The rise of one nation often involves the fall of another. As King George III observes in a song from the musical Hamilton, “Oceans rise – empires fall.” And the Plutarch biographies excerpted for this collection titled The Rise of Rome capture not only Rome’s beginnings as an up-and-coming republic, but also the final and simultaneous fall, of Greek states like Macedon, from the prominence that they had once enjoyed.
We all know that Plutarch, a Roman citizen of Greek descent, composed a series of parallel biographies of eminent Greeks and Romans, with the goal of showing his readers how the choices that one makes set the course of one’s life, and affect how one will be remembered after death. Commentator Jeffrey Tatum, from Victoria University of Wellington, sets forth in a perceptive manner the paradoxes involved in Plutarch’s work: on the one hand, Plutarch seems to identify with the Greek culture that is his heritage, and to feel that it was a higher and nobler culture than that of the Romans; on the other hand, his religious faith compelled him to believe that the Roman hegemony within which he grew up was somehow the will of the gods.
This collection starts with Plutarch’s life of Romulus (reigned from 753-716 B.C.), the legendary founder of Rome. Plutarch, who pairs Romulus’ life with that of Theseus, knows that he is on shaky historical ground when discussing the life of a mythic figure like Romulus, and therefore he is appropriately tentative in discussing the stories about Romulus.
When it comes to Romulus’ birth, Plutarch concedes that there are stories to the effect that “Aemilia, Aeneas’ daughter, bore Romulus to Mars”, and that when the tyrannical Tarchetius of Alba Longa ordered that Romulus and his twin brother Remus be killed, the babies were left on a river bank where “a she-wolf watched over them and suckled them” (p. 11). But he makes clear that there are other, less mythological explanations for Romulus’ parentage and early life as well.
Plutarch adverts to the well-known, Cain-and-Abel-style story of Romulus’ murder of his brother Remus, stating that while Romulus was digging a trench to mark part of the boundary of the new city of Rome, “Remus ridiculed some of these works, others he obstructed”, until “he was struck down – by Romulus himself, according to some authorities; by Celer, one of Romulus’ companions, according to others” (p. 20).
That hedging-of-bets approach to stories that are told in many different versions is characteristic of Plutarch’s treatment of Romulus’ life. Plutarch takes the same approach to stories like the Roman men’s abduction of the Sabine women, as well as the way in which, at the end of his life, “Romulus vanished suddenly, nor did a single part of his body remain to be seen” (p. 41). Was Romulus assumed into heaven, to become one of the Olympian gods? Maybe, Plutarch says. Was Romulus murdered by disgruntled patrician senators who then cut up his body and carried it away in pieces in order to avoid detection? Could be, Plutarch tells us.
Numa (reigned from 715-674 B.C.) was Romulus’ successor. He is known for having encouraged religious practice among the Romans, adding to the new nation’s already-well-known valour a reputation for piety. Plutarch appreciates how Numa, once he had been asked to assume the Roman throne, “proceeded to bring about major reforms strictly through persuasion, maintaining his mastery over a reluctant and demurring city without recourse to arms or violence” (p. 98).
Publius Valerius Publicola, who died in 503 B.C., was remembered by the Romans for what he did six years before his death: he and others overthrew the tyrannical rule of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus (“Tarquin the Proud”), and established a new Roman Republic on the ruins of the old monarchy. A grateful Roman people gave Publius Valerius the name Publicola as an honour, to commemorate his public-spiritedness. Publicola always put service to the Roman people before his own ambitions, and it is for this reason that Plutarch states that Publicola led “a life characteristic of the best and noblest men” (p. 128).
Coriolanus, who achieved his greatest heights of historical importance around 490 B.C., is probably best-known because William Shakespeare wrote a play about him. He is a difficult and paradoxical figure. Originally named Gnaeus Marcius, he gained his battle name “Coriolanus” by winning a great victory over the Volscians, an Italic tribe hostile to Rome, at the battle of Corioli in 493 B.C. Later, however, once he felt Rome had turned against him, Coriolanus took the side of the Volscians he had once fought against, and led a Volscian army to the very gates of Rome!
For Plutarch, Coriolanus’ “energy of mind and strength of purpose” were unfortunately “combined with a violent temper and an uncompromising self-assertion, which made it difficult to cooperate with others” (p. 146).
Of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus, another character in the play says that
His nature is too noble for the world.
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident
Ir Jove for his power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth;
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent…
This passage from Shakespeare’s play is certainly consistent with Plutarch’s description, and it demonstrates how Plutarch was one of the writers on whom Shakespeare depended most whilst looking for a good story to tell. Plutarch, for his part, sees the life of Coriolanus as proving “that a naturally generous and noble disposition, if it lacks education, will produce both good and evil fruits at once” (p. 146).
The story of Camillus (c. 448-365 B.C.) is at least partially legendary, but it sets forth classically Plutarchian themes of a great person showing character in the face of adversity. As Plutarch tells it, Camillus achieved great success in early campaigns like one against the Etruscan city of Veii in 396 B.C. When there was change in the political winds, however, Camillus was prosecuted and exiled from Rome.
But the Roman people found themselves calling upon Camillus for help once again, after the young republic suffered one of its greatest disasters. A force of Gauls inflicted a catastrophic defeat upon a Roman army, on Roman soil, at the Battle of the Ailia in 387 B.C. -- and then the Gauls went on to sack Rome itself! As Plutarch tells it, the Gauls “slaughtered everyone they captured, men and women, young and old alike”, and “pillaged and plundered the private homes of the city, at length setting them on fire and burning them to the ground” (p. 221). It was a calamity that would loom large in the Roman mind throughout the rest of Roman history.
Camillus, restored to command, revived the morale of the discouraged Romans, raised a large army, and proceeded to the relief of the captured and devastated capital. The Gauls found themselves under siege in the city that they had taken and despoiled, and Camillus out-thought and out-fought his Gallic adversaries, leading to this outcome:
For a long time a fierce battle raged, but in the end the enemy were struck down in a terrible slaughter and their camp was seized. Some of the Gauls who fled were chased down and killed immediately, but most of them dispersed, only to be set upon and killed by men in the surrounding villages and cities. Thus was Rome captured unexpectedly, and even more unexpectedly rescued, after seven full months of barbarian occupation… (p. 228)
Fabius Maximus (275-203 B.C.) received the nickname Cunctator (“The Delayer”) because, during the Second Punic War (218-201 B.C.), he responded to the slashing attacks of the Carthaginian general Hannibal not by launching major frontal attacks in response, but rather by avoiding open battle and delaying Hannibal’s army through actions against Carthage’s supply lines.
As Plutarch puts it, Fabius, after the Romans had suffered a disastrous defeat under another commander, “was determined not to fight a pitched battle, and since he had time and manpower and money on his side, his plan was to exhaust his opponent’s strength, and gradually to wear down his small army and meagre resources” (p. 260). Many of the Romans, who wanted to see a more aggressive response to Hannibal’s depredations, “became contemptuous of these time-killing tactics” (p. 260). Yet Fabius’ cautious tactical approach, which ultimately proved to be the correct way to bring about Hannibal’s defeat, gave the world the term “Fabian tactics” – and general officers around the world have been utilizing Fabian tactics ever since.
Marcus Claudius Marcellus (270-208 B.C.) was a consul who also served as a general during the Second Punic War (218-201 B.C.). But what he is probably best known for nowadays – thanks in no small part to the recent film Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny (2023) – is his involvement in the death of the great Greek mathematician Archimedes.
The fates of Marcellus and Archimedes came together during the siege of Syracuse in 213-212 B.C. The city-state of Syracuse, on the island of Sicily – once the site of a decisive Spartan victory over Athens during the Peloponnesian War two centuries earlier – was culturally Greek, and wanted nothing to do with either Rome’s or Carthage’s side in that war. But Rome wanted to use Sicily as a base for the invasion and subjugation of Carthage, and therefore Marcellus intended to reduce the city by direct attack.
But Marcellus “had reckoned without Archimedes” (p. 318), whose ingenious mechanical devices forced Marcellus to call off his direct-assault plans and adopt siege tactics instead. The city did eventually fall, but for Marcellus, his triumph was compromised by the death of Archimedes. Plutarch, who emphasizes Marcellus’ respect and admiration for Greek culture, points out that Marcellus had given specific orders that Archimedes’ life was to be spared; but a Roman soldier, angry that Archimedes was in the midst of a mathematical calculation and “refused to move until he had worked out his problem and established his demonstration” (p. 324), unsheathed his sword and killed Archimedes. In response, Marcellus “was deeply affected by [Archimedes’] death [and] abhorred the man who killed him as if he had committed an act of sacrilege” (p. 325).
Aratus of Sicyon (271-213 B.C.) is one of the Greek adversaries whose lives are presented in The Rise of Rome. He was a skilled general, a prominent leader of the Achaean League that represented the last major Greek resistance to Roman hegemony. Plutarch praises Aratus as a man who “hated tyrants bitterly and yet always regulated his enmities and friendships on the basis of what was best for the public good” (p. 363). Aratus’ career came to an end when he made the fateful decision to ally with Philip of Macedon – “an abominable man, marked by insolence and cruelty alike” (p. 403). The selfish and cowardly Philip is frequently a foil in these Lives.
Philopoemen (c. 253-182 B.C.) is, like Aratus, a Greek enemy of Rome whose life story is included in The Rise of Rome. Like Aratus, he showed skill on the battlefield, and in leadership of the Achaean League – and he won the respect of the Romans, who called him “the last of the Greeks.” Plutarch’s enduring theme – that the way in which a person is remembered says much about the person’s life – comes forth in his account of how, decades after Philopoemen’s death, “a certain Roman tried to remove” all of the honours put up in Philopoemen’s memory, stating that “Philopoemen was Rome’s bitter enemy, he needed to be driven out – it was all just as if he were still alive.” Yet other leading Romans refused to allow “the destruction of the honours of so famous a man, even though he had mounted considerable opposition to [Roman armies]. They were able to distinguish between human excellence and the needs of the time, and between honour and advantage” (pp. 436-38).
Of Titus Flamininus (c. 229-174 B.C.), a Roman general and politician who was instrumental in Rome’s final conquest of the Greek states, Plutarch says that Titus’ “ambition for honour and glory was unsurpassed; he aspired to perform the noblest and greatest of deeds by his own efforts, and so he took more pleasure in those who wanted help than in those who could do him favours” (p. 450). Such a way of thinking sounds laudable – but Plutarch makes clear that Titus’ ambition for glory may have misled him at a crucial point in his life.
Plutarch suggests that, once Titus had won the last of his great military victories and had no more battlefield enemies left to conquer, his “lust for glory” may have contributed to “the vigour with which he hounded Hannibal, something which made him very unpopular” (p. 469). The defeated Carthaginian general had fled Carthage and taken refuge in Bithynia (now a region of northern Turkey), and “Everyone at Rome knew this perfectly well, but all turned a blind eye on this weak old man, and felt that he was a sort of victim of destiny” (p. 469).
Yet Titus “was infuriated that [Hannibal] should still be alive”, and sought to have Hannibal executed. Hannibal foiled Titus’ designs by taking his own life, and “When the news reached the Senate, a fair number were appalled by what they saw as Titus’ excessiveness and brutality. Hannibal had been like an old bird, wingless and docked, allowed to live as a tamed animal; now Titus had killed him. No one had been pressing him to do this; it was just for his own glory, to gain his own place in history as Hannibal’s killer” (pp. 469-71).
Here, Plutarch indicates that the wish for honour and glory, which can lead ambitious people to do great things, can also mis-lead people to act excessively in the pursuit of a famous name. And it is perhaps a fitting historical irony, in that regard, that Hannibal’s name is still universally known, while the only people who are likely to know the name of Titus Flamininus are those who take up a copy of Plutarch’s Lives.
Cato the Elder (234-149 B.C.) was known for many things, including his dedication to Roman cultural traditions and his opposition to Hellenistic tendencies among some Romans who self-consciously adopted Greek ways because they thought Greek ways seemed more “civilized.” But what he is probably best known for nowadays is his attitude toward rival Carthage, at a time when Rome had already fought and won two Punic Wars against the Carthaginians.
At a time of renewed tension between Rome and Carthage, Cato developed a new way of conveying to his fellow senators his belief that the fight against Carthage was not yet finished – “whenever his opinion was called for on any subject, he invariably concluded with the words, ‘And furthermore, it is my opinion that Carthage must be destroyed!’” (p. 521).
Cartago delenda est – Cato’s fiery words have become a sort of cultural short-hand for all-out, uncompromising, no-holds-barred hostility toward a political enemy. Plutarch does not approve – he calls Cato’s “method of driving home his point…excessively brutal” (p. 521) – but he points out that “Cato is said to have brought about the third and last war against Carthage”, and adds that “Some people consider that the last of his political achievements was the destruction of Carthage” (pp. 520, 521). For Rome and Carthage did indeed fight a third Punic War, from 149-146 B.C.; and at that war’s end, Carthage was indeed destroyed.
Lucius Aemilius Paullus gained the name “Macedonicus” after he oversaw Macedon’s final defeat in the Third Macedonian War of 171-168 B.C. But what seems most important to Plutarch is not Aemilius Paullus’ military success but rather the way he comported himself in the process of gaining that success. When Aemilius Paullus died in 160 B.C., Plutarch emphasizes, his life was celebrated with “goodwill and honour and gratitude…not exclusively on the part of his fellow-citizens but also on the part of his enemies.” His erstwhile Macedonian enemies took care to note that “it had not been only on those occasions when he made conquests that he had treated them all mildly and humanely; rather, for the rest of his life, he had always been busy doing something good for them, and had cared for them as though they were his relations” (p. 585).
For Plutarch, Aemilius Paullus seems to epitomize what a Roman leader should be – successful in war, of course, but never losing his moral compass in the process. Plutarch may well have felt that a number of the emperors of his own day – Nero and Domitian, for instance – had fallen a long way from the high standards that Aemilius Paullus had set.
It is good that, where possible, this Penguin Books edition provides, along with the lives of these eminent Greeks and Romans, the follow-up essays in which Plutarch would offer in-depth comparison of a Greek and a Roman statesman – Theseus and Romulus, for example, or Solon and Publicola – to see what readers of the two lives, in parallel, could learn about how to live, or how not to live. The Rise of Rome gives the reader valuable insights into Plutarch’s skills as a biographer and historian. One also learns a great deal about how great nations rise and fall.