But because he thought that in a war-like city there would be more kings like Romulus than there would be like Numa and that the kings themselves would go to war, he instituted the flamen lovis as a perpetual priesthood, so that the sacred rites of the kingly office would not be neglected.
Livy’s description of the policies instituted by the second king of Rome, Numa Pompilius, furnishes a good example of ‘‘structural characterization’’ in action. Livy’s narrator explicitly comments upon Numa’s attainments as a man of peace when he is first introduced into the narrative, in accordance with the tendencies we have noted above (p. 107): ‘‘at that time the justice and piety of Numa Pompilius were celebrated’’ (Livy 1.18.1). Quite apart from authorial insistence, however, Numa’s peace-loving characteristics are also thrown into relief by his position in the narrative. His traits stand out the more clearly for being juxtaposed with those of his martial predecessor, Romulus, and his yet more aggressive successor, Tullius Hosti-lius.
Livy, of course, had no control over the order in which the tradition held that the early kings of Rome had reigned. It did, however, lie within his capacities as narrator and literary artist to point up the contrast between Numa and the kings between whom he was sandwiched. This is exactly what the reader sees him doing above. Note the nice touch whereby it is Numa himself who perceives the disparity between himself and Romulus; once again, an observation is sharpened by originating from a character within the text rather than the main narrator.
The subtleties do not end there. Observe that the sentence does not run ‘‘he thought that... there would be more kings like Romulus than... like himself,’ but rather ‘‘he thought that... there would be more kings like Romulus than... like Numa.’ The point is small, but telling; ‘‘Numa’’ is already beginning to stand as a metonym for a particular set of values distinct from those which attach to the name of Romulus, even in the mind of the second king himself. Livy's structuring of his narrative of the early monarchs of Rome enables him to present them as embodying a comprehensive gallery of civic possibilities.
The delineation of character by means of significant juxtaposition is not a phenomenon limited to Livy. One of ancient historiography's particular delights is pointing up through proximity in the narrative the difference between good and bad generalship. Again, Xenophon’s Hellenica furnishes a convenient example, where the narrator hammers the point home through his commentary (3.2.1):
Dercylidas, having achieved this and taken nine cities in eight days, took care that while he spent the winter relying upon good relations he might not become a grievous burden to the allies, as Thibron had...
Dercylidas' competence is all the clearer for the contrast between his diplomacy and Thibron's poor management. The stage is therefore set for the embarrassing fiasco, later in the narrative (4.8.18-19), wherein Thibron finally meets his end. For further instances of good and bad generalship juxtaposed, one might also look at Appian's accounts of the doings of the Scipiones on campaign (Iber. 367; Pun. 554), where the contrast between the discipline demanded by the new broom and the parlous state to which matters had been reduced under his predecessors is highlighted by initial expulsions of undesirables from the Roman camp.
Juxtaposition need not, of course, play only upon the placing side by side of opposites: good and bad diplomacy, war-like and peaceful kings. The technique likewise thrives upon the setting together of good and better (or, more commonly, of bad and worse). Marius’ assault on Capsa is attributed by Sallust to his desire to out-Metellus Metellus, his predecessor in command: ‘‘Avery great desire to capture it had overcome Marius, both because of its strategic usefulness and because the labor was a tough one and Metellus had taken the town of Thala, simharly situated and fortified to Capsa, to great acclaim’’ (Sall. Jug. 89.6). Almost all of the narratives of the later Roman civil wars, for example, see to it that their protagonists are haunted by the shadows of their predecessors in internecine strife: Julius Caesar’s behavior on his victory is anxiously monitored for adherence to or deviation from the pattern set by Sulla (App. BC 2.448); the triumvirs strenuously affirm the alleged distinction between their own proscriptions and the ones that preceded them (App. BC 4.39); Otho and Vitellius find themselves judged against the yardstick of Julius Caesar and Pompey, or Octavian and the Liberators (Tac. Hist. 1.50).
The juxtaposition of individuals, then, is the most obvious way in which the structure of a narrative can heighten or draw attention to particular traits and characteristics. It is, however, by no means the only one. Close study of the ancient historians reveals an armory of techniques whereby the manipulation of narrative flow, the order in which events are narrated, makes subtle points about individual character without a single word of overt comment being passed.
Caesar in particular, whose general reluctance to engage in overt characterization has already been a matter for comment (p. 106), affords numerous instances of these methods in operation. It was noted above (p. 112) that Appian creates an impression of Caesar as foresighted, preemptive, and quick off the mark through careful choice of verbs to describe his behavior. Caesar’s own method of highlighting these traits in himself, by contrast, turns upon a mannerism not of lexis but of tense. Consider the following extracts, all from the Gallic War:
When this matter was reported, Caesar burned the gates, sent in the legions which he had ordered to be ready, and took the town. (7.11.8)
Since his own men were now in trouble, Caesar sent to their assistance around three hundred German horsemen, whom he had decided to have with him from the beginning. (7.13.1)
Suddenly the Aedui appeared openly to our men on the flank, whom Caesar had sent up on the right by a different route to draw the band apart. (7.50.1)
Everyone agreed what Caesar himself had already ascertained through scouts. (7.44.3)
Through parenthetical uses of verbs in the pluperfect (italicized in the passages above), Caesar repeatedly stresses the extent to which what unfolds in the course of the narrative is ordered and controlled by his own prior planning. Caesar already knows what everyone else is now finding out; Caesar has already sent men elsewhere to spring a surprise; Caesar has already arranged for the possibility of reinforcements.
The adroit general sees things coming in advance. It is telling to observe the terms of the narrator’s indictment of the hapless Titurius (one of various incompetent commanders who get to play Thibron to the author’s Dercylidas in the course of Caesar’s works, though here he is the foil not so much for Caesar as for Cotta): ‘‘then at last Titurius, who had not seen anything coming beforehand, panicked and rushed around. . . which usually happens to people who have to do their planning in the middle of the action itself’’ (BG 5.33.1). Even something as simple as the use of a particular tense, then, can help to build the impression of a sagacious and perceptive character.
The manipulation of when something is revealed is a useful tool in historiographical characterization. The manipulation of whether it is revealed at all is likewise a potent ploy. It has often been remarked that a significant element in the impression of an Olympian and statesmanlike character that is produced by the Pericles of Thucydides stems from a structural consideration: none of his various speeches in the course of the work (Thuc. 1.140-144; 2.35-46; 2.60-64) is ever answered or contradicted by another speech from someone who opposes him. Being associated with some element of formal uniqueness or peculiarity within a text can be an effective means of conveying an impression of a character invested with capability and stature. For example, the volume of extended oratio obliqua granted to Vercin-getorix greatly exceeds that allotted to any of the rest of Rome’s enemies in Caesar’s Gallic War (e. g., 7.14, 20). By such means does Caesar the historian make the last enemy of Caesar the protagonist appear forceful, sagacious (note his extended point-for-point rebuttals of the slanders of his opponents at 7.20), and so appropriately climactic.
World History
