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 13th
of June, in the third consulate of Gaius Caesar; he died on the 23rd
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 640th
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 640th
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.
