Quintus Fulvius Flaccus was a commander and politician of the Roman Republic who ascended to the consulship in 179 B.C.  There is an interesting story about him found in the ancient historians, which we will relate here. 

Fulvius was, by all accounts, a successful consul.  He prevented a mass migration of Transalpine Gauls into Italy, and competently carried out a resettlement of a portion of the Ligurian population from their native lands.  He was even awarded two triumphs:  one for military actions against the Celtiberi before his consulship, and another for his handling of the Gauls and Ligurians while in office.  Clearly he was a man to be reckoned with.  But then Fortune, with her predictable and heartless inconstancy, began to turn against him.  

The historians Livy (XLII.3) and Valerius Maximus (I.1.20) tell us that Fulvius, while serving as censor in 173 B.C., decided to strip the famous temple of Juno Lacinia of its beautiful marble roof tiles.  This temple was located in Calabria, Italy, near what is now Crotone.  Why did Fulvius make this terrible decision to spoliate a sanctified landmark?  He was involved in an ambitious building project in Rome, the construction of a temple to Fortuna Equestris.  Fulvius had resolved that his temple would be the most splendid in the city, and must be rivaled by no other.  So he took it upon himself to loot whatever caught his fancy.  According to Livy, he removed about half of the sacred site’s marble tiles, thinking that this would be enough for his own edifice.  The local Calabrians were enraged, of course, but Fulvius’s power prevented them from interfering with the loading the precious tiles onto ships bound for Rome.

Apparently Fulvius carried out his theft in secrecy, for when the Roman senate learned what had happened, it was deeply angered.  Fulvius was summoned to explain himself.  When he arrived on the senate floor, he was verbally assailed by elderly senators demanding an explanation.  How could he commit an act that neither Hannibal nor Pyrrhus, foreign invaders of Italic soil, had ever dared to commit? The plundered Calabrian edifice was effectively ruined; its roof was destroyed, and now provided no protection from rain and wind. Fulvius’s conduct, the senate feared, would provoke the retribution of the gods upon the Roman people. 

A unanimous resolution of the senate decreed that the tiles should be restored to the temple of Juno Lacinia, with apologetic offerings made to placate the offended goddess.  In this way Rome might expiate the sins of one of its sons.  But when the precious tiles were finally returned to Calabria, they simply sat in one of the temple’s courtyards; no living artisan, it was discovered, possessed the technical skill to refit the tiles to the roof.  Even in ancient times, skills could be lost; and some damage, once accomplished, cannot be remedied.  If the senate’s goal was to express contrition to Juno for destroying her sacred structure, it failed miserably.   

But this is not the end of Fulvius’s story.  Livy (XLII.28) adds a haunting postscript to the tale.  In 172 B.C., Fulvius “died a shameful death.” Hic foeda morte perit, says Livy with contemptuous brevity.  Fulvius’s two sons were serving in the army, which was campaigning in Illyricum; one son was killed in battle, and the other was seriously ill from some unidentified disease.  Overcome with grief, Fulvius hanged himself.  Servants who entered his bedroom made the grisly discovery.  This great commander, who had once overcome Rome’s enemies on the battlefield, refused to fight his own grief.  Of course, Livy attributes his suicide to divine wrath traceable to the temple desecration previously committed.  While Roman culture accepted suicide under certain limited conditions (e.g., cases of terminal illness, or when confronted by certain death in battle), the taking of one’s life due to an inability to handle grief was scorned as weak and faithless.  A man was expected to maintain himself with Stoic reserve, and carry on with his responsibilities.   

I have always found it inexplicable why some choose to take their own lives in the face of grief.  Why do they do this?  Can they not see that the melancholy veils of fog will inevitably be lifted, if only they can endure for a bit longer?  How could they be so selfish, so lacking in faith, that they would depart this world in such a way that others would impugn their memory?  But perhaps I only reveal my own limitations with these questions.  I am told that only sufferers of depression can understand the dark motivations, and terrible mental visitations, that come with their affliction.  Depressives are not, they say, in control of their faculties; they have abandoned their powers of reason, and find no solace in a redemptive faith. 

Perhaps this is so.  But I must be honest, and speak the truth:  I find such action pathetic and disgraceful.  Our lives do not belong to us alone.  We do not have the authority to do with ourselves what we wish.  We are not the sole animators or infusers of our flesh; we are moved by other, greater powers.  We are not merely tenants or occupiers of this earth; we were put here to bear witness to divine things.  As Cicero says,

For human beings exist on earth not merely as occupants and tenants, but in a way as observers of transcendent and heavenly things—a privileged spectacle in which no other animal may partake. [On the Nature of the Gods II.56]

Given this reality, how could any man completely lose hope?  I used to enjoy watching the travel experiences of celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain.  But when I learned of his tragic and contemptible fate, I could not watch his programs any longer.  I cannot lie:  I was revolted by his craven behavior, his weakness, his nihilistic faithlessness.  I read two books about him—the memoir by Tom Vitale, and the biography by Charles Leerhsen—in an attempt to grasp what drove him to take such an extreme and pointless course of action.  But the best explanation seems to be that he lacked the strength to fight:  to fight his weakness, to fight a malicious lover, to fight his unstable personality.  When a man gives up, and refuses to fight, there is no hope for him.

We must never abandon the field of conflict, for there are no other fields to go to.  We must never surrender the fight.  No matter what clouds of darkness swirl around us, we must always remember that such clouds are transitory and fleeting, and that better days lie ahead.  The mind has a way of exaggerating the acuity of grief; what may seem so terrible one day may seem very different on another day.  As Cicero says,

Understanding the necessity of enduring the human condition prevents a man from taking a hostile stance against God, and reminds him that he is only a man. This realization very much lightens the burden of grief. The reciting of examples is not done to gratify the minds of the disaffected, but to enable a grieving person to understand that he must endure, calmly and patiently, the trials he sees many others have endured. [Tusculan Disputations III.25]

We cannot escape the fact that life is struggle; life is fighting.  It cannot be otherwise.  And the fight does not end until we draw our last breath and give up the ghost.  He who is unable to steel himself to this reality, he who prematurely gives up the ship, can expect only disgrace and misery.  I have been recently reading the autobiographical memoir of Greek author Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco.  Kazantzakis was a native of Crete, and recalls in vivid prose his formative memories of that ancient and mysterious island.  He relates this unforgettable anecdote:

Though extremely old and nearly blind, my grandfather had taken up arms again in the Revolution of 1878.  He went to the mountains to fight, but the Turks surrounded him, caught him by throwing lassos, and slaughtered him outside the monastery of Savathiana.  The monks kept his skull in the sanctuary.  One day I looked through the tiny window and saw it—polished, anointed with sanctified oil from the watch lamp, deeply incised by sword blows.

“What was my grandfather like?” I asked my mother.

“Like your father.  Darker.”

“What was his job?”

“Fighting.”

“And what did he do in peacetime?”

“He smoked a long chibouk and gazed at the mountains.”

Being pious when I was young, I asked still another question:  “Did he go to church?”

“No.  But on the first of every month he brought a priest home with him and had him pray that Crete would take up arms again.  Your grandfather fretted, naturally, when he had nothing to do.  Once when he was arming himself I asked him, ‘Aren’t you afraid to die, Father?’  But he neither answered nor even turned to look at me.” 

When I was older, I wanted to ask my mother:  Did he ever love a women?  I was ashamed to, however, and never found out.  But he surely must have loved many women, because when he was killed and the family opened his coffer, a cushion was found there, stuffed with black and brown tresses.

His job was fighting.  I cannot imagine any more felicitous summation of a great man’s life than this succinct and indelible declaration. 

 

 

Read more in the new translation of Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods.