The New Deal in Old Rome

CHAPTER IX

DRIFT TO DICTATORSHIP

WITH the assassination of Cæsar the conspirators assumed that the Republic would be automatically restored and would function as of old. They were wrong. Their victim himself had predicted the consequences of his death. His biographer wrote that Cæsar had said that if anything happened to him the Republic would have no peace but would relapse into civil war under worse conditions than ever. The scene in the Forum immediately after the murder forecast the difficulties ahead. The plotters, Appian writes, hoped to bribe part of the people and to win the support of the rest “from love of liberty and longing for the Republic.” But, he continues, there had been a great admixture of foreign blood from the slaves and their descendants, and the dole had attracted to Rome “the lazy, the beggars, and the vagrants of all Italy.” Besides, many of Cæsar’s veterans were in the city waiting for their bonus in the shape of land allotments. The crowd listened silently to the defence of the assassination. So the conspirators hurriedly decided to make terms with Cæsar’s lieutenant, Mark Antony, who was in a position to get military backing.

At this juncture Cicero came to the front. This great patriot was a sort of combination of Daniel Webster and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He came from the middle class, which he had called “the true Roman people.” First as an eloquent advocate at the bar, and then as senator, he had been able in his day to sway men by his oratory. His essays on politics, philosophy, religion, and humane living have influenced civilization for two thousand years. But he was a moderate in an age of extremists, an academic liberal rather than a realist. He dreamed of uniting the best people of all classes to maintain the Republic to which he was deeply devoted. He had the outsider’s curious respect for the closed circle of those aristocrats who looked down on him as an upstart. He did not appreciate their short-sighted selfishness as it was appreciated by Cæsar, who belonged to them by birth. Blinded by his prejudices, he did not understand why the most substantial men in Rome, to say nothing of the mass of the people, should have been distressed by the assassination. A business friend had written him: “If Cæsar could not find a way out of our difficulties, who can?” The old republican was sure that he could. When it became apparent that Antony had no notion of restoring the Republic but was ambitious to become another Cæsar, Cicero led the fight against him in a series of denunciatory speeches that we may still read. But his eloquence, it has been said, could not prevail against swords.

Meanwhile a young man had come to Rome who was to be a far more formidable opponent to the plans of the republicans than Antony. The future Augustus, then called Octavius and later Octavian, grand-nephew of Cæsar, was a boy of eighteen at the time of the assassination. His grandfather had been an Italian banker, his father a Roman magistrate. His mother was a daughter of Julia, Cæsar’s sister. After Cæsar had returned from his campaigns he was attracted by the keen mind of his young grand-nephew and kept him with him as much of the time as was convenient. Undoubtedly the boy heard discussions of the plans for imperial reorganization. He was finishing his education in a little sea-coast town across the Adriatic when news came of Cæsar’s death. His mother wrote him that his grand-uncle had been killed by “his enemies.” “The time has come,” she added, “when you must play the man, decide, and act, for no one can tell what may happen.”

When the young man reached Italy he found that under Cæsar’s will he had been adopted as the dictator’s son and had been made heir to three fourths of his huge fortune. Now came a great political game in which the boy cautiously felt his way. The cards seemed stacked against him. Antony was a distinguished soldier, a man twice his age, and he was already consul. But Octavian’s cool intelligence proved more than a match for his bluff soldier antagonist. He saw, as Cæsar had seen, that the Republic could not stand against armed force. But for the moment he played in with Cicero and the republicans. As the situation developed he gradually jockeyed himself into the position of champion of the Senate against Antony, who had become Governor of northern Italy, a position that brought him command of an army. The disturbances that followed gave Octavian a chance to make a deal with Antony under which eventually the older man was assigned to rule the rich Eastern provinces while Octavian took charge of Rome and the West. Before this arrangement was carried out, however, the two leaders, with a third who was taken in for convenience, decided on a purge to rid themselves of possible trouble-makers. In making up the list Antony insisted on including his most formidable enemy, Cicero. Octavian after some objection acquiesced.

The man thus condemned is one of the most appealing figures of all time. After his death nearly eight hundred of his letters were published by his friend Atticus and his secretary Tiro. They were not intended for publication and were written informally in all sorts of moods. Today we may pick them up in the Loeb Library translation and read at random with delight. All his faults are laid before us — his lack of scruples in attacking an adversary at the bar or in politics, his indecision at critical times, his domestic difficulties, his little vanities. A pleasantly human letter is one he wrote to a historian who was expecting in due course to deal with Cicero’s consulate. “Can’t you play me up?” he asks. “I really think I deserve it. And now that I’ve gone so far I might as well go the limit. I wish you would lay it on a bit thick, even if you should have to stretch the truth a trifle.”

Cicero was making a futile fight to bring back the past. But his essential humanity shines through his correspondence and at the last he knew he was risking his life for principles in which he believed. He met the final sword-stroke without flinching. Three quarters of a century after his death an old cavalry officer, Velleius Paterculus, sat down to write a history of Rome. He admired Augustus and exonerates him from responsibility for Cicero’s death. He was outvoted, the writer says, by his two associates. Antony he holds chiefly responsible. Then he explodes. “You accomplished nothing, Mark Antony,” he writes, “ — for my indignation compels me to speak — you accomplished nothing by the murder of this great man who once had saved the state. You took from Marcus Cicero a few years of old age, but you did not rob him of his fame and the glory of his deeds and words. He lives and will continue to live in the memory of the ages, while your deed will be execrated.”

His acquiescence in the murder of Cicero is one of the conspicuous stains on the reputation of Octavian. It has been argued on his behalf that he felt deeply resentful toward Cicero for siding with the murderers of Cæsar, whom Octavian idolized; that in the manoeuvring after Cæsar’s death Cicero had been willing to use Octavian’s popularity; but that their friendship was political only and that Cicero had let it be known that he intended to discard the young man as soon as he had served the purpose of helping the Senate re-establish itself. Another factor should be considered. At the time of the purge Antony was a hard-boiled and experienced soldier of forty. Octavian was an inexperienced youth of twenty. It seems doubtful whether the boy could have overridden the passionate hatred of the older man even had he earnestly desired to do so. Whether he so desired we do not know.

Writing more than a century later, Plutarch recounts a story that had been handed down about Octavian when, as Augustus, he had become the undisputed ruler of the world. “I have been told,” he says, “that Augustus one day found one of his grandsons reading a book of Cicero’s. The boy tried to hide it. But his grandfather took it from him and stood for some time looking over the pages. Then he handed it back saying: ‘A great man, my boy, and one who loved his country.’” Whether a flicker of remorse stirred that iron soul as he said these words we do not know. Certainly they express the judgment of posterity.

With his passion for order Octavian made the most of his authority over the West. His rule was so enlightened and efficient that he won the solid support of business and the middle class, which, when aroused and united, was the dominant influence in Rome. He was fortunate in two of his boyhood friends who became his chief lieutenants. Maecenas, known later as the great patron of literature, a born diplomat, became virtually prime minister. Agrippa developed into a brilliant commander and executive. His achievements in the improvement of the capital increased the popularity of the regime.

Meanwhile Antony, a true soldier of fortune, had been completely captivated by Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, a competent and designing young woman. Disturbing rumours reached Rome that she had been proclaimed “queen of kings,” that Antony had assigned Roman provinces to her sons, and that she intended to “dispense justice on the Capitol.” As indignation rose against Cleopatra’s ambitious plans, Octavian with characteristic shrewdness took advantage of the public feeling to get rid of his one rival without attacking him. He had the Senate deprive Antony of his command and declare war against Cleopatra. The resulting conflict was regarded by the Romans not as a struggle for power between two rivals, but as a war of the West, and all that Western civilization had come to mean, against the alien civilization of the East. The war ended with the great naval victory of Actium in 31 B.C. It was like the English victory over the Spanish Armada. The towering ships of Antony were outmanoeuvred and defeated by the light Roman cruisers under the dashing Agrippa. Cleopatra fled back to Egypt, followed by her lover. A few months later he died by his own hand and Cleopatra killed herself when she found her stern conqueror would not fall for her as Antony had.

The next two years Octavian spent in reorganizing the kingdom of Egypt as a Roman province, improving its vital irrigation system, and inspecting the eastern part of the Empire. When he returned to Rome, a new era had begun. A clue to his plans is given by the remark he made about the familiar story of Alexander the Great, who wept because there were no more worlds for him to conquer. “I am surprised,” he said, “that Alexander did not regard the right ordering of the empire he had won a heavier task than winning it.” Under his new title of Augustus, “His Majesty” (literally, “The Revered”), voted by the Senate, he was to become the supreme organizer of ancient, and perhaps of modern, times.

The new ruler was a typical middle-class Italian. Already as Governor of the West he had proved his devotion to the material welfare of the city. If he had not been head of the state he might have been a wonderful president of the Chamber of Commerce or city manager. In fact eventually he became just that. A bigger and better Rome was his slogan. The aristocrats accepted him because he stood between them and the anarchy with which they had just had such long and costly experience. The commoners recognized in him one of themselves.

Augustus put up no front. His comfortable house on the Palatine did not compare in magnificence with some of the palaces of the nabobs. He had no elaborate offices. His workshop was on his top floor. While he had formal dress for state occasions, everybody knew he liked to go about carelessly dressed in common clothes that looked as if they had been made by the loved ones at home, as indeed they had been. He was a sports fan, a fact that endeared him to a sports-crazy city, and he loved to relax with games that corresponded to craps and poker. He writes a relative about playing all of one day in the March holidays and apologizes for coming out a thousand-dollar loser.

In modern presidental style he enjoyed fishing. He liked to have literary men about him, especially Virgil and Horace. Standing at the foot of the Palatine, I have imagined I could see Augustus, the fastidious Maecenas, millionaire politician, and the pudgy Horace coming down the steps in earnest conversation; Augustus in his famous broad-brimmed hat and shoes that were built up to increase his height. He used to joke Horace on his ample paunch. He tried his hand at writing, but he knew when the results were not happy. Someone once asked him what had become of “Ajax,” a tragedy on which he had been working. “My Ajax fell on his sponge,” he replied, with the surprise word “sponge” instead of sword, implying that the book had been wiped out. His health never was robust and he had to be careful with his diet. Before going to a state dinner, or after the dinner, he would eat a light supper so as not to have to touch the rich food on the table — a practice followed by American cabinet members today. His old-fashioned ideas appealed to the solid men and women of Rome. His daughter and granddaughters were taught to spin and weave. He insisted on chaperons for boys and girls who went out to entertainments at night. Affectation in speech he detested. He used to say the flowery Mark Antony talked like a crazy man, and he wrote to a granddaughter admonishing her not to write or talk affectedly. His sententious remarks were widely quoted — “more haste, less speed”; “that is done quickly enough which is well done.” He was approachable. When someone timidly presented him a petition he said: “Come, come. You’re handing me this as if you were handing a penny to an elephant.” Yet he felt the immense dignity of his position. He was pleased that with his “clear bright eyes” he could stare a man into confusion.

An immensely complicated political situation confronted the new ruler. Events after the assassination of Cæsar had convinced Augustus, if he needed convincing, that his great-uncle was right in his belief that under the conditions of the time a strong central government was necessary to manage the Empire. Yet the Republican tradition was still powerful. The dazzling Julius had paid with his life for brusquely ignoring it. The problem was how to set up such a central government under constitutional forms. Here the patient far-sightedness of Augustus, his deep understanding of human nature, his indifference to the forms and show of power, his ability to work out successful compromises, served him better than more brilliant qualities had served his predecessor.

Augustus has been criticized for lack of originality. But a recent writer, G. P. Baker, gives a just estimate of the man when he says: “His was the subtlest and rarest of talents — the ability to embody in practical measures the vague aspirations, the impatient wishes and the insistent hopes of other men. Mankind was enchanted with his gracious aspect. It did not realize that Augustus was a mirror in which it beheld its own features.”

The city-republic of Rome, Augustus believed, was gone. The ancient world had experimented with representative government. But the long discipline required to make it work was lacking outside of Italy, and the results had not been impressive. Besides, the Empire was too vast, the population too diversified, communication too slow, current information without newspapers too deficient, to give representative institutions a chance. An empire on the British model, based on parliamentary institutions in the homeland, with self-governing dominions and crown colonies, would have been out of the question, even if by a miracle the pattern could have been invented. In Italy the displacement of the small farmers by absentee landlords operating big estates by slave labour would have made it difficult to develop parliamentary government on an Italian basis. In Rome itself the experience of the first century B.C. had shown that self-government in the capital no longer was possible. With the hard-working shopkeepers and artisans who had to compete with slave labour was the horde of dispossessed farmers who had migrated to the capital to go on relief. Besides these, as Sallust says, “young men who had maintained a wretched existence by manual labour in the country, tempted by public and private doles, had come to prefer idleness in the city to a steady job.” Continued idleness, of course, was corrupting. Many of the more enterprising Italian farmers had gone to the provinces where farming on new land was attractive. Ex-service men and business men had joined in the migration. Their places had been taken by a large slave population. It had become so numerous that the proposal to require slaves to wear a distinctive dress was defeated because, Seneca wrote, the Senate feared the slaves might become dangerous if they came to realize their great number. As the slaves became old, many of them were freed and put on relief so their masters should not be burdened by their support. Many others bought their freedom. The freeing of slaves became such a problem that the government repeatedly prohibited it by laws that were as repeatedly disregarded. The freed slaves and the descendants of slaves became another difficult element in the population of Rome and Italy. By an ingenious study of the names inscribed on tombstones and of other data, Professor Frank estimates that ninety per cent of the population permanently resident at Rome in the Imperial era was of foreign stock. It is not necessary to assume that one stock is superior to another. Certainly Romans of Asiatic origin had no tradition of self-government. Roman culture was foreign to them and to the large Greek element, and they had the cruel handicap of a slave background. In time they might have been assimilated. But time was lacking.

Rome was called the “inn of the world.” Cicero had spoken of the common people as “the cesspool of Romulus.” Juvenal added the equally bitter phrase: “the rabble of Remus,” and wrote that the waters of the Orontes, a river in Syria, had poured into the Tiber. We need not accept at face value the sweeping and contemptuous expressions of the Roman Four Hundred to realize the problem. Modern Marxist writers with no bourgeois prejudice refer to a large section of the Roman people as the “Lumpenproletariat,” a technical term defined as “that portion of the proletariat whose income, although of proletarian dimensions, is not the result of actual labour, but of charity and extortion.” It was a demoralized population.

In the later days of the Republic candidates for elective office had been compelled to cater to this moronic underworld. The great Marcus Tullius Cicero had a younger brother, Quintus Tullius Cicero. When Marcus was running for the consulship his brother Quintus evidently thought he was not a practical politician. Accordingly Quintus wrote a Handbook of Politics which embodies principles and practices that are familiar to every politician in America today.

Quintus analysed his brother’s situation as a candidate in an extremely modern way. Marcus was a small-town man who did not belong to the inner circle of the blue-blooded aristocrats and they resented his intrusion into politics. Quintus thought he might as well charge them off. But there were conservatives who did not belong to the old families. Marcus should set out to convince them that he shared their views, and while he was despised by the aristocrats, he was no left-winger. There were other large groups that he might win over. The Chamber of Commerce crowd could be counted on, for he was a member of it. As leader of the Roman bar he had had many clients who might be reminded of his services. Citizens in outlying communities could vote at the capital. No matter what the trouble and expense, Marcus had better make the circuit and shake hands with his country constituents. Of course he must not neglect the voters in Rome itself. He must go around and become acquainted with them. Every voter was entitled to the satisfaction of being personally solicited for his vote.

“One has great need,” Quintus wrote, “of a flattering manner, which, wrong and discreditable though it may be in other walks of life, is indispensable in seeking office.” He added this piece of practical advice: Marcus must not be overscrupulous. He must be lavish in his promises to people who asked him for favours that he could grant if elected. “Human nature being what it is,” said Quintus, “all men prefer a false promise to a flat refusal. At the worst the man to whom you have lied may be angry. That risk, if you make a promise, is uncertain and deferred, and it affects only a few. But if you refuse you are sure to offend many, and that at once.”

Quintus knew his brother’s scruples. He wrote that the rival candidates, of course, would resort to bribery. Marcus’s conscience and reputation would prevent his doing that. But there was another weapon that he hoped his brother would not be too pure to use, since it was customary in Roman campaigns. “Contrive, if possible,” he said, “to get some new scandal started against your rivals for crime or immorality or corruption, according to their characters.”

This last suggestion appealed to Marcus as quite practical. As his rival, Catiline, was resorting to bribery, Cicero came back at him in a speech in the Senate in which he charged him with murder, adultery, marriage with a daughter whom an adulterous mistress had borne him, attempted incest, and attempted massacre — in short, with every crime he could lay his sharp tongue to. As Catiline was regarded by all the best people as a Bolshevist, Cicero’s charges fell on hospitable ears and Catiline was defeated. Probably Cicero would have been surprised to know that his election charges would be taken seriously by posterity.

Large-scale bribery had become what a Missouri politician once called “a conventional crime.” At about this same time Julius Cæsar ran for the highest state religious office. When he kissed his mother good-bye on election morning, he told her he had spent so much money that if defeated he could not face either her or his creditors. He won. Successful candidates spent beyond their means to carry elections because they expected to recoup themselves later by plundering the provinces.

In general the people had become indifferent to politics. When Cicero said of the mass of the voters: “They demand nothing, they desire nothing,” he was speaking a devastating truth. Listlessness is fatal to self-government. Less than a century after the Republic had faded into the autocracy of the Empire, the people had lost all taste for democratic institutions. On the death of an emperor the Senate debated the question of restoring the Republic. But the commons preferred the rule of an extravagant despot who would continue the dole and furnish them free shows. The mob outside clamoured for “one ruler” of the world.

Augustus showed sympathy for the hard-working poor and those who were willing to work, and tried to improve their lot. But it was evidently impossible to build a decent and stable government on the votes of loafers who spent their time at the games. With a remarkable flair for political possibilities the new ruler worked out the famous Augustan compromise. Briefly, he restored the old Republican forms, with the Senate, popular Assembly, and magistrates. He accepted the consulship for a time, and the further power that had been won by the commons in the early days for their tribunes. He took the honorary title of “Princeps,” First Citizen. “Emperor” has become the more familiar title. Technically the system he established was a principate, not an empire, although “empire” is the word commonly used. It was an experiment in government that Augustus was beginning. If the Senate should develop the old capacity to govern he was willing to see it succeed. If it failed he was prepared to take full charge. He still commanded the army although he reorganized and handled it in such a way that except for one brief interval it did not menace the civil government for many years. In effect, the regime that he created was a far-reaching central authority with a large degree of municipal home rule.

The general plan was not new. Pompey had had a dream of working out the scheme and had reached a point where Cicero had written and spoken of him with the identical word, “Princeps,” that was applied to Augustus. But Pompey had not the ability nor the Senate the lessons of bitter experience to develop the plan on a workable basis. Julius Cæsar had discarded the idea and had taken a short cut to monarchy that had ended in disaster. In the new ruler the man, the time, and the place had come together.

Augustus needed the services of experienced senators and business men for local and provincial administrators. His policy was conciliatory. He abandoned, if he had ever cherished, the internationalism of Julius Cæsar in his political organization. So far as possible he provided the provinces good and honest government, and he extended to them the great Roman justice. But he did not offend the sensitive feelings of the Senate by bringing in outsiders. Instead he purged it of unworthy members and treated it with the deference of which his impetuous predecessor was incapable.

Perhaps he was going a little far when he wrote near the end of his life that he had “handed over the Republic to the control of the Senate and the people of Rome.” But certainly for the first half of his long reign the regime was a sort of partnership of Emperor and Senate, with the Emperor as senior partner. The Senate was given a free hand in running the dozen older provinces, while the Emperor took charge of organizing the turbulent frontier.

As the plan worked out, the government of the provinces was put on an efficient and substantial basis. A great tradition was established of competent and upright provincial Roman governors, which was respected even by unworthy emperors. The general authority over a province was in the governor’s hands. He was in charge of finances, public works, and civil and criminal jurisdiction. He supervised municipal administration. Finally, he was the chief military official of the district.

During the earlier part of the Augustan partnership the Republican forms were carefully observed. Some warm election contests are recorded. But Augustus increasingly had to draw on former magistrates for Empire service. This required him to take an interest in the selection of candidates. Gradually important departments of the government of the capital were turned over to the Imperial authority for more efficient operation. Before his death the Senate had become chiefly a consultative body. The real authority lay with the Emperor. Tacitus accurately described what happened when he wrote: “By degrees and almost imperceptibly he drew into his own hands the authority of the Senate, the functions of the magistrates, and the administration of the laws.” But the Senate remained a dignified chamber, linking the Empire to the Republic, and at intervals exercising many of its old powers. As for the Assembly, it continued to be in theory the fundamental authority of the state, although it became only a rubber stamp for the executive.

The successor of Augustus abolished most of its shadowy power. But it was still allowed to meet and ratify the choice of each succeeding emperor. The strength of Roman sentiment is shown in one practice that persisted for nearly a thousand years. In the earliest days of the Republic the Assembly was in the habit of meeting under an organization by “centuries,” as they were called. The centuries included all the men of military age. During their meeting a watch was maintained on the Janiculum hill, beyond the Tiber, to see that no enemies approached while the men were busy voting. A red military flag was displayed from the hill so long as all was well. If the enemy were seen the flag was lowered as a call to arms to the men in the Assembly. This custom lasted far into the Imperial period. “The stately forms of the Republic were preserved,” says Mr. Greenidge, “and when the Centuries assembled the red flag still flew from the Janiculum.” Modern England has the same liking for ancient forms. In the House of Commons today notice of adjournment is carried through the halls by the old cry of the policemen: “Who goes home?” In Washington adjournment is announced by an electric buzzer.

One deficiency, indeed, there was in the set-up arranged by Augustus. He saw no way to provide for the Imperial succession. Rome was still sensitive about forms. It was not ready for a king or a hereditary monarchy of any sort. Augustus had recognized this fact in refusing to become king or emperor and in calling himself merely “first citizen.” He always emphatically insisted that he had accepted no office that was “contrary to the usage of our forefathers,” and that it was only in his personal experience and dignity that he took precedence over his colleagues. Theoretically the succession was left to the free choice of the Senate and Assembly. In contrast to the British maxim that “the king never dies,” it has been said that the Roman principate died with the death of each princeps. Augustus met the difficulty by associating with him in the latter years of his reign his able stepson, Tiberius. At his death Tiberius was at once accepted as his successor by the Senate and Assembly. Sentiment was strongly attached to the family of Julius Cæsar and Augustus. Any noble who sought the highest office, as was theoretically possible, would have encountered the jealousy of his colleagues. So the succession continued in the Cæsarian line through Tiberius, an exceptional ruler, and the next three emperors, who were men of mediocre ability and distressing personal character. When the last of these, Nero, finally killed himself to avoid death in a revolt against his excesses, there followed the “year of the four emperors” when it was revealed that emperors could be made by the legions elsewhere than in Rome. Late in the century the Senate had its first free choice of an emperor and selected Nerva, one of its own number. Thereafter for nearly a century each emperor adopted an able man as his son and successor. But the system finally degenerated into a series of military dictatorships. The results indicate that even if Augustus had devised some method of succession it would have been wrecked eventually by the clashes of mutinous soldiers. It was not, however, until near the end of the third century, under Diocletian, that all democratic forms were discarded and the ruler emerged as an Oriental despot. The hazards in the Roman system are evidenced by the fact that the competent Tiberius was followed by three rulers who have been described as “a madman, a pedant, and a monster.” For intervals through a generation the Roman aristocracy lived under a Reign of Terror, although an efficient civil service carried on the business of the Empire, and probably life went on as usual with the mass of the people. The longest period in human history of an uninterrupted succession of benevolent and able dictators was the eighty-four years from the accession of Nerva, A.D. 96, to the death of Marcus Aurelius in 180. In this period of the “five good emperors” the Empire reached its zenith in extent and well-being.

What Augustus did was to establish autocracy under Republican forms. In time this paralysed the human spirit. But it is difficult to see what else he could have done in the conditions that faced him. The fatal failure had come unrecognized after the second great war with Carthage two centuries before. It was the failure of Republican statesmanship, and especially the failure of the people, leaders and masses alike, to realize and meet new responsibilities. An economist has written of the United States that if it had not been for the importation of a great mass of cheap labour in the second half of the nineteenth century, “we would have had fewer millionaires and no slums.” In Italy the same blindness to long-run welfare brought in cheap slave labour, increased the gulf between rich and poor, allowed the military to supersede the civil authorities, and helped create the situation that confronted Augustus. Perhaps the greatest evidence of the genius of the first Emperor is the fact that he so organized the government and made such a start on the Imperial civil service that the Empire was well managed even when incompetent and vicious men headed the state in Rome.