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| Nero who? the moon wants to know |
Erected just after the Apostles were martyred nearby and the Church was seeded in the blood of thousands of witnesses, the Flavian Amphitheater’s worldwide recognition is the accomplishment of its purpose. Not merely a gift to the Roman public for their diversion, the arena’s first reason for existence is rooted in what it is not: it is NOT the golden palace of the emperor Nero, which stood in all its vulgar excess on that same spot.
After the catastrophe of Nero’s reign, the general Vespasian rose to the throne to restore order. He and his two sons after him, Titus, also a successful general, and Domitian, the problem child, are the three Flavian emperors who governed Rome at the end of the first century, and the Colosseum’s original name reflects that it was built as part of their program.
The golden house of Nero was conspicuous and reviled, so it was an easy target for the post-Nero program. To redecorate it or repurpose it, or even replace it with another palace, more tasteful and with happier associations, was not enough. Its theatrical elimination was the first step of the transformation of the site to a place of civic utility and civic pride. Though no evidence of it remained on the grounds of the grand new building, everybody knew what (and who) had been eliminated.
It was in discovering the history of this great public work as part of my Christian archaeology class that I first encountered the concept of damnatio memoriae. Rather than simply reject the projects and reverse the damages of the rejected tyrant, there was a “whole-government” effort to erase evidence of his existence and be seen to have erased it. While monuments to him and statues were eliminated, his name was removed from lists and texts carved in stone in a manner that left a scrubbed blank space that revealed that who used to be acclaimed no longer was to be mentioned. This project was carried out with characteristically Roman efficiency throughout the vast empire. Nero was expunged except for just enough to remind the knowledgeable how vitiated he now was.
To omit reference or citation of a person from current events or historical accounts is one way to push that person out of mind as well as out of sight. But to keep just enough evidence of the omission to call to mind its cause is to take the game to another level. This game is not reserved to potentates or governments, but almost anybody can play.
Any individual can excise another person’s name from conversation and correspondence. Objects belonging to the excised individual can be carried to the dumpster or flung from the window with great ceremony or none. Friends and family can be cowed into fear of accidentally mentioning the offending name when the outburst elicited is sufficiently terrifying. And as simply as that, a real living person is not forced to be forgotten, but residually recalled as rotten.
The most effective damnatio memoriae is achieved not by eliminating the memory of the cursed one, but rather in bringing about something so good and glorious that it is celebrated for ages unto ages, and the rejected one is recalled and damned anew every time the achievement and its origins are celebrated. Better than negation is appending the negative to a great positive. You never know in advance if you will succeed, but you will know it when you see it.
Monsignor Smith
