Past Perfect: Among the Vulgarians

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The author of the Satyricon, one of the greatest satires in Western literature, is known to us simply as Petronius (c. 27–66 A.D.). He was probably—but not certainly—the historical figure Gaius Petronius Niger, a member of Emperor Nero’s court who served as governor of Bithynia (in present-day Turkey) in 62 A.D. The next year Nero appointed Gaius Petronius Niger as his arbiter elegantiarum, or adviser on good taste. According to the Roman historian Tacitus, “The emperor thought nothing charming or elegant in luxury unless Petronius had expressed his approval.” In 66 A.D., Petronius, having been falsely implicated in a plot against Nero, took his own life. “He did not fling away life with precipitate haste,” writes Tacitus, “but having made an incision in his veins, and then, according to his humour, bound them up, he again opened them, while he conversed with his friends … He dined [and] indulged himself in sleep.” In the following excerpt from the Satyricon (courtesy of Penguin Books [London, 1986], translation by J.P. Sullivan), Petronius pokes fun at the debauchery of Nero’s Rome—as a freed slave named Trimalchio, now worth millions, entertains the narrator and other guests at a lavish and bizarre banquet.

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At the entrance stood the hall-porter, dressed in a green uniform with a belt of cherry red. He was shelling peas into a silver basin. Over the doorway hung—of all things—a golden cage from which a spotted magpie greeted visitors.

As I was gaping at all this, I almost fell over backwards and broke a leg. There, on the left as one entered, not far from the porter’s cubbyhole, was a huge dog with a chain round its neck. It was painted on the wall and over it, in big capitals, was written:

BEWARE OF THE DOG

My colleagues laughed at me, but when I got my breath back I went on to examine the whole wall. There was a mural of a slave market, price tags and all. Then Trimalchio himself [was depicted] holding a wand of Mercury and being led into Rome by Minerva. After this a picture of how he learned accounting, and finally, how he became a steward …

[We entered the dining room and] took our places. Boys from Alexandria poured iced water over our hands. Others followed them and attended to our feet, removing any hangnails with great skill. But they were not quiet even during this troublesome operation: they sang away at their work. I wanted to find out if the whole staff were singers, so I asked for a drink. In a flash a boy was there, singing in a shrill voice while he attended to me—and anyone else who was asked for something did the same. It was more like a musical comedy than a respectable dinner party.

Some extremely elegant hors d’oeuvres were served at this point—by now everyone had taken his place with the exception of Trimalchio … The dishes for the first course included [a serving piece shaped like an] ass [made] of Corinthian bronze with two panniers, white olives on one side and black on the other. Over the ass were two pieces of plate, with Trimalchio’s name and the weight of the silver inscribed on the rims. There were 040some small iron frames shaped like bridges supporting dormice sprinkled with honey and poppy seed. There were steaming hot sausages too, on a silver gridiron with damsons [plums] and pomegranate seeds underneath.^a

We were in the middle of these elegant dishes when Trimalchio himself was carried in to the sound of music and sat down on a pile of tightly stuffed cushions. The sight of him drew an astonished laugh from the guests. His cropped head stuck out from a scarlet coat; his neck was well muffled up and he had put round it a napkin with a broad purple stripe and tassels dangling here and there.^b On the little finger of his left hand he wore a heavy gilt ring and a smaller one on the last joint of the next finger. This I thought was solid gold, but actually it was studded with little iron stars. And to show off even more of his jewellery, he had his right arm bare and set off by a gold armlet and an ivory circlet fastened with a gleaming metal plate.

After picking his teeth with a silver toothpick, he began: “My friends, I wasn’t keen to come into the dining-room yet. But if I stayed away any more, I would have kept you back, so I’ve deprived myself of all my little pleasures for you. However, you’ll allow me to finish my game.”

A boy was at his heels with a board of terebinth wood with glass squares, and I noticed the very last word in luxury—instead of white and black pieces he had gold and silver coins. While he was swearing away like a trooper over his game and we were still on the hors 041d’oeuvres, a tray was brought in with a basket on it. There sat a wooden hen, its wings spread round it in the way hens are when they are broody. Two slaves hurried up and as the orchestra played a tune they began searching through the straw and dug out peahens’ eggs, which they distributed to the guests.

Trimalchio turned to look at this little scene and said: “My friends, I gave orders for that bird to sit on some peahens’ eggs. I hope to goodness they are not starting to hatch. However, let’s try them and see if they are still soft.”

We took up our spoons (weighing at least half a pound each) and cracked the eggs, which were made of rich pastry. To tell the truth, I nearly threw away my share, as the chicken seemed already formed. But I heard a guest who was an old hand say: “There should be something good here.” So I searched the shell with my fingers and found the plumpest little figpecker [a warbler that feeds on figs], all covered with yolk and seasoned with pepper.

At this point Trimalchio became tired of his game and demanded that all the previous dishes be brought to him. He gave permission in a loud voice for any of us to have another glass of mead if we wanted it. Suddenly there was a crash from the orchestra and a troop of waiters—still singing—snatched away the hors d’oeuvres. However in the confusion one of the side-dishes happened to fall and a slave picked it up from the floor. Trimalchio noticed this, had the boy’s ears boxed and told him to throw it down again. A cleaner came in with a broom and began to sweep up the silver plate along with the rest of the rubbish. Two long-haired Ethiopians followed him, carrying small skin bags like those used by the men who scatter the sand in the amphitheatre, and they poured wine over our hands—no one ever offered us water.

Our host was complimented on these elegant arrangements. “Mars loves a fair fight,” he replied. “That is why I gave orders for each guest to have his own table. At the same time these smelly slaves won’t crowd so.”

Carefully sealed wine bottles were immediately brought, their necks labeled:

FALERNIAN
CONSUL OPIMIUS
ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD

While we were examining the labels, Trimalchio clapped his hands and said with a sigh:

“Wine has a longer life than us poor folks. So let’s wet our whistles. Wine is life. I’m giving you real Opimian. I didn’t put out such good stuff yesterday, though the company was much better class …

“My dear people,” he said, “slaves are human beings too. They drink the same milk as anybody else, even though luck’s been agin ’em.^c Still, if nothing happens to me, they’ll have their taste of freedom soon. In fact, I’m setting them all free in my will. I’m giving Philargyrus a farm, what’s more, and the woman he lives with. As for Cario, I’m leaving him a block of flats, his five percent manumission tax, and a bed with all the trimmings. I’m making Fortunata [his wife] my heir, and I want all my friends to look after her.

“The reason I’m telling everyone all this is so my household will love me now as much as if I were dead … I’ll put one of my freedmen in charge of my monument. I’d like you to put some ships there too, sailing under full canvas, and me sitting on a high platform in my robes of office, wearing five gold rings and pouring out a bagful of money for the people. You know I gave them all a dinner and two dinarii apiece. Let’s have in a banqueting hall as well, if you think it’s a good idea, and show the whole town having a good time. Put up a statue of Fortunata on my right, holding a dove, and have her leading her little dog tied to her belt—and my little lad as well, and big wine-jars tightly sealed up so the wine won’t spill. And perhaps you could carve me a broken one and a boy crying over it. A clock in the middle, so that anybody who looks at the time, like it or not, has got to read my name. As for the inscription now, take a good look and see if this seems suitable enough:

HERE SLEEPS
GAIUS POMPEIUS TRIMALCHIO
MAECENTATIANUS
ELECTED TO THE AUGUSTAN COLLEGE IN HIS ABSENCE
HE COULD HAVE BEEN ON EVERY BOARD IN ROME
BUT HE REFUSED
GOD-FEARING BRAVE AND TRUE
A SELF-MADE MAN
HE LEFT AN ESTATE OF 30,000,000
AND HE NEVER HEARD A PHILOSOPHER
FAREWELL
AND YOU FARE WELL, TRIMALCHIO

The author of the Satyricon, one of the greatest satires in Western literature, is known to us simply as Petronius (c. 27–66 A.D.). He was probably—but not certainly—the historical figure Gaius Petronius Niger, a member of Emperor Nero’s court who served as governor of Bithynia (in present-day Turkey) in 62 A.D. The next year Nero appointed Gaius Petronius Niger as his arbiter elegantiarum, or adviser on good taste. According to the Roman historian Tacitus, “The emperor thought nothing charming or elegant in luxury unless Petronius had expressed his approval.” In 66 A.D., Petronius, having been falsely implicated in a […]