> failing to conquer their enemies by their own strength, they sought to

obtain the help of the divinities. They made a vow that if victory was

given to them, all the living creatures born that year in their land

should be held as sacred to the gods.



The victory came, and they sacrificed all the lambs, calves, kids, and

pigs of that year's birth, while they redeemed from the gods such

animals as were not suitable for sacrifice. But, as it appeared, the

deities were not satisfied. The land refused to yield its fruits, and

the Sabines were not long in deciding why their crops had failed. They

had neither sacrificed nor redeemed the children born that year, and had

thus failed in their duty to the gods.



To atone for this fault, all their children of that year's birth were

devoted to the god Mamers, and when they had grown up they were sent

away to make themselves a home in a new land. As the young men started

on their pilgrimage a bull went before them, and, as they fancied that

Mamers had sent this animal for their guide, they piously followed him.

He first lay down to rest when he had come to the land of the Opicans.

This the Sabines took for a sign, and they fell on the Opicans, who

dwelt in villages without walls, and drove them out from their country,

of which the new-comers took possession. They then sacrificed the bull

to Mamers; and in after-ages they bore the bull for their device. They

also took a new name, and were afterwards known as Samnites.



While the Romans were extending their dominion in Central Italy, the

Samnites were conquering the peoples farther south. Their dominion

became great, and at one time included the famous cities of Herculaneum

and Pompeii and many others of the cities of the southern plains. In the

centre of the Samnite country stood a remarkable mountain mass, an

offshoot from the Apennines. This mountain, now called the Matese, is

nearly eight miles in circumference, and rises abruptly in huge

wall-like cliffs of limestone to the height of three thousand feet. Its

surface is greatly varied in character, now sloping into deep valleys,

now rising into elevated cliffs, of which the loftiest is six thousand

feet high. It is rich in springs, which gush out in full flow, and

disappear again in the caverns with which limestone rocks abound. Its

valleys yield abundant pasture and magnificent beech forests, while on

its highest summits the snow tarries till late summer, and in the

hottest months of summer the upland pastures continue cool.



This mountain fastness formed the citadel from which the Samnites issued

in conquering excursions over the surrounding country, and enabled them

in time to extend their dominion far and wide, and to rival Rome in the

width and importance of their state. Thus Rome and Samnium approached

each other step by step, and the time inevitably came when they were to

join issue in war.



Three wars took place between the Romans and the Samnites. In the first

of these Valerius Corvus (the origin of whose name of Corvus we have

already told) led the Roman army to victory. In honor of this victory

Rome received from Carthage (with which city it was to engage in a

desperate contest in later years) a golden crown, for the shrine of

Jupiter in the Capitol.



In 329 B.C. Rome finally overcame the Volscians, with whom they had been

many years at war, and three years afterwards war with the Samnites was

again declared. The latter were invading Campania, in which country lay

the volcano of Vesuvius and the city of Naples. Rome came to the aid of

the Campanians, and a war began which lasted for more than twenty years.



Of this war we have but one event to tell, that in which Rome suffered

the greatest humiliation it had met with in its entire career, the

famous affair of the Caudine Forks. It was in the fifth campaign of the

war that this event took place. Two Roman armies had marched into

Campania and threatened the southern border of Samnium, which the

Samnite general Pontius was prepared to defend. His force occupied the

passes which led from the plain of Naples into the higher mountain

valleys; but he deceived the Romans by spreading the report that the

whole Samnite army had gone to Apulia, where they were besieging the

city of Luceria. His purpose was to lure the Romans into these difficult

defiles under the impression that the Samnites were trusting to the

natural strength of their country for its defence.



The trick succeeded. The Roman consuls believed the story, and, in their

haste to go to the aid of their allies in Apulia, chose the shortest

route, that which led through the Samnian hills. The absence of the

Samnite army would enable them, they thought, to force their way through

Samnium without difficulty; and, blinded by their false confidence, the

consuls recklessly led their men into the fatal pass of Caudium.



This pass was a narrow opening in the outer wall of the Apennines, which

led from the plain of Campania to Maleventum. To-day it is traversed by

the road from Naples to Benevento, and is called the valley of Arpaia.

In the past it was famous as Caudium.



Into this defile the Romans marched between the rugged mountain

acclivities that bounded its sides, and through the deep silence that

reigned around. The pass seemed utterly deserted, and they expected

soon to emerge into a more open valley in the interior of the hills.



But as they advanced the pass contracted, until it became but a narrow

gorge, and this they found to be blocked up with great stones and felled

trees. Brought to a halt, the troops stood gazing in dismay and dread on

these obstacles, when suddenly the silence was broken, loud war-cries

filled the air, and armed Samnites appeared as if by magic, covering the

hills on both flanks, and crowding into the pass in the rear.



The Romans were caught in such a trap as that from which Cincinnatus had

rescued a Roman army many years before. But there was here no

Cincinnatus with his stakes, and they were far from Rome. The entrapped

army made a desperate effort to escape, attacking the Samnites in the

rear, and seeking to force their way up the rugged surrounding hills.

They fought in vain. Many of them fell. The Samnite foe pressed them

still more closely into the rocky pass. Only the coming of night saved

them from total destruction.



But escape was impossible. The gorge in front was completely blocked up.

The pass in the rear was held by the enemy in force. The flanking hills

could hardly have been climbed by an army, even if they had not been

occupied. No resource remained to the Romans but to encamp in the

broader part of the narrow valley, and there wait in hopeless despair

the outcome of their folly.



The Samnites could well afford to let them wait. The rear was held by

the bulk of their army. The obstacles in front were strongly guarded.

Every possible track by which the Romans might try to scale the hills

was held. Some desperate attempts to break out were made, but they were

easily repulsed. Nothing remained but surrender, or death by famine.



One or other of these alternatives had soon to be chosen. A large army,

surprised on its march, and confined within a barren pass, could not

have subsistence for any long period. Nothing was to be gained by delay,

and they might as well yield themselves prisoners of war at once.



So the Romans evidently thought, and without delay they put themselves

at the mercy of their conquerors. "We yield ourselves your captives,"

they said, "to do with as you will. Put us all to the sword, if such be

your decision; sell us into slavery; or hold us as prisoners until we

are ransomed: one thing only we ask, save our bodies, whether living or

dead, from all unworthy insults."



In this request they forgot the record that Rome had made; forgot how

often noble captives had been forced to walk in Roman triumphs and been

afterwards slain in cold blood in the common prison; forgot how they had

recently refused the rites of burial to the body of a noble Samnite. But

Pontius, the Samnite general, was much less of a barbarian than the

Romans of that age. He was acquainted with Greek philosophy, had even

held conversation, it is said, with Plato, and was not the man to

indulge in cruel or insulting acts.



"Restore to us," he said to the consuls, "the towns and territory you

have taken from us, and withdraw the colonists whom you have unjustly

placed on our soil. Conclude with us a treaty of peace, in which each

nation shall be acknowledged to be independent of the other. Swear to do

this, and I will grant you your lives and release you without ransom.

Each man of you shall give up his arms, but may keep his clothes

untouched; and you shall pass before our army as prisoners who have been

in our power and whom we have set free of our own will, when we might

have killed or sold them, or held them for ransom."



These terms the consuls were glad enough to accept. They were far better

than they would have granted the Samnites under similar circumstances.

Pontius now called for the Roman fecialis, whose duty it was to conclude

all treaties and take all oaths for the Roman people. But there was no

fecialis with the army. The senate had sent none, having resolved to

make no terms with the Samnites, and to accept only their absolute

submission. They had never dreamed of such a turn of the tide as this.



In the absence of the proper officer, the consuls and all the surviving

officers took the oath, while it was agreed that six hundred knights

should be held as hostages until the Roman people had ratified the

treaty. Why Pontius did not insist on treating with the senate and

people of Rome at once, instead of trusting to them to ratify a treaty

made with prisoners of war, we are not told. He was soon to learn how

weak a reed to lean upon was the Roman faith.



The treaty made, the humiliating part of the affair came. The Roman

army was obliged to march under the yoke, which consisted of two spears

set upright and a third fastened across their tops. Under this the

soldiers of the legions without their arms, and wearing but a single

article of clothing,--the campestre or kilt, which reached from the

waist to the knees,--passed in gloomy succession. Even the consuls were

obliged to appear in this humble plight, the six hundred hostage knights

alone being spared.



This was no peculiar insult, but a common usage on such occasions. The

Romans had imposed it more than once on defeated enemies. They were now

to endure it themselves, and the affair, under the name of the Caudine

Forks, has become famous in history.



Pontius proved, indeed, generous to his foes. He supplied carriages for

the sick and wounded, and furnished provisions to last the army until it

should arrive at Home. When that city was reached the senate and people

came out and welcomed the soldiers with the greatest kindness. But the

wounded pride of the legionaries could not be soothed. Those who had

homes in the country stole from the ranks and sought their several

dwellings. Those who lived in Rome lingered without the walls until

after the sun had fallen, and then made their way home through the

darkness. The consuls were obliged to enter in open day, but as soon as

possible they sought their homes, and shut themselves up in privacy.



As for the city, it went into mourning. All business was suspended; the

patricians laid aside their gold rings and took off the red border of

their dresses which marked their rank; the plebeians appeared in

mourning garbs; there was as much weeping for those who had returned in

dishonor as for those left dead on the field; all rejoicings, festivals,

and marriages were set aside for a year of happier omen.



The final result was such as might have been expected from the earlier

record of Rome. The senate refused to recognize the treaty. The defeated

consuls themselves sustained this bad faith, saying that they and all

the officers should be given up to the Samnites, as having promised what

they were unable to perform.



This was done. Half stripped, as when they passed under the yoke, and

their hands bound behind their backs, the officers were conducted by the

fecialis to the Samnian frontier, and delivered to the Samnites as men

who had forfeited their liberty by their breach of faith. The surrender

completed, Postumius, one of the consuls, struck a fecialis violently

with his knee,--his hands and feet being bound,--and cried out,--



"I now belong to the Samnites, and I have done violence to the sacred

person of a Roman fecialis and ambassador. You will rightfully wage war

with us, Romans, to avenge this outrage."



This transparent trick was wasted on Pontius. He refused the victims

offered him. They were not the guilty ones, he said. The legions must be

placed again in the Caudium Valley, or Rome keep the treaty. Anything

else would be base and faithless.



The treaty was not kept. The war went on. And nearly thirty years

afterwards, as we have told in the preceding story, Pontius, who had

behaved so generously to the Romans, was led as a prisoner in a Roman

triumph, and then basely beheaded while the triumphal car of the victor

ascended the Capitoline Hill. His death is one of the darkest blots on

the Roman name. "Such a murder," we are told, "committed or sanctioned

by such a man as Q. Fabius, is peculiarly a national crime, and proves

but too clearly that in their dealings with foreigners the Romans had

neither magnanimity, nor humanity, nor justice."