To the Victor Belongs the Narrative

I, of course, simply am paraphrasing the adage "to the victor belong the spoils." What I would like to demonstrate is that, quite often, the narrative is the spoil par excellence. It is the narrative that creates the myth, and it is myth, not history, that usually fires imagination and inspires followers. Reality is seldom as pretty as myth. Who really wants to face the full reality? If we indeed value authenticity above all else, why do we shave, apply perfumes, add make-up, don fancy clothes, and spray deodorant? Why do we hide our basic physiological functions? (burping, flatulence, you get the idea). If embellishing the truth and, not uncommonly, supplanting it with a prettier version (implant, liposuction, nose job—I can go on ad nauseam) play such an important part in the lives of puny individuals, the logical next step is bound to expand the notion to whole groups of people in any place at any time. But if the individual man or woman relies on clothing, accessories, and refined manners to attract his or her choice of the opposite sex, what tools are available to nations and empires? How do they deploy those tools and towards what goal? Most would concede that those tools are bound to be infinitely more effective simply because the resources are infinitely larger. The larger the nation, the richer it is, the more sophisticated, the more effective its tools, and the farther their reach.

When it comes to a national or religious narrative, it is more often than not built retrospectively. This task is often lengthy and laborious, usually requiring the collaborative effort of a multitude of myth-makers; some call themselves "historians" (Herodotus comes readily to mind), others are simply scribes, poets, clergy, and troubadours. Most importantly, however, once a myth is established, that is, taken for granted by a large enough people or peoples, it acquires a life of its own and becomes sacrosanct, therefore unassailable. As soon as this critical threshold is passed and the legend is firmly consecrated, elevated, and disseminated, you can virtually pour into it all kinds of absurdities, abominations, barbarities, and debaucheries, and the credulous adulators would somehow find the ensemble holy and virtuous!

An illustration of the above argument is in order. Though there certainly is no shortage of examples throughout recorded history, I chose to go back to ancient Rome, not that it was a unique or an extreme example, simply because the lapse of time makes it less likely to stir emotion and cause controversy. So let's look at Rome at the height of its glory, power, and prosperity during what Gibbon eloquently called "the Age of the Antonines." A vast empire guarded by the might of the Roman legions roaming along an extensive network of Roman highways and benevolently bestowing Pax Romana upon a grateful mankind. So great was the legend of Rome and the Roman Empire that its fall signaled to historians the end of the noble antiquity and ushered in what was contemptuously called the Middle Ages, benighted and miserable times ending at last with the Renaissance a millennium later. What would an Antonius Pius or a Marcus Aurelius want beyond what he already has? Only a narrative to put things into perspective. A narrative to befit the achievement. A narrative that is beautiful, sublime, and worthy of Caesar & the Eternal City. True, for the Roman Republic, might was right, and, as Niccolo Machiavelli pertinently stated, to a Roman, virtue and might were synonymous. Numerous other lofty attributes were later on added by historians and eulogists: civility, intelligence, fairness, wisdom, honesty, etc. Naturally, with the long history of the Roman Empire, there was no shortage of real examples to illustrate those traits, though a closer look would have revealed a less attractive picture—a picture that was actually the rule rather than the exception. Mankind is by nature individualistic, opinionated, rebellious, quarrelsome, and suspicious of authority. This was even more so in the case of some older civilizations conquered by Rome, who probably could be forgiven the temptation to consider the Romans as presumptuous barbarians. For a hungry, young, and rising superpower, be it religious or secular, to impose its hegemony, wars must be waged and blood must be shed. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Let's look at a specific example that basically epitomizes the above arguments. According to Greek & Roman historians (Polybius, Titus Livy, and others), Rome and Carthage fought 3 major conflicts dubbed "The Punic Wars" (Punic being the Latin version of Phoenician) that ended with the destruction of Carthage in 146 BCE (the same year the Romans sacked Corinth in Greece). Lest anyone accuse a narrator of anti-Roman bias, the only history available was that provided by Romans or those employed by Romans (Polybius was Greek). Carthage and the Carthaginians left no narrative of their own. The Fall of Carthage was a blockbuster made in Rome from A to Z. The Romans were the soldiers who destroyed the proud old city as well as the movie producers who marketed their exploit to an awed and admiring posterity. Volumes have been written about the Carthage-Rome conflict, and it is not my intention to repeat or summarize it here, but just to provide a backdrop to my arguments, a quick overview is in order.

Carthage lost the Second Punic War at the Battle of Zama in 202 BCE, which pitted Hannibal of Carthage against Scipio Africanus of Rome. The victor of Cannae failed to live up to his reputation, and Rome imposed a "Carthaginian Peace" on the vanquished. From 202 BCE on, Carthage was but a vassal of Rome. It lost its empire, agreed to pay a huge war indemnity, and pledged to seek Rome's permission before embarking on further diplomatic or military adventures. The Mediterranean was henceforth a Roman lake, and the Punic Wars effectively ended in 202 BCE.

What about the 3rd Punic War? you might ask. Well, that "conflict" lasted 3 years: 149-146 BCE, the time it took Rome to assemble its legions, ship them to North Africa, besiege, and finally raze Carthage to the ground. All done with the flimsiest pretexts. Rome coveted the fertile fields of North Africa and resented Carthage's economic prosperity. It would seize on anything that could amount to a casus belli. An opportunity presented itself when another Roman vassal, the king of Numidia (modern-day Algeria), attacked some of Carthage's possessions. The Carthaginians dared to defend themselves (and lost), and that was all the excuse Rome needed to proceed with its glorious enterprise, led this time by yet another Scipio, a relative of the great Africanus.

The sight of the Roman legions besieging their beloved city threw panic amidst the hapless Carthaginians. They promptly sent a delegation to negotiate a settlement with the Roman consul. Queried about his intentions, Scipio vaguely invoked Carthage's need to "satisfy the Roman people." Pressed for a clearer statement, he suggested that the Carthaginians offer a token of their goodwill by surrendering their weapons, ships, and elephants. The Carthaginians promptly complied. Scipio praised their "wisdom" and cooperative spirit but then proceeded to demand 300 hostages among the sons of Carthage's nobility. The frantic Carthaginians obediently delivered. Scipio subsequently unveiled his real design, informing the Carthaginians that the Roman Senate had decided to destroy Carthage but would generously allow the inhabitants to move several miles inland with their belongings under safe conduct to rebuild their city elsewhere. The rest is well-known. The Carthaginians fought with the courage of despair, but the outcome was never in doubt. The city, after a long siege and bloody assault, fell. Those of its inhabitants who survived the battle were sold as slaves, and the city was leveled.

The sorry tale is not particularly unique. Carthage was neither the first nor the last city to be annihilated by the Romans, and the Romans were neither the only nor the first to destroy cities and ravage the countryside. One can cite the Assyrians in Egypt, the Hebrews in Jericho, the Babylonians in Jerusalem, Alexander the Great in Persepolis… Examples abound. My reason for choosing this particular incident has to do with the reaction of Roman as well as modern historians. Were I to substitute the names Carthage and Rome, say, with "City C" and "City R," an observer might deplore R's acts of unprovoked, perfidious, and gratuitous barbarity. Assuredly this was not, and is still not, the case. R is, after all, Rome, and Rome is über alles. Rome could do no wrong. The Romans and their apologists, past and contemporary, would not hide their pride in this exploit. They wrote the history, told the tale of their cruelty and treachery without batting an eye. If, however, some weak souls felt that a justification was needed, how about several? There is no lack of references elaborating on the Carthaginians' greed, their pusillanimous natures, and their cruelty. How could one forget Flaubert's description of Moloch (attached illustration by Jacques Martin) devouring little kids immolated by their heartless parents at his altar? Did they not routinely crucify their generals whose misfortune caused them to lose battles? Didn't their merchants cheat their naïve customers and monopolize the Mediterranean trade? And how about Hannibal's setting the Italian countryside on fire? Those barbarous, money-grubbing cowards amply deserved their fate. But again, how do we know that they were cowardly, greedy, or cruel? After all, they did not survive to tell their tale. Their tale was told by the victorious Romans, to whom this particular narrative belonged.