The result was what might have been foreseen. In a few months after the death of Stilicho, Alaric was again in Italy, exasperated by the bad faith of the court, which had promised and not performed. There was no army and no general to meet him. City after city was pillaged. Avoiding the strong walls of Ravenna, behind which the emperor lay secure, he marched on Rome, led his army under the stately arches, adorned with the spoils of countless victories, and pitched his tents beneath the walls of the imperial city.
Six hundred and nineteen years had passed since a foreign foe had gazed upon those proud walls, within which lay the richest and most splendid city of the world, peopled by a population of more than a million souls. But Rome was no longer the city which had defied the hosts of Hannibal, and had sold at auction, for a fair price, the very ground on which the great Carthaginian had pitched his tent. Alaric was not a Hannibal, but much less were the Romans of his day the Romans of the past.
Instead of striking for the honor of Rome, they lay and starved within their walls until thousands had died in houses and streets. No army came to their relief, and in despair the senate sent delegates to treat with the king of the Goths.
"We are resolved to maintain the dignity of Rome, either in peace or war," said the envoys, with a show of pride and valor. "If you will not yield us honorable terms, you may sound your trumpets and prepare to fight with myriads of men used to arms and with the courage of despair."
"The thicker the hay, the easier it is mowed," answered Alaric, with a loud and insulting laugh.
He then named the terms on which he would retreat,—all the gold and silver in the city; all the rich and precious movables; all the slaves who were of barbarian origin.
"If such are your demands," asked the envoys, now reduced to suppliant tones, "what do you intend to leave us?"
"Your lives," said Alaric, in haughty tones.
The envoys retired, trembling with fear.