman women, their subordination was surely grounded in that disequilibrium between an adult male and what we would call a child bride.

  That said, the age gap of forty-five years caused puzzlement even at Rome. Why had Cicero done it? Was it just for the money? Or, as Terentia claimed, was it the silly infatuation of an old man? In fact, he faced some direct questions about why on earth, at his age, he was marrying a young virgin. On the day of the marriage he is supposed to have replied to one of these, ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be a grown-up woman [mulier] tomorrow’. The ancient critic who quoted this response thought that it was a brilliantly witty way of deflecting criticism and held it up for admiration. We are likely to put it somewhere on the spectrum between uncomfortably coarse and painfully bleak – one powerful marker of the distance between the Roman world and our own.

  50. A Roman tombstone for husband and wife (first century BCE). Both are ex-slaves: the husband on the left, Aurelius Hermia, is identified as a butcher from the Viminal hill in Rome; on the right, his wife, Aurelia Philematium, is described as ‘chaste, modest and not gossiped about’. More disturbing for us is the timescale of their relationship. They had met when she was seven and, as the text says, ‘he took her on his knee’.

  Birth, death and grief

  Tragedy almost instantly overtook Cicero’s new marriage. Tullia died soon after giving birth to Dolabella’s son. Cicero appears to have been so incapacitated by grief that he retreated, without Publilia, to his property on the little island of Astura, off the coast south of Rome. His relationship with Tullia had always been very close – rather too intimate, according to the wild gossip of some of his enemies, indulging in the favourite Roman tactic of attacking an opponent through his sex life. It was certainly closer than that with her younger brother, Marcus, who among other minor failings never seems to have enjoyed the intellectual life, and philosophy lectures in Athens, to which his father had sent him. With Tullia’s death, Cicero claimed, he had lost the one thing that kept him committed to life.

  The production of children was a dangerous obligation. Childbirth was always the biggest killer of young adult women at Rome, from senators’ wives to slaves. Thousands of such deaths are recorded, from high-profile casualties such as Tullia and Pompey’s Julia to the ordinary women across the empire commemorated on tombstones by their grieving husbands and families. One man in North Africa remembered his wife, who ‘lived for thirty-six years and forty days. It was her tenth delivery. On the third day she died.’ Another, from what is now Croatia, put up a simple memorial to ‘his fellow slave’ (and probably his partner), who ‘suffered agonies to give birth for four days, and did not give birth, and so she died’. To put this in a wider perspective, statistics available from more recent historical periods suggest that at least one in fifty women were likely to die in childbirth, with a higher chance if they were very young.

  They were killed by many of the disasters of childbirth that modern Western medicine has almost prevented, from haemorrhage to obstruction or infection – though the lack of hospitals, where infections in early modern Europe easily passed from one woman to another, somewhat lessened that risk. Most women relied on the support of midwives. Beyond that, interventionist obstetrics probably only added to the danger. Caesarian sections, which despite the modern myth had no connection with Julius Caesar, were used simply to cut a live foetus out of a dead or dying woman. For cases where the baby was completely obstructed, some Roman doctors recommended inserting a knife into the mother and dismembering the foetus in the womb, a procedure which few women could possibly have come through safely.

  Pregnancy and childbirth must have dominated most women’s lives, including those whom Roman writers chose to present as carefree libertines. A few would have been most concerned about their inability to conceive at all or to carry through a pregnancy. Romans almost universally blamed the woman for a couple’s failure to have children, and this was one standard reason for divorce. Modern speculation (no more than that) is that her second husband may have divorced Tullia, who did not deliver a live baby until her late twenties, on precisely those grounds. The majority of women, however, faced decades of pregnancies without any reliable way, except abstinence, of preventing them. There were some makeshift and dangerous methods of abortion. Prolonged breastfeeding might have delayed further pregnancies for those who did not, as many of the wealthy did, employ wet nurses. And a wide variety of contraceptive potions and devices were recommended, which ranged from completely useless (wearing the worms found in the head of a particular species of hairy spider) to borderline efficacious (inserting almost anything sticky into the vagina). But most of their contraceptive efforts were defeated by the fact that ancient science claimed that the days after a woman ceased menstruating were her most fertile, when the truth is exactly the opposite.

  Those babies that were safely delivered had an even riskier time than their mothers. The ones that appeared weak or disabled would have been ‘exposed’, which may often have meant being thrown away on a local rubbish tip. Those that were unwanted met the same fate. There are hints that baby girls may generally have been less wanted than boys, partly because of the expense of their dowries, which would have been a significant element in the budget of relatively modest families too. One letter surviving on papyrus from Roman Egypt, written by a husband to his pregnant wife, instructs her to raise the child if it is a boy, but ‘if it is a girl, discard it’. How often this happened, and what the exact sex ratio of the victims was, is a matter of guesswork, but it was often enough for rubbish tips to be thought of as a source of free slaves.

  51. A Roman midwife from the port of Ostia is depicted at her work on a terracotta plaque from her tomb. The woman giving birth sits on a chair, the midwife sits in front of her for the delivery.

  52. An ancient Roman vaginal speculum is uncannily like the modern version. But Roman ideas of the female body and its reproductive cycles were dramatically different from our own, from how conception happened to when and how it might be prevented (or encouraged).

  Those babies that were reared were still in danger. The best estimate – based largely on figures from comparable later populations – is that half the chi
ldren born would have died by the age of ten, from all kinds of sickness and infection, including the common childhood diseases that are no longer fatal. What this means is that, although average life expectancy at birth was probably as low as the mid twenties, a child who survived to the age of ten could expect a lifespan not wildly at variance from our own. According to the same figures, a ten-year-old would on average have another forty years of life left, and a fifty-year-old could reckon on fifteen more. The elderly were not as rare as you might think in ancient Rome. But the high death rate among the very young also had implications for women’s pregnancies and family size. Simply to maintain the existing population, each woman on average would have needed to bear five or six children. In practice, that rises to something closer to nine when other factors, such as sterility and widowhood, are taken into account. It was hardly a recipe for widespread women’s liberation.

  How did these patterns of birth and death affect the emotional life within the family? It has sometimes been argued that, simply because so many children did not survive, parents would have avoided deep emotional investment in them. One chilling image of the father in Roman literature and storytelling stresses his control over his children, not his affection, while dwelling on the terrible punishment he could exact for their disobedience, even to the point of execution. There is, however, almost no sign of this in practice. It is true that a newborn baby may not have been viewed as a person as such until after the decision whether or not to rear it had been taken and it had been formally accepted into the family; hence, to some extent, the apparently casual attitude to what we would call infanticide. But the thousands of touching epitaphs put up by parents to their young offspring suggest anything but lack of emotion. ‘My little doll, my dear Mania, lies buried here. For just a few years was I able to give my love to her. Her father now weeps constantly for her’, as the verses on one tombstone in North Africa run. Cicero too, in 45 BCE, for a time ‘wept constantly’ over the death of Tullia while documenting his grief and plans for her commemoration in a remarkable series of letters to Atticus.

  No details are known about Tullia’s death, except that it happened at Cicero’s country house at Tusculum, outside Rome; and nothing at all is known of her funeral. Cicero almost immediately retreated alone to his hideaway on the island of Astura, where he read all the philosophy he could get his hands on about loss and consolation, and even wrote a treatise on bereavement to himself – before deciding, after a couple of months, that he should return to the house where she had died (‘I’m going to conquer my feelings and go to the Tusculum house, else I’ll never go back there’). By this stage he had already begun to channel his grief into her memorial, which was to be not a ‘tomb’ but a ‘shrine’ or a ‘temple’ (fanum, which in Latin has an exclusively religious meaning). His immediate concerns were with location, prominence and future upkeep, and he was soon planning to buy an estate in the suburbs, near what is now the Vatican, on which to site the building and was pre-ordering some columns.

  He was aiming, he insisted, at Tullia’s apotheosis. By this, he probably meant immortality in some general sense rather than any full-blown claim that she was to become a god, but it is nevertheless another instance of the fuzzy boundary that in the Roman world lay between mortals and immortals, and of the way in which divine powers and attributes were used to express the prominence and importance of individual human beings. There is a certain irony, however, in the fact that, while Cicero and his friends were increasingly anxious about the godlike honours being given to Caesar, Cicero was busy planning some kind of divine status for his dead daughter. But the project for the shrine in the end came to nothing, for the whole of the Vatican area became earmarked for a major piece of Caesar’s urban redevelopment, and Cicero’s chosen site was lost.

  Money matters

  The houses on Astura and at Tusculum were only two of some twenty properties that Cicero owned in Italy in 45 BCE. Some were elegant residential mansions. In Rome he had a large house on the lower slopes of the Palatine Hill, a couple of minutes’ walk from the Forum, where many of the top-most drawer of the Roman elite, Clodia included, were his neighbours; his other houses were dotted throughout the peninsula, from Puteoli on the Bay of Naples, where he entertained Caesar to that rather crowded dinner party, to Formiae further north, where he had another seaside villa. Some were small rest houses or lodges strategically sited on roads between his far-flung larger properties, where he could stay overnight to avoid sleeping in seedy inns or lodging houses or imposing on friends. Some, including his family estates at Arpinum, were working farms, even if they had a luxury residence attached. Others were straightforward moneymaking rental properties, such as the low-grade building from which ‘even the rats’ had fled; two large, and even more lucrative, blocks to let in central Rome had been part of Terentia’s dowry and in 45 BCE must recently have been returned on the divorce.

  The total value of this property portfolio was something in the order of 13 million sesterces. In the eyes of ordinary Romans this was a vast holding, worth enough to keep more than 25,000 poor families alive for a year or to provide more than thirty men with the minimum wealth qualification for standing for political office. But it did not put Cicero into the bracket of the super-rich. In reflecting on the history of extravagance, Pliny the Elder states that in 53 BCE Clodius bought for almost 15 million sesterces the house of Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, one of Cicero’s friends and a somewhat disreputable officer of Pompey’s in Judaea in the 60s BCE. The remains of its basement have tentatively been identified, also on the Palatine slopes, near where the Arch of Titus still stands; they comprise about fifty small rooms and a bath, probably for slaves, and earlier generations of archaeologists confidently (and wrongly) identified them as a city-centre brothel. At yet another level up, the property of Crassus was worth 200 million sesterces; with that, he could indeed have paid for his own army (p. 26).

  Despite some imaginative attempts, not a single one of Cicero’s properties has been firmly identified on the ground. Yet it is possible to get some idea of what they were like from his accounts, including his plans for improvement, and from contemporary archaeological remains. The rich residences of the late Republican elite on the Palatine Hill are generally very poorly preserved, for the simple reason that over the first century CE the imperial palace that soon came to dominate the hill was built on top of them. Some of the most impressive traces from the earlier period are in the so-called House of the Griffins. These include several rooms of what must have been the ground floor of an impressive early first-century BCE house, still partly visible within the foundations of the palatial structures on top, complete with brightly painted walls and simple mosaic pavements. In overall plan and design, this and the other Palatine houses were probably not all that different from the much better preserved remains at Pompeii and Herculaneum.

  The point about the residences of the Roman elite, whether of senators in Rome or of local bigwigs outside it, is that they were not private houses in modern terms; they did not (or not only) represent a place to escape from the public gaze. To be sure, there were some hideaways, such as Cicero’s retreat on Astura, and some parts of the house were more private than others. But in many ways domestic architecture was meant to contribute to the public image and reputation of the prominent Roman, and it was in his house that much public business was done. The great hall, or atrium, the first room a visitor normally entered after walking through the front door, was a key location. Usually double volume, open to the sky and designed to impress, with stuccoes, paintings, sculpture and impressive vistas off, it provided the backdrop to many encounters between the master of the house and a variety of subordinates, petitioners and clients – from ex-slaves needing help to that visiting delegation from Teos who went from atrium to atrium trying to kiss the Romans’ feet (pp. 194–5, 197–9). Beyond that, on the standard plan, the house stretched back, with more entertaining rooms, dining areas, parlours-cum-bedrooms (cubicula) and cover
ed walkways and gardens if there was space – the walls featuring decoration to match their function, from large display paintings to intimate panels and erotica. For visitors, the further they were welcomed into the less public parts of the house, the more honoured they were. Business with one’s closest friends and colleagues might be done, as Romans put it, in cubiculo, that is, in one of those small, intimate rooms where one might sleep, though not exactly bedrooms in the modern sense. It is where, we might guess, the Gang of Three made their deals.

  53. Here the later foundations of the buildings above (on the right) have cut through what was once a splendid room of a Republican house, the ‘House of the Griffins’ on the Palatine. The house gets its name from the figures of griffins made in stucco; one is visible at the far end. The mosaic floor is a simple diamond decoration, the walls are painted with plain panels of colour, as if to imitate marble. Earlier generations of archaeologists speculated that this was the house of Catiline himself.

  The house and its decoration contributed to the image of its owner. But impressive display had to be carefully calibrated against the possible taint of excessive luxury. Eyebrows were raised, for example, when Scaurus decided to use in the atrium of his Palatine house some of the 380 columns that he had bought to decorate a temporary theatre he had commissioned for public shows. They were made of Lucullan marble, a precious Greek stone known in Rome after the man who first imported it, Lucius Licinius Lucullus, Pompey’s immediate predecessor in the war against Mithradates, and they were each over 11 metres high. Many Romans felt that Scaurus had made a serious mistake in adorning his house in a luxurious style more appropriate to fully public display. Sallust was not the only one to imagine that immoral extravagance somehow underlay many of Rome’s problems.