Tacitus - Agricola & Germania - Translations (1869-1999): Church-Brodribb, Hutton, Mattingly/Handford, Birley

The Life of Agricola

 

Chapters 1–3, an introduction to the times.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

To bequeath to posterity a record of the deeds and characters of distinguished men is an ancient practice which even the present age, careless as it is of its own sons, has not abandoned whenever some great and conspicuous excellence has conquered and risen superior to that failing, common to petty and to great states, blindness and hostility to goodness. But in days gone by, as there was a greater inclination and a more open path to the achievement of memorable actions, so the man of highest genius was led by the simple reward of a good conscience to hand on without partiality or self-seeking the remembrance of greatness. Many too thought that to write their own lives showed the confidence of integrity rather than presumption. Of Rutilius and Scaurus no one doubted the honesty or questioned the motives. So true is it that merit is best appreciated by the age in which it thrives most easily. But in these days, I, who have to record the life of one who has passed away, must crave an indulgence, which I should not have had to ask had I only to inveigh against an age so cruel, so hostile to all virtue.

We have read that the panegyrics pronounced by Arulenus Rusticus on Paetus Thrasea, and by Herennius Senecio on Priscus Helvidius, were made capital crimes, that not only their persons but their very books were objects of rage, and that the triumvirs were commissioned to burn in the forum those works of splendid genius. They fancied, forsooth, that in that fire the voice of the Roman people, the freedom of the Senate, and the conscience of the human race were perishing, while at the same time they banished the teachers of philosophy, and exiled every noble pursuit, that nothing good might anywhere confront them. Certainly we showed a magnificent example of patience; as a former age had witnessed the extreme of liberty, so we witnessed the extreme of servitude, when the informer robbed us of the interchange of speech and hearing. We should have lost memory as well as voice, had it been as easy to forget as to keep silence.

Now at last our spirit is returning. And yet, though at the dawn of a most happy age Nerva Caesar blended things once irreconcilable, sovereignty and freedom, though Nerva Trajan is now daily augmenting the prosperity of the time, and though the public safety has not only our hopes and good wishes, but has also the certain pledge of their fulfillment, still, from the necessary condition of human frailty, the remedy works less quickly than the disease. As our bodies grow but slowly, perish in a moment, so it is easier to crush than to revive genius and its pursuits. Besides, the charm of indolence steals over us, and the idleness which at first we loathed we afterwards love. What if during those fifteen years, a large portion of human life, many were cut off by ordinary casualties, and the ablest fell victims to the Emperor’s rage, if a few of us survive, I may almost say, not only others but our own selves, survive, though there have been taken from the midst of life those many years which brought the young in dumb silence to old age, and the old almost to the very verge and end of existence! Yet we shall not regret that we have told, though in language unskilful and unadorned, the story of past servitude, and borne our testimony to present happiness. Meanwhile this book, intended to do honour to Agricola, my father-in-law, will, as an expression of filial regard, be commended, or at least excused.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

To hand down to posterity the works and ways of famous men was a custom of the past: our age has not yet abandoned it even now, indifferent though it be to its own affairs, whenever, at least, some great and notable virtue has overcome and surmounted the vice common alike to small states and great – ignorance of what is right and jealousy.

But in our fathers’ times, just as it was easy, and there was more scope, to do deeds worth recording, so also there was inducement then to the most distinguished men of ability to publish such records of virtue. Partisanship or self-seeking was not the motive: a good conscience was its own reward; indeed, many men even counted it not presumption, but self-respect, to narrate their own lives. A Rutilius, a Scaurus, could do so without being disbelieved or provoking a sneer; so true is it that virtues are best appreciated in those ages which most readily give them birth; but in these times, even though I was about to write the life of a man who was already dead, I had to seek permission which I should not have needed, had invective been my purpose; so harsh was the spirit of the age, so cynical towards virtue.

It is recorded that when Rusticus Arulenus extolled Thrasea Paetus, when Herennius Senecio extolled Helvidius Priscus, their praise became a capital offence, so that persecution fell not merely on the authors themselves but also on their books: the police, in fact, were given the task of burning in the courtyard of the Forum the memorials of our noblest characters.

They imagined, no doubt, that in those flames disappeared the voice of the people, the liberty of the Senate, the conscience of mankind; especially as the teachers of Philosophy also were expelled, and all decent behaviour exiled, in order that nowhere might anything of good report present itself to men’s eyes.

Assuredly we have given a signal proof of our sub-missiveness; and even as former generations witnessed the utmost excesses of liberty, so have we the extremes of slavery. The investigations of the secret police have deprived us even of the give and take of conversation. We should have lost memory itself as well as voice, had forgetfulness been as easy as silence.

Now at last heart is coming back to us: from the first, from the very outset of this happy age, Nerva has united things long incompatible, the principate and liberty; Trajan is increasing daily the happiness of the times; and public confidence has not merely learned to hope and pray, but has received assurance of the fulfilment of its prayers and so has gained strength. Though it is true that from the nature of human frailty cure operates more slowly than disease, and as the body itself is slow to grow and quick to decay, so also it is easier to damp men’s spirits and their enthusiasm than to revive them: for listlessness itself has a certain subtle charm which comes over us, and the languor we hate at first we learn to love. For the term of fifteen years, a large space in human life, chance and change have been cutting off many among us; others, and the most energetic, have perished by the Emperor’s ferocity; while we few who remain have outlived not merely our neighbours but, so to say, ourselves; for out of our prime have been blotted fifteen years, during which young men reached old age and old men the very bounds almost of decrepitude, and all without opening their lips.

But after all I shall not regret the task of recording our former slavery and testifying to our present blessings, even though with unpractised and stammering tongue. Meanwhile this book is dedicated to the glory of my father-in-law Agricola: its plea of filial duty will commend or, at least, excuse it.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

Famous men of old often had their lives and characters set on record; and even our generation, with all its indifference to the world around it, has not quite abandoned the practice. An outstanding personality can still triumph over that blind antipathy to virtue which is a defect of all states, small and great alike. In the past, however, the road to memorable achievement was not so uphill or so beset with obstacles, and the task of recording it never failed to attract men of genius. There was no question of partiality or self-seeking. The consciousness of an honourable aim was reward enough. Many even felt that to tell their own life’s story showed self-confidence rather than conceit. When Rutilius and Scaurus did so, they were neither disbelieved nor criticized; for noble character is best appreciated in those ages in which it can most readily develop. But in these times, when I planned to recount the life of one no longer with us I had to crave an indulgence which I should not sought for an invective. So savage and hostile to merit was the age.

Eulogies, indeed, were written by Arulenus Rusticus and Herennius Senecio – the one, of Thrasea Paetus; the other, of Helvidius Priscus. But both were treated as capital offences, and the savage rage of their enemies was vented upon the books as well as upon their authors. The public executioners, under official instructions, made a bonfire in Comitium and Forum of those masterpieces of literary art. So much is in the record. In those fires doubtless the Government imagined that it could silence the voice of Rome and annihilate the freedom of the Senate and men’s knowledge of truth. They even went on to banish the professors of philosophy and exile all honourable accomplishments, so that nothing decent might anywhere confront them. We have indeed set up a record of subservience. Rome of old explored the utmost limits of freedom; we have plumbed the depths of slavery, robbed as we are by informers even of the right to exchange ideas in conversation. We should have lost our memories as well as our tongues had it been as easy to forget as to be silent.

Now at long last our spirit revives. In the first dawn of this blessed age, Nerva harmonized the old discord between autocracy and freedom; day by day Trajan is enhancing the happiness of the times; and the national security, instead of being something to be hoped and prayed for, has attained the solid assurance of a prayer fulfilled. Yet our human nature is so weak that remedies take longer to work than diseases. Our bodies, which grow so slowly, perish in the twinkling of an eyes; so too the mind and its pursuits can more easily be crushed than brought to life again. Idleness gradually develops a strange fascination of its own, and we end by loving the sloth that at first we loathed. Think of it. Fifteen whole years – no small part of a man’s life – taken from us. Many have died by the chance happenings of fate; all the most energetic have fallen victims to the cruelty of the emperor. And the few of us that survive are no longer what we once were, since so many of our best years have been taken from us – years in which men in their prime have aged and old men have reached the extreme limit of mortality, without ever uttering a word. Yet I shall find some satisfaction, however inartistic and unskilled my language, in recording the bondage we once suffered, and in acknowledging the blessings we now enjoy. In the meantime, this book, which sets out to honour my father-in-law Agricola, will be commended, or at least pardoned, for the loyal affection to which it bears witness.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

It was the custom in past times to relate famous men’s deeds and characters for posterity. Even our present age, though indifferent to its own affairs, has not abandoned it, at least whenever some great and noble virtue has overcome and surmounted the vice that is common to small and great states alike: ignorance of what is right and jealousy.

Yet in former generations the path to memorable achievements was less uphill and more open. Further, the most distinguished writers were attracted to publish accounts of meritorious achievement, without partiality or self-seeking. Their sole reward was in doing what they knew to be right. Indeed, many considered that to compose a record of their own life showed confidence about their conduct rather than conceit. Rutilius and Scaurus did so and were neither disbelieved nor criticized. Of course, excellence can best be appreciated in those ages in which it can most readily develop. But in these times I needed permission when I intended to relate the life of a dead man. I should not have had to request this if I had been planning an invective. So savage and hostile to merit has this age been.

We have read how Arulenus Rusticus’ eulogy of Paetus Thrasea and that of Priscus Helvidius by Herennius Senecio were treated as capital offences; further, that savage punishment was inflicted not only on the authors themselves but on their books. The Board of Three was delegated with the task of burning, in the Comitium and Forum, the biographies of distinguished men of genius. No doubt they thought that in that fire the voice of the Roman People, the liberty of the senate, and the conscience of mankind could be wiped out – over and above this, the teachers of philosophy were expelled and all noble accomplishments driven into exile, so that nothing honourable might anywhere confront them.

We have indeed provided a grand specimen of submissiveness. Just as the former age witnessed an extreme in freedom, so we have experienced the depths of servitude, deprived by espionage even of the intercourse of speaking and listening to one another. We should have lost our memories as well as our voices, were it as easy to forget as to be silent.

Now at last spirits are reviving. At the first dawning of this most fortunate era, Nerva Caesar at once combined principles formerly incompatible, monarchy and freedom. Day by day Nerva Trajan is enhancing the happiness of our times. Public security has not merely inspired our hopes and prayers but has gained the assurance of those prayers’ fulfilment and, from this, strength. And yet, by the nature of human frailty, remedies take longer to act than diseases. Our bodies, which grow so slowly, perish in an instant. So too you can crush the mind and its pursuits more easily than you can recall them to life. Indolence indeed has a charm of its own, to which we gradually yield, and we end up by loving the inaction that we at first hated. After all, in the space of fifteen years, a large proportion of human life, many have died by the intervention of chance, and all the most mentally active as victims of the emperor’s cruelty. The few of us that are left have outlived not only the others but, so to speak, our own past selves. So many years have been stolen from the middle of our lives, years in which those of us who were youths have become old men and the old men have reached almost the end of their allotted span – in silence.

None the less, it will not be an unpleasant task to put together, even in a rough and uncouth style, a record of our former servitude and a testimony to our present blessings. For the time being, this book, intended to honour Agricola, my father-in-law, will be commended, or at least excused, as a tribute of dutiful affection.

 

Chapters 4-5, on Agricola as a paragon of virtue.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

He was guarded from the enticements of the profligate not only by his own good and straightforward character, but also by having, when quite a child, for the scene and guide of his studies, Massilia, a place where refinement and provincial frugality were blended and happily combined. I remember that he used to tell us how in his early youth he would have imbibed a keener love of philosophy than became a Roman and a senator, had not his mother's good sense checked his excited and ardent spirit. It was the case of a lofty and aspiring soul craving with more eagerness than caution the beauty and splendour of great and glorious renown. But it was soon mellowed by reason and experience, and he retained from his learning that most difficult of lessons – moderation.

He served his military apprenticeship in Britain to the satisfaction of Suetonius Paullinus, a painstaking and judicious officer, who, to test his merits, selected him to share his tent. Without the recklessness with which young men often make the profession of arms a mere pastime, and without indolence, he never availed himself of his tribune’s rank or his inexperience to procure enjoyment or to escape from duty. He sought to make himself acquainted with the province and known to the army; he would learn from the skilful, and keep pace with the bravest, would attempt nothing for display, would avoid nothing from fear, and would be at once careful and vigilant.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

...he was shielded from the snares of sinners not merely by his own good and upright nature but because from the outset of his childhood the home and the guide of his studies was Massilia, a blend and happy combination of Greek refinement and provincial simplicity. I remember how he used himself to tell that in early life he was inclined to drink more deeply of philosophy than is permitted to a Roman and a Senator, had not his mother’s discretion imposed a check upon his enkindled and glowing imagination: no doubt his soaring and ambitious temper craved the beauty and splendour of high and exalted ideals with more ardour than prudence. Soon came reason and years to cool his blood: he achieved the rarest of feats; he was a student, yet preserved a sense of proportion.

His apprenticeship to war was in Britain, where he commended himself to Suetonius Paulinus, a careful and sound general, being, in fact, selected by him to be tested on Headquarters Staff. Agricola was neither casual, after the manner of young men who turn soldiering into self-indulgence, nor yet indolent. He did not trade upon his tribune’s commission and his inexperience to get pleasures and furloughs; rather he proceeded to know the province, and to make himself known to the army, to learn from the experts, to follow the best men, to aspire to nothing in bravado, yet to shrink from nothing in fear, to behave as one at once cautious and yet eager.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

He was shielded from the temptations of evil companions, partly by his own sound instincts, partly by living and going to school from his very early years at Massilia, a place where Greek refinement and provincial puritanism are happily blended. I remember how he would often tell us that in his early youth he was tempted to drink deeper of philosophy than a Roman and a future senator, but that his mother, in her wisdom, damped the fire of his passion. One can well understand that his lofty, aspiring nature was attracted strongly, if not too wisely, by the fairness and splendour of fame in its higher and nobler aspects. In time, age and discretion cooled his ardour; and he always remembered the hardest lesson that philosophy teaches – a sense of proportion.

He served his military apprenticeship in Britain to the satisfaction of Suetonius Paulinus, a hard-working and sensible officer, who chose him for a staff appointment in order to assess his worth. Agricola was no loose young subaltern, to turn his military career into a life of gaiety; and he would make his staff-captaincy and his inexperience an excuse for idly enjoying himself and continually going on leave. Instead, he got to know his province and made himself known to the troops. He learned from the experts and chose the best models to follow. He never sought a duty for self-advertisement, never shirked one through cowardice. He acted always with energy and a sense of responsibility.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Apart from his own natural integrity, the fact that he lived and went to school from his very early years at Massilia [Marseilles] kept him away from the temptations of bad company. It is a place where there is a well-blended mixture of Greek culture and provincial thrift. I remember that he used to tell how in his early youth he would have imbibed the study of philosophy more deeply than is permitted for a Roman and a senator, had not his mother sensibly restrained his burning enthusiasm. It is clear that his lofty and aspiring nature was attracted, with more passion than is prudent, to the fair image of great and exalted glory. In time, discretion and age assuaged these feelings, and he retained from philosophy the hardest lesson of all, a sense of proportion.

His first lessons in military life he learned to the satisfaction of Suetonius Paulinus, a conscientious and circumspect commander. Agricola had been selected to be tested on Paulinus’ staff. He did not regard his rank of tribune and his inexperience as an excuse for idle pleasure-seeking and going on leave, like those young men who irresponsibly turn military service into self-indulgence. Instead he got to know the province and made himself known to the army, learned from the experienced men, and chose the best models to follow. He never applied for a task as a chance for self-advertisement and never declined one through cowardice. He performed with both caution and alertness.

 

Chapter 6, on Agricola’s marital bliss.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

From Britain he went to Rome, to go through the regular course of office, and there allied himself with Domitia Decidiana, a lady of illustrious birth. The marriage was one which gave a man ambitious of advancement distinction and support. They lived in singular harmony, through their mutual affection and preference of each other to self. However, the good wife deserves the greater praise, just as the bad incurs a heavier censure.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

From this field he passed on to the city to take up office; there also he married Domitia Decidiana, a woman of high lineage. The marriage proved at once a distinction and a strength to him in his upward path; their life was singularly harmonious, thanks to mutual affection and putting each other first; though, indeed, a good wife has the greater glory in proportion as a bad wife is the more to blame.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

From Britain Agricola returned to Rome to enter on his career of office, and married Domitia Decidiana, the child of an illustrious house. It was a union that brought him social distinction and aid to his ambition for advancement. They lived in rare accord, maintained by mutual affection and unselfishness; in such a partnership, however, the good wife deserves more than half the praise, just as a bad one deserves more than half the blame.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

From Britain he returned to the city to enter the career of office and married Domitia Decidiana, who was of illustrious parentage. This union brought him both distinction and material support when he was seeking advancement. They were an unusually united pair. Their affection was mutual, each putting the other first. Still, a good wife deserves more than half the praise, just as a bad one deserves more than half the blame.

 

Chapter 6, on Agricola’s talent for survival.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

...he passed in retirement and inaction, for he knew those times of Nero when indolence stood for wisdom.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

He read aright the reign of Nero, wherein to be passive was to be wise.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

...for he understood the age of Nero, in which inactivity was tantamount to wisdom.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

He understood the age of Nero: indolence was then a kind of philosophy.

 

Chapter 9, on Agricola’s excellence in matters both military and civilian.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Many think the genius of the soldier wants subtlety, because military law, which is summary and blunt, and apt to appeal to the sword, finds no exercise for the refinements of the forum. Yet Agricola, from his natural good sense, though called to act among civilians, did his work with ease and correctness. And, besides, the times of business and relaxation were kept distinct. When his public and judicial duties required it, he was dignified, thoughtful, austere, and yet often merciful; when business was done with, he wore no longer the official character. He was altogether without harshness, pride, or the greed of gain. With a most rare felicity, his good nature did not weaken his authority, nor his strictness the attachment of his friends. To speak of uprightness and purity in such a man would be an insult to his virtues. Fame itself, of which even good men are often weakly fond, he did not seek by an ostentation of virtue or by artifice. He avoided rivalry with his colleagues, contention with his procurator, thinking such victories no honour and defeat disgrace.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

The world imagines that the soldier lacks astuteness because he governs his camp with a light heart and a certain blunt high-handedness, and does not develop the cunning of the lawyer. Agricola, thanks to his native shrewdness, though surrounded with civilians, dealt readily and equitably. Further, the distinctions of office hours and off duty were carefully observed. When the business of the assize courts demanded he was serious, keen, strict, yet more often merciful; when he had fulfilled the demands of office he dropped the official mask: reserve, pompousness, and greed he had from the start discarded; and yet in his case, the rarest of cases, neither did amiability impair authority nor strictness affection. It would be an insult to the qualities of a man so great to dwell here upon his probity and self-control. Fame itself, which even good men often court, he never sought by parading his virtues or by intrigue; incapable of rivalry among his colleagues, incapable of wrangling with the Imperial Agents, he counted it inglorious to succeed in such fields, and contemptible to be worsted.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

It is a common belief that soldiers lack the power of fine discrimination, because the summary proceedings of a court martial – tending, as they do, to be rough and ready, and often, indeed, high-handed – give no scope to forensic skill. But Agricola had the natural good sense, even in dealing with civilians, to show himself both agreeable and just. He made a clear division between hours of business and hours of relaxation. When the judicial duties of the assizes demanded attention, he was dignified, serious and austere – though merciful whenever he could be. When duty had been discharged, he completely dropped his official air. As to sullenness or arrogance, he had long overcome any tendency to such faults; and he had the rare faculty of being familiar without weakening his authority and austere without forfeiting people’s affection. To mention incorruptibility and strict honesty in a man of his calibre would be to insult his virtues. Even fame, which often tempts the best of men, he would not seek by self-advertisement or intrigue. He avoided all rivalry with his colleagues and all bickering with the procurators; for he considered it undignified to win such battles and ignominious to be beaten.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Many believe that the military temperament lacks discrimination, because the proceedings of a court martial, being not subject to control, rather blunt, and often high-handed, give no scope for the finesse of lawcourts. Agricola, with his innate good sense, although now in a civilian milieu, performed his duties both readily and equitably. Furthermore, he made a clear division between his periods of work and relaxation. When the assizes and the courts demanded his attention, he was serious and attentive, strict but often merciful. When he had completed his official duties, he no longer wore the mask of power. Sullenness and arrogance and greed he had cast aside. And in his case, what is very rare, his familiar manner did not lessen his authority nor did his strictness reduce his popularity. To mention incorruptibility and self-restraint in such a man would be an insult to his excellent character. He did not court fame either, which is a temptation even for good men, by parading his virtues or by intrigue. He avoided rivalry with colleagues and disputes with procurators, for he considered it no kind of glory to win and demeaning to be worsted. 

 

Chapters 10 & 12, on the End of the World and the Roman exploration of it.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Britain, the largest of the islands which Roman geography includes, is so situated that it faces Germany on the east, Spain on the west; on the south it is even within sight of Gaul; its northern extremities, which have no shores opposite to them, are beaten by the waves of a vast open sea. The form of the entire country has been compared by Livy and Fabius Rusticus, the most graphic among ancient and modern historians, to an oblong shield or battle-axe. And this no doubt is its shape without Caledonia, so that it has become the popular description of the whole island. There is, however, a large and irregular tract of land which juts out from its furthest shores, tapering off in a wedge-like form. Round these coasts of remotest ocean the Roman fleet then for the first time sailed, ascertained that Britain is an island, and simultaneously discovered and conquered what are called the Orcades, islands hitherto unknown. Thule too was descried in the distance, which as yet had been hidden by the snows of winter. Those waters, they say, are sluggish, and yield with difficulty to the oar, and are not even raised by the wind as other seas. The reason, I suppose, is that lands and mountains, which are the cause and origin of storms, are here comparatively rare, and also that the vast depths of that unbroken expanse are more slowly set in motion. But to investigate the nature of the ocean and the tides is no part of the present work, and many writers have discussed the subject. I would simply add, that nowhere has the sea a wider dominion, that it has many currents running in every direction, that it does not merely flow and ebb within the limits of the shore, but penetrates and winds far inland, and finds a home among hills and mountains as though in its own domain.

[...]

Their sky is obscured by continual rain and cloud. Severity of cold is unknown. The days exceed in length those of our part of the world; the nights are bright, and in the extreme north so short that between sunlight and dawn you can perceive but a slight distinction. It is said that, if there are no clouds in the way, the splendour of the sun can be seen throughout the night, and that he does not rise and set, but only crosses the heavens. The truth is, that the low shadow thrown from the flat extremities of the earth's surface does not raise the darkness to any height, and the night thus fails to reach the sky and stars. With the exception of the olive and vine, and plants which usually grow in warmer climates, the soil will yield, and even abundantly, all ordinary produce. It ripens indeed slowly, but is of rapid growth, the cause in each case being the same, namely, the excessive moisture of the soil and of the atmosphere. Britain contains gold and silver and other metals, as the prize of conquest. The ocean, too, produces pearls, but of a dusky and bluish hue. Some think that those who collect them have not the requisite skill, as in the Red Sea the living and breathing pearl is torn from the rocks, while in Britain they are gathered just as they are thrown up. I could myself more readily believe that the natural properties of the pearls are in fault than our keenness for gain.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

Britain is the largest island known to Romans: as regards its extent and situation it faces Germany on the east, Spain on the west; on the south it is actually within sight of Gaul; its northern shores alone have no lands opposite them, but are beaten by the wastes of open sea. Livy and Fabius Rusticus, the most graphic of ancient and modern writers respectively, have likened the shape of Britain as a whole to an elongated shoulder-blade or to an axe-head. This is in fact its shape up to the borders of Caledonia, whence also this idea has been extended to the whole; but when you cross the border a vast and irregular tract of land runs out forming the final stretch of coast-line and eventually tapers as it were into a wedge. It was only under Agricola that the Roman fleet for the first time rounded this coast, the coast of the remotest sea, and established the insularity of Britain; by the same voyage it discovered the islands called Orcades, up to that time unknown, and conquered them. Thule also was surveyed, their instructions taking them only so far: besides, winter was approaching. However, they brought the report that the sea was sluggish and heavy to the oar and comparatively torpid even to the wind – I presume because land and mountain, the cause and occasion of storms, are fewer and further between, and because the deep mass of uninterrupted water is slower to be set in motion. The character and tides of the ocean it is beyond the function of this work to investigate, and, besides, many have recorded them. I would add but a single word, that nowhere has the sea more potent influence: many tidal currents set in various directions; nor merely do the incoming tides wash the shores and ebb again, but penetrate the land deeply and invest it, and even steal into the heart of of hills and mountains as though into their native element.

[...]

The sky is overcast with continual rain and cloud, but the cold is not severe. The length of the days is beyond the measure of our world: the nights are clear and, in the distant parts of Britain, short, so that there is but a brief space separating the evening and the morning twilight. If there be no clouds to hinder, the sun’s brilliance – they maintain – is visible throughout the night: it does not set and then rise again, but simply passes over. That is to say, the flat extremities of the earth with their low shadows do not project the darkness, and nightfall never reaches the sky and the stars.

The soil, except for the olive and the vine and the other fruits usual in warmer lands, is tolerant of crops and prolific of cattle: they ripen slowly, but are quick to sprout – in each case for the same reason, the abundant moisture of the soil and sky. Britain produces gold and silver and other metals: conquest is worth while. Their sea also produces pearls, but somewhat clouded and leaden-hued. Some people suppose that their pearl-fishers lack skill; in the Red Sea we are to imagine them torn alive and still breathing from the shell, while in Britain they are gathered only when thrown up on shore: for myself I could more readily believe that quality was lacking in the pearls than greed in Romans.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

Britain, the largest of the islands known to us Romans, is of such a size and so situated as to run parallel to the coast of Germany on the East and to that of Spain on the west, while to the South it actually lies within sight of Gaul. Its northern shores, with no land facing them, are beaten by a wild and open sea. The general shape of Britain has been compared by Livy and Fabius Rusticus – the finest of ancient and modern writers respectively – to an elongated diamond or a double-headed axe. Such indeed is its shape south of Caledonia, and so the same shape has been attributed to the whole. But when you go farther North you find a huge and shapeless tract of country, jutting out to form what is actually the most distant coastline and finally tapering into a kind of wedge. These remotest shores were now circumnavigated, for the first time, by a Roman fleet, which thus established the fact that Britain was an island. At the same time it discovered and subdued the Orkney Islands, hitherto unknown. Thule, too, was sighted, but no more; their orders took them no farther, and winter was close at hand. But report has it that this sea is sluggish and heavy to the oar, and even in a high wind does not rise as other seas do. The reason, I suppose, is that the lands and mountains, which produce and sustain storms, are farther apart there, and the deep mass of an unbroken expanse of sea is more slowly set in motion. To investigate the nature of Ocean and its tides lies outside my subject and the matter has often been discussed. I will add just one observation. Nowhere does the sea hold wider sway: it carries to and fro in its motion a mass of tidal currents, and in its ebb and flow it does not stop at the coast, but penetrates deep inland and winds about, pushing its way among highlands and mountains, as if in its own domain.

[...]

The climate is wretched, with its frequent rains and mists, but there is no extreme cold. Their day is longer than in our part of the world. The nights are light, and in the extreme north so short that evening and morning twilight are scarcely distinguishable. If no clouds block the view, the sun’s glow, it is said, can be seen all night long: it does not set and rise, but simply passes along the horizon. The reason must be that the flat extremities of the earth cast low shadows and do not raise the darkness to any height; night therefore fails to reach the sky and its stars. The soil will produce good crops, except olives, vines, and other plants which usually grow in warmer lands. They are slow to ripen, though they shoot up quickly – both facts being due to the same cause, the extreme moistness of the soil and atmosphere. Britain yields gold, silver, and other metals, to make it worth conquering. Its seas, too, produce pearls, but they are of a dark, bluish-grey colour. Some think that the natives are unskilful in gathering them, for whereas in the Indian Ocean the oysters are torn alive and breathing from the rocks, in Britain they are collected as the sea throws them up. I find it easier to believe that the pearls are of inferior quality than that people miss a chance of making a large profit.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Britain is the largest of the islands known to the Romans. As regards its extent and situation, it faces Germany on the east and Spain on the west, while on the south side it is actually visible to the Gauls. Its northern parts, with no solid land confronting them, are battered by the harsh and open sea. The most eloquent authors, Livy among the older ones, Fabius Rusticus among the moderns, have compared Britain’s shape to an elongated shoulder-blade or to an axe. That is indeed what it looks like on this side of Caledonia, which is why the description has been applied to the whole island. Those who have gone past this point have found a huge and irregular expanse of land, projecting beyond the apparently outermost shore and tapering into a wedge-like shape.

It was then that a Roman fleet for the first time circumnavigated the coast of the remotest sea and established that Britain is in fact an island. Then too it discovered the islands, hitherto unknown, which are called the Orcades [Orkneys], and subjugated them. Thule [Shetland] was thoroughly viewed, as well, but no more, for the fleet’s orders were to go no further, and winter was approaching. It is reported, however, that the sea there is sluggish and difficult for the rowers, and is not even stirred up by the winds as happens elsewhere. The reason is, I believe, that the land and mountains, which create and feed storms, are further apart there, and the deep mass of unbroken seawater is set in motion more slowly. It is not the purpose of the present work to investigate the physical properties of the Ocean and the tides, which have in any case been dealt with by many writers. I would add only one point. Nowhere is the dominance of the sea more extensive. There are many tidal currents, flowing in different directions. They do not merely rise as far as the shoreline and recede again. They flow far inland, wind around, and push themselves among the highlands and mountains, as if in their own realm.

[...]

The climate is miserable, with frequent rain and mists. But extreme cold is not found there. The days last longer than in our part of the world, the nights are bright and in the most distant parts Britain so short that you can hardly distinguish between evening and morning twilight. If clouds do not block the view, they say that the sun’s glow can be seen by night. It does not set and rise but passes across the horizon. In fact, the flat extremities of the earth, casting a low shadow, do not project the darkness, and night falls below the level of the sky and the stars.

The soil bears crops, apart from the olive and the vine and other natives of warmer climes, and has an abundance of cattle. The crops ripen slowly but shoot up quickly. The cause is the same in both cases, the abundant moisture of land and sky. Britain contains gold and silver and other metals, the booty of victory. The Ocean also produces pearls, but they are dusky and mottled. Some attribute this to the divers’ lack of skill, for in the Red Sea the oysters are torn from the rocks alive and breathing, in Britain they are collected as and when the sea casts them up. For myself, I would find it easier to believe that the pearls are lacking in quality than that we are lacking in greed.      

 

Chapter 22, Agricola’s closest call to vice – yet turned into virtue.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Never did Agricola in a greedy spirit appropriate the achievements of others; the centurion and the prefect both found in him an impartial witness of their every action. Some persons used to say that he was too harsh in his reproofs, and that he was as severe to the bad as he was gentle to the good. But his displeasure left nothing behind it; reserve and silence in him were not to be dreaded. He thought it better to show anger than to cherish hatred.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

Yet Agricola was never grasping to take credit to himself for the achievements of others: the other, whether regular officer or officer of irregulars, found in him an honest witness to his feats. Some there were who described him as too sharp-tongued in censure: as gracious to the worthy, but proportionately unpleasant to the undeserving. However it be, his anger left no secret resentment behind it, and no man had cause to fear his silence: he thought it more honourable to hurt than to hate.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

Agricola was not greedy of fame and never tried to steal the credit for other men’s work. Every centurion and prefect found in him an honest witness to his merit. According to some accounts he was harsh in reprimand; and certainly he could make himself as unpleasant to the wrong kind of man as he was agreeable to the right kind. But his anger left no hidden malice in his heart, and you had no need to fear his silence. He thought it more honourable to hurt than to hate.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Agricola was never greedy to steal the credit for others’ achievements. Whether centurion or prefect, each had in him an honest witness to his deeds. According to some accounts he was rather harsh in delivering reprimands. He was courteous to good men, but equally he could be unpleasant towards those who behaved badly. But his anger left no hidden traces, so that you did not need to fear his silence: he thought it more honourable to give offence than to harbour hatred.

 

Chapters 39-42, on Domitian as a prototype of Shakespeare’s Iago.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Of this series of events, though not exaggerated in the despatches of Agricola by any boastfulness of language, Domitian heard, as was his wont, with joy in his face but anxiety in his heart. He felt conscious that all men laughed at his late mock triumph over Germany, for which there had been purchased from traders people whose dress and hair might be made to resemble those of captives, whereas now a real and splendid victory, with the destruction of thousands of the enemy, was being celebrated with just applause. It was, he thought, a very alarming thing for him that the name of a subject should be raised above that of the Emperor; it was to no purpose that he had driven into obscurity the pursuit of forensic eloquence and the graceful accomplishments of civil life, if another were to forestall the distinctions of war. To other glories he could more easily shut his eyes, but the greatness of a good general was a truly imperial quality. Harassed by these anxieties, and absorbed in an incommunicable trouble, a sure prognostic of some cruel purpose, he decided that it was best for the present to suspend his hatred until the freshness of Agricola’s renown and his popularity with the army should begin to pass away.

[...]

And not to make his entrance into Rome conspicuous by the concourse of welcoming throngs, he avoided the attentions of his friends by entering the city at night, and at night too, according to orders, proceeded to the palace, where, having been received with a hurried embrace and without a word being spoken, he mingled in the crowd of courtiers. Anxious henceforth to temper the military renown, which annoys men of peace, with other merits, he studiously cultivated retirement and leisure, simple in dress, courteous in conversation, and never accompanied but by one or two friends, so that the many who commonly judge of great men by their external grandeur, after having seen and attentively surveyed him, asked the secret of a greatness which but few could explain.

During this time he was frequently accused before Domitian in his absence, and in his absence acquitted. The cause of his danger lay not in any crime, nor in any complaint of injury, but in a ruler who was the foe of virtue, in his own renown, and in that worst class of enemies – the men who praise. And then followed such days for the commonwealth as would not suffer Agricola to be forgotten; days when so many of our armies were lost in Moesia, Dacia, Germany, and Pannonia, through the rashness or cowardice of our generals, when so many of our officers were besieged and captured with so many of our auxiliaries, when it was no longer the boundaries of empire and the banks of rivers which were imperilled, but the winter-quarters of our legions and the possession of our territories. And so when disaster followed upon disaster, and the entire year was marked by destruction and slaughter, the voice of the people called Agricola to the command; for they all contrasted his vigour, firmness, and experience in war, with the inertness and timidity of other generals. This talk, it is quite certain, assailed the ears of the Emperor himself, while affection and loyalty in the best of his freedmen, malice and envy in the worst, kindled the anger of a prince ever inclined to evil. And so at once, by his own excellences and by the faults of others, Agricola was hurried headlong to a perilous elevation.

[...]

It is, indeed, human nature to hate the man whom you have injured; yet the Emperor, notwithstanding his irascible temper and an implacability proportioned to his reserve, was softened by the moderation and prudence of Agricola, who neither by a perverse obstinacy nor an idle parade of freedom challenged fame or provoked his fate. Let it be known to those whose habit it is to admire the disregard of authority, that there may be great men even under bad emperors, and that obedience and submission, when joined to activity and vigour, may attain a glory which most men reach only by a perilous career, utterly useless to the state, and closed by an ostentatious death.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

This series of achievements, though magnified by no boastfulness of language in Agricola’s despatches, Domitian greeted, as his manner was, with affected pleasure and secret disquiet: in his heart was the consciousness that his recent counterfeit triumph over the Germans was a laughing-stock: he had in fact purchased, in the way of trade, persons whose clothes and hair could be adapted to look like that of prisoners.

But here was a veritable, a decisive victory, with enemies slain in thousands, widely canvassed and advertised: this was what he dreaded most, that the name of a commoner should be exalted above his Prince: it was all in vain that the practice of public speaking and the glamour of the arts of peace had been silenced, if another was to usurp military glory. Besides, while to everything else he could be blind, the qualities of a good general were Imperial qualities. Harassed with these anxieties, and wholly absorbed in his secret – a symptom that murderous schemes were afoot – he decided that it was best for the present carefully to treasure up his hatred until the first burst of popularity and the applause of the army should die down...

[...]

... and in order that his entrance into the city might not excite note by the concourse and bustle of a reception, he eluded the demonstrations of his friends, arrived by night, and by night repaired to the palace, in accordance with instructions. With the greeting of a hasty kiss, and without conversation, he slipped away into the obsequious mob. For the rest, in order that he might mitigate by other qualities the offence – to civilians – of a soldier’s fame, he drank the cup of peace and idleness to the dregs: his dress was unassuming, he was willing to talk, one or two friends only attended him; so that the world, whose custom it is to judge great men by their parade, after seeing and watching Agricola, asked how he could have won such a reputation and few men understood it.

Not once only during those days was he accused to Domitian behind his back, and behind his back acquitted. There was no indictment to account for his danger, no complaint from any victim of wrongdoing: merely an Emperor unfriendly to high qualities: merely the glory of the man, and those worst of enemies, the people who praise you. There followed in fact a time of national troubles, such as did not permit Agricola to be ignored: numerous armies in Moesia, Dacia, Germany, and Pannonia1 lost by the rashness or laziness of their generals; numerous officers with numerous cohorts stormed and captured. No longer was it the frontier of the empire, the bank of the Danube, that was in danger; the winter-quarters of the legions and the maintenance of whole provinces were at stake. Accordingly, when loss was added to loss, and every year was signalised with death and disaster, the voice of the people began to ask for Agricola’s generalship: everyone compared his firmness, energy, and experience with the lethargy and panic of the generals. All of which gossip, it is certain, beat upon the ears of Domitian no less than of other men, the best of his freedmen seeking from love and loyalty, the worst from malice and jealousy, to stir the emotions of a master who leaned ever to the worst side. Thus was Agricola pushed headlong, both by his own qualities and by the faults of others, to that very prominence which he had tried to avoid.

[...]

It is a principle of human nature to hate those whom you have injured: nevertheless Domitian though by nature of a violent temper and unrelenting in proportion to his secretiveness, was pacified by the moderation and discretion of Agricola, in whom was no truculence, no fatuous parade of independence, to invite renown and ruin.

Let those whose way it is to admire only what is forbidden learn from him that great men can live even under bad rulers; and that submission and moderation, if animation and energy go with them, reach the same pinnacle of fame, whither more often men have climbed by perilous courses but, with no profit to the state, have earned their glory by an ostentatious death.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

Agricola’s dispatch reported this series of events in language of careful moderation. But Domitian reacted as often he did: he pretended to be pleased when in fact he was deeply disturbed. He was conscious of the ridicule that his sham triumph over Germany had excited, when he had bought slaves in the market to have their dress and hair made up to look like prisoners of war. But now came a genuine victory on the grand scale: the enemy dead were reckoned by thousands, and the popular acclaim was immense. He knew that there was nothing so dangerous for him as to have the name of a subject exalted above that of the emperor. He had only wasted his time in silencing forensic eloquence and suppressing all outstanding accomplishments in civil life, if another man was to snatch military glory from his grasp. Talents in other directions could at a pinch be ignored; but the qualities of a good general should be the monopoly of the emperor. Harassed by these anxieties, he brooded over them in secret till he was tired – a sure sign in him of some malevolent purpose. In the end he decided that it would be best to store up his hatred for the present and wait for the first burst of popular applause and the enthusiasm of the army to die down.

[...]

To avoid publicity, he did not want to be met by a crowd of people when he returned to Rome. So he evaded the attentions of his friends and entered the city by night. By night, too, he went, in accordance with instructions, to the palace. He was greeted with a perfunctory kiss and then dismissed, without a word of conversation, to join the crowd of courtiers dancing attendance on the emperor. Wishing to divert attention from his military repute, which was apt to offend civilians, Agricola devoted himself completely to a life of quiet retirement. He was modest in his manner of life, courteous in conversation, and never seen with more than one or two friends. Consequently, the majority who always measure great men by their self-advertisement, after carefully observing Agricola, were left asking why he was so famous. Very few could read his secret aright.

Often during this period Agricola was denounced to Domitian behind his back, and acquitted behind his back. His danger did not arise from any charge against him or any complaint from a victim of injustice, but from the emperor’s hatred of merit, Agricola’s own fame, and that deadliest type of enemy, the singers of his praises. And indeed the fortunes of Rome in those ensuing years were such as would not allow Agricola’s name to be forgotten. One after another, armies were lost in Moesia and Dacia, in Germany and Pannonia, through the rash folly or cowardice of their generals; one after another, experienced officers were defeated in fortified positions and captured with all their troops. It was no longer the frontier and the Danube line that were threatened, but the permanent quarters of the legions and the maintenance of the empire. So, as one loss followed another and year after year was signalized by death and disaster, public opinion began to clamour for Agricola to take command. His energy and resolution, and his proven courage in war, were universally contrasted with the general slackness and cowardice. It is known that Domitian’s own ears were stung by the lash of such talk. The best of his freedmen spoke out of their loyal affection, the worst out of malice and spleen; but all alike goaded on an emperor who was always inclined to pursue evil courses. And so Agricola, by his own virtues and by the faults of others, was carried straight along the perilous path that led to glory.

[...]

It is an instinct of human nature to hate a man whom you have injured. Yet even Domitian, though he was quick to anger, and his resentment all the more implacable because he generally tried to hide it, was softened by the self-restraint and wisdom of Agricola, who declined to court, by a defiant and futile parade of independence, the renown that must inevitably destroy him. Let it be clear to those who insist on admiring disobedience that even under bad emperors men can be great, and that a decent regard for authority, if backed by industry and energy, can reach that peak of distinction which most men attain only by following a perilous course, winning fame, without benefiting their country, by an ostentatious self-martyrdom.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Agricola’s dispatches on this course of events [the victory at the Graupian Mountain], although not exaggerated by boastful language of any kind, produced a characteristic reaction on the part of Domitian: his expression was one of delight, but in his heart he was uneasy. He was well aware that his recent sham triumph over Germany had aroused ridicule – slaves had been purchased in the market, who could, with suitable clothing and their hair treated, be made to look like prisoners of war. But now he saw a genuine and great victory, with so many thousand enemy dead, winning unrestrained praise from the public. What he dreaded most of all was for the name of a subject to be exalted above that of the emperor.

In vain had public eloquence and distinction in civilian professions been brought to silence if someone other than himself were to snatch military glory. Other talents could be more easily ignored; good generalship belonged to the emperor. Tormented by such anxieties, he brooded over his resentments in silence – and this was a sign of his sinister intentions – and decided it was best to store up his hatred for the present and wait for the first burst of popular applause and the enthusiasm of the army to wane.

[...]

So that his entry [Agricola’s in Rome] would not attract attention by crowds flocking to welcome him, he avoided the friends who wanted to pay their respects and came into the city by night, and by night also, just as he had been instructed, to the Palace. He was greeted with a perfunctory kiss and then dismissed without a word, into the crowd of courtiers.

From now on, to play down his military reputation, distasteful to civilians, he departed into the depths of calm retirement. His style of life was modest, he was courteous in conversation, with only one or two companions in public. As a result, most people, who always measure great men by their display, when they saw or noticed Agricola, asked why he was famous. A few understood.

He was often accused in his absence before Domitian, but in his absence was found not guilty. The reason why he was under threat was not any actual charge or a complaint from someone that he had been harmed, but simply the emperor’s hostility to merit, the man’s glory, and – the worst sort of enemy – those who sang his praises.

Indeed, in those years that ensued for the Commonwealth, Agricola could not be passed over in silence. So many armies had been lost, in Moesia and Dacia, in Germany and Pannonia, by the folly or cowardice of their generals, so many military men, with so many cohorts, had been defeated in battle and taken prisoner. It was no longer the frontier of the empire and the river-bank that were in question, but the permanent fortresses of the legions and Roman territory. So, with loss following on loss and every year marked by funerals and disasters, public opinion began to demand Agricola as general. Everyone contrasted his energy, resolution, and proven courage in war with the inaction and timidity of others. There is evidence that Domitian’s own ears were stung by the lash of such talk. In this the best of his freedmen were motivated by loyalty and affection, the worst, out of malice and jealousy, worked on the feelings of the emperor, who always inclined to take the worse advice. Thus, alike because of his own virtues and because of the failings of others, Agricola was being driven to the precipice of glory.

[...]

It is part of human character to hate someone you have hurt. In fact, Domitian was by nature a man who plunged into violence and the more he concealed his feelings the more implacable he was. However, he was mollified by the self-restraint        and good sense of Agricola, who was not one to court renown and ruin by defiance and an empty parade of freedom. Those whose habit is to admire what is forbidden ought to know that there can be great men even under bad emperors, and that duty and discretion, if coupled with energy and a career of action, will bring a man to no less glorious summits than are attained by perilous paths and ostentatious deaths that do not benefit the Commonwealth.

 

Chapter 43, Agricola’s death.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

The end of his life, a deplorable calamity to us and a grief to his friends, was regarded with concern even by strangers and those who knew him not. The common people and this busy population continually inquired at his house, and talked of him in public places and in private gatherings. No man when he heard of Agricola's death could either be glad or at once forget it. Men's sympathy was increased by a prevalent rumour that he was destroyed by poison. For myself, I have nothing which I should venture to state for fact. Certainly during the whole of his illness the Emperor’s chief freedmen and confidential physicians came more frequently than is usual with a court which pays its visits by means of messengers. This was, perhaps, solicitude, perhaps espionage. Certain it is, that on the last day the very agonies of his dying moments were reported by a succession of couriers, and no one believed that there would be such haste about tidings which would be heard with regret. Yet in his manner and countenance the Emperor displayed some signs of sorrow, for he could now forget his enmity, and it was easier to conceal his joy than his fear. It was well known that on reading the will, in which he was named co-heir with Agricola's excellent wife and most dutiful daughter, he expressed delight, as if it had been a complimentary choice. So blinded and perverted was his mind by incessant flattery, that he did not know that it was only a bad Emperor whom a good father would make his heir.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

The end of his life brought mourning to us, melancholy to his friends, anxiety even to the bystander and those who knew him not; the great public itself and this busy, preoccupied city came repeatedly to his doors, and talked of him in public gatherings and private circles. No one, on hearing of Agricola’s death, was glad, nor – at once – forgetful. Commiseration was enhanced by the persistent rumour that he had been put out of the way by poison. I would not venture to assert that we have any firm evidence.

However it be, throughout his illness came the chief freedmen and the confidential physicians of the Palace with a regularity unusual in a prince who visits by deputy, whether this was interest or espionage.

When the end came, every flicker of the failing life, it was well known, was chronicled by relays of runners, and nobody believed that this news was hurried up in this way in order that Domitian should be sad when he heard it. Yet in his manner and in his features he did show an appearance of grief; his hate was now no longer anxious, and it was his temperament to hide joy more easily than fear. It was well ascertained that on reading the will of Agricola, which named Domitian co-heir with the best of wives, the most dutiful of daughters, he was delighted at the honour and approval. So blinded, so perverted was his intelligence by unremitting flattery that he did not see that it is the bad prince who is made heir by good fathers.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

The end of Agricola’s life – a grievous blow to us and a sorrow to his friends – affected even men outside his own circle and complete strangers. The general public, usually so absorbed in their own concerns, flocked to his house to make enquires; and in the public squares, and wherever people met for conversation, he was talked of. When his death was announced, no one was glad and no one quickly forgot him. Sympathy was increased by a persistent rumour that he had been poisoned. For my own part, I would not venture to assert that there is any positive evidence. However, throughout his illness there were more visits from prominent freedmen and court physicians than is usual with emperors when paying calls by proxy. This could have indicated genuine concern, or it may have been spying. All accounts agreed that on the last day, as he lay dying, every change in his condition was reported by relays of couriers, and no one could believe that tidings need have been brought so quickly if they were unwelcome to the emperor. However, Domitian made a decent show of sorrow; his hatred of Agricola no longer made him uneasy, and he could always hide satisfaction more convincingly than fear. It was no secret that on the reading of Agricola’s will, which named Domitian as co-heir with his ‘good wife’ and his ‘loving daughter’, the Emperor was much pleased, taking it as a sincere compliment. His mind was so blinded and vitiated by incessant flattery that he did not realize that no good father would leave property to any emperor except a bad one.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

The end of his life was a source of grief for us and sad for his friends. Even outsiders and strangers were affected. The common people, too, and the population of the city, usually otherwise occupied, kept coming to his house and talked about him in the market-places and at social gatherings. No one when they heard of Agricola’s death was glad and no one immediately forgot it. The sympathy that was felt was increased by the persistent rumour that he had been poisoned. I would not venture to assert that we have any definite evidence. All the same, all through his last illness there were more visits from leading freedmen and court physicians than is usual with emperors who pay their visits by proxy, whether that means anxiety or espionage. In fact, on the last day, as he was dying, it was known that the critical stages were being reported on by relays of messengers. No one believed that news that the emperor would have been sad to hear would have been speeded up like this. However, he did put on an outward show of grief in his manner and expression. He was relieved of the need for hatred, and he was one who could hide joy more easily than fear. It was no secret that when Agricola’s will was read out, in which he named Domitian as joint heir with his excellent wife and most dutiful daughter, the emperor was delighted, taking it as a deliberate compliment. His mind was so blinded and corrupted by incessant flattery that the he did not understand that a good father would only make a bad emperor his heir.

 

Chapters 44-45, Agricola’s luck to die before the reign of terror under Domitian.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Agricola was born on the 13^th of June, in the third consulate of Gaius Caesar; he died on the 23^rd of August, during the consulate of Collega and Priscus, being in the fifty-sixth year of his age. Should posterity wish to know something of his appearance, it was graceful rather than commanding. There was nothing formidable in his appearance; a gracious look predominated. One would easily believe him a good man, and willingly believe him to be great. As for himself, though taken from us in the prime of a vigorous manhood, yet, as far as glory is concerned, his life was of the longest. Those true blessings, indeed, which consist in virtue, he had fully attained; and on one who had reached the honours of a consulate and a triumph, what more had fortune to bestow? Immense wealth had no attractions for him, and wealth he had, even to splendour. As his daughter and his wife survived him, it may be thought that he was even fortunate – fortunate, in that while his honours had suffered no eclipse, while his fame was at its height, while his kindred and his friends still prospered, he escaped from the evil to come. For, though to survive until the dawn of this most happy age and to see a Trajan on the throne was what he would speculate upon in previsions and wishes confided to my ears, yet he had this mighty compensation for his premature death, that he was spared those later years during which Domitian, leaving now no interval or breathing space of time, but, as it were, with one continuous blow, drained the life-blood of the Commonwealth.

Agricola did not see the senate-house besieged, or the senate hemmed in by armed men, or so many of our consulars falling at one single massacre, or so many of Rome's noblest ladies exiles and fugitives. Carus Metius had as yet the distinction of but one victory, and the noisy counsels of Messalinus were not heard beyond the walls of Alba, and Massa Baebius was then answering for his life. It was not long before our hands dragged Helvidius to prison, before we gazed on the dying looks of Manricus and Rusticus, before we were steeped in Senecio’s innocent blood. Even Nero turned his eyes away, and did not gaze upon the atrocities which he ordered; with Domitian it was the chief part of our miseries to see and to be seen, to know that our sighs were being recorded, to have, ever ready to note the pallid looks of so many faces, that savage countenance reddened with the hue with which he defied shame. Thou wast indeed fortunate, Agricola, not only in the splendour of thy life, but in the opportune moment of thy death. Thou submittedst to thy fate, so they tell us who were present to hear thy last words, with courage and cheerfulness, seeming to be doing all thou couldst to give thine Emperor full acquittal.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

Agricola was born on 13 June, in the third consulship of Gaius Caesar; he died in his fifty-fourth year on 23 August, in the consulship of Collega and Priscinus.

Should posterity desire to learn his mere appearance, he was well-proportioned rather than imposing. There was no violence in his face; its dominant expression was benign. You could easily credit him with goodness, and be glad to think him great. As for the man himself, though snatched away in the mid-career of his prime, he lived to a ripe old age measured by renown. The true blessings of life which lie in character he had fulfilled. What more could fortune have added to one who had been consul, and had worn the decorations of triumph? He did not boast of excessive riches but was possessed of an ample fortune. With daughter and wife surviving him, he may even pass for happy to have escaped what was to come with his position unimpaired, his reputation brilliant, his friends and kin safe.

For though he was not permitted to survive to the light of this happy age, and to see Trajan ruling – a consummation which he foretold in our hearing alike in prayer and prophecy – yet he reaped a great compensation for his premature death, in escaping those last days wherein Domitian no longer fitfully and with breathing spaces, but with one continuous and, so to speak, single blow, poured forth the life-blood of the state.

It was not his fate to see the Senate-house besieged, the Senate surrounded by armed men, and in the same reign of terror so many consulars butchered, the flight and exile of so many honourable women. Mettius Carus was still rated at one victory only; Messalinus’ rasping voice was confined to the Alban citadel; and Baebius Massa was still as before, on trial. A little while and our hands it was which dragged Helvidius to his dungeon; it was we who were (put to shame) by the look which Mauricus and Rusticus gave, we who were soaked by the innocent blood of Senecio. Nero after all withdrew his eyes, nor contemplated the crimes he authorised. Under Domitian it was no small part of our sufferings that we saw him and were seen of him; that our sighs were counted in his books; that not a pale cheek of all that company escaped those brutal eyes, that crimson face which flushed continually lest shame should unawares surprise it.

Happy your fate, Agricola! happy not only in the lustre of your life, but in a timely death. As they tell the tale who heard your latest utterance, you met your doom steadily and cheerfully; as though, so far as in you lay, to offer to your Emperor a present of innocence.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

Agricola was born on 13 June in the third consulship of emperor Gaius and died in his fifty-fourth year on 23 August in the consulship of Collega and Priscinus. As to his personal appearance – in case the interest of posterity should extent to such a matter – he was good-looking rather than striking. His features did not indicate a passionate nature: the prevailing impression was one of charm. There was no difficulty about recognizing him as a good man, and one would willingly believe him to be a great man. Though he was taken from us in the prime of his vigorous manhood, yet, so far as glory is concerned, the longest span of years could not have made his life more complete. He had fully attained those true blessings which depend upon a man’s own character. He had held the consulship and bore the decorations of triumph: what more could fortune have added? He had no desire for vast wealth, and he had a handsome fortune. He died while his wife and daughter yet lived to comfort him; and we may justly count him even fortunate who, with his honours unimpaired, at the height of his fame, leaving kinsmen and friends secure, escaped what was soon to come. Though he was not permitted to see the dawn of this blessed age and the principate of Trajan – a consummation of which he often spoke to us in wishful prophecy – yet it was no small compensation for his untimely cutting off that he was spared those last days when Domitian, instead of giving the state a breathing-space to recover from one blow before the next fell, rained them upon its head so thick and fast that its life-blood was drained as though by a single mortal wound.

Agricola did not live to see the senate-house under siege, the senators surrounded by a cordon of troops, and that one fell stroke which sent so many consulars to their death, so many noble ladies into banishment or exile. Only a single victory was credited as yet to Carus Mettius; the four walls of the Alban fortress still kept Messalinus’s below from reaching our ears; and Massa Baebius was still a prisoner in the dock. But before long we senators led Helvidius to prison, watched in shame the sufferings of Mauricus and Rusticus, and stained ourselves with Senecio’s innocent blood. Even Nero used to avert his eyes and, though he ordered abominations, forbore to witness. The worst of our torments under Domitian was to see him with his eyes fixed upon us. Every sigh was registered against us; and when we all turned pale, he did not scruple to make us marked men by a glance of his savage countenance – that blood-red countenance which saved him from ever being seen to blush with shame.

Happy indeed were you, Agricola, not only in your glorious life, but in your timely death. We have the testimony of those who heard your last words that you met your fate with a cheerful courage. You seemed glad to do your best to acquit the emperor of blood-guiltiness.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Agricola was born on the Ides of June in the year when Gaius Caesar was consul for the third time [13 June AD 40]. He died in his fifty-fourth year, on the tenth day before the Kalends of September, when the consuls were Collega and Priscinus [23 August 93]. Should posterity wish to know something of his personal appearance too, he was a good-looking, if not particularly tall man. There was no trace of aggressiveness in his features, kindliness abounded in his expression. You would readily believe him a good man, and be glad to think him a great one. He himself, although, to be sure, in his middle years, in the prime of life, when he was snatched from us, in terms of glory had completed the longest of spans. For he had attained to the full those true blessings which depend on a man’s own virtues. He had been consul and had been awarded the triumphal insignia: what more could fortune have added? He did not enjoy excessive wealth, though he had a handsome fortune. His daughter and wife survived him, and he can even be regarded as fortunate, his rank unimpaired, at the height of his fame, his family and friends secure, to have escaped what was to come.

He was, it is true, not permitted to live to see the dawn of this most fortunate age and Trajan’s principate, which he used to predict, observing the signs and praying for their fulfilment, in our hearing. Yet he took with him effective compensation for his premature death. He had missed that final period, when Domitian, no longer at intervals and with breathing-spaces, but in a continuous and as it were single onslaught drained the blood of the Commonwealth. Agricola did not live to see the senate-house under siege, the senate hedged in by armed men, the killing of so many consulars in that same act of butchery, so many most noble women forced into exile or flight. A single victory was all that Carus Mettius as yet had to his credit, it was still only inside the Alban citadel that Messalinus was rasping out his vote, and Massa Baebius was still a defendant. But soon we ourselves led Helvidius to prison, the faces of Mauricus and Rusticus put us to shame, we were stained by Senecio’s innocent blood. Nero at least averted his gaze: he ordered crimes to be committed but did not look on. A special torment under Domitian was to see him watching us, our very sighs being noted down against us, and all the while that savage gaze was able to mark down so many who had turned pale with shock, that flushed face that saved him from blushing with shame.          

You were indeed blessed, Agricola, not only in the brilliance of your life, but because of the moment of your death. Those who were present to hear your last words tells us that you met your fate with a cheerful courage. You seemed to be doing your best, as far as a man could, to acquit the emperor of guilt for your death.

 

Chapter 46, on the right way of honouring the dead.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

If there is any dwelling-place for the spirits of the just; if, as the wise believe, noble souls do not perish with the body, rest thou in peace; and call us, thy family, from weak regrets and womanish laments to the contemplation of thy virtues, for which we must not weep nor beat the breast. Let us honour thee not so much with transitory praises as with our reverence, and, if our powers permit us, with our emulation. That will be true respect, that the true affection of thy nearest kin. This, too, is what I would enjoin on daughter and wife, to honour the memory of that father, that husband, by pondering in their hearts all his words and acts, by cherishing the features and lineaments of his character rather than those of his person. It is not that I would forbid the likenesses which are wrought in marble or in bronze; but as the faces of men, so all similitudes of the face are weak and perishable things, while the fashion of the soul is everlasting, such as may be expressed not in some foreign substance, or by the help of art, but in our own lives. Whatever we loved, whatever we admired in Agricola, survives, and will survive in the hearts of men, in the succession of the ages, in the fame that waits on noble deeds. Over many indeed, of those who have gone before, as over the inglorious and ignoble, the waves of oblivion will roll; Agricola, made known to posterity by history and tradition, will live for ever.

[Hutton/Ogilvie, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

If there be any habitation for the spirits of the just; if, as wise men will have it, the soul that is great perish not with the body, may you rest in peace, and summon us, your household, from weak repinings and womanish tears to the contemplation of those virtues which it were impiety to lament or mourn. Let reverence rather, let thankfulness, let imitation even, if our strength permit, be our tribute to your memory: this is true respect, this is kinship’s duty. This would I say to wife and daughter, so to venerate the memory of husband and of father as to ponder each word and deed within their hearts, and to cling to the lineaments and features of the soul rather than of the body.

Not that I think the image wrought of bronze or marble should be forbidden, but vain alike and passing is the face of man and its likeness: only the form of the soul remains, to be known and shown not through the materials and artistry of another but only in your own character.

Whatever we have loved in Agricola, whatever we have admired, abides, and will abide, in the hearts of men, in the procession of the ages, by the records of history. Many of the ancients will forgetfulness engulf as though neither fame nor name were theirs. Agricola, whose story here is told, will outlive death, to be our children’s heritage.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/1970, Penguin Classics]

If there is any mansion for the spirits of the just, if, as the philosophers hold, great souls do not perish with the body, may you rest in peace! May you call us, your family, from feeble regrets and unmanly mourning to contemplate your virtues, for which sorrow it were a sin mourn or lament! May we honour you in better ways – by our admiration and our praise, and if our powers permit by following your example! That is the true honour, the true affection of souls knit close to yours. To your daughter and widow I would suggest that they revere the memory of a father and a husband by continually pondering his deeds and sayings, and by treasuring in their hearts the form and features of his mind, rather than those of his body. Not that I would forbid likenesses of marble or of bronze. But representations of the human face, like that face itself, are subject to decay and dissolution, whereas the essence of man’s mind is something everlasting, which you cannot preserve or express in material wrought by another’s skill, but only in your own character. All that we loved and admired in Agricola abides and shall abide in the hearts of men through the endless procession of the ages; for his achievements are of great renown. With many it will be as with men who had no name or fame: they will be buried in oblivion. But Agricola’s story is set on record for posterity, and he will live.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

If there is a place for the spirits of the just, if, as philosophers believe, great souls do not perish with the body, may you rest in peace. May you call us, your family, from feeble regrets and the weeping that belongs to women to contemplate your noble character, for which it is a sin either to mourn or to shed tears. May we rather honour you by our admiration and our undying praise and, if our powers permit, by following your example. That is the true respect, the true duty, of each of us closest to you. That is what I would enjoin on his daughter and his wife, that they revere the memory of a father and a husband by continually pondering his deeds and his words in their hearts, and by embracing the form and features of his soul rather than of his body.

Not that I would think of banning any statues in marble or bronze. But images of the human face, like that face itself, are weak and perishable. The beauty of the soul lives for ever, and you can preserve and express that beauty, not by the material and artistry of another, but only in your own character. All that we have loved in Agricola, all that we have admired in him, abides and is destined to abide in human hearts through the endless procession of the ages, by the fame of his deeds. Many of the men of old will be buried in oblivion, inglorious and unknown. Agricola’s story has been told for posterity and he will survive.   

 

On the Origins and Land of the Germans

 

Chapters 2 & 4, on the racial purity of the Germans.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

The Germans themselves I should regard as aboriginal, and not mixed at all with other races through immigration or intercourse. For, in former times, it was not by land but on shipboard that those who sought to emigrate would arrive; and the boundless and, so to speak, hostile ocean beyond us, is seldom entered by a sail from our world. And, beside the perils of rough and unknown seas, who would leave Asia, or Africa, or Italy for Germany, with its wild country, its inclement skies, its sullen manners and aspect, unless indeed it were his home?

[...]

For my own part, I agree with those who think that the tribes of Germany are free from all taint of inter-marriages with foreign nations, and that they appear as a distinct, unmixed race, like none but themselves. Hence, too, the same physical peculiarities throughout so vast a population. All have fierce blue eyes, red hair, huge frames, fit only for a sudden exertion. They are less able to bear laborious work. Heat and thirst they cannot in the least endure; to cold and hunger their climate and their soil inure them.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

As for the Germans themselves, I should suppose them to be indigenous and very slightly blended with new arrivals from other races or alliances; for originally people who sought to migrate reached their destination in fleets and not by land; while, in the second place, the leagues of ocean on the farther side of Germany, at the opposite end of the world, so to speak, from us, are rarely visited by ships from our world. Besides, who, to say nothing about the perils of an awful and unknown sea, would have left Asia or Africa or Italy to look for Germany? With its wild scenery and harsh climate it is pleasant neither to live in nor look upon unless it be one’s fatherland.

[...]

Personally I associate myself with the opinions of those who hold that in the peoples of Germany there has been given to the world a race unmixed by intermarriage with other races, a peculiar people and pure, like no one but themselves, whence it comes that their physique, so far as can be said with their vast numbers, is identical: fierce blue eyes, red hair, tall frames,1 powerful only spasmodically, not correspondingly tolerant of labour and hard work, and by no means habituated to bearing thirst and heat; to cold and hunger, thanks to the climate and the soil, they are accustomed.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

As to the Germans themselves, I think it probable that they are indigenous and that very little foreign blood has been introduced either by invasions or by friendly intercourse with neighbouring peoples. For in former times it was not by land but on shipboard that would-be immigrants arrived; and the limitless ocean that lies beyond the coasts of Germany, and as it were defies intruders, is seldom visited by ships from our part of the world. And to say nothing of the perils of that wild and unknown sea, who would have been likely to leave Asia Minor, North Africa, or Italy, to go to Germany with its forbidding landscapes and unpleasant climate – a country that is thankless to till and dismal to behold for anyone who was not born and bred there?

[...]

For myself, I accept the view that the peoples of Germany have never contaminated themselves by intermarriage with foreigners but remain of pure blood, distinct and unlike any other nation. One result of this is that their physical characteristics, in so far as one can generalize about such a large population, are always the same: fierce-looking blue eyes, reddish hair, and big frames – which, however, can exert their strength only by means of violent effort. They are less able to endure toil or fatiguing tasks and cannot bear thirst or heat, though their climate has inured them to cold spells and the poverty of their soil to hunger.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

The Germans themselves are the original inhabitants of the country, so I incline to believe, and have very little foreign blood from admixture through invasions by other peoples or through friendly dealings with them. For in former times those who sought new homes travelled not by land but on ship, and the Ocean, which stretches beyond them without limit and so to speak lies on the other side, is seldom visited by ships from our world. In any case, apart from the danger of the wild and unknown sea, who would have left Asia, Africa, or Italy to make for Germany, with its unattractive landscape and raw climate, harsh to cultivate or even look at – unless it were his home country?

[...]

I myself accept the view of those who judge that the peoples of Germany have never been contaminated by intermarriage with other nations and that the race remains unique, pure, and unlike any other. As a result, their physical appearance too, if one may generalize about so large a population, is always the same: fierce blue eyes, red hair, and large bodies. Their bodies, however, are strong only for a violent outburst. These same large frames cannot last out for work and effort, and can scarcely tolerate thirst or heat, although their climate has made them accustomed to cold and their poor soil to hunger.

 

Chapters 18-19, on marriage and morals among the Germans.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Their marriage code, however, is strict, and indeed no part of their manners is more praiseworthy. Almost alone among barbarians they are content with one wife, except a very few among them, and these not from sensuality, but because their noble birth procures for them many offers of alliance. The wife does not bring a dower to the husband but the husband to the wife. The parents and relatives are present, and pass judgment on the marriage-gifts, gifts not meant to suit a woman’s taste, nor such as a bride would deck herself with, but oxen, a caparisoned steed, a shield, a lance, and a sword. With these presents the wife is espoused, and she herself in her turn brings her husband a gift of arms. This they count their strongest bond of union, these their sacred mysteries, these their gods of marriage. Lest the woman should think herself to stand apart from aspirations after noble deeds and from the perils of war, she is reminded by the ceremony which inaugurates marriage that she is her husband's partner in toil and danger, destined to suffer and to dare with him alike both in peace and in war. The yoked oxen, the harnessed steed, the gift of arms, proclaim this fact. She must live and die with the feeling that she is receiving what she must hand down to her children neither tarnished nor depreciated, what future daughters-in-law may receive, and may be so passed on to her grand-children.

Thus with their virtue protected they live uncorrupted by the allurements of public shows or the stimulant of feastings. Clandestine correspondence is equally unknown to men and women. Very rare for so numerous a population is adultery, the punishment for which is prompt, and in the husband's power. Having cut off the hair of the adulteress and stripped her naked, he expels her from the house in the presence of her kinsfolk, and then flogs her through the whole village. The loss of chastity meets with no indulgence; neither beauty, youth, nor wealth will procure the culprit a husband. No one in Germany laughs at vice, nor do they call it the fashion to corrupt and to be corrupted. Still better is the condition of those states in which only maidens are given in marriage, and where the hopes and expectations of a bride are then finally terminated. They receive one husband, as having one body and one life, that they may have no thoughts beyond, no further-reaching desires, that they may love not so much the husband as the married state. To limit the number of their children or to destroy any of their subsequent offspring is accounted infamous, and good habits are here more effectual than good laws elsewhere.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

None the less the marriage tie with them is strict: you will find nothing in their character to praise more highly. They are almost the only barbarians who are content with a wife apiece: the very few exceptions have nothing to do with passion, but consist of those with whom polygamous marriage is eagerly sought for the sake of high birth.

As for dower, it is not the wife who brings it to the husband, but the husband to the wife. The parents and relations are present to approve these gifts – gifts not devised for ministering to female fads, nor for the adornment of the person of the bride, but oxen, a horse and bridle, a shield and spear or sword; it is to share these things that the wife is taken by the husband, and she herself, in turn, brings some piece of armour to her husband. Here is the gist of the bond between them, here in their eyes its mysterious sacrament, the divinity which hedges it. That the wife may not imagine herself exempt from thoughts of heroism, released from the chances of war, she is thus warned by the very rites with which her marriage begins that she comes to share hard work and peril; that her fate will be the same as his in peace and in panic, her risks the same. This is the moral of the yoked oxen, of the bridled horse, of the gift of arms; so must she live and so must be a mother. The things she takes she is to hand over inviolate, and worthy to be valued, to her children, what are to be taken by her daughters-in-law and passed on again to her grandchildren.

So their life is one of fenced-in chastity. There is no arena with its seductions, no dinner-tables with their provocations to corrupt them. Of the exchange of secret letters men and women alike are innocent; adulteries are very few for the number of the people. Punishment is prompt and is the husband’s prerogative: her hair close-cropped, stripped of her clothes, her husband drives her from his house in presence of his relatives and pursues her with a lash through the length of the village. For prostituted chastity there is no pardon; beauty nor youth nor wealth will find her a husband. No one laughs at vice there; no one calls seduction, suffered or wrought, the spirit of the age. Better still are those tribes where only maids marry, and where a woman makes a pact, once for all, in the hopes and vows of a wife; so they take one husband only, just as one body and one life, in order that there may be no second thoughts, no belated fancies: in order that their desire may not be for the man, but for marriage, so to speak; to limit the number of their children, to make away with any of the later children is held abominable, and good habits have more force with them than good laws elsewhere.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

Their marriage code, however, is strict, and no feature of their morality deserves higher praise. They are almost unique among barbarians in being content with one wife apiece – all of them, that is, except a very few who take more than one wife not to satisfy their desires but because their exalted rank brings them many pressing offers of matrimonial alliances. The dowry is brought by husband to wife, not by wife to husband. Parents and kinsmen attend and approve the gifts – not gifts chosen to please a woman’s fancy or gaily deck a young bride, but oxen, a horse with its bridle, or a shield, spear, and sword. In consideration of such gifts a man gets his wife, and she in her turn brings a present of arms to her husband. This interchange of gifts typifies for them the most sacred bond of union, sanctified by the mystic rites under the favour of the presiding deities of wedlock. The woman must not think that she is excluded from aspirations to manly virtues or exempt from the hazards of warfare. That is why she is reminded, in the very ceremonies which bless her marriage at its outset, that she enters her husband’s home to be the partner of his toils and perils, that both in peace and war she is to share his sufferings and adventures. That is the meaning of the team of oxen, the horse ready for its rider, and the gift of arms. On these terms she must live her life and bear her children. She is receiving something that she must hand over intact and undepreciated to her children, something for her sons’ wives to receive in their turn and pass on to the grand-children.

By such means is the virtue of their women protected, and they live uncorrupted by the temptations of public shows or the excitements of banquets. Clandestine love-letters are unknown to men and women alike. Adultery is extremely rare, considering the size of the population. A guilty wife is summarily punished by her husband. He cuts off her hair, strips her naked, and in the presence of kinsmen turns her out of his house and flogs her all through the village. They have in fact no mercy on a wife who prostitutes her chastity. Neither beauty, youth, nor wealth can find her another husband. No one in Germany finds vice amusing, or calls it ‘up-to-date’ to seduce and be seduced. Even better is the practice of those states in which only virgins may marry, so that a woman who has once been a bride has finished with all such hopes and aspirations. She takes one husband, just as she has one body and one life. Her thoughts must not stray beyond him or her desires survive him. And even that husband she must love not for himself, but as an embodiment of the married state. To restrict the number of children, or to kill any of those born after the heir, is considered wicked. Good morality is more effective in Germany than good laws are elsewhere.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Nevertheless, the marriage code is strict there and there is no aspect of their morality that deserves higher praise. They are almost the only barbarians who are content with a single wife, except for a very few, who are not motivated by sexual appetite – it is, rather, that they are courted with numerous offers of marriage on account of their noble rank. The dowry is not brought by the wife to the husband but by the husband to the wife. The parents and relatives are in attendance and approve the gifts – gifts which are not selected to please female fancy or to adorn the new bride, but oxen, a horse with bridle, and a shield with spear and sword. Such are the gifts with which a wife is gained, and she herself in turn brings her husband some weapons. This is what they regard as their most important bond of union, these are their mystic rites, their gods of wedlock. The woman must not think herself excluded from considerations of valour and from the hazards of war: hence she is reminded in these very rituals at the outset of her marriage that she is entering into toil and danger as a partner, to suffer and to dare with her man alike in peace and in war. This the meaning of the yoked oxen, of the bridled horse, of the gift of arms. Thus she must live and thus she must die. She is receiving a trust that she must pass on with undiminished worth to her children, which her son’s wives may receive and in turn pass on to her grandsons.

This means that they live a life of sheltered chastity, uncorrupted by the temptations of public shows or the excitements of banquets. Men and women alike know nothing of clandestine letters. Considering the great size of the population, adultery is very rare. The penalty for it is instant and left to the husband. He cuts off her hair, strips her naked in the presence of kinsmen, and flogs her all through the village. They have no mercy on a woman who prostitutes her chastity. Neither beauty, nor youth, nor wealth can find her another husband. In fact, no one there laughs about vice, nor is seducing and being seduced called ‘modern’. Even better is the practice of those states where only virgins can marry: the hopes and aspirations of a wife are settled once and for all. They are content with a single husband, just as they are content with one body and one life. She has no thoughts beyond him, nor do her desires survive him. They must love not so much the husband himself as their marriage. To limit the number of their children or to kill one of the later-born is regarded as a crime. Good morality is more effective here than good laws elsewhere.

 

Chapter 21-22, on the Germans as Noble Savages.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

No nation indulges more profusely in entertainments and hospitality. To exclude any human being from their roof is thought impious; every German, according to his means, receives his guest with a well-furnished table. When his supplies are exhausted, he who was but now the host becomes the guide and companion to further hospitality, and without invitation they go to the next house. It matters not; they are entertained with like cordiality. No one distinguishes between an acquaintance and a stranger, as regards the rights of hospitality. It is usual to give the departing guest whatever he may ask for, and a present in return is asked with as little hesitation. They are greatly charmed with gifts, but they expect no return for what they give, nor feel any obligation for what they receive.

On waking from sleep, which they generally prolong to a late hour of the day, they take a bath, oftenest of warm water, which suits a country where winter is the longest of the seasons. After their bath they take their meal, each having a separate seat and table of his own. Then they go armed to business, or no less often to their festal meetings. To pass an entire day and night in drinking disgraces no one. Their quarrels, as might be expected with intoxicated people, are seldom fought out with mere abuse, but commonly with wounds and bloodshed. Yet it is at their feasts that they generally consult on the reconciliation of enemies, on the forming of matrimonial alliances, on the choice of chiefs, finally even on peace and war, for they think that at no time is the mind more open to simplicity of purpose or more warmed to noble aspirations. A race without either natural or acquired cunning, they disclose their hidden thoughts in the freedom of the festivity. Thus the sentiments of all having been discovered and laid bare, the discussion is renewed on the following day, and from each occasion its own peculiar advantage is derived. They deliberate when they have no power to dissemble; they resolve when error is impossible.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

No race indulges more lavishly in feasting and hospitality: to close the door against any human being is a crime. Every one according to his property receives at a well-spread board: when it has come to an end, he who had been your host points out your place of entertainment and goes with you. You go next door, without an invitation, but it makes no difference; you are received with the same courtesy. Stranger or acquaintance, no one distinguishes them where the right of hospitality is concerned. It is customary to speed the parting guest with anything he fancies. There is the same readiness in turn to ask of him: gifts are their delight, but they neither count upon what they have given, nor are bound by what they have received.

On waking from sleep, which they generally prolong into the day, they wash, usually in warm water, since winter bulks so large in their lives: after washing they take a meal, seated apart, each at his own table: then, arms in hand, they proceed to business, or, just as often, to revelry. To make day and night run into one in drinking is a reproach to no man: brawls are frequent, naturally, among heavy drinkers: they are seldom settled with abuse, more often with wounds and bloodshed; nevertheless the mutual reconciliation of enemies, the forming of family alliances, the appointment of chiefs, the question even of war or peace, are usually debated at these banquets; as though at no other time were the mind more open to obvious, or better warmed to larger, thoughts. The people are without craft or cunning, and expose in the freedom of the occasion the heart’s previous secrets; so every mind is bared to nakedness: on the next day the matter is handled afresh; so the principle of each debating season is justified: deliberation comes when they are incapable of pretence, but decision when they are secure from illusion.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

No nation indulges more freely in feasting and entertaining than the German. It is accounted a sin to turn any man away from your door. The host welcomes his guest with the best meal that his means allow. When he has finished entertaining him, the host undertakes a fresh role: he accompanies the guest to the nearest house where further hospitality can be had. It makes no difference that they come uninvited; they are welcomed just as warmly. No distinction is ever made between acquaintance and stranger as far as the right to hospitality is concerned. As the guest takes his leave, it is customary to let him have anything he asks for; and the host, with as little hesitation, will ask for a gift in return. They take delight in presents, but they expect no repayment for giving them and feel no obligation in receiving them.

As soon as they wake, which is often well after sunrise, they wash, generally with warm water – as one might expect in a country where winter lasts so long. After washing they eat a meal, each man having a separate seat and table. Then they go out to attend to any business that have in hand, or, as often as not, to partake in a feast – always with their weapons about them. Drinking-bouts lasting all day and all night are not considered in any way disgraceful. The quarrels that inevitably arise over the cups are seldom settled merely by hard words, but more often by killing and wounding. Nevertheless, they often make a feast an occasion for discussing such affairs as the ending of feuds, the arrangement of marriage alliances, the adoption of chiefs, and even questions of peace or war. At no other time, they think, is the heart so open to sincere feelings or so quick to warm to noble sentiments. The Germans are not cunning or sophisticated enough to refrain from blurting out their inmost thoughts in the freedom of festive surroundings, so that every man’s soul is laid completely bare. On the following day the subject is reconsidered, and thus due account is taken of both occasions. They debate when they are incapable of pretence but reserve their decision for a time when they cannot well make a mistake.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

No other people indulges more lavishly in feasting and entertainment. It is regarded as a sin to turn away any person from their house. Each according to his means receives guests with an elaborate meal. When his supplies have run out, the man who has been host accompanies the guest to show him another lodging. They enter the next house even without an invitation. It makes no difference: they are received with equal warmth. No one makes any distinction, as far as the right of hospitality is concerned, between friend and stranger: food is shared between host and guest. As the guest leaves, it is the custom to grant him anything he asks for, and the host is likewise free to ask for a present in his turn. They take delight in gifts but expect no repayment in return and feel under no obligation in accepting them.

As soon as they wake up, which is often well after sunrise, they wash, generally with warm water, as is natural with people among whom winter lasts so long. After washing they take a meal, each having a separate seat and table. Then they go out, with their weapons, to business, or often enough to a feast. No one thinks it disgraceful to carry on drinking all day and all night. As is natural among men who are drunk there are frequent quarrels, which are occasionally settled by violent words, more often by killing and wounding. All the same, they also frequently deliberate at feasts on reconciling feuds, forming marriage connections, and appointing chiefs, and even the question of peace or war. At no other time, they think, is the heart so open to frank thoughts or so warm towards noble sentiments. This people is neither cunning nor subtle: in the freedom of such surroundings their inmost feelings are still expressed. Hence every man’s thoughts are open and laid bare. On the next day the subject is discussed again, and account is taken of both occasions. They debate while they are incapable of deceit and take the decision when they cannot make a mistake.

 

Chapters 23-24, on the German passion for drinking and gambling.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

A liquor for drinking is made out of barley or other grain, and fermented into a certain resemblance to wine. The dwellers on the river-bank also buy wine. Their food is of a simple kind, consisting of wild-fruit, fresh game, and curdled milk. They satisfy their hunger without elaborate preparation and without delicacies. In quenching their thirst they are not equally moderate. If you indulge their love of drinking by supplying them with as much as they desire, they will be overcome by their own vices as easily as by the arms of an enemy.

One and the same kind of spectacle is always exhibited at every gathering. Naked youths who practise the sport bound in the dance amid swords and lances that threaten their lives. Experience gives them skill, and skill again gives grace; profit or pay are out of the question; however reckless their pastime, its reward is the pleasure of the spectators. Strangely enough they make games of hazard a serious occupation even when sober, and so venturesome are they about gaining or losing, that, when every other resource has failed, on the last and final throw they stake the freedom of their own persons. The loser goes into voluntary slavery; though the younger and stronger, he suffers himself to be bound and sold. Such is their stubborn persistency in a bad practice; they themselves call it honour. Slaves of this kind the owners part with in the way of commerce, and also to relieve themselves from the scandal of such a victory.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

For drink they use the liquid distilled from barley or wheat, after fermentation has given it a certain resemblance to wine. The tribes nearest the river bank also buy wine. Their diet is simple: wild fruit, fresh game, curdled milk. They banish hunger without great preparation or appetizing sauces, but there is not the same temperance in facing thirst: if you humour their drunkenness by supplying as much as they crave, they will be vanquished through their vices as easily as on the battlefield.

Their shows are all of one kind, and the same whatever the gathering may be: naked youths, for whom this is a form of sport, jump and bound between swords and threatening spears. Practice has made them dexterous and dexterity graceful; yet not for hire or gain: however daring be the sport, the spectator’s pleasure is the only price they ask. Gambling, one may be surprised to find, they practise as one of their serious pastimes in their sober hours, with such recklessness in winning or losing that, when all else has been lost, they stake personal liberty on a last and final throw: the loser faces voluntary slavery: though he be the younger and the stronger man, he suffers himself to be bound and sold; such is their persistence in a wicked practice, or their good faith, as they themselves style it. Slaves so acquired they trade, in order to deliver themselves, as well as the slave, from the humiliation involved in such victory.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

Their drink is a liquor made from barley or other grain, which is fermented to produce a certain resemblance to wine. Those who dwell nearest the Rhine or the Danube also buy wine. Their food is plain – wild fruit, fresh game, and curdled milk. They satisfy their hunger without any elaborate cuisine or appetizers. But they do not show the same self-control in slaking their thirst. If you indulge their intemperance by plying them with as much drink as they desire, they will be as easily conquered by this besetting weakness as by force of arms.

They have only one kind of public show, which is performed without variation at every festive gathering. Naked youths, trained to the sport, dance about among swords and spears levelled at them. Practice begets skill, and skill grace; but they are not professionals and do not receive payment. Their most daring flings have their only reward in the pleasure they give the spectators. They play at dice – surprisingly enough – when they are sober, making a serious business of it; and they are so reckless in their anxiety to win, however often they lose, that when everything else is gone they will stake their personal liberty on a last decisive throw. A loser willingly discharges his debt by becoming a slave: even though he may be the younger and stronger, he allows himself to be bound and sold by the winner. Such is their stubborn persistence in a vicious practice – though they call it ‘honour’. Slaves of this description are disposed of by way of trade, since even their owners want to escape the shame of such a victory.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

For drink they have a liquid made out of barley or other grain, fermented into a certain resemblance to wine. Those who live nearest to the river-bank buy wine as well. Their food is plain: wild fruit, fresh game, or curdled milk. They satisfy their hunger without elaborate preparation or seasonings. But as far as thirst is concerned they are less restrained: if you indulge their intemperance by supplying as much as they crave, they will be as easily defeated by their vices as by force of arms.

They have only one kind of public and it is the same at every gathering. Naked youth whose sport this is fling themselves about in a dance between swords and spears levelled at them. Training has produced skill, and skill grace, but they do it not for gain or for any payment. However daring their abandon, their sole reward is the spectators’ pleasure. They play at dice when sober, surprisingly enough, as one of their serious pursuits, with such recklessness in winning and losing that, when they have lost everything, they stake their liberty and their own person on a last and decisive throw. The loser goes into voluntary servitude: even if a younger man, even if he is stronger, he submits to being bound and sold. Such is their persistence in a perverse practice, which they themselves call a matter of honour. They dispose of slaves of this category by way of trade, to escape the shame of winning in this way.

 

Chapter 30, on the Chatti.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Hardy frames, close-knit limbs, fierce countenances, and a peculiarly vigorous courage, mark the tribe. For Germans, they have much intelligence and sagacity; they promote their picked men to power, and obey those whom they promote; they keep their ranks, note their opportunities, check their impulses, portion out the day, intrench themselves by night, regard fortune as a doubtful, valour as an unfailing, resource; and what is most unusual, and only given to systematic discipline, they rely more on the general than on the army. Their whole strength is in their infantry, which, in addition to its arms, is laden with iron tools and provisions. Other tribes you see going to battle, the Chatti to a campaign. Seldom do they engage in mere raids and casual encounters. It is indeed the peculiarity of a cavalry force quickly to win and as quickly to yield a victory. Fleetness and timidity go together; deliberateness is more akin to steady courage.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

This tribe has hardier bodies than the others, close-knit limbs, a forbidding expression, and more strength of intellect: there is much method in what they do, for Germans at least, and much shrewdness. They promote to office men of their own choice, and listen to the men so promoted; know their place in the ranks and recognise opportunities; reserve their attack; plan out their day; entrench at night; distrust luck, but rely on courage; and – the rarest thing of all, which only Roman discipline has been permitted to attain – depend on the initiative of the general rather than on that of the soldier. Their whole strength lies in their infantry, whom they load with iron tools and baggage, in addition to their arms: other Germans may be seen going to battle, but the Chatti go to war. Forays and casual fighting are rare with them: the latter method no doubt is part of the strength of cavalry – to win suddenly, that is, and as suddenly to retire; in infantry speed is near allied to panic, and deliberate action is more likely to be resolute.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

This nation is distinguished by hardy bodies, well-knit limbs, fierce countenance, and unusual mental vigour. They have plenty of judgment and discernment, measured by German standards. They appoint picked men to lead them, and then obey them. They know how to keep rank, and how to recognize an opportunity – or postpone their attack. They can map out the duties of the day and make sure the defences of the night. They know that fortune is not to be relied on, but only valour; and – the rarest thing of all, which the gods have vouchsafed only to a military discipline like the Roman – they place more confidence in their generals than in their troops.

All their strength lies in their infantry, which, in addition to its arms, is burdened with entrenching-tools and provisions. Other tribes may be seen going forth to battle; the Chatti come out for a campaign. They seldom engage in swift rushes or in casual fighting – tactics which properly belong to cavalry, with its quick successes and quick retreats. Speed suggests something very like fear, whereas deliberate movement rather indicates a steady courage.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

This people has a tougher physique, with well-knit limbs and fierce countenances, and a greater mental vigour. For Germans they have a great deal of judgement and shrewdness. They elect their leaders and obey their orders; they can keep their ranks together and recognize an opportunity or postpone their attack. They plan their daytime routine and construct defences for the night; they reckon fortune to be fickle but they depend on courage; and, what is rarest of all, and is owed to their judgment and discipline, they put more trust in their general than in their army. All their strength lies in their infantry, which, as well as carrying arms, is burdened by tools and provisions as well. You may see other people going out to battle, the Chatti to wage war. They rarely engage in sudden forays or chance encounters. It is, of course, characteristic of mounted men to win a quick victory and make a quick retreat. Speed and timidity go together; deliberate action is a quality that goes rather with steadfastness.

 

Chapter 33, on the love lost between the Romans and the barbarians.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

After the Tencteri came, in former days, the Bructeri; but the general account now is, that the Chamavi and Angrivarii entered their settlements, drove them out and utterly exterminated them with the common help of the neighbouring tribes, either from hatred of their tyranny, or from the attractions of plunder, or from heaven's favourable regard for us. It did not even grudge us the spectacle of the conflict. More than sixty thousand fell, not beneath the Roman arms and weapons, but, grander far, before our delighted eyes. May the tribes, I pray, ever retain if not love for us, at least hatred for each other; for while the destinies of empire hurry us on, fortune can give no greater boon than discord among our foes.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

...after the Bructeri had been expelled or cut to pieces by the conjoint action of neighbouring peoples, whether from disgust at their arrogance or from the attractions of plunder, or because Heaven leans to the side of Rome. Nay, Heaven did not even grudge us the sight of a battle: over sixty thousand men fell, not before the arms and spears of Rome, but – what was even a greater triumph for us – merely to delight our eyes. Long may it last, I pray, and persist among the nations, this – if not love for us – at least hatred for each other: since now that the destinies of the Empire drive it on, Fortune can guarantee us nothing better than discord among our foes.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

Next to the Tencteri came the Bructeri in former times; but now the Chamavi and Angrivarii are said to have moved into their territory. The Bructeri were defeated and almost annihilated by a coalition of neighbouring tribes. Perhaps they were hated for their domineering pride; or it may have been the lure of booty, or some special favour accorded us by the gods. We were even permitted to witness the battle. More than 60,000 were killed, and not by Roman swords or javelins, but – more splendid still – as a spectacle before our delighted eyes. Long, I pray, may foreign nations persist, if not in loving us, at least in hating one another; for destiny is driving our empire upon its appointed path, and fortune can bestow on us no better gift than discord among our foes.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

The Bructeri were driven out and utterly cut to pieces by a coalition of neighbouring peoples, who either hated their arrogance or were attracted by the prospect of booty – unless it was through some special favour of the gods towards us, for they did not even begrudge us being spectators of the battle. Over sixty thousand were killed, not by Roman swords or spears, but, what was far more splendid, to gladden Roman eyes. Long may the barbarians continue, I pray, if not to love us, at least to hate one another, seeing that, as fate bears remorselessly on the empire, fortune can offer no greater boon now than discord among our enemies.

 

Chapter 34, on Hercules around the shores of the North Sea.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Both these tribes [Greater and Lesser Frisii], as far as the ocean, are skirted by the Rhine, and their territory also embraces vast lakes which Roman fleets have navigated. We have even ventured on the ocean itself in these parts. Pillars of Hercules, so rumour commonly says, still exist; whether Hercules really visited the country, or whether we have agreed to ascribe every work of grandeur, wherever met with, to his renown. Drusus Germanicus indeed did not lack daring; but the ocean barred the explorer's access to itself and to Hercules. Subsequently no one has made the attempt, and it has been thought more pious and reverential to believe in the actions of the gods than to inquire.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

... these two tribes border the Rhine down to the ocean, and also fringe the great lakes which [Greater and Lesser Frisii] the fleets of Rome have navigated. Nay, in that quarter we have essayed the ocean itself, and rumour has published the existence of pillars of Hercules beyond our range: whether it be that Hercules visited those shores, or because we have agreed to enter all marvels everywhere to his credit. Nor did Drusus Germanicus lack audacity, but Ocean vetoed inquiry alike touching itself and touching Hercules; and next the attempt to inquire was abandoned, and it was voted more religious and more reverent to believe in the works of Deity than to comprehend them.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

Both sections [Greater and Lesser Frisii] have the Rhine as a frontier right down to the Ocean, and their settlements also extend round vast lagoons, which have been sailed by Roman fleets. We have even ventured upon the Northern Ocean itself, and rumour has it that there are Pillars of Hercules in the far north. It may be that Hercules did go there; or perhaps it is only that we by common consent ascribe any remarkable achievement in any place to his famous name. Drusus Germanicus did not lack the courage of the explorer, but Ocean forbade further research into its own secrets or those of Hercules. Since then no one has attempted it. It has been judged more pious and reverent to believe in the alleged exploits of the gods than to establish the true facts.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Both peoples [Greater and Lesser Frisii] have the Rhine as their boundary right down to the Ocean and they also dwell around vast lakes, which have been navigated by Roman fleets. We have indeed even made trial of the Ocean itself in that quarter, and rumour had it that Pillars of Hercules did go there or perhaps only because we have agreed to ascribe all marvels anywhere to his credit. Drusus Germanicus was not lacking in daring either, but the Ocean resisted research either into itself or into Hercules. Subsequently no one has made the attempt and it has been judged more religious and reverent to believe in the deeds of the gods than to know the facts about them.

 

Chapters 35-36, on the Chauci and the Cherusci.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Thus far we have taken note of Western Germany. Northwards the country takes a vast sweep. First comes the tribe of the Chauci, which, beginning at the Frisian settlements, and occupying a part of the coast, stretches along the frontier of all the tribes which I have enumerated, till it reaches with a bend as far as the Chatti. This vast extent of country is not merely possessed, but densely peopled, by the Chauci, the noblest of the German races, a nation who would maintain their greatness by righteous dealing. Without ambition, without lawless violence, they live peaceful and secluded, never provoking a war or injuring others by rapine and robbery. Indeed, the crowning proof of their valour and their strength is, that they keep up their superiority without harm to others. Yet all have their weapons in readiness, and an army if necessary, with a multitude of men and horses; and even while at peace they have the same renown of valour.

Dwelling on one side of the Chauci and Chatti, the Cherusci long cherished, unassailed, an excessive and enervating love of peace. This was more pleasant than safe, for to be peaceful is self-deception among lawless and powerful neighbours. Where the strong hand decides, moderation and justice are terms applied only to the more powerful; and so the Cherusci, ever reputed good and just, are now called cowards and fools, while in the case of the victorious Chatti success has been identified with prudence. The downfall of the Cherusci brought with it also that of the Fosi, a neighbouring tribe, which shared equally in their disasters, though they had been inferior to them in prosperous days.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

Hitherto we have been gaining knowledge of Germany towards the west. Now the country falls away with a great bend4 towards the north, and first of all come the Chauci. Though they start next the Frisii and occupy part of the seaboard, they also border on all of the tribes just mentioned, and finally edge away south as far as the Chatti. This vast block of territory is not merely held by the Chauci, but filled by them. They are the noblest of the German tribes, and so constituted as to prefer to protect their vast domain by justice alone: they are neither grasping nor lawless; in peaceful seclusion they provoke no wars and despatch no raiders on marauding forays; the special proof of their sterling strength is, indeed, just this, that they do not depend for their superior position on injustice; yet they are ready with arms, and, if circumstances should require, with armies, men and horses in abundance; so, even though they keep the peace, their reputation does not suffer.

Bordering the Chauci and the Chatti are the Cherusci. For long years they have been unassailed and have encouraged an abnormal and languid peace-fulness. It has been a pleasant rather than a sound policy: with lawlessness and strength on either side of you, you will find peacefulness vanity; where might is right, self-control and righteousness are titles reserved for the stronger. Accordingly, the Cherusci, who were once styled just and generous, are now described as indolent and blind, while the good luck of the victorious Chatti2 has been counted to them for wisdom. The fall of the Cherusci dragged down the Fosi3 also, a neighbouring tribe: they share the adversity of the Cherusci on even terms, though they had only been inferiors in times of prosperity.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

This is as far as the Germany we know extends to the west. To the north it falls away in a huge bend; and here at once we come to the nation of the Chauci. They begin after the Frisii and hold a section of the coast; but they also lie along the flanks of all those nations that I have been describing, and finally curve back to meet the Chatti. This huge stretch of country is not merely occupied, but filled to overflowing, by the Chauci. They are the noblest people of Germany, and one that prefers to maintain its greatness by righteous dealing. Untouched by greed or lawless ambition, they dwell in quiet seclusion, never provoking a war, never robbing or plundering their neighbours. It is conspicuous proof of their valour and strength that their superiority does not rest on aggression. Yet every man of them has arms ready to his hand, and if occasion demands it they have vast reserves of men and horses. So their reputation stands as high in peace as in war.

On the flank of the Chauci and the Chatti, the Cherusci have been left free from attack to enjoy a prolonged peace, too secure and enervating – a pleasant but perilous indulgence among powerful aggressors, where there can be no true peace. When the force decides everything, forbearance and righteousness are qualities attributed only to the strong; and so the Cherusci, once known as ‘good, honest people’, now hear themselves called lazy fools, while the luck of the victorious Chatti passes for profound wisdom. The fall of the Cherusci involved also the neighbouring tribe of the Fosi, who played second fiddle to them in prosperity but get an equal share of their adversity.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Thus far we have learnt about Germany towards the west. Towards the north it falls back with a huge bend, and here first of all is the people of the Chauci. Although they start next to the Frisii and occupy part of the coast, they also stretch out along the flanks of all the states that I have described, and finally curve back towards the Chatti. This vast tract of land is not merely held by the Chauci but filled by them too. They are the noblest people among the Germans and one that prefers to maintain its greatness by righteous dealing. Free from greed and from ungovernable passion, they live in peaceful seclusion; they provoke no wars and do not engage in raids for plunder or brigandage. The principal proof of their excellence and their strength is that they do not rely on damaging others to maintain their superior position. Yet every man has weapons ready to hand and, if the occasion demands, they have an army, with men and horses in great abundance. So, even when they are at peace, their reputation remains just as high.

On the flank of the Chauci and Chatti, the Cherusci, not having been subject to attack, have long cultivated peace, which has been excessive and enervating. This situation has indeed been pleasant rather than bringing security, since when you live among violent and powerful peoples a pacific posture is a mistake. Where force is decisive, restraint and uprightness are labels applied only to the stronger side. Hence the Cherusci, once known for being just and honourable, are now called lazy and stupid, whereas the good luck enjoyed by the conquering Chatti was counted as wisdom. The fall of the Cherusci dragged down the neighbouring state of the Fosi too, who are in adversity their equal partners, although they had a lesser share in their successes.  

 

Chapter 37, on the Roman history of conquering Germany.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

Rome was in her 640^th year when we first heard of the Cimbrian invader in the consulship of Caecilius Metellus and Papirius Carbo, from which time to the second consulship of the Emperor Trajan we have to reckon about 210 years. So long have we been in conquering Germany. In the space of this long epoch many losses have been sustained on both sides. Neither Samnite nor Carthaginian, neither Spain nor Gaul, not even the Parthians, have given us more frequent warnings. German independence truly is fiercer than the despotism of an Arsaces. What else, indeed, can the East taunt us with but the slaughter of Crassus, when it has itself lost Pacorus, and been crushed under a Ventidius? But Germans, by routing or making prisoners of Carbo, Cassius, Scaurus Aurelius, Servilius Caepio, and Marcus Manlius, deprived the Roman people of five consular armies, and they robbed even a Caesar of Varus and his three legions. Not without loss to us were they discomfited by Marius in Italy, by the great Julius in Gaul, and by Drusus, Nero, and Germanicus, on their own ground. Soon after, the mighty menaces of Gaius Caesar were turned into a jest. Then came a lull, until on the occasion of our discords and the civil war, they stormed the winter camp of our legions, and even designed the conquest of Gaul. Again were they driven back; and in recent times we have celebrated triumphs rather than won conquests over them.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

Our city was in its six hundred and fortieth year when the Cimbrian armies were first heard of, in the consulship of Caecilius Metellus and Papirius Carbo. If we count from that date to the second consulship of the Emperor Trajan, the total amounts to about two hundred and ten years: for that length of time has the conquest of Germany been in process. Between the beginning and end of that long period there have been many mutual losses: neither Sammite nor Carthaginian, neither Spain nor Gaul, nor even the Parthians have taught us more lessons. The German fighting for liberty has been a keener enemy than the absolutism of Arsaces. What taunt, indeed, has the East for us, apart from the overthrow of Crassus – the East which itself fell at the feet of a Ventidius and lost Pacorus?

But the Germans routed or captured Carbo and Cassius and Aurelius Scaurus and Servilius Caepio and Maximus Mallius, and wrested five consular armies in one campaign from the people of Rome, and even from a Caesar wrested Varus and three legions with him. Nor was it without paying a price that Marius smote them in Italy, and Julius of happy memory in Gaul, and Drusus, Nero, and Germanicus in their own homes. Soon after, the prodigious tragedy threatened by Gaius Caesar turned into a farce: then came peace, until, on the opportunity offered by our dissensions and by civil war, they carried the legions’ winter quarters by storm and even aspired to the Gallic provinces; finally, after being repulsed thence, they have even in recent years gratified us with more triumphs over them than victories.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

Rome was in her six hundred and fortieth year when the alarm of the Cimbrian arms was first heard, in the consulship of Caecilius Metellus and Papirius Carbo. Reckoning from that year to the second consulship of the emperor Trajan, we get a total of about two hundred and ten years. Such is the time it is taking to conquer Germany. In this long period much punishment has been given and taken. Neither by the Samnites nor by the Carthaginians, not by Spain or Gaul, or even by the Parthians, have we had more lessons taught us. The freedom of Germany is capable of more energetic action than the Arsacid despotism. After all, what has the East to taunt us with, except the slaughter of Crassus? And it soon lost its own prince Pacorus and was humbled at the feet of Ventidius. But the Germans routed or captured Carbo, Cassius, Aurelius Scaurus, Servilius Caepio, and Mallius Maximus, and robbed the Republic, almost at one stroke, of five consular armies. Even from Augustus they took Varus and his three legions. And we had to pay a high price for the defeats inflicted upon them by Gaius Marius in Italy, by Julius Caesar in Gaul, and by Drusus, Tiberius, and Germanicus in their own country. The boastful threats of Gaius Caesar ended in farce. After that came a lull, until the Germans took advantage of our dissensions and civil wars to storm the quarters of the legions and bid for a possession of Gaul. This attempt ended in another defeat for them; but the more recent ‘victories’ claimed by our commentaries have been little more than excuses for celebrating triumphs.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Our city was in her 640^th year when the alarm of the Cimbrian arms was first heard, the consuls being Caecilius Metellus and Papirius Carbo [113 BC]. If we reckon from that year to the second consulship of the emperor Trajan [AD 98], the total is about two hundred and ten years. For all this time have we been conquering Germany. During this long period there have been great losses on each side. Neither the Samnites nor the Carthaginians nor Spain nor Gaul nor even the Parthians have taught us more frequent lessons. The freedom of the Germans does indeed show more aggression than the despotism of the Arsacids. After all, what else can the East taunt us with except the slaughter of Crassus, the East which itself lost Pacorus and was cast down beneath the feet of Ventidius? But the Germans routed or captured Carbo and Cassius and Scaurus Aurelius and Servilius Caepio and Maximus Mallius and robbed the Roman people at a stroke of five consular armies – and Caesar [Augustus] himself of Varus and three legions with him. Nor was it without loss that Gaius Marius smote them in Italy, the Deified Julius in Gaul, Drusus and Nero [Tiberius] and Germanicus in their own country. Later, the grandiloquent threats of Gaius Caesar [Caligula] made him a laughing-stock. Peace then prevailed until, taking advantage of our dissensions and the Civil Wars, they stormed the legions’ winter quarters and even aspired to win over the Gallic provinces before being once more driven back. In recent times, certainly, they have been objects of triumphs rather than victories.

 

Chapter 43, on the hellish armies of the Harii – or the Naharvali.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

The Harii, besides being superior in strength to the tribes just enumerated, savage as they are, make the most of their natural ferocity by the help of art and opportunity. Their shields are black, their bodies dyed. They choose dark nights for battle, and, by the dread and gloomy aspect of their death-like host, strike terror into the foe, who can never confront their strange and almost infernal appearance. For in all battles it is the eye which is first vanquished.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

But to return. The Harii, apart from the strength in which they surpass the peoples just enumerated, are fierce in nature, and trick out this natural ferocity by the help of art and choice of time: they blacken their shields and dye their bodies; they choose pitchy nights for their battles; by sheer panic and shadowy effect they strike terror like an army of ghosts. No enemy can face this novel and, as it were, hellish vision: in every battle after all the feeling of being conquered comes to the eye first.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

As for the Harii, not only are they superior in strength to the other peoples I have just mentioned, but they minister to their savage instincts by trickery and clever timing. They black their shields and dye their bodies, and choose pitch dark nights for their battles. The shadowy, awe-inspiring appearance of uch a ghoulish army inspires mortal panic; for no enemy can endure a sight so strange and hellish. Defeat in battle starts always with the eyes.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Further, besides their strength, in which they surpass the peoples listed just previously, they are fierce-spirited and enhance their inborn savagery by artificial means and by their choice of time. They blacken their shields and dye their bodies black and choose pitch dark nights for their battles. Their terrible shadowy appearance, like an army of ghosts, creates panic, as no enemy can endure so strange and almost hellish a sight. Defeat in battle always begins with the eyes.

 

Chapter 45, on the Aestii around the Baltic Sea.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

At this point the Suevic sea, on its eastern shore, washes the tribes of the Aestii, whose rites and fashions and style of dress are those of the Suevi, while their language is more like the British. They worship the mother of the gods, and wear as a religious symbol the device of a wild boar. This serves as armour, and as a universal defence, rendering the votary of the goddess safe even amidst enemies. They often use clubs, iron weapons but seldom. They are more patient in cultivating corn and other produce than might be expected from the general indolence of the Germans. But they also search the deep, and are the only people who gather amber (which they call “glesum”), in the shallows, and also on the shore itself. Barbarians as they are they have not investigated or discovered what natural cause or process produces it. Nay, it even lay amid the sea’s other refuse, till our luxury gave it a name. To them it is utterly useless; they gather it in its raw state, bring it to us in shapeless lumps, and marvel at the price which they receive. It is however a juice from trees, as you may infer from the fact that there are often seen shining through it, reptiles, and even winged insects, which, having become entangled in the fluid, are gradually enclosed in the substance as it hardens. I am therefore inclined to think that the islands and countries of the West, like the remote recesses of the East, where frankincense and balsam exude, contain fruitful woods and groves; that these productions, acted on by the near rays of the sun, glide in a liquid state into the adjacent sea, and are thrown up by the force of storms on the opposite shores. If you test the composition of amber by applying fire, it burns like pinewood, and sends forth a rich and fragrant flame; it is soon softened into something like pitch or resin. Closely bordering on the Suiones are the tribes of the Sitones, which, resembling them in all else, differ only in being ruled by a woman. So low have they fallen, not merely from freedom, but even from slavery itself.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

Accordingly we must now turn to the right-hand shore of the Suebic Sea: here it washes the tribes of the Aestii; their customs and appearance are Suebic, but their language is nearer British.

They worship the mother of the gods: as an emblem of that superstition they wear the figures of wild boars: this boar takes the place of arms or of any human protection, and guarantees to the votary of the goddess a mind at rest even in the midst of foes. They use swords rarely, clubs frequently. Grain and other products of the earth they cultivate with a patience out of keeping with the lethargy customary to Germans: nay, they ransack the sea also, and are the only German people who gather in the shallows and on the shore itself the amber, which they call in their tongue “glesum.”

Nor have they, being barbarians, inquired or learned what substance or process produces it: nay, it lay there long among the rest of the flotsam and jetsam of the sea, until Roman luxury gave it fame. To the natives it is useless: it is gathered crude; is forwarded to Rome unshaped: they are astonished to be paid for it. Yet you may infer that it is the exudation of trees: certain creeping and even winged creatures are continually found embedded: they have been entangled in its liquid form, and, as the material hardens afterwards, are imprisoned. I should suppose therefore that, just as in the secluded places of the East, where frankincense and balsam are exuded, so in the islands and lands of the West there are groves and glades more than ordinarily luxuriant: these are tapped and liquefied by the rays of the sun, as it approaches, and ooze into the nearest sea, whence by the force of tempests they are stranded on the shores opposite: if you try the qualities of amber by setting fire to it, it kindles like a torch and feeds an oily and odorous flame, and afterwards dissolves into something like pitch and resin.

Adjacent to the Suiones come the tribes of the Sitones, resembling them in all other respects, and differing only in this, that among them the woman rules: to this extent they have fallen lower not merely than freeman but even than slaves.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

Turning, therefore, to the right shore of the Suebian sea, we find it washing the country of the Aestii, who have the same customs and fashions as the Suebi, but a language more like the British. They worship the Mother of the gods, and wear, as an emblem of this cult, the device of a wild boar, which stand them in stead of armour or human protection and gives the worshipper a sense of security even among his enemies. They seldom use weapons of iron, but clubs very often. They cultivate grain and other crops with a perseverance unusual among the indolent Germans. They also ransack the sea. They are the only people who collect amber – glaesum is their own word for it – in the shallows or even on the beach. Like true barbarians, they have never asked or discovered what it is or how it is produced. For a long time, indeed, it lay unheeded like any other refuse of the sea, until Roman luxury made its reputation. They have no use for it themselves. They gather it crude, pass it on in unworked lumps, and are astounded at the price it fetches. Amber, however, is certainly a gum of trees, as you may see from the fact that creeping and even winged creatures are often seen shining through it. Caught in the sticky liquid, they were imprisoned as it hardened. I imagine that in the islands and countries of the west, just as in the secret chambers of the east, where the trees exude frankincense and balm, there must be woods and groves of unusual fertility. Their gums, drawn out by the rays of their near neighbour the sun, flow in liquid state into the adjacent sea and are finally washed up by violent storms on to the shores that lie opposite. If you test the properties of amber by applying fire to it, you will find that it lights like a torch and burns with a smoky, pungent flame, soon becoming a semi-fluid mass like pitch or resin.

Bordering on the Suiones are the nations of the Sitones. They resemble them in all respects but one – woman is the ruling sex. That is the measure of their decline, I will not say below freedom, but even below decent slavery.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

Passing then to the right-hand shore of the Suebian Sea, here it washes the peoples of the Aestii, whose customs and appearance are those of the Suebi, while their language is closer to British. They worship the Mother of the Gods and as a symbol of that cult they wear the figure of a wild boar. They all carry this instead of weapons: it is a protection for the worshipper of the goddess even in the midst of his enemies. They seldom use iron weapons, clubs frequently. Grain and other crops they cultivate with a perseverance unusual among the generally lethargic Germans. They also scour the sea and are the only ones out of all the Germans who gather amber, which they themselves call glesum, in the shallows and on the shore itself. Being barbarians, they have never enquired or discovered what substance or process produces it. In fact, for a long time it just lay among the other jetsam of the sea, until our luxury gave it a reputation. They have no use for it themselves: it is gathered crude and passed on unworked, and they are astonished at the price they get for it. You can, however, tell that it is gum from trees, for creeping and sometimes even winged creatures are often imbedded in it. They have been trapped when the substance is liquid, and it has subsequently hardened. Hence, I imagine, that in the islands and lands of the west there are also woods and groves more than usually productive, just as there are in the remote regions of the east, where trees exude frankincense and balsam. For there these are drawn out by the rays of the sun, which is close by, ooze out into the nearest part of the sea in liquid state, and are cast up by the force of storms on the shores opposite. If you test amber by applying fire to it, it kindles like a torch and feeds an oily and pungent flame, and then dissolves into a sort of pitch or resin.

Bordering on the Sviones are the peoples of the Sithones, who resemble them in other respects, with the single difference that they are ruled by a woman. To this extent they have fallen lower not merely than free men but than slaves. 

Chapter 46, on the blissfulness of being wretchedly poor.

[Church-Brodribb, 1869]

The Fenni are strangely beast-like and squalidly poor; neither arms nor homes have they; their food is herbs, their clothing skins, their bed the earth. They trust wholly to their arrows, which, for want of iron, are pointed with bone. The men and the women are alike supplied by the chase; for the latter are always present, and demand a share of the prey. The little children have no shelter from wild beasts and storms but a covering of interlaced boughs. Such are the homes of the young, such the resting place of the old. Yet they count this greater happiness than groaning over field-labour, toiling at building, and poising the fortunes of themselves and others between hope and fear. Heedless of men, heedless of gods, they have attained that hardest of results, the not needing so much as a wish. All else is fabulous, as that the Hellusii and Oxiones have the faces and expressions of men, with the bodies and limbs of wild beasts. All this is unauthenticated, and I shall leave it open.

[Hutton/Warmington, 1914/70, Loeb Classical Library]

The Fenni live in astonishing barbarism and disgusting misery: no arms, no horses, no household; wild plants for their food, skins for their clothing, the ground for their beds; arrows are all their hopes; for want of iron they tip them with sharp bone. This same hunting is the support of the women as well as of the men, for they accompany the men freely and claim a share of the spoil; nor have their infants any shelter against wild beasts and rain, except the covering afforded by a few intertwined branches. To these the young men return: these are the asylum of age; and yet they think it happier so than to groan over field labour, be cumbered with building houses, and be for ever involving their own and their neighbours’ fortunes in alternate hopes and fears. Unconcerned towards men, unconcerned towards Heaven, they have achieved a consummation very difficult: they have nothing even to ask for.

Beyond this all else that is reported is legendary: that the Hellusii and Oxiones have human faces and features, the limbs and bodies of beasts: it has not been so ascertained, and I shall leave it an open question.

[Mattingly/Handford, 1948/70, Penguin Classics]

The Fenni are astonishingly savage and disgustingly poor. They have no proper weapons, no horses, no homes. They eat wild herbs, dress in skins, and sleep on the ground. Their only hope of getting better fare lies in their arrows, which, for lack of iron, they tip with bone. The women support themselves by hunting, exactly like the men; they accompany them everywhere and insist on taking their share in bringing down the game. The only way they have of protecting their infants against wild beasts or bad weather is to hide them under a makeshift covering of interlaced branches. Such is the shelter to which the young folk come back and in which the old must lie. Yet they count their lot happier than that of others who groan over field labour, sweat over house-building, or hazard their own and other men’s fortunes in the hope of profit and the fear of loss. Unafraid of anything that man or god can do to them, they have reached a state that few human beings can attain: for these men are so well content that they do not even need to pray for anything. What comes after them is the stuff of fables – Hellusii and Oxiones with the faces and features of men, but the bodies and limbs of animals. On such unverifiable stories I shall express no opinion.

[Birley, 1999, Oxford World’s Classics]

The Fenni are remarkably savage and wretchedly poor. They have no weapons, no horses, and no homes. They feed on wild plants, wear skins, and sleep on the ground. Their only hope is their arrows, which for lack of iron they tip with bone. Men and women alike live by hunting. The women accompany the men everywhere and insist on taking a share in the spoils. Their only way of protecting infants against wild beasts or rain is a shelter made of interwoven branches. This is what the young men come back to and where the old men take refuge. Yet they think this is a happier lot than to groan over the tillage of the fields, toiling over house-building, or speculating between hope and fear with their own and other people’s money. Having nothing to fear at the hands of men or gods, they have reached a state that is very difficult to attain: they do not even need to pray for anything.

Everything after this point is in the realm of fable. The Hellusii and Oxiones are said to have human faces and features, the bodies and limbs of animals. As this has not been confirmed, I shall leave the matter open.