December 2018. It was a dry winter morning in Delhi when I pulled out Annals XIII–XVI—Tacitus, sharp-tongued, ironical, never sycophantic.
I wasn’t just reading; I was preparing. The whiteboard behind me still had notes from Caesar’s Gallic Wars, but today’s session was on Nero—decadence, fire, paranoia.
Chanakya’s IAS Academy classroom was half-lit, projector humming. I had a room full of future bureaucrats waiting to hear why Tacitus still mattered. And oh, did he. As I read and re-read his takedown of imperial vice, of power’s excesses and Rome’s descent into theatrical cruelty, I kept thinking how eerily modern it all sounded.
Tacitus, especially in these later annals, isn’t simply chronicling; he’s cutting. His portraits of Nero, Seneca, Poppaea—they feel less like dusty history and more like a slow-burning political thriller. His Latin, even in translation, is surgical—cold, cynical, brilliant. The class responded with that rare silence of real engagement.
We spoke of empire, of narrative control, of how Tacitus weaponized understatement. “The more corrupt the state, the more numerous the laws,” I quoted, and someone in the back quietly murmured, “Nothing’s changed.”
Teaching Annals XIII–XVI was not about the past—it was about warning signs. Tacitus gave me language to discuss ambition, spectacle, and collapse. That morning, ancient Rome sat right there among us, haunting and instructing.