Clearly, then, the stories connected with Rome’s foundation are all late and belong in the realm of myth. The same is most likely true also of the first four kings and most of the stories told about the last three kings, Brutus, Lucretia, and the fall of monarchy, and much that Roman historical tradition reports about the early Republic. This tradition was elaborated continually by Fabius Pictor and many generations of his successors. Most of these works are lost, except for fragments (usually in form of quotations by later authors),6 but the tradition is preserved in the works of authors of Augustus’ time (Livy, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Virgil) and the Empire (especially Plutarch). It forms a tangled mix of many different elements, most of which unfortunately are entirely unreliable. In this respect, moreover, ‘‘early Roman history’’ lasts until the late fourth century, when Rome reached the threshold of living memory that was directly accessible to Fabius Pictor and other pioneers of Roman historiography (below). Although distortion is not lacking even later, from the time of the Great Samnite War in the late fourth century the foundation of sources, upon which a critical reconstruction of Roman history could and can be built, gradually became much broader and stronger (here and below, see also Chapter 2).7
Still, we should not despair of forming concrete and somewhat reliable views about Rome’s development in the previous period. But we need to proceed cautiously, to apply a broad range of critical interpretive methods, and to scale our expectations down. Most of all we need to understand the methods the Roman historians used to fill the thin framework of memories and accepted ‘‘facts’’ available to them with dramatic content and to shape a continuous, interesting and instructive story.
All three aspects are important: the story needed to be continuous because gaps were intellectually and aesthetically annoying; unless it was interesting, the intended readership would desert it; and it had to be instructive for history also served a didactic purpose. The first two points are obvious (even if modern historians find it easier to admit lack of knowledge). The third definitely contradicts modern standards, even if we are aware of the ubiquitous influence of ruling ideologies on the historian’s choices and judgments. In antiquity, it was largely self-evident. Thucydides intended his history of the Peloponnesian War to be a ‘‘possession for ever’’ because knowledge of the political patterns he observed, heavily determined by an unchangeable factor (human nature), made it possible to anticipate future developments and to react appropriately to the vicissitudes of politics and war (1.22.4). Polybius considered history the best school for aspiring politicians (1.1, 3.12, 3.31-2, 12.25a). The Romans, whose thinking was rooted in a canon of aristocratic values, found moral aspects more important. Livy perceived great benefit in Rome’s earliest history, despite its legendary nature, because it offered positive and negative models (exem-pla), helping each new generation to orient itself (praef. 6-13). All these approaches shared a firm belief in the importance of history not only for illuminating the past but also for offering guidance to the present and future. History therefore was both timely (insofar as its interpretation served the specific needs of the author’s time) and timeless (insofar as it focused on the basic problems of human and communal, social, and political relations). This is why Polybius, Livy, Sallust, and Plutarch were still among the favorite readings of the American Founders, and Thucydides even today has lost none of his immediacy and relevance.8
Not surprisingly, therefore, topicality is one of the most frequent factors distorting the Roman historians’ ‘‘reconstruction’’ of early Roman history. Yet there were many others. Apart from the pervasive intrusion of myths and legends, many dramatic episodes probably derived from early plays and heroicizing poetry; others from tales that originally were unrelated to history and invented for different purposes (for example, to illustrate legal issues). Family traditions and funeral orations preserved memories of ancestors and famous deeds but were often exaggerated and enhanced by fiction. When antiquarian interests emerged in the late second century, ancient words, institutions, and customs, and names of places and buildings in and around Rome offered a plethora of material; their origins or causes were explained by etiological stories connected with specific events in Rome’s early history. Greek historiography, older and richly developed, yielded models of dramatic events, explanation, and interpretation. Patriotic motives prompted positive reinterpretation of episodes that were considered unflattering or incompatible with Roman decorum. Rhetorical elaboration offered unlimited possibilities of expansion: Livy and especially Dionysius of Halicarnassus abound in long and artful speeches.
If everything else failed, considerations of probability and retrojection of later conditions and patterns proved helpful. Many historians (though not all: Dionysius is a sad exception) were vaguely aware that early Rome had been smaller and simpler than its successor in the middle and late Republic, but they had no idea of how deep and comprehensive these differences really were. They knew, for instance, that Rome’s early wars had been confined to feuds with neighboring towns and tribes in the city’s close proximity, but they had no compunction in applying to these wars the template of the much longer, larger, and more complex wars against the Samnites and other Italian peoples in the late fourth and early third centuries.
In addition, once a specific story had been integrated into the tradition, it usually remained there. The annalists’ primary goal, as Livy confirms (praef. 2), was not to engage in thorough research in order to arrive at new insights, better interpretations, or even an independent reconstruction of historical events. It was rather to improve on what others had written before, by enhancing scope, style, drama, and human appeal. This tendency favored stability in the structural canon: the sequence of facts and events could not easily be changed. Evidence preserved in authors independent of the annalist tradition indicates that numerous variations and elements not contained in this canon survived outside of it.9
Let us look at a few examples. The selection of Romulus’ successor (Numa Pompilius) combines several etiologies transformed into historical narrative (1.17.1-21.5). These focus on specific constitutional issues that (as was suggested, for instance, by the term interrex, ‘‘in-between king’’) must have originated in Rome’s earliest period. Such issues include the complex modalities to be observed when direct transmission of the leader’s political - religious power ( imperium) was interrupted by his death, and the participation of three authorities in ‘‘making’’ the leader: the gods (through auspicia, the observation of the sky and bird-signs), the Senate (through selection), and the People (through confirmation in assembly). The legend of the Horatii and Curiatii (Livy 1.24.1-26.14), embedded in Rome’s conquest of Alba Longa and perhaps celebrated in heroicizing songs (see also Chapter 2), 0 explains several topographical and legal oddities, including the location and arrangement of six ancient tombs between Rome and Alba Longa, the name of the ‘‘Sister’s Beam,’’ an obsolete legal procedure (perduellio, ‘‘treason’’) that was revived in a sensational trial in 63, and certain purification rituals that kept being observed in the family of the Horatii.
In 443, Livy reports (4.9-10), a conflict erupted in the Latin town of Ardea, allied with Rome, that soon escalated into a regional war. An young orphan woman of lowly origin was wooed by two suitors: a wealthy aristocrat favored by her mother, and a commoner (plebeian) preferred by her guardians. In an age of social conflict (below), this rivalry became part of a factional strife that escalated beyond control. Resolution within the family proved impossible, a court decided in favor of the mother, the guardians and a band of plebeians abducted the bride, the aristocrat mobilized his followers who defeated the plebeians in a battle, the plebeians occupied a hill outside of Ardea and ravaged the estates of their elite opponents, both parties called for outside help, in the ensuing war the Romans defeated the Volscians, and the consul Geganius led the Volscian general Cluilius in triumph to the Capitol. The beautiful bride was long forgotten. The only historical element in this unlikely tale is perhaps Geganius’ triumph in a Volscian war, listed (like the first election of censors in the same year) in the annual records of the pontiffs (below). Like many such tales, this one was probably invented, without specific historical connection or date, by a mid-or late republican jurist to illustrate with a concrete but fictitious case specific legal problems resulting from certain rules in the Twelve Tables (here concerning the marriage of an orphaned and therefore legally independent woman). The story was integrated into the historical tradition because it helped fill a gap (the cause of Geganius’ war), added human drama to a dry historical fact, and offered an opportunity to celebrate early Roman virtues (loyalty to allies and ability, in contrast to the Ardeans, to resolve civic differences without bloodshed).
Among patriotically motivated distortions, Rome’s heroic defense, after the last Tarquin’s expulsion, against his ally, Porsenna of Clusium, easily takes first place. The deeds of Horatius Cocles, Mucius Scaevola, and Cloelia supposedly impressed Porsenna so deeply that he preferred to be Rome’s friend (Livy 2.9.1-13.11). An alternative tradition suggests that the Romans capitulated, yielded to Porsenna territory across the Tiber, hostages, and the insignia of power, and were prohibited from using iron for other than agrarian purposes. According to this tradition, Porsenna not only conquered Rome but also ruled over it at least for a short time.1
The influence of Greek narrative and interpretive patterns is no less obvious, even if in some cases they may have been grafted onto a historical core. The legend of the abduction of the Sabine women (Livy 1.9.1-13.8) explains how Romulus and his motley crowd of settlers in early Rome provided themselves with the women needed to complete and perpetuate their community. It preserves the memory of the merging of two originally separate communities (one Latin, the other Sabine), but may also reflect the experience of Greek colonists who often left home without women and acquired them later, peacefully or violently, from native tribes. Greek influence is even clearer in the last Tarquin’s characterization as a tyrant and in the famous tale that explains his expulsion: the rape of the virtuous Lucretia by the tyrant’s son (Livy 1.49-59).13
The canonical list of seven kings illustrates the tendency to cling to an orthodox version of events. Whatever the historicity of names and persons, evidence survives outside this tradition suggesting that conditions were more unstable and Rome may have had more ‘‘kings.’’ Servius Tullius, wedged in between the two Tarquins (Livy 1.39.1-48.9), supposedly was the son of a prisoner of war (and thus a slave) of royal descent, whom a miracle marked early for future greatness. This legend may derive from his name, Servius (servus, slave), while Tullius may rather link him to the third king, Tullus Hostilius. The Etruscans apparently knew Servius as Mastarna, the loyal follower of an Etruscan warlord, Caelius Vibenna. After a defeat, Mastarna settled with the remains of Caelius’ army on the hill in Rome that henceforth bore Caelius’ name, and, as Servius Tullius, became king. Scholars interpret Mastarna as magister-na, that is, a name derived from the function of magister (master, leader), in Rome the title of the commander of army and cavalry (magister populi, magister equitum) and perhaps initially of the overall leader. Accordingly, unless two persons were here merged into one, a follower of Vibenna named Servius Tullius became magister in Rome and remained famous in Etruria as Mastarna.
There were in fact two Vibenna brothers. They are represented in one of the fourth-century frescoes in the Francois tomb in Vulci: among others, Mastarna liberates Caele Vipinas, while Aule Vipinas stabs his opponent and Marce Camitlnas (Marcus Camillus) is about to kill Cneve Tarchunies Rumach (Gnaeus Tarquinius of Rome; the Roman kings’ first name was Lucius). This seems to reflect an episode from an aristocratic feud, in which captives, liberated and equipped with arms by their supporters, take revenge on their captors. Presumably these men were leaders of aristocratic warrior bands that were a common feature at the time. According to a mid-fifth-century inscription, the companions (sodales) of Publius Valerius (a name very familiar in Rome) set up a dedication in Mars’ sanctuary in Satricum. Porsenna too may have been such a ‘‘condottiere.’’ After his victory over Rome, his son Arruns tried to gain control over a neighboring town (Aricia) but was defeated by Latins and allied Greeks. The fleeing remains of his army were sheltered by the Romans (which again reflects Porsenna’s influence in Rome). More ‘‘kings’’ thus perhaps ‘‘ruled’’ in Rome than the annalistic tradition indicates, and some of these were little more than aristocratic adventurers who used their warrior bands to seize power over another town. Moreover, the transition from monarchy to Republic may have been more complicated also. The last Tarquin was perhaps expelled not by the Romans themselves but by Porsenna, who was overthrown in turn when his son’s defeat at Aricia weakened his resources and authority.14
The most important and frequent cause of distortion, however, lies in political concerns. A century of crisis, violence, and civil war began with Tiberius Gracchus’ failed attempt in 133 to realize an ambitious program of agrarian reform, and ended with Augustus’ victory. Among those involved in intense contentions between ‘‘populist’’ and ‘‘conservative’’ factions (populares and optimates) we find several senators who wrote historical works. Licinius Macer, whose annales were among Livy’s primary sources, most likely was tribune of the plebs in 73 and a fierce opponent of the conservative senatorial government that Sulla established after civil war and proscriptions in the late eighties. In describing social conflicts in the early
Republic, he decidedly took the side of the plebeians, introducing new interpretations and precedents, based on contemporary experiences, and emphasizing the role of his ancestors, the Licinii (while his predecessor, Valerius Antias, notoriously exaggerated that of the Valerii). In the crucial year 133, another annalist, L. Calpurnius Piso Frugi, was consul and one of Tiberius Gracchus’ leading opponents.15
To Piso we owe a telling example of political reinterpretation. In 440-39 Rome was struck by food shortages. All efforts of the grain commissioner, Lucius Minucius, to import food remained unsuccessful. A wealthy citizen, Spurius Maelius, had bought grain abroad and distributed it gratis to the suffering population. This made him popular and overly ambitious; he aimed at sole rule (tyranny, regnum). Minucius discovered the plot and informed the Senate. Cincinnatus, famous but by now very old, was made dictator and selected Servilius Ahala as his adjutant ( magister equitum). When Maelius tried to escape and stirred up the people to avoid arrest, Ahala cut him down. Cincinnatus praised him as savior of the state, Maelius’ house was destroyed (the lot, henceforth called Aequimaelium, was left empty forever), and Minucius was honored outside the Porta Trigemina. Three tribunes demanded that Ahala and Minucius be tried for illegally killing a citizen, but they were not heard (Livy 4.1216; cf. Dion. Hal. 12.1-4).
A few years later, Livy says (4.21.3-4), a plebeian tribune, Spurius Maelius, demanded, again unsuccessfully, that legal action be taken against Minucius and Ahala because of their role in the death of the corn dealer Maelius. Despite the clumsy attempt to explain it, the appearance of Spurius Maelius in different roles in different years suggests that neither role nor year were initially fixed. Moreover, the tale combines three etiologies: of the Aequimaelium, of the column in front of the Porta Trigemina that honored Minucius, and of the byname (cognomen) of Servilius (Ahala refers to the armpit where he hid his dagger). Dionysius points out (12.4) that, according to Calpurnius Piso and an even earlier annalist, Cincius Alimentus, Cincinnatus was not made dictator nor Servilius magister equitum. Rather, after hearing the compelling accusation of Minucius, the Senate considered a trial unnecessary. Servilius was charged with killing the conspirator and executed the deed immediately.
Events of the year 133 help explain the contradiction between these two versions. Tiberius Gracchus had violated customary rules (mos maiorum), set dangerous precedents, and created an explosive situation that the Senate as guardian of tradition, law, and order could not tolerate (see Chapter 8). Because the consul in charge refused to act as long as Gracchus did not openly break the law, some senators seized the initiative and killed Gracchus and many of his supporters. This act of violence prompted a vehement debate. Both sides tried to bolster their positions through trials, new political measures and laws, and, apparently, historical precedents. The Maelius incident was ideal for this purpose. An older tradition, attested by Cincius Alimentus, must have contained not only the etiological elements but also the fact that Ahala had killed Maelius as a potential tyrant. Tiberius’ opponents, who had accused him of aiming at regnum, needed to emphasize only that in the early Republic senators had killed a would-be tyrant without authorization by office or court, simply because as leading citizens they were responsible for the state’s freedom and safety. This is Piso’s version. In that of Tiberius’ supporters, preserved in Livy and Dionysius, the Senate had strictly followed the law; unlike Gracchus, Maelius had been killed by an official who had been empowered for this very purpose, and only because (again unlike Gracchus) he tried to evade justice and stir up a revolt.17
Overall, then, in assessing the value of the Roman tradition great caution is due especially in accepting the sources’ interpretation and dramatic elaboration of events. Apart from Dionysius, for almost the entire period covered in the present chapter, Livy (whose first decade ends in 293/2) offers the only fully preserved historical narrative. This does not mean, of course, that Livy was himself responsible for the distortions we discover in his text; most of them he probably found in his sources. Although the basic outline of facts and events probably was largely fixed already at the time of Fabius Pictor, the history he wrote down for the first time underwent comprehensive transformation in the following 200 years or so. Livy often made an effort to deal with flaws he perceived in his sources, but the elegant and dramatic elaboration that was his primary purpose also solidified or worsened earlier distortions. Like many of his predecessors, Livy too reinterpreted Rome’s early history from the perspective of his own time. Many instances reflect his concerns with problems that agitated his contemporaries in the critical period when he began his work. In Livy’s first ten books early Rome and Augustan Rome, history of the distant past and experiences of the present interact with each other in a fruitful dialectic that is difficult to disentangle but illuminating in both respects.18
World History
