Savage Fashion: Animals and Attitude
in Ancient Rome
by Janeen Renaghan
On a narrow city street in ancient Rome, shopkeepers hawk blocks of meat and fragrant sausages. Pet dogs bark above the din of urban noise; horses haul away carts of refuse. At a crowded corner, a woman wrapped in a yellow tunic and cloak stops to watch a troupe of trained elephants bow to the commands of its master—movements of exotic beasts unlike any she has seen.
On the Esquiline Hill, an aristocrat strolls the grounds of his small private park, past a saltwater pond swimming with fish, an aviary teeming with blackbirds. He listens to the birds' songful chatter and contemplates building a dining area inside the aviary. The perfect place for guests to observe the birds as they eat, he thinks, as he walks toward a pair of gazelles.
In a warren of cages below the Colosseum, lions sleep. A keeper glances at the animals, wondering how long they will live; the great cats lost much of their strength during a long sea journey from Africa. In just a few days, 50,000 Roman citizens will fill the stands of the Colosseum to cheer as the half-starved beasts fight a pack of gladiators.
Animalia Romae. Whether on street corners, dinner plates, private grounds, or arena stages, animals were ubiquitous in ancient Roman life. Yet perhaps there is no better image of their integral and fabled role than in the story of the city's birth: Romulus and Remus suckling a she-wolf, gaining sustenance to grow and build the foundations of an empire that would become the center of the world 600 years later. The she-wolf is as much a symbol of the legendary founding of Rome in 753 B.C. as the orphaned brothers, and the array of animals in Rome—as entertainment or in menageries—represented the wealth and power of the city as its boundaries grew beyond the Palatine Hill. Art provides a vivid sampling of this millennia-old kingdom of beasts; yet in order to better appreciate the many animals immortalized in Roman sculpture, painting, mosaic, and metalwork, their place in the city must also be understood.
Although elephants imported from Africa were sometimes used in wars, they were considered exotic creatures and used mainly for public entertainment. As a majestic foreign beast, the elephant came to symbolize Roman expansion and overseas trade, often embodying Africa in Roman artwork. By the middle of the second century A.D., Rome had indeed proved its muscle and might: The Empire unified the Mediterranean, reaching into Europe, the Near East, and the northern tip of Africa. North Africa was especially fertile ground, both commercially and artistically. The hunting, capture, and transport of elephants and other animals in this region to Rome was a lucrative business that ultimately found expression in a series of 4th-century mosaics in Piazza Armerina, Sicily.
An artful ancestor of contemporary wall-to-wall carpeting, the well-preserved Armerina mosaics cover the floors of 46 rooms in a villa believed to have been owned by a businessman who furnished animals for display and slaughter in Roman arenas. The "Great Hunt" mosaic, located in the main corridor of the villa, is a visual documentation of animal-supply operations: mounted huntsmen, maimed animals, and Ark-like ships stacked with beasts in traveling crates. Elephants in particular suffered an early fate because trunks and legs themselves were often as profitable as the living animal. The southern portion of the "Great Hunt" mosaic pays homage to such remunerative trophies, depicting a seated woman holding an elephant tusk. Next to the woman are an African elephant, a tigress, and another tusk. The coveted tusks and the animals themselves symbolize commerce in Africa, as well as the burgeoning demand for African goods—including its wildlife—in Rome.
If elephants signified Roman imperialism, they were also reflective of the successes of Roman rulers. Lifting their trunks to the sun, the massive beasts represented light and victory, the triumphs of rulers such as Julius Caesar. In 46 B.C., after the defeat of rival Pompey in Greece and successful campaigns in Asia Minor and Egypt, Caesar held an elaborate triumph in which 40 trained elephants marched alongside him up the steps of the Capitol. Lighted torches burned brightly in the elephants' trunks, illuminating what ultimately would be the legendary dictator's last victory. Not surprisingly, Roman rulers often chose this pachydermal symbol of majestic light and omnipotence to appear on their coins.
The growing presence of elephants and other exotic animals in the Roman games parallels the expansion of Roman power. The games's origins may lie in early rural festivals honoring gods of the crop. Once adopted in the cities, however, these games—or ludi—were held to mark notable events, ultimately serving emperors's political whims and accomplishments. Games became ways for leaders to distinguish and amuse themselves, exalt the empire, and entertain the Roman people. By the second century A.D., at least 100 games took place annually, some lasting weeks at a time. The programs ranged from the macabre to the comic: chariot races, wild animal hunts, gladiatorial combats, musicals, dramatic theater, and vaudeville.
Chariot races and animal events were held at the Circus Maximus, an immense oblong bowl seating 150,000 people, that in one form or another has been a Roman landmark since the second century B.C. In the chariot races, horses pulled carriages in teams of four around seven laps of the track, or about five miles. Each wheel-to-wheel, hoof-to-hoof race took its toll on the carefully bred beasts—a blow of a whip or a fall on the hard track surface could blind or cripple a racing horse. Unlike horses, the savage beasts featured in other animal events were prey, not pedigree. Rhinoceros, buffalo, lions, bears, and other unfortunate quadrupeds fought to the death in the Circus; in the staged wild-animal hunts called venationes, animals were slaughtered by men wielding knifes and spears. After the time of Nero (A.D. 54-68), the venationes were moved to the Colosseum, a circular amphitheater inaugurated by Emperor Titus in A.D. 80, where the grisly spectacles continued to titillate the public.
Gladiatorial shows were also performed in the Colosseum. As many as 50,000 Romans would watch trained gladiators—who were generally slaves or criminals—fight one other or beasts kept half-starved in cages below ground. Combat was bloody and usually merciless. (Spectators were kept safe from the frenzied, ravenous animals by barriers that made the seating area impervious.) The games were enormously popular, and the Roman public demanded its entertainment with zeal. Outside the arena on the city streets, elephants and other exotic creatures were often used in street-troupe acts. Roman citizens, perhaps seeing the animals for the first time on these makeshift stages, became eager for more elaborate shows inside the amphitheater. The Roman poet and satirist Juvenal once groused that "panem et circenses"—bread and circuses—were all the gluttonous Roman public desired. When it came to the games, the emperors fed them well.
Emperors imported animals from all over the world at great expense in order to make the games as curious as possible. Although elephants sometimes fought bulls—or one another—in the arenas, they were also used as comic relief, their ponderous bodies the punch-line of numerous anthropomorphic skits. In his Natural History, Pliny the Elder describes a gladiatorial show given by Augustus in A.D. 12 during which elephants performed clumsy dance-like movements, tossed weapons in the air, and even walked across tightropes—four at a time. Crowds roared when the animals pretended to be guests at a dinner party, taking their places next to humans at a table in the arena, or when they donned dresses and—as mammalian forerunners of the Rockettes—stomped in a line.
Bears were also used in contrasting roles. In public shows, they too were hunted, killed, exhibited, or trained for comical purposes. And because bears were found in Italy and Greece—as well as imported from Spain, Persia, and Africa—there was never a shortage of the species in the arena. Trainers dressed the heavy, hirsute creatures in silly costumes, taught them to mime, and guided them across horizontal bars in balancing acts. Subservience was ensured with a harness.
Some bears were anything but tame in the arena, however. Roman emperors often sentenced serious criminals to fatal encounters with the beasts in the Colosseum--an ancient "death sentence" swifter and more savage than our own. The criminal met his fate in the context of an elaborate play; instead of a happy ending, though, the main character of the production—the convict—was mauled by the bear. Such gory dramas were common at the program Emperor Titus arranged to dedicate the Colosseum in A.D. 80. That lavish show, which even included a naval battle in the flooded amphitheater, lasted 100 days. Throughout the festivities more than 10,000 prisoners and 9,000 animals were slaughtered.
Revered for its ferocity, the lion was also extremely popular in venationes and gladiatorial shows. While dictator, Caesar used a staggering 400 lions (imported primarily from North Africa and Syria) in the Circus, the foreignness of the animal lending his shows added panache. Savage images of the lion were not exclusive to the arena, however. Sculptures of lions devouring prey were often used on sepulchers as symbols of the voraciousness of death.
Despite this barbarous reputation, felines were also recognized in ancient lore for their gentleness. In his Natural History, Pliny recalls a story about a distressed panther that beckoned a man, by rolling over on her back, to rescue her cubs from a pit. The panther then guided the man to the litter by softly touching his clothes, and apparently expressed gratitude when they were returned safely. Such feline affection is also visible in Roman art. The marble relief of a lioness crouching in a cave with her two hungry cubs from the Deutches Archaologisches Institut in Rome is an excellent image of a lion carefully observed in a natural setting. Its details suggest an objective interest in nature and an engagement with animals outside of the arena, undisturbed by civilization.
The "gentle" lion was also made a pet in the homes of some adventurous emperors. The Augustan History claims that Emperor Elagabalus (A.D. 218 to 222) kept clawless, toothless lions in his quarters. The animals made alarming appearances at dinner parties and, in the middle of the night, often wandered into the rooms of sleeping guests—some of whom literally died with fright upon awakening.
Although the Romans amassed great exhibitions of animals, they were hardly the first people to do so. Large and varied zoological collections were on display as early as the third century B.C. Ptolemy II, ruler of Egypt between 283 and 246 B.C., possessed wealth, power, and an interest in natural history—everything needed to assemble one of the most awesome menageries of the ancient world. The king is perhaps best known for a great procession in honor of the god Dionysus in 279 B.C. that, by virtue of its size and diverse assembly of animals, could alone have populated several modern zoos. Thousands of exotic creatures marched through the stadium in Alexandria, including 2,000 golden-horned bulls; eight pairs of ostriches; 200 Arabian sheep; 16 cheetahs; 24 lions; seven pairs of oryxes; 23,200 horses; one large, white bear; one giraffe (according to Pliny, the rare giraffe was known as a "camelopard" in the ancient world because of its camel-like head, ruddy color, and leopard-spotted coat); countless cages of parrots and peacocks; and 150 men carrying trees with birds perched among their branches.
Illustrating this royal fascination with animals is the second century Nile Mosaic—a transcription, many believe, of a Ptolemaic painting. Myriad species are detailed and named, and the meticulous execution of everything from crocodiles and camels to hippopotami and lions suggests more than just a passing interest in zoology. Hunters are also depicted exploring the upper Nile in search of unusual creatures to bring back to Alexandria, perhaps to add to a royal collection. Owning animals bolstered a leader's image, proving his power and influence (not unlike the way President Clinton's dog, Buddy, ostensibly validates his humanity). And in the Egyptian king's case, the stranger the beasts, the greater the ruler. Ptolemy II's august procession no doubt also inspired future spectacles in Rome--his vast royal collection a precursor to Roman menageries as well as modern zoos.
Romans found animals just as intriguing as did the Egyptians, and by the first century B.C. private menageries on the estates of the wealthy were prevalent, even fashionable. Aviaries, fishponds, and small parks abounding with wild animals became almost as common as swimming pools are today. A man named Q. Fulvius Lippinus may have been the first Roman to establish such a preserve. According to Pliny, shortly before 50 B.C. he built a 27-acre enclosure with boars, stags, and wild sheep—a park soon widely imitated by his affluent neighbors. Unspectacular animals such as hare and deer were gradually eclipsed by more exotic species; bears, lions, and even giraffe became staples of impressively stocked menageries. The size of enclosures varied greatly: Some—at as much as 34 acres—did more than just "keep up with the Lippinuses"; others were smaller, facilitating owners's access to the animals for viewing and shooting.
Yet observation and sport were just two of the reasons for which Romans built enclosures. Ostriches, for example, were thought to be kept in imperial aviaries, and the Augustan History claims that Emperor Elagabalus gave them and other creatures away as lottery prizes at his banquets. Guests's winnings were inscribed on spoons, the prizes ranging from the extravagant ("ten ostriches") to the comical ("ten flies"). Animals kept in private menageries were also killed for food. Elagabalus is said to have served an astonishing 600 ostrich heads at one of his banquets, the brain being quite a delicacy.
In addition to parks of wild animals, well-to-do Romans built elaborate saltwater ponds—oases within the menageries—crowded with sea fish such as bass and turbot. Fish were often treated more as pets than as seafood, and Roman literature is rife with references to the deep-sea beloved. Some owners even coddled fish like dolls and adorned them with necklaces and earrings as a sign of affection. Fishponds were so faddishly adopted, in fact, that non-aristocrats soon began to build less-expensive freshwater versions. The popularity of fish is also visible out of water, as the subject of numerous floor-mosaics in baths, fountains, and pools across Rome. The earliest of these aquatic-themed mosaics (that is, those completed before the middle of the second century A.D.) are particularly notable for their realism. Fish were rendered with a zoological fastidiousness that allowed viewers to identify a wide range of species. As a fitting end to the intimate relationship between Romans and denizens of the deep, loving owners could take images of fish with them even in death: Reliefs of fish frequently appear in Roman funerary art as symbols of immortality.
Aviaries were equally lavish enclosures, often containing a wide variety of species behind netting. Some aviaries even boasted duck and fishponds within their confines as well as dining areas where guests could enjoy the ornithological atmosphere over a meal—perhaps the predecessor to today's zoo snack bar. Songbirds—blackbirds and nightingales in particular—were popular for their melodies. And like their underwater neighbors, songsters were doted on and kept as pets. It was not uncommon to pay exorbitant sums for a rare songster—sometimes even more than the cost of a slave. Upon the death of a favorite bird, many owners even requested to be buried on top of its ashes. The many sensitive, naturalistic Roman mosaics and carvings of birds tending to their offspring in many ways mirror the care and affection devoted owners bestowed on them. Families of birds appear in relief on funerary altars and pavements, feeding and sheltering hungry nestlings just as Roman owners tended to their feathered loved ones.
The detail of these pieces—expansive wings, grooved nests, and taut beaks—suggests an appreciation for animals that, in many ways, lies at the heart of Roman menageries and Roman artwork. Artists translated the animated lines and shapes of the natural world into scenes both static and emotive, symbolic and lifelike, macabre and quaint. The eclectic roles animals had in Roman art hints at the complex, even contradictory views that the society held about animals themselves. Perhaps even as one Roman lustily cheered on the bloody venationes, another serenely walked the grounds of a private park, relishing the sublimity of a sunbathing lion or trilling bird.
Janeen Renanghan's last article for ZooGoer was about cave art.
(ZooGoer 27(4) 1998. Copyright 1998 Friends of the National Zoo. All rights reserved.)
