The defilement of a nation’s cultural heritage is among the most odious of crimes.  But the offense is especially noxious, and finally unforgivable, when committed by national leaders for their own personal aggrandizement.  The past is always vulnerable to the malicious exigencies of the present.  An illustrative example is found in the pages of Roman history. 

The politician Quintus Petilius Spurinus occupied the office of tribune of the plebs in 187 B.C.  In 176 B.C., he was elected consul, along with his colleague Cnaeus Cornelius Scipio Hispallus.  Around 181 B.C., Livy relates that near the Janiculan Hill in Rome, on the land of one Lucius Petilius, some farmers excavated two large stone chests.  Their dimensions were about eight feet by four feet, and their lids were sealed with lead.  Latin and Greek inscriptions on the chests indicated that they contained both the mortal remains of Numa Pompilius, one of Rome’s early kings, who reigned from 715 B.C. to 672 B.C. The chests also held what were said to be the king’s writings. 

Such a precious archaeological find would modernly be treated with great excitement.  Scholars and scientists would be deployed to record, study, and preserve.  But the discipline was unknown in antiquity, and we find many unfortunate examples in which momentous discoveries are greeted with apathy or destructive opportunism.  So it was in this case.  No preserved corpse was found in the chests, but they did contain two bundles wrapped in waxed rope; each bundle contained seven written books.  The seven Latin books dealt mostly with matters of religious law, but the seven Greek books were philosophical in nature, and were imbued with the doctrines of Pythagoreanism. 

We know from the writings of Cicero that Pythagoras and his school, based in the Magna Graecia region of southern Italy, was an influential force on early Roman intellectual life.  The school was an unusual, and somewhat mysterious, blend of philosophy and religion.  It was now clear that Numa was either himself a follower of Pythagoras, or had come under the Greek philosopher’s influence.  But to some proudly patriotic Romans, this revelation would not have been welcome news.  That one of their early kings subscribed to a “foreign” doctrine might have been too much for them to accept.        

The buried discoveries found their way to Quintus Petilius, who immediately realized that the books were subversive of Rome’s current state religion.  From this point a convoluted series of political discussions took place among Rome’s leadership element regarding what to do with Numa’s books.  Petilius insisted that the books should be burned, and the question wound its way to the senate for final consideration.  Apparently, the imperatives of power and control were such that Rome’s fearful leaders could not permit the writings to exist.  Instead of preserving them as objects of study, and as proud relics of a rich and distinguished past, the senate destroyed them.  This tragic episode is only one among many similar incidents in history.  In the matter of Numa’s books, there was no class of scholars or scientists in Rome to step forward and advocate on behalf of learning and knowledge.  The books were helpless, and tradition could find no defenders. The result was catastrophe.

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Take a look at the new, annotated translation of Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations.