Book 3, Letter 2: to Tacitus, on peace

Book 3, Letter 2

To Tacitus, on peace

Dear Tacitus,

From Book IV, Section 32, of the Annals

“Much of what I have related and shall have to relate, may perhaps, I am aware, seem petty trifles to record. But no one must compare my annals with the writings of those who have described Rome in the old days. They told of great wars, of the storming of cities, of the defeat and capture of kings, or whenever they turned by preference to home affairs, they related, with a free scope for digression, the strife of consuls with tribunes, land and corn laws, and the struggle between the commons and the aristocracy.

My labours are circumscribed and inglorious; peace wholly unbroken or but slightly disturbed, dismal misery in the capital, an emperor careless about the enlargement of the empire, such is my theme. Still it will not be useless to study those at first sight trifling events out of which the movements of vast changes often take their rise.”

Tacitus, I write to you this letter in the first week of the year 2019 CE, living as I do in such unbroken peace as you mention. I worked in the morning from dawn until midday, I came home, ate my lunch, and played games with my children who, relaxing at home during the school holidays, spent their hours playing games alone or with each other, or drawing, or reading books. I got a lot of music practice done, I began writing two new songs, I read more of Cicero's letters, I read more of your Annals.

Is this the sort of inglorious peace you decry? Yamamoto Tsunetomo certainly had little love for peacetime society, and you, Tacitus, seem equally fond of military culture and the glory of the expanding empire. Yet, the more I read of the wars and strife of mankind, both now and in the past, the more I appreciate the shallow materialism and petty complaints of my peaceful nation. Christmas has come and gone and having had nothing more pressing to concern me than which toys to buy for my children, and where I would be having lunch on Christmas day, I loll about in bed all morning, writing letters, reading books, enjoying the bright beaming sunlight of this Australian summer. Politics in the Capital is surely miserable, but that is far away from my life.

Still, the dull peace you describe is fascinating to me. Your book is crammed with delicious details of Roman life and the consequences of legal issues and I have been surprised by my level of interest in these minutia of your era. I never thought that such details would hold my attention. Is it voyeurism? Is it taking sadistic, vicarious pleasure in the tribulations of others? I'm not sure, but I had to laugh (although I know that I shouldn't have), when I read the following:

Book IV Section 22, The Annals

“...Plautius Silvanus, the praetor, for unknown reasons, threw his wife Apronia out of a window. When summoned before the emperor by Lucius Apronius, his father-in-law, he replied incoherently, representing that he was in a sound sleep and consequently knew nothing, and that his wife had chosen to destroy herself. Without a moments delay Tiberius (the Emperor) went to the house and inspected the chamber, where were seen the marks of her struggling and forcible ejection. He reported this to the Senate, and as soon as judges had been appointed, Urgulania, the grandmother of Silvanus, send her grandson a dagger. This was thought equivalent to a hint from the emperor, because of the known intimacy between Augusta and Urgulania. The accused tried the steel in vain, and then allowed his veins to be opened. Shortly afterwards, Numantina, his former wife, was charged with having caused her husband's insanity by magical incantations and potions, but she was acquitted.”

There are a lot of accusations (usually levelled at women) of poisoning and sorcery in your writing, but my favourite account comes from the story of the fatal sickness and eventual death of Germanicus. The atmosphere of dark horror in the shadowy forests of Germany is tantalising, worthy of comparison with H.P Lovecraft.

Book II, Section 69

“The terrible intensity of the malady was increased by the belief that he (Germanicus) had been poisoned by Piso. And certainly there were found hidden in the floor and in the walls disinterred remains of human bodies, incantations and spells, and the name of Germanicus inscribed on leaden tablets, half-burnt cinders smeared with blood, and other horrors by which in popular belief souls are devoted to the infernal deities. Piso too was accused of sending emissaries to note curiously every unfavourable symptom of the illness.”

Tacitus, though you certainly know how to tell a good story, you do not stoop to take sides in this issue, but attempt to offer multiple perspectives, to tell the history of the events with as much objectivity as possible. You are interested in the truth, even though it is so often impossible to discern. You show this in your description of Germanicus' funeral, in section 73.

                                       Germanicus

“As to the body which, before it was burnt, lay bare in the forum at Antioch, its destined place of burial, it is doubtful whether it exhibited the marks of poisoning. For men according as they pitied Germanicus and were prepossessed with suspicion or were biased with partiality towards Piso, gave conflicting accounts.”

So, with tales of poisoning, black magic, murder, rebellious border tribes, espionage, corruption and now that I am reading about Sejanus, a story of an evil advisor to the Emperor Tiberius, this conflict filled inglorious peace you describe is absolutely fascinating and exciting to read. I take great pleasure not only in the accounts which you give of the important events of your time, but also in those moments of self reflection you allow yourself, and which give me a wonderful insight into your personality, which is a detail so often missing from the writings of other historians.

Book IV, Section 33

“So now, after a revolution, when Rome is nothing but the realm of a single despot, there must be good in carefully noting and recording this period, for it is but few who have the foresight to distinguish right from wrong or what is sound from what is hurtful, while most men have learned wisdom from the fortunes of others. Still, though this is instructive, it gives very little pleasure. Descriptions of countries, the various incidents of battles, glorious deaths of great generals, enchain and refresh a reader's mind. I have to present in succession the merciless biddings of a tyrant, incessant prosecutions, faithless friendships, the ruin of innocence, the same causes issuing in the same results and I am everywhere confronted by a wearisome monotony in my subject matter.”

I understand that for you, Tacitus, this era you describe is wearisome and monotonous, but for me your account of it is a thrilling and complex tale of politics and humanity, interspersed with culture and history and convoluted family sagas. From the luxuriant peace and beauty of my home, I can read your Annals and give thanks every day for the dullness of my own life, unhindered by despots, poisonings, black magic or rebellious tribes. I sit in bed writing letters, the summer sun beaming through the open windows, a cool breeze billowing the leaves of exotic ferns crowded on my front verandah.

This afternoon I will go to the Robin Hood Hotel in Strathalbyn, to see Jay Hoad play multicultural blues/rock music. I will drink Australian beer and stand in the company of local men and women who gather at the tavern to eat and drink and appreciate the glories of a Sunday afternoon in a country town in Australia.

Thank you Tacitus. Your book is a source of great pleasure and education, and while I do not think that anyone at the tavern today will have heard of your name, or know anything of the history you describe, they do know enough of life to value music, and friendships and good food and community. Simple pleasures, but really, the most important parts of a life well lived.

With Gratitude and Respect.

Morgan.

*

PS. I will give you a glimpse of the peaceful life I lead. Here is my description of the musician, Jay Hoad and the concert he gave.

The tavern courtyard, bright Sunday sunshine is warm on my skin, and the cold beer in my glass is dark as the shade of Peppercorn trees, of Eucalypts. In a cleared out hay shed the musician sits amidst a mad cluster of technology – some high power new magic with glowing lights, other musical instruments handmade from scrap...a three string cricket bat, a three string shovel, a four string cigar box. A burning sound, a searing rock and roll, a jump beat go-get-em kinda blues with roots in the living earth. People cluster in the shade, drinking, laughing, listening, listening talking talking. A man of many moons, a veteran by the look of his hat pins, dances with the kind of freedom we all want, yet I feel that we are all moved by the music to our communal purpose.

We are there, with the music, because of the music. We share it.

We cannot see it, cannot touch it, but it comes up through our feet and it comes in through our ears and sometimes for me it's like my bones are a xylophone, each note makes a part of me sing in harmony. Jay Hoad sings like he means it, like his life stories are worth telling, like the trade winds that steer the ship of his life are some kind of eternal spirit. A spirit that everyone in this sunlit courtyard responds to, connects with, and as the sun steers westward, and the blood in our veins begins to hum along, people come to dance in the shade. Their feet lift dust from the earth floor and my nostrils are filled with the dry red scent. People come to join the man who dances with the kind of freedom we all want to feel.

I speak with a Bulgarian father, and his two teenage sons, all three are avid fans of Jay's music, they point out Jay's father is in the crowd, a tall, slender septuagenarian whom they dub, the oldest keyboard player on earth, with good humour and affection. We talk about family, and music and we talk about history, about Australia, about the world.

The tavern courtyard, bright Sunday sunshine is warm on my skin, and the cold beer in my glass is dark as the shade of Peppercorn trees, Eucalypts and a cleaned out hay shed where a musician plays for us.