the ruin of Rome, in retribution for the cruelty of the Romans to the
people of Veii. It is the story of this disaster which we have now to
tell. While the Romans were assailing Veii and making other conquests
among the neighboring cities, a new people had come into Central Italy,
a fair-faced, light-haired, great-bodied tribe of barbarians, fierce in
aspect, warlike in character, the first contingent of that great
invasion from the north which, centuries afterwards, was to overthrow
the empire of Rome.
These were the Gauls, barbarian tribes from the region now known as
France, who had long before crossed the Alps and made themselves lords
of much of Northern Italy. Just when this took place we do not know, but
about the time with which we are now concerned they pushed farther
south, overthrew the Etruscans, and in the year 389 B.C. crossed the
Apennines and penetrated into Central Italy.
And now the proud city of Rome was to come face to face with an enemy
more powerful and courageous than any it had hitherto known. In the year
named the Gauls besieged the city of Clusium, in Etruria, the city of
Lars Porsenna, who in former years had aided Tarquin against Rome. The
Roman senate, alarmed at their approach, sent three deputies to observe
these barbarian bands. What follows is the story as told in Roman
annals. It cannot be accepted as the exact truth, though no one
questions the destruction of Rome by the Gauls.
The story goes, then, that the deputies sent to the barbarians, and
asked by what right they sought to take a part of the territory of
Clusium, a city in alliance with Rome. Brennus, the leader of the Gauls,
who knew little and cared less about Rome, replied, with insolent pride,
that all things belonged to the brave, and that their right lay in their
swords.
Soon after, in a sortie that was made from the city, one of the Roman
deputies joined the soldiers, and killed a Gaulish champion of great
size and stature. On this being reported to Brennus he sent messengers
to Rome, demanding that the man who had slain one of his chiefs, when no
war existed between the Gauls and Romans, should be delivered into his
hands for punishment. The senate voted to do so, as the demand seemed
reasonable; but an appeal was made to the people, and they declared that
the culprit should not be given up. On this answer being taken to
Brennus, he at once ordered that the siege of Clusium should be
abandoned, and marched with his whole army upon Rome.
A Roman army, forty thousand strong, was hastily raised, and crossed the
Tiber, marching towards Veii, where they expected to meet the advancing
enemy. But they reckoned wrongly: the Gauls came down the left bank of
the river, plundering and burning as they marched. This threw the Romans
into the greatest alarm. For many miles above Rome the Tiber could not
be forded, there were no bridges, and boats could not be had to convey
so large an army. The Romans were forced to march back with all speed to
the city, cross the river there, and hasten to meet their foes before
they got too near at hand. But when they came within sight of the Gauls
the latter were already within twelve miles of Rome.
The Roman army was drawn up behind the Alia, a little stream whose deep
bed formed a line of defence. But the Gauls made their attack upon the
weakest section of the Roman army, hewing them down with their great
broadswords, and assailing their ears with frightful yells. The Roman
right wing, formed of new recruits, gave way before this vigorous
charge, and in its flight threw the regular legions of the left wing
into disorder. The Gauls pursued so fiercely that in a short time the
whole army was in total rout, and flying as Roman army had never fled
before.
Many plunged into the river, in hope of escaping by swimming across it.
But of these the Gauls slew multitudes on the banks, and killed most of
those in the stream with their javelins. Others took refuge in a dense
wood near the road, where they lay hidden till nightfall. The remainder
fled back to the city, where they brought the frightful tidings of the
utter ruin of the Roman army.
The news threw Rome into a panic. Of those who escaped from the battle,
the majority had crossed the river and made their way to Veii. No other
army could be raised. Most of the other inhabitants left the city, as
the people of Athens had done when the army of Xerxes approached. It was
resolved to abandon the city to the barbarians, but to maintain the
citadel, the home of the gods of Rome. The holy articles in the temples
were buried or removed, the Vestal Virgins sent away, and the flower of
the patricians took refuge in the Capitol, determined to defend to the
last that abiding-place of the guardian gods of Rome.
But there were aged members of the senate, old patricians who had filled
the highest offices in the state, and venerable ministers of the gods,
who felt that they had a different duty to perform. They could not serve
their country by their deeds; they might by their death. They devoted
themselves and the army of the Gauls, in solemn invocations, to the
spirits of the dead and to the earth, the common grave of man. Then,
attiring themselves in their richest robes of office, each took his seat
on his ivory chair of magistracy in the gate-way of his house.
Meanwhile the Gauls had delayed for a day their attack on the city,
fearing that the silence portended some snare. When they did enter, the
people had escaped with such valuables as they could carry. The Capitol
was provisioned and garrisoned, and the aged senators awaited death in
solemn calm.
On seeing these venerable men, sitting in motionless silence amid the
confusion of the sack of the city, the Gauls viewed them with awe,
regarding them at first as more than human. One of the soldiers
approached M. Papirius, and began reverently to stroke his long white
beard. Papirius was a minister of the gods, and looked on this touch of
a barbarian hand as profanation. With an impulse of anger he struck the
Gaul on the head with his ivory sceptre. Instantly the barbarian,
breaking into rage, cut him down with his sword. This put an end to the
feeling of awe. All the old men were attacked and slain, their vow being
thus fulfilled.
Rome, except its Capitol, was now in the hands of the Gauls. The sack
and ruin of the city went mercilessly on. But the Capitol defied their
efforts. It stood on a hill which, except at a single point, presented
precipitous sides. The Gauls tried to storm it by this single approach,
but were driven back with loss. They then blockaded the hill, and spent
their time in devastating the city and neighboring country.
While this was going on the fugitives from Rome had gathered at Veii,
where they daily became more reorganized. And now they turned in their
distress to a man whom they had injured in their prosperity. Camillus,
the conqueror of Veii, had been exiled from Rome on a charge of having
been dishonest in distributing the spoils of the conquered city. He was
now living at Ardea, whither messengers were sent, begging him to come
to the aid of Rome. He sent word back that he had been condemned for an
offence of which he was not guilty, and would not return unless
requested to do so by the senate.
But the senate was shut up in the Capitol. How could it be reached? In
this dilemma a young man, Pontius Cominius, volunteered for the
adventure. He swam the Tiber at night, climbed the hill by the aid of
shrubs and projecting stones, obtained for Camillus the appointment as
dictator, and returned by the same route.
The feat of Cominius, whatever its real purpose, came near being a fatal
one to Rome. He had left his marks on the cliff. Here the soil had been
trodden away and stones loosened; there bushes had been broken or torn
from the soil. The sharp eyes of the Gauls saw, in the morning light,
these proofs that some one had climbed or descended the hill. The cliff,
then, could be climbed. Some Roman had climbed it; why not they? The
spot, supposed to be inaccessible, was not guarded. There was no wall at
its top. Here was an open route to that stubborn citadel. They resolved
to attempt it as soon as night should fall.
It was midnight when the Gauls began to make their way slowly and with
difficulty up the steep cliff. The moon may have aided them with its
rays, but, if so, it revealed them to no sentinel above. The very
watch-dogs failed to scent and signal their approach. They reached the
summit, and, to their gratification, no alarm had been given. The Romans
slept on.
The fate of Rome in that hour hung in the balance. Had the citadel been
taken and its defenders slain, Rome might never have recovered from the
blow. The whole course of history might have been changed. It was the
merest chance that saved the city from this impending disaster.
It chanced that on this part of the hill stood the temple of the
guardian gods of Rome,--Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva,--and in this temple
were kept a number of geese, sacred to Juno. Though food was not
abundant, the garrison had spared these sacred geese. They were now to
be amply repaid, for the geese alone heard the noise of the ascending
Gauls, and in alarm began a loud screaming and flapping of wings.
The noise aroused Marcus Manlius, who slept near. Hastily seizing his
sword and shield, he called to his comrades and ran to the edge of the
cliff. He reached there just in time to see the head and shoulders of a
burly Gaul, who had nearly attained the summit. Dashing the rim of his
shield into the face of the barbarian, Manlius tumbled him down the
rock, and with him those who followed in his track. The others,
dismayed, dropped their arms to cling more closely to the rocks. Unable
to ascend or descend, they were easily slaughtered by the guards who
followed Manlius. The Capitol was saved. As for the captain of the
watch, from whose neglect of duty this peril had come, he was punished
the next morning by being hurled down the cliff upon the slaughtered
Gauls.
Manlius was rewarded, says the story, by each man giving him from his
scanty store a day's allowance of food,--namely, half a pound of corn
and five ounces in weight of wine. As for the real defenders of Rome,
the geese of the Capitol, they were ever after held in the highest honor
and veneration.
As the Capitol could not be taken by assault or surprise, there
remained only the slow process of siege. For six or eight months the
Gauls blockaded the hill. So says the story, but it was probably not so
long. However, in the end the Romans were brought to the point of
famine, and offered to ransom their city by paying a large sum of gold.
Brennus, the Gaulish king, was ready to accept the offer. His men were
suffering from the Roman fever; food had grown scarce; he agreed, if
paid a thousand pounds' weight of gold, to withdraw his army from Rome.
Much gold had been brought by the fugitive patricians into the Capitol.
From this the delegates brought down and placed in the scales a
sufficient quantity. But while they found the gold, the Gauls found the
weights, and it was soon discovered that the wily barbarians were
cheating. Their weights were too heavy. Complaint of this fraud was made
by the Roman tribune of the soldiers. In reply Brennus drew his heavy
broadsword and threw it into the scale with the weights.
"What does this mean?" asked the tribune.
"It means," answered the barbarian, haughtily, "woe to the vanquished!"
"_Vae victis esse!_"
While this was going on, says the legend, Camillus, the dictator, was
marching to Rome with the legions he had organized at Veii. He appeared
at the right minute for the dramatic interest of the story, entered the
Forum while the gold was being weighed, bade the Romans take back their
gold, threw the weights to the Gauls, and told Brennus proudly that it
was the Roman custom to pay their debts in iron, not in gold.
A fight ensued, as might be expected. The Gauls were driven from the
city. The next day Camillus attacked them in their camp, eight miles
from Rome, and defeated them so utterly that not a man was left alive to
carry home the tale of the slaughter.
This story of the coming of Camillus is too much like the last act of a
stage-play, or the denouement of a novel, to be true. Most likely the
Gauls marched off with their gold, though they may have been attacked on
their retreat, and most or all of the gold regained.
Camillus, however, is said to have saved Rome in still another way. The
old city was in ashes. Most of the citizens were at Veii, where they had
found or built new homes. They were loath to come back to rebuild a
ruined city. This Camillus induced them to do. Every appeal was made to
the local pride and the religious sentiments of the people. A centurion,
marching with his company, and being obliged to halt in front of the
senate-house, called to the standard-bearer, "Pitch your standard here,
for this is the best place to stop at." This casual remark was looked
upon as an omen from heaven, and by this and the like means the people
were induced to return.
Then the rebuilding of Rome began. The sites of the temples were
retraced as far as could be done in the ruins. The laws of the twelve
tables and some other records were recovered, but the mass of the
historical annals of Rome had been destroyed. Some relics were said to
have been miraculously preserved, among them the shepherd's crook of
Romulus.
But the bulk of the possessions of the Romans had vanished in the
flames; the streets were mere heaps of ashes; the very walls had been in
part pulled down; rubbish and ruin lay everywhere. Rome, like the
phoenix, had to be born again from its ashes. Men built wherever they
could find a clear spot. Stones and roofing-material were brought from
Veii, and one city was dismantled that another might be restored. Stones
and timber were supplied to any man from the public lands. The city
rapidly rose again. But it was an irregular city; the streets ran
anywhere; no effort was made at rule or system in the making of the new
Rome.
As for Camillus, he came to be honored as the second founder of Rome.
While the Romans were at work on their new homes they were harassed by
their foes, and he was kept busy with the army in the field. He lived
for twenty-five years longer, and in the year 367 B.C., when some eighty
years of age, he marched again to meet the Gauls in a new assault upon
Rome, and defeated them with such slaughter that they left Rome alone
for many years afterwards.
Marcus Manlius, the preserver of the Capitol, was not so fortunate. He
came forward as the patron of the poor, who began to suffer again from
the severe laws against debtors. Finally he began to use his large
fortune to relieve suffering debtors, and is said to have paid the debts
of four hundred debtors, thus saving them from bondage. This generosity
won him the unbounded affection of the people, who called him the
"Father of the Commons." But it aroused the suspicion of the patricians,
and some of these, against whom he had used violent language, had him
arrested on a charge of treason, perhaps with good reason. Though he
showed the many honors he had received for services to his country, he
was condemned to death and his house razed to the ground. Thus the
patricians dealt with the benefactors of the poor.
_THE CURTIAN GULF._
During three years--363 to 361 B.C.--Rome was ravaged by the plague,
which was so violent and fatal as to carry off the citizens by hundreds.
In its first year it found a noble victim in Camillus, the conqueror of
Veii and the second founder of Rome, who four years before had a second
time defeated the Gauls. He was the last of the old heroes of Rome,
those whose glory belongs to romance rather than history. The Gauls had
destroyed the records of old Rome, and left only legend and romance.
With the new Rome history fairly began.
But we have another romantic tale to tell before we bid adieu to the
story of early Rome. In the second year of the pestilence a strange and
portentous event occurred. The Tiber rose to an unusual height,
overflowed with its waters the great circus (_Circus Maximus_), and put
a stop to the games then going on, which were intended to propitiate the
wrath of heaven, and induce the gods to relieve man from the evil of the
plague.
And now, in the midst of the Forum, there yawned open a fearful gulf, so
wide and deep that the superstitious Romans viewed it with awe and
affright. Whether it was due to an earthquake or the wrath of the gods
is not for us to say. The Romans believed the latter; those who prefer
may believe the former. But, so we are told, it seemed bottomless.
Throw what they would in it, it stood unfilled, and the feeling grew
that no power of man could ever fill its yawning depths.
Man being powerless, the oracles of the gods were consulted. Must this
gaping wound always stand open in the soil of Rome? or could it in any
way be filled and the offended deities who had caused it be propitiated?
From the oracle came the reply that it must stand open till that which
constituted the best and true strength of the Roman commonwealth was
cast as an offering into the gulf. Then only would it close, and
thereafter forever would the state live and flourish.
[Illustration: RUINS OF THE ROMAN AQUEDUCTS.]
The true strength of Rome! In what did this consist? This question men
asked each other anxiously and none seemed able to answer. But there was
one man in Rome who interpreted rightly the meaning of the oracle. This
was a noble youth, M. Curtius by name, who had played his part valiantly
in war, and gained great fame by brave and manly deeds. The true
strength of Rome? he said to the people. In what else could it lie but
in the arms and valor of her children? This was the sacrifice the gods
demanded.
Going home, he put on his armor and mounted his horse. Riding to the
brink of the gulf, he, before the eyes of the trembling and awe-struck
multitude, devoted himself to death for the safety and glory of Rome,
and plunged, with his horse, headlong into the gaping void. The people
rushed after him to the brink, flung in their offerings, and with a
surge the lips of the gap came together, and the gulf was forever
closed. The place was afterwards known by the name of the Curtian Lake,
in honor of this sacrifice.
There are two other stories of this date worth repeating, as giving rise
to two great names in Rome. T. Manlius, the future conqueror of the
Latins, fought with a gigantic Gaul on the bridge over the Anio on the
Salarian road. Slaying his enemy, he took from his neck a chain of gold
(_torques_), which he afterwards wore upon his own. From this the
soldiers called him Torquatus, which name his descendants ever
afterwards bore.
In a later battle Marcus Valerius fought with a second gigantic Gaul.
During the combat a wonderful thing happened. A crow perched on the
helmet of the Roman, and continued there as the combatants fought.
Occasionally it flew up into the air, and darted down upon the Gaul,
striking at his eyes with its beak and claws. The Gaul, confounded by
this attack, soon fell by the sword of his foe, and then the crow flew
up again, and vanished towards the east. The name of Corvus (crow) was
added to that of Valerius, and was long afterwards borne by his
descendants.
These stories are rather to be enjoyed than believed. They probably
contain more poetry than history, particularly that of Curtius and the
gulf. Yet they were accepted as history by the Romans, and are given in
all their detail in the fine old work of Livy, the rarest and raciest of
the story-tellers of Rome.
_ANECDOTES OF THE LATIN AND SAMNITE WARS._
The conquest of Italy by Rome was attended by many interesting events,
of which we propose to relate here some of the more striking. The
capture and burning of Rome by the Gauls, and the dispersal of her army
and people, ruinous as it seemed, was but an event in her career of
conquest. The city was no sooner rebuilt than the old regime of war was
resumed, and it was no longer a struggle between neighboring cities, but
of Rome against powerful confederacies and peoples, such as the
Volscians, the Etruscans, the Latins, the Campanians, and the Samnites,
the final conquest of which gave her the dominion of Italy.
The war with the Latins was attended with some circumstances showing
strongly the stern and indomitable spirit of the Romans. This war was
carried into Campania, in Southern Italy; and here, on a celebrated
occasion, when the two armies lay encamped in close vicinity on the
plain of Capua, the Roman consuls issued a strict order against
skirmishing or engaging in single encounters with the enemy. The two
peoples were alike in arms and in language, and it was feared that such
chance combats might lead to confusion and disaster.
The only man to disobey this order was T. Manlius, the son of one of
the consuls. A Latin warrior, Geminus Metius, of Tusculum, challenged
young Manlius to meet him in single combat; and the youthful warrior,
fired by ambition and warlike zeal, and eager to sustain the honor of
Rome, accepted the challenge, despite his father's order. If killed, his
fault would be atoned; if successful, victory over a noted warrior must
win him pardon and praise.
The duel that ensued was a fierce and gallant one. It ended in the
triumph of the young Roman, who laid his antagonist dead at his feet.
Shouts of triumph from the Roman soldiers hailed his victory; and when
he had despoiled his slain foe of his arms, and borne them triumphantly
from the field, the exultation of the Romans was as unbounded as the
chagrin of the Latins was deep. Towards his father's tent the young
victor proudly went, through exulting lines of troops, and laid his
spoils in triumph at the feet of the stern old man.
The poor youth, the rejoicing soldiers, knew not the man with whom they
had to deal. A military order had been disobeyed. To old Manlius the
fact that the culprit was his son, and that he had added honor to the
Roman arms, weighed nothing. Discipline stood above affection or
victory. Turning coldly away, the iron-hearted old Roman ordered that
the soldiers should be immediately summoned to the praetorium, or
general's tent, and that his son should be beheaded before them.
This cruel and inhuman order filled the whole army with horror. Yet none
dared interfere, and the unnatural mandate was obeyed, in full view of
an army whose late exultation was turned to deepest woe and indignation.
The youngest soldiers never forgave the consul for his inhuman act, but
regarded him with abhorrence to the end of his life. But their hatred
was mingled with fear and respect, and the stern lesson taught was
doubtless felt for years in the discipline of the armies of Rome.
The next event worthy of record took place in the vicinity of Mount
Vesuvius, under whose very shadow a fierce battle was fought between the
Latin and Roman armies, with the then silent volcano as witness. Two
centuries more were to pass before Rome would learn what fearful power
lay sleeping in this long voiceless mountain.
Before the battle joined, the gods, as usual, were appealed to. During
the night both consuls had dreamed the same dream. A figure of more than
human stature and majesty had appeared to them, and told them that the
earth and the gods of the dead claimed as their victims the general of
one party and the army of the other. When the sacrifices were made, the
signs given by the entrails of the victims signified the same thing. It
was resolved, therefore, that if the army of Rome anywhere gave way, the
general commanding on that side should devote himself, and the army of
the enemy with him, to the gods of death and the grave. "Fate," said the
augurs, "requires the sacrifice of a general from one party and an army
from the other. Let it be our general and the Latin army that shall
perish."
It was the left wing of the Romans, commanded by the consul Publius
Decius, that first gave way. The consul at once accepted his fate. By
the direction of the chief priest, he wrapped his consular toga around
his head, holding it to his face with his hand, and then set his feet
upon a javelin, and repeated after the priest the words devoting him to
the gods of death. Then, arming himself at all points, and wrapping his
toga around his body in the manner usual in sacrifices, he sprang upon
his horse, and spurred headlong into the ranks of the enemy, where he
soon fell dead.