In a courtyard of the Capitoline Museum in Rome are remnants of a monumental sculpture of Emperor Constantine. Clumped together in no particular order are bits of a colossal marble arm, a leg, a knee, feet that dwarf us mere mortals, a hand pointing heavenward and a head with its massive eyeballs focused far above and beyond you. The fragments, disconcerting as they are, start to reveal a deeper secret as you wander around them. The extremities are very naturalistic - the feeling of veins muscle and tissue are coaxed from the marble. But that iconic head is, well, iconic. It is stiff and stylised. The hair is suggested with the most rudimentary carving. And the proportions seem a little out of whack. It doesn't look like it belongs with the other body parts. Something happened way back when.
Back when in the 3rd century AD, the unending political chaos of the Roman Empire ultimately lead to the formation of a new power sharing structure between Diocletian (ruled 284-305) and Maximian (ruled 286-305) called the Tetrarchy which for awhile brought stability. But the planned orderly succession of power upon their joint abdication did not go so orderly and rapidly devolved back into chaos and ultimately a civil war between Maxentius, who controlled Italy and the African provinces and Constantine who controlled Britain, Gaul, Spain and the Rhineland. While Constantine was busy trying to consolidate support up north, Maxentius began and extensive building program in Rome to win the "hearts and minds" of the population and restore the status of the ancient capitol. He built large and luxuriously. He restored the Hadrianic era Temple of Venus and Roma which had been destroyed by fire, built an enormous new basilica in the Roman Forum and began a new bath complex on the Quirinal hill. On October 28 in the year 312, Maxentius exited his newly fortified walls of Rome to confront Constantine in the final battle for power at Milvian Bridge, just north of the city. The outcome irrevocably changed history. (Maxentius lost). Following his victory, Constantine did all he could to wipe the defeated adversary's name from the memory of the city's inhabitants. A Damnatio Memoriae was enacted.
Damnatio Memoriae is the dishonor of memory where traces of the offending individual were rubbed out - literally and figuratively. It was the cancel culture of the ancient world. Maxentius was not the first to be hit with this decree, nor was he the last; just another in a long line. Septimius Severus was to co-rule with his brother, Geta, but that didn't work out. Septimius had Geta murdered within a year of acquiring power and all images of his sibling were chiseled out of existence, leaving some unusual "gaps" in the physical record. Marcus Aurelius did the same to his adoptive brother and co-emperor, Lucius Verus. The bronze colossus that once stood next to the Flavian Amphitheater (now known by the generic name of colosseum) was originally a statue of Nero residing within the confines of his Domus Aurea. After the "unexpected" death of that emperor, and the subsequent official decree of damnatio memoriae, the bronze colossus was moved a few hundred yards, underwent some changes to the head, and was thus transformed into a statue of Apollo that served as an ornament to the newly built arena.
The events of the last months of the Trump administration made me think of the machinations and jockeying for power of imperial wannabes in late antiquity. I began to wonder if the decree of Damnatio Memoriae had any resonance today. Then Corporate America stepped in:
