I, Claudius - A short review with a brief aside on history

"Say not always what you know, but always know what you say."

- Claudius

History doesn’t repeat itself, but it does rhyme. For what drives history are the same human desires that propel all our actions past and present. And despite the outward alterations throughout human progress, the innate yearnings, whether noble or its obverse, remains largely unaltered. Hence a study of history is to a large degree a study of human nature, and, as E. H. Carr wrote in his book ‘What is History’, an unending dialogue between the present and the past. Edward Said pointed out that all knowledge about human society, other than scientific knowledge, is historic knowledge. The evolution of historical knowledge, or the continuation of this unending conversation, involves interpretation. And the nuances of the interpretation involves, in turn, the individual mind and the subtleties and sensitivities each unique awareness can bring to the table. More than mere datum, though it is sine qua non, to have some knowledge of history is to put one’s finger on the pulse of the human spirit and to begin to understand the impetuses behind all its rise and falls. Hence, as Cicero phrased it, “to be ignorant of what has occurred before you were born is to remain always a child.” With this in mind, ‘I, Claudius’, the historical novel by Robert Graves is among the finest conversations between the past and the present. 

Robert Graves is an English author, historian, classicist and notably one of the foremost war poets of Britain, along with his friend Siegfried Sassoon and of course, Wilfred Owen. Graves's 'Goodbye to All That' is probably the first book through which most people have come across his effortlessly nimble and touchingly unsentimental style, where he wittily, sardonically and at times comically recalled his time as a young soldier in the Great War. Despite the levity, the tremendous heart-sinking melancholia and gut wrench are tightly weaved just under the surface of the sentences; Graves himself almost killed at the battle of the Somme, where about a million young men perished. 

Here they lie who once learned here
All that is taught of hurt or fear;
Dead, but by free will they died:
They were true men, they had pride.

An avid historian, Graves has written much on ancient Greek mythology but his most famous fictional work is undoubtedly ‘I, Claudius’, a fictionalised autobiography of the Roman emperor Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus (10BC – 54AD). The novel (the first of two) covers the particularly dramatic, tumultuous period of the Julio-Claudian dynasty to see, at the end, the unlikely rise of the stuttering, lame, bookish, uncharismatic grandson of Mark Anthony and great-great grandnephew of Julius Caesar to the throne of Rome.

Graves takes the authentic historical facts from the contemporary and near contemporary sources such as Livy (who was Claudius’s tutor) and Tacitus and infuses the gaps with anima, using the sensitive perceptiveness of human nature particular to a writer and a poet. Although motivated to embark on the novel chiefly for the purpose of financial stability, one can’t help feeling, as one reads through the narration of Claudius about the complex webs of relations and machinations, that Graves enjoyed himself greatly subsuming the mind of his protagonist and to construct with artful skill, ventriloquising through Claudius’s mouth, the characters, quirks and idiosyncrasies of historical giants such as Augustus, Germanicus, Caligula and, possibly the cream in the coffee, Livia.

The flash of genius in the construction of the novel is the choice to allow the audience to look through the eyes of Claudius, the outcast of the family and an unlikely narrator, but who, like many outsiders, is able to observe events unfold with a perceptive gaze. The character of Claudius is very astutely captured by the very first sentence of the very first chapter:

“I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles), who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as ‘Claudius the Idiot’, or ‘that Claudius’, or ‘Claudius the Stammerer’, or ‘Clau-Clau-Claudius’, or at best as ‘Poor Uncle Claudius’, am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the ‘golden predicament’ from which I have never since become disentangled.”

The introverted, sensitive, bookish, and somewhat naïve man is tremendously likeable despite his failing. The various flaws and peculiarities of Claudius, such as his stutter, his quickness to anger and to be stressed, are recorded by historians such as Suetonius. Though not physically deformed (Suetonius wrote that when seated and composed, he was a tall, well-built figure of dignity), Claudius had weak legs, which meant he had to be carried on a sedan to move any distances, and he stammered, increasingly badly when he is stressed or excited. These defects alienated him from his mother, Antonia’s love and he became more or less an orphan in his own home. This scorn and derision, though doing much to forge the peculiar aspects of his character, also did much to ensure that the crippled royal survived the bloody concatenations of political manoeuvrings. Claudius himself wrote that he exaggerated his quirks in order to survive, and I think that is very likely the truth. The intimate fashion with which Claudius discussed his formative years and in particular his growing interest in history and the episode of his brief yet sentimental first (and possibly only) true love, rings faintly with the sounds of an autobiographical account on the part of Graves himself.

The naturalness with which Graves portrayed the culture of the time, and the smart choice he made in giving the voices a contemporary vocabulary and form of speech makes it very natural and easy for the reader to identify with the motives and emotions of the characters. The use of money, emotional blackmail, sex and death for political advantage makes Game of Thrones look like a benign day at the office.

The success of this book surely lies in the fact that Graves has enlivened history by making the characters stand out in such bold, colourful and psychologically coherent palettes. In particular, the character of Livia, Claudius’s grandmother, and the various women who lies at the heart of the 50 year span of the Roman Empire portrayed in the book. While many people today might think of the ancient past as a place of misogyny where the place of women ranks among the chattel, I, Claudius showcases the often overlooked ways in which women dictated the course of history. While historians, for good reasons, concentrate on grand events like battles, parleys and signing of treaties, it surely surprises no one that the politics behind the scenes, at dinner parties, at birthdays, at the pillow-side, are majorly influenced by women, with their own interests, connections, relationships, urges and ambitions and who essentially ruled the household and as such many aspects of life that is upstream of politics.

Livia is the personification of this clandestine aspect of history. She is akin to a spider at the centre of interconnected webs, playing the strings in the shadows to arrange things to her liking. Ruthless, entitled, cold-blooded and pitiless, Livia ruled as a surrogate emperor besides her husband the great Augustus (after whom the month of August is named), then his adopted son the gloomy Tiberius, and arranged for the rise of the insane Caligula. Subsisting as a lowly member of the family and feeling the deep currents of power shifts within the various sides jostling for position, Claudius, like most of the inner crowd, knew what great powers of life and death Livia held. One of the highlights of the book is the unexpected invitation to dinner Livia extended to him, having never dined with him before due to her disdain for his appearance. She was by this time a very old woman. And she opened up to Claudius with a frankness that shocked him. She confessed to her many crimes and her intentions for doings so:

“Claudius, let me explain. It’s not so much my fame on earth that I’m thinking about as the position I am to occupy in Heaven. I have done many impious things – no great ruler can do otherwise. I have put the good of the Empire before all human considerations. To keep the Empire free from factions I have had to commit many crimes. Who saved Rome from civil war? I did. The unpleasant and difficult task of removing Marcellus and Gaius fell on me. Yes, don’t pretend you haven’t ever suspected me of poisoing them. And what is the proper reward for a ruler who commits such crimes for the good of his subjects? The proper reward, obviously is to be deified. Do you believe that the souls of criminals are eternally tormented?”

The pivot from the coldly proud Empress with power of life and death over nearly everybody to the old woman fearing eternal torment revealed her inner struggles and weaknesses. She wanted Claudius to swear that he will ensure that she will be deified after death, for only by becoming a goddess will she escape the sure fate of eternal suffering awaiting for her in hell. She cannot trust this task to Caligula, whom she is grooming to be the next emperor, as she knew that he is ‘a monster’. After a lifetime of conniving and manipulations, the old woman finds herself totally alone. So much so that she has to turn to the grandson she has despised all his life to ensure her afterlife. This episode underlines the callousness and hollowness of high power and the pitilessness of it all even for those seemingly on the apex. Those whom history reveres are always the virtuous for the sake of virtues.

The way with which Graves tackled the enormous task of giving life to the facts and personalities to the characters (although undoubtedly aided by much historical records) and to mesh it all into a coherent, enjoyable and reflective novel is a feat to be marvelled at. It is by no accident that it is perpetually on the list of the greatest books in the English language. 

Writing at the end of the book, recalling his ascension to the throne, the historian Graves wrote amusingly as the reverse-ghost of the historian Claudius in the final pages of the novel, with what seems to me the perfect psychological timbre:

“And what thoughts or memories, would you guess, were passing through my mind on this extraordinary occasion? No, you would never guess what was passing in my mind. But I shall be frank and tell you what it was, though the confession is a shameful one. I was thinking, ‘So, I’m Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I’ll be able to make people read my books now. Public recitations to large audiences. And good books too, thirty-five years’ hard work in them.”