Pirates of the Mediterranean 

Robert Harris | The New York Times | September 30, 2006

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/09/30/opinion/30harris.html?pagewanted=1&th&emc=th


IN the autumn of 68 B.C. the world's only military superpower was 
dealt a profound psychological blow by a daring terrorist attack on 
its very heart. Rome's port at Ostia was set on fire, the consular 
war fleet destroyed, and two prominent senators, together with their 
bodyguards and staff, kidnapped.

The incident, dramatic though it was, has not attracted much 
attention from modern historians. But history is mutable. An event 
that was merely a footnote five years ago has now, in our post-9/11 
world, assumed a fresh and ominous significance. For in the panicky 
aftermath of the attack, the Roman people made decisions that set 
them on the path to the destruction of their Constitution, their 
democracy and their liberty. One cannot help wondering if history is 
repeating itself.

Consider the parallels. The perpetrators of this spectacular assault 
were not in the pay of any foreign power: no nation would have dared 
to attack Rome so provocatively. They were, rather, the disaffected 
of the earth: "The ruined men of all nations," in the words of the 
great 19th-century German historian Theodor Mommsen, "a piratical 
state with a peculiar esprit de corps." 

Like Al Qaeda, these pirates were loosely organized, but able to 
spread a disproportionate amount of fear among citizens who had 
believed themselves immune from attack. To quote Mommsen again: "The 
Latin husbandman, the traveler on the Appian highway, the genteel 
bathing visitor at the terrestrial paradise of Baiae were no longer 
secure of their property or their life for a single moment."

What was to be done? Over the preceding centuries, the Constitution 
of ancient Rome had developed an intricate series of checks and 
balances intended to prevent the concentration of power in the hands 
of a single individual. The consulship, elected annually, was 
jointly held by two men. Military commands were of limited duration 
and subject to regular renewal. Ordinary citizens were accustomed to 
a remarkable degree of liberty: the cry of "Civis Romanus sum" — "I 
am a Roman citizen" — was a guarantee of safety throughout the world.

But such was the panic that ensued after Ostia that the people were 
willing to compromise these rights. The greatest soldier in Rome, 
the 38-year-old Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus (better known to posterity as 
Pompey the Great) arranged for a lieutenant of his, the tribune 
Aulus Gabinius, to rise in the Roman Forum and propose an 
astonishing new law. 

"Pompey was to be given not only the supreme naval command but what 
amounted in fact to an absolute authority and uncontrolled power 
over everyone," the Greek historian Plutarch wrote. "There were not 
many places in the Roman world that were not included within these 
limits."

Pompey eventually received almost the entire contents of the Roman 
Treasury — 144 million sesterces — to pay for his "war on terror," 
which included building a fleet of 500 ships and raising an army of 
120,000 infantry and 5,000 cavalry. Such an accumulation of power 
was unprecedented, and there was literally a riot in the Senate when 
the bill was debated.

Nevertheless, at a tumultuous mass meeting in the center of Rome, 
Pompey's opponents were cowed into submission, the Lex Gabinia 
passed (illegally), and he was given his power. In the end, once he 
put to sea, it took less than three months to sweep the pirates from 
the entire Mediterranean. Even allowing for Pompey's genius as a 
military strategist, the suspicion arises that if the pirates could 
be defeated so swiftly, they could hardly have been such a grievous 
threat in the first place. 

But it was too late to raise such questions. By the oldest trick in 
the political book — the whipping up of a panic, in which any 
dissenting voice could be dismissed as "soft" or even "traitorous" — 
powers had been ceded by the people that would never be returned. 
Pompey stayed in the Middle East for six years, establishing puppet 
regimes throughout the region, and turning himself into the richest 
man in the empire.

Those of us who are not Americans can only look on in wonder at the 
similar ease with which the ancient rights and liberties of the 
individual are being surrendered in the United States in the wake of 
9/11. The vote by the Senate on Thursday to suspend the right of 
habeas corpus for terrorism detainees, denying them their right to 
challenge their detention in court; the careful wording about 
torture, which forbids only the inducement of "serious" physical and 
mental suffering to obtain information; the admissibility of 
evidence obtained in the United States without a search warrant; the 
licensing of the president to declare a legal resident of the United 
States an enemy combatant — all this represents an historic shift in 
the balance of power between the citizen and the executive.

An intelligent, skeptical American would no doubt scoff at the 
thought that what has happened since 9/11 could presage the 
destruction of a centuries-old constitution; but then, I suppose, an 
intelligent, skeptical Roman in 68 B.C. might well have done the 
same. 

In truth, however, the Lex Gabinia was the beginning of the end of 
the Roman republic. It set a precedent. Less than a decade later, 
Julius Caesar — the only man, according to Plutarch, who spoke out 
in favor of Pompey's special command during the Senate debate — was 
awarded similar, extended military sovereignty in Gaul. Previously, 
the state, through the Senate, largely had direction of its armed 
forces; now the armed forces began to assume direction of the state.

It also brought a flood of money into an electoral system that had 
been designed for a simpler, non-imperial era. Caesar, like Pompey, 
with all the resources of Gaul at his disposal, became immensely 
wealthy, and used his treasure to fund his own political faction. 
Henceforth, the result of elections was determined largely by which 
candidate had the most money to bribe the electorate. In 49 B.C., 
the system collapsed completely, Caesar crossed the Rubicon — and 
the rest, as they say, is ancient history.

It may be that the Roman republic was doomed in any case. But the 
disproportionate reaction to the raid on Ostia unquestionably 
hastened the process, weakening the restraints on military 
adventurism and corrupting the political process. It was to be more 
than 1,800 years before anything remotely comparable to Rome's 
democracy — imperfect though it was — rose again.

The Lex Gabinia was a classic illustration of the law of unintended 
consequences: it fatally subverted the institution it was supposed 
to protect. Let us hope that vote in the United States Senate does 
not have the same result.














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