345. Religious Symbols Everywhere in Rome.—The circus races and the amphitheater butcheries are nominally in honor of some god. It is perhaps Vulcan in whose name Cluentius has hired the gladiators to slaughter one another. Everywhere about Rome are imposing temples and lesser shrines, and there are almost more statues of gods and demigods than there are people in the swarming streets. The symbolic snakes for the Lares of the locality or of the household, are painted upon thousands of walls. All this would indicate that the Romans of the Empire are extraordinarily religious. How far does this outward seeming correspond to the actual facts?

346. Epicureanism and Agnosticism among the Upper Classes.—If we penetrate the life of men like Publius Calvus and others of the upper circle, apparently we are dealing with persons who are almost, if not complete, agnostics. Some are cheerful Epicureans who formally deny that there are any deities that concern themselves with mortal affairs, and who for their own part look upon the world as a chance aggregation of atoms, and upon life as one physical sensation after another with nothing later awaiting a man but eternal slumber in the grave. Moral “laws” merely exist to adjust human relationships, so that you can win the maximum enjoyment from day to day.

Theories like this can be justified in sonorous, noble language, as in the great poems of Lucretius, but the underlying philosophy remains the same. Cluentius, the Prætor, whose library is crammed with Epicurean writings, has, in fact, just been ordering chiseled on his ostentatious funeral monument, “Eat, drink, enjoy yourself—the rest is nothing.”[219]

347. Stoicism: Revival of Religion under the Empire.—Calvus himself, a decidedly practical man not too fond of nice speculations, takes greater pleasure in the theories of the Stoics. The stern teaching that “duty” is the be-all and end-all of life, and that true freedom and happiness come only by a scrupulous discharge of every obligation, appeals strongly to many hard-headed Romans. It fits in well with their old native religion, and they accept it without much abstract philosophizing. But the “God” discussed by Zeno, Cleanthes, and the later Stoics is only a hard, impersonal, resistless force,—“Eternal Law” under another name. He is in nowise a merciful Heavenly Father, any more than he is a youthful, beauteous, and very human Apollo. Calvus, in short, is hardly more convinced than his friend Cluentius, the Epicurean, that there really exists any personal deity.[220]

However, religion as an outward institution, has been steadily gaining under the Roman Empire. Probably never were there ever more unabashed atheists than such personages as Sulla and Julius Cæsar in the last decades of the Republic,—men not without pet superstitions perhaps and a belief in their “stars,” but who were almost cynical in their expressions of disbelief in any ruling Providence, and to whom temples and worship were only convenient political engines for befooling the mob.

Augustus nevertheless was probably somewhat more of a believing man himself, and he grasped the enormous value of reinvigorating the old cults, rebuilding the crumbling shrines, and finally of rekindling the conviction that there existed a stabilizing and avenging host of deities as a means for getting moral sanction and support for his new imperial régime. Since the battle of Actium, temples have multiplied, priesthoods have been carefully maintained, and solemn religious ceremonies and sacrifices have been promoted by the government; in short, a great and partially successful effort has been put forth to galvanize into a kind of life that early “Religion of Numa,” which once molded the ideals of the little city by the Tiber.

348. Foreign Cults Intruded upon the “Religion of Numa.”—Religious beliefs and institutions at Rome, however, are only in part derived from the cults and forms of old Italy, whether Etruscan or Latin. The Greek mythology has been so taken over by the poets that often it is hard to sift out the indigenous Italian stories from the great mass of imported legends in which Jupiter and Juno manifestly are merely the Latin names for Hellenic Zeus and Hera. Furthermore, there has come a perfect influx of oriental gods: Egyptian Isis, Syrian Baal, Phrygian Cybele, Persian Mithras—these are merely some of the more important.

The Roman attitude toward foreign deities is tolerant; provided one keeps up the outward forms of reverence for the old native deities, it does no serious harm if people feel happier because they burn incense to the dog-headed Anubis, or to the uncouth gods of Phœnicia. Of course these alien rites must not be too gross; such as were the outrageous old Bacchanals who were broken up in 186 B.C., or the Gallic Druids who permitted human sacrifice. Otherwise a “foreign superstition” is a matter merely for a contemptuous shrug or sneer.

The result is that the cults seen in Rome under the Empire often appear as a vast jumble of things Greek, Levantine, Oriental, and even Celtic. The Emperor and Senate seldom bother themselves about matters of inward belief; Rome has its gladiators but it has no Inquisition.

Nevertheless, the old Italian religion is still the official cultus of the state. Its forms are carefully cherished; it is insensibly modified but it is never repudiated. There are almost the same priesthoods, the same sacred formulas and machinery of religion as in the days of the Punic Wars.[221] They are kept up partly out of patriotic pride in all survivals of the heroic past, partly because they help the government to control the “mob” and the highly superstitious soldiery, partly (it must in fairness be added) because very intelligent persons believe that the ancient Italian religion somehow contributes to the safety and stability of the Empire,—that when Jupiter Capitolinus falls the dominion of Rome will actually fall with him.

349. Superstitious Piety of the City Plebeians.—As for the multitude, the enormous population in the insulæ, if it has little intelligent faith, it has abundant ignorant credulity. The outward service of the gods brings good luck.

If the public rites fail and if blasphemers (like the execrable Christians) arise, the corn ships will not get through from Alexandria, the Tiber will overflow, the pestilence will sweep off thousands and—almost equal calamity—the favorite aurigæ and gladiators on the gamblers’ tablets will lose in the games. If a private man neglects the gods, his shop or business ventures can go bankrupt, his children die, his wife decamps with a freedman, disease can rack him, premature death smite him, and his tomb be demolished to the complete obliteration of his memory. Possibly even his ghost will drift about unhappily in desert places. Every possible motive, therefore, requires governors and governed to stand in well with the gods.

Let us, therefore, examine this “Religion of Numa” which is living yet, as the official cultus of Rome; then a few words can be said about its alien competitors.

350. Roman Religion Originally Developed by Italian Farmers.—The old Italian farmers who shaped this religion were singularly lacking in imagination. Very few are the myths for which the poets can claim a non-Greek origin. The world is conceived of as being full of deities which often are so little personified that one cannot be sure of their actual sex: “Be propitious, O Divine One (numen), be thou male or be thou female!” is the proper formula for beginning many ancient prayers.

Some of these divinities, to be sure, are well-defined and powerful gods such as Jupiter the Sky-God, Mars the War-God, and Juno the potent and matronly spouse of Jupiter. Such deities came with the ancestors of the Italians when they wandered down from the North into that southern peninsula which they occupied many centuries ago.

Other divinities are ancient adoptions from the Etruscans or from the Greeks. Minerva, the protectress of such female arts as weaving and spinning and later of the more masculine arts, sciences, and learning, is pretty clearly the Minerva of the Etruscans, and has caught many attributes from the Pallas Athena of the Greeks. Apollo came, perhaps, via Etruria, where they called him Aplu, and not directly from Hellas, but no temple was built to him until after Greek as well as Etruscan influence in Rome had become very strong. Diana or Luna (“Madame Moon”) was an old moon goddess, possibly the same as the Etruscan Losna, and only by a late and very unfortunate identification has she become confounded with Apollo’s Greek sister Artemis, the virgin huntress on the Arcadian hills.

One great goddess, however, Venus, is probably a good old Italian deity of substantial homely virtues: she is still invoked as Venus Cloacina (“Venus the Purifier”), when it is necessary to cleanse the great sewers; a function seldom remembered when giddy youths confound her with the Greek Aphrodite, and beg her to help their illicit love affairs!

351. Native Italian Gods: Janus, Saturn, Flora. The Lares and Penates.—All these gods and certain other familiar deities such as Mercury patron of trade and gain, Neptune lord of the sea, Vulcan the clever smith, and finally, but in nowise least, Vesta the hearth goddess, and Ceres the Mistress of the Corn, make up the official “Great Gods” in whose honor the public games are held, and to whom Emperors and Consuls proffer vows and sacrifice.

Highly important also is the strictly native Italian Janus, the two-faced lord of beginnings and endings, probably an ancient Sun-God; whom one should invoke at the opening of every fresh day, and in whose honor (quite appropriately) the month of January is named with New Year’s Day especially designated to his festival.[222] There is furthermore Saturn, a rural deity, who has been identified with the Greek Cronos (“Father Time”); there is Orchus who rules the underworld; there is Liber the masculine field god, consort of Ceres and sometimes confounded with the Greek Bacchus; there is Bona Dea (“Good Goddess”) a mistress of agriculture, possibly only another aspect of Ceres; there is Flora, the kindly patroness not merely of the flowers but of all the prosaic vegetable gardens; and there also is Robigus, a malevolent garden deity who must be propitiated with frequent offerings or he will mildew the crops.

All these gods (except the evil Robigus) are near and dear to the average plebeian, and especially to the farmers. In addition there are the Lares and Penates. We have seen how they are guardian spirits of the households—never forgotten in any mansion or upon any social occasion.

The state has its own “Public Lares and Penates” as well as private households; the former are the spirits of the gallant patriots of old like the first Brutus, Cincinnatus, Camillus, and Scipio Major. The second are the immortal “Twin Brethren”—Castor and Pollux, who have ridden to rescue Roman armies on many a hard-fought field. No public sacrifice can avail unless at least formal reference is made to the public Lares and Penates along with the special god receiving honor.

Reënforcing these divinities is a whole host of special rural deities, who, in a country still very dependent on agriculture, receive special honor in all the profitable villas and farms crowding up to the gates of Rome; Faunus and Lupercus are herdsmen’s gods well matching the Hellenic Pan; Silvanus presides over the woodlands and timber-lots, Pales is a much beloved shepherd’s god, Pomona cares for the orchards, Vertumnus for the normal change of the seasons; Anna Perena is the goddess of the circling year; and Terminus takes care that the boundary stones (so important to farmers) are not disturbed.

352. Personified Virtues as Gods: Cold and Legalistic Character of the Roman Religion.—However, these deities are increased by a great host of personified moral and civic qualities. Nothing is easier in Rome than to assume that every desirable virtue must have some kind of a numen (divine potence) behind it. Around the city one can find temples, e.g. to Honor, Hope, Good Faith, Modesty, Concord, Peace, Victory, Liberty, Public Safety, Youth, and Fame. This is only a minor part of the list.

It is assumed in fact that every act or process of human life has its special numen who can be invoked to make that act successful. Thus after young Sextus, Calvus’s son, was born, his very pious nurses first invoked Vaticanus who opened his mouth for his first cry, then Cucina who guarded his cradle, then Edulia and Potina who taught him to eat and drink, Stabilius who aided him first to stand up, and Abeona and Adeona who watched over his first footsteps “going” and “returning.” His sophisticated parents doubtless smiled at this scrupulous piety, but they did nothing to discourage it.

These cold impersonal divinities stand to man in a legal rather than a theological relationship. Men and the numina have made a kind of contract—so much prayer and ceremonial sacrifice must be offered in return for so much good favor, prosperity, and protection. Do ut des (“I give that you may give”) sums up the whole spirit of the Roman religion.

Numa the alleged founder of so many cults was not a prophet or an inspired poet but a king and lawgiver. A wise man is always pious; that is, he always gives to the gods their precise due according to carefully set forms, otherwise the divinities may evade their part of the contract, just as a merchant is not bound to execute a bargain in which the other party has failed to do precisely as was stipulated.

If prayers and sacrifice fail in their purpose, it is reasonable to suppose that the fault lies in the formula and the victims employed. The pig, sheep, or other victim must then be sacrificed over again with greater scrupulosity. On the other hand, willful neglect of worship is as surely punished by the gods as willful neglect of paying one’s debts is punished by the Prætor. The fate of the impious will be somewhat like that of the absconding debtor, only much more dreadful.

Needless to say this “Religion of Numa” contains no more spirituality than the hard stones which pave the Forum. It does, however, put a genuine premium upon the rigid performance of duty, and thereby sometimes reacts favorably upon human conduct.

353. Priestly Offices: Little Sacrosanct about Them.—For these necessary ceremonies mankind requires priests, but they are not revered interpreters of the divine will, nor are they mysterious mediators between Providence and men; they are rather attorneys employed by men to represent them competently in their dealings with the divinities.

Small religious matters, the minor private sacrifices, etc., can be attended to without a priest, just as you do not need a jurisconsult to assist in petty purchases. Greater religious matters, private and still more if public, however, require experts to see that the right formulæ are spoken and sacrifices proffered. Any Roman of flawless birth and of good character is eligible for most of the priesthoods, although there are a few reserved for the narrow circle of the old patrician families. Holding these religious offices does not ordinarily imply dropping one’s secular interests or having the least philosophical belief in the ceremonies so carefully performed. Julius Cæsar was Pontifex Maximus while he was Proconsul of the Gauls, and while he was a firm disbeliever in the existence of any gods at all.

Of course every small temple has to have its proper custodians whom we may call “priests,” to attend to the private sacrifices; and there are besides plenty of unofficial diviners and soothsayers who can answer your question, “Is this a lucky day for the wedding of my daughter?” or “Do the omens warn against buying this farm?” The great public ministers of religion, however, are really officers of state, appointed by the Emperor,[223] and usually they are grouped in famous “Sacred Colleges” wherein the members hold office for life. Ordinarily the persons thus honored are distinguished senators selected after an honorable civil and military career.

354. The Pontifices.—On the whole the greatest official glory comes to the fifteen pontifices. Not merely do they possess the general oversight of everything concerning cultus, but they have as their chief colleague the Emperor himself, who always holds the post of Pontifex Maximus—head of the Roman religion.

Before Julius Cæsar reformed the calendar the pontifices had the important task of settling each year what days were to be dies fasti, whereon alone legal business could be lawfully conducted, and they have still the power to interfere in almost any doings concerning sacrifice, ritual, temple properties, etc. Their head, the Pontifex Maximus, has particularly to watch over and control the Vestal Virgins; and the college at large still has the custody of the famous Libri Pontificales, the “Pontifical Books,” famous and ancient volumes containing instructions for all kinds of unfamiliar religious rites and procedure in strange religious emergencies.[224]

355. The Augurs.—The pontiffs, however, are really “Commissioners for Religious Affairs” rather than actual priests, and along with them goes another important group of “sacred” personages who seem almost equally unpriestly. These are the augurs, the official interpreters of the will of heaven; and almost every senator cherishes the hope of being appointed to this college, notwithstanding the fact that long ago Cicero remarked that “two augurs ought never to meet without winking!” There are sixteen augurs, who are entitled to wear the embroidered toga prætexta and to carry the sacred crooked staff, the lituus. The science of augury, whereof they are supposedly the supreme custodians, is something whereon the men of old, especially the Etruscans, expended an enormous amount of energy.

The Italians in general put relatively little trust in astrology and not much more in dreams as revealing the divine intentions. What greatly matters is the flight of birds, the strange actions of animals, monstrous births, thunder, meteors, and like prodigies. Even in Hadrian’s day plenty of intelligent men will shudder with dread if they behold a crow cawing on their funeral monument; or will give up a journey if a black viper shoots across the road just as their carriage is starting.

Sneezing or stumbling furthermore can mean much, and before many an atrium the janitor is constantly shouting “Dextro pede!” “Right foot first!” to every guest entering the vestibule. Certain signs are very dreadful; e.g. any gathering at which somebody is seized with epilepsy (a manifest token of divine anger) must be instantly dissolved.

If, however, the gods do not speak thus openly, no public act should be performed without at least asking the formal question, “Is heaven favorable?” This may be done by watching the consecrated chickens while they devour the grain as at the opening of the Senate (see p. 340),[225] but more elaborate and reliable is a careful watching of the heavens for signs. If an augur sees ravens on the right-hand side of the sky, the sign is lucky; but a crow in order not to forbode evil must appear on the left. The actions of eagles, owls, woodpeckers, and certain other birds are more complicated. Their cries, the manner of their flight, as well as the direction whence they come all have to be considered.

Time fails to describe the careful ritual necessary for the augurs, when, at the request of some high magistrate, they interrogate the gods to see if heaven is pleased at some proposed official action. It is not necessary, however, to get a positively favorable sign; often it is enough that during a suitable interval the augur should fail to observe any unhappy bird, any meteor, thunder claps, or the like. This propitious interval constitutes a formal “silence” (silentium); and many an augur has shown himself conveniently deaf or blind to noises or sights that might prohibit some desired deed. Nevertheless the solemn farce is always maintained, for when do Romans ever discard any time-honored custom?

356. The Flamines.—The augurs rank with the pontiffs high in public honors, but the most important actual priests in Rome are the flamines. There are fifteen flamines distributed among the services of the various gods, but three rank above all others—the flamens of Jupiter, Mars, and of Quirinus (deified Romulus), with the first named, called more particularly the Flamen Dialis, at their head.

It is an extraordinary honor to be named Flamen Dialis, and Gratia reckons it among the chief of her family glories that she has an uncle now enjoying for life this high priesthood. The Flamen of Jupiter is entitled to a curule chair as if he were a magistrate, and takes social precedence above nearly everybody save the Emperor and the consuls; he also wears the toga prætexta like other exalted personages, although it must be of thick wool woven by the hands of his wife. In addition he has to appear always crowned with a special high pointed cap, not unlike the “fool’s-cap” of other times, and tipped with the apex, a pointed spike of olive wood wound with a lock of wool.

Old Papirius is among the most envied men in Rome, yet he complains bitterly of the price he has to pay for his glory. He cannot mount a horse, or even look upon an army in battle array. He cannot swear an oath, or spend a single night away from the city, however comfortable may be his family villas in the hot season. The cuttings of his hair and nails must be carefully preserved and buried beneath an arbor felix (lucky tree). He must never eat of or even mention a goat, beans, or several other forbidden objects.

Above all Papirius’s wife, the flaminica, whom he had to marry with special ceremonies, is indispensable to him in many acts of religion and he is forbidden to divorce her, although his life with the noble Claudia is none too happy. Worse still if she should die, he must immediately resign his office. The other fourteen flamines enjoy somewhat lesser glories, offset by slightly lesser taboos. They are, however, the fifteen most sacred male individuals in all Rome.

357. The Salii (“Holy Leapers”).—Of less glory than the flamines, but nevertheless of venerable sanctity are the twelve other priests of Mars, the college of the Salii (“Holy Leapers”). To them are committed the twelve holy shields, the Anciliæ, one whereof is affirmed to have fallen from heaven.

Calvus has an elderly cousin, Donatus, who lately was appointed by Hadrian to the Salii. During the last Kalends of March nobody cracked a smile when these twelve sedate and aristocratic gentlemen, wearing their apex-crowned caps, long embroidered tunics, and brazen cuirasses, with spear in one hand and the holy shields on the other, went through the city stopping in many of the squares and before the larger temples and executing violent dances, leaping, cavorting, and chanting with loud voice “Salian Hymns”—verses in such ancient Latin that they hardly understood their own shrill jargon. When the round of the city was ended and they had danced and sung for the last time, the holy men were quite exhausted.

The consolation for these holy men followed quickly, however. That evening they held a grand corporation dinner. The augurs are famous for their elaborate banquets worthy of an Apicius, but the Salii on the whole surpass the augurs. A Saliares daps—“Holy Leaper’s dinner”—has become the synonym for the triumph of good eating.

358. The Fetiales (“Sacred Heralds”): Ceremony of Declaring War.—Calvus himself belongs to a religious college of rather waning consequence, but of great antiquity. He is a fetial.

Anciently at least no treaty was binding unless it had been ratified with most solemn religious ceremonies. To deal with the gods in international affairs Numa is said, therefore, to have established a college of twenty fetiales—the holy heralds. Their president, the Pater Patratus, represented the whole Roman people when it came to swearing the oaths and offering the sacrifices for concluding a treaty, and even in Hadrian’s day some of the ancient usages are maintained. A peace has lately been made with the King of Parthia, and in the presence of his envoy at Rome the venerable ex-consul, the Pater Patratus, took his sacred flints, laid a special wreath of the holy “verbena” plant on the altar, and kindled the fire for the sacrifice that confirmed the peace.[226]

More important once was the chief herald’s duty in declaring a war; for it seemed useless to hope for victory unless first by legalistic formula the enemy was put in the wrong before the gods. The Pater Patratus with at least three of his colleagues was expected to march solemnly to the hostile frontier, next with due ceremony to recite the wrongs of Rome and demand redress and to hurl a spear dipped in blood across the boundary; then and not till then could the legions march forth in any offensive war.

It is a great distance now, however, to the frontier of the Empire and the white-headed Pater Patratus keenly dislikes to quit for months his luxurious residence on the Quirinal; but legal ingenuity has long since enabled him to preserve at once his bodily comfort and the good old custom. Before the Temple of Bellona in the Campus Martius is a bit of ground whereon stands a certain column. When recently it seemed desirable to declare war on an unneighborly German tribe, a captive from these barbarians was duly hunted up in the slave market at Rome, and a legal deed was solemnly made out transferring this land to the prisoner. The spot was now technically “hostile ground,” and the Pater Patratus and his fellow fetials all ordered their litters and were peacefully taken out to the Temple of Bellona. The Germans were carefully summoned to “do the Romans right,” and no answer coming, the head fetial with all the ancient formulas and curses flung the spear into the column.

The war could now proceed with the gods’ full blessing—a thoroughly Roman proceeding, and very typical of many other survivals, religious or secular.

359. The Arval Brethren (Fratres Arvales).—There is another “ancient and honorable” religious brotherhood—the Fratres Arvales. There are twelve Arval brethren, always including the Emperor. In May they hold a three-day festival to the Dea Dia.[227] Besides regaling themselves then with an extraordinarily luxurious feast, they assemble in the grove of the Dea Dia and offer to her two pigs, a white heifer, and a lamb. Next they clear her temple of all but the necessary priests and attendants, and dividing themselves into two bodies of six, tuck up their long tunics and execute a solemn dance around the holy house, singing meantime a kind of hymn for the blessing of the fields, a hymn preserved in such an uncouth antique Latin that the meaning of many words is doubtful.[228]

It is a most desirable thing to be one of these “Brothers of the Fields.” The records of the college are kept with the greatest care and their dinners compete with those of the Salii.

These are some only of the holy colleges, membership wherein carries marked social prestige. The fifteen “Keepers of the Sibylline Books,” the Epulones who arrange many of the banquets in honor of the gods, and the Haruspices who assist the augurs particularly in interpreting the omens from the entrails of slaughtered victims, are all distinguished personages. How many of them have one scintilla of belief in the deities they address and the rites they execute it were most unbecoming to inquire closely!

360. Rustic Ceremonies; Soothsaying, Astrologers, and Witches.—This religion, then, is one purely of outward ritual coupled with not a little superstition. In the country the farmers at the festival to the Lemures (malevolent ghosts of the dead) still may rise at midnight, walk barefoot through the house, fill their mouths with black beans which they spit forth nine times without looking around, saying each time, “With these beans I redeem me and mine.” Then they clank two brazen vessels together and nine times shout out, “Manes depart!” This is a sample of many similar ceremonies.

Soothsayers, who are often sheer charlatans, are very naturally in constant demand among the unlearned to resolve such queries as, “Will my mother-in-law recover from jaundice?” or “How long will my husband live and keep me from my lover?” Such rascals usually tell the future by examining the lungs of a dove. The entrails of a dog, however, are better although much more expensive.

Among the rich, however, “Chaldæan astrologers” are somewhat fashionable, slippery Orientals who know how to wheedle the gold out of credulous parvenus, even if the official religion sets no great store upon star-gazing.[229] The women are inevitably the best patrons of these pretenders, but their husbands and brothers often refuse to start on a journey or to begin anything else important until assured “the horoscope is favorable.” Time fails us to tell of the employment of Etruscan witches, or of the belief in ghosts and goblins. The latter are dreaded by many hard-headed epicureans who will argue convincingly that there can be no such thing as a god or immortality.

361. A Private Sacrifice.—Nevertheless, with all its faults this Roman religion has few truly debasing superstitions. There are practically no human sacrifices, no constant and outrageous use of sordid ceremonies, no acts or beliefs which actually degrade one’s manhood or womanhood.[230] All is deliberate, ordered, and, within certain pagan limitations, tolerably reasonable.

A typical Roman sacrifice is a dignified and well standardized procedure. Only recently Publius Calvus enjoyed a birthday, and custom required that all his kinsmen should come to congratulate him while he offered to the gods a snow-white lamb, in gratitude for another year of life and prosperity. The ceremony took place at a small temple of Juno near the senator’s mansion on the Esquiline, Juno being accounted the special patron deity of the Junii Calvi. The victim was carefully selected by Calvus himself, who paid an extra price for a creature newly weaned and with horns just sprouting. Ostentatious freedmen sometimes offered a fat bull on their birthdays, and poorer folk merely a small pig,[231] but a white lamb was a very fitting private sacrifice, not too mean, not too pretentious, and fell in perfectly with the Roman idea of dealing with the gods on honorable business principles.

362. Ceremony at the Temple.—On the day of the ceremony Calvus presented himself at the temple, with his toga girded tightly around his body in the special “Gabinian Cincture” required in sacrifices. The groups of kinsmen, friends, freedmen, etc., all followed decorously. The special Flamen of Juno, a friendly senator, appeared with his vestments and apex, to direct Calvus in the technical details of the ceremony, but, be it noticed, the actual priest was Calvus himself.

After all the company had gathered near the altar and put on chaplets of ivy, a public crier (præco) commanded in loud voice, “Let there be silence!” and a tense interval followed, every person holding his breath lest an unlucky cough or sneeze should vitiate the whole proceeding. Nothing ill-omened following, the elder of Calvus’s small sons acting as camillus (acolyte) extended to his father a silver basin of purifying water wherein the latter carefully washed his hands, dried them upon a towel borne by his younger boy, then drew the great folds of his toga over his head, almost but not quite concealing his face.

At this juncture a flute player standing near promptly struck up with a piercing blast, which he continued much of the time until the ceremony was nearly over, not to supply music but simply to prevent any ill-omened sound from being heard. Thereupon other youths led up the lamb. Its little horns had been gilded and a heavy garland of flowers twined about its neck. It was needful for the creature to seem to approach willingly, therefore the halter had to be quite slack, but a little fodder spread under the altar made the brute only too ready for its fate.

Calvus approached the victim, and with the flamen at his elbow to dictate every detail, took wine, incense, and a mixture of meal and salt, and sprinkled a trifle of each upon the hungry creature’s forehead. A professional attendant cut a few hairs from between the horns and cast them on the burning altar. Then again prompted by the flamen, Calvus prayed aloud:

363. A Formal Prayer; the Actual Sacrifice.—“O Mother Juno, I pray and beseech thee that thou mayest be gracious and favorable to me and my home and my household, for which course I have ordained that the offering of this lamb should be made in accordance with my vows; that thou mayest avert, ward off, and keep afar all disease visible and invisible, all barrenness, waste, misfortune and ill-weather; that thou mayest cause my family, affairs, and business to come to prosperity; and that thou grant health and strength to me, my home and my household!”[232]

It was all very like the formulas used by the lawyers before the Prætor. No waste of fine words, but very comprehensive and no contingency unprovided for.

When Calvus finished, the temple attendant (popa) standing near by asked in set form, “Shall I strike?” “Strike him!” ordered Calvus. Instantly the attendant smote the lamb a single merciful blow on the skull with a heavy mallet. The creature dropped dead, and his slayer immediately knelt and stabbed him with a knife. As the blood ran out, it was caught in a basin and sprinkled upon the altar, along with some wine, incense, and a consecrated cake.

The lamb was now promptly cut up, and a crafty-looking haruspex inspected the color and form of the still palpitating entrails. If these had been declared “unfavorable” in form, color, or otherwise, a second lamb must have been procured and the whole ceremony perforce repeated until the results were fortunate, but the haruspex, certain of his fee, after a decent studying of the gall, intestines, and liver, lifted his head and said solemnly, “Exta bona!” “The entrails are good!” Thereupon the flamen, hitherto passive or muttering formulas, stepped forward, threw wine, meal, and incense upon the entrails; then cast the whole mass of them upon the brightly kindled altar-fire. Meantime the actual flesh of the lamb was being gathered up by Calvus’s servants to take home for private consumption.

Calvus himself now drew the toga up over his head the second time, and then called on Juno with loud voice, “since thou hast accepted this lamb, duly proffered,” to continue her favor on him and his house during the coming year, “in which case I vow unto thee another lamb, white and without blemish even as is this.” He was again, it would seem, the lawyer reminding the other party to the contract that by the acceptance of the payment proffered, he or she was strictly obligated to continue friendly for the next twelve months.

The ceremony was therewith ended. The flamen raised his hand and spoke the solemn word of dismissal, “Ilicet,” “It is permitted to go.” Sacrificer, flamen, spectators, and attendants all now hurried away with shout and laughter to Calvus’s residence, there to join in a fine feast wherein everybody received a portion of the slaughtered lamb.

364. The Vestal Virgins: Their Sanctity and Importance.—Great are the pontiffs, the augurs, the flamens, and the members of the other sacred colleges. But they are all too pragmatic and secular to be taken quite seriously when they demand religious veneration. There is one Roman college, however, which is beyond words holy, at whose claims the most godless never scoff, and whose members will keep alive the best traditions of the religion of Numa until old Rome is tottering to its fall—the Sisterhood of the Vestal Virgins.

Numa himself, hoary tradition affirms, instituted this body of six holy maidens, although no doubt similar companies could have been discovered in many other primitive Italian communities. Their origin is clear enough. To early man, fire was a thing very mysterious and very necessary. Before the discovery of flint and steel it was no trifling matter to kindle a new blaze by rubbing together a hard stick and a soft; every village, therefore, maintained a central hearth (focus) where some brands were ever smoldering and whither a boy could be sent running for a spark to replenish the kitchen fires.

But beyond all other peoples the old Latins made of this homely need a sacrosanct institution and a ritual. The Temple of the Fire Goddess was perhaps at first only the hearth of the king, and her priestesses were the king’s own daughters. Then the king disappeared: the Pontifex Maximus took his place; and quite naturally just as the high pontiff’s official residence, the Regia, stood on the verge of the Forum, the Shrine of Vesta and the home of her maiden ministers stood close beside it.

All across the ages this fire of Vesta has burned, tended with inconceivable care; and for this humble shrine of Vesta and the six Vestal Virgins all Romans from Emperor to lowest plebeian still retain more genuine reverence than for anything else in the world, not excluding the gilded Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus crowning the Capitol and its pompous Flamen Dialis.

365. The Temple of Vesta and the House of the Vestals.—The Temple of Vesta, directly on the verge of the roaring Forum and under the shadow of the Imperial Palatine, is an ostentatiously small, simple building, with a circular portico of pillars and surmounted with a low cupola covered with sheets of metal. Often repaired, great pains have been taken (so Ovid tells us) to preserve the original “style of Numa.” Directly behind it, as you go east from the Forum, is the Atrium Vestæ, the House of the Vestals, noticed when we traversed the Heart of Rome.

Very simple externally, once inside those privileged to enter the House discover not merely a fine comfortable dwelling, suitable for ladies of rank and their numerous female attendants, but a very beautiful garden some 200 feet long by 65 wide. There are spreading trees, winding paths, marble seats, fountains and even a tiny grove—all within easy stone’s throw of the very center of the metropolis.

The need for this garden, however, is obvious. The Vestals are women of the very highest rank, yet they cannot leave Rome in the hot season when nearly all other noble ladies flee to their cool villas. The garden is their breathing spot and their recompense. Around the garden runs a line of statues of the Maximæ (Senior Vestals), an imposing array of dignified elderly women of the grave Roman type. Here too in the Atrium Vestæ, in a little room, is a small hand-mill where the sacred virgins themselves can be seen each day laboriously grinding the consecrated meal required in the cult of the Hearth Goddess.

Within this house also the six Sisters spend their lives in a routine of holy duties, and although the building is not an officially consecrated “temple” it is really the most revered and sacrosanct spot in Rome. In the Atrium Vestæ, therefore, are deposited the wills and other precious documents of half the nobility, and the gods pity the wretch who may do the place violence,—his fate at human hands will be awful!

366. Appointment of Vestals.—This little sisterhood is divided always into three categories—the novices, the active members, the senior Vestals, of two members each. When there is a vacancy the Pontifex Maximus makes choice among the girls of between six and ten years in the patrician families,[233] who have both of their parents living and happily married. A girl has to be physically perfect and intellectually acute, certain, in short, to do honor to the greatest position open to women in Rome.

The present Maxima is Salvia, a distant kinswoman of the late Emperor Nerva. She was appointed many years ago in the reign of Titus. There was such competition for the vacancy then that several noble families offered their daughters, but Salvia was chosen because her parents were on the best of terms, whereas her nearest rival’s father and mother were known to have quarreled. The high pontiff (Titus) solemnly took her by the hand repeating the ritualistic words, “I take you to be ‘Amata,’ that as Vestal Virgin you may perform the sacred rites lawful for vestal virgins.” The title of Amata was simply honorary. It implied the gentle and loving character of the service of Vesta.

Salvia was immediately led over to the house of Vesta, her hair was cut off, and hung upon the sacred lotus-tree in the garden; she was clothed in long white garments with a special white band around her head, the holy infula; and next she took oath to abide in her office and to maintain her virginity not less than thirty years. She was now a lawful vestal, withdrawn from the power of her father, and subject only to the jurisdiction of the Pontifex Maximus.

367. Duties of the Vestals: the Maxima.—The six vestals enjoy no sinecure. From the fountain of Egeria by the Cœlian Hill they must bear all the water required for kneading their sacred cakes.[234] Daily they must carefully cleanse the actual Temple in front of their mansion with a mop, and deck it around with laurel. There are various great festivals in which they have to play an important part, especially in the very important Vestalia held June 9th, when all Rome unites to honor the beloved Hearth Mother; and on June 15th when there is the official cleansing of the Temple, and all the refuse of the year is collected and removed with scrupulous ceremonies just as a good farmer should cleanse his barns before the harvest.

The chief duty is, however, the simple and gracious task of tending the sacred fire. For the first ten years of her sisterhood Salvia was learning her responsibilities in this all-important particular; for the next ten, she, or her associated second-class Vestal, had the actual watch-care of the holy flame on the maintenance whereof seemed to rest the prosperity of Rome; after that as one of the two senior Vestals she could turn over to her juniors the active duties, confining herself to the general oversight of the sisterhood. When the older senior Vestal died she herself became Maxima—the most important woman in Rome, enjoying a reverence and a certainty of tenure by no means shared by every Empress.

368. Punishments of Erring Vestals.—To allow the sacred fire to go out, by some fearful mischance, is an almost unheard-of calamity. The ancient books ordain that the responsible Vestal on duty shall first be stripped and scourged by the Pontifex Maximus, administering his blows in the dark, then two pieces of wood must be taken from a “lucky tree” and he must laboriously rekindle the fire with elaborate ceremonies. After that other prolonged rites are needful to save the state from the results of such a fearful “prodigy.”

Such lapses in the service of Vesta almost never occur. Slightly more frequent have been charges of breaking the vow of chastity. In the few recorded cases the guilty sister after trial before the college of pontiffs has been buried alive with a kind of funeral ceremony in the “Accursed Field” (Campus Sceleratus) just within the Colline Gate. It is “bad luck” actually to put to death a consecrated Vestal, but a deep pit is dug and in it are placed a couch, a lamp, and a table bearing a little food. Then the guilty woman is lowered into the pit and earth heaped upon it. She has simply been dismissed from the presence of men:—what occurs out of all human sight is strictly the affair of gods! Meantime her paramour has been publicly scourged to death in the Forum with every form of ignominy.

The vow of virginity, nevertheless, is not perpetual. After thirty years in the service, at an age still far below old womanhood, a Vestal can quit the Atrium, and marry; but Salvia and her sisters seldom dream of such a thing. Public opinion, though not the law, frowns upon the act, and it means resigning a position of incomparable importance, honor, and dignity.

369. Remarkable Honors Granted the Vestals.—If Salvia, for twenty years at least, has thus taken her duties very seriously, she has her great compensation. The Vestal Sisterhood is rich with a great corporate income. The members alone of all Romans give their testimony in court without the least oath. They have the seats of honor at all public games and festivals. A lictor precedes each of them everywhere, securing for his mistress the same public honors granted a magistrate, and a magistrate’s lictors lower their fasces in respectful homage when in a Vestal’s superior presence.

The slightest molestation of these priestesses’ persons is of course punished capitally. They have the right to intercede even with the Emperor in matter of pardons, and they nominate to sundry public offices—e.g. the librarianship of the Imperial library, and certain military tribuneships. Finally if they chance accidentally to meet a criminal bound for execution, upon their demand he must be spared and released—not out of motives of mercy, but because it is a bad omen for the State for any holy Vestal to meet a person formally condemned to die.[235]

One crowning honor also Salvia can anticipate: even Emperors must ordinarily be buried outside the consecrated city limits (pomerium), but the law specifically admits Vestals not merely to the glories of a public funeral, but to burial inside the Heart of Rome itself. What wonder that Salvia is loath to quit a post of such glory and power for the uncertain prospects of matrimony!

Despite all the ceremonies, irrational and vain though they may seem to a later standpoint, the worship of Vesta, the goddess of the honest home, and the corporate life of her six maiden ministers remain among the fairest things of the Roman Empire. Matters cannot be hopelessly bad, when thus, in the center of the great, luxurious, sensual Imperial city, womanly purity and orderly virtue are preëminently honored.