It was an optimistic time. A healthy economy showered wealth
on elites and allowed many ordinary citizens to live comfortably. Local goods and
exotic imports filled shops and markets. Political leaders ruled a vast network
of cities and trade routes.
Then the enemy attacked. An infectious disease leapfrogged
from one population center to another. People died in droves. Political leaders
scrambled to recover from a dizzying sucker punch to public and economic health.
This is not a tale about the United States or any other
nation besieged by the new coronavirus. Instead, it’s a story about the ancient
Roman Empire, where a contagion known as the Antonine Plague felled victims throughout
the realm, from Egypt to continental Europe and the British Isles in the late
Accurate mortality data for the Antonine Plague don’t exist.
But written accounts from that time point to mass deaths. Physician and
philosopher Galen described victims as suffering from open sores in the
windpipe, rashes of dark blisters, vomiting, diarrhea, fever and other symptoms
of what may have been smallpox. Perhaps 7 million to 8 million people perished
in what some consider to be history’s first pandemic, says Kyle Harper of the
University of Oklahoma in Norman. Harper is a historian of the Roman Empire and
The Antonine Plague and other epidemics and pandemics that struck
before 20th century vaccines and medical knowledge hold lessons, but no easy
answers, for governments and people today grappling with COVID-19.
One lesson looms large: Societies can’t indefinitely avoid
outbreaks, but they can withstand even severe pandemics. Past political systems
have found ways to bounce back from mass illness and unthinkable numbers of deaths.
The extent to which deadly outbreaks have altered the course
of civilizations is controversial, though. Some scholars, such as Harper,
contend that pandemics often changed political systems in big ways. Other
investigators argue that pandemics, though deadly, caused relatively little
political and economic havoc.
Whatever the political and economic fallout, pandemics and
epidemics have typically had social consequences, for better or worse. For
instance, devastating yellow fever outbreaks in the 19th century bolstered the
institution of slavery in New Orleans, whereas in Haiti the disease actually
helped slaves seeking freedom from French colonists.
“Sometimes [infectious diseases] accelerate history or
reveal where a society was already going, while sometimes they fundamentally
change the trajectory of societies,” Harper says.
Sometimes pandemics do both in the same society. Widespread
infectious disease influenced both the expansion and decline of the Roman
Empire, Harper argues. In his 2017 book The
Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease and the End of an Empire, he contends that pandemics
interacted with climate fluctuations to induce resilience at first and later
irreversible weaknesses in the Roman Empire.
Humans of course suffered from infectious diseases well
before Roman times. In particular, the origin of cities, starting about 6,000
years ago, brought people into closer quarters, where bacteria and viruses
could more easily spread, especially through contaminated food and water
supplies in a time before proper sanitation.
But it wasn’t until the rise of Rome that the elements
needed to bring about pandemics appear to have come together for the first time.
Population growth and long-distance trade in the Roman Empire proved a boon to
diseases that jumped from animals to people, such as smallpox and measles.
The Antonine Plague struck during the reign of Marcus
Aurelius in the late 160s. Though millions died, the empire was big enough to
absorb those losses, which still left roughly 90 percent of the empire’s
population intact, Harper says. Political reorganization and power sharing were
required to counteract food shortages and an economic decline in the wake of the
pandemic. Marcus Aurelius invited civic leaders from throughout the empire to
join his imperial government. Their wealth and knowledge helped Roman elites to
improve conditions in the empire’s provinces, and provincial governments were
given greater power to resolve local issues.
Roman society rebounded, at least for a while.
Then, in the mid-200s, a poorly understood pestilence known
as the Plague of Cyprian swept through the Roman Empire. Eyewitness accounts,
including that of the disease’s namesake, Cyprian the Bishop of Carthage,
described painful deaths preceded by days of fatigue, bloody stool, fever,
bleeding from the eyes, blindness and hearing loss. An influenza virus or a
viral hemorrhagic fever similar to yellow fever and Ebola may have caused this
deadly outbreak, Harper suspects.
Combined with drought, foreign invasions, infighting among
generals and a rapid loss of coin values, the Plague of Cyprian brought the
Roman Empire to its knees. For over a decade, the disease spread and likely
killed a larger percentage of the population than the Antonine Plague had,
Harper says, though precise numbers are hard to establish. As the central
government reeled, a series of emperors were chosen — and sometimes quickly
deposed — by the military based on an aspiring ruler’s popularity with generals.
But the empire never regained its former prominence, Harper says.
By the early 400s, the western half of the Roman Empire gave
way to foreign invaders. In the east, the empire held on for a bit. But in the
mid-500s, an outbreak of bubonic plague known as the Justinianic Plague, caused
by the bacterium Yersinia pestis (SN: 12/6/18), spread through Roman
territory just as volcanic eruptions caused substantially cooler global
temperatures, likely leading to lower Mediterranean crop yields, Harper
contends. Death rates likely reached 50 percent or more of the population, he
suspects. Soon after, the Roman Empire suffered military losses to Islamic
armies and was reduced to a minor state.
Rather than swiftly destroying the Roman realm, plague and
climate change “sapped the vitality of the empire,” Harper says.
Harper’s reconstruction of Roman history rings hollow to
environmental historian Merle Eisenberg. Even given large mortality rates, the
plagues that hit the Roman Empire had limited social and political fallout, Eisenberg,
of the University of Maryland’s National Socio-Environmental Synthesis Center
in Annapolis, contends.
Written and archaeological data
recently analyzed by Eisenberg and colleagues (SN: 12/2/19) indicate that life during the Justinianic Plague, for
instance, proceeded much as it had before the outbreak in some places. Roman
legislation continued to be issued, the monetary system remained stable and
farmland continued to be cultivated, as indicated by ancient pollen collected
from lake beds. “Plague certainly struck the Mediterranean, but it did not seem
to impact the lives of most people,” Eisenberg says.
If a majority of Roman subjects had died, there should have
been less time to bury plague victims with inscribed tombstones and less money
to erect new buildings with inscriptions detailing who built them and why. But
the number of such inscriptions in Syria, a region hit hard by the plague, stayed stable during the
pandemic, Eisenberg’s group reported in December in the Proceedings of the National Academy of
Sciences. Eisenberg concludes that substantially less than half of the
Roman Empire’s population must have succumbed to the Justinianic Plague.
That estimate is based on limited evidence that doesn’t tap
into the Justinianic Plague’s broad political and social effects across the
Roman Empire, Harper argues. But given considerable gaps in what’s known about
how that outbreak played out from one region to another, this debate will be
difficult to resolve.
For his part, Eisenberg says true devastation from a
pandemic didn’t arrive until the medieval Black Death, which killed perhaps 75
million to 200 million people — half of Europe’s population — from 1346 to
1351. Recurrences of the Black Death, caused by the same bacterium as the
Justinianic Plague, lasted until the 18th century in Europe and the 19th
century in the Middle East. But even the Black Death fell far short of causing
civilization to collapse, Eisenberg says.
Harper and other historians have suggested that the Black Death
spared so few farmers and other laborers that survivors successfully demanded
better working conditions from the ruling class. John Haldon, a Princeton
University historian of ancient Europe and the Mediterranean, agrees that mass
deaths spurred economic shifts, such as a gradual loosening of the feudal
system in which peasants received parcels of land in return for serving a lord
or king. “Yet there were no political collapses at all,” says Haldon, who
supervised Eisenberg’s graduate research but did not participate in his
Justinianic Plague study. Western European states and kingdoms stayed largely
intact during medieval times.
In modern times, better medical care and vaccines have
generally kept pandemic mortality rates below those suffered centuries ago. But
a modern, globalized world in which many nations are economically intertwined
and communications flash instantly across continents is especially vulnerable
to financial disruptions when pandemics strike, Eisenberg suspects.
“Premodern plagues generally caused more deaths than
infectious diseases today do,” he says. “But pandemics today, such as COVID-19,
have larger political and economic impacts than those in the past.”
From his perspective, history’s lesson for people now is to
stay vigilant: Once the coronavirus has been medically contained, the hard work
of dealing with the pandemic’s shocks to our way of life must accelerate.
Those shocks sometimes run deep. Unrelenting outbreaks of
infectious disease can modify an existing social order or even help to bring it
down, historians have found.
Consider yellow fever. The mosquito-borne viral disease
aided a successful rebellion of black slaves in Haiti against French colonial
rule. Yale University historian of science and medicine Frank Snowden describes
that event in his 2019 book Epidemics and
Society: From the Black Death to the Present.
Haiti’s slave uprising lasted from 1791 to 1804. When
Napoleon sent more than 60,000 soldiers to put down the rebellion, many
European newcomers quickly succumbed to yellow fever because they lacked immunity
that black Haitians had already acquired. Yellow fever ended up helping Haiti’s
slaves win their freedom.
The disease also thwarted Napoleon’s ambitions to expand his
empire into the Americas, Snowden says. In 1803, as a humiliating military
defeat fast approached in Haiti and prospects of war with Britain increased, the
cash-strapped French ruler sold Louisiana to the United States. That
transaction, which expanded slavery’s reach in the U.S. South, set the stage
for yellow fever to instigate entirely different social changes in 19th century
Yellow fever killed more than 150,000 people there between
1803 and the Civil War’s start in 1860. No cure or vaccination existed for a
disease that killed about half of those it infected. Yellow fever deaths were
painful and horrifying. Many victims vomited thick, black blood before
succumbing after several days. Those who survived the infection became immune,
or what people at the time called “acclimated.”
In a city with stark divisions between rich and poor, men
and women and within racial groups — whites, “free people of color” and slaves
— acclimated citizens held special status, says Stanford University historian
Kathryn Olivarius. That immunity-based social system produced
New Orleans’ most powerful and wealthy families, many of which are still
prominent, Olivarius concluded in the April 2019 American Historical Review. Her analysis included written accounts,
official documents and medical articles from the pre–Civil War era.
White people who survived yellow fever could receive a
certificate of acclimation, ensuring them access to good jobs, bank loans and
houses in the best neighborhoods. Many immigrants arriving in New Orleans in
the 1840s, especially Irish and Germans, saw infection as a path to success and
were willing to risk death to become acclimated.
Black people received no such benefits. Not only did the
slave economy withstand repeated epidemics, but resistance to yellow fever and
the likelihood of a long working life increased a slave’s monetary value to an
owner by 25 to 50 percent, Olivarius estimates.
It’s not yet clear if someone
who recovers from COVID-19 gains immunity (SN: 4/28/20), as with yellow fever. Even so, possibly immune
individuals are drawing attention in this year of the coronavirus. Countries
such as Chile, Germany and the United Kingdom are considering issuing “immunity
passports” — documents certifying that a person has recovered from COVID-19
— that would let these individuals go back to work early. Immunity passports might become an
increasingly attractive strategy as it takes a year or more to develop a coronavirus
vaccine. “If so, we should heed lessons from the past and beware of potential
social perils,” Olivarius says.
A final lesson to glean from the past is perhaps the hardest
to follow: Don’t forget what happened. Don’t let the next generation forget,
either, because another outbreak will surely arrive when it is least expected.
Snowden observes that the influenza pandemic of 1918 and
1919, which killed an estimated 50 million people or more worldwide, was put
out of mind by many people soon after it burned out. “It’s curious how such a
major event could be so quickly forgotten,” Snowden said on April 2 during an online interview hosted
Scientists have warned for the last 20 years — as a series
of infectious diseases including SARS, MERS and Zika emerged — that new
pandemics and epidemics are on the horizon, Snowden said in the JAMA interview. Yet the United States
and other countries were woefully unprepared for COVID-19.
Perhaps pandemic forgetfulness is as contagious as
infectious diseases. In his 1722 book A Journal
of the Plague Year, Daniel Defoe, also the author of Robinson Crusoe, used historical accounts to construct a fictional
man’s experiences during an actual 1665 bubonic plague outbreak in London.
Defoe presents harrowing accounts of plague deaths and
forced isolation of the infected in their homes. Yet as infections waned,
people flocked into the streets and “cast off all apprehensions” when they
encountered individuals limping from plague-caused groin sores and exhibiting
other symptoms that “were frightful to the last degree, but the week before.”
In any age, a return to the soothing certainty of daily routines can help erase memories of having dodged a viral killer. Time will tell if this “viral amnesia” repeats itself when COVID-19 finally retreats.