The matter of wealth disparity was the gravest threat to a Rome who had managed to quell all external threats, but the need for reform went virtually unnoticed by the Senate, who were each preoccupied with enlarging their estate own for fear that their colleague across the aisle might be able to eventually absorb the others holdings.
When last we left our seemingly indefatigable and inexhaustible Romans, they were engaged in a war with Carthage under Hannibal's leadership that spanned a generation and spilled into grandsons as well. The careful and prudent strategy of that Fabius had first instituted kept the armies shadowing each other with a sort of sense of roving reciprocity and balance—though Hannibal, having sworn to ever be an enemy of Rome would never give up. With the nemesis threatening to cut off supply-lines at any moment and with the once apparently unlimited manpower for the legions dwindling, for the first time, the Romans began courting mercenaries to supplement its regular forces, through both foreign alliances in kingdoms neighbouring Carthage and actively recruiting fighters disillusioned with the Carthaginians for not being timely with their payments or progress on Rome. The second break with tradition was in the Senate, with a paucity of options, electing to put the legions under the control of one young and charismatic general, called Scipio Africanus, who rejected the cautious former rules of engagement and attacked Hannibal directly. These exceptions seem minor—and even positive shifts for the Republic's fortune as Carthage met a decisive defeat at the Battle of Zama in present-day Tunisia, giving Rome total control of the Western Mediterranean and allowed for expansion—though without a satisfactory explanation—eastward, beyond the Adriatic. Old rivalries and suddenly finding oneself without an enemy to fight notwithstanding, Rome had always respected Greece as its elder, the preeminent naval power that ruled the Orient and had no designs on the Occident. Whatever the reason—possibly a break unspoken with the convention of only fighting a just war even though that standard had been stretched greatly on several occasions in the past, Rome baited a scuffles enough to declare war on Macedon, the kingdom portrayed as a direct threat to Greece's liberty and security. Once the regional power had been subdued and eviscerated, as it had done with Carthage, Rome declared Greece a sovereign mandate, finally free from the spectre of foreign rule (Macedon) and pledged to protect these lands from invaders. Like the Carthaginians, the Greeks did not feel abundantly free, what with Roman patrols and incursions to break-up any possible unsanctioned allegiances or trade deals. Formal declaration of Greece, Carthage and the Iberian peninsula as Roman provinces did not happen until many years later, after the destruction of several of the great cities of antiquity in order to staunch any future thought of rebellion. This offensive was not about preservation—though all empires make such forays and create enemies if one is not conveniently available—and I think that compromise came all too easily and quickly for Rome after cosmopolitan success.
There likely never was a golden age of equality in the young Republic, but the ideals it was founded on erode at an avalanche's pace with the infusion of outrageous wealth that's too lightly concentrated. Spoils came of these conquests in the form of treasure, land and slave-labour, which although always a part of the Roman economy, was now supplanting the Plebeian class' chance to earn a livelihood. Large estate-holders were the beneficiaries of the years of war and accrued ever greater wealth, as the squadrons and companies they provisioned returned their plunder to their patrons. Before slaves were brought in from conquered lands—more than Rome had the ability to employee meaningfully—Plebeians without means could at least to expect to eke-out a modest and unglamourous living by tilling the fields of the great plantations. Now, however, their services became redundant and more and more families came into crushing debt and those that did own small parcels of their own were forced to sell to a few rich families. Another break with tradition followed in order to find a solution to this resulting vagrancy and general loitering that took hold of the underclass, which was probably responsible for the collapse of the republican government and any pretensions of nobility and democracy: the relaxing of the standards for legionnaires. Since the raising of Rome's first militia, there was the requirement that a soldier must be able to equip himself. Considering the new economic realities, however, only a handful of the sons of the wealthy landowners could serve, so the prerequisite to outfit oneself was dropped altogether. There was no stipend, per se, for service as patrons—landowners who now were surfeited with cheap-labour, had in the past acted as paymasters and addressed pensions and survivor-benefits, etc. Now earning anything for one's tour was contingent on what war trophies each soldier could secure for his commander. This system caused matters to escalate rather quickly on campaigns, not complimenting Rome's image as a righteous overlord nor benefiting unit-cohesion, and eventual led to revolt and civil-war on the domestic front.
The exhibit also featured a lot of footage from David Attenborough’s documentary on natural curiosities and the birds’ dances of passion—which includes a lot of housekeeping and pruning to make sure there’s no distraction on stage for the birds’ performance. The worshipful behaviour of humans towards the birds of paradise is also something pretty extravagant—the plumage decorating native headdresses and the fashion-plates of nineteenth-century Europe, sadly endangering the more flamboyant breeds along with encroachment of their habitat, usually restricted to specific climes. Aside from feathers in hats, another totem of the animal existed in pelt-form and was an avian vehicle of wealth and dowry. These skins were the entire bodies of the bird preserved, except for the feet—dispatched with as unaesthetic, and Western explorers and settlers believed for several centuries (until the Enlightenment) that the skies above New Guinea was home to purely celestial beings—writing embellished treatises on how the heavenly birds lived off of oxygen and dew and were even configured to fly in tandem to form a flying nest with their bodies. Before Charles Darwin described his finches of the Galรกpagos, biologist Alfred Russel Wallace, studying these birds of paradise and noticing specialisation, conceived of natural selection—independently, inspiring Darwin to publish his works. I wonder if such conclusions—all things considered, would be intuitive or take a special genius to recognise.
The case of these birds especially with their extreme plumage and instinctual vanity is special take on survival of the fittest—as they are not the most agile or robust creatures of the forest and sport ornamental features that seem more of a liability (like huge antlers that are a heavy burden to carry and could get hooked on something) than a natural advantage, but such decorations and displays are what the lady birds like, maybe because the males have managed to survive despite these handicaps.
Rome won its first fight against Carthage, but just barely—in the aftermath, turning to more internal affairs and ignoring its rival for control of the Mediterranean. An uneasy peace was brokered with terms that left Carthage fuming—a dishonour to the competing power and especially to a certain Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca (Thunderbolt) who swore to his father to never be a friend to these interlopers and fuming after Hamilcar perished during a campaign and left his city in the hands of his acquiescing brother-in-law Hasdrubal. In time, as vengeance has no vice in patience, Hasdrubal was assassinated and Hannibal was invested as the leader of Carthage's armies. Carthage took its stand on the Iberian peninsula, in the main to protect its untapped reservoirs of silver—which afterwards, Rome exploited, too. Though there is a lot of ground to cover in between with several important detours, it seems rather ironic that latter-day nations who saw their own treasure plundered became the champions and true-believers of an expansionist-policy and persecuted with prejudice their gold-fever in the New World. Realising early on how to bait the Romans, Hannibal advanced from Spain into Roman territory-proper, traveling through Gaul and taking a direct-route—with a compliment of seventy-six elephants—over the Swiss Alps and an even harder slog over the marshlands, they drew the battle to them and summarily defeated the legions, time after time. Horrified by their series of defeats and near-misses, the constituent of Rome elected a dictator to handle it all, whom was capable of seeing soberly all of Rome's weaknesses and vanities.
Quintus Fabius Maximus Verrocusus was appointed dictator to manage the advance. Seeing, however, Hannibal's tactics and luring Romans into irresistible fights, the dictator adopted a policy of avoiding direct confrontation. Though not lauded by his own government, Fabius was appreciated by Hannibal for understanding his strategy and left armies standing, disengaged, in order to not be tempted into more losses. Hannibal appreciated Fabius' strategies, unpopular in Rome by any measure, and to undermine this general, dictated that his regular countryside raids should spare specifically those estates of the wealthy patrician Fabian family. After a ruse that saw the Carthaginian army through a trap (the Romans had their forces cornered in a valley-pass but Hannibal orchestrated a clever distraction of cattle bearing torches that lured away the forces guarding the exit). For this failure and in general operating against the grain of Roman values (plus, meanwhile, some of Rome's trusted allies defected, hoping to back the right horse), Fabius—this vested dictator—was called into question by introducing a more adventurous foil, who essentially rendered ineffectual the call and duty of the post of appointed-dictator ever afterward, checked by the power and confidence of another co-ruler. To the victor goes the future but not necessarily the history. Fabius was given the cognomen cunctator—the delayer, but his practise of non-engagement later became known as the Fabian Strategy, a battle of attrition and more importantly, being non-reactive. Rome and its legacy entire dodged another defeat, but this time through restraint and countering strategy. The period without major losses or demoralising defeats allowed Rome to re-group, and Sicily, where Hannibal's father met his demise—abandoned by the Carthaginian nobility who waged their wars with mercenary forces rather than a draft of its citizenry according to their means, eventually went into Roman receivership. The lone hold-out was the Greek city of Syracuse, defended in part by the genius of resident mad scientist Archimedes, who contrived all manner of war-machines, catapults and even a death-ray to fend off invaders. Possibly emboldened by victory on one front, not quite concomitant with the grave failure, Roman forces were resolved to confront Hannibal's armies at Cannae, a large supply depot and commissariat on the heel of the boot of Italy, on the Apulian plains. Command alternating daily between two generals (so one family would take the blame for eternity, it seems) for bureaucratic reason, a behemoth Roman army was routed. Despite losing in two decisive battles, Rome won the war, with Hannibal's discretion not to attack the capitol and to not expend all his battlefield capital in one fell stroke.
Not only does Austria get to host the EuroVision Song Contest next summer, the Interalpen Hotel, the venue of the secretive summit already in 1988, near the western Tyrolean village of Telfs will again accommodate the Bilderberg Conference.
Granting an interview with the Dรผsseldorf-based Rheinische Post, German Labour Minister elaborated on her goal to put boundaries and balance—work/life—into a legal framework, as a so-called anti-stress law. Citing numerous sources and many self-reported incidents, there has been a nearly exponential jump in sick-days due to mental exhaustion that parallels advances in technology that make many available at all times.
German productivity and work ethic is high because of the downtime and division traditionally afforded to them—and most healthily regard work as a necessary-evil, regardless of the passion that they might have for what they do and those they help. In any case, pressure from a demanding supervisor is unlikely to visit those truly happy and driven about their professions. I know of very few trying bosses and have rarely heard of employees being arrayed with questions while on holiday, but I do suppose a few traumatic cases justify that some line be drawn. Even if there is not a surplus of terrorised workers, mental health is grounded in perception and anticipation and just the worry—real or imagined—of being disturbed can have the same effect as the unwelcome task borne on the รฆther. What do you think? Can you relate to this sort of pressure and torment—or does it seem something alien and a punishment that’s self-inflicted by ambition and the blurred borders we make ourselves? I’ve not had much in the way of true homework for a long time, but we are all perfectly willing to continue staring at the same rectangles in our free time and answer to any shouts and dings at any hour.
Before entering into battle—or committing to any course of action for that matter, the Romans had many rituals that required strict observance. As military maneuvers especially were by and of the polity any breech of custom and reverence was an affront against one's neighbours and directly threatened public security and not just one's survival on the battle-field or the success or failure of any given mission. There are several war stories related about armies on the the march having to make a u-turn or at least pause over the auspices not being properly consulted. The actual ritual is shrouded in mystery, although the Romans were against exclusive cults in the main—including those up-start Christians, as they represented a threat to the State and public order, but seemed to be arm-wrestling the gods to secure a blessing. There are quite a few occasions when otherwise competent, successful and loyalty-inspiring generals were turned public-enemy for transgressing the divination-process, being distracted and tempted by targets of opportunity before the auspices were read and marching could resume.
Another grave transgression took place during the first engagement with Carthage, known as the Punic War (Punic being the Roman exonym for the Phoenicians who founded the north African naval and commercial power). Fearless about taking risky ventures outside of their element, Rome resolved to learn the art of seafaring to counter Carthage's strength and dominance. Such abandon was almost unheard of, but Rome, relying on perhaps the apocryphal tale of Athens countering Sparta in the same manner, was willing to take that risk. Although the first iteration of the wars general proclaim Rome the victor—only affording the chance to address attacks and revolts on other fronts, and more pain was to come, Rome became a tested and certified naval power. This prosperity came about by chance and mostly due to a spectacular failure in their first showing. In order to save time when it came to consulting the oracles, the sacred chickens were carried on board as the flagships made their way across the Mediterranean. The sacred chickens were to be consulted before advancing into enemy-waters (though Carthage had helped Rome over-throw the Greeks just a few years before but now constituted a threat to their trade-routes) and the ritual began—it is imaging this scene that makes me think of Gonzo and his harem of hens. If the chickens ate the feed they were tossed, then it was a sure sign of the gods' support for battle, however if they did not (and I find it rather hard to believe that chickens would not peck at something even if not hungry) then it was a sign to refrain. Having no time for such superstitions, the admiral proceeded to dump the coop overboard, proclaiming that if the sacred chickens were not hungry, maybe they were thirsty instead. That first encounter did not end well for the Romans, but Carthage dismissed Rome's prowess in subsequent engagements and grew over-confident in their own abilities, to their distinct disadvantage.
