by Will Durant
But the Romans, says Polybius, “were most to be feared when they stood in real danger. . . . Though they were now so overwhelmingly defeated, and their military reputation had been destroyed, yet, by the peculiar virtues of their constitution, and by wise counsel, they not only recovered their supremacy in Italy . . . but in a few years made themselves masters of the world.”27 The class war ceased, and all groups rushed to the rescue of the state. Taxes had already risen apparently beyond tolerance; but now the citizens, even widows and children, voluntarily brought their secret savings to the Treasury. Every male who could bear arms was called to the colors; slaves were accepted in the levies and were promised freedom in the event of victory. Not a single soldier would consent to receive pay. Rome prepared to contest every inch of ground against the new lion of Carthage.
But Hannibal did not come. His 40,000 men were too small a force, he thought, to besiege a city to whose defense many armies would converge from still loyal states; and if he took it, how could he hold it? His Italian allies, instead of strengthening, weakened him; Rome and her friends were raising forces to attack them, and without his help they would succumb. His aides reproached his caution, and one of them remarked, sadly, “The gods have not given all their gifts to one man. You know how to win victory, Hannibal, but you do not know how to use it.”28 Hannibal decided to wait till Carthage, Macedon, and Syracuse could unite with him in a multiple offensive that would retake Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, and Illyria, and compel Rome to confine her power to Italy. He released all captives except Romans, and offered these to Rome for a small ransom. When the Senate refused this he sent most of them to Carthage as slaves, and forced the rest, in Roman style, to amuse his men by gladiatorial combats, even to the death. He besieged and took several towns and then led his army to winter in Capua.
It was the most pleasant and dangerous place that he could have chosen. For this second city of Italy—some twelve miles north of Naples—had learned from the Etruscans and the Greeks the vices as well as the graces of civilization; and Hannibal’s troops felt entitled to indulge for a season the flesh that had borne so many hardships and wounds. They were never again the invincible soldiers who had through many campaigns been formed in their master’s Spartan image. In the next five years Hannibal led them to some minor successes; but while they were so engaged the Romans laid siege to Capua. Hannibal sought to relieve it by marching to within a few miles of Rome; the Romans raised twenty-five new legions—200,000 men—and Hannibal, still limited to 40,000, retired to the south. In 211 Capua fell; its leaders, who had let loose a massacre of Romans in the city, were beheaded or committed suicide; and the population, which had strongly supported Hannibal, was dispersed throughout Italy. A year before, Marcellus had taken Syracuse; and a year later Agrigentum yielded to Rome.
Meanwhile a Roman army under the two older Scipios had been sent to Spain to keep Hasdrubal occupied. They defeated him at the Ebro (215); but both of them were soon afterward killed in battle, and their gains were being lost when their son and nephew, Scipio Africanus, was dispatched to the Spanish command. He was but twenty-four, far below the legal age for so responsible a position; but the Senate was willing to stretch the constitution to save the state, and the Assembly was by this time voluntarily subordinating itself to the Senate. The people admired him not only because he was handsome and eloquent, intelligent and brave, but pious, courteous, and just. It was his custom, before undertaking an enterprise, to commune with the gods in the temples on the Capitol, and, after his victories, to reward them with hecatombs. He believed—or represented—himself to be a favorite of Heaven; his successes spread the belief and filled his followers with confidence. He soon restored discipline among the troops, captured Nova Carthago after a long siege, and scrupulously turned over to the Treasury the precious metal and stones that there fell into his hands. Most of the Spanish cities surrendered to him, and by 205 Spain had become a Roman province.
Nevertheless, Hasdrubal’s main force had escaped and now crossed Gaul and the Alps into Italy. The young leader’s message to Hannibal was intercepted, and his plan of campaign was revealed to Rome. A Roman army met his modest force at the Metaurus River (207) and defeated him despite his excellent generalship. Seeing the battle lost and all hope of reaching his brother gone, Hasdrubal leaped into the midst of the legions and took death in his stride. The Roman historians, perhaps romancing, tell us that the victor cut off the youth’s head and sent it through Apulia to be cast over the ramparts into Hannibal’s camp. Broken in spirit by the fate of a brother whom he had dearly loved, Hannibal withdrew his thinned-out forces to Bruttium. “No action was fought with him this year,” says Livy, “nor did the Romans care to disturb him, so great was the reputation of his powers even while his cause was everywhere round him crumbling into ruin.”29 Carthage sent him a hundred ships laden with men and food, but a gale drove the vessels to Sardinia, where a Roman fleet sank or captured eighty of them; the rest fled home.
In 205 young Scipio, fresh from his victories in Spain, was chosen consul, raised a new army, and sailed for Africa. The Carthaginian government appealed to Hannibal to come to the help of the city that had so long refused to support him. How shall we imagine the feelings of the half-blind warrior, driven into a corner of Italy by an endless stream of enemies, seeing all his toil and hardships of fifteen years brought to nothing, and all his triumphs summing up to futility and flight? Half of his troops refused to embark with him for Carthage; according to hostile historians he had 20,000 of them killed for disobedience and for fear that Rome might add them to her legions.30 Touching his native soil after an absence of thirty-six years, he hastily formed a new army and went out to face Scipio at Zama, fifty miles south of Carthage (202). The two generals met in a courteous interview, found agreement impossible, and joined battle. For the first time in his life Hannibal was defeated; the Carthaginians, mostly mercenaries, gave ground before the Roman infantry and the reckless cavalry of Masinissa, the Numidian king; 20,000 Carthaginians were left dead on the field. Hannibal, now forty-five, fought with the energy of youth, attacked Scipio in personal combat and wounded him, attacked Masinissa, re-formed his disordered forces again and again, and led them in desperate countercharges. When all hope fled he eluded capture, rode to Carthage, announced that he had lost not only a battle but the war, and advised the Senate to sue for peace. Scipio was generous. He allowed Carthage to retain her African empire but demanded the surrender of all her war vessels except ten triremes; she was not to make war outside of Africa or within it without Rome’s consent; and she was to pay Rome 200 talents ($720,000) every year for fifty years. Hannibal pronounced the terms just and persuaded his government to accept them.
The Second Punic War changed the face of the western Mediterranean. It gave Spain and all its wealth to Rome, providing the funds for the Roman conquest of Greece. It reunited Italy under Rome’s unquestioned mastery and threw open all routes and markets to Roman ships and goods. But it was the most costly of all ancient wars. It ravaged or injured half the farms of Italy, destroyed 400 towns, killed 300,000 men;31 southern Italy has never quite recovered from it to this day. It weakened democracy by showing that a popular assembly cannot wisely choose generals or direct a war. It began the transformation of Roman life and morals by hurting agriculture and helping trade; by taking men from the countryside and teaching them the violence of battle and the promiscuity of the camp; by bringing the precious metals of Spain to finance new luxuries and imperialistic expansion; and by enabling Italy to live on the extorted wheat of Spain, Sicily, and Africa. It was a pivotal event for almost every phase of Roman history.
To Carthage it was the beginning of the end. With much of its commerce and empire left to it, it might have solved the problems of regeneration. But the oligarchical government was so corrupt that it threw upon the lower classes the burden of raising the annual indemnity for Rome and embezzled part of it to boot. The popular party called upon Hannibal to come out of his r
etirement and save the nation. In 196 he was elected suffete. He shocked the oligarchs by proposing that the judges of the Court of 104 should be elected for one year and should be ineligible for a second term until after a year’s interval. When the Senate rejected the measure he brought it before the Assembly, and carried it; by this law and this procedure he established at one stroke a degree of democracy equal to Rome’s. He punished and checked venality and pursued it to its source. He relieved the citizens of the extra taxes that had been laid upon them, and yet so managed the finances that by 188 Carthage was able to pay off the Roman indemnity in full.
To get rid of him the oligarchy secretly sent word to Rome that Hannibal was plotting to renew the war. Scipio used all his influence to protect his rival, but was overruled; the Senate accommodated the rich Carthaginians by demanding the surrender of Hannibal. The old warrior fled by night, rode 150 miles to Thapsus, and there took ship to Antioch (195). He found Antiochus III hesitating between war and peace with Rome; he advised war and became one of the King’s staff. When the Romans defeated Antiochus at Magnesia (189) they made it a condition of peace that Hannibal should be turned over to them. He escaped first to Crete, then to Bithynia. The Romans hunted him out and surrounded his hiding place with soldiers. Hannibal preferred death to capture. “Let us,” he said, “relieve the Romans from the anxiety they have so long experienced, since they think it tries their patience too much to wait for an old man’s death.”32 He drank the poison that he carried with him, and died, aged sixty-seven, in the year 184 B.C. A few months later his conqueror and admirer, Scipio, followed him to peace.
CHAPTER IV
Stoic Rome
508-202 B.C.
WHAT kind of human beings were these irresistible Romans? What institutions had formed them to such ruthless strength in character and policy?—what homes and schools, what religion and moral code? How did they take from the soil, and by what economic organization and skill did they mold to their uses, the wealth required to equip their growing cities and those ever new armies that never knew rest? What were they like in their streets and shops, their temples and theaters, their science and philosophy, their old age and death? Unless we visualize, scene by scene, this Rome of the early Republic, we shall never understand that vast evolution of customs, morals, and ideas which produced in one age the stoic Cato, in a later age the epicurean Nero, and at last transformed the Roman Empire into the Roman Church.
I. THE FAMILY
Birth itself was an adventure in Rome. If the child was deformed or female, the father was permitted by custom to expose it to death.1 Otherwise it was welcomed; for though the Romans even of this period practiced some measure of family limitation, they were eager to have sons. Rural life made children assets, public opinion condemned childlessness, and religion promoted fertility by persuading the Roman that if he left no son to tend his grave his spirit would suffer endless misery. After eight days the child was formally accepted into the family and the clan by a solemn ceremony at the domestic hearth. A clan (gens) was a group of freeborn families tracing themselves to a common ancestor, bearing his name, united in a common worship, and bound to mutual aid in peace and war. The male child was designated by an individual first name (praenomen), such as Publius, Marcus, Caius; by his clan name (nomen), such as Cornelius, Tullius, Julius; and by his family name (cognomen), such as Scipio, Cicero, Caesar. Women were most often designated simply by the clan name-Cornelia, Tullia, Claudia, Julia. Since in classical days there were only some fifteen first names for males, and these tended to be repeated confusingly in many generations of the same family, they were usually reduced to an initial, and a fourth—or even a fifth—name was added for distinctiveness. So P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus Maior, the conqueror of Hannibal, was differentiated from P. Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Minor, the destroyer of Carthage.
The child found itself absorbed into the most basic and characteristic of Roman institutions—the patriarchal family. The power of the father was nearly absolute, as if the family had been organized as a unit of an army always at war. He alone of the family had any rights before the law in the early Republic; he alone could buy, hold, or sell property, or make contracts; even his wife’s dowry, in this period, belonged to him. If his wife was accused of a crime she was committed to him for judgment and punishment; he could condemn her to death for infidelity or for stealing the keys to his wine. Over his children he had the power of life, death, and sale into slavery. All that the son acquired became legally his father’s property; nor could he marry without his father’s consent. A married daughter remained under her father’s power, unless he allowed her to marry cum manu—gave her into the hand or power of her husband. Over his slaves he had unlimited authority. These, and his wife and children, were mancipia to him—literally, “taken in hand”; and no matter what their age or status, they remained in his power until he chose to emancipate them—to let them “out of hand.” These rights of the paterfamilias were checked to some degree by custom, public opinion, the clan council, and praetorian law; otherwise they lasted to his death, and could not be ended by his insanity or even by his own choice. Their effect was to cement the unity of the family as the basis of Roman morals and government and to establish a discipline that hardened the Roman character into stoic strength. They were harsher in the letter than in practice; the most extreme of them were seldom used, the rest seldom abused. They did not bar a deep and natural pietas, or reverential affection, between parents and children. The tomb stelae of Rome are as tender as those of Greece or our own.
Since the greater urgency of the male supplies woman with charms more potent than any law, her status in Rome must not be judged from her legal disabilities. She was not allowed to appear in court, even as a witness. Widowed, she could not claim any dower right in her husband’s estate; he might, if he wished, leave her nothing. At every age of her life she was under the tutelage of a man—her father, her brother, her husband, her son, or a guardian—without whose consent she could not marry or dispose of property. On the other hand, she could inherit, though not beyond 100,000 sesterces ($15,000), and she could own without limit. In many instances, as the earlier passed into the later Republic, she became wealthy because her husband put his property in her name to escape bankruptcy obligations, damage suits, inheritance taxes, and other everlasting jeopardies. She played a role in religion as priestess; nearly every priest had to have a wife and lost his office when she died. Within the home (domus) she was honored mistress, mea domina, madame. She was not, like the Greek wife, confined to a gynaeceum, or woman’s quarters; she took her meals with her mate, though she sat while he reclined. She did a minimum of servile work, for nearly every citizen had a slave. She might spin, as a sign of gentility, but her chief economic function was to superintend the servants; she made it a point, however, to nurse her children herself. They rewarded her patient motherhood with profound love and respect; and her husband seldom allowed his legal mastery to cloud his devotion.
The father and the mother, their house and land and property, their children, their married sons, their grandchildren by these sons, their daughters-in-law, their slaves and clients—all these constituted the Roman familia: not so much a family as a household; not a kinship group but an assembly of owned persons and things subject to the oldest male ascendant. It was within this miniature society, containing in itself the functions of family, church, school, industry, and government, that the Roman child grew up, in piety and obedience, to form the sturdy citizen of an invincible state.
II. THE RELIGION OF ROME
1. The Gods
The Roman family was both an association of persons with things and an association of persons and things with gods. It was the center and source of religion, as well as of morals, economy, and the state; every part of its property and every aspect of its existence were bound up in a solemn intimacy with the spiritual world. The child was taught, by the eloquent silence of example, that the undying fire in the he
arth was the sign and substance of the goddess Vesta, the sacred flame that symbolized the life and continuity of the family; which therefore must never be extinguished, but must be tended with “religious” care, and fed with a portion of each meal. Over the hearth he saw the little icons, crowned with flowers, that represented the gods or spirits of the family: the Lar that guarded its fields and buildings, its fortune and destiny, and the Penates, or gods of the interior, who protected the accumulations of the family in its storerooms, cupboards, and barns. Hovering invisible but potent over the threshold was the god Janus, two-faced not as deceitful but as watching all entry and exit at every door. The child’s father, he learned, was the ward and embodiment of an inner genius, or generative power, which would not die with the body, but must be nourished forever at the paternal grave. His mother was also the carrier of a deity and had likewise to be treated as divine; she had a Juno in her as the spirit of her capacity to bear, as the father enclosed a genius as the spirit of his power to beget. The child too had his genius or Juno, as both his guardian angel and his soul—a godly kernel in the mortal husk. Everywhere about him, he heard with awe, were the watchful Di Manes, or Kindly Shades, of those male forebears whose grim death masks hung on the household walls, warning him not to stray from the ways of his ancestors, and reminding him that the family was composed not merely of those few individuals that lived in his moment but also of those that had once been, or would someday be, members of it in the flesh, and therefore formed part of it in its spiritual multitude and timeless unity.