THE SHADOW OF ROME.
CARACTACUS.
“_What though the field be lost?_
_All is not lost._”
THE real conqueror of Britain now approaches. We know that British
“kings” in distress more than once appealed to Augustus, and that he
seriously thought of invading the island. The real conqueror, however,
was the Emperor Claudius, who in 43 A.D. sent an army under a trusted
leader. On the road to Britain the troops mutinied. Where Cæsar had
failed, how could they hope to succeed? Besides, the Britons were now
united under Caractacus, a valiant and skilful warrior. The mutiny,
however, was crushed, and again the Romans landed without opposition.
They pushed across the Medway to the Thames, which was forded, and
thence to the capital of Caractacus, deep in the Essex woods. The Roman
legions stormed the British stronghold, and, flushed with victory, the
Emperor Claudius proudly dubbed himself _Britannicus_. But the work of
conquest had only begun. Britain was far from subdued, and probably she
would never have been the prey of the forty thousand or fifty thousand
Romans who accomplished the task had the Britons fully understood that
“union is strength.” Their divisions were worth many legions to the
Romans, who met and conquered various bands of islanders, and never met
a united army. One Roman general is said to have fought three-and-thirty
battles south of the Thames, and to have captured more than twenty
stockaded towns. The gallant Caractacus could make no headway against
his foes, and leaving a brother dead among the Essex swamps, he sought
refuge in the trackless mountains of South Wales.
Here Caractacus rallied the broken tribes for a last stand. He chose his
ground with great skill in the centre of steep and difficult hills, and
raised ramparts of massive stones where an ascent was possible, while
between his army and the road by which the Romans must approach there
flowed a river deep and wide. As the terrible Romans drew near
Caractacus addressed his men, bidding them remember how their sires had
driven back great Cæsar himself, and encouraging them to strike for home
and freedom. The Britons, however, were again conquered. Roman
discipline, Roman armour, and Roman swords were too much for them.
Caractacus escaped, and fled to the court of his step-mother,
Cartismandua, who to her eternal shame basely betrayed him to the foe
against whom he had waged an unceasing struggle for nine years. Roman
chains fettered the limbs of the British champion, and his capture was a
triumph. To Rome he must go, where his exploits were well known, and the
citizens were agog to see him.
With his wife, brother, and child he “graced the chariot wheels” of the
Roman general. Through the majestic city he strode, noble in his simple
dignity, and still unconquered. While his companions in fear begged for
mercy, he, proudly erect, and his eye, which had never quailed before a
Roman brand, boldly bright, recked not of death, deeming honour a
greater prize than life itself. As the triumphal procession passed along
the Sacred Way he saw the stately temples, the massive arches, the
beautiful statues, and the luxurious dwellings of the great city, and
asked, “Why should these Romans, with all their grandeur, covet my poor
hut at home?”
Brought before Claudius, he made a noble defence and a proud appeal for
clemency. Claudius was moved. He bade his lictors strike off the
Briton’s chains and set him free. His after-career is unknown. In his
noblest hour he vanishes from the pages of history.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =Caractacus in Rome.=
(_From the drawing by G. F. Watts, R.A._)]
[Illustration]
A WARRIOR QUEEN.
“_Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lashed and humiliated;_
_Me the sport of ribald veterans, mine of ruffian violators._”
Now move we on. Roman arms triumph in the field, but there is no peace
in the land while the Druids, amidst the shadowy groves of Mona
(Anglesea), cease not to stir the Britons to “mutiny and rage.”
Suetonius Paulinus determines to extirpate them root and branch. He
marches to the shores of Menai Strait, and at nightfall his men essay to
cross in flat-bottomed boats. As they near the other side an
awe-inspiring scene meets their eyes. The Britons are drawn up in dense
array. To and fro run black-robed women, brandishing torches, “fierce as
the Furies,” their long hair streaming in the sea breeze. Behind them
the assembled Druids are lifting their hands to high heaven and calling
down terrible curses on the invaders. Huge fires crackle and blaze, as
though impatient of their victims. The frantic women, the cursing
priests, the flaming torches, the roaring flames paralyze the Romans.
They shudder at the sight, and hesitate to land. But discipline
prevails; they answer to the appeals of their general, and sweep forward
in resistless attack. The carnage is dreadful; the sacred groves are
fired; the Druids perish in their own flames; and the setting sun sinks
on a scene of desolation and death. As the gray embers die out, Druidism
perishes.
But elsewhere the flame of freedom still burns in many a British breast.
While Suetonius is slaughtering the Druids, Boadicea, Queen of the
Iceni, is rousing her followers to fury by the tale of her terrible
wrongs. Her dying husband, to appease his conquerors, bequeathed half
his wealth to them, in the hope that his wife and daughters might enjoy
the rest in peace. He reckoned without his hosts. They seize the whole
of the treasure; they scourge Boadicea with rods; they shamefully wrong
her children, and goad her to madness.
See her now in her war-chariot, her long yellow hair unbound, and
falling below the golden girdle that encircles her waist, her eyes
flashing vengeance as she pours forth burning words and pleads for
revenge. Her men arm themselves, and almost every hut on the wide plain
east of the Chilterns sends forth its warrior sworn to vengeance. They
swoop upon the feebly garrisoned town of Camulodunum, and every Roman in
it—man, woman, and helpless infant—is put to the sword. The Ninth
Legion, coming to the rescue, is cut to pieces, and the whole East of
England is in a blaze of rebellion. London falls before the conquering
tribes, and seventy thousand Romans are butchered by the bloodthirsty
victors. At last it seems that the yoke of Rome is broken, and Britain
is once more free.
The dread news at last reaches Suetonius. By forced marches he hastens
to London. Too late to save the city, he turns north, and takes up a
strong position, with woods and the sea behind and the open plain in
front. The Britons are eager for the fight. So sure of victory are they
that they have brought their women to the field as spectators, and have
placed them in a row of wagons in the rear, so that their shrill cries
of encouragement shall ring in their ears as they charge down on the
foe.
Boadicea, spear in hand, her daughters by her side, hurries from tribe
to tribe in her chariot, exhorting her followers to conquer or die.
“This,” she cries, “is a woman’s resolve; as for men, they may live to
be slaves.” Maddened by her words, the Britons charge the foe, only to
be repulsed with awful slaughter. They recoil from the brazen wall, and
the legions carve their way through the disordered ranks, while the
masterless steeds of the chariots, dashing hither and thither, add to
the slaughter. The Romans are pitiless; they spare not even the women.
The battle is over; Rome has triumphed, and Boadicea, heart-broken and
hopeless, flies from the scene, and in shuddering horror at the fate
which awaits her, ends her life and that of her children with poison.
Cowper, in his well-known poem, represents a Druid in the hour of her
death prophesying the fall of the Roman Empire and the far-off greatness
of her stricken land,—
“Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heaven awards the vengeance due:
Empire is on us bestowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you.”
[Illustration: =THE INVASION OF THE EMPEROR CLAUDIUS.=
(_From the painting by Thomas Davidson._)]
[Illustration]
THE IRON HAND.
“_Rome was the whole world, and all the world was Rome._”
The next figure in our pageant to attract attention is again a Roman,
but a man cast in a very different mould from the harsh and tyrannical
Suetonius. In distant Rome the emperor has taken to heart the moral of
the terrible rising led by Boadicea. He now knows that the Britons will
never yield to severity. Consequently Agricola, the new governor, is a
firm, just man, who strives by every means in his power to make the
Roman yoke press as lightly as possible on British shoulders. He rules
Britain much as a British Viceroy governs our Indian Empire to-day. He
fosters the peaceful arts; he introduces the British nobles and their
sons to the pastimes, the dress, the luxuries, and the manners of Rome.
In course of time Britain sullenly submits to her bondage, though she is
still held down by force of arms. The art and practice of war are now
forbidden to the Britons, except to the flower of the youth, who are
drafted into legions which garrison lands far from the call of home and
kindred. The fiery Briton no longer wields the claymore; he becomes a
skilled craftsman, a patient farmer, a delver in the mines.
Still, Agricola has his share of fighting. The Britons of North Wales
are subdued in the first year of his governorship. In the second year
several tribes in North Britain feel the weight of his hand; and in the
succeeding year he pushes into Caledonia, and carries his “eagles” to
the Tay. During the following summer he builds a chain of forts from the
Clyde to the Firth of Forth, vainly hoping that by this means he will
pen the fierce Caledonians in their northern fastnesses. His greatest
campaign is undertaken in the year 84 A.D., when he pushes into what is
now Forfarshire and inflicts a terrible defeat on a host of Caledonians
under their doughty chief Galgacus.
Meanwhile his galleys are creeping northward along the coast. They touch
at the Orkneys, they round Cape Wrath, run down the western coast with
its maze of islands, see the Irish hills on the starboard, and follow
the shores of South Britain until they espy Land’s End, and find
themselves once more in the familiar waters of the Channel. This voyage
proves without a doubt that Britain is an island.
Agricola’s government, wise, firm, and prosperous, comes to an untimely
end. The emperor is jealous of him, and recalls him to Rome on a
trumped-up charge. What befalls him we do not know, but probably he
comes to a violent end. At all events, he fades out of our history,
leaving behind him a fame which emperors cannot dim nor unjust tribunals
take away. Farewell, Agricola! We salute thee as the greatest governor
which Britain ever knew while Rome held sway.
And now the land is happy in having little history to record. A
generation comes and goes, and all the time Rome is building up her
government, carrying out her great military works, and bowing the neck
of the enfeebled Briton to her yoke.
What, you ask, is the appearance of Britain during the long years when
the Roman peace has settled down on the land? Let us suppose that we are
suddenly planted down in the island during the period Britain is part
and parcel of the Roman Empire. Our first impression is that a great
change has taken place in the appearance of the country. In many places
the dense woods have disappeared; broad fields have been carved out of
the forests, and are being carefully tilled by gangs of British slaves.
Britain has become one of the great granaries of the Empire. Cattle and
sheep by the hundred feed on the hillsides; and in Rome they speak of
this land as _Britannia Felix_, “Britain the Happy.”
With the disappearance of the forests the weather has improved. No
longer is the island wrapped in steaming mists; no longer is the sky
always clouded. Many of the rivers which formerly lost themselves in
reedy marshes are carefully banked in, and now flow on as broad, fair
streams. The morasses are crossed by causeways, the fens are drained,
the rivers are bridged, the fords are easy, and the Britons loudly
complain that their hands and bodies are worn out in the toilsome work.
Look at the road beneath your feet. Broad and straight, it runs over
hill and valley, across stream and moor and bog. British labourers,
under the eye of Roman road-engineers—never surpassed before or
since—have dug down to the rocky crust, and upon this have built three
or four layers of squared or broken stones mixed with gravel, lime, and
clay. The upper surface is closely paved, especially in the middle, with
large flag-stones. This is one of the military highways, all spreading
out, as our modern railways do, from London, and enabling the legions to
pass with speed through the length and breadth of the province. Watling
Street, Fosse Way, Hermen Street, Ikenild Street—the chief military
roads of the island—may still be traced, and in parts are used to-day.
While we are examining the road, we hear the tramp of armed men, and a
legion swings by. Swarthy Italian, yellow-haired German, and dusky Moor
march side by side armed with brazen shield, heavy javelin, and short,
thick sword. In the midst is the glittering “eagle,” which the Roman
would rather die than yield to a foe.
Let us follow the legion towards yonder city. On we go, traversing the
broad, white road, now crossing a stream by a bridge, now wading
waist-deep through the ford of a broad river. Here and there amidst the
trees we see the white buildings of a villa, the residence of some Roman
official. Notice the beautiful garden as you pass, and admire the
orchards of apples, plums, pears, and cherries, and the south wall where
the clustering grapes are ripening in the sun. Anon we skirt the fringe
of a cemetery with its mounds of earth marking the hollow graves, each
with its urn of dark clay containing the ashes of the dead.
On and on we march, swinging to the right or left as some mounted
messenger bearing dispatches for his general spurs by. At last the roofs
of the city are seen. Round about it is a great rampart of stone; and
here and there we see a sentinel, who leans on his javelin and shades
his eyes as he peers across the plain. We enter through one of the four
gates, pass the guard, and are at once met with a civilization such as
the Briton of old never dreamt of. We pass by rows of private dwellings
of stone and coloured tiles, glorious with pavements and columns. Here
we see the fluted or leaf-crowned pillars of a temple to Neptune; there
a stately shrine to Minerva. Yonder are the public baths, with their
marble halls and inlaid pavements—unequalled in design and workmanship
outside Rome. Within these heated chambers the chilly Roman official may
recall the comforting warmth of his Southern home, and dream of the day
when he shall see the beloved City once more. Yonder is the court-house,
and in front of it senators in flowing robes, with parchment scrolls in
their hands, pace to and fro.
Make way for the governor! Before him march his lictors with the axe in
its bundle of rods, and behind him follows a guard of honour. Now a gang
of slaves is driven by; and here comes a shock-headed British chieftain
who has been captured in border warfare, and anon will face the judgment
seat.
Hard by is the amphitheatre, where the townsfolk throng to see plays
performed, or better still to see the trained gladiators who fight to
the death “to make a Roman holiday.” Here on the seats, tier above tier,
sit the wealthier Britons of the town, aping their masters in dress,
speech, and manner. No longer do they delight in the battle and the
chase; they love the pleasures of the town. Their golden locks are shorn
and their beards are trimmed in the Roman fashion; they vie with each
other in the fold of a toga and the fit of a sandal; their days are
spent in a weary quest of amusement. They bathe; they drink their wine;
they feast; they dice; they go to the shows; and consider themselves
fine fellows indeed, because they can lisp the tongue of their masters.
The gleaming marble portico of the governor’s residence invites us.
Within, the ladies of his household sew and spin, while their lord
directs the affairs of his town and sits on the judgment seat. On their
dressing-tables are mirrors of polished steel, combs of boxwood, and
pins of bone for their long tresses. They gird up their robes with
brooches of gold and silver; they wear jewelled bracelets on their arms
and dainty shoes of silk on their feet. Supper is at three. Then the
gentlemen will join them, and they will recline on the couches and feast
on the dainties of the island, which they will wash down with a
favourite wine trodden out in the presses of the distant home-land.
Then we pass on to the “poor quarter,” where the workshops of the
multifarious workers are situated and the huts of the humblest part of
the population abound. Here there are squalor and misery in plenty, but
still a touch of Roman manners.
Such is the life of a Brito-Roman town in the palmy days of the Romans
in Britain.
And now let the pageant move on to the closing scenes of Roman sway.
Rome is sinking fast. Within, her citizens have lost their old courage
and genius for government. Without, the fierce Goths and Vandals are
assailing her provinces. Rome’s grip on her Empire is being loosened
more and more every day, and the wild hordes on her frontiers grow
bolder and bolder as the Roman garrisons are withdrawn to defend the
great city itself. So it is in Britain, where the Caledonians swarm over
Hadrian’s Wall and fall upon the Britons of the south. The Roman troops
mutiny, and set up their general as emperor, and even follow him to
Gaul, where stout-hearted Severus, who now appears on the scene, makes
short work of them and their leader.
Meanwhile the ravages of the Caledonians increase, and to save the
province old Severus, now sixty-two years of age and racked with the
gout, crosses the Channel, and, carried in a litter before his army,
sets his face for the border, in the hope of teaching the northern
tribes a terrible lesson. Through the trackless swamps, the woods, the
moorlands, and the wild mountains beyond the Wall, the old general hews
his way until he reaches the shores of the Moray Firth, where the tribes
make peace. Severus has accomplished nothing. His victory is a disaster;
a few more such victories and he will have no army left. When the
watchers on the Wall greet his approach with shouts of welcome, the
bleaching bones of fifty thousand Romans mark his long line of march. He
repairs the Wall, and then, grievously sick, retreats to York, where, on
his deathbed, he plans a new campaign which will never be made.
His death is the beginning of the end. Two hundred years of misery and
constant strife set in. General after general makes himself emperor;
they come and go in blood; and all the time Britain, despoiled of her
youth to rot on foreign fields, is the prey of a pitiless foe. The
Caledonians, who are now known as Picts and Scots, actually march on
London and carry off its citizens as slaves. A new and even more dreaded
foe, the terrible Saxon pirate, has also appeared; there are desperate
attempts at defence, but they are one and all in vain. The hour of doom
has struck, alike for Empire and Province. The Goth is thundering at the
very gates of Rome. All the available troops of the Empire, wherever
stationed, are called in to defend the city.
The last of the legions leaves British shores in the year 407 amidst the
sighs and tears of the defenceless inhabitants, who are now as sheep
without a shepherd. Pitiful appeals—“the groans of the Britons”—are
sent to Rome; but the weak and indolent emperor merely pauses in the
absorbing pastime of feeding his pigeons to tell the despairing
islanders that they must provide for their own safety. Thus Britain is
left to her fate, and for two long centuries darkness closes round her.
“The eagles have flown.” Their glory has departed, and they disappear
from the pageant of our history. Rome found the natives warlike, though
untrained; she left them helpless and feeble. True, she gave them the
benefits of peace; she taught them arts and crafts; she gave them
education, and a measure of comfort and prosperity. But she did not
teach them how to defend themselves, and so, when overwhelmed by hardier
foes, they perished miserably by fire and sword.
[Illustration: =THE EMPEROR HADRIAN VISITING A POTTERY IN BRITAIN.=
(_From the picture by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A. By kind permission
of the Artist._)]
[Illustration]