On their tombstones, where we write R.I.P. (Requiescat In Pace), Romans wrote
S.T.T.L. (Sit Tibi Terra Levis).
It sounds pitiful. It means: May the earth lie lightly upon you. Was that the most they could hope for, the best they could wish? Was there no consolation for the grieving family and friends?
They thought you DID go somewhere when you died; or rather, your soul made a trip. An old ferryman named Charon took you aboard his boat and rowed you on a river called the Styx to the Underworld, to a kingdom ruled by a god named Hades.
Homer, the greatest Greek poet, describes Hades’ kingdom. Ulysses stumbled onto it while he was still alive when his ship was blown off-course. It is a place where the sun doesn’t reach, though there is a mysterious half-light. The souls wander around in little silent crowds. They seem to miss their life back (or up) in the world. The mood is sad.
But there was no good picture of the next life. Cicero in his essay on old age tells men and women not to worry about what will come. “Either there is nothing,” he says, “or it’s a good place (optandum).” Apparently some men worried that Hades might be a place of suffering. But punishment—punishment for individual wrongdoing—that wasn’t one of its features.
At the top of their gravestones Romans put these initials:
D. M. S.
( for Dis Manibus Sacris: “To the Sacred Gods of the Underworld”).
The Romans figured there was a heavenly administration or bureaucracy and those Deii Manii were in charge of souls. So they addressed their tombstones to them, to the pertinent Ministry. Invoking the gods was part of piety—of worship, of keeping them disposed. You asked a god to protect you. You hoped he had no grudge, as Neptune had against Ulysses. Essentially your relationship with the Underworld gods or any of them was negative. Omitted worship may result in your undoing.
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