Roman Civilization

CMS 206 /History 206

Not because, Maecenas, of all the Lydians who

colonized Etruscan lands, none was nobler than you;

Nor because your mother's ancestors and your father's ancestors

long ago commanded great legions,

do you sneer, as most would, at ordinary men

or even a man, like me,

a freedman's son.

When you say it doesn't matter who a man's parents may be,

as long as himself is a gentleman,

you have no doubt at all that

before the reign of Tullius and his unremarkable rule,

often many men, born with no great ancestors,

both lived honorable lives and were made great

by the ample honors they attained.

On the other hand,

when the people voted,

they didn't give two cents that

Laevinus was from the family of Valerius,

from whom Tarquin the Proud fled,

when he was driven from the throne.

You know them, the people,

who, fools that they are,

often give offices to unworthy men,

and, idiots that they are,

fawn on the famous,

gawk at their inscriptions and

family busts.

How should we,

who live a long, long way from the mob,

act?

Granted, the people would prefer to elect

Laevinus before the new man, Decius,

and Appius the Censor

would have disbarred me from the race

if my father hadn't been a citizen.

And he would have been right to -

if I didn't know my place

Still, the Goddess, Glory,

drags the ordinary,

no less than the elite,

bound and gagged,

behind her gleaming chariot.

What good did it do you, Tillius,

to put on the senatorial toga you had retired

and become a tribune?

Envy, which would have been less

if you had stayed a private citizen,

increased.

For when any fool wraps the black straps round his calf

and lowers the broad stripe over his chest,

straight off he hears, "who is this guy? Who was his father?"

(Anyone who has Barrus' disease

and longs to be thought a stud,

wherever he goes, he incites the

interest of the girls. They have to know every detail:

"What sort of face, legs, what sort of feet, teeth, hair

does he have?")

Thus, the man who promises that he

will look after the citizens and city,

the Empire and Italy, the shrines of the gods,

he compells every one to look up and ask,

"Who's his father? Is his mother's blood good enough?

Do you, son of Syrus or Dama or Dionysius, dare

to hurl citizens from the rock, and hand them over to Cadmus?"

"But my colleague Newman - he sits the row behind me,

he's now what my father was!"

"Do you think you're a Paulus or a Messella

because of this?

Look, if 200 hundred carts ran into

three great funerals in the forum,

he'd be heard over the horns -

hell, he'd drown out trumpets -

at least we'll grant you that."

But I'll talk about myself again,

the freedman's son.

whom everyone carps about,

the freedman's son.

Now, Maecenas, because I'm your friend;

before, because a Roman legion obeyed me

when I was a tribune.

The one complaint is not at all like the other.

Because, even if someone would rightly quarrel with my commission,

he shouldn't complain that you're my friend -

especially since you're so careful to choose worthy friends

and keep your distance from depraved ambition.

I couldn't say that this was my good luck, that I won

your friendship in the lottery.

For no mere happenstance brought you

into my life.

First Virgil, the best of men, after him, Varro

told you what I was.

When we met, I stuttered out a few words,

a schoolboy, for modesty forbade me to say much.

I don't talk about my famous father.

I don't boast that I ride about my estates

on an Apulian steed.

But what I am, I say. You answer,

like you always do, with  few words.

I go away.

You call me back after ninth months and

welcome me into the circle of your friends.

This is important to me - that you chose me,

you, who distinguish between the decent

and the not;

not because I had a famous father,

but because I was a good man who lived

a good life.

Although , if my nature is decent enough,

a few frailities but otherwise ok,

(just as one notes a few moles on a handsome body)

and if no one can fairly complain that

I am a liar, a lowlife, a playboy,

If, honest and innocent, I can

brag about myself a bit,

If my friends love me -

I have my father to thank for this.

A poor man, with hardly more

than a garden plot, he did not want

to send me to Flavius' school,

where the sons of the local yokels went,

schoolbags hanging from their arms,

carrying the two-bit tuition every Ides.

His son, he dared to take to Rome for schooling

in the ways which any knight or senator

would have his son taught.

My clothes, the train of servants,

(it's how the city folk go about)

if anyone had seen me, he would have believed

they were furnished to me

from the family fortune.

He himself played the part of guardian,

absolutely incorruptible,

he accompanied me to all my classes.

What more is there to say?

My purity of heart, the root of

virtue, he preserved - not only from misbehavior,

but also from the appearance of impropriety

He didn't care if later someone would object

that I had become an auctioneer, or an agent,

as he was, chasing paultry profits.

Nor would I have complained. But seeing where

I've come, I owe him even greater praise.

I'd be an idiot to complain about a father like that.

And I won't make excuses, like so many people who say

It isn't their fault that they don't have noble, famous folks.

In word and thought, I'll keep myself far from them.

For if nature commanded us at a certain age,

to rewalk the paths of the lives we'd lived,

and choose other parents, appropriate to our

accomplishments,

I'd be happy with my own,

and would not choose

for myself a father honored with elective office.

People would think I was nuts, but

you might think me wise

not to wish to carry an unaccustomed,

bothersome burden.

Right away I'd have to get a larger place,

and greet more clients; a friend or two would

have to come along with me, lest I journey or

take a country holiday alone.

Gofers and hacks would have to be fed,

I'd have to take a whole baggae train.

Now it's ok if I want, to go as far as Tarentum

on a gelded mule, it's limbs sore from the

saddle pack, it flanks from the rider.

No one complains that I'm travelling cheap,

as they do about you, Tillius,

when five slaves follow Your Praetorship

on the Tiburtian road, carrying the

portapotty and the wine cask.

In this, I live an easier life than you,

o Famous Senator, and in a thousand other ways.

I wander where my whimsey leads me.

I ask the vendors the price of greens and grain.

Often at twilight I roam the conniving Circus

and forum and hangout with the fortune tellers.

Then, I head home, to a bowl of leeks and

chickpeas and crackers.

The meal's served by three slaves. A white platter

holds a cup and two jiggers. A cheap bowl, a flask

with a saucer, Campanian tableware, stands beside.

Then off to bed. No worries that tomorrow I have

to be up at dawn, facing Marsya in court, who

swears he can't stand the sight of Newman's son.

I sleep till the fourth hour. After this I wander or

I read or write somthing for my own amusement,

and get a massage (but not like that nasty Natta

with oil stolen from street lights).

When the warming sun advises poor tired me

to go to the baths, I flee the Campus and ball games.

I lunch, not heavily - enough to avoid enduring the day

on an empty stomach. Then I laze about the house.

This is my life, unencumberd

by wretched and weighty ambition.

I console myself with the thought that I'll live

more pleasantly than if

my grandfather, father and uncle had been

Quaestors.