Rem publicam, Quirites, uitamque omnium uestrum, bona, fortunas, coniuges liberosque uestros atque hoc domicilium clarissimi imperi, fortunatissimam pulcherrimamque urbem, hodierno die deorum immortalium summo erga uos amore, laboribus, consiliis, periculis meis e flamma atque ferro ac paene ex faucibus fati ereptam et uobis conseruatam ac restitutam uidetis. et si non minus nobis iucundi atque illustres sunt ii dies quibus conseruamur quam illi quibus nascimur, quod salutis certa laetitia est, nascendi incerta condicio et quod sine sensu nascimur, cum uoluptate seruamur, profecto quoniam illum qui hanc urbem condidit ad deos immortales beneuolentia famaque sustulimus, esse apud uos posterosque uestros in honore debebit is qui eandem hanc urbem conditam amplificatamque seruauit. nam toti urbi, templis, delubris, tectis ac moenibus subiectos prope iam ignes circumdatosque restinximus, idemque gladios in rem publicam destrictos rettudimus mucronesque eorum a iugulis uestris deiecimus. quae quoniam in senatu illustrata, patefacta, comperta sunt per me, uobis iam exponam breuiter, Quirites, ut et quanta et quam manifesta et qua ratione inuestigata et comprehensa sint uos qui et ignoratis et exspectatis scire possitis.

Principio ut Catilina paucis ante diebus erupit ex urbe, cum sceleris sui socios, huiusce nefarii belli acerrimos duces, Romae reliquisset, semper uigilaui et prouidi, Quirites, quem ad modum in tantis et tam absconditis insidiis salui esse possemus. nam tum cum ex urbe Catilinam eiciebam (non enim iam uereor huius uerbi inuidiam, cum illa magis sit timenda, quod uiuus exierit), sed tum cum illum exterminari uolebam, aut reliquam coniuratorum manum simul exituram aut eos qui restitis-sent infirmos sine illo ac debiles fore putabam.

A dog's life, snappish talk, the ravenous mouth: these rude images cluster in the language of insult from early on in Greek poetry, often crystallizing in the form of curses such as this one. While the features of iambic literature clearly developed piecemeal, disparate settings for poetic performance offer strikingly similar figurative language to capture the speaking styles and characterizations of both those who deploy insults and their targets. In the broadest sense, this abusive talk runs the gamut from invective and character assassination on the one hand, to mockery and lampoon on the other; that is to say, some modes are quite vitriolic, others more droll. The genres in which such abuse appears reflect this diversity. Indeed, I would submit that abusive modes shadow many, if not most, genres, often functioning in irreverent, devious, or sinister contrast to the perspectives openly valued by the given text.

To produce a new commented edition of Cicero's Catilinarians may seem like a woefully unoriginal, if not altogether superfluous undertaking. There are, of course, various commentaries, mostly of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century vintage, intended to introduce this corpus to school children. But in the latter half of the twentieth century interest in producing such works tapered off as the traditional classical curriculum came under fire and lists of set books were altered in the hope of reinvigorating the subject. In addition, the palpable decline of oratory in the political life of the Western democracies made C.'s products seem less relevant to contemporary concerns. Last, but not least, the negative assessment of C. by W. Drumann and T. Mommsen has often colored the judgment of subsequent historians of antiquity and thus fed a neglect of, if not outright hostility to, C. and his work.

The fact that his place in the curriculum can no longer be taken for granted may prompt some salutary reflection on C. and his educational uses. Blind hero-worship is clearly inappropriate, as Petrarch already realized upon discovery of C.'s letters. But the fact that C., too, was human makes him more, not less interesting. His creation of a distinctive and powerful prose style exploiting to the full the resources and registers of the Latin of his day commands, or should command, admiration in an age when language and style tend to be handled carelessly.

CATILINE'S CAREER DOWN TO 63

For most of his life, Lucius Sergius Catilina, or Catiline, as he has come to be known in English, looked like anything but a revolutionary. He was the scion of an old patrician family, the gens Sergia, which gave its name to one of the Roman tribes; and Virgil glorified, if he did not invent altogether, an eponymous ancestor, Sergestus, as one of the Trojan heroes who migrated to Italy with Aeneas (Aen. 5.121). Even his adversary C. was able, in the very different context of a lawcourt speech, to express a certain appreciation for the attractive features of Catiline's many-faceted personality (Cael. 12–14).

Catiline's great-grandfather, M. Sergius Silus, had distinguished himself in the Hannibalic War (without, however, rising above praetorian rank). As praetor of the year 68, Catiline must have been born by 108 (or 106 on the assumption that patricians had the option of presenting themselves two years early). He substituted an individual cognomen for the inherited Silus but followed the family tradition of military service. The beginnings of his military career are lost unless he is to be identified with the L. Sergius L.f. attested as a member of the consilium of the consul Cn. Pompeius Strabo in 89 during the Social War.

If in classical Athens abusive talk centering on the mouth usually targets politicians and intellectuals, Theophrastus' character sketches are something of a departure. A famously prolific student of Aristotle, Theophrastus wrote treatises on nature and human behavior as well as on aspects of public speaking. He probably composed the sketches between 330 and 320, while he was studying at Aristotle's Lyceum; although commentators are eager to point to Aristotelian influence, Characters more obviously reflects a shift toward the comically pedestrian that is especially evident in Demosthenes' final portrait of Aeschines (in On the Crown, 330) as well as a number of speeches from this period by other orators. While these portraits depict the mouths of average citizens as laughably grotesque apertures whose owners gabble and whine, or stuff food and money indiscriminately into their busy maws, they share features with contemporaneous speeches and iambic discourse more generally. Indeed, the sketches operate within a familiar ethical framework and draw familiar connections among the various immoderate behaviors that converge around the mouth. But they also extend the imagery discussed in this study in a new direction, fleshing out the broader categories that distinguish public figures with the details of life in downtown Athens.

In the Odyssey, the Cyclops consumes his meat raw. One of the more gruesome moments in book 9 occurs when the monster snatches up two of Odysseus' men, dashes their heads so that their brains run on the ground (ἐκ δ᾿ ἐγκέΦαλος χαμάδις ῥέε, 9.290), and gobbles them up like a mountain lion, bones and all (ἔγκατα τε σάρκας τε καὶ ὀστέα μυελόεντα, 9.293). Polyphemus is not, however, ignorant of wine (9.357–58), in sharp contrast to his rudimentary culinary techniques; as I discuss further below, in Euripides' play this ignorance coexists rather oddly with his fancy cookery. Nor does the Homeric poet depict the Cyclops as especially verbally adept, although he does show some wit (e.g., 9.369–70). Euripides' sophistic gourmet is thus something of innovation, at least in relation to the Homeric figure.

Comic fragments do indicate that poets were elaborating on some similar themes; and it is there that we find a developing model for the sophist-chef in Euripides' play. Commentators have argued over the extent to which the persona of the monster is intended to represent a particular brand of sophistic argumentation, some finding him not very clever at all. No one, however, has considered the relationship between how he eats and how he talks, in contradistinction to Odysseus and Silenus, the other main characters in the drama. Nor have they recognized sufficiently the significance of his resemblance to the comic mageiros, who in turn becomes a sophistic type in fourth-century comedy.

What is striking when reading the ancient texts is that their writers considered the damage of slave revolts to be much greater than scholars do with hindsight. In their analyses of the fall of the Republic, the great slave wars were integral to the story. This is not the case in modern books, and indeed the difference between the ancient and modern viewpoints seems to be becoming even more marked. Yet it appeals to common sense that slaves were potentially an enormous threat to the authorities in both Greece and Rome.

Finley observes: “I should say that there was no action or belief or institution in the Graeco-Roman antiquity that was not one way or other affected by the possibility that someone involved might be a slave”. The first sentence of the section on slave resistance in The Slavery Reader is: “The history of slave resistance is the story of slavery itself”. Taken together, one can see that if these two propositions have some truth, then the topic of slave revolts is a vital aspect of the study of antiquity. Yet although much has been written on Greek and Roman slavery, the same cannot be said for slave resistance in this period. One reasonable response might be that our sources are inadequate, but this difficulty has been, if not overcome, then courageously addressed by armies of scholars in respect of other aspects of slavery.

The helots of Sparta were remarkably successful in their revolts and are famous for their willingness to take action against their masters, as has been noted in the course of this book. For that reason alone, they merit some attention. It is also worth noting the special circumstances of their condition, which aided their rebellious activities. For some historians the helots are not to be classified as slaves and hence their results cannot be termed slave revolts. That they were not slaves is indicated by the fact that they are generally referred to as “helots”. This was not always the case, however. For example, when Athenaeus quotes Theopompus, again with reference to the Chians, he writes: “The Chians were the first Greeks, after the Thessalians and Lacedaimonians, to use slaves, but they did not acquire them in the same way”. Theopompus viewed helots as slaves, but as slaves that were acquired differently from those in most other Greek cities. The circumstances of the workforce in Sparta were indeed not identical to those in many classical Greek cities, and were certainly different from those in Athens.

There is a curious passage in Pollux of Naucratis's Onomasticon that says that helots (and the Thessalian Penestai and others) are between slave and free (μεταξὺ δ'ἐλευθέρων καὶ δούλων οἱ Λακεδαιμονίων εἵλωτεϚ καὶ Θετταλων πενέσται).

What did the slaves of antiquity think they were doing when they took up arms against their masters? What could they hope to achieve? It is conventional to argue that these revolts were doomed to failure because of the forces marshalled against them. In any case, the slaves could not conceive of a society without slaves. If they fought it would be merely to be masters rather than slaves themselves. Eunus and Salvius set themselves up as kings, indicating that they had no egalitarian aims. What presents a problem is that the slaves seem to have been either suicidal or stupid. How could they hope to defeat the Roman army? How, for that matter, could the lowly helots think they had a chance against the Spartan army?

There are, however, examples even today of people without resources violently resisting others who are much better equipped and armed, and generally more powerful. It is perhaps a mistake to assume that the participants had any long-term plan. Sometimes people have much smaller ambitions and are satisfied merely to inflict damage. It might be that they saw an opportunity and took it, without thinking through all the next moves. The ancients had long recognized how unpredictable events were in wartime. Thucydides put the following expression into the mouths of the Melian speakers as an accepted truth about war:

Slaves rebelled in various ways in the ancient world. Sometimes, when they had the opportunity, they ran away. Sometimes they took up arms and fought their masters. Spartacus is a name familiar to many but he was only one of tens of thousands of slaves from antiquity who formed armies to fight for their freedom. We do not have as much information as we should like about these events from the ancient world, but there is more than might be assumed from a quick glance at modern histories. One of the aims of this book is to remind readers that slaves did rebel in antiquity; another is to discover why the material that remains has been, to a large extent, ignored or dismissed as historically insignificant. One might reasonably suppose that this attitude simply reflects the ancient texts, and yet one of the results of this re-examination has been the gradual realization that ancient sources accorded far more importance to the actions of the slaves than have modern writers.

While one might expect modern commentators to be more sympathetic toward slaves than their ancient counterparts, the reason for a relative lack of interest in slave rebellion is perhaps not hard to find: slave armies might defeat those of their former masters for a while, even for years, but in the end slavery persisted. There was no abolitionist movement among free people, nor even any text calling for the abolition of slavery.

In the second half of the second century bce the Romans virtually lost control of their first overseas province for almost a decade, not to Carthaginians, from whom they had won Sicily in the first place, but to the slaves whom they had imported to work the land. They had won a series of wars against neighbours in the Mediterranean and Rome's rise to power in hindsight looked unstoppable, and yet this valuable source of revenue, the island of Sicily, a great wheat-producing area, was nearly snatched from them, not by a Hannibal or a Mithridates, but by slaves.

The first slave war on Sicily

Diodorus Siculus, who is our main source, tells us that the war started around 141 bce. He reports that when the servile war started, Sicily had enjoyed about sixty years of prosperity after the destruction of Carthage. The Third Punic War ended with the complete physical obliteration of the city of Carthage in 146 bce, but he cannot be referring to this. The Second Punic War, which ended the Carthaginian presence in Sicily, had finished in 201 bce; this is sixty years before 141 bce. Sometimes 135 bce is given as the year the war started, but then one must ask why Diodorus did not tell us that it was seventy years after the destruction of Carthage.

We know about the slave revolts in Sicily because the first century bce writer Diodorus, a writer from Sicily (hence his name), wrote about them. Until Kenneth Sacks' reappraisal there was a tendency to dismiss him as a copier, valuable for the most part as a preserver of texts because many of his sources are now lost. The nature of his undertaking was so large, starting with myths earlier than the Trojan War and continuing until the start of Julius Caesar's activities in Gaul in 60/59 bce, that it has usually been assumed he moved from copying out one text to another.

He himself gives us a great deal of information in his preface to the whole undertaking. He tells us, at some length, why we should read his massive work; that history is useful because we can learn from the mistakes of others; that good deeds are preserved by historians and inspire the readers to emulate them; that history is good but universal history is even better, although it is more difficult to write; that he has worked on his history for thirty years and now finished it; that he did much travelling in order to write his history; that he came from Agyrium in Sicily and that he had much exposure to Latin from his contact with Romans on the island, lived in Rome for a long time and studied the records that were kept there carefully; and that his history covers 1138 years and is divided into forty books (only fifteen of which remain intact today).