A Culture of Civil War?: Bellum Civile' and Political Communication in Late Republican Rome 9783515134019, 9783515134040, 3515134018

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A Culture of Civil War? Bellum civile and political communication in Late Republican Rome Edited by Henning Börm, Ulrich Gotter and Wolfgang Havener

HABE S Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge | 65 Franz Steiner Verlag

habes Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und Epigraphische Studien Begründet von Géza Alföldy Herausgegeben von Angelos Chaniotis und Christian Witschel Beirat: François Bérard, ­Kostas Buraselis, Lucas de Blois, ­Ségolène Demougin, Elio Lo Cascio, Mischa ­Meier, Elizabeth Meyer, Michael Peachin, Henk Versnel und Martin Zimmermann Band 65

A Culture of Civil War? Bellum civile and political communication in Late Republican Rome

Edited by Henning Börm, Ulrich Gotter and Wolfgang Havener

Franz Steiner Verlag

Umschlagabbildung: Baron François Pascal Simon Gérard, Marius Returning to Rome, 1789 The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Museum purchase funded by the estate of Mary Alice Wilson and the Director's Accessions Endowment, 91.39 © The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; Jud Haggard Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2023 www.steiner-verlag.de Layout und Herstellung durch den Verlag Satz: DTP + TEXT Eva Burri, Stuttgart Druck: Memminger MedienCentrum, Memmingen Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-13401-9 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-13404-0 (E-Book)

Table of Contents Wolfgang Havener Introduction A Culture of Civil War? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Part I – Political and Social Repercussions of Civil War Hannah Mitchell On Not Joining Either Side The Discourse of Elite Neutrality in Roman Civil War. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Carsten Hjort Lange Naval Operations During the Late Republican Civil War (38–31 BCE) Victories by Land and Sea. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Kathryn Welch Memorable Women and Women in the Memory of Civil War. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Part II – Shaping the Memory of Civil War Amy Russell The Spaces of Civil War. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 Cristina Rosillo-López Speak, Memory Oral Remembrances of the Civil Wars of the Republic and the Triumvirate. . . . . . . . . . . 135 Harriet I. Flower Self-Representation in a Time of Civil Strife Publius Rutilius Rufus’ de vita sua. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

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Ulrich Gotter Writing Down Uncivil Wars Or: How Roman Generals Justified Themselves in the Wake of Civic Bloodshed. . . . . . . 177 Part III – A Transformation of Norms and Values? Wolfgang Havener Exempla sibi viam faciunt Exemplarity in Times of Civil Strife. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 Frederico Santangelo Piety and Civil War. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 Kit Morrell Missing in Action? Law and Civil War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245 Dominik Maschek The Groundswell of Civil War Material Culture and Changing Worldviews in the Last Three Generations of the Roman Republic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277 Part IV – A Language of Civil War Henning Börm Stasis in Rome? Hellenistic Discourse and the bella civilia of the Late Republic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 301 Catherine Steel From inimici to hostes Internal Conflict in the Oratory of the Roman Republic, 133–88 BCE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327 Matteo Cadario Remarks on the Image and the Honorary Monuments of the Roman Ruling Class in the Age of the Civil Wars Pompey the Great, Caesar and Octavian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343 General Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365

Introduction A Culture of Civil War? Wolfgang Havener At the end of his account of the Catilinarian Conspiracy, Sallust masterfully captured the horrors of civil war as well as its highly paradoxical character. When Catiline and his supporters had been vanquished in a final battle near Pistoria, the troops of the victorious consul C. Antonius Hybrida roamed the battlefield, but the flush of victory soon turned into terror and grief. Turning over the bodies of the dead, they found ‘now a friend, now a guest or kinsman; some also recognised their personal enemies. Thus the whole army was variously affected with exultation and mourning, lamentation and gladness.’1 Having achieved a glorious victory on behalf of the res publica, Antonius’ soldiers simultaneously had to acknowledge that the price for this success was the death of thousands of fellow-Roman citizens.2 The outcry one might have expected as a result, however, failed to materialise. On the contrary: as Cassius Dio reports, echoing Sallust’s account, the soldiers acclaimed Antonius imperator, the senate even decreed a supplicatio, ‘and the people changed their raiment to signify their deliverance from all dangers’.3 For Theodor Mommsen, this episode signified a kind of turning point in the history of Roman civil war. In a brief comment on the episode in his History of Rome, Mommsen pointedly claimed that Catiline’s defeat, and especially its aftermath with the honours decreed for Antonius, ‘showed that the government and the governed

1 Sall. Cat. 59.8 f.: Multi autem, qui e castris visundi aut spoliandi gratia processerant, volventes hostilia cadavera amicum alii, pars hospitem aut cognatum reperiebant; fuere item qui inimicos suos cognosce­ rent. Ita varie per omnem exercitum laetitia, maeror, luctus atque gaudia agitabantur. 2 Sallust explicitly calls Catiline’s supporters cives in the preceding sentence, emphasising how brave they had fought and died in the face of defeat (Sall. Cat. 59.6). 3 Cass. Dio 37.40.2: […] ἔπεμψε, καὶ αὐτοκράτωρ ἐπὶ τῇ νίκῃ, καίτοι τοῦ ἀριθμοῦ τῶν πεφονευμένων ἐλάττονος παρὰ τὸ νενομισμένον ὄντος, ἐπεκλήθη. βουθυτηθῆναί τε ἐψηφίσθη, καὶ τὴν ἐσθῆτα ὡς καὶ πάντων τῶν δεινῶν ἀπηλλαγμένοι μετέβαλον.

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were beginning to become accustomed to civil war.’4 This phrase which Mommsen seemingly made in passing and on which he does not subsequently come back, touches on the central questions and topics the present volume aims to address: from the murder of Tiberius Gracchus in 133 BCE to Young Caesar’s victory over Antonius (and Cleopatra) at Actium in 29 BCE, the history of the Late Roman Republic was characterised by recurrent episodes of civil strife. Many inhabitants of the empire and even Italy itself had to face the disastrous consequences: marauding bands of soldiers or veterans, vio­lence and forced dispossessions. The res publica encountered severe and far-reaching changes in a whole number of areas. A large number of the members of the senatorial families that had determined Roman politics and society for centuries perished on the battlefields of Pharsalus, Mutina, Philippi or Actium. Others took their seats in the senate and re-negotiated the balance of power. At the end of this development stood the new political order of the Principate. For a long time, scholarship has invested much effort in reconstructing the episodes of civic bloodshed, as well as their causes and consequences, that tore apart the Roman Republic, mainly focusing on incidents of political murder or the years of actual warfare, the preceding political machinations, and the de-stabilising consequences for the res publica. Previous studies have repeatedly emphasised the disruptive effects of diverging interests of different social groups that supposedly left the res publica defenceless against assaults by ruthless warlords and dynasts.5 Others, like Christian Meier, have highlighted the inflexibility of the Republican political order, based on the tradition of the mos maiorum, which prevented political institutions, as well as Roman society as a whole, from adapting to changing circumstances and new challenges, creating a ‘crisis without alternative’.6 Erich Gruen, in contrast, claimed that the Republican system was highly functional until Caesar decided to cross the Rubicon and start a war that would bring the res publica to its knees.7 More recently, Robert Morstein-Marx and Nathan Rosenstein have adduced the loss of cohesion among the members of the senatorial elite and a resulting loss of authority of the established institutions as the decisive factor for the demise of the traditional political system.8 All of these approaches share a rather narrow political and institutional scope, which has increasingly been subjected to scrutiny in recent years.9 While the contributors to a collection edited

4 5 6 7 8 9

Mommsen 2001, 187: ‘Antonius ward wegen dieses Sieges vom Senat mit dem Imperatorentitel gebrandmarkt und neue Dankfeste bewiesen, daß Regierung und Regierte anfingen, sich an den Bürgerkrieg zu gewöhnen.’ (transl. Dickson 1870, 222–223.) See Brunt 1988, 1–92. Meier 2017. Gruen 1974, 504: ‘Civil war caused the fall of the Republic, not vice versa.’ Morstein-Marx/Rosenstein 2010, 629–635. Osgood 2006 and Steel 2013 are among those who take a more comprehensive view in their accounts of the last decades of the Republic and the coming of the Principate, respectively. See also the contributions in Pina Polo 2020 on different aspects of the period between 44 and 31 BCE.

Introduction

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by Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp have developed the political perspective by applying the concept of ‘political culture’ to the period, other approaches have tried to broaden the perspective by leaving the field of political and institutional history and focusing on anthropological or cultural phenomena like collective memory or the various methods of coming to terms with the horrors of the civil war era in later literary or historiographical texts.10 Still others have taken a comparative view either by taking into account the Greek context, where the concept of stasis was an integral element of polis culture, or by establishing continuities between the Roman civil wars and ideas of civil war in Early Modern Europe and the United States of America.11 Building on these approaches, the present volume, which originated from a joint conference organised by the Universities of Heidelberg and Konstanz in 2017, aims to demonstrate that the period from 133 to 29 BCE merits a much more extensive type of investigation: ‘the age of civil war’ consisted of more than intermittent periods of in-fighting and the eventual emergence of the Principate. Even when arms fell silent, the sources show that constant fear of renewed internecine violence was a pervading experience, implicitly shaping the ways in which contemporaries not only conceived the political system or the course of events, but also how they interpreted central norms and values, traditions or the media that were used to transmit and implement them.12 The constant threat and regular recurrence of internecine warfare thus also transformed Rome’s cultural imaginary. Following Mommsen’s notion of a society getting used to violent internal conflict and even outright war among citizens, we argue that civil war became a figure of thought in the first century BCE, a benchmark of the manifold discourses on politics, the social foundations of the res publica and the essence of human nature and community in general.13 Civil strife thus changed Roman society to a degree which cannot fully be revealed by an analysis of military campaigns or politics alone. Instead, in order to fully understand how it shaped the lives of those

10

On the concept of political culture in relation to the civil war period, see Hölkeskamp 2009. Westall 2018a, a special issue of Hermathena, combines contributions on both the ‘anthropology of civil war’ and its literary representation with more traditionally oriented articles on prosopography and legal history. On civil war in literary and historiographical texts, see Henderson 1998; Breed/Damon/Rossi 2010; Welch 2015; Lange/Vervaet 2019. On civil war and material culture, see Maschek 2018. 11 On stasis in classical and Hellenistic Greece, see Gehrke 1985 and Börm 2019, respectively, as well as Gray 2015. For a comparative approach to Greek stasis and Roman civil war, see Börm/Mattheis/ Wienand 2016. The broader historical perspective is taken by Armitage 2017 (on which see the detailed critical review of Lange 2017). 12 On the crucial significance of violence in the context of civil war, see Kalyvas 2006 and Lange 2018. On fear as a driving force during the Triumviral Period, see Hurlet 2020 and Havener 2016, 55–76; for fear as a rhetorical device in Cicero’s orations, see Pina Polo 2019. 13 See also the seminal study by Jal 1963 who emphasises that civil war ‘apparaît ainsi comme une veritable “catégorie de la pensée romaine”’ (57) which left a particular mark on literary texts from Late Republican to Imperial times.

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who had to experience it, it is necessary to write a cultural history of Roman civil war – or rather: a history of the Late Roman Republic as a ‘culture of civil war’. Usually, this would be the place where terms like these have to be defined in order to make them operable as analytical tools. In both cases, however, this proves notoriously difficult, as there do not exist any unequivocal or uncontested definitions either of the term ‘culture’ or the term ‘civil war’. Concerning the latter, civil war studies in recent years have tried to precisely define their subject from a whole range of (inter-) disciplinary angles without coming to terms.14 Significantly, most of the publications on the period of Roman civil war have not made an attempt to define the term either.15 Reflecting on these difficulties, in order to facilitate its use in the context of a comparative historical analysis of Greek and Roman civil conflict (both in the Republican and Imperial period), Henning Börm has suggested the following working definition: civil war is a violent conflict between at least two armed parties, both of which, as a rule, have a structure that is at least paramilitary; furthermore, it is necessary for at least one of the parties in the conflict to see the enemy principally as (former) members of the same group, i. e. they themselves consider the war to be an internal affair.16

Of course, there can be no doubt that this definition is fully applicable to the internecine conflicts of the first century BCE. For the purpose of the present volume, with its focus on the ways in which contemporaries perceived and were influenced by the experience of civil war, instead of formulating an abstract definition as heuristic tool, however, it might prove more productive to address the problem of definition from another perspective. In the following paragraphs, we will turn the question of definition into a first case study which can serve to illustrate our approach and from which can be developed the guiding questions and the main fields of inquiry that constitute the basis for the following contributions.17 14 15 16 17

See, among others, Waldmann 1998; Sambanis 2004; Kalyvas 2007. Neither Westall nor Breed/Damon/Rossi, for example, provide a definition in their introductory texts. Börm 2016, 18; see also Lange 2017, 136–139. For a similar approach, see the instructive recent study by Valentina Arena who aims to show ‘what the coinage of this new phrase [i. e. bellum civile] and its coming to prominence in the political language of the early 40s and the Triumviral period tell us about the nature of the Roman political world of the time.’ (Arena 2020, 102.) Arena argues that ‘[b]y adopting bellum civile as a descriptive phrase of normative value, the Romans emphasised a conceptualisation of their community as a body starkly divided into two entities, where one section of society aimed to prevail over the other and annihilate it.’ (102 f.) This interpretation doubtlessly gets to the heart of the matter in certain ways (although, as will be demonstrated below, the notion of annihilation might be questioned). When it comes to the point of why the term bellum civile was coined in the first place, however, Arena seems to prefer an explanation that is based on the more traditional political and institutional paradigm outlined above: ‘[…] the notion of bellum civile appeared and gradually came to prominence when the constitutional answers, which were organised round the notion of Concor­ dia, became inadequate.’ (121).

Introduction

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In a letter addressed to his friend and secretary Tiro from late January 49 BCE, Cicero vividly portrays the tense and aggressive atmosphere he perceived in Rome in the face of Caesar’s march towards the city: My existence and that of all honest men and the entire Commonwealth hangs in the balance, as you may tell from the fact that we have left our homes and the mother city herself to plunder or burning. We have reached the point when we cannot survive unless some God or accident comes to our rescue. From the day I arrived outside Rome all my views, words, and actions were unceasingly directed towards peace. But a strange madness was abroad. Not only the rascals but even those who pass for honest men were possessed with the lust of battle, while I cried aloud that civil war is the worst of calamities.18

As the course of events demonstrates, Cicero’s appeals fell on deaf ears – even though, in order to make his warnings as clear as possible, he had recourse to one of the most abominated expressions of his time: bellum civile. Cicero could and obviously did assume that labelling Caesar’s transgressive actions as ‘civil war’ would make a strong impression on his contemporaries. That it did not, and that neither Caesar nor his adversaries were prevented from taking up arms and leading the res publica into the abyss, could be interpreted as an unmistakable sign that the fundamental principles of Roman society were at stake. Under normal circumstances the term Cicero used in order to make his fears palpable did not only constitute a paradox but, as Ulrich Gotter has outlined, had to be seen as a terminological monstrum.19 The sheer existence of the term was outrageous, as it brought together two elements that had hitherto been completely incompatible: the notions of bellum and civis and thus the strictly separate spheres of domi and militiae.20 Veit Rosenberger has tried to identify certain elements that defined a proper Roman bellum.21 First, he takes into consideration the aspects of Staatsrecht and religion or to be precise their special combination that manifested itself in the act of declaring war.22 Although Rosenberger reaches the conclusion that there was no formalised way of declaring a bellum, the ritual framework that enclosed military operations at Rome is of 18 Cic. fam. 16.12.1 f.: Quo in discrimine versetur salus mea et bonorum omnium atque unversae rei publi­ cae, ex eo scire potes, quod domos nostras et patriam ipsam vel diripiendam vel inflammandam reliqui­ mus: in eum locum res deducta est, ut, nisi qui deus vel casus aliquis subvenerit, salvi esse nequeamus. Equidem, ut veni ad urbem, non destiti omnia et sentire et dicere et facere, quae ad concordiam pertine­ rent; sed mirus invaserat furor non solum improbis, sed etiam iis, qui boni habentur, ut pugnare cuperent me clamante nihil esse bello civili miserius. 19 Gotter 2011, 61: ‘Vor diesem Hintergrund wird das bellum civile zum begrifflichen Ungetüm, dessen Monstrosität in der Kombination von bellum und civile liegt.’ See also Brown 2003, 103 and Jal 1963, 21–32. 20 On the religious as well as political implications of this distinction, see Rüpke 2019, 245–261 as well as Russell’s paper in this volume. 21 Rosenberger 1992, 128–133. 22 See also Rüpke 2019, 99–126; on the fetials and the ius fetiale, see Santangelo 2008.

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undeniable importance (see below).23 Rosenberger comes to similar results considering other possible starting points for a definition: the duration, scope or impact of a campaign, the political organisation of the combatant parties, the numbers of troops involved in the fighting or the strategies of legitimation developed by the protagonists could all be adduced for some of the conflicts termed bella in our sources, while others did not fall under any of these categories. One factor, however, seems to have been absolutely crucial – at least prior to the times of Cicero and his contemporaries: a bellum was firmly situated in the militiae sphere, that means it was conducted against a foreign enemy. A civis, in turn, characterised precisely by his status as a Roman citizen with the corresponding duties, rights and privileges, could not be termed a foreign enemy by definition.24 Against this background, it is highly significant that for centuries the Romans did not even have an expression in order to describe the phenomenon of civil war – the idea of citizens fighting a proper war against fellow citizens was not only outrageous, it was unthinkable. This obviously changed in the decades following the conflict between Marius and Sulla.25 Two terminological as well as conceptual developments converged in this period.26 First, the various protagonists of the civil war era started to experiment with the term hostis, which had hitherto marked the enemy in a bellum as unmistakably foreign. Now, the expression was transferred to the internal context and used against Roman adversaries, stripping them of their rights and privileges as Roman citizens – but not necessarily indicating that they were no longer perceived as Romans, as is clearly suggested by the fact that contemporary as well as later sources do not strictly distinguish between those conflicts featuring a hostis-declaration and those which did not when using the term bellum civile with its emphasis on the civil component.27 The coining of this expression constituted the second – and more innovative – development. Scholarship usually emphasises that the term bellum civile was a new as well as highly provocative creation, first attested in the 60s BCE.28 David Armitage, for example, states: ‘The 23 24 25 26

27

28

See Rich 2013. See Arena 2020, 112 f. On the crucial importance of the Sullan civil war for later developments, see Flower 2010. For a contrasting view, see Raaflaub 2021 who argues that both contemporaries as well as later Roman historians did not engage systematically with the concept of civil war and that ‘the elite developed mechanisms aimed at denying the reality of civil war, at least officially and publicly.’ (113) See Havener 2016a, 155–157; see also Arena 2020, 113 who emphasises that the term as well as the act obviously ‘seemed to be losing effectiveness, and, above all, its relevance’ due to the fractured structures of political legitimacy in the aftermath of Caesar’s murder in 44 BCE. On the development of the term, see Hellegouarc’h 1972, 188 f. For the juridical aspects, see Kunkel/Wittmann 1995, 238–240 and Ungern-Sternberg 1970. On the hostis-declaration in general, see Allély 2012 and Cornwell 2018 who, however, views the act as an instrument in order to render a conflict external rather than internal. Lange 2013, 86, in contrast, sees the hostis-declaration as an alternative to the externalisation of a conflict and one means to legitimise a civil war triumph (on this aspect, see below). See, among others, Arena 2020, 104 f.; Brown 2003, 95 and 104.

Introduction

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inventor is unknown. He – and it must have been a man, because he was surely a Roman citizen – joined together two distinct ideas to make an explosive new amalgam. No one before that obscure Roman had yoked these two elements together.’29 This observation is certainly true, yet at the same time it captures only one aspect of the term and neglects another, equally significant one: in order to characterise and designate the state of the res publica during the immediate past as well as their own lifetime, contemporaries did not invent something entirely new, but chose to bring together two well established terms that had very specific connotations. The central question which touches on the central premises of the present volume is why they decided to do so, especially since there already existed various expressions for civil strife. What was the additional semantic value of a highly problematic terminological combination like bellum civile? What message did this specific expression convey that others like seditio, tumultus or discidium could not? What made this term the most suitable to put in a nutshell the perceptions of Romans during the last decades of the Republic and the experiences they encountered? The expression bellum civile is first attested in Cicero’s speech pro lege Manilia in which the orator tries to paint a picture of Pompeius as the most formidable general Rome has ever seen: Who, then, ever possessed or had reason to possess more knowledge of warfare than Pompeius […]; who, in his youth, learned the lessons of warfare not from the instructions of others but from the commands he held himself, not by reverses in war but by victories, not through campaigns but through triumphs? In short, what manner of warfare can there be in which the vicissitudes of his country have not afforded him experience? The civil war, the wars in Africa, Transalpine Gaul and Spain, the Slave war and the Naval war, wars different in type and locality and against foes as different, not only carried on by himself unaided but carried to a conclusion, make it manifest that there is no item within the sphere of military experience which can be beyond the knowledge of Pompeius.30

29 Armitage 2017, 31 f. 30 Cic. Manil. 28: Nunc vero cum sit unus Cn. Pompeius, qui non modo eorum hominum, qui nunc sunt, gloriam, sed etiam antiquitatis memoriam virtute superarit, quae res est, quae cuiusquam animum in hac causa dubium facere possit? Ego enim sic existimo, in summo imperatore quattuor has res inesse oportere, scientiam rei militaris, virtutem, auctoritatem, felicitatem. Quis igitur hoc homine scientior umquam aut fuit aut esse debuit? qui e ludo atque pueritiae disciplinis, bello maximo atque acerrimis hostibus, ad patris exercitum atque in militiae disciplinam profectus est; qui extrema pueritia miles in exercitu fuit summi imperatoris, ineunte adulescentia maximi ipse exercitus imperator; qui saepius cum hoste conflixit, quam quisquam cum inimico concertavit, plura bella gessit quam ceteri legerunt, plures provincias confecit quam alii concupiverunt; cuius adulescentia ad scientiam rei militaris non alienis praeceptis, sed suis imperiis, non offensionibus belli, sed victoriis, non stipendiis, sed triumphis est erudita. Quod denique genus esse belli potest, in quo illum non exercuerit fortuna rei publicae? Civile, Africanum, Transalpinum, Hispaniense, servile, navale bellum, varia et diversa genera et bellorum et hostium non solum gesta ab hoc uno, sed etiam confecta nullam rem esse declarant in usu positam militari, quae huius viri scientiam fugere possit.

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In his seminal article on the terms bellum sociale and bellum civile from 2003, Robert Brown, emphasising that the latter was by no means the only terminological innovation of the first century BCE, observes that Cicero in this passage lists several kinds of wars that did not correspond to the established pattern of war designated by the term bellum.31 Several further points are worth mentioning here. First of all, the term bellum civile comes without warning, without any form of definition, even without any further explanation. It is simply adduced as one of the wars that enabled Pompeius to develop his outstanding generalship. If we do not assume that Cicero here deployed a rhetorical trick, the seemingly unspectacular occurrence might indicate that by this time already, the expression was at least common and established enough for its connotations and implications to be identified by the audience.32 At the same time, it is highly striking that civil war is portrayed not in an exclusively negative way here. After all, the experience Pompeius gathered by conducting, among others, a bellum civile predestines him, according to Cicero, for the command against Mithridates.33 Even civil war, in other words, might prove useful for the res publica – albeit under precisely confined circumstances. Cicero’s rhetorical manoeuvre is possible only because the implications of the term are very specific in this particular case: it designates the wars against Cinna and Carbo and is thus employed in order to describe a particular conflict which, in contrast to the other bella listed by Cicero (apart from the slave war), had taken place on Italian soil. Brown has emphasised that bellum civile here seems to be an analytical category rather than a political catchphrase.34 At the same time, however, the fact that Cicero employs this expression in order to describe a certain period of Roman history is highly conspicuous in combination with another aspect – a combination crucial for understanding the semantics of the concept of bellum civile as a whole: the notion of civil war as a bellum confectum. Cicero emphasises that Pompeius did not only conduct the wars he listed solum, but that he carried them to a conclusion. Contrary to a seditio, a dissensio or a discidium, a bellum could be brought to a definitive end, an end that could be marked, for example, by a ritual like the triumph, the closing of the doors of the temple of Janus and so on.35 A bellum thus constituted a defined period of time as

31 32 33

34 35

Brown 2003, 103 f. On the passage, see also Steel 2011, 140–147 and van der Blom 2019, 118–123. Based on fragments from and references to Sulla’s autobiography in later sources, Lange/Vervaet 2019a cogently argue that he may have been the ‘inventor’ of the term. See van der Blom 2019, 120 f., similarly suggesting that the main thrust of the passage was ‘to avoid triggering bad memories of these civil wars while still making his point about Pompeius’ suitability for the command […]’. While van der Blom is certainly correct in refuting Armitage’s claim that Cicero aimed to establish ‘a hierarchy with civil war being the most dangerous’ (see Armitage 2017, 66), it might be argued that the bellum civile is here adduced not only as one war among many and as Pompeius’ first command, respectively, but that its potentially provocative connotations are deliberately brought into play. Brown 2003, 95 f. and 106. See Rüpke 2019, 205–241.

Introduction

15

well as a defined status with particular characteristics, regulations, and certainly not least with a specific counterpart: pax. This fundamental quality made the notion of bellum highly functional for coming to terms with the horrors of civil war in a number of different ways.36 First, and probably foremost, there could be hope that the res publica that had experienced serious turmoil, could be pacified again. A bellum civile did not have to be permanent, but could actively be brought to an end.37 Discordia, whose personification was portrayed as the most dangerous enemy of the Roman order in various sources, could be defeated – a notion that would form one of the backbones of Young Caesar’s strategy of legitimising his role in the civil wars from 43 to 31 BCE.38 Closely connected to this aspect was another element of bellum in general and bellum civile in particular: again contrary to other expressions that could be employed to designate a state of civil strife, the concept of bellum always entailed the notions of victory and defeat. A bellum was brought to an end by a final victory from which the victorious protagonists even could and did generate political power and prestige. That this held true also for a bellum civile is clearly demonstrated by the simultaneously innovative and highly provocative civil war triumphs celebrated by Sulla, Pompeius, Caesar and Young Caesar.39 For the losing side, of course, defeat was and remained a thorn in the flesh. In a letter to Marcellus, probably written in September 46, Cicero even generally laments victory in civil war, regardless of which side had been victorious: In civil war, never once experienced by our forebears but often by our own generation, all things are sad, but none sadder than victory itself. Even if it goes to the better party, it makes them more fierce and violent; though they may not be so by nature, they are forced to it willy-nilly. For the victor has often to act even against his inclination at the behest of those to whom he owes his victory.40

36

Instead of emphasising that civil war ‘challenged the standard Roman criteria, their very definition of war, to the breaking point’ (Armitage 2017, 33), it is therefore more productive to ask why and how those ‘standard criteria’ could be related to the phenomenon of civil war. 37 See Osgood 2015. Significantly, Cicero himself would later play with this notion, when he declared his conflict with the Catilinarians a bellum aeternum (see Havener’s paper in the present volume). 38 On Discordia as enemy of the Romans, see Breed/Damon/Rossi 2010a, 4–8 and Havener 2016, 140–150. 39 See Lange 2016 and Havener 2014. 40 Cic. fam. 4.9.3: Omnia sunt misera in bellis civilibus, quae maiores nostri ne semel quidem, nostra aetas saepe iam sensit, sed miserius nihil quam ipsa victoria; quae etiam si ad meliores venit, tamen eos ipsos ferociores impotentioresque reddit, ut, etiam si natura tales non sint, necessitate esse cogantur. multa enim victori eorum arbitrio per quos vicit etiam invito facienda sunt. an tu non videbas mecum simul quam illa crudelis esset futura victoria? igitur tunc quoque careres patria ne quae nolles videres? ‘non’ inquies; ‘ego enim ipse tenerem opes et dignitatem meam.’ at erat tuae virtutis in minimis tuas res ponere, de re publica vehementius laborare. On the passage, see Brown 2003, 109.

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At the same time, however, even a bellum civile with all its brutality and bloodletting that affected the whole of the res publica that was finally brought to an end one way or another, might at least constitute a starting point for coming to terms and reintegrating society, as has been demonstrated by Ingo Gildenhard in his analysis of Cicero’s pro Marcello.41 In this speech, Cicero acknowledges Caesar’s victory and at the same time shifts the focus on the termination of civil war as such.42 The victor, in turn, was provided with a range of possibilities in dealing with his defeated adversaries. Victory in a bellum did not automatically have to result in the physical elimination of the whole enemy party.43 Punishing the leaders of the hostile party did not prevent Caesar or his adoptive son from incorporating the soldiers of Pompeius and Antonius into their own armies. Caesar’s clementia, although this could certainly be considered an affront by his adversaries, was another option. At the same time, the concept of bellum could be employed in order to assign responsibility. In a bellum, the opposite side was clearly defined as the enemy, a fact that might have some considerable influence on the loyalty of the combatants. As Ulrich Gotter has emphasised, the blame for starting a civil war could always be laid on the enemy.44 Significantly, one of the very few instances where Caesar actually uses the term bellum in his commentary on the civil wars, accuses Pompeius and the members of the Senate for making the war inevitable.45 This meant that Caesar’s enemies drove him into the last and ultimate level of escalation. ‘Civil war is the worst of all calamities’, 41 See Gildenhard 2011, 223–243; see also Brown 2003, 109 f. 42 Cic. Marcell. 29: ‘[…] but if this city is never to be tranquillised by your measures and your institutions, the passage of your name to the ends of the earth will be but a wayward roaming; fixed resting-place and assured home it will never have. Among those yet unborn there shall arise, as there has arisen among us, sharp division; some shall laud your achievements to the skies, and others perchance shall find some quality, and that the chiefest, to be lacking, should you fail to quench the fires of civil war, and thereby bring salvation to your country, with the result that your achievements in war will be attributed to fate but the establishment of order to design. Look then to the verdict even of those who shall pass judgement upon you many ages hence, a judgement that will in all probability be less prejudiced than ours; for they will judge without partiality or interest, as without animosity or hatred.’ (sed nisi haec urbs stabilita tuis consiliis et institutis erit, vagabitur modo tuum nomen longe atque late, sedem stabilem et domicilium certum non habebit. Erit inter eos etiam, qui nascentur, sicut inter nos fuit, magna dissensio, cum alii laudibus ad caelum res tuas gestas efferent, alii fortasse aliquid requirent, idque vel maximum, nisi belli civilis incendium salute patriae restinxeris, ut illud fati fuisse videatur, hoc consilii. Servi igitur eis etiam iudicibus, qui multis post saeculis de te iudi­ cabunt et quidem haud scio an incorruptius quam nos; nam et sine amore et sine cupiditate et rursus sine odio et sine invidia iudicabunt.) 43 Contrary Arena 2020, 118: ‘The conclusion of a bellum civile could only be brought about by the complete defeat of the enemy.’ 44 Gotter 2011, 61 f. 45 Caes. civ. 1.26.6: ‘Shortly thereafter he reported that without the consuls – since they were absent – it was impossible to discuss a settlement. So Caesar decided that the objective attempted so often in vain finally had to be abandoned and that he had a war to fight.’ (Ita saepius rem frustra temptatam Caesar aliquando dimittendam sibi iudicat et de bello agendum.) On civil war in Caesar’s Commentar­ ii, see Osgood 2019.

Introduction

17

Cicero wrote in the passage quoted above. From 49 onwards, as Robert Brown and Henriette van der Blom have conclusively shown, the occurrences of the term bellum civile in the Ciceronian corpus rise significantly.46 Whereas Cicero adduces the expression only thrice prior to 49, after that date it pervades his work. Brown saw this as evidence for his assumption that the expression was made from an analytical tool into a catchphrase that could be employed in political debates and invectives. Against the background outlined here, however, more might be said with regard to this development: Cicero and his contemporaries obviously came to realise that bellum civile was not only a term to designate a specific military conflict from the past (the Sullan ‘civil war’) that had been ended once and for all. They had to acknowledge that their own times were about to fall under the same definition. The insight that one bellum confec­ tum did not mean that there would be no further civil wars and that they were about to make the same mistakes that their predecessors had committed and that justified the use of a highly problematical expression like bellum civile in order to describe their own period of time, must have been highly influential regarding the ways in which contemporaries conceived of their surrounding world. The events of their very own present could no longer be termed seditio, discessio or coniuratio, but had to be termed a bellum civile.47 ‘At the outset, Caesar’, Cicero declared in his speech pro Ligario, ‘you held that that movement was a secession, not a war, not an outburst of hatred between foes, but of dissension between citizens, a dissension in which either party had the welfare of the state at heart, but in which each, through policy or through passion, swerved from the interest of the general body.’48 A dissensio, in other words, included the possibility of consensus, of coming to terms without going to outright and bloody war. This might have been the reason why Caesar chose to employ this term rather than bellum civile in his own commentaries in order to demonstrate his willingness to find a compromise. Crossing the Rubicon, that means starting a war, a bellum, with the mechanisms this set in motion and the follow-up costs it entailed, constituted a point of no return both in practice and terminologically.49 The preceding considerations illustrate one of the central premises of the present volume. As has been outlined above, we argue that the bella civilia of the first century

46

See Brown 2003, 107–112; van der Blom 2019, 113–117 with a full list of the occurrences of the term in the Ciceronian corpus in n. 4. 47 See Arena 2020, 112–118 making a similar diagnosis for the period following the promulgation of the Lex Titia: ‘Although no one still wished to be perceived as fighting a civil war, the generals of the Triumviral period were now prepared to accept, if necessary, that this was indeed the kind of internal conflict with which they were engaged.’ (117) 48 Cic. Lig. 19: secessionem tu illam existimavisti, Caesar, initio, non bellum, neque hostile odium, sed civile discidium, utrisque cupientibus rem publicam salvam, sed partim consiliis, partim studiis a communi utilitate aberrantibus. See Brown 2003, 117 f. 49 Significantly, as Armitage 2017, 63 f. emphasises, Caesar himself did not mention the crossing of the Rubicon as a key moment in his Commentarii.

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BCE had a decisive influence on the res publica as a cultural community. The fact that the Latin language for a long time lacked a proper term to describe this comprehensive phenomenon clearly demonstrates that contemporaries faced a challenge which went far beyond the practical effects of civil war. The dynamic of events during the last decades of the Republic entailed the necessity of creating and establishing new methods of interpretation, patterns of action and even the theoretical concepts underlying them in order to deal with and make sense of the cataclysmic developments that threatened the very existence of their community. As will be shown by the contributions of this volume, however, these methods did not only facilitate coming to terms with the traumatic experience of civil war, but contributed to its dynamics themselves. Civil war, in other words, generated a whole set of novel structures of perception and collective as well as individual self-description which, in turn, due to their inherent follow-up costs informed the course of events. The contributions collected in the present volume aim to analyse these correlations from a number of different angles in order to illustrate possible starting points for a comprehensive cultural history of the Roman civil wars. The underlying questions and fields of inquiry may be grouped under five headings: 1.) The semantics of civil war and the ideology of ‘bellum civile’ as a figure of thought: As has been demonstrated with regard to the coining of the expression bellum civile itself, the experience of civil war resulted in the development of an innovative terminology which comprised new creations, the formation of new connotations connected to established and traditional terms like imperium, pax, libertas, pietas or even res publica, as well as the adoption of expressions and concepts from other contexts like the Greek stasis discourse.50 What were the implications of these transformations? How can they be explained and who was responsible for them? Can they be described as deliberate acts of creation or rather as the result of a more gradual and subliminal process? 2.) Strategies of legitimation: The protagonists of the civil war era actively contributed to disseminate and prolong the horror of internecine bloodshed. A central question is therefore, what methods these key players developed in order to validate and legitimate their role both during the wars as well as in their aftermath. In what respect did the individual strategies that can be discerned, for example, in the memoirs in Sulla’s memoirs, Caesar’s Commentarii or Augustus’ autobiography differ from one another?51 Which literary methods and patterns did they employ in order to explain and legitimise their actions? How were these strategies perceived, commented on and evaluated by their intended recipients as well as later generations?

50 51

On the notion of pax, see Cornwell 2017, esp. 43–80 as well as Havener 2016, 193–252 (focusing on the Pax Augusta). On imperium and the concept of empire, see Gotter 2019; on libertas, see Hodgson 2019 and Arena 2012; on res publica, Hodgson 2017. On memoirs and the genre of autobiography in Late Republican Rome, see Smith/Powell 2009 and Flower 2014. On Caesar’s Commentarii, see Westall 2018.

Introduction

19

3.) Communicating (about) civil war in text and imagery: The phenomenon of civil war did not only leave an imprint on texts dealing with actual military conflict. In a seemingly paradoxical way, civil war may be characterised as an unwanted enabling condition for fervent cultural productivity. Civil war informed the writings of poets, philosophers, and historians: the oratory of Cicero, with its Manichean tendency to split Rome’s civic community into ‘the good’ (boni) and ‘the bad’ (improbi); the historiography of the Late Republican and Early Imperial period which documents changing conceptions of history or time; the poetry of the period which makes civil bloodshed (and its eventual triumphant suppression by Augustus) a privileged point of reference.52 And it may be argued that the creation of a ‘language of civil war’ did not end in the sphere of literary texts but also informed both imagery, architecture, and conceptions of space.53 How did the Romans talk and write about civil war?54 How was civil war depicted and symbolised in sculpture, portraiture and architecture? And – more importantly – how did writers, philosophers and artists try to make sense of it? 4.) Civil war society: The extermination of a large part of the senatorial elite had significant repercussions for the composition of Rome’s socio-political elite, which, according to Syme, constituted the core of the Roman Revolution. To which qualities and developments did figures like Pompeius and his son Sextus, Dolabella, Agrippa, Munatius Plancus or Young Caesar owe their ascendancy?55 How did political turmoil affect central mechanisms of creating political and social hierarchies and networks?56 How did the role of women change in the civil war era, women like Antony’s wife Fulvia or Clodia who were both vilified by Cicero in his speeches, or the female protagonist of the Laudatio Turiae?57 5.) Reintegration and reconstruction: After decades of bloodshed and violence, the Romans had to face the challenge of constructing new rules for writing and talking about civic disasters to facilitate the process of coping with the collective trauma and deeply divisive fault-lines caused by civil bloodshed. In this light, Republican Rome takes its place among many other, more recent societies deeply influenced by and torn apart by civil warfare (Rwanda, Yugoslavia, Iraq): all faced (or face) the challenge to cope with a ‘collective suicide’. What strategies were developed in order to rebuild common values and a shared (political) culture in an attempt to overcome the disintegrating consequences of the bella civilia? 52 53 54 55 56 57

On Cicero, see Gildenhard 2011; on patterns and conceptions of time and the notion of decadence in Roman thought, see Ando 2019; Biesinger 2019 and 2016. On civil war and the representation of the Late Republic in Augustan poetry, see, among others, Powell 2008 and Lowe 2019. See Zanker 2003 and Russell 2016. On political communication during the Late Republic, see Rosillo-Lopez 2017. On Sextus Pompeius, see Welch 2012; on Plancus and Agrippa, see Mitchell 2019 and Tan 2019, respectively. See Rollinger 2014. See Osgood 2014

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The contributions collected in this volume address these questions from a variety of perspectives. The three papers of the first section focus on the ways in which civil war shaped Late Republican politics and society. Lines of conflict ran through families, networks of patronage and political alliances. Brothers killing brothers, sons slaying fathers and friends betraying friends developed into a dreading emblem for the horrors that contemporaries had to experience. The dynamics of permanent internal strife led to fragmentation and polarisation, forcing protagonists as well as bystanders to take sides – and bear the potentially existential consequences of their decisions. Against this background, the figures of those (few) who refused to conform to this dynamic stand out. Hannah Mitchell therefore explores the notion of neutrality in civil war and its limits, outlining different options for avoiding definite commitments as well as the problems connected to each of them. Focusing on Cicero’s correspondence in 49 BCE as well as a number of other case studies, she demonstrates that the decision not to tie oneself to the cause of either party was by no means an ‘easy way out’ as it entailed a number of extremely difficult considerations and the weighing up of potentially conflicting interests. As the success of a strategy of neutrality necessarily depended on the outcome of the war and the question whether the winning side would accept such a stance in hindsight, Mitchell argues that the decision to abstain from any compromising activity constituted a tightrope act which – especially in the case of Cicero – necessitated legitimation not only before his senatorial peers but also before himself. Carsten Hjort Lange focuses on the term terra marique. According to him, the ideological connotations of this specific formulation, employed most prominently in chapter 13 of Augustus’ Res Gestae and the iconic phrase terra marique esset parta vic­ toriis pax, is closely linked to its military and strategic component. He argues that naval victories like Naulochus and Actium alone were not sufficient in order to fulfil the ‘triumviral assignment’ and that land campaigns were an integral element of the civil wars of the 30 s BCE both in terms of actual warfare and for legitimising purposes. The combination of two topographically different ‘theatres of warfare’, land and sea, in one concise formula allowed Augustus to present his achievements (military victory as well as the establishment of peace) as comprehensive accomplishments that could and should be celebrated and commemorated accordingly. Campaigns, battles and the organised political assassination of the proscriptions resulted in a decimation of the male element of the senatorial and equestrian classes as well as massive losses among the rank and file. As a result, elite women gained centre stage during this period of crisis. Kathryn Welch emphasises that women like Cornelia, Terentia, Fulvia or Servilia have to be seen not merely as the mothers, wives or daughters of male protagonists, but rather as active and independent agents. The extraordinary circumstances and divided loyalties of the bella civilia provided women with more comprehensive opportunities for acquiring both material wealth and social status, which could constitute the basis of increased political influence. Significantly,

Introduction

21

the more pronounced activity of women in the civil war era took forms that had long been established in Roman society but were now thrown into much sharper relief: negotiation, activation of connections, mediation etc. As Welch outlines at the end of her chapter, because of their role in the events unfolding during the last decades of the Republic women also figured prominently in the collective memory of the period as both heroines and villains. Her contribution thus connects the first section of the volume with the four papers of the second section. They centre on the question how civil war and its repercussions informed collective memory and what strategies were developed by the protagonists of the civil war era in order to influence its formation and to make sure that their actions, decisions and actual as well as supposed achievements were remembered properly. It has been outlined above that bellum civile blurred the traditional boundary between the spheres domi and militiae. Elaborating on this aspect, Amy Russell discusses the ways in which civil war became manifest in the city of Rome itself from the 80 s BCE onwards and how urban space became an element of the collective memory of the Sullan bellum civile. She contends that the material as well as symbolic traces of internecine violence profoundly shaped the Romans’ perception of urban topography and forced them to reconsider established concepts of space. Although, contrary to what might be expected, the sources do not single out Sulla’s crossing of the pomerium, Russell emphasises that the presence of an armed force and the occurrence of actual fighting within the urbs as well as the memory of this highly transgressive and traumatic act that were linked to certain places, defined the experience of urban space both for contemporaries as well as later generations. With the contribution of Cristina Rosillo-López, focus shifts from the topographical lieux de mémoire and the spatial memory of civil war to the genre of oral commemoration. She addresses the question how oral memories of the traumatic experiences formed and changed over the course of the following generations, highlighting the specific characteristics of this medium of commemoration compared to other forms of memory. Rosillo-López argues that one of the main strategies to convey and employ these memories of the past was to update and adapt them according to the specific conditions of the present and to the expectations of the respective audience. Analysing Cicero’s speech pro Rabirio, she explores the mechanisms and strategies that were developed in order to employ (or, in this case, depreciate) oral recollections of internecine conflict in the context of a political trial. As Rosillo-López points out, the speech demonstrates that one of the most important environments for the transmission of oral memory was the family. Within this particular community of memory, the cross-generational remembrance of civil strife and a family’s role in its unfolding could be used in order to establish and strengthen a common identity – which, in turn, could be converted into a convenient point of attack. Given the particular nature of this form of commemoration and its inherent problems, it comes as no surprise that prominent figures involved in the events made use of

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other media in order to put their specific version of events on record. Some of them, most notably Sulla and the later Augustus, composed autobiographies which have unfortunately only survived in fragments. Nevertheless, such texts can provide valuable insights into strategies of self-representation and justification developed by the protagonists of the period, as Harriet Flower shows in her study on the autobiographical writings of P. Rutilius Rufus (cos. 105 BCE). Flower argues that, contrary to established views, Rufus’ work should not primarily be seen as a defence of his controversial political and administrative activities as legate in the province of Asia in the 90 s BCE. Instead, she interprets Rutilius’ de vita sua against the background of the experiences he made during the Sullan civil war as well as his particular role as exile who took an active part in the negotiations between Sulla and Fimbria in 85 BCE and managed to remain an influential figure even from his retreats at Mytilene and Smyrna. The resulting lack of possibilities to explain and justify his actions before the Roman public in more traditional media made the emerging genre of autobiographical writing an attractive alternative in order to maintain a certain status. Justification also lies at the heart of Ulrich Gotter’s contribution. He addresses the efforts taken by the protagonists of the bella civilia in order to present their actions as favourably as possible, both to their contemporaries and to posterity when confronted with the problem that under the circumstances of severe and bloody internecine conflict, any historiographical work with an autobiographical focus necessarily suffered from a massive lack of credibility. Focusing in particular on Caesar’s commentarii, Gotter discusses the lines of argument as well as the literary techniques developed by civil war generals in order to compensate for this highly disadvantageous position. He identifies two crucial elements of Caesar’s strategy of justification. On the one hand, he consequently assigned the blame for the escalation of conflict into ultimate bloodshed to his adversaries. On the other hand, he presented himself as an anti-Sulla. Raising the spectre of Sulla as exemplum malum par excellence allowed Caesar to present his own actions in a much more favourable light. Such a prominent deployment of an exemplum malum gains its full force when it is viewed against the background of the potential transformations of the system of norms and values on which the res publica Romana and Roman society were based, as well as the media through which these norms and values were conveyed. Consequently, the third section begins with an analysis of the development of the notion of exemplarity under the conditions of civil strife. Focusing on the case studies of Cicero, Cornelius Nepos and Valerius Maximus Wolfgang Havener illustrates three different aspects of the connections between exemplarity, or exempla, and the particular conditions of civil war. In contrast to approaches arguing that during the last decades of the Republic, Roman exemplarity underwent a process of degradation and lost its binding force, Havener contends that precisely because of their persistent auctoritas, politicians, authors of historiographical or biographical works and even writers like Valerius Maximus who have long been deemed mere compilers, all employed exempla

Introduction

23

as a means to reflect on the effects that discordia had on common norms and values and even to reformulate and adapt the very notion of exemplarity according to the challenges of ongoing civil strife. One of the most crucial Roman virtutes that featured prominently in the exemplary discourse, both in Republican and Imperial times, was the concept of pietas. Challenging the established view that it has to be seen primarily as a ‘political catchword’, Federico Santangelo argues that the term pietas has to be interpreted in a more comprehensive way: as part of a concept of piety, or the proper behaviour towards one’s own family, the res publica and the gods – an issue of critical importance in a time of ongoing deadly violence between members of the same community. In his analysis of the ramifications of piety, Santangelo focuses on a number of different aspects like the influence of the ius divinum on political decisions, the treatment of the bodies of Roman soldiers killed in battle by their own fellow-countrymen or the prominent role of rituals in the context of internecine conflict. Thus, he demonstrates that religious concerns of the different parties and protagonists of the civil wars influenced both the course of events and the contemporary discourse on the bellum civile to a high degree. Ultimately, with Augustus’ programme of restoration and reform, that aimed at restoring the pax deorum, religion provided a way to come to terms with the past and foster cohesion in a deeply divided society. A similar approach is taken by Kit Morrell in her investigation of the repercussions of the bella civilia on Roman law. Aiming to shift the focus from a constitutional and legal perspective (in the narrower sense of the word) towards the study of Rome’s ‘culture of legality’ she defines the latter as the ‘socio-political attitudes to law and legality that may support the (re)implementation of the rule of law, even while the reality is suspended’. In the civil war of 49 BCE, an ostentatious respect for legal forms and procedures, a concern for confronting legal problems that occurred during the course of events and a cautious dealing with the laws enabled by political adversaries, guided the actions of Caesar himself as well as his opponents. Therefore, Morrell suggests that civil war cannot merely be seen as a time of lawlessness in which the ‘rule of law’ was suspended completely. Instead, in spite of the various innovations in the legal field as well as the many outright illegalities that have long been seen as detrimental to the res publica, basic patterns of thinking about the authority of law and its impact on Roman society remained intact during the period of internal strife. Dominik Maschek also takes a legal procedure – the trial of C. Rabirius – as the starting point for his considerations on the impact of civil war and the traumatic experience of violence on the ways in which contemporaries conceptualised their personal life as well as the world that surrounded them. In view of the seemingly contradictory testimonies of the written sources that focus on the detrimental consequences of violence and warfare on the res publica and the material record that has often been interpreted more positively as evidence for increased specialisation and elite consumption, Maschek opts for taking a ‘longer view’. In order to bring together the impact of single traumatic

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events and long-term trends visible in the archaeological record, he refers to the concept of  ‘social generations’. The synopsis of written and material evidence demonstrates how the dynamics of civil war and continuous internecine violence influenced both the economic and the ideological outlook of consecutive ‘controlling generations’. In the final section, we return to some of the problems outlined at the beginning of this introduction. It has been emphasised that the emergence of civil war confronted the Romans with the necessity to create a new terminology in order to make sense of their experiences. The three contributions in this section explore different aspects of the emerging ‘language of civil war’, i. e. the ways in which it communicated about the new phenomenon of the bellum civile and its existential effects. Henning Börm addresses the question whether the Greek discourse on stasis with its established terminology, underlying connotations and basic structural assumptions constituted a conceptional point of reference for the protagonists of the civil war period. He argues that in their search for appropriate descriptive, explanatory and justificatory patterns, the Romans did not only adopt central elements from this discourse but that they also adapted them with regard to the particular conditions of the Roman socio-political order. Conspicuously, the longer such formulations and the ideas connected to them were used as ‘heuristic tools’, the more likely they were to influence actual political action. Börm suggests that both the hostis declaration and the proscriptions first occurring during the Sullan civil war can be read against the background of the Greek context in which both the formal condemnation of a fellow citizen as πολέμιος τῷ δάμῳ and the physical annihilation of the members of the opposite party were well established elements of civil conflict. In this regard, the murder of Tiberius Gracchus in 133 BCE and the efforts to legitimise this massive breach of taboo in terms of a tyrannicide proved to be crucial for future developments. This last point is corroborated by Catherine Steel’s analysis of oratory in the period between the murder of Gracchus and the outbreak of civil war in 88 BCE. Scipio Nasica’s strategy of legitimation as well as the senate’s acquiescence, rendered political violence among Roman citizens both an acceptable figure of thought and a viable way of action. Steel explores how the notion of violence was employed in public speech in a time of intensifying conflict, a period that might be termed a ‘war before the war’ (although, of course, it has been emphasised in recent scholarship that the Social War, beginning in 91 BCE, has to be seen as an integral part of the history of the bella civilia). She argues that oratory contributed decisively to a normalisation of violence against Romans as a means of defending the res publica particularly by agents from the conservative part of the political spectrum. This process constituted the foundation for the introduction of the term hostis into the sphere of internecine violence as is implicated that the res publica could not only be defended against enemies from without but also from within. Finally, Matteo Cadario focuses on another aspect of the emerging ‘language of civil war’, the field of Bildersprache. Focusing on the case studies of Pompeius, Caesar

Introduction

25

and Octavian, he emphasises that honorary statues and portraits gained a formerly unknown prominence in the age of civil war as they were used in order to convey political messages and claims made by the protagonists of the bella civilia more often and more explicitly than before. According to Cadario, the high frequency of changing portrait types, the changing of patterns of distribution and the spread of images belonging to certain genres like the cuirassed statue can be seen as constitutive elements of a Late Republican ‘portrait culture’ that can be intimately linked to the overall phenomenon of a ‘culture of civil war’. Bibliography Allély, A. 2012. La déclaration d’hostis sous la République romaine, Bordeaux. Ando, C. 2019. The Space and Time of Politics in Civil War, in: C. Rosillo-Lopez (ed.), Communicating Public Opinion in the Roman Republic, Stuttgart, 175–188. Arena, V. 2012. Libertas and the Practice of Politics in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge. Arena, V. 2020. The Notion of bellum civile in the Last Century of the Republic, in: F. Pina Polo (ed.), The Triumviral Period. Civil War, Political Crisis and Socioeconomic Transformations, Zaragoza, 101–126. Armitage, D. 2017. Civil Wars. A History in Ideas, New Haven. Biesinger, B. 2016. Römische Dekadenzdiskurse. Untersuchungen zur römischen Geschichtsschreibung und ihren Kontexten (2. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bis 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr.), Stuttgart. Biesinger, B. 2019. Rupture and Repair: Patterning Time in Discourse and Practice (from Sallust to Augustus and Beyond), in: I. Gildenhard / U. Gotter / W. Havener / L. Hodgson (eds.), Augustus and the Destruction of History. The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome, Cambridge, 81–96. Börm, H. 2016. Civil Wars in Greek and Roman Antiquity: Contextualising Disintegration and Reintegration, in: H. Börm / M. Mattheis / J. Wienand (eds.), Civil War in Ancient Greece and Rome. Contexts of Disintegration and Reintegration, Stuttgart, 15–28. Börm, H. 2019. Mordende Mitbürger. Stasis und Bürgerkrieg in griechischen Poleis des Hellenismus, Stuttgart. Börm, H. / Mattheis, M. / Wienand, J. eds. 2016. Civil War in Ancient Greece and Rome. Contexts of Disintegration and Reintegration, Stuttgart. Breed, B. / Damon, C. / Rossi, A. eds. 2010. Citizens of Discord. Rome and Its Civil Wars, New York. Breed, B. / Damon, C. / Rossi, A. 2010a. Introduction, in: B. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.) 2010. Citizens of Discord. Rome and Its Civil Wars, New York, 3–21. Brown, R. 2003. The Terms Bellum Sociale and Bellum Ciuile in the Late Republic, in: C. Deroux (ed.), Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History 11, Brussels, 94–120. Brunt, P. 1988. The Fall of the Roman Republic and Related Essays, Oxford. Cornwell, H. 2017. Pax and the Politics of Peace, Oxford. Cornwell, H. 2018. The Construction of One’s Enemies in Civil War (49–30 BCE), in: R. Westall (ed.) 2018. The Roman Civil Wars: A House Divided, Dublin, 41–67. Dickson, W. (transl.) 1870. T. Mommsen: The History of Rome, vol. 4 translated by W. Dickson, New York.

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Flower, H. 2010. Rome’s First Civil War and the Fragility of Republican Political Culture, in: B. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.), Citizens of Discord. Rome and Its Civil Wars, New York, 73–86. Flower, H. 2014. Memory and Memoirs in Republican Rome, in: K. Galinsky (ed.): Memoria Romana. Memory in Rome and Rome in Memory, Ann Arbor, 27–40. Gehrke, H.-J. 1985. Stasis. Untersuchungen zu den inneren Kriegen in den griechischen Staaten des 5. und 4. Jh. v. Chr., Munich. Gildenhard, I. 2011. Creative Eloquence. The Construction of Reality in Cicero’s Speeches, Oxford. Gildenhard, I. / Gotter, U. / Havener, W. / Hodgson, L. eds. 2019. Augustus and the Destruction of History. The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome, Cambridge. Gotter, U. 2011. Abgeschlagene Hände und herausquellendes Gedärm. Das hässliche Antlitz der römischen Bürgerkriege und seine politischen Kontexte, in: S. Ferhadbegović / B. Weiffen (eds.), Bürgerkriege erzählen. Zum Verlauf unziviler Konflikte, Konstanz, 55–69. Gotter, U. 2019. The Succession of Empires and the Augustan Res Publica, in: I. Gildenhard / U. Gotter / W. Havener / L. Hodgson (eds.), Augustus and the Destruction of History. The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome, Cambridge, 97–110. Gray, B. 2015. Stasis and Stability. Exile, the polis, and Political Thought, c. 404–146 BC, Oxford. Gruen, E. 1974. The Last Generation of the Roman Republic, Berkeley. Havener, W. 2014. A Ritual Against the Rule? The Presentation of Civil War Victory in the Late Republican Triumph, in: C. H. Lange / F. Vervaet (eds.), The Roman Republican Triumph. Beyond the Spectacle, Rome, 165–179. Havener, W. 2016. Imperator Augustus. Die diskursive Konstituierung der militärischen persona des ersten römischen princeps, Stuttgart. Havener, W. 2016a. Triumphus ex bello civili? Die Präsentation des Bürgerkriegssieges im spätrepublikanischen Triumphritual, in: H. Börm / M. Mattheis / J. Wienand (eds.), Civil War in Ancient Greece and Rome. Contexts of Disintegration and Reintegration, Stuttgart, 149–184. Hodgson, L. 2017. Res Publica and the Roman Republic, Oxford. Hodgson, L. 2019. Libera Res Publica: The Road Not Taken, in: I. Gildenhard / U. Gotter / W. Havener / L. Hodgson (eds.), Augustus and the Destruction of History. The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome, Cambridge, 37–58. Hellegouarc’h, J. 1972. Le vocabulaire latin des relations et des partis politiques sous la République. 2nd ed., Paris. Henderson, J. 1998. Fighting for Rome. Poets and Caesars, History and Civil War, Cambridge. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. ed. 2009. Eine politische Kultur (in) der Krise? Die “letzte Generation” der römischen Republik, Munich. Hurlet, F. 2020. Fear in the City during the Triumviral Period: The Expression and Exploitation of a Political Emotion, in: F. Pina Polo (ed.), The Triumviral Period. Civil War, Political Crisis and Socioeconomic Transformations, Zaragoza, 229–248. Jal, P. 1963. La guerre civile à Rome. Etude littéraire et morale, Paris. Kalyvas, S. 2006. The Logic of Violence in Civil War, Cambridge. Kunkel, W. / Wittmann, R. 1995. Staatsordnung und Staatspraxis der römischen Republik. Bd. 2: Die Magistratur, Munich. Lange, C. H. 2013. Triumph and Civil War in the Late Republic, in: PBSR 81, 67–90. Lange, C. H. 2016. Triumphs in the Age of Civil War. The Late Republic and the Adaptability of Triumphal Tradition, London.

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Lange, C. H. 2017. Stasis and Bellum Civile: A Difference in Scale?, in: Critical Analysis of Law 4, 129–140. Lange, C. H. 2018. The Logics of Violence in Roman Civil War, in: R. Westall (ed.), The Roman Civil Wars: A House Divided, Dublin, 69–98. Lange, C. H. / Vervaet, F. eds. 2019. The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden and Boston. Lange, C. H. / Vervaet, F. 2019a. Sulla and the Origins of the Concepts of Bellum Civile, in: C. H. Lange / F. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden and Boston, 17–28. Lowe, D. 2019. Dust in the Wind: Late Republican History in the Aeneid, in: I. Gildenhard / U. Gotter / W. Havener / L. Hodgson (eds.), Augustus and the Destruction of History. The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome, Cambridge, 223–238. Maschek, D. 2018. Die römischen Bürgerkriege. Archäologie und Geschichte einer Krisenzeit, Mainz. Meier, C. 2017. Res publica amissa. Eine Studie zu Verfassung und Geschichte der späten römischen Republik. 4th ed., Stuttgart. Mitchell, H. 2019. The Reputation of L. Munatius Plancus and the Idea of “Serving the Times”, in: J. Osgood / K. Morrell / K. Welch (eds.), The Alternative Augustan Age, New York, 163–181. Mommsen, T. 2001. Römische Geschichte. Bd. 4: Fünftes Buch. Die Begründung der Militärmonarchie. 6th ed., Munich. Morstein-Marx, R. / Rosenstein, N. 2010. The Transformation of the Republic, in: N. Rosenstein / R. Morstein-Marx (eds.), A Companion to the Roman Republic, Malden/ Mass., 625–637. Osgood, J. 2006. Caesar’s Legacy. Civil War and the Emergence of the Roman Empire, Cambridge. Osgood, J. 2014. Turia. A Roman Woman’s Civil War, Oxford. Osgood, J. 2015. Ending Civil War at Rome: Rhetoric and Reality, 88 B. C. E. – 197 C. E., in: AHR 120, 1683–1695. Osgood, J. 2019. Caesar, Civil War, and Civil War, in: C. H. Lange / F. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden and Boston, 137–159. Pina Polo, F. 2019. Rhetoric of Fear in Republican Rome: The Ciceronian Case, in: C. Rosillo-Lopez (ed.), Communicating Public Opinion in the Roman Republic, Stuttgart, 191–209. Pina Polo, F. ed., 2020. The Triumviral Period. Civil War, Political Crisis and Socioeconomic Transformations, Zaragoza. Powell, A. 2008. Virgil the Partisan. A Study in the Re-Integration of Classics, Swansea. Raaflaub, K. 2021. The “Denial of Civil War”: Late Republican Responses to Civil War in Language, Ideology, and Politics, in: M. Nebelin / C. Tiersch (eds.), Semantische Kämpfe zwischen Republik und Prinzipat? Kontinuität und Transformation der politischen Sprache in Rom, Göttingen, 105–126. Rich, J. 2013. Roman Rituals of War, in: B. Campbell / L. Tritle (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Warfare in the Classical World, Oxford, 542–568. Rollinger, C. 2014. Amicitia sanctissime colenda. Freundschaft und soziale Netzwerke in der Späten Republik, Heidelberg. Rosenberger, V. 1992. Bella et expeditiones. Die antike Terminologie der Kriege Roms, Stuttgart. Rosillo-Lopez, C. 2017. Public Opinion and Politics in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge.

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Rüpke, J. 2019. Peace and War in Rome. A Religious Construction of Warfare. Transl. D. Richardson, Stuttgart. Russell, A. 2016. The Politics of Public Space in Republican Rome, Cambridge. Santangelo, F. 2008. The Fetials and their ius, in: BICS 51, 63–93. Smith, C. / Powell, A. eds. 2009. The Lost Memoirs of Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography, Swansea. Steel, C. 2001. Cicero, Rhetoric, and Empire, Oxford. Steel, C. 2013. The End of the Roman Republic, 146 to 44 BC. Conquest and Crisis, Edinburgh. Tan, J. 2019. How Do You Solve a Problem Like Marcus Agrippa?, in: J. Osgood / K. Morrell / K. Welch (eds.), The Alternative Augustan Age, New York, 182–198. Ungern-Sternberg, J. 1970. Untersuchungen zum spätrepublikanischen Notstandsrecht. Se­ natusconsultum ultimum und hostis-Erklärung, München. van der Blom, H. 2019. Bellum Civile in Cicero: Terminology and Self-fashioning, in: C. H. Lange / F. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden and Boston, 111–136. Welch, K. 2012. Magnus Pius. Sextus Pompeius and the Transformation of the Roman Republic, Swansea. Welch, K. ed. 2015. Appian’s Roman History. Empire and Civil War, Swansea. Westall, R. ed. 2018. The Roman Civil Wars: A House Divided, Dublin. Westall, R. 2018a. Caesar’s Civil War. Historical Reality and Fabrication, Leiden and Boston. Zanker, P. 2003. Augustus und die Macht der Bilder. 4th ed., München.

Part I Political and Social Repercussions of Civil War

On Not Joining Either Side The Discourse of Elite Neutrality in Roman Civil War* Hannah Mitchell Taking sides is the fundamental condition of civil war. The divided political community tries to enforce or resolve its division(s) with organised violence.1 The Romans of the first century BCE expressed the division in various ways: a splitting of the community (one body with two heads), or a multiplication of the constituent parts of the res publica (two senates and two peoples).2 In Cicero’s De Republica, Laelius puts the crucial turning point in the tribunate of Tiberius Gracchus, which divided one people into two parties.3 Florus, when marvelling at the magnitude of the civil war between Caesar and Pompeius, emphasised that the entire empire was involved, the number of legions on each side encompassed all the strength of Italy, and the whole senate broke into factions.4 And yet, moving from Florus’ totalising rhetoric to the historical experience of civil war, it is clear that many individuals were also preoccupied with the dangerous task of defining the limits of participation ‘in partibus’, and exploring whether anyone could position themselves as completely separate from the sides – as ‘neutral’.5 A culture which reckons with the citizen body divided must also take into account whether any space is to be allowed to the non-partisan, the uncommitted, and the indifferent. Such a position presents problems for the faction leaders who try to win over supporters in a scenario in which citizen bodies are resources. In his discussion of the Roman nobility in the second civil war, Shackleton Bailey wrote: ‘The list of neutrals is brief but brilliant. In some cases, “neutrality” or support *

All dates are BCE unless otherwise indicated. My particular thanks to Wolfgang Havener, Kathryn Welch, Kit Morrell, Andrew Stiles, and Bernard Gowers for their comments on this chapter. All errors remain my own. 1 Definitions of civil war: Kalyvas 2006, 5, 17, 19; Börm 2016, 17–18. 2 Full discussion in Wiseman 2010. 3 Cic. Rep. 1.31: divisit populum unum in duas partes 4 Flor. 4.2.5 (2.13): Totus senatus in partibus 5 It is also an explicit concern of various allies of the Romans, but the international aspect of this is beyond the scope of this short study.

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for Caesar might be a matter of interpretation.’6 He did not pursue the vital issue of whose interpretation. His list contained eleven neutral nobiles, nine of them ex-consuls, and he confined discussion of interpretation to the footnotes. Others have similarly used the language of neutrality, or produced prosopographies of neutrals, with little discussion of criteria or of the possibility of multiple definitions by the participants.7 The study of modern civil war primarily uses the categories of combatants and non-combatants (or civilians); non-combatants are regularly further divided into supporters (or collaborators) and neutrals.8 These concepts and divisions would be comprehensible to the Romans of the first century BCE, but the Roman discourse itself had far more potentialities for talking about non-participation.9 This may be attributable to the fact that bellum civile was itself a new invention, still under construction in the first century BCE, and that the vocabulary for ‘neutrality’ was being developed from a range of expressions in everyday speech.10 Most commonly, Latin authors write of individuals being ‘in neither camp’ (neutro castra), or ‘of neither side’ (neutra par­ tium). Clearly, not being present in either military camp was the most concrete and specific way to designate neutrality and preserve non-combatant status, yet this very distinction was problematised at the outset of the civil war in 49 BCE (as discussed below). Not being of either side was a more ambiguous description, since it could be debated whether performing civilian offices for someone who was fighting a civil war, while not actually joining the fighting oneself, counted as having taken a side. Both of these common expressions were based on a negative, defining what someone was not, but there were also positive ways of describing a neutral position, such as an individual being in the middle (medium). This could describe someone’s views and actions as not positively supporting either side, but it could also mean giving due consideration to both sides. Other common descriptions which are in evidence in the source material are someone being ‘quiet’ (quies), or the decision ‘to stay away’ (abesse). Physical withdrawal could mean from the military camps, or Rome, or Italy. Exile (exsilium), being removed or barred from the Roman state, is also relevant. Thus, we have a fascinating range of possibilities for talking about, and conceptualising, ‘neutrality’. The ways in 6 7 8

9 10

Shackleton Bailey 1960, 260–1, cf. 264. Bruhns 1978, 31–63; Brunt 1988, 494; Syme 1939, 51, 62, 64. On the problem of applying attitudinal versus behavioural criteria to identifying supporters: Kalyvas 2006 87, 91–104. Kalyvas summarises his own approach: ‘Positing coherent, identifiable political groups with clear preferences fails to match the vast complexity, fluidity, and ambiguity one encounters on the ground’ (2006, 10). Armitage discusses how contemporary definitions and rules of civil war were developed particularly through the experiences of the American civil war and in the Geneva conventions (2017, 161–239). cf. Bauslaugh (1991, xx, 3–20) for the Greek vocabulary of neutrality. Comparably to the Latin, there are various forms of common terms and phrases which are used to describe the situation (and gradations), rather than there being a specific technical vocabulary.

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which language was employed to describe and, even more importantly, to construct these different stances, is significant. Privileging a single definition of neutrality is to miss the full potential of the Roman debate about civil war. The Romans found it possible to argue about the definition of a combatant – to play with and move the boundaries of the camp; they found it possible to argue about what constituted political collaboration and its inverse, politically hostile action. If we return to the essential problem of civil war being multiple conflicting ideas of political life and community, then it is logical to examine multiple competing views of being (un)committed. Seen in this light, the various definitions, the constant redrawing of lines, and the differing interpretations of the same line are not a hindrance to finding the ‘true’ definition, but the crux of the issue. The study of the discourse of neutrality can be helped by summarising the three questions with which the participants seem most concerned: Is it possible? Is it desirable? Is it justifiable? The first question asks what conditions need to be met and what the implications of those conditions are in practice. The second asks whether the outcome would be good for the individual and/or community, which is a matter of testing whether it satisfies the competing and interrelated claims of rank, reputation, political duty, personal safety, and responsibilities to family and friends. The third asks whether this is a moral and political position which others will accept. Finding the answers to these questions is a matter of the ‘culture’ of civil war because it takes place in the ‘webs of significance’ in which Roman citizens are suspended.11 The values and behaviours of politics, family, social relations, property ownership, etc, give meaning to civil war and the tools to negotiate it; they are themselves affected by the substance of civil war, division and violence. We can further illuminate the significance of this focus on culture by applying the contemporary terminology of the ‘major cleavage’ of civil war.12 In the case of the outbreak of war in 49 BCE, we might say that the major cleavage was the status of Caesar in the political community. This was the most significant point of dispute, but only one aspect of people’s decision-making and experiences.13 To recognise this is not to downplay the significance of the major cleavage of each civil war, but to give due consideration to the broader political, social, and economic issues which gave the conflict meaning. This complex of values and behaviours can be tracked particularly in the case of Cicero, whose voluminous correspondence reveals his daily and even hourly reckoning with how to apply the political, moral, and social systems which were so familiar to him to the abhorrent circumstances.14

11 12 13 14

Geertz’s definition of culture (1973, 5); cf Hölkeskamp’s definition of ‘political culture’ (2022, 4–7). Kalyvas 2006, 14, 364–366. Shackleton Bailey 1960, 264–267. The scholarly literature on Cicero’s letters from this period and his decision-making is immense. It is referenced below when dealing with the specific issue of neutrality. In general, see: Brunt (1986),

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Cicero floated a range of ‘middle’ options, such as going to a place overseas away from the theatres of war, acting as a (partial or impartial) mediator, being a peace-maker in the senate at Rome, or staying on his own properties in Italy. While thinking about these options, he drew on philosophy, history (Greek as well as Roman), precedents from the Sullan civil war, his own political experiences, and the forecasting or advice of many friends – itself motivated and influenced by many factors. Cicero’s letters from this phase have made him susceptible to charges of a lack of resolution or moral fibre. Examining the letters in the context of the difficulty of defining and justifying neutrality brings into clearer focus the problems that he faced. Cicero was not just slow to make a decisive move because he was getting up the courage to join the side he knew that he would ultimately join (Pompeius’ – military support for Caesar was never considered), but because he was engaged in a process of determining the full range of his choices. Was there a middle option, and what might it look like? While he ultimately did not manage to find a neutral position which was acceptable to him, the possibilities entertained, and the complexity of the dilemma, are helpful in trying to reconstruct the experiences of other members of the Roman elite. Although the discourse of neutrality was not solely the domain of the Roman elite, it is the focus here because the majority of our evidence concerns this group. Furthermore, given the socio-political privileges of the elite, the problem of neutrality had particular complexities and opportunities for them. The general problem of how and why the Roman elite chose sides in civil war has been examined extensively, but by foregrounding the issue of neutrality, further aspects are revealed. Eschewing either side and choosing the middle ground presented its own problems. Despite the fact that neutrality is sometimes associated with taking the easy option, and with self-protection, a stance of neutrality had just as much risk – if not more – than taking a side. The neutral had to fear both sides. The cultural approach also reminds us that the process of reintegration after civil war was a vital issue.15 What would the status of a ‘neutral’ be in the community after the war? For individuals of this rank, reputation, which was acquired and enacted through service to the res publica, was commonly considered more important than life.16 For many, preserving life, family, and property, but losing dignitas or being excluded from public life, would not be an option worth considering.

15 16

Hall (2009), Lintott (2008), Mitchell (1991), Rawson (1975), Shackleton Bailey (1971), Tempest (2011), White (2003, 2010). Börm 2016. On the culture of the elite and the ‘aristocratic ethos’: Rosenstein 2006, Beck 2022, Wiseman 1985, Hölkeskamp 2010, esp. 30–32, 48–52, 107–124.

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The Limitless Violence of Sulla The civil war of the 80 s BCE gives us few examples of the discussion of neutrality, but some of the developments are important in terms of how this possibility was crushed, as well as how this set up the problem for the next generation. The first phase of this conflict was notable for Sulla’s innovation of declaring citizens to be public enemies, equivalent to foreign enemies (hostes).17 When Sulpicius the tribune had the Mithridatic command transferred from the consul Sulla to his own ally Marius, Sulla gathered his legions encamped at Nola and marched on the city of Rome. Military resistance was slight. Having taken the city, Sulla convened the senate and presented it with a list of twelve hostes who could be killed and who would have their property confiscated.18 The list was apparently supposed to limit violence to the twelve named men rather than causing indiscriminate killing. The process through which this was enacted is important: the senators were required to approve the making of the list and the names on it.19 Only one senator refused to give an opinion, Mucius Scaevola the augur.20 In this way, Sulla treated the senate as his political collaborators, forcing them to commit their support publicly, and the fact that only one person resisted shows how effective fear and violence were in cowing the rest. Plutarch wrote that the senators hated Sulla for this.21 Cinna and Marius were just as violent, and their retaliatory killings when they marched on Rome in 87 were not confined to a list. Plutarch recounts the terrifying scene of the elite coming one by one to meet Marius. Those who greeted him but did not receive an acknowledgment in return were killed then and there by his bodyguard.22 Ties of hospitality and friendship were no protection.23 Plutarch focusses on the idea of satiation; the only limit would be when Cinna and Marius became full up with the sight of bloodshed. There is no discussion of negotiation in the sources; those who feared for their lives simply fled. In 83, when Marius the younger, besieged in Praeneste, was on the cusp of losing the war to Sulla, he wrote to the urban praetor Brutus Damasippus to assemble the senate and kill four leading senators: Publius Antistius, Papirius Carbo, Lucius Domitius, and Mucius Scaevola, the pontifex maximus. Appian wrote that Marius ordered the executions because he saw his own end coming and wanted his private enemies killed.24 The tragedy for these people was that they could 17 On hostis declarations see Allély 2012, Cornwell 2018. 18 Plut. Sull. 10.1; The sources differ in their details. Liv. per. 77, Vell. Pat. 2.19, App. civ. 1.60, Cic. Brut. 168, Val. Max. 3.8.5; Rosenblitt 2019, 123; Lintott 1999, 155. 19 Vell. Pat. 2.19.1 has Sulla enact this via a lex of the people. 20 Val. Max. 3.8.5. 21 Plut. Sull. 10.1. 22 Plut. Mar. 43.3–4. 23 Plut. Mar. 43.5. 24 App. civ. 1.88; Vell. 2.26.2.

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be seen simultaneously as Cinnan/Marian political collaborators and as Sullan sympathisers. Thus, in these years of civil war, any idea that not bearing arms might be a protection against violent reprisals had been completely eviscerated. Appian wrote that when Sulla marched against Rome in 83 BCE, the people in the city, taking account of Sulla’s character, his earlier march on the city, the decrees passed against him, and the attacks on his family and friends, perceived that in this fight there would be no middle ground between victory and utter destruction.25 Sulla planned not only fear, punishment, and correction, but death, confiscations, and the slaughter of the entire populus.26 Sulla’s invention of proscription gave frightening form to this development.27 Appian’s version of the proscriptions has Sulla call the people together to tell them that he would spare none of his enemies; he would take vengeance against the magistrates and anyone else who had committed a hostile act against him since the consul Scipio had turned back on the agreement made with him.28 Aiding or sympathising with the proscribed was also considered a crime.29 If the list was apparently meant to give certainty and provide rules, this was undermined by Sulla’s statement that he was just proscribing as many as he could remember, and he might proscribe others later.30 The initial clarity of inclusion, people who had committed specified hostile actions, was also farcically undermined by many senators and equestrians being killed because of private feuds (including people Sulla did not even know), and the rich being proscribed solely on account of their wealth. Punishing the sons of the proscribed by depriving them of the chance to have political careers was also considered unjust.31 The proscriptions paradoxically held out the possibility of clarity and justification for the choices made, but the reality included punishing friends and family simply for their proximity to others, and killing some completely arbitrarily. Plutarch’s anecdote of the fate of Quintus Aurelius exemplifies the Sullan situation. Plutarch wrote that Aurelius was a man who stayed out of politics (ἀπράγμων) and kept to himself, who thought his only part in the disasters would be to console others. He went to read the proscription list in the Forum and found his own name there. He quipped that his Alban estate was prosecuting him, and as he fled he was killed not far from the Forum.32 Plutarch deliberately highlights that a generally-accepted expectation that the non-partisan would be safe from violence was violated. Even the norms of exile were challenged. C. Norbanus, the consul of 83, having fought against Sulla, fled 25 App. civ. 1.81. 26 App. civ. 1.82. 27 Hinard 1985. 28 App. civ. 1.95. 29 App. civ. 1.96. 30 Plut. Sull. 31.4. 31 Plut. Sull. 31.5. 32 Plut. Sull. 31.6.

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Italy for Rhodes and was later put on the proscription list. Despite the fact that exile was usually an accepted alternative to capital punishment, Sulla demanded Norbanus’ return – essentially, that he surrender himself to be killed.33 While the Rhodians were debating what to do, Norbanus killed himself in the middle of the Agora.34 With a safe place of exile disallowed, the only choice was between whether death would be by one’s own or another hand. Sulla challenged norms and values, lines and limits.35 He instituted the idea of listing enemies to be killed, therefore apparently limiting those who would suffer the consequences of violence, but he also impiously massacred people who had surrendered and even killed some of his own supporters.36 Catulus famously asked him, ‘with whose help will we conquer, if we kill armed men in war, and unarmed men in peace?’37 Yet sometimes, as Plutarch noted, Sulla arbitrarily showed mercy.38 It was not just the extent of the violence but this unpredictability, the multiple coexisting rules concerning who could or would be killed, that was the basis of the Marian/Sullan terror. Pompeius and Caesar Define their Camps The next generation’s framing of the limits to participation and repercussions is readily comprehensible in light of the limitless violence and arbitrary decision-making of the Sullan period. However, Pompeius’ choice of strategy also shaped the nature of the debate about neutrality. Pompeius had decided to leave Rome and Italy in order to put into effect the plan of a naval encirclement of Italy.39 This would deprive the population of grain, turn them against Caesar, and force him to negotiate a settlement or surrender. Essential to this plan was getting as many magistrates and senators as possible to leave Italy, so that Caesar would be isolated and any counter-moves made in the depleted senate would lack legitimacy. However, there was a strong feeling of hesitancy. The senate meeting, on the 17th of January 49, was vital for establishing Pompeius’ view of the lines of acceptable participation or non-participation in the civil war. Many might have thought that they could stay on their estates and claim that they were neither combatants nor sympathetic to Caesar. Pompeius tried pre-emptively to make this position unacceptable and untenable. The sources slightly differ on where Pompeius 33 Kelly 2006, 3. 34 App. civ. 1.91. 35 On the rupture of the Sullan period and the aftermath see Flower 2010, Rosenblitt 2019. 36 Sulla killed his supporter Q. Lucretius Afella, who had successfully prosecuted the siege of Praeneste, for disobedience. Afella had tried to stand for the consulship against Sulla’s rules and his explicit injunction (App. civ. 1.101). 37 Oros. 5.21. 38 Plut. Sull. 6.7. 39 Welch 2012, 43–57.

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put the line. Caesar wrote that Pompeius’ threat was that anyone in Rome would be treated as being in Caesar’s camp.40 Plutarch, Appian, and Dio are less specific;41 they only say that Pompeius threatened everyone who remained behind. Cicero wrote to Atticus after Pharsalus that ‘everyone who stayed in Italy was counted as a hostis’.42 Italy seems the more likely, as Dio also recorded that the senators were granted permission for absence by a decree, which would refer to Italy not Rome.43 The harsh approach to those who wanted to remain behind was necessary to ensure the success of the strategy, but it was deeply unpopular with the boni of Italy. They were fearfully uncertain as to what repercussions they would face if they stayed on their estates. After the death of Pompeius, when Cicero was trying to manage his own return to Italy and rapprochement with Caesar, he was scathing about his former associates, and he wrote to Atticus that they had planned reprisals and confiscations for anyone who had remained in Italy – even Atticus himself.44 This post facto account should not be considered decisive. In the Republican side’s senate meeting before Pharsalus, Cato moved that no one should be killed except on the battlefield.45 Despite Cicero’s later lamentations about the bloodthirstiness of some of his peers, what the Republicans would have done in victory concerning hostes remains a question of alternative history. Pompeius’ public stance on those remaining in Italy was welcome to Caesar: he was very happy to count anyone left behind as ‘his’. In the Pro Ligario of 46 BCE, Cicero said to Caesar that ‘we have often heard you assert that, while we held all men to be our opponents save those on our side, you counted all men your adherents who were not against you’.46 Although this statement is sometimes taken as an allowance of neutrality, in the terms in which Cicero recorded it, Caesar did not say that these seemingly uncommitted citizens were neutral, but that they were on his side. Like Pompeius’ statement, this was based on the strategic problems of early 49; Caesar wanted to move through Italy as quickly as possible, and his seemingly generous overtures were designed to move people who might be uncommitted to a position favourable to him.47 The possibility also remained that whatever these people professed about their own non-participation, Caesar would treat them as his partisans. Cicero gradually learned, over the following months, exactly how such a dynamic might play out.

40 Caes. civ. 1.33. 41 See Plut. Pomp. 61; App. civ. 2.37; Dio. Cass. 41.6.2 and 7.1. 42 Cic. Att. 11.6 [217]. 43 Dio. Cass. 41.6.2. 44 Cic. Att. 11.6 [217]. 45 Plut. Cat. Min. 53.4. 46 Cic. Lig. 33: te enim dicere audiebamus nos omnis adversarios putare, nisi qui nobiscum essent; te omnis, qui contra te non essent, tuos.; cf. Cic. Marc. 18. 47 See Raaflaub 2010 on Caesar’s strategy of creating a broad coalition.

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Individual and Collective Calculations of What is Appropriate Cicero fled Rome early on the morning of the 18th of January. In his letter to Atticus of the same day, informing him of his departure, he wrote that if Pompeius took a stand in Italy, he and everyone else would be with him, but if he left Italy, it would be a matter for consideration.48 Atticus’ advice must have come back almost immediately: wait and see what happens.49 This was Atticus’ consistent advice over the next months: Cicero’s review of Atticus’ letters in his own letter of the 18th of March gives us a clear summary of Atticus’ position.50 Cicero’s hesitancy was initially directed at finding out whether Pompeius’ unpopular plan was going to be put into place. Atticus also thought it wise to gauge something of Caesar’s attitudes and intentions. Already in late January, it seems that M’ Lepidus and L. Torquatus had decided that evacuating Italy was their limit, a decisive action they were not prepared to take.51 The dilemma of whether to leave Italy preoccupied Cicero until he heard the news on the 11th of March that the consuls and Pompeius had sailed from Brundisium.52 A strategy of hesitancy is revealing for the issue of neutrality because a vital aspect of doing this successfully was being accepted as having performed no decisive action that signalled commitment to either side. Cicero fixated on the issue of whether he had accepted a military command, and represented it in different ways depending on his audience. On the 19th of December, Cicero wrote that he had heard that Pompeius and his consilium were planning to send him to Sicily.53 He remonstrated that although he had imperium (still in effect from his proconsulship in Cilicia), Sicily was not his province, and so this was no more proper than sending a privatus. On the 12th of January, Cicero wrote to Tiro that Italy had been divided into districts, and he was taking Capua.54 Around the 21st of January he told Atticus that Pompeius wanted him to oversee the coast of Campania including recruiting.55 On the 25th, Pompeius wanted him to go to Capua and oversee the levy.56 Later Cicero said that he had refused the Capuan command.57 His lack of action eventually resulted in a tense exchange with Pompeius, in which Cicero paradoxically argued that he was not accepting the command to raise troops because he would need to be given troops to do so. Despite confusion over the 48 Cic. Att. 7.10 [133]; Brunt 1986 reviews the same evidence for Cicero’s decision-making in 49 as discussed below, but with different emphases. 49 Cic. Att. 7.12 [135]. 50 Cic. Att. 9.10 [177]. 51 Cic. Att. 7.12 [135]. 52 Although this was actually erroneous: it was only the consuls who had departed on the 4th, and Pompeius did not sail until the 17th (Att. 9.6 [172]). 53 Cic. Att. 7.7 [130]. 54 Cic. fam. 16.11 [143]. 55 Cic. Att. 7.11 [134]. 56 Cic. Att. 7.14 [138]. 57 Cic. Att. 8.12 [162].

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Capuan issue, the Campanian role had evidently been accepted.58 In this case, Cicero seems to have avoided supervising the coast by expressing confusion over what he was supposed to be doing there. Despite this reluctance to recruit and command soldiers personally, Cicero continued to travel to Capua from Formiae for meetings of the chief senators when asked, and he knew a lot more about how the recruiting was progressing than what he wrote in his letters to Atticus at the time.59 Later, when he travelled to Pompeii, he heard that some chief men of the city were asking for a meeting with him in order to put several cohorts under his leadership.60 He avoided this by leaving before dawn the next day. He said to Atticus that it could have been a trap, but his behaviour clearly fitted with the line he had drawn thus far. However, in spite of his lack of tangible assistance, it seems that Pompeius had no doubt about his general support for the cause. In these weeks, Caesar and his friends were perfectly happy to accept Cicero’s self-proclaimed quies and praise him for it. Cicero told Trebatius on the 2nd of February that he was staying on his own estates and not taking any part in recruiting.61 He was sticking to that line, he told Atticus, while there was still hope of peace.62 Dolabella and Caelius both told Cicero in early February that Caesar was happy with his lack of action thus far.63 Whatever Cicero was doing in Campania, it was plausible enough to claim that he was staying quiet. While the policy of hesitancy was aimed at judging the strength, plans, and attitudes of each side, and seeing the progress of peace negotiations, it was also very much about seeing how individuals of the same rank behaved.64 There would be strength in numbers – not just for survival, but also for maintaining one’s reputation. On the 19th of December, Cicero had already written to Atticus that he would be like an ox and follow the herd (of boni).65 Becoming isolated was the worst outcome, and there was constant testing of what others were planning to do. This was complicated by the great diversity of opinion among the senators. In mid-December Cicero had already noted that the boni were not in agreement, and this became worse when the senators, including Pom-

58 Brunt 1986, 20. 59 Cic. Att. 7.20 [144], 7.21 [145], 7.23 [147]. 60 Cic. Att. 10.16 [208]. 61 Cic. Att. 7.17 [141]. 62 This is not what others did: Caesar and Pompeius both kept recruiting while still officially in peace negotiations (Att. 141). 63 Cic. Att. 7.21 [145], cf 7.23 [147]. 64 On the advice-giving of the letters being primary directed at management of public image: White 2010, 131–132. 65 Cic. Att. 7.7 [130]; Herd mentality also applied to the women of senatorial families. Terentia and Tullia had remained in Rome when Cicero left. He kept advising them to see what other ladies of their rank were doing and to act similarly. This was clearly not just an issue of safety (since the relationship with Dolabella would give protection) but of respectability. (Att. 7.12 [135], 7.13 [136], 7.14 [138], 7.16 [140], 7.17 [141], 7.23 [147]; fam. 14.18 [144], 14.14 [145]).

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peius and the consuls, all met at Capua on the 25th of January.66 Cicero noted the wide variety of opinions in the debates.67 In tension with the desire to follow the herd and its judgement, Cicero also believed that what was appropriate for him could only be decided in terms of his own political persona, reputation, and rank.68 In fact, Cicero thought that his entire political career was relevant to the matter, particularly his actions during his consulship in 63, his exile and return (thanks to Pompeius), and the opinions he had professed publicly. By mid-February Cicero had heard that some of his friends who were going to stay in Italy were in fact planning to attend Caesar’s senate. As he considered whether this was an option for him, he told Atticus that being in Rome with M’ Lepidus, L. Volcacius, and Ser. Sulpicius was really no worse than being with Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius.69 Cicero was at Formiae at the time, spending much of his time with his neighbour Lepidus, whose talk of returning to Rome was presumably influencing him.70 Yet in discussions with Atticus, Cicero argued that these people did not really provide a fitting exemplum for him. They had not done anything politically courageous in the manner he had.71 He had already said in December that he must live up to the promise signified by his dedication of the statue of Minerva, the protectress of Rome, on the Capitol.72 By the 3rd of March, Cicero was sure that Lepidus and Volcacius planned to take their seats in the senate in Rome.73 Cicero did not comment on how he perceived this in terms of commitment to the war. At this point he was not as interested in the abstract definition of such a position as whether it was appropriate for him personally. Cicero’s anxious scrutinising of his decisions in terms of his whole political career was not just self-absorption. Atticus also repeatedly reminded Cicero that he had to live up to being the author of the six books de re publica.74 The boni, with whom Atticus was discussing everyone’s actions, also thought in these terms. They had been criticising Cicero’s lack of action and continued friendliness to Caesar.75 Cicero complained of the hypocrisy of making these accusations while they continued to sit on their estates.76 Cicero grumbled that he knew full well how to take such an approach: what 66 Cic. Att. 7.5 [128]. 67 Cic. Att. 7.15 [139]. 68 Brunt 1986, 15. 69 Cic. Att. 8.1 [151]. 70 Cic. Att. 8.9a [160]. 71 Cic. Att. 8.14 [164]. 72 Cic. Att. 7.3 [126]. 73 Cic. Att. 8.15 [165]; Caesar was working extremely hard to get consulars to attend his senate, see Gelzer 1968, 204–208. 74 Cic. Att. 8.2 [152]; On Cicero’s use of his ideal statesman in thinking through the problems of early 49, see Zarecki 2014, 99–103. 75 Cic. Att. 7.26 [150] and 8.2 [152]. 76 Cic. Att. 8.2 [152] and 8.16 [166].

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better exemplum could there be than Socrates, who did not stir outside his own gates while the Thirty tyrants ruled Athens?77 Yet the bitter tone came from the fact that while the boni expected more of him, so too did he expect more of himself. Even when Cicero tried to align his decisions and actions with his previous political career, it provided material which could support many different decisions. Cicero’s most often repeated factor was his gratitude and obligation to Pompeius for his restoration from exile, but Pompeius had not prevented Clodius from engineering Cicero’s banishment, and the exile itself provided grounds for other possible courses of action. On the 12th of March, Cicero wrote out his dilemma as a series of theses, in Greek.78 Several of the theses suggest the possibility of some sort of neutral stance. For instance, it was debatable whether a statesman should keep quiet, having withdrawn, while his country was under a tyranny, or whether the statesman should take every risk for the sake of freedom. His last thesis was the most pointed about his own career: whether a man who had rendered great service to his country – service which had brought him great suffering – should be allowed to think of himself and his family, and to give up opposition to those in power. The potential argument was that having suffered the extreme of exile once while serving the patria, he should now be allowed to refrain from a new political contest, even if this meant that the country succumbed to tyranny. The idea of quiet withdrawal would reappear as a more pressing option by the end of the month. A possible objection to these arguments was that if the causa rei publicae was clearly on one side (which Cicero never really doubted), then doing the right thing should be the same for everyone. But even on this point there was room for manoeuvre, for there was always the issue of whether one could serve the state better with words or with war.79 The sticking point for serving the res publica with words was in moving from the abstract to the concrete: it might be a creditable philosophical position, but when this was personified in the figures of Servius and Volcacius Tullus attending Caesar’s senate, it became distasteful. Exempla for Refusing to Fight and for Cooperating Politically On a particularly agonising night, 18th – 19th February, Cicero wrote a long letter to Atticus dwelling on the implications of staying in Italy.80 He was not thinking in this letter of political detachment or staying on his own estates, because he did not really think this was possible: ‘If I stay and desert the optimi and clarissimi, I must fall into the power of one man’. As it would be impossible to escape Caesar’s clutches, two problems 77 Cic. Att. 8.2 [152]. 78 Cic. Att. 9.4 [173]. 79 Cic. Att. 9.4 [173]. 80 Cic. Att. 8.3 [153].

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must be gauged: whether Caesar’s assurances as to his friendship and good faith could be trusted, and whether it would be morally right for a statesman who had done great things to remain in his city in a reduced status. If he remained and found a place in Caesar’s faction (in hac parte locus), this would be equivalent to what L. Marcius Philippus, L. Valerius Flaccus, and Q. Mucius Scaevola the pontifex did during the dominatio of Cinna. This ended in death for Mucius, which he had foreseen, but he had preferred this option to bearing arms against his patria. Philippus had behaved differently, trimming his sails and biding his time until his opportunity came to join Sulla.81 As Badian demonstrated, the vast majority of the elite did cooperate with Cinna; they considered this the legitimate government and Sulla a proconsul in rebellion.82 It was only after Cinna had died and government was crumbling that people started going to Sulla, who was already on his way back. Philippus and Flaccus are still notable examples: the former held the censorship in 86 and the latter was princeps senatus from 86. As inter­ rex in 82, Flaccus then proposed the law giving Sulla the dictatorship. Philippus and Flaccus did not just attend Cinna’s senate, they accepted appointments. Nevertheless, Cicero here presented these decisions as necessary and therefore acceptable. Cicero’s grouping of Mucius with these men perhaps obscures some of the differences.83 Mucius’ magistracies and his election as pontifex maximus all pre-dated the outbreak of civil war. In 86 he was attacked by Fimbria but survived, and so was probably never perceived as a collaborator in the same way as Philippus and Flaccus. Mucius did attend the senate under Cinna and Carbo, but he argued for compromise with Sulla. Nevertheless, deciding that the greatest evil was marching against his country meant that he did have to work with the masters of Rome. Following the exemplum of the Cinnan consulars, as Cicero interpreted it, would mean joining Caesar’s senate, doing the least harm to his country, and when possible, either re-joining Pompeius or dying. That he was morosely attracted to the second option seems clear from the fact that while he did not mention Philippus and Flaccus again in these deliberations, he returned to Mucius twice more. On the 20th or 21st of March, he wrote that waiting to hear the outcome at Brundisium was too much, particularly as he had now discovered that while the consuls had escaped, Pompeius had not.84 He was in such distress that he longed for an end like Mucius’. Again, on the 25th of March, he wrote that the key choice was really between the fate of Mucius at Caesar’s hands or of L. Scipio at Pompeius’ (Scipio was proscribed by Sulla).85 Thus, Cicero was thinking that he could collaborate with Caesar but still be killed by him, and yet this could be one of the best outcomes! It would definitely be better to die while Pompeius

81 Cf. Mitchell 2019. 82 Badian 1962. 83 For Cicero’s view of Mucius across different works: Harries 2006, 14–26. 84 Cic. Att. 9.12 [179]. 85 Cic. Att. 9.15 [183] and 8.3 [153].

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was on his way back to Rome rather than actually having to fight against him. On the 2nd of May, he wrote that when the time came, and Pompeius put his huge fleet to sea and invaded Italy, where he would be sitting quietly – what then? ‘The middle won’t be possible’ (nam medios esse iam non licebit.).86 The only course available would be to fight with Caesar against Pompeius, an appalling and almost unimaginable outcome, and hence he would rather the fate of Mucius. Cicero used the civil war of the 80s surprisingly rarely when trying to think about what to do in 49. It is particularly telling that in these letters he never discussed his own earlier conduct as a way of thinking about what he should do in the present. It seems that he did not consider it relevant; what he had done as a young man was an entirely different issue from what he ought to do as a senior statesman. It was his public standing that was central to determining what was appropriate for him. Now, as a consular who had performed particular services for the Republic, the models to look to were the great consulars of the 80s. Even they did not provide much material for thought, or for consolation. The Slippery Slope that Starts with Peace-making The potential middle position of acting as a peacemaker was another option which interested Cicero. He thought that the senate should accept any terms from Caesar rather than go to war, and he wanted to take a public role in bringing this about.87 Caesar and Balbus seem particularly to have been urging Cicero to foster a reconciliation. In the wake of a visit from Balbus junior in late February, Cicero requested that Atticus send him a copy of Demetrias’ treatise on Concordia. ‘You see what I am up to.’88 Around the 1st of March, Balbus wrote from Rome that Cicero should be putting his mind to a problem worthy of him – how to restore the concord between Caesar and Pompeius.89 This was an opportunity to serve the res publica with words, and it would also make Caesar indebted to him. But when Cicero sent Balbus’ letter on to Atticus, he complained that Balbus was really just mocking him.90 On the 5th of March, Caesar wrote with a direct invitation: I especially request, since I trust that I will reach Rome swiftly, that I see you there, so that I may have your advice, influence, standing, and help in all things.91

86 Cic. Att. 10.8 [199]. 87 Cic. Att. 7.5 [128] and 7.6 [129]. 88 Cic. Att. 8.11 [161]. 89 Cic. Att. 8.15A [165A]. 90 Cic. Att. 8.15 [165]. 91 Cic. Att. 10.6A [172A]; in primis a te peto, quoniam confido me celeriter ad urbem venturum, ut te ibi videam, ut tuo consilio, gratia, dignitate, ope omnium rerum uti possim on this letter and Cicero’s res­ ponse: White 2010, 124.

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Cicero took this brief invitation very seriously, trying to work out exactly what Caesar was proposing. By the 17th, he had decided that Caesar probably wanted his support as an augur and a senator for his plan to have a praetor hold the consular elections in the absence of the consuls.92 Cicero thought this was a travesty, but he eventually wrote back to Caesar politely on the 19th/20th of March, that if Caesar wanted his help for restoring otium, pax, and concordia, he would be glad to be an agent of this cause.93 Meanwhile, Cicero’s conversations with Atticus had been going in a different direction. Atticus had written that he thought it would be improper for Cicero to be at any senatorial proceedings against Pompeius, and Cicero agreed. He wrote that what he was really trying to do was get permission from Caesar to stay away. When Atticus wrote that this would surely be granted, Cicero balked at what it would take to ask. ‘Should I beg? What if I am refused?’94 Balbus and Oppius picked up the task of trying to convince Cicero to come to Rome. On the 10th of March, they wrote that they were sure that Caesar meant to start negotiations with Pompeius and that they would only countenance Cicero’s attendance at the senate if this was the issue under discussion. They reassured Cicero that they would never recommend his participation if the discussion was about war with Pompeius, as that would be unconscionable in regard to a benefactor.95 Balbus wrote again on his own the same day, drawing parallels between his own relationships with Lentulus and Pompeius, and Cicero’s with Pompeius. He assured Cicero that Caesar was considerate; he recognised that Balbus could not possibly bear arms against a benefactor and had asked only that he render him the same civilian services in Rome (togatus urbana officia) that he might choose to render to Lentulus. Thus, Balbus was looking after Lentulus’ personal affairs in Rome. Cicero wrote to Atticus that he would see from this correspondence, which he forwarded, that he was trying to forge a position where he might be publicly friendly to both Pompeius and Caesar.96 Yet Cicero’s private opinion was that Balbus’ actions were deplorable.97 He was helping Caesar to stir up a war against the men who had given him his citizenship and his properties in Rome. Balbus might be upholding the forms of gratitude to his benefactors, but there was no equality of help or consideration. The departure of the consuls from Italy changed the situation irrevocably; Cicero lost all hope of negotiation, and returned Demetrias’ treatise on concordia to Atticus.98 In late March, Cicero started preparing for a face-to-face meeting with Caesar, who would be travelling through Formiae on his way to Rome. Cicero knew that Caesar would try to pressure him into coming to Rome, but he was also clear that he planned 92 Cic. Att. 9.9 [176]. 93 Cic. Att. 9.11A [178A]. 94 Cic. Att. 9.2a [169]. 95 Cic. Att. 9.7A [174A]. 96 Cic. Att. 9.7 [174]. 97 E. g. Cic. Att. 9.13a [181]. 98 Cic. Att. 9.9 [176].

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to say no. His preparations were evidently geared to finding a tactful way to conduct the interview. When the meeting took place on the 28th of March, there was even less room for negotiation than Cicero had expected.99 Caesar argued that in not coming to Rome, Cicero made it clear that he was passing judgment on Caesar personally; this would be a public statement and others would stay away because of it. Caesar’s offer was that Cicero could come to the senate and argue for peace – he could decide himself exactly what he wanted to say. When Cicero responded that his speech would focus on not sending troops abroad and would include much commiseration of Pompeius’ position, Caesar responded that this was not what he wanted. Cicero’s retort was that since this was what he had expected, he had decided not to come. In his letter reporting the interview to Atticus, Cicero concluded ‘it is no longer possible to wait and see how this turns out.’ Caesar’s position was now clear, he did not seriously intend to work for peace, and thus Cicero could not attend Caesar’s senate. As it turned out, there was opposition to Caesar at his senate meetings, beginning on the 1st of April, and he left Rome angry. Nevertheless, Cicero was critical of those who had attended. He thought it hypocritical that Servius wanted to be a public peacemaker when he had already sent his son to Caesar at Brundisium.100 In fact, Titinius and Servius complained that Caesar had not given them the same concession of not attending the senate, but Cicero was not sympathetic: Ridiculous men! After sending their sons to lay siege to Pompeius they balk at attending the senate!101

They may have thought that although the sons had been sent as a gesture of goodwill, they themselves were not compromised.102 The episode reveals the problem of different conceptions of exactly what comprised commitment. Cicero thought it was a slippery slope – anything publicly favourable to Caesar could be used as leverage and could lead to more tangible support. Balbus held out the possibility to Cicero that he could fulfil his social obligations to the leaders while remaining politically and militarily uncommitted to either side in the civil war. That Cicero seriously considered this shows just how strong the elite code of sociability was.103 It was far easier to consider trying to work within the social bonds

99 Cic. Att. 9.18 [187]; White 2003 drew attention to how rarely Cicero and Caesar met in person in the decade preceding this. Caesar’s communications by letter gave him the upper hand because he could be friendly but vague in his promises. When face to face, this advantage disappeared. 100 Cic. Att. 10.2 [192]. 101 Cic. Att. 10.3a [194]; homines ridiculos! qui cum filios misissent ad Cn. Pompeium circumsedendum, ipsi in senatum venire dubitarent. 102 When defending Deiotarus later, Cicero said that Caesar could have overlooked Deiotarus’ involvement in the civil war if he had merely sent his son and not gone himself (Deiot. 9). Thus, Cicero could see the importance of the distinction. 103 Brunt 1988 351–381, Konstan 1996.

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of amicitia, staying friendly with all, than it was to consider cutting the bonds with both sides. Nevertheless, the impossibility of separating the social from the political meant that such a position was completely unworkable for Cicero in practice. One of the things which horrified Cicero about potentially being in Rome was the possibility of having to witness everything Caesar and his associates were doing; just hearing was bad, seeing would be unbearable. Attempts at peace-making would slide into accommodation with Caesar (since Caesar was only paying lip service to the idea of peace), and though he would probably not be pressured into military support, Cicero’s reputation would still be ruined. A Quiet Place of Solitude Cicero’s non-attendance at Caesar’s senate in April changed the nature of his dilemma. The options crystallised into joining Pompeius overseas or finding a place of withdrawal from public life. Cicero now started to make his clearest statements about complete military and political separation from the civil war situation and how he might achieve it. On the 3rd of April, he wrote to Atticus: Personally, I propose to ignore the law of Solon, your compatriot (and I guess mine also soon), who made it a capital offence not to join either side in a civil disturbance, and unless you advise otherwise, I shall stay away from both this side and that one.104

Cicero added that he was more sure about avoiding this camp (Caesar’s) than the other. Solon’s law on neutrality was evidently well-known in antiquity.105 Aulus Gellius’ discussion gives details of its nature and interpretation.106 Gellius wrote that the law stated that if civil dissension came to war, and the state was divided into two parties, anyone who held aloof from the problems of the state would forfeit his home and his property, would be deprived of his patria, and would have to go into exile. The reason for exile was that it was the duty of a citizen to serve the state; if one refused to help the state in its dire need, one ceased to be a citizen. Gellius’ interpretation, following (as he said) those who had studied the law in detail, was that it was not designed to cause further tensions, by dividing the state in two, but to alleviate them, by forcing the good men to participate with good intentions. If the boni, who did not want sedition, and had not by this point managed to forestall it, joined one or the other side, they would be able to temper and guide the aggressive impulses of their fellow citizens, and, being

104 Cic. Att. 10.1.2 [190]: ego vero Solonis, popularis tui (ut puto, etiam mei), legem neglegam, qui capite sanxit si qui in seditione non alterius utrius partis fuisset, nisi si tu aliter censes, et hinc abero et illim 105 Leão & Rhodes (eds.) 2015, 59–66. 106 Gell. 2.12.

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men of greater auctoritas, bring the state back to concordia more quickly. The auctoritas of the leading men would not be of much use if they stayed completely aloof from the civil war, but could be put to good use if they joined a side. One of the key problems that Cicero was having was that his auctoritas was being completely ignored by Pompeius and his consilium.107 Solon’s law would only work if the leaders of the factions would listen to the men of auctoritas. This is perhaps why Cicero gave the law no further discussion, despite its morally damaging perspective on neutrality. In mid-April, Cicero’s plans to leave Italy began to take shape, and there was a new campaign of letter writing by Caesar’s friends to forestall him. When Curio then came to visit, Cicero tried to gain his support for his plan, by bringing up the situation of Philippus: I wish I had sought the permission which I hear he’s given to Philippus. But I didn’t want to ask because I was giving nothing to him.108

Curio responded that Caesar would gladly give permission and he would write on Cicero’s behalf. He argued that since Cicero was not in the senate, it would not matter where he was, and he would have done less harm to Caesar’s position in the last weeks if he had not been in Italy. The comparison with Philippus’ actions at this period is revealing. It seems that Philippus had negotiated with Caesar (whether in person or by letter is unknown) to be able to stay away from the war in security. The most significant aspect of what Cicero reports is not just that Philippus needed permission, but that he evidently gave Caesar something in return. While we have no clues as to what Philippus offered Caesar, it does seem that the situation was transactional. The episode is revealing for the extreme difficulty of ‘hands free’ neutrality. Unfortunately for Cicero, no sooner had he secured the support of Curio for retreat and solitude than the letters started arriving from Caesar and the other friends pressuring him to do no such thing.109 Caesar had heard not only that Cicero was leaving but that he was going to join Pompeius’ camp.110 He cleverly argued that this was the worst thing Cicero could do, because it made it seem as though his reason for leaving was something Caesar personally had done in the last few weeks. Caesar argued that people would interpret it thus because if Cicero had been moved by the cause he would have left already, and if he was moved by the necessity of protecting himself, he would not be leaving now when the military operations were all going in Caesar’s favour. Caesar then held out the possibility of a dignified neutrality:

107 Cic. Att. 7.21 [145] and 8.3 [153]. 108 Cic. Att. 10.4.10 [195]: petisse ab eo quod audio Philippum impetrasse! sed veritus sum, quia ille a me nihil impetrabat. 109 Cic. Att. 10.4 [195]. 110 Cic. Att. 10.8B [199B].

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Surely to hold aloof from civil quarrels is the most fitting a good man and a peace-loving and good citizen?111

Caesar continued that what had prevented others from taking this course was fear for their safety once the issue had been decided, but Cicero should know from the whole of Caesar’s life and their friendship that he would never do him harm. He concluded that if Cicero considered it carefully, he would realise that the safest and most honourable (honestius) thing to do would be to remain aloof. Caesar’s argument was in opposition to that of Solon. From this perspective, the good citizen should choose neutrality. Caesar’s approach had changed. When he thought he might be able to talk Cicero into attendance at the senate and civilian help, this was what he focussed on, at the same time counselling Cicero to stay quiet and take no decisive action. Now that he was afraid Cicero was about to sail off and join his enemies, he was prepared to negotiate something more like what Philippus had managed – a quiet place away from the war. Caelius soon wrote an animated letter with essentially the same offer.112 Caelius further counselled that Caesar’s mercy would not last, and Cicero should think of his relatives and friends. Cicero’s reply was that this was exactly the course he had been planning, because now that the chances of peace had evaporated, his aversion to civil war was at the forefront of his mind.113 The exemplum he brought into the conversation was that of Q. Hortensius, who used to boast of never having taken part in civil war. Cicero argued that this would be more honourable in his own case, since Hortensius’ resolution was commonly attributed to a lack of spirit. The dilemma of the neutral is here nicely encapsulated: one can do what seems to be an honourable thing by not fighting, but can be despised as a coward. In fact, Cicero thought Hortensius was simply fortunate to have died in late 50, before this new war broke out.114 Cicero’s plan of sailing away, with the aim (or pretext) of finding a quiet place away from the war, was thrown into doubt by the blunt objection of Antonius.115 He wrote that ‘A man who wishes to take the middle ground stays in his patria. One who leaves suggests he is passing judgment on one side or the other.’116 This was similar to Caesar’s argument that Cicero should avoid doing anything that suggested that he had passed judgment on the situation, but Antonius’ view that the middle course was staying in 111 Cic. Att. 10.8B [199B]: postremo quid viro bono et quieto et bono civi magis convenit quam abesse a civilibus controversiis? 112 Cic. fam. 8.16 [153]. 113 Cic. fam. 2.16 [154]. 114 Cf. Cic. Brut. 1–6. 115 On the politeness strategies (and their failure) in the letters between Cicero and Antonius in 49: Hall 2009, 87–93. 116 Cic. Att. 10.10 [201]: nam qui se medium esse vult, in patria manet; qui proficiscitur, aliquid de altera utra parte iudicare videtur.

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Italy was in direct contradiction with Pompeius’ position that Italy was Caesar’s camp. With the development of the Caesarian argument in these letters, a judgment (iudici­ um) on the war, or the chief participants, now came to be treated as just as bad as participating in the military action. Cicero was confounded by the cleverness of Antonius’ argument, but even more so by his direct statement that such reasoning was irrelevant, since Caesar had instructed him to see that no one left Italy. Despite the continuing outward politeness, Caesar was prepared to exert more force on the matter if necessary.117 As Cicero’s plans to leave Italy developed, he wrote to Atticus of Greece, or Malta, or an obscure ‘Caelian’ plan (perhaps Africa). He increasingly lamented that leaving meant exile for an indefinite amount of time, no matter where he was going.118 He had perhaps come to see, having exhausted other lines of enquiry, that exile was the only option if he wanted to stay away from both camps and remain morally and politically uncompromised. Yet this was really one of the least appealing options to him personally, and his own earlier exile, which he had at the time equated with death, weighed on his mind heavily in these times. By the 19th of May, he had heard from Atticus that Balbus was unsupportive of the Malta plan anyway.119 Again, when pushed, the warm and friendly assurances of Balbus came to nothing. Cicero abandoned the possibility of going into exile away from the war, and he sailed to join Pompeius on the 7th of June. A gap in the letter sequence means the final reasoning behind his decision is lost, but when he wrote to Terentia from Caieta harbour before embarking, he said that he was at last leaving to fight for the res publica with his peers.120 Atticus’ Lines and Limits The extensive correspondence between Cicero and Atticus, although we have only Cicero’s side of it, allows us to see something of how Atticus managed his own position in the early months of 49.121 In late March, Cicero complained that ‘men like you two’, Atticus and Sex. Peducaeus, were going to meet Caesar five miles from Rome.122 This 117 Cic. Att. 10.12 [203]. 118 Cicero sometimes spoke of Pompeius’ camp as exile, so there is some ambiguity in the implications when he talks about exile without qualification. 119 Cic. Att. 10.18 [210]. 120 Cic. fam. 14.7 [155]. 121 The focus here is Atticus’ actions during civil war. His peacetime politics are usually represented as being detached or apolitical. However, as Welch 1996 pointed out, Atticus did consistently pursue his own political agenda through non-institutional means, and he did, once, take part in a public action: he led a delegation from the equestrian order to the Capitol on the 4th and 5th of December 63 to support the senate in its condemnation of the Catilinarian conspirators. See also Millar 1988, and Lobur 2019 on Nepos’ biography of Atticus as well as Havener’s contribution in this volume. Volk 2021 discusses the philosophical aspects of (non)participation in politics. 122 Cic. Att. 8.9 [188].

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would be a public statement from the leading members of the equestrian order.123 On the 7th of April, Cicero wrote to him that he had heard that Atticus had been seen at the Regia, Caesar’s official residence in Rome.124 Cicero stated that he was not mentioning this to be critical, but simply wanted to know what was going on. Later, Cicero thought Atticus had been given a passport – permission to leave Italy.125 Atticus was offended and acted as though Cicero had accused him of some sort of crime, and Cicero had to mollify.126 He said that he had simply assumed that Atticus had some sort of official permission, since he had alluded to the idea that permission had been granted for Marcus and Quintus junior to leave, and he had mentioned also his own impending departure. The subject was dropped. When Atticus saw Balbus to talk about Cicero’s situation, that was undoubtedly not the only topic of conversation. He and his closest friend Peducaeus had to manage their own positions. Cornelius Nepos’ representation of Atticus’ position in 49 is that Atticus managed not to offend Pompeius, even though he did not join him, because old age was a reasonable justification for not stirring from Italy, and he owed Pompeius no special service having never taken any gift from him.127 This meant he could not be charged with ingratitude, a grave transgression in the ethics of amicitia. Nepos added that Atticus also managed not to offend Caesar because he approved of his quies. Moreover, after the war, Caesar demanded no money from him and pardoned Quintus Cicero and his son to please him.128 The details from Cicero’s letters in 49 suggest that Atticus had carefully negotiated with Caesar and Balbus to make sure that his public position had Caesar’s approval. Atticus’ actions in the Sullan civil war, while having a similar outcome, had actually been quite different. His relative, the tribune Sulpicius, was killed as one of Sulla’s twelve hostes.129 He then determined to leave Rome because there was no possibility of living as his dignitas required without offending one or the other party.130 Atticus moved to Athens, taking most of his money with him. When Sulla visited Athens on his way back to Rome, Atticus spent much time in his company, and Sulla was evidently enamoured of him. Sulla then asked Atticus to return to Rome with him, but Atticus refused, begging not to be led against those whom he had earlier refused to join against Sulla.131 Nepos wrote that Sulla accepted this argument because he approved of Atticus’ dutifulness, but distance from the theatre of war was equally important in enabling him to remain a non-combatant. 123 Welch 1996, 466. 124 Cic. Att. 10.3a [194]. 125 Cic. Att. 10.13 [205]. 126 Cic. Att. 10.17 [209]. 127 Nep. Att. 7.1–2. 128 Nep. Att. 7.3. 129 Welch 1996, 451. 130 Nep. Att. 2. 131 Nep. Att. 4.2.

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The theme of Nepos’ biography is perhaps best encapsulated in the musing: If that pilot is extolled with the highest praise who saves his ship from the storm in a rockstrewn sea, why should not that man’s skill be regarded as without parallel, who from such numerous and terrible civil tempests comes safe into port?132

This is a startling reimagining of the gubernator metaphor which Cicero had used for the statesman in de re publica. There the statesman guided the ship of state safely to shore.133 In this version, the equestrian helmsman is praised for being able skilfully to steer his own ship to a safe port over the stormy seas of civil war. The care for, and safety of, the res publica which was fundamental to Cicero’s version of the metaphor had disappeared entirely.134 Nepos highlighted that not offending people and fulfilling social obligations was Atticus’ chief virtue. His wisdom (sapientia) allowed him to maintain friendships with people who were bitter political enemies.135 This was something which would have been impossible if he stayed in Rome in the 80s, but which he successfully achieved in Rome in the 40 s and 30 s. However, Atticus’ lines – not holding office and not fighting in civil war – never gave him complete or automatic protection. After the death of Caesar, there was talk that Atticus was not sufficiently hostile to bad citizens.136 There was also the possibility in 43 that Atticus could have been proscribed. His recent solicitude of Antonius’ interests during the latter’s misfortunes saved him, but it is clear that even a fairly consistent lifelong aversion to committing publicly to factions and civil war did not automatically exempt him from suffering the consequences. Atticus renegotiated his political position in each crisis. Careful cultivation of amici over many years gave him the means. Atticus’ case was different in some key respects from the senators already discussed. He did not have the same political obligations because he had not been given office and rank by the Roman people via election in exchange for service to the res publica. But Atticus still had dignitas.137 He had to find a position that was morally and politically appropriate for him, a well-known, learned man of a venerable Roman family. In late January, Cicero had already written that people would look to Atticus as to what to do

132 Nep. Att. 10.6; quodsi gubernator praecipua laude fertur, qui navem ex hieme marique scopuloso servat, cur non singularis eius existimetur prudentia, qui ex tot tamque gravibus procellis civilibus ad incolumi­ tatem pervenit? 133 Cic. rep. 2.51. 134 As Millar 1988, 43 observed, ‘The overriding duty here is private; civil war is, potentially or actually, a disturbance of a network of mutual private obligations.’ 135 Nep. Att. 20.5. 136 Nep. Att. 9.7. 137 Millar 1988.

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because of his splendor.138 The herd mentality applied to the equestrian order as much as the senatorial.139 Revisiting the Uncommitted Consulars of 49 BCE In light of Cicero’s reasoning through the problems of trying to stay aloof from the civil war, we can reconsider some of the cases of Shackleton Bailey’s neutral consulars of 49. It has been noted that a significant subset of these consulars can be accounted for as relatives of Caesar, but the full implications of this observation have not been explored.140 Those in question are L. Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus (cos. 58, Caesar’s father-in-law), C. Claudius Marcellus (cos. 50, married to Caesar’s great-niece Octavia), L. Aurelius Cotta (cos. 65, brother of Caesar’s mother Aurelia), and L. Marcius Philippus (cos. 56, married to Caesar’s niece Atia, mother of C. Octavius [later Augustus]). Marcellus would have seemed the least likely to be talked around to military or political support for Caesar, as he had been one of the driving forces behind the attempt to recall Caesar from his province in 50. He had also symbolically given Pompeius a sword in December of 50, entrusting the war effort to him. He evidently had no problem with military action against Caesar, but baulked at joining it himself. Cicero heard that he was still delaying in Italy in May of 49, deciding what to do, and ascribed this inaction to timidity.141 Cicero also complained to Atticus that Marcellus had actually encouraged Antonius not to allow Cicero to leave, as this would put his own inactivity in a better light.142 That Marcellus was in communication with Antonius at Cumae may reveal something of how the situation was managed. As with Cicero’s own attempts to work out what Caesar would accept from someone who had not actively joined the other side, the negotiation probably went on through intermediaries. This would be important when Marcellus’ hostility to Caesar was so well known, and face-saving measures were presumably taken that suited all. Even so, we do not know what Marcellus did after Cicero saw him at Cumae. Piso’s initial actions when war broke out are unknown. His views were on record already, as he had urged in the senate that a peace embassy be sent to Caesar. Piso then disappears from our view until late in 49, when he is found at Caesar’s senate in Rome, where he once again argued for peace. The gap is significant; he seems not to have been at Caesar’s senate in April of that year, as it was widely noted that there was a dearth of

138 Cic. Att. 7.13 [136]. 139 On the development of the group identity and ethos of the equestrian order, see now Davenport 2019. 140 Syme 1939, 62. 141 Cic. Att. 10.15 [207]. 142 Cic. Att. 10.15 [207].

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consulars, and that no one could be found to take on a peace-making mission to Pompeius and the consuls. It would be revealing to know what changed for him personally between his decision not to attend the senate in April, and his decision to attend and argue for peace at the end of the year. Aurelius Cotta and Marcius Philippus were also non-attendees at Caesar’s senate. Their position on military participation had probably already been made clear in January. When the commands were being assigned for troop recruitment in Italy, they were ‘passed over’, according to Caesar in his later account.143 He presented this as an insult to them. However, another possibility would be that they made it known that although they supported the cause, they could not recruit troops which were going to be used against a relative. If so, then this obligation of kinship was respected by Pompeius and the consuls. Philippus also negotiated his position with Caesar, as discussed above. The pair resurfaced after the war. Aside from Caesar’s kin, there were other uncommitted consulars who took various stances. Lucius Volcacius Tullus (cos. 66) and Manius Aemilius Lepidus (cos. 66) were both in close contact with Cicero in the early months of 49, and their position on attending Caesar’s senate has been discussed above. Yet despite Cicero’s awareness of their decisions, he gives us no real insight into their views, and nothing on how they publicly justified the lines they had chosen. L. Aemilius Paullus (cos. 50), on the other hand, was allegedly bought by Caesar, who gave him the money to finish rebuilding the Basilica Aemilia.144 The original bribery of Paullus apparently secured his inaction as consul on the issue of recalling Caesar from his province. Nothing is known of what Paullus did in the war, so his cooperation seems to have gone only so far as not taking up arms or performing civilian services for Caesar. Age accounts for the lack of involvement in the war of M. Perperna, the consul of 92, who died at some point in 49, aged 98.145 P. Servilius Isauricus, consul 79, was also in his 80 s, but his son was the consul of 48 and a strong supporter of Caesar, so he, presumably, had nothing to fear. In general, despite the parents’ quiescence, the sons of these neutrals generally had illustrious political careers. The son of Philippus became suffect consul in 38, the son of Volcacius became consul in 33, and the son of Paullus became suffect consul in 34 and censor in 22. The son of Marcellus was destined for a truly glorious career before his untimely death in 23. Although we have the most information about Servius Sulpicius Rufus, thanks to Cicero, his actual position during the fighting in 48 remains unclear. During his consulship in 51 he had argued, on legal grounds, that Caesar should not be recalled early

143 Caes. civ. 1.65. 144 App. civ. 2.26–7; Plut. Caes. 29.2–3; Suet. Iul. 29.1. 145 Probably also in the case of C. Claudius Marcellus, the praetor of 80, father of the consul of 50, who was aged in his 70 s.

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from his command, but he probably did not consider that a partisan position.146 As discussed above, once war broke out, he sent his son to Caesar early on, and then attended Caesar’s senate in April. There he evidently spoke for peace and against the recall of those exiled because of the Pompeian trials in 52. Yet he was still anxiously considering his position in late April, when Cicero heard that he wanted to meet to discuss together what they were going to do.147 When Servius finally arrived on the nones of May, he was inconsolable in his fears and griefs. Yet Cicero recognised that this was not unwarranted, since he had probably alienated both Caesar and Pompeius with his actions, and Servius was right that the victory of either would bring monstrous upheaval. With no good hopes in any of the plans, Servius was considering not going anywhere, preferring to die in his own bed.148 He claimed that the one thing that could decisively sway him would be the exiles being returned. Servius had been instrumental in setting up the courts of 52, and saw the undoing of their verdicts as a legal and personal affront. Cicero argued with him that the exiles were definitely going to be recalled, and this was by no means the worst of what was happening anyway. In the end, Servius did not leave with Cicero. His exact actions in 48 are debated.149 Cicero named him as one of the consulars in ‘Pompeius’ senate’,150 but Bauman argued that that is not necessarily decisive, since in the wake of Servius’ death as an ambassador for the res publica in 43, Cicero might have exaggerated his attachment to that cause. Later, he seems to have been resident on Samos, and Bauman argued that he was probably there during 48, staying away from either camp.151 In late 47, Servius accepted the governorship of Greece from Caesar, but was privately unhappy in it, and lamented to Cicero the loss of the res publica.152 Whether he was ever in Pompeius’ camp or not, he was clearly a man anxiously testing the possibilities for a non-combatant role, either in peace-making or cooperation.153 At times Cicero praised him for this; in other moods, he thought his peace-making was too close to appeasement.154 This demonstrates the immense difficulty of achieving moral approbation of one’s actions. What is significant is the active involvement of this group in the civil struggles in 44–43 BCE. Piso gave the speech on the 1st of September 44 which began tangible opposition to Antonius in the senate. Piso, Servius, and Marcius Philippus were sent as ambassadors to Antonius in early 43, to communicate the senate’s peace terms. Aemilius Paullus and Lucius Caesar, although relatives of Lepidus and Antonius respective146 Harries 2006, 119. 147 Cic. Att. 10.7 [198]. 148 Cic. Att. 10.14 [206]. 149 Bauman 1985, 43–47; Shackleton Bailey 1960, 253–254, n.7. 150 That is, in Thessaly in 48, see Cic. Phil. 13.29. 151 Bauman 1985, 46–47. 152 Cic. fam. 4.5 [248]. 153 On Cicero’s eulogy of Servius in Philippic 9, see Stone 2008, 220–223. 154 Harries 2006, 121.

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ly, were more outspoken than they had been in the earlier war. Both were eventually proscribed; both escaped. The status of the group had evidently not been seriously damaged by their earlier stance, as Cicero had feared his own would be. But Cicero was also critical of their courage and authority as a group in 44–43, and privately wished for some consulars who could show real leadership. They played roles in public life, as their status demanded, but they were rarely driving the agenda. Nevertheless, it is still noteworthy that they were much more vocal about their opinions in this war than they had been in 49. They had been wary of offending Caesar, but they were not as cautious with Antonius. Although they still tended toward promoting the cause of peace, several did openly recommend or support the commencement of hostilities against Antonius. Shifting Lines after the Death of Caesar When Cicero was smarting at the domination of Antonius, he sometimes compared Caesar’s treatment of him favourably with what he was now suffering. As early as 26th April 44, he was considering the possibility of civil war and wondering what to do. ‘It will not be possible now, as it was in Caesar’s war, to be neither here nor there.’155 He predicted that people who had played no part in Caesar’s assassination but had merely celebrated it would be labelled hostes, and that this would result in slaughter. He thought the only escape would be to join the camp of Sextus Pompeius or maybe Brutus, but then there was no telling what the outcome of fighting would be. Cicero’s predictions came to pass. After the younger Caesar’s march on Rome in August of 43, Romans were tried under the lex Pedia not just on the charge of perpetrating the murder of Caesar, but also on the charges of being a co-conspirator or being complicit. The law defined the categories: interfectores, socii, and conscii.156 This has often been seen as paving the way for the proscriptions, but in fact the proscriptions drew new lines: sympathisers with the assassins and those who had taken political stances which supported them in the last year and a half, as well as those who had taken stances which harmed the standing of Caesar, could now be killed.157 The Triumvirs later backtracked from this under public pressure, especially from Sextus Pompeius, and the need to win over new allies. The Treaty of Misenum in 39 repatriated anyone who was not an actual assassin of Caesar.158 As the pendulum swung back in the direction

155 Cic. Att. 14.13.2 [367]: neque enim iam licebit, quod Caesaris bello licuit, neque huc neque illuc. 156 Welch 2018, 143–145. 157 Welch 2018, 156, 161. On the Triumviral proscriptions and the social upheaval they caused, see Osgood 2006, 62–88. 158 Welch 2012, 241–242.

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of inclusion rather than exclusion, even men who had fought on the opposite side at Actium could be spared; it was only convicted assassins of Caesar who were killed. One person who had to negotiate his position in multiple civil wars was C. Asinius Pollio (cos. 40). Writing to Cicero in early 43, Pollio argued that his nature led him to an aversion for civil war; he had wanted to be on neither side (nullius partis) in the Caesarian civil war, but this was not possible for him personally.159 The strength of his enemies and their plots against him had made him seek the safer side. Nevertheless, he presented his conduct as governed by moral principles: he showed his hesitance on Caesarian policies he disagreed with, but he also repaid Caesar’s kindness to him. Despite his efforts, he had been much maligned, and this only confirmed in him his love of freedom and peace. Pollio’s reconstruction was that not taking up arms was desirable; it was the morally and politically superior choice, but it had not been possible for him. Although the main issue at the time of writing the letter was Pollio’s hesitancy to take his legions from Spain to fight against Antonius at Mutina, it is interesting that he used the moment to reconsider his earlier actions in the Caesarian civil war, and to make a strong argument for staying away from either camp.160 It is probable that he knew of Cicero’s hesitancy in joining either camp in 49, and his sentiment here could have been calculated to the recipient more carefully than is usually thought. He may even have intended to remind Cicero that he had once valued peace-making over warmongering. The eventual sequel was that Pollio did not fight at Actium. The single source on this is Velleius, who records the story as a memorable exemplum. When the young Caesar asked him to accompany him to Actium, Pollio refused, saying: My services to Antonius are too great, and his kindness to me too well known; accordingly I shall hold aloof from your quarrel and shall be the prize of the victor.161

Beneficia were an accepted reason for not fighting. This is, after all, similar to what Cicero repeatedly said about not fighting against Pompeius, what Balbus said about not serving in an army that would be used against Pompeius or Lentulus, and why Atticus had never accepted favours from Pompeius. It seems that Antonius also asked (or expected) Pollio to join him in the war, since Pollio was the author of a treatise contra maledicta antonii. While the arguments against fighting for the young Caesar were relatively uncontroversial (one cannot fight against a benefactor), what were the arguments against fighting for Antonius? Perhaps Pollio used the same argument he had rehearsed with Cicero: an aversion to civil war and a craving for peace. It is also possible that it was more transactional, for instance, that he had already repaid any 159 Cic. fam. 10.31 [368]. 160 On the contemporary politics: Bosworth 1972, 454–457. 161 Vell. 2.86.3: mea, inquit, in Antonium maiora merita sunt, illius in me beneficia notiora; itaque discri­ mini vestro me subtraham et ero praeda victoris; cf. Osgood 2006, 297.

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beneficia and owed Antonius nothing; he was not demonstrating a lack of gratitude in refusing to fight for him.162 Bosworth argued that Pollio’s neutrality in 31 did not equate to independence, but more likely meant that ‘he was working for the eventual victor’.163 However, if we consider the evidence in terms of the discourse explored above, we can be more precise about his position, while factoring in some of the complexities revealed by similar attempts to stay away from civil war. Pollio refused to take part in any military action or to leave Italy; his position was established via negotiation with Imperator Caesar and a public pamphlet addressed to Antonius. In refusing to accompany the young Caesar, it is unclear whether he instead promised tangible civilian services, or expressed general political sympathy, or cleverly avoided something even as directly supportive as that. As we have seen, these issues were not generally resolved via abstract argument but by personal negotiations that covered both moral duties and practical concerns. The fact that Velleius recorded Pollio’s dictum as extraordinary has often been taken to mean that Pollio was unusual or even unique in staying out of either camp at Actium.164 Augustus later wrote that he had 83 men who had been or were later consuls serving under his standards at Actium – an impressive number.165 Yet those who became consuls in the following decades could account for a significant proportion of these. Apart from the commanders of the land armies and fleets, and some close amici, there are not many names of elites on either side at Actium, and the list is usually filled out by individuals who collaborated at some point without certainty that they were present in camp.166 There may have been as many as fifty ex-consuls alive in 31, due to the high number of suffects in recent years, and many are technically unplaced. By the time of the battle, after the last-minute defection of Domitius Ahenobarbus, it seems that Antonius only had three consulars with him: Canidius, Sosius, and Gellius Poplicola.167 However, many previously prominent men are unrecorded. The strategies and image-making of the eventual victor further obscure the issue. The oath of tota Italia was designed to give the impression of all-encompassing support for Caesar divi filius, and as it is stated in the Res Gestae, it appears that there were no exceptions.168 However, according to Suetonius, the community of Bononia was

162 Syme 1939, 291. 163 Bosworth 1972, 448. Woodman 1983, 232–4 disagreed, arguing in favour of independence. 164 As Syme 1939, 291 wrote: ‘There was no choice: the Caesarian leader would tolerate no neutrality in the national struggle. One man, however, stood firm, the uncompromising Pollio.’ But Bosworth 1972, 447 argued that there must have been others who held aloof. 165 R. Gest. div. Aug. 25.3; On the significance of Augustus’ figures for his consular and senatorial supporters: Cooley 2009, 217–8. 166 See the reconstruction of Groag 1941. 167 Syme 1939, 296. 168 On the oath: Osgood 2006, 357–364.

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excused from taking the oath as they were long-standing clients of the Antonii.169 In apparent contradiction to this, Dio recorded that the Bononians were given a new municipal charter, presumably so that they could swear the oath without having any qualms about their moral obligations to their (former) benefactor.170 Exactly how the oath-swearing took place, and whether there were exceptions made for the elite – or any quiet absences – is unknown. The young Caesar also made a great spectacle of unity in his departure from Brundisium to the war.171 Dio wrote that he assembled not only his best troops, but all the men of influence, senators and equites, to discourage the elite from rebelling, as they would do if left to themselves, and to suggest that he had the largest share of support.172 Once again, the intention was to show his dominance, but in the very attempt, the hesitancy of some was recorded. At the time of Actium, the unaccounted for consulars may well have been in Imperator Caesar’s camp, but it is also possible that some of them stayed in Italy, either with or without expressing public support for him. Age is unlikely to have been a widespread factor this time, as the triumviral consulars were a group of relatively young men, but consular status and family relationships will still have given leverage. Placing Pollio and the triumviral consulars alongside the unplaced consulars of 49 BC shows some of the problems and opportunities, and it suggests that by this time there had developed a range of exempla that they could draw on. Pollio may have been less remarkable than Velleius implies, both in his decision, and in the fact that he managed the negotiation successfully. Conclusion This analysis of our evidence has revealed the sheer complexity of non-combatant stances in civil war. The space of neutrality had to be created, interpreted, and justified. We tend towards abstraction by talking about ‘neutrality’, and sometimes Cicero (at least) did think about these problems in a theoretical and impersonal way. He wondered about how one should act in regard to a tyrant, the role of a statesman in civil discord, and the health of the res publica. But far more often, he seems to have been consumed by a much more concrete and specific set of problems. He considered what services he could perform in a particular consilium, senate, or camp, how to act in accord with his own prior political actions and publicly stated views, how to uphold the moral obligations of his friendships (some of which were conflicting), and how his safety and his family could be factored in. Cicero also worried about taking the decisive 169 Suet. Aug. 17.2. 170 Dio Cass. 50.6.3. 171 Osgood 2006, 371. 172 Dio Cass. 50.11.5.

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step, but this was something that could be construed differently by various agents and observers. There were many possible boundaries, and they could keep shifting. Yet the elite cared greatly about these fine distinctions of behaviour and attitude. The discourse of neutrality included institutional elements, such as participation in senate meetings, but it was even more concerned with values and dispositions to politics and society – what was acceptable and appropriate. The cultural values of the shared politics of the Roman community, the rights and obligations of family and social relationships, and freedom and protection of citizen and property were all civil war sites of contestation which informed the calculations of neutrality, its costs and its benefits. In the period of the Sullan civil wars, the question of limits to violence became urgent and intense. Experiments with selective violence (lists to identify and punish the enemy) co-existed with indiscriminate violence (the treatment of Rome as a captured city).173 The cases of Aurelius and Norbanus highlight the clamping down on options which had previously been acceptable: an apolitical public stance, or a retreat into exile. Bellum civile was frighteningly all-consuming. Sulla did not face the questions of justice or rehabilitation which this situation had wrought, leaving a lack of resolution.174 At the outbreak of civil war in 49, Pompeius and Caesar were both clearer in outlining the criteria for partisanship and in negotiating the involvement of particular individuals. Limiting killing to the battlefield and pardoning defeated opponents were new experiments in ‘ethical’ civil war. Alongside this, there was more consideration for non-participation – what it might look like, how it might be achieved, and whether it was morally justifiable. Post-Ides, the situation more closely resembled the Sullan exemplum. Retribution extended even to those merely suspected of being sympathisers with Caesar’s assassins. Nevertheless, as violence and expropriation engulfed Italy, there were further articulations of the problem of limits and justice: why should elite women pay for the civil war, when they had committed no hostile actions against the triumvirs?175 Why should innocent Italian communities be treated like peoples conquered in war? Societal horror and war-weariness led to increased pressure to draw boundaries around who should suffer. Defining the guilty was a great problem. Horace’s Epode 7 vividly represents a particular view: fratricide was an ancestral curse, guilt a birth right.176 This diffusion of responsibility is very different from the discourse which we have been tracing, which is one of limits and protections. The orientation of the neutrality discourse is not primarily towards mercy (because whether the unarmed can be guilty or conquered is problematic) but to justice. The challenge the neutral presented was not just that there 173 174 175 176

Lange 2018. Osgood 2015. See Hopwood 2015, 309–312. Wiseman 2010.

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were other opinions on the major cleavage of the civil war, but that one should not – ever – fight civil war. Conflict in the community should be resolved peacefully. Nevertheless, this position involved its own ethical conundrum. If civil war became a reality but one abstained from involvement, there would be no blood on one’s hands, but choosing not to provide aid to the res publica and its citizens when they were in danger could also be seen as failing in the performance of justice.177 Bibliography Allély, A. 2012. La declaration d’hostis sous la République romaine, Bordeaux. Armitage, D. 2017. Civil War: A History in Ideas, New Haven. Badian, E. 1962. Waiting for Sulla, in: JRS 52, 47–61. Bauman, R. A. 1985. Lawyers in Roman Transitional Politics: a study of the Roman jurists in their political setting in the Late Republic and Triumvirate, Munich. Bauslaugh, R. A. 1991. The concept of neutrality in classical Greece, Berkeley. beck, h. 2022. Republican Elites: Patricians, Nobiles, Senators and Equestrians, in: V. Arena / J. Prag (eds.), A Companion to the Political Culture of the Roman Republic, Hoboken, 347– 361. Börm, H. 2016. Civil wars in Greek and Roman Antiquity: Contextualising Disintegration and Reintegration, in: H. Börm / M. Mattheis / J. Wienand (eds.), Civil War in Ancient Greece and Rome: Contexts of Disintegration and Reintegration, Stuttgart, 15–28. Bosworth, A. B. 1972. Asinius Pollio and Augustus, in: Historia 21, 441–473. Broughton, T. R. S. 1952. Magistrates of the Roman Republic, 2 vols, New York. Broughton, T. R. S. 1986. Magistrates of the Roman Republic, vol. 3, Atlanta. Bruhns, H. 1978. Caesar und die römische Oberschicht in den Jahren 49–44 v. Chr: Untersuchungen zur Herrschaftsetablierung im Bürgerkrieg, Göttingen. Brunt, P. A. 1986. Cicero’s Officium in the Civil War, in: JRS 76, 12–32. Brunt, P. A. 1988. The Fall of the Roman Republic and Related Essays, Oxford. Cooley, A. 2009. Res Gestae Divi Augusti: Text, Translation, and Commentary, Cambridge. Cornwell, H. 2018. The construction of one’s enemies in civil war (49–30 BCE), in: R. Westall (ed.), The Roman Civil Wars: A House Divided, Dublin, 41–67. Davenport, C. 2019. A History of the Roman Equestrian Order, Cambridge. Flower, H. I. 2010. Rome’s First Civil War and the Fragility of Republican Political Culture, in: B. W. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.), Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars, Oxford, 73–86. Geertz, C. 1973. The Interpretation of Cultures. Selected Essays, New York. Gelzer, M. 1968. Caesar: Politician and Statesman, trans. P. Needham, Oxford. Gildenhard, I. 2006. Reckoning with tyranny: Greek thoughts on Caesar in Cicero’s Letters to Atticus in early 49, in: S. Lewis (ed.), Ancient Tyranny, Edinburgh, 197–213.

177 On Cicero’s anxious preoccupation with justice as the basis of gloria and the fundamental virtue in De Officiis, see Long 1995.

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Groag, E. 1941. Zur senatorischen Gefolgschaft des Caesar im actischen Krieg, in: Laureae Aquincenses Memoriae Valentini Kuzsinszky Dicatae II, Dissertationes Pannonicae ser. 2 no.2, Budapest, 30–39. Hall, J. 2009. Politeness and Politics in Cicero’s Letters, Oxford. Harries, J. 2006. Cicero and the Jurists: From Citizens’ Law to the Lawful State, London. Hinard, F. 1985. Les proscriptions de la Rome républicaine, Rome. Hölkeskamp, K-J. 2010. Reconstructing the Roman Republic: An Ancient Political Culture and Modern Research, trans. H. Heitmann-Gordon, Princeton. Hölkeskamp, K-J. 2022. Political Culture: Career of a Concept, in: V. Arena / J. Prag (eds.), A Companion to the Political Culture of the Roman Republic, Hoboken, 4–19. Hopwood, B. 2015. Hortensia Speaks: An Authentic Voice of Resistance? in: K. Welch (ed.), Appian’s Roman History: Empire and Civil War, Swansea, 305–322. Kalyvas, S. N. 2006. The Logic of Violence in Civil War, Cambridge. Kelly, G. 2006. A History of Exile in the Roman Republic, Cambridge. Konstan, D. 1996. Friendship in the Classical World, Cambridge. Lange, C. H. 2018. The logic of violence in Roman civil war, in: R. Westall (ed.), The Roman Civil Wars: A House Divided, Dublin, 69–97. Leão, D. F. / Rhodes, P. J. eds. 2015. The Laws of Solon: A New Edition with Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, London. Lintott, A. 1999. Violence in Republican Rome, 2nd edn. Oxford. Lintott, A. 2008. Cicero As Evidence, Oxford. Lobur, J. A. 2019. Civil War and the Biographical Project of Cornelius Nepos, in: C. H. Lange / F. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden, 87–110. Long, a. a. 1995. Cicero’s Politics in De Officiis, in: A. Laks / M. Schofield (eds.), Justice and Generosity: Studies in Hellenistic Social and Political Philosophy, Cambridge, 213–240. Millar, F. 1988. Cornelius Nepos, ‘Atticus’ and the Roman Revolution, in: G&R 35, 40–55. Mitchell, H. 2019. The Reputation of L. Munatius Plancus and the Concept of ‘Serving the Times’, in: J. Osgood / K. Morrell / K. Welch (eds.), The Alternative Augustan Age, New York, 163–181. Mitchell, T. N. 1991. Cicero, The Senior Statesman, New Haven. Osgood, J. 2006. Caesar’s Legacy: Civil War and the Emergence of the Roman Empire, Cambridge. Osgood, J. 2015. Ending Civil War at Rome: Rhetoric and Reality, 88 B. C. E.-97 C. E., in: AHR 120, 1683–1695. Raaflaub, K. 2010. Creating a Grand Coalition of True Roman Citizens: On Caesar’s Political Strategy in the Civil War, in: B. W. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.), Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars, Oxford, 159–170. Rawson, E. 1975. Cicero: A Portrait, Bristol. Rosenblitt, J. A. 2019. Rome after Sulla, London. Rosenstein, N. 2006. Aristocratic Values, in: N. Rosenstein / R. Morstein-Marx (eds.), A Companion to the Roman Republic, Oxford, 365–382. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 1960. The Roman nobility in the second civil war, in: CQ 10, 253– 267. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 1965–8. Cicero: Letters to Atticus, 7 vols, Cambridge. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 1971. Cicero, London. Shackleton Bailey, D. R. 1977. Cicero: Epistulae ad Familiares, 2 vols, Cambridge. Steel, C. 2013. The end of the Roman Republic, 146 to 44 BC: Conquest and Crisis, Edinburgh.

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Stone, A. M. 2008. Greek Ethics and Roman Statesmen: De Officiis and the Philippics, in T. Stevenson / M. Wilson (eds.), Cicero’s Philippics: History, Rhetoric and Ideology, Auckland, 214–239. Syme, R. 1939. The Roman Revolution, Oxford. Tempest, K. 2011. Cicero: Politics and Persuasion in Ancient Rome, London. Volk, K. 2021. The Roman Republic of Letters, Princeton. Welch, K. E. 1996. Titus Pomponius Atticus: a banker in politics, in: Historia 45, 450–471. Welch, K. E. 2012. Magnus Pius. Sextus Pompeius and the transformation of the Roman Republic, Swansea. Welch, K. E. 2018. The Lex Pedia and its Aftermath, in R. Westall (ed.), The Roman Civil Wars: A House Divided, Dublin, 137–162. White, P. 2003. Tactics in Caesar’s Correspondence with Cicero, in: F. Cairns / E. Fantham (eds.), Caesar Against Liberty? Perspectives on his Autocracy, Cambridge, 68–95. White, P. 2010. Cicero in Letters: Epistolary Relations of the late Republic, Oxford. Wiseman, T. P. 1985. Competition and Co-operation, in: T. P. Wiseman (ed.), Roman Political Life 90 BC – AD 69, Exeter, 3–19. Wiseman, T. P. 2010. The Two-Headed State: How Romans Explained Civil War, in: B. W. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.), Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars, Oxford, 25–44. Woodman, A. J. 1983. Velleius Paterculus: The Caesarian and Augustan Narrative (2.41–93), Cambridge. Zarecki, J. 2014. Cicero’s Ideal Statesman in Theory and Practice, London.

Naval Operations During the Late Republican Civil War (38–31 BCE) Victories by Land and Sea Carsten Hjort Lange

Naval warfare is much more than the sum of battles, notwithstanding the tendency of naval historiography to focus on them.1 The First World War nicely illustrates the problem of how to approach the subject: there were few naval battles and relatively few casualties, but the war at sea was ultimately fundamental to allied victory.2 Already at the outset it is important to emphasise, with Black, the problematic and artificial separation of land and sea warfare.3 Be that as it may, applying a modern lens can only take us so far in our understanding of ancient approaches. In spite of the importance of naval operations, Roman militarism cannot be considered analogous to ‘navalism’, a term coined by modern historians of Britain’s imperial history.4 We should also remember that there was no permanent fleet until Augustus’ reforms. Accordingly, discussions about the relative importance of Roman naval warfare may unfortunately make us forget two important issues: first, the vital cooperation of land and naval forces has always been a predominant feature in naval warfare; and second, the importance of a navy cannot, as mentioned, be judged by naval battles alone. Taking our cue from Tacitus, we can usually identify the purpose of the Roman fleet in its relation to warfare on land, often as an ad hoc measure when needed. He writes:5 Italiam utroque mari duae classes, Misenum apud et Ravennam, proximumque Galliae litus rostratae naves praesidebant, quas Actiaca victoria captas Augustus in oppidum Foroiuliense miserat valido cum remige.

1 2 3 4 5

Sicking 2010, 237. Sondhaus 2014; Friedman 2014. Black 2004, ix; cf. 22–23. Cf. Philpott 2014, 32. The seminal study of Roman naval warfare is Thiel (1946; 1954), which is still very useful; cf. Clark 1915; Starr 1960. Morrison 1996 is also invaluable. See now also Baltrusch/Kopp/Wendt 2016.

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Italy, on either seaboard, was protected by fleets at Misenum and Ravenna; the adjacent coast of Gaul by a squadron of fighting ships, captured by Augustus at the victory of Actium and sent with strong crews to the town of Forum Julium.6

This description of Rome’s naval strategic capability is interesting for two reasons. On the one hand this was always about combined operations–including logistics and troop transport–in this case for the naval protection of mainland Italy and the surrounding islands. Furthermore, this is part of a wider description of Rome’s mobile defence at a strategic level. The legions at the Rhine were to defend the Empire against the Germans and could handle trouble in Gaul, if this was at all needed.7 We might add that Rome had outlived its role as the main naval base. It had serious limitations, due partly to the difficulty of deployment from Rome to Ostia–where there was no permanent harbour–and partly due to the growth of the empire: in this context, Rome was too distant from prospective areas of operation. In fact, it seems that in ancient times land powers tended to defeat sea powers, but only if they themselves took to the sea.8 Polybius states that the Roman objective was to drive Carthage out of Sicily,9 partly by preventing the Carthaginians from operating in the area.10 The fleet had turned into an aggressive tool; the trophy was unsurprisingly Sicily itself. Decisive naval engagements and the destruction of the enemy fleet do not always seem to have been a main objective for the Romans.11 6 Tac. ann. 4.5; cf. Veg. mil. 4.31. 7 The classic exposition is Luttwak’s book on the Grand Strategy of Rome (1976). For a defence of Luttwak, at the same time revealing the problem of scholars using but not understanding modern concepts of war (especially strategy), see Wheeler 1993 with Lacey 2014; see also Frontin. Str. on ancient strategy and recently Gray 2015 on the topic in general. According to Gray, ‘the idea that history was devoid of attempts at strategic thought and practice prior to the late eighteenth century is absurd’ (9–10). In general, Gray defines strategy as ‘the direction and use made of force and the threat of force for the purpose of policy as decided by politics’ (21), adding that it is critically important to clarify the ‘master role’ of politics. Regarding the Greeks and Romans specifically, he adds that we can view both Greek and Roman approaches to cementing their own security ‘in the light shed by a general theory of strategy’ (5). Consequently, the Greeks and Romans were not educated in strategy as such, but we should not be misled by their (relative) silence on this issue (44). Potter 2004, 78 rightly emphasises that the Roman fleet was always of lesser importance than the legions. But it certainly played its part, and was at times vital for the end-outcome, perhaps never more so than during the First Punic War and during the civil war period of 38–31 BCE. Schulz 2016 gives an overview of Roman naval history, but does not really close in on the strategic ideas utilised. 8 Gray 1992, ix-x; cf. 94; 278; Starr 1989, 84: a land power is traditionally defeated on land, a sea power at sea. 9 Pol. 1.20.1; cf. 20–21. 10 Alternatively, the raiding of the southern coasts of Italy by the Carthaginians, vulnerable if the latter should maintain their naval ‘superiority’, might have been the reason for the change in policy, i. e. building a fleet (Zonar. 8.10–11; Oros. 4.7.7). Both factors may of course have been important in Rome’s decision to build a fleet. 11 Mahan, as below; Vego 2016, 8: Mahan rejected the defensive role of the navy’; cf. 81 on divisive battles.

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In the case of Young Caesar’s campaigns against Sextus Pompeius and at Actium, the objective was partly the enemy fleet and their naval bases. Not on their own accord, but to transform a naval superiority and amphibious capability – after victory – in order to attack the enemy from the sea.12 The enemy had to try to counter this. In the case of Sextus Pompeius, Appian writes: ὁ δὲ Πομπήιος, ὥς μοι προείρηται, τάς τε ἐς τὴν νῆσον ἀποβάσεις ἐφύλασσεν ἁπάσας καὶ τὰς ναῦς ἐν Μεσσήνῃ συνεῖχεν ὡς βοηθήσων, ὅποι δεήσειεν.13 Pompeius, as I have already said, guarded all the landing places on the island and retained his fleet at Messana, in order to send aid where it might be needed.

The main role of the fleet was not necessarily to fight naval battles, but in this case to keep the enemy from embarking on Sicilian land. This paper sets out to explore the justification of naval battles in the Late Republican civil war, with a particular focus on Young Caesar’s justifications of the naval battles of Naulochus 36 and Actium 31 BCE. In so doing, we can readdress the meaning of the Augustan phrase ‘terra marique esset parta victoriis pax’;14 that is, the slogan of securing peace throughout the Empire, but only by means of victories both on land and by sea. In fact, I suggest here that the meaning of this slogan can be better interpreted in the light of naval strategy and in combined operations. Young Caesar’s bold claim is not solely revealing of the ideology of pax; it may also help us to understand how the Romans perceived naval warfare and naval victories. Traditionally the Augustan slogan ‘terra marique esset parta victoriis pax’ has been associated with the closing of the temple of Janus.15 Schuler connects the end of the civil wars with an epoch of peace.16 This seems partly an overstatement. As emphasised by Augustus in RG 13, peace was always obtained through victory – ‘parta victoriis pax’.17 Three decreed Augustan closings of the Temple of Janus suggest that eternal peace was never the end goal. Ending the civil war was a goal; ending foreign war was not. This paper will however focus less on peace as the result of war and victory, and more on terra marique, often forgotten or downplayed in modern discussions.18 12

On the projection of power ashore, see Haynes 2015, 15. Vego 2003, 192 discusses modern naval operations from the perspective of a theatre-wide strategy: this was at the very least a question of capturing key enemy positions. 13 App. civ. 5.103. 14 R. Gest. div. Aug. 13 15 Lange 2009, 140–148, with bibliography. 16 Cf. Luke 2014, 242–260; on the Temple of Janus, see Schuler 2007, 398. 17 Cf. the heading of the Res Gestae. 18 The standard article remains Momigliano 1942 (see further below). Ladewig 2014, 211–241, in a section entitled terra marique, overemphasises what he calls Augustus’ ‘Maritimer’ Weg zur Macht, although he rightly suggests that the ‘global’ reach of the civil war meant naval warfare was significant (211).

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Both Naulochus and Actium are victories in the extended civil war of the Late Republic. Young Caesar received an ovation after the campaign against Sextus Pompeius and a triumph after Actium.19 As triumphs after an exclusively civil war victory were at odds with triumphal conventions, they were partly rebranded as a means of justification:20 thus Naulochus was a victory against pirates and slaves;21 and Actium, rather surprisingly, had no enemy at all–a peculiarity to which we will return later. At the same time, these campaigns were part of the justification for the triumviral assignment: namely, ending civil war.22 But before looking in more detail at these civil war narratives, it is necessary to at the outset emphasise some basic aspects of (Roman) naval warfare. Naval warfare, ancient and modern Turning first to (modern) naval strategy and the operational level of naval warfare, the classic book on the operational relationship between naval and land warfare is Corbett’s Some Principles of Maritime Strategy, where he emphasises that:23 By maritime strategy we mean the principles which govern a war in which the sea is a substantial factor. Naval strategy is but that part of it which determines the movements of the fleet when maritime strategy has determined what part the fleet must play in relation to the action of the land forces; for it scarcely needs saying that it is almost impossible that a war can be decided by naval action alone.24

Corbett realised that navies fight at sea mainly to secure strategic effects on land. The navy’s purpose is accordingly well beyond naval operations. A primary goal of the fleet is and was to take the war to the enemy. This is one of the reasons why, traditionally, almost all naval battles are fought close to land. Corbett adds: Since men live upon the land and not upon the sea, great issues between nations at war have always been decided – except in the rarest cases – either by what your army can do against your enemy’s territory and national life or else by the fear of what the fleet makes it possible for your army to do.25

19 20 21 22 23 24

25

Contra Dart/Vervaet 2011; 2016; 2018, suggesting that Young Caesar received a naval triumph for Actium. See below. Lange 2013; 2016. Contra Welch 2012. Lange 2009, 18–26; 33–38. Cf. Corbett 1911, 15. Cf. Corbett 1911, 16: ‘The paramount concern, then, of maritime strategy is to determine the mutual relations of your army and navy in a plan of war’; Huntington 1954; Gray 1992, 1; Vego 2003, 144; Speller 2008, 124 (‘Navies attempt to use the sea in order to influence events in land’), 142; Speller 2014, 15; 108; Till 2009, 21–22; Haynes 2015, 54. Cf. Corbett 1911, 16.

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In simple terms, naval warfare is about the ability of the navy to exert power at and from the sea:26 to put it another way, in Moran & Russell’s recent terms: Navies on their own have limited value for controlling people and territory. Their strategic leverage lies in their capacity to secure or deny access to resources, to markets, to enemies, to allies, to battlefields, and to information.27

The modern naval strategy concept of sea denial, meaning to prevent the opponent from using an area of sea for his purposes, in many ways seems strategically appropriate for ancient fleets.28 Even if a minimalistic take on ancient naval warfare is accepted, one that focuses on the limited range of ships etc., sea denial still functions as a basic approach.29 According to Vego the objective of the stronger and the weaker side are diametrically opposite.30 The stronger side pushes to obtain or gain something (positive), whereas the weaker side wants to deny of prevent something (negative). This may well be the case, but paradoxically the concept of sea denial may in fact fit ancient naval warfare better than modern naval warfare. The MoD defines it as follows:31 “the condition short of full sea control that exists when an opponent is prevented from using the sea for his purposes”. To return to ancient naval tactics, the essential point 26 Speller 2014, 5; Gray 1992, 9; Vego 2003, 119. 27 Moran/Russell 2016, x. 28 For sea denial, see Till 2009, 153–154; contra Mahan 1911, 176 who believed that sea control through naval operations was gained ‘less by the tenure of a position than by the defeat of the enemy’s organized force – his battle fleet’. See Huntington 1954 on Mahan and the destruction of the enemy fleet; Till 2009, 158–163; Vego 2016, 81–82 on decisive naval engagements. Corbett, who accepts that command of the sea was only relative and incomplete, seems more appropriate to naval warfare in general, and certainly so in relation to ancient naval warfare. For Mahan and ancient warfare, see Starr 1989. However, even Mahan, ‘the father of modern naval history’ (Moll 1963, 132), accepted that the sea could not always be commanded (1911, 260–261; cf. Till 2009, esp. 146–147; Vego 2016, 35). 29 Rankov 1996 is a classic example of a ‘minimalistic’ take on ancient sea denial: the area controlled by a stronger fleet was small and consequently this may fittingly be described as local command of the sea. (In this connection, Vego 2016, 24 defines command of the sea or sea control as ‘one’s ability to use a given part of the ocean/sea … for military and nonmilitary purposes and to deny the same to the enemy in a time of open hostilities’ [24]. This comes in various stages and degrees; see also 36–37.) The difference between Mahan and Corbett can be approached theoretically from two classic angles: the destruction of the enemy fleet in decisive naval battles (power at sea) vs. how sea power can influence the outcome of events on land (power from the sea). Adding to the two classic theoretical approaches to sea power, two further modern approaches can be identified; these can perhaps be termed the ‘minimalist’ and the ‘modernist’ approaches. The modernist approach sees the Roman fleet as something akin to a modern navy with the purpose of destroying the enemy and controlling sea-lanes. This Thiel-like-modernist approach has been criticised by minimalists, who claim that fleets (classes) must have bases and safe havens for logistics in order to operate at sea. The very construction of ships and the way in which they were manned militated against extensive periods at sea. Crews needed rest, food, and water. The main issue with the modernist approach was thus the limited range of ships. See now Lange 2021. 30 Cf. Vego 2016, 25. 31 British Maritime Doctrine, 2004; quoted from Till 2009, 153.

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at issue here is that sea control was impossible due to the limitations of ancient ships, whereas sea denial was not. Having said that, local sea control was a good (positive) alternative, for example during the Second Punic War, where the Roman fleet had a decisive influence on the course of the war, controlling sea lanes. However, the limited range of ships and the difficulty of locating enemy targets with primitive equipment still pose problems. However we approach this (positive or negative), sea power was never enough; the wars in principle had to be decided on land. The fleet had a role to play in the military planning and operations of Rome, but often it was in a secondary role, aiding the army, carrying out mainly logistics. However, there were exceptions: at Naulochus and Actium, the roles seem to have been reversed, albeit as a consequence of the very specific theatre of war and chance (see below). The essential difference between operations on land and at sea should not of course be forgotten – the sea is too uncertain and even unpredictable, whereas armies can more easily disaggregate into much smaller fighting units.32 Ancient warfare narratives and descriptions may point to the relatively greater importance of land warfare in relation to naval warfare, but this is to a large extent a fair description of the realities of warfare. Even so, there is good reason to accept that Augustan Rome also accepted that this was always a question of combined operations. Terra marique Having established some general principles, we can turn to their application in the Augustan military context. Now, Augustus took a pre-existing slogan for imperialism and turned it into a slogan for peace, and an Augustan peace no less.33 Not forgetting Res Gestae 13 – ‘terra marique esset parta victoriis pax’ – this was peace secured by victory in civil war; accordingly the slogan is from one perspective a reflection on the ideology of the new regime.34 But from another perspective, there is a further and significantly under-explored dimension of the slogan terra marique; the military side of the motto. Reflecting on such issues will allow us to get closer to the justifications of Young Caesar/Augustus during the civil war.

32 33

34

Till 2009, 39–40; Gilliver 2007, 144–146. On peace: Rich 2003; see now Cornwell 2017a; Cornwell 2017b. Cornwell 2017b, chapter 3, downplays the connection between pax terra marique, the triumviral assignment and the end of civil war, instead focusing on Roman imperialism. They are of course not mutually exclusive, but she underestimates the end of civil war as mentioned on the 36 BCE inscription (App. civ. 5.130; see below). Lange 2009, 146–149; Ginsberg 2017, 64–75.

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The phrase itself derives from Greek: a formula used in treaties and alliances, later emerging as a description of political hegemony in terms of rule over land and sea.35 But with Young Caesar/Augustus it acquired a new and different meaning. The slogan terra marique became an important element in the rebranding of civil war victories – not to claim that it was not a civil war, but in order to claim that it was not exclusively a civil war, by adopting the language of interstate diplomacy. In tandem, the focus was also on peace after victory, on the positive outcome of the civil war(s). Finally, the phrase additionally suggests the accomplishment of the triumviral assignment: the successful conclusion of civil war by land and sea produces internal peace. In relation to peace, the two famous naval battles at Naulochus and Actium were portrayed not as mere naval battles, but campaign victories, by land and sea. The two engagements were thus vital in ending the civil war(s), and their presentation as such vital in winning the peace. A basic PHI search gives well over 100 hits for ‘terra marique’; turning to the evidence itself, the slogan can be used as a simple description of military operations. Cicero is instructive on the matter: … clarissima victoria terra marique peragrassent, cuius tres triumphi testes essent totum orbem terrarum nostro imperio teneri; … … most illustrious victories, both by land and sea; of which three triumphs had been the witnesses, proving that the whole world was made subject to our empire; …36

Cicero alludes in part here to the lex Gabinia of 67 BCE,37 which had provided Pompeius Magnus with an extensive imperium over the Mediterranean Sea and its coasts (imperium terra marique), in order to crush the threat of piracy.38 Yet eradicating piracy necessarily also involves fighting on land in order to neutralise the enemy base of operations, as happened in Pompeius’ case in 67. For Pompeius Magnus, then, terra marique made sense inasmuch as his many victories were gained on both land and sea. This is obviously a description of his military operations; this is also about Roman perceptions of and approaches to naval warfare. At the same time, uses of the phrase terra marique beyond the Res Gestae can express more significant dimensions as well as simple description. Augustus’ contemporary Livy describes the bringing of peace in such terms at 1.19.3:

35

Momigliano 1942; cf. Nicolet 1991, 29–56; for the Late Hellenistic use of the slogan during Roman times, see Schuler 2007, who discusses a particular inscription from a village in the territory of the Lycian city of Myra, in which Augustus is honoured as a god and as ges kai thalasses epoptes (‘overseer of land and sea’). The title is attested in other honours for both Pompeius and Augustus. 36 Cic. Balb. 16; cf. Plin. nat. 7.98. 37 See Coudry 2016. 38 Cic. Manil. 56; cf. Sest. 67; Weinstock 1971, 38–39.

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post bellum Actiacum ab imperatore Caesare Augusto pace terra marique Parta. After the battle of Actium, when the emperor Caesar Augustus had brought about peace on land and sea.39

At the end of book 30 Livy describes the triumph of Scipio ending the war against Hannibal, in a similar fashion. Although Livy uses the phrase terra marique numerous times in books 21–30, the description here begins pace terra marique parta.40 The most memorable war of all has come to an end, using an Augustan slogan to signify this sense of conclusion.41 The battle of Actium, its postscript at Alexandria, and the triple triumph of 29 BCE, followed by the ending of the civil wars, are all mentioned in Per. 133. A similar sense of an ending is also emphasised in connection with Actium at 1.19. These are the two only instances where Livy uses the slogan pace parta terra marique: one connected with the most famous of foreign conflicts, the other with the most famous of civil conflicts–that is, Actium.42 The slogan most likely goes back to the dispatch sent by Young Caesar in 36 and again in 31 BCE to the Senate after his victories: there is ambivalence as to the question of how to conceptualize the victories during this period. This reflects back on the laurelled letter of Young Caesar, which would–it seems–have avoided mentioning an enemy by name, both in relation to Sextus Pompeius and Antonius(/Cleopatra).43 This was possibly due to brevity, but soon became an integrated part of the ideology of the regime. Supporting this idea, Kraus emphasises that the ablative absolute pace populo Romano terra marique parta suggests a historiographical narrative;44 the ablative absolute is often used to sum up action, perhaps derived from the ‘telegraphic style’ of Roman generals (in the field) writing to the Senate.45 This is supported by the slogan’s prominent use on the Victory Monument at Actium and in the Res Gestae, both most likely close in language to the laurelled letter sent to the Senate.46 The slogan emphasises victories by land and sea, thus also suggesting that the ovation of 36 and the triumph of 31 BCE were well within mos maiorum, well

39

40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Cf. Sen. de Clementia 1.9.4; Suet. Aug. 22 (here Augustus’ closing of the Temple of Janus, by means of his victories on land and sea, is discussed in specific connection the triumphs and ovations that commemorated these successes); Apocolocyntosis 10.2; Laudatio Turiae 2.25; Nero later issued a series of coins, one with the legend: Pace P. R. Terra Marique Parta Ianum Clusit S. C. (RIC 12 Nero, 50–51 etc.). Liv. 30.45.1. Liv. 21.1.1; see also Levene 2010, 10–11. Contra Cornwell 2017b, 104–105. Lange 2016, 5, 139–141, etc. Cf. Kraus 2010, 403. Cf. Fraenkel 1956 (Feldherrnbericht; or Feldhernbulletins; also used for Rechenschaftsberichte, as the Res Gestae). R. Gest. div. Aug. 13; cf 3.1 and 4.2, see also Murray/Petsas 1989; Zachos 2003; Lange 2009, 95–123; 2016, 125–153.

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within “triumphal law”. Suetonius (Aug. 22.1) relates the slogan, as mentioned above, to the closing of the Temple of Janus: Ianum Quirinum semel atque iterum a condita urbe ante memoriam suam clausum in multo breviore temporis spatio terra marique pace parta ter clusit. The temple of Janus Quirinus, which had been closed but twice before his time since the founding of the city, he closed three times in a far shorter period, having won peace on land and sea.47

Augustus accordingly uses the slogan in the Res Gestae, chapter 13: [Ianum] Quirin[um, quem cl]aussum ess[e maiores nostri voluer]unt, cum [p]er totum i[mpe­ rium po]puli Roma[ni terra marique es]set parta victoriis pax. Our ancestors wanted Janus Quirinus to be closed when peace had been achieved by victories on land and sea throughout the whole empire of the Roman people; …48

This was about peace, but, as mentioned, peace won through Roman victory, i. e. Young Caesar’s victories in both foreign and civil wars.49 Young Caesar reused the Hellenistic slogan of rule by land and sea in order to describe what Richardson calls a territorial empire.50 This is evident in the heading of the Res Gestae, mentioning Augustus as the conqueror of the known world. As such, the slogan signified not only the completion of Young Caesar’s triumviral assignment and the positive outcomes of conflict; it signified also territory and the Imperium Romanum. The question remains of what the implications are of, firstly, ancient and modern perspectives on naval warfare; and, secondly, of the Augustan take on the old Hellenistic slogan. In fact, at both Naulochus and Actium the land battles never quite materialised, which is a main surprise. But significantly, both victories provided territorial (re)gains, even without significant parallel operations on land. Adding to that, the slogan terra marique is in effect a perfect description of the operational practices in Roman naval warfare. Naulochus and Actium, even though mainly, if not exclusively, naval battles, gave Young Caesar victories in civil wars that also regained Roman land. Consequently, as I have recently argued, Young Caesar used two narratives of justification during the civil war period: one connected to triumphs, partly turning civil wars into foreign wars, and one to the triumviral assignment, including the ending of the civil war.51 Returning to Corbett’s statement that only in rare cases were wars decided by naval victo-

47 Suet. Aug. 22; see Rich 2003, 332, 335–336. 48 R. Gest. div. Aug. 13, Trans. Cooley 2009. Terra marique is restored from the Greek. 49 Cf. R. Gest. div. Aug. 3.1: bella terra et mari civilia externaque. 50 Richardson 2008, 118–120. 51 For a more developed argument, see Lange 2016.

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ries,52 the slogan terra marique may even have helped Augustus to conceal that there was little actual fighting on land. Alternatively, it may have advertised the positive implications of the naval victories themselves: victory in the war. Yet apparently, as Corbett suggests, ‘it is almost impossible that a war can be decided by naval action alone’ (see above). A closer look at the naval battles and campaigns in question therefore seems especially called for at this point. The battle of Naulochus53 Considering the campaign of the triumviri against Sextus Pompeius in 38 BCE, Welch is right to point to the problems of Young Caesar, being ill-prepared as he was for the war.54 Better planning would be needed in order to secure victory: a huge undertaking of ‘unprecedented preparations’ was called for, including the building of a naval infrastructure: harbours, ships, trained sailors, ship-sheds, and a complex naval organisation.55 Young Caesar may thus have suffered a setback in 38 BCE, but it was never more than that.56 In order to invade Sicily a fleet was of course required, including transport ships; again, we should remember that this was never only a question of winning naval battles.57 Referring to Augustus’ reforms, Kienast rightly emphasises that the lessons from the campaign against Sextus Pompeius had been learned by Augustus:58 Rome and Italy had to be protected, partly with naval bases, despite odd claims elsewhere in the literature that their construction was not a strategic decision.59 The battle of Naulochus was never meant to be only or predominantly a naval battle. Or put differently, with Corbett, as above, a naval battle can hardly ever win a war. We need to realise just how odd the lack of proper land warfare is in 36 BCE and indeed 31. That realisation clearly and in no way detracts from the importance of the battles at Naulochus and Actium; this is only a question of the wider implications and consequences of a naval victory, turning them into campaign victories. Sextus Pompeius must have known that a defeated fleet would cost him the war, but at the same time that a naval victory would never bring him victory, only a chance to fight another day.

52 53

Corbett 1911, 16. New trends have rightly warned against underplaying the role of Sextus Pompeius and his relative position in the political landscape of the Late Republic. See now mainly Welch 2012; Lange 2018; Crawford 2008, on Sextus as an example of an ‘alternative state’; see Rich 2018 on Sextus as a warlord. For an altogether different take on the military developments, see Welch 2012. 54 Welch 2012, 266–267; Suet. Aug. 16; App. civ. 5.81–92; Cass. Dio 48.46.5–48.4. 55 Welch 2012, 269. 56 Contra Welch, as above. 57 App. civ. 5.92; 98; 104; cf. Caes. Gall. 4.22; Zos. 2.22; etc. 58 Kienast 1966, 48. 59 Strab. 184C; Suet. Aug. 49; Tac. ann. 4.5; Starr 1960, 11–29, see also Rankoy 2007, 56.

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There were naval engagements in 36 BCE because Young Caesar and Lepidus wanted to bring troops to Sicily, whereas Sextus Pompeius wanted to prevent them: in short, this is amphibious warfare. In the end Young Caesar succeeded in gaining naval superiority and as a result, Sextus Pompeius’ never had a chance. Accordingly, the land-based war never materialised because Sextus already knew this was a foregone conclusion. The legions of Sextus Pompeius were rather mixed. Apart from regular legions of Roman soldiers, he recruited locally.60 There were also a number of refugees, as well as fugitives and runaway slaves.61 As for the operational mode of Sextus Pompeius, the (guerrilla) raids were irregular, based on ambush, harassment, and attrition.62 Florus tells us that he ravaged Puteoli, Formiae, Vulturnum, the coast of Campania, the Pontine marches, Aenaria and even the mouth of the Tiber, thus attacking Rome’s military infrastructure at Puteoli and Ostia.63 Cassius Dio emphasises that Sextus Pompeius was angry to have been overlooked in the treaty of Brundisium, thus suggesting that he wanted to be part of the triumvirate.64 This was all ironically reminiscent of 67 BCE, when a Roman fleet was destroyed at Ostia by pirates, something which in the end gave Pompeius his command against the pirates.65 But as well as Sextus’ composition and tactics, there were also the raw numbers for Young Caesar to bear in mind. Since a victory on land was necessarily part of the equation, so too was a numbers-game.66 The invasion force is one matter, but the total number of troops available to Young Caesar was something rather different (after Misenum, the numbers of Antonius in principle need to be added as well). After Agrippa had taken Tyndaris, Young Caesar ferried 21 legions across.67 Appian is the key to what happened at Sicily. There were apparently skirmishes all over Sicily, but no decisive battle.68 This reveals Sextus Pompeius’ plan and problem – he could not defeat

60 Dio. Cass. 48.17.6. 61 App. civ. 4.85; Vell. 2.73.3; Dio. Cass. 49.12.4. 62 Cic. Att. 9.6.3; Vell. 2.73.3; Flor. 2.18.1–2; Plut. Ant. 32.1; App. civ. 5.77, 80; Dio Cass. 48.46.4–5. Hunger in Rome: Dio Cass. 48.18.1; App. civ. 5.43; Oros. 6.18.19. Sextus Pompeius gaining control over Sicily: Dio Cass. 48.19.1; App. civ. 4.84–85; Oros. 6.18.19; Liv. Per. 123. According to Powell 2002, 103: ’Seizing Sicily, he used the island – along with Sardinia and Corsica – not to launch a full-scale invasion of Italy but to mount a naval blockade of Rome’s seaborne imports, and most importantly of her grain supply’. This may be so, but blockading was an act of war. This is thus equal to the famous ‘Starvation blockade’ of World War I, with the British Navy successfully blockading Germany in a war of attrition (see Halpern 2006). Berdowski 2011, 44 rightly emphasises that a regular land invasion of Italy would have been impossible – Sextus Pompeius could not have won. The fleet was never enough. 63 Flor. 2.18.1–2; Meiggs 1973, 38–41. 64 Dio. Cass. 48.31.1–2. 65 Cic. Manil. 33; Plut. Pomp. 25.3; 49.4; Dio Cass. 36.22; 36.37.3. 66 Brunt 1971, especially 498–500; see 507–508 on the fleets. 67 App. civ. 5.116; cf. Dio Cass. 48.49.1. 68 App. civ. 5.118.

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the joint forces of Lepidus and Young Caesar in a pitched battle.69 This would in the end lose him the war. Appian is thus very likely right to propose that Sextus Pompeius needed to stake all on a major engagement, not on land–where intimidated by the force of Young Caesar’s infantry he would certainly lose and expected to do so–but at sea. This was his chance, at least to live to fight another day as in 38 BCE. Young Caesar agreed to this proposal because, according to Appian, it would be cowardly to refuse.70 This may not be the whole answer, and Young Caesar certainly knew that eliminating the enemy fleet and thus ensuring at least some kind of local command of the sea or sea denial was vital, securing transport lanes and logistics. The alternative was to leave open the possibility of his army being trapped. Terra marique was therefore a very fitting slogan for Young Caesar’s victory: the purpose was to retake Sicily and render the sea secure from raiding. The naval battle of 36 BCE thereby became part of the wider operational and strategic objective of Young Caesar. Sextus Pompeius’ base – Sicily – had to be neutralised. This was only possible using land troops, even if they were in the end not doing much actual fighting. Young Caesar could accordingly justify his elevated claim to victory on both land and sea. Fittingly, in 36 BCE, after the war against Sextus Pompeius, Young Caesar was given an honorific column on the Forum Romanum, with prows (Mylae/Naulochus), a golden statue, and an inscription: Peace, long disrupted by civil discord, he restored on land and sea. τὴν εἰρήνην ἐστασιασμένην ἐκ πολλοῦ συνέστησε κατά τε γῆν καὶ θάλασσαν.71

No enemy is mentioned by name. Looking at the Fasti Triumphales entry for 36 BCE, an interesting picture emerges: Imp. Caesar Divi f. C. f. II, IIIvir r(ei) p(ublicae) c(onstituendae) II, ovans ex Sicilia idibus Novembr. a. DCCXVII72

69

Brunt 1971, 499 estimates that Lepidus had 14 legions. After the defeat of Sextus Pompeius and Lepidus, Young Caesar had 45 legions (App. civ. 5.127; Oros. 6.20.6). At Messana 8 of Sextus Pompeius’ legions capitulated to Lepidus (App. civ. 5.122–123; Vell. 2.80; Suet. Aug. 16; Oros. 6.18.30). 70 App. civ. 5.118. 71 App. civ. 5.130; trans. Carter 1996. For the monument, see Palombi 1993. The translation might even preferably be ‘Peace, which had long been disrupted by civil war, he restored on land and sea’. For Appian’s use of stasis in connection with Roman civil war, see Lange 2017. Appian (civ. 5.132), on the ending of the civil war in 36 BCE, is extremely revealing. The word stasis is used by Appian to describe this process (‘This seemed to be the end of the civil dissensions’). 72 Degrassi 1947, 86–87, 569; Fasti Barb.: Degrassi 1947, 342–343: [e]x Sicilia].

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The enemy is left unmentioned. This way in addition to ending the civil war Young Caesar could even claim an ovation for it, normally not possible after a victory in an exclusively civil war. As a result the triumviral assignment was accomplished and Sicily restored to Roman rule.73 The victory was never portrayed as only a naval battle, but as a campaign against insurgents: against the alternative state of Sextus Pompeius.74 The elliptical ex Sicilia suffices and fitted Young Caesar’s purpose well, legitimising his ovation. The battle of Actium Actium unquestionably had prime position as a naval battle during the Empire, not least due to the changing nature of later naval operations:75 while the fleet retained functions relating to logistics and transport, there is an almost total absence of naval battles in imperial history. The next major sea battle was during the civil war between Constantine and Licinius, in which Crispus attacked the fleet of Licinius and won a naval victory.76 Rome controlled the Mediterranean and there simply was no room for any enemy naval bases. Mare nostrum had consequently evolved to denote a single geopolitical space, justifying recent claims that the Imperium Romanum–in the sense of a territorial empire–encompassed the Mediterranean, the largest of the narrow seas.77 This was the end result, whether we view it as a strategic decision or not, and Rome accordingly sought to keep its enemies far from the sea.78 The battle of Naulochus should of course not be forgotten in this process, as this victory over Sextus Pompeius was hailed as creating peace after civil war. This civil war was later begun again by Antonius, helping Cleopatra. In the end peace was finally restored after Actium and this way 36 BCE became the obvious precursor of Actium. Actium is similar to Naulochus insofar as scholars have largely ignored the fact that the naval battle was only ever envisioned as part of the intended battle or perhaps only as an amphibious engagement.79 In chapter 25 of the Res Gestae, Augustus presents 73 74 75

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On the assignment, see Lange 2009, 13–38; on Sextus Pompeius and the triumviral assignment, see Lange 2009, 33–38; Lange 2020. On alternative states in general (and not only with reference to Sextus Pompeius), see Crawford 2008. A ‘newly-discovered’ Claudian relief – The Casa di Pilatos Relief, perhaps from Misenum (Schäfer 2013; Lange 2016, 171–194) – shows Actium as a civil war victory, with Romans fighting Romans in an elaborate naval battle scene, and the Actian triumph, thus conspicuously stating what the Augustan period was not quite ready to do: Actium was an exclusively civil war and the middle triumph of 29 BCE was a civil war triumph. Zos. 2.22–26; RIC VII Constantinopel 18 R1. Schivardi 2016, 92; Cic. Prov. 31. Schivardi 2016, 96. Lange 2011, 620.

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the battle of Actium as ‘the war in which I conquered at Actium’ (bellum quo vici ad Actium), or in the Greek edition ‘the war in which I was victorious at Actium’. As I have remarked elsewhere, when combined with in hac regione this phrase cannot denote a battle, but rather a campaign:80 bello quod pro republica gessit in hac regione. Neither proelium/pugna nor navis/classis are mentioned here, contrary to RG 3.4. Murray proposes that in hac regione from the inscription of the Nicopolis Victory Monument refers to the campaign that ended at Actium.81 The war ended at Alexandria, even if the most important battle was Actium. The Victory Monument was undoubtedly a naval monument, with beaks from enemy ships, but terra marique, as well as Mars paired with Neptune, suggest that while a naval battle was vital for the victory, this was not its only strategic element. It is thanks to the discovery of a new block, TI · NEP, or Marti · Neptuno, that we can perceive the emphasis on both Mars and Neptune–that is, terra marique.82 This was a long campaign, one that started before Actium – with the declaration of war against Cleopatra – and continued well after the battle was won. Actium ended the first part of the campaign, and certainly decided the outcome of the war, but the war itself was ended later, with the capture of Alexandria in 30 BCE. This is a description of a campaign, not just a naval battle. The naval engagement was only part of the intended battle and to the surprise of everybody Cleopatra and Antonius ran away, as suggested by Plutarch;83 consequently the land battle never materialised.84 The fullest account of events leading up to the battle of Actium is Cassius Dio at the beginning of book 50: later in book 51 he claims that the Actium triumph was for a naval victory, but the parallel evidence suggests this was for a campaign, concluded at Actium.85 There is talk of general mobilization and the relative strength of the two sides is accessed, in terms of territory.86 This was unquestionably never meant only to be a naval battle – Actium was part of a bellum, a campaign and/or war. Young Caesar accordingly gathered all his troops of military value at Brundisium.87 According to Cassius Dio one of Young Caesar’ military objectives was, as mentioned, to gain

80 Lange 2009, especially 121. 81 Murray/Petsas 1989, 138. 82 See Zachos 2003, 76. 83 Plut. Ant. 68.2–3. 84 For a fully developed argument on the battle of Actium, see Lange 2011. Ladewig 2014, 233 strangely proposes that the enemy mentioned in R. gest. div. Aug. 3.1 as having been defeated terra marique is in fact Antonius, branding him as it were as a foreign enemy. This cannot be. First, there is talk of bella terra et mari civilia externaque. Secondly, the foreign enemy is positively Cleopatra (R. Gest. div. Aug. 27.1: Aegyptum imperio populi Romani adieci). This way Young Caesar could claim to have ended the civil war once again – the civil war, ended after Naulochus but resumed by Antonius in Cleopatra’s aid (see Lange 2009, 79–90; Lange 2016, 85, 121–123, 129–133) – as well as having defeated a foreign enemy (Cleopatra). 85 Dio Cass. 21.7. 86 Dio Cass. 50.6. 87 Dio Cass. 50.11.4–5.

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possession of the enemy fleet, or alternatively, to neutralise its fighting capabilities.88 Cassius Dio emphasises that he occupied the high ground where the Victory Monument now stands and consequently tried to gain command of Actium by land and sea.89 Partly the objective was to ensure local command of the sea, or sea denial, as mentioned earlier,90 and partly to control sea routes: modern scholarship, echoing Corbett, has tended to emphasise the importance of this aspect, insofar as seapower is a question of communications, near-global mobility, and exploiting a wide environment.91 Defeating the enemy fleet at Actium, Young Caesar could claim that Antonius and Cleopatra could no longer attack Italy, something they were allegedly planning to do.92 If successful, operational tasks could be carried out without significant challenges, including the transport of troops to the theatre of war in Greece.93 Having accomplished this, a land battle would then potentially help settle the war. In the end however a naval battle turned out to be sufficient, as the enemy fled the scene: while the fighting was still at its height, Cleopatra chose to flee and Antonius to follow her. As the sources tell us, it was Cleopatra’s flight which determined the outcome. As a direct result, the troops changed sides, seeing their commander retreating and later being abandoned by Canidius Crassus and the other officers.94 They had been ordered into Macedonia by Antonius and remained intact as a fighting force for seven days.95 A principal aim of a navy is to obtain and maintain control of its own bases and deployment areas.96 Naval warfare is dependent on platforms, as navies cannot hold the sea the way armies can occupy land.97 In the end Antonius lost his base, his fleet, and his army at Actium; and as a result, he lost the war. Turning to the ideological implications, the phrase terra marique may also help in the discussion about whether or not Actium was celebrated as a curule triumph or a naval triumph – the Fasti Triumphales entry is missing.98 Another impressive piece by

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Dio Cass. 50.12.1; cf. 11.1; for Young Caesar’s manpower and especially his fleet at Actium, see Lange 2011. 89 Dio Cass. 50.12.3–5; cf. Plut. Ant. 63.6–8; Pelling 1988, 275. 90 Corbett 1911, 91–106, emphasising an uncommanded sea, as well as local and temporary command of the sea. 91 For the paraphrase, Gray 2015, 96; cf. also Vego 2009, 24; Vego 2016, 26. 92 Liv. Per. 132; Vell. 2.82.4; Tac. ann. 3.18; Plut. Ant. 56.1–2, 4, 57.3, 58.1–2, 60.2; 62; Paus. 4.31; Dio Cass. 50.3.2; 50.9.2; 50.12–13; Flor. 2.21.1–3; Lange 2009, 65, 73; contra Murray 2012, 242, who suggests that Cassius Dio (50.9.2) might be right that this was Antonius’ intention. 93 Cf. Vego 2009, 30 on general sea control. 94 Plut. Ant. 68.1–3; Dio Cass. 51.1.4. 95 Plut. Ant. 67.5, 68.3. 96 Vego 2009, 38. 97 Speller 2014, 28, 31. 98 Contra Engels 2016, who emphasises that Young Caesar used ‘land-based patterns and arguments’ (311; cf. 312: ‘Augustus never attributed the same importance to naval as to land-based propaganda’).

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Dart & Vervaet has recently restated that Actium was a naval triumph.99 They agree that “Augustus himself emphatically stated at RG 4.1 that he ‘celebrated two ovations’.100 Augustus singles out a special triumph, the ovation, but not a naval triumph, clearly distinct from a normal triumph, at least on the Fasti Triumphales.101 Augustus shrewdly refers to curulis triumphos and ovans triumphavi in the Res Gestae, suggesting they were different, yet also both triumphs. If we follow the logic of the Fasti Triumphales, which singles the naval triumph out as a special triumph – it identifies special types of triumphs in addition to the triumph proper, such as ovations, naval triumphs, and Alban Mount triumphs – Augustus could indeed have mentioned Actium as a naval triumph, if that is what it was. One might add that that the entry of Romulus is of interest: Romulus Martis f. rex.102 The next son of a god appears in 40: Imperator Caesar Divi f.103 Feeney concludes that Augustus used the triumphal list to ‘create for himself this loop back to the time of divine origins.104 Both men had three triumphs and this may of course be a reason behind the Res Gestae description. Perhaps naval triumphs were (similar to) a curule triumph: Dart & Vervaet do suggest that ‘the columna rostrata was the monumental expression par excellence of the naval variant of the curule triumph’.105 But the more this similarity is emphasised, the more important it becomes that a main difference was, or so it would seem, the procession itself; the crews (citizen and allies, rowers, and marines) did process, and this will have been a distinctive feature of the naval triumph.106 Whatever we make of this, two conclusions seem essential. Firstly, there exists no evidence calling Actium a naval triumph;107 that conclusion is purely circumstantial. Secondly, the Actian triumph is mentioned as a curule triumph on the Res Gestae, thus at the outset not suggesting a difference between the Illyrian, the Alexandrian, and the Actium triumph. Roller rightly emphasizes that both Duilius and Young Caesar erected columns with rostra, Young Caesar clearly replicating the form of Duilius.108 Even so, Young Caesar still received an ovation for Naulochus, not a naval triumph, even if this was (partly) a naval battle. One might say that at Naulochus this was mainly a question of the enemy; the deligitimising narrative of ‘piracy’ was

99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107

Dart –Vervaet 2016, cf. 2011; 2018. Dart –Vervaet 2016, 391. See Lange 2016, 43–48; cf. 31–48 for the different triumphal celebrations. Degrassi 1947, 64–65, 534. Degrassi 1947, 86–87, 568. Feeney 2007, 181. Dart –Vervaet 2016, 403; cf. also 2018. Lange 2016, 43–48. Augustus could have used the phrase bellum navale (cf. Cic. Man. 28, list of wars of Pompeius), but he did not. 108 Roller 2013, 120–122.

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certainly a part of this.109 Naval triumphal honours were consequently visible, even without a naval triumph.110 Interestingly, looking at the contextual logic of the Res Gestae, chapter 3 mentions wars and civil wars fought on land and sea (bella terra et mari c[ivilia ex]ternaque), followed by chapter 4 on triumphs and ovations. On the one hand, the number of thanksgivings offered to the gods on Young Caesar’s behalf in chapter 4 are again related to victories terra marique; but on the other, and significantly, the list of triumphs and ovations clearly and naturally refer to the victories won in the wars mentioned in the previous chapter, terra marique. The repetition of terra marique in Res Gestae 3.1 (civil and foreign wars), 4.2 (triumph 29 BCE, the end of civil war) and 13 (the closing of the Temple of Janus) ‘links these three seminal moments in his [Young Caesar] early career, creating narrative progression of war to peace’.111 This all refers to the accomplishment of the triumviral assignment and the bringing of peace after civil war, after victory and the subsequent triumph of 29 BCE. These victories were not just in naval battles, that is, Naulochus and Actium; they were campaign victories on land and sea. Young Caesar needed a campaign victory, terra marique, not just an isolated naval victory, in order to claim to have accomplished the assignment of the triumvirate; this makes, or so I believe, a naval triumph less attractive and consequently less likely. The parallel evidence of mainly Appian on Naulochus and the Victory Monument at Actium suggest clearly that this slogan – terra marique – was used in 36 and 31 BCE. As a Nachtrag, the question of the enemy at Actium is still open for debate: Rich has pointed to Cassius Dio, who writes: ἐν δὲ τούτῳ καὶ ἔτι πρότερον συχνὰ μὲν καὶ ἐπὶ τῇ τῆς ναυμαχίας νίκῃ οἱ ἐν οἴκῳ Ῥωμαῖοι ἐψηφίσαντο. τά τε γὰρ νικητήρια αὐτῷ, ὡς καὶ τῆς Κλεοπάτρας, καὶ ἁψῖδα τροπαιοφόρον ἔν τε τῷ Βρεντεσίῳ καὶ ἑτέραν ἐν τῇ Ῥωμαίᾳ ἀγορᾷ ἔδωκαν.112 During this time and still earlier the Romans at home had passed many resolutions in honour of Caesar’s naval victory. Thus they granted him a triumph, as over Cleopatra, an arch adorned with trophies at Brundisium …

109 Lange 2016, 115–121; contra Welch 2012, esp. 10, who argues that ‘the younger Caesar’s victory at Naulochus was originally celebrated as the end of civil hostilities, not as a victory over pirates and slaves’. In fact, I would suggest that it was both. After all, there were ostensibly two narratives: (1) the triumvirate, ending the civil war, and (2) the triumphal narrative, with a legitimate enemy = pirates and slaves. See above. This is supported by two letters from 36 BCE written by Young Caesar which accuse Sextus Pompeius of encouraging piracy (App. civ. 5.77, 80; cf. Hor. Epod. 9, 9–10, fighting a slave war). 110 Lange 2016, as above. 111 Ginsberg 2017, 71, referring to Lange 2009, 146–149. 112 Dio Cass. 51.19.1, 31 BCE. This also points back to Dio Cass. 50.4.5: The war declared on Cleopatra, in reality over Antonius; see also Rich 2016.

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This is contrary to the information given later at 51.21.7 (29 BCE): ἐν δὲ τῇ δευτέρᾳ ἡ πρὸς τῷ Ἀκτίῳ ναυκρατία, κἀν τῇ τρίτῃ ἡ τῆς Αἰγύπτου καταστροφή.113 On the second day the naval victory at Actium was commemorated and on the third the subjugation of Egypt

The Senate could of course not know in 31 BCE that the war would produce another triumph, taking Alexandria. Also, even if no enemy was mentioned in the laurelled letter sent to the Senate, they would naturally have assumed that this was against Cleopatra, or alternatively, even a civil war triumph against Antonius. Decimus Brutus’ Mutina triumph is the obvious precedent, and the Fasti Amiternini may support this view.114 In any case, after 30 BCE, in view of another triumph in the war against Antonius and Cleopatra and of the fact that Young Caesar was not yet ready to celebrate an exclusively civil war triumph, something had to change–and this change seems visible in Dio. 51.19 is thus Dio’s interpretation; or, alternatively–and more likely–it is a recalibration of the genuine SC of 31 BCE in the historian’s own words. Later in 30 a second triumph was voted, for the same war and against the same enemy. Consequently, in 29 the enemy was missing in connection with the Actium triumph, as the conquest of Egypt was well-suited as a foreign war.115 Dio, following most likely the acta of the Senate, gives us a unique view into the workings of the honour system of Rome. The war was of course declared against Cleopatra, but in reality against Antonius according to Cassius Dio;116 this is the (new) official version. Actium was not an exclusively civil war triumph and Antonius was not the main enemy, but in the end Young Caesar cleverly decided to say as little as possible about the enemy.117 This way he could claim both to have accomplished the triumviral assignment – the ending of the civil war – and to have triumphed against the enemies of Rome. Summing up: Victories on land and Sea This paper has focused on the interaction between ideology and practice. At Naulochus Young Caesar won the campaign against Sextus Pompeius and was accordingly given an ovation; Sicily, too, was (re)conquered. In principle this could not possibly be done by a naval battle alone. After Actium Young Caesar was given a triumph, but not,

Note the similarity of this account to Liv. per. 133: Illyria and then Actium, but followed by Cleopatra instead of Egypt as in Dio. 114 Lange 2016, 133–139; Havener 2016, esp. 108–109. 115 Lange 2016, especially chapter 6. 116 Dio Cass. 50.4.5. 117 Contra Havener 2016, 83–139. 113

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it seems, a naval triumph. He needed his victories to be more than just naval battles, in order to justify the accomplishment of the triumviral assignment. The honours to Agrippa in both 36 and 29 BCE suggest that the naval victory was celebrated;118 but the overall war, which included land operations, had Young Caesar in charge, and he was given an ovation and a triumph respectively. The slogan terra marique does of course in principle not exclude a naval triumph. The fact however that the battle of 36 BCE produced an ovation, not a naval triumph, may suggest that Young Caesar did not use the naval triumph tradition. It did not, or so it seems, suit Young Caesar to celebrate his naval victories with naval triumphs; yet at the same time he did draw on the traditional habitus if not the actual form of the naval triumph in celebrating them, with rostral columns and the award of the naval crown to Agrippa. Significantly, there could in principle be no triumph without pacification, and the closing of the temple of Janus in 29 BCE, together with the building of the Victory Monument at Nicopolis, was part of the justification for triumph. The slogan terra marique fitted the needs of Young Caesar perfectly. He could claim campaign victories on both land and sea; certainly enough to be granted a triumph, while at the same time suggesting that he had achieved peace throughout the Roman Empire. This showed that the triumviral assignment had been accomplished (civil war) and that Rome had once again been victorious (against Egypt, in a foreign war). He had reclaimed Sicily and the eastern part of the Empire, lost in the civil wars against Sextus Pompeius and Antonius and Cleopatra. The emphasis was naturally on regaining territory, not on “losing it” in the first place. The Alexandrian triumph was about a foreign country, not yet part of the Roman Empire. This was different altogether, at least in principle. The civil war narrative focused on the positive outcome – there is little doubt that the ending of the civil war dominated, but the tranquil ending can only operate as a counterbalance to the not so tranquil, that is to say, the civil war itself. Significantly, in order to produce triumphs and successfully accomplish his triumviral assignment, naval battles were never enough. Land victories and campaigns were needed for this purpose, as well as for reasons of justification; but land-based warfare was also emphasised as a reflection of reality, since the naval battles were always conceived of as only part of the equation. Naulochus and Actium were never exclusively civil wars, but similarly, they were never exclusively naval battles; they were campaign victories.

118 Lange 2016, 43–48.

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Memorable Women and Women in the Memory of Civil War* Kathryn Welch It is commonly observed that the onset of civil war in the first century B. C. E. coincides with greater visibility and even greater agency for women in Rome and Italy.1 This is all too often seen as a temporary change in their socio-economic situation followed by a period of socially engineered repression.2 This viewpoint begs a fundamental question. Did civil war create new parameters for women, or did this extraordinary context expose elements that are not normally so clearly on view and that we are conditioned not to see even when they are indicated? Through a series of examples, this paper will argue that the latter is more often the case than the former.3 The high-status women who lived through the civil wars of the first century B. C. E. appear to have negotiated their way through the chaos by means of time-honoured customs and contexts rather than innovative intervention. Roman women spent much of their time with other women. They entertained each other, petitioned each other, and competed for status as fiercely as their menfolk did.4 *

1 2

3 4

In the years since this paper was first delivered many people have contributed to its development. I would like to thank Harriet Flower, Kit Morrell, Josiah Osgood, Roger Pitcher, Celia Schultz, Andrew Stiles, Susan Treggiari, Tonya Rushmer, and Lewis Webb for challenging assumptions and encouraging some necessary changes of direction. Probing questions and comments from those who attended the conference in Konstanz, the CA in Leicester (2018), and the participants of the Parilia Work-inProgress (2022) were also very welcome. All remaining errors and misconceptions are still mine. For a theoretical explanation of what constitutes ‘visibility’ in this context, see Webb (forthcoming). For example, Cluett 1998, 67 begins his study by saying, ‘In spite of earlier episodes of both female intervention and social upheaval, our sources suggest that the tumultuous years after Caesar’s assassination witnessed female political activity of unprecedented nature and variety, from social protest to diplomatic negotiation.’ Christ 1993, Cluett 1998, Sumi 2004, 196–97, and Milnor 2005 follow a similar path. On those ‘earlier episodes’, see Webb 2022. For reassessments of Roman women, politics, and status in the second and first century, Flower 2002; Schultz 2006a; Valentini 2012; Cenerini and Rohr Vio 2016; Rohr Vio 2017, 2019; Treggiari 2019, Webb 2019a and 2019b, Rosillo-López 2022. Purcell 1986, 81; Hemelrijk 2015, 207, 213; Webb 2019b, 47–54 (including a survey of earlier scholarship).

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Scholars have noted how networks of women functioned in Rome and the Roman world. In observing their behaviour, we should understand that while much of the focus will be on interactions with their natal and marital families, they also interacted with many different sectors of society.5 Most importantly, the wealthy propertied women that can be observed in the texts, monuments and images of the civil war period were well integrated into the religious life of their community and were even part of a formal ordo in which precedence was based on their husbands’ dignitas and their own family standing.6 This broad integration into the religious, political, and economic life of the community should form a prominent strand in how we think about women and the culture of civil war. What is specific to the civil war context, perhaps, is the extent to which the interventions of women were commemorated, not merely in private settings but also via literary and physical monuments that endured. Part of the healing process involved an acknowledgement of the many ways that women of high status–those connected to the Triumvirs, those who supported their opposition, and those from a wider spectrum of social backgrounds–could make a difference for good or ill in a time of chaos. Their forms of intervention, however, relied on pre-existing socio-economic and political realities that can be observed across a far broader timeframe.7 The culture of civil war and the need to reconstruct society after the horror, therefore, presented women with a greater opportunity to stand out though strategies that were often familiar and rarely revolutionary. The implications of this situation are significant. A lack of visibility for women in our sources should not be taken to mean that they were not involved in the same spheres of activity that can be observed when the spotlight falls on them. Generations of women before and after the civil wars of the first century will have had the same agency as well as the same restrictions. What is different is how they are talked about – and indeed even the fact that they are talked about in the first place. Remembering Roman Women and Women’s Memories At the beginning of his Annales, Tacitus states, quotus quisque reliquus qui rem publicam vidisset (‘Few indeed were left who had seen the res publica’). In light of this, Nisbett considers the literary survivors – people whom we associate with the Principate but who were in fact of similar age to Augustus himself. He recalls men like the historians Livy, Seneca the Elder, and Fenestella as people who had long memories and a direct 5 6 7

Richlin 2021 has recently comprehensively made this case. Purcell 1986, 81–90; Setälä 1999; Osgood 2006, 64–82; 2013; Welch 2011; Brennan 2012; Hemelrijk 2015, 213–218; Webb 2019a, 257–259; 2022, 158–163; Richlin 2021, 221–224. Treggiari 2005, 140–147; Osgood 2006, 84; 2013, 30–43, 47–64.

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influence on civil war narratives.8 It has not escaped scholars that there was another group of long-lived survivors. As Treggiari remarks, at least two notable women witnessed the civil war of 49 to 27 and outlived the princeps.9 The first is Livia, his wife, who was born in either 59 or 58 B. C. E. and died in 29 C. E. The second is Junia, wife of Cassius and sister of Brutus, who was probably born in 72 B. C. E. and died in 22 C. E. Her funeral, and especially her testamentary arrangements, served to remind her contemporaries of her famous menfolk, her extensive wealth, and her long life as a widow.10 To them should be added Scribonia, mother of Julia and aunt of the likenamed wife of Sextus Pompeius, last referred to in connection to the ‘conspiracy’ of Drusus Libo in 16 CE.11 Livia and Junia were two of many Republican women who lived on to an advanced age. Cornelia, daughter of Scipio Africanus, wife of Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus (cos. 177) and mother of the famous tribunes, was born around 195 B. C. E. and died perhaps around 110 or even later.12 Plutarch ends his double biography of Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus with an evocative image of her regaling the many visitors she received in her luxurious villa at Misenum with stories of her father and sons.13 Her daughter Sempronia, wife of Publius Scipio Aemilianus, was born around 170 B. C. E. and died sometime after 102.14 Livia, wife of Publius Rutilius Rufus (cos. 105), is said to have lived to the age of 97. According to Münzer, she was perhaps born around 156 B. C. E. and so will have died in the 50s. Syme argues for a later birth date, suggesting that she might even have witnessed the outbreak of civil war in 49.15 Servilia, mother of Brutus, was

8

Nisbett 1995; Welch 2009, 205, 212; Cornell et al. 2013, “70. Fenestella”: 489–96, 938–63; 74. “L. Annaeus Seneca (Maior)”: 505–508, 982–985. 9 Treggiari 2005, 140. 10 Tac. ann. 3.76; Treggiari 2005, 140; 2019, 93. Although they will be mentioned from time to time, I have deliberately chosen not to focus this paper on the ‘famous’ women of the Triumviral period, including Livia, Octavia, Fulvia, Hortensia, and the Vestals in order that other individuals and groups might highlight different aspects of the ‘culture of civil war’. 11 Pettinger 2012, 7, 31–32, 228–232. 12 Flower 2002, 161. Dates vary, but Cornelia Gracchi must have been alive for most of the second century B. C. E. On Cornelia also see Dixon 2007. 13 Plut. C. Gracchus 19.2: ἡδίστη μὲν οὖν ἦν αὕτη τοῖς ἀφικνουμένοις καὶ συνοῦσι διηγουμένη τὸν τοῦ πατρὸς Ἀφρικανοῦ βίον καὶ δίαιταν, θαυμασιωτάτη δὲ τῶν παίδων ἀπενθὴς καὶ ἀδάκρυτος μνημονεύουσα, καὶ πάθη καὶ πράξεις αὐτῶν, ὥσπερ ἀρχαίων τινῶν. (‘She was indeed very agreeable to her visitors and associates when she discoursed to them about the life and habits of her father Africanus, but most admirable when she spoke of her sons without grief or tears and narrated their achievements and their fate to all those enquiring as if she were speaking of men of the early days of Rome’). See also Rohr Vio 2017, 96. Valerius Maximus (6.7.1) records an intimate anecdote concerning Cornelia’s mother (Webb 2019a, 271). Was she responsible for preserving this as well? 14 Dixon 2007, 12. 15 Val. Max. 8.13.6; Plin. nat. 7.158; Münzer 1920, 282, 300, 313 = 1999, 268, 276, 288; Syme 1984, 199; Treggiari 2019, 64–65. Pliny (nat. 7.158) also mentions the actor Galeria Copiola brought back onto the stage at the age of 104 in 8 C. E.

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born around 100 B. C. E., and died after 42.16 Terentia, the wife of Cicero, was alleged to have outdone Livia Rutili by living to the age of 103. She was probably born around 98 B. C. E. and died around 6 C. E.17 Scribonia, for a short time wife of the younger Caesar and mother of his only child Julia, was born around 68 B. C. E. and died sometime after 16 C. E.18 Just like Cornelia, they could have been rich in stories and valued curators of family history.19 One can only imagine how different their accounts might have been from those enshrined in the public record. Women and the Economy of Civil War Property-owning women had always been able to offer substantial assistance in furthering the careers of their menfolk, but in a period of disruption when such men lost access to their own wealth, that assistance could be a matter of life or death and, if they survived, a means by which a career could be re-established. The key factor at play here is the separation of property in marriages without manus (the most common type in Republican Rome). Wives did not automatically lose their property if their husbands were condemned.20 The famous example is Terentia who, when Cicero was exiled in 58, continued to maintain her own social position and wealth despite reports that she was humiliated and threatened by Clodius, Clodia, and their friends.21 Cicero commends her for working tirelessly for his recall, but he does not expect her to use her own property to support him and would prefer that she did not.22 Our knowledge of women’s economic circumstances should be applied whenever we attempt to understand them in a civil war context. The disruption presented them with opportunity for profit as well as for heroics.23 This is especially true in the context of the proscriptions of 43–42 when the Triumvirs stipulated that all members of the Roman community, no matter what their relationship to the victim, assist in locating 16 17 18 19

Treggiari 2019, 47. See also Borello 2016. Treggiari 2007, 153. Tansey 2000, 265; Canas 2009; Welch 2012, 235–236. Dixon 2007, 31, 60 suggests the same for Sempronia, daughter of Cornelia and sister of the Gracchi. Webb (pers. comm.) goes further, remarking that they might be thought of as ‘brand managers’. Although as Beness and Hillard 2016, 95 note, this is more inference than fact, the possible technical removal of Sempronia from her natal family would not preclude her role as storyteller any more than Terentia or Servilia could be prevented from ‘dining in’ on tales of Cicero and Caesar, among many others. Treggiari 2019, 62–65. 20 Treggiari 1991, 364–391; Gardner 1986, 5559; 1993, 85–109; Hemelrijk 2015, 22–23. 21 Treggiari 2007, 66; also, Wigelsworth 2013. 22 Cic. fam. 14.1[SB 8]. See also dom. 59, Sest. 54, Cael. 50; Treggiari 2007, 65–66; Richlin 2021, 230. Cicero also speaks of the Vestal Fonteia’s protection of her brother Fonteius reflecting her vestal duty of caring for Rome (Cic. Font. 46–8; Webb 2022, 164). 23 Osgood 2006; 2014, 52–55; Welch 2011. Harder 2014, 84–87 discusses the association of women and fides in narratives of the Roman Republic.

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and killing anyone on the list.24 In describing the moral contest of who did most for whom during this terrible time, Velleius offers a short and brutal assessment: Id tamen notandum est, fuisse in proscriptos uxorum fidem summam, libertorum mediam, servorum aliquam, filiorum nullam. One thing, however, demands comment, that toward the proscribed their wives showed the greatest loyalty, their freedmen not a little, their slaves some, their sons none.25

In Velleius’ estimation, loyal wives were most deserving of thanks, while sons, quite shockingly, fell behind even enslaved and freed members of a household. Appian prefers to provide examples of virtue and notoriety in a more extensive digression on tales of escape and disaster across a broader spectrum of Roman society: ἐδεδοίκεσαν γὰρ οὐχ ἧσσον τῶν σφαγέων οἱ μὲν γυναῖκας ἢ παῖδας οὐκ εὐμενῶς σφίσιν ἔχοντας, οἱ δὲ ἐξελευθέρους τε καὶ θεράποντας, οἱ δὲ καὶ δανεισμάτων χρήστας ἢ χωρίων γείτονας ἐπιθυμίᾳ τῶν χωρίων. For some were not less fearful of their wives and ill-disposed children than of the butchers, while others feared their freedmen and their slaves; creditors feared their debtors and neighbours feared neighbours who coveted their lands.26

What is common to both authors is an emphasis on wives and their readiness to assist or betray their menfolk often by using their own means. The phenomenon, however, predates both Terentia and the onset of proscription. In the context of his account of the exile of Gaius Marius and his associates in 88, Appian describes the participation of wealthy women in the various efforts to save him and his associates: οἱ δὲ τῶν ἐξελαθέντων στασιῶται, ὅσοι τῶν πλουσίων, καὶ γύναια πολλὰ πολυχρήματα, τοῦ δέους τῶν ὅπλων ἀναπνεύσαντες ἠρεθίζοντο ὑπὲρ καθόδου τῶνδε τῶν ἀνδρῶν καὶ οὐδὲν σπουδῆς ἢ δαπάνης ἐς τοῦτο ἀπέλειπον, ἐπιβουλεύοντες καὶ τοῖς τῶν ὑπάτων σώμασιν ὡς οὐκ ἐνὸν τῶνδε περιόντων ἐκείνοις κατελθεῖν. The members of the banished faction, especially the rich, and many wealthy women, who now found a respite from the terror of arms, bestirred themselves for the return of the exiles. They spared neither pains nor expense to this end, even conspiring against the bodies of the consuls, since they thought they could not secure the recall of their friends while the consuls survived.27

24

Extensive discussions of women during the proscriptions of 43–42 include Hinard 1985; Henderson 1998, 11–36; Osgood 2006; 2014; Powell 2008, 51–75; Welch 2009; 2019a; Hopwood 2015; 2019. 25 Vell. 2.67.2. 26 App. civ. 4.13. 27 App. civ. 1.63.

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Appian does not specify whether this group of wealthy high-status troublemakers were wives, mothers, or even relatives. They are folded into the story of the στασιῶται (“faction members”) and their effort to change the course of history.28 This tantalising reference is frustratingly brief, but even so it shows the extent to which Appian (or his source) sees women’s wealth and their ability to determine how it was used as notable, but not in and of itself scandalous. The social information embedded in negative examples is equally illuminating, as we see from the story of Vettius Salassus and his unnamed wife in the Triumviral proscriptions: [Σάλασσος] … πεπραμένης δὲ τῆς οἰκίας μόνος αὐτὸν ὁ θυρωρὸς τῇ οἰκίᾳ συμπεπραμένος ἐπέγνω … ὁ δὲ τὴν γυναῖκά οἱ καλέσαι προσέταξεν ἐκ τῆς ἐκείνης οἰκίας. ἡ δ᾿ ὑποκριναμένη μὲν ἐλθεῖν ἐπείγεσθαι, δεδιέναι δ᾿ ὡς ἐν νυκτὶ καὶ θεραπαίναις τὸ ὕποπτον, μεθ᾿ ἡμέραν ἥξειν ἔφη. καὶ γενομένης ἡμέρας ἡ μὲν τοὺς σφαγέας μετῄει. [Salassus’] house had been sold. The janitor, who had been sold with the house, was the only one who recognized him … Salassus told the janitor to call his wife from her own house. She pretended to be very desirous to come, but to be fearful of the night and distrustful of her female slaves and said that she would come at daybreak. When daylight came, she went for the butchers.29

As though it is too common to attract comment, what is clear is that Salassus’ wife had not been made homeless or destitute in the event of her husband’s disaster. She simply moves into her own house (as you do!). Appian tells us that the wife of Septimius, who wanted to make room for a new husband, also had her own house and servants to fall back on. The embedded context once again highlights how women could survive the condemnation of a family member even if they were not as ruthless as Mrs Salassus or Mrs Septimius. Moreover, other anecdotes suggest an unwillingness to harm women even when they had broken the law and assisted their menfolk.30 Survival was possible. So too was profit. Maintaining one’s wealth was a huge issue at the best of times, but disruption made it even more acute. On the other hand, public auctions of confiscated property presented possibilities to the unscrupulous on

28 Welch 2019, 445. For the parallel story of Quarta Hostilia (Liv. 40.37.1, 5–7) see Webb 2019b, 10–11. 29 App. civ. 4.23.96–97, 24.98–99. Valerius Maximus (9.11.7) supplies the nomen. Hinard 1985, 543– 544; Osgood 2014, 54–55. 30 Apart from Julia herself, who was in clear breach of the edict’s orders, we are told that ‘Ligarius’ wife’ hid her husband and, after he had been betrayed and executed, she demanded that she be killed as well, as the edict commanded. Even the Triumvirs themselves refused to do so, whereupon she starved herself to death (App. civ. 4.23). Lewis Webb is currently exploring the concept of matronarum sanctitas in a forthcoming paper. Some of his key texts which speak to an unwillingness to harm some women include Val. Max. 5.2.1; Plut. Rom oder vit. 20.3; Festus, Gloss. Lat. 142L, 143L.

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more than one occasion and there is good evidence to suggest that some women went hunting for bargains not just in the auctions of the 40 s but in the 80 s as well. Plutarch, when criticising Gaius Marius for owning a luxury villa at Misenum, tangentially offers evidence for the history of its ownership. καὶ γὰρ ἦν ἐκεῖ περὶ Μισηνοὺς τῷ Μαρίῳ πολυτελὴς οἰκία, τρυφὰς ἔχουσα καὶ διαίτας θηλυτέρας ἢ κατ᾿ ἄνδρα πολέμων τοσούτων καὶ στρατειῶν αὐτουργόν. ταύτην λέγεται μυριάδων ἑπτὰ ἡμίσους Κορνηλία πρίασθαι· χρόνου δ᾿ οὐ πάνυ πολλοῦ γενομένου Λεύκιος Λεύκολλος ὠνεῖται μυριάδων πεντήκοντα καὶ διακοσίων· For at Baiae near Cape Misenum, Marius owned an expensive house which had appointments more luxurious and more effeminate than became a man who had taken active part in so many campaigns. This house, we are told, Cornelia bought for seventy-five thousand drachmas; and not long afterwards Lucius Lucullus purchased it for two million five hundred thousand.31

The Cornelia named in Plutarch’s anecdote is almost certainly the daughter of Lucius Cornelius Sulla, Marius’ enemy.32 Valerius Maximus emphasises her reputation for avarice by alleging that she cheated her son Quintus Pompeius Rufus (tr. pl. 52) of his inheritance.33 The low price she paid for Marius’ villa was almost certainly secured at the public auctions held in the aftermath of her father’s victory, the large profit a result of selling it for its real worth sometime afterwards. There is even better evidence from both Cicero and Suetonius that Marcus Brutus’ mother Servilia acquired confiscated property following Caesar’s victories in the 40 s B. C. E.34 These examples raise some interesting possibilities. How much were women able to increase their wealth precisely because unlike many men they were often present in Rome throughout the disruption and able to bid at auction? Was it possible for them to purchase at auction in a manner that was not quite as publicly obvious or heinous as it would have been for a male relative, especially if discreetly shielded behind a tutor or agent? Were they employing the strategy observed in the wake of Titus Annius

31 Plut. Mar. 34.2. 32 This is the most sensible identification (D’Arms 1968, 187; Badian 1973, 121–124). Longfellow (2018, 117), citing D’Arms, proposes Cornelia mater Gracchorum, but Plutarch implies the villa’s subsequent fate. Moreover, Lucius Lucullus (cos 74) had the means and the reputation for luxuria that the anecdote requires. Badian (1978, 125–131) argues reasonably that the Scholia Bobiensia is mistaken in asserting that Gaius Scribonius Curio acquired Marius’ villa as a direct result of its confiscation and instead he probably bought it later from Lucullus. Badian does not consider whether the scholiast might have preserved a connection with the public auctions, while omitting the intermediate purchasers. 33 Val. Max. 4.2.7. 34 Cic. Att. 14.4[SB 358].2; Suet. Iul. 50; Macr. Sat. 2.2.5; Treggiari 2019, 109, 119n147.

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Milo’s conviction in 52 of buying property as a strategy for keeping it ‘in the family’ or ‘among friends’?35 If it was, can we assume that they always gave it back? In the case of Milo’s property, Milo appears to have had reservations about Cicero, who in turn had reservations about Philotimus, who worked for Terentia, and, eventually, Cicero had reservations about Terentia herself.36 In all likelihood, Cornelia, Servilia, and even Terentia represent a substantial number of women who used the economic advantages that disruption afforded them even while they simultaneously suffered tragic personal loss. These ‘wicked women’ reveal not only that some could profit, but perhaps also just why Velleius’ accolade for the more heroically inclined wives was so enthusiastic. Daughters with living fathers depended on their paterfamilias for their financial well-being. Mothers (especially widows) lost a political ally as well as a child when they lost a politically active son. Although women were also mothers, sisters, and daughters, as wives they were freer to choose different courses of action. Consequently, any loyalty shown towards their imperilled husbands had a particular power to attract the fervent praise of a grateful survivor. Shared Memories and the Bonds of Common Experience When war broke out in 49 B. C. E., some women fled with their husbands, as they had done in the earlier civil war.37 Cicero’s womenfolk were left on their own and asked to regulate their behaviour by observing other women isto loco (of similar rank).38 Perhaps the most famous single event involving women in the early Triumviral period was their protest against proposed financial levies in 42.39 Several commentators have commented on the unusual nature of the women’s actions in speaking out from the rostra, but it is important to notice how aspects of normal behaviour are embedded in the story. For example, there is a description of what the women expected to happen:

35 Cic. Att. 5.3[101].2–3; fam. 8.3.[79].2; Bailey 1968, 202–203; 1977, 388. 36 Cic. Att. 6.4[118].3, 6.5[119].2, 6.7[120].1; Asconius C54.20; Marshall 1985, 208–209; Lewis 2006, 257; Skinner 2021, 195. 37 Treggiari 2007, 100–113; Emberger 2008, 52. During the earlier civil war, Metella fled to Sulla in 85, bearing news of the destruction in Rome. This, in addition to a twist in relations with Mithridates, enabled Sulla to return to Italy. The story is almost certainly from Sulla’s own memoirs (Plut. Sull. 22.1; Badian 1962, 49; Tatum 2011, 172–173). 38 Cic. fam. 14.18[144].2: vos videte quid aliae faciant isto loco feminae et ne, cum veletis, exire non liceat. (You must observe what the other women of your rank are doing and take care that when and if you do want to leave you don’t find the way barred). See also Fam. 14.14[145]; Att. 7.14[138].3; Treggiari 2007, 102–104; Emberger 2008, 51–52; Richlin 2021, 230. 39 The story is extensively covered. See, for example, Purcell 1986, 81; Cluett 1998, 69–71; Sumi 2004; Osgood 2006, 84–88; 2006a, 540–541; Welch 2011, 312–313; Hopwood 2015; Lucchelli and Rohr Vio 2016; Manzo 2016, 131. Schultz 2021, 90 has usefully reimagined it from Fulvia’s point of view.

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αἱ δὲ γυναῖκες ἔκριναν τῶν προσηκουσῶν τοῖς ἄρχουσι γυναικῶν· δεηθῆναι. τῆς μὲν δὴ Καίσαρος ἀδελφῆς οὐκ ἀπετύγχανον, οὐδὲ τῆς μητρὸς Ἀντωνίου· Φουλβίας δέ, τῆς γυναικὸς Ἀντωνίου, τῶν θυρῶν ἀπωθούμεναι χαλεπῶς τὴν ὕβριν ἤνεγκαν, καὶ ἐς τὴν ἀγορὰν ἐπὶ τὸ βῆμα τῶν ἀρχόντων ὠσάμεναι, διισταμένων τοῦ τε δήμου καὶ τῶν δορυφόρων … The women resolved to beseech the womenfolk of the Triumvirs. With the sister of Caesar and the mother of Antonius they did not fail, but they were repulsed from the doors of Fulvia, the wife of Antonius, whose rudeness they could scarce endure. They then pushed their way onto the tribunal of the Triumvirs in the forum, the people and the guards dividing to let them pass.40

According to Appian, Fulvia is the only woman who did not play her proper part in this incident. She puts her husband’s interests, and arguably her own, above a formal approach from women she is meant to respect.41 Many of them might reasonably have felt that in rebuffing the assembled women, including women like Hortensia – wife and daughter of consuls, she placed herself above the principes feminae. Rome was not yet ready for that. As a consequence, they make their way to the forum.42 Hortensia’s oratory is not their weapon, however. Appian explicitly comments on the Roman crowd shielding the group from any violent reaction.43 The underlying expectation is that the leaders of the principes feminae of the day would assist them, no matter which side their menfolk favoured, or the reaction to Fulvia makes no sense.44 Moreover, the same social organisation can be seen in other contexts and genres. For example, Lucan’s description of reactions at Rome to the news of Caesar’s advance in 49 first likens the situation to a private funeral but he then moves from private to public and from simile to reality as the matrons, faced with the fear of an attack on the city, change their clothes and, moving in groups to each shrine, carry out ritual lamentation on behalf of the state. Each group knows exactly which shrine to attend: Nec cunctae summi templo iacuere Tonantis: divisere deos, et nullis defuit aris invidiam factura parens.

40 App. civ. 4.32. 41 Cluett 1998, 73. 42 Hortensia’s speech was known to and commended by later authors, such as Valerius Maximus and Quintilian (Val. Max 3.8.3; Quint. inst. 1.1.6; Osgood 2006a, 540–541; Hopwood 2015). Not only did the women manage to resist an authoritarian regime, but the list of liable women was reduced from 1400 to 400 (App. civ. 4.34.146). 43 App. civ. 4.34.145; Osgood 2006a, 540; Welch 2011, 313. 44 Welch 2011, 313.

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Nor did they all prostrate themselves in the temple of the supreme Thunderer; they divided the gods among them, and no altar lacked a mother to call down shame upon it.45

Lucan makes no attempt to give a sense as to which side any individual woman favoured. All were united in grief at the impending disaster and moved in concert. The scene references other famous epic moments, but it also represents civil war Rome, especially in the claim of the spokeswoman that the women would be forced to rejoice once a victor was announced whether they wanted to or not.46 Lucan’s female speaker claims that agency would be more limited for them as well as their menfolk once a victor had emerged.47 There were times when groups of women were forced to flee from their homes. Authors offer diverse accounts of the flight of Livia, the future first lady of Rome, and her husband, Tiberius Claudius Nero, from the troops of their enemy, young Caesar, who would later become her second husband and then the princeps of Rome. In her arms was her baby son Tiberius, later the adopted son and successor of their tormentor. Velleius focuses only on Livia and Tiberius (and Velleius’ own grandfather who was in their entourage).48 Cassius Dio, however, sets his account within the context of the group, relating the hurried departure of several high-status women including Fulvia, who had been actively engaged in the fighting in Italy, and Julia, Antonius’ redoubtable mother.49 Aspects of these narratives commemorate the bonds that could be forged across the partisan divide. When this family, along with many others, found refuge with Sextus Pompeius in Sicily, Pompeius’ sister, who had joined her brother there earlier, was said to have become very fond of the two-year-old Tiberius and presented his mother with gifts that were still on display in Baiae in Suetonius’ own day.50 This public memorial of civil war is even more poignant given that his father was said not to like Sextus Pompeius while his adoptive father led the determined military campaign that led to Pompeius’ defeat and death.51

Luc. 2.34–36. Private funeral: 2.21–29; ritual lamentation: 2.29–33. See Sall. Cat. 31.3 for a similar (though less detailed) image. 46 Hemelrijk 2015, 207; Rohr Vio 2017, 100, 108. Fantham 1992, 85–86 draws out the references to the Iliad, the Aeneid, to Ovid (especially met. 7.603) and to Senecan tragedy but not the image of Roman women and their attendance on Roman temples. The gravity that Lucan invests in the scene is stressed in the rhythm of line 36 (Fantham 1992, 85). Sannicandro 2010, 227 also draws attention to Livy’s lamenting women. Lucan moves deftly between the private and the public and between men and women in these evocative lines (Sannicandro 2010, 223–229). 47 Luc. 2.39–42. 48 Vell. 2.75.2–3; Huntsman 2009, 142; Welch 2011, 309–311. 49 Cass. Dio 48.15.2–4; Welch 2011, 311; Schultz 2021, 102. 50 Suet. Tib. 6.2; Weinrib 1968, 262–263; Welch 2011, 329–330. 51 Suet. Tib. 4.1. 45

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Divided Loyalties and Opportunity It was a common thing for women to act as mediators in the political conversations of late Republican Rome. For example, Mucia and Clodia (respectively sister and wife of Quintus Metellus Celer) were called upon to assist in the delicate exchange between Cicero, Celer, and Quintus Metellus Nepos in early 62.52 In 59, Cicero was able to remain in contact with Publius Clodius Pulcher via Atticus and Clodia.53 Thus, many women already had the skills, networks, and access that enabled them to mediate between different sides when politics descended into crisis. It would have been common for women to have had relatives and friends on both sides of the conflict. During the first civil war, we are told that supporters of the exiles sought to enlist the help of Sulla’s wife Metella because of a wide-spread perception that she could influence him. She was not successful, but the expectation is still indicative. There is no direct evidence that Aurelia intervened to save her son Caesar from the Sullan reprisals of the 80 s but Suetonius notes the role of Caesar’s relatives Mamercus Aemilius and Aurelius Cotta (almost certainly Aurelia’s brother) in his preservation. A hint that she too was involved might be discerned through the involvement of the Vestals who will have been her social equals and natural companions.54 Servilia, the mother of Marcus Brutus, was surely not the only elite Roman woman whose connections and influence enabled her to offer to get a senatorial decree changed through other well-placed male relatives.55 If she were, Cicero’s expressions of shock would almost certainly not have been restricted to her forthright interruption of his unwelcome soliloquy. These examples provide context for the storied episodes of the Triumviral period. Appian and Plutarch describe Julia, Antonius’ mother, protecting her brother from the

52 Cic. fam. 5.2[2].6: egi cum Claudia uxore tua et cum vestra sorore Mucia, cuius erga me studium pro Cn. Pompei necessitudine multis in rebus perpsexeram, ut eum ab illa iniuria deterrerent. (‘I addressed myself to your wife Claudia and your sister Mucia – her friendly disposition towards me as a friend of Gnaeus Pompeius had been plain to me in many connections – and asked them to persuade him to give up his injurious design.’) 53 Cic. Att. 2.9[29]1: illum vero qui nondum habitus est, quem illa Boῶπις, cum e Solonio redierit, ad te est relatura, sic velim putes, nihil hoc posse mihi esse iucundius. (‘As for the [conversation] that has not yet taken place, which our Lady Ox Eyes is to report to you when she gets back from Solonium, do understand that nothing can delight me more’). See also Att. 2.14[34].1: Quantam tu mihi moves exspectationem de sermone Bibuli, quantam de colloquio Boώπιδος, quantam etiam de illo delicato con­ vivio! (‘How you whet my appetite about your talk with Bibulus, your discussion with Ox Eyes, and that apolaustic dinner party too!’). On the ubiquity and importance of such conversations as political action, see Rosillo-López 2022, 187–191. 54 Metella: Plut. Sull. 6.12; Aurelius Cotta and Mamercus Aemilius propinquos et adfines: Suet. Iul. 1; RE Aurelius 248 (Klebs). Aurelia would have been the most appropriate person to approach the influential Vestals for help (Webb 2022, 165). 55 Cic. Att. 15.11[389].1; Flower 2018; Treggiari 2019: 190; Webb 2022: 177–178. Servilia also is alleged to have intervened to save Marcus Brutus in the Vettius affair of 59 (Wigelsworth 2013, 66).

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soldiers who had been sent to kill him after he had been proscribed. Although the accounts differ in detail, Julia’s character, efficacy, and stern words are highlighted in each case. Appian has Antonius sum up her dual loyalty as he reluctantly pardons his uncle and removes his name from the list: ὁ δὲ αὐτὴν ἐπιμεμψάμενος ὡς ἀδελφὴν μὲν ἀγαθήν, μητέρα δὲ οὐκ εὐγνώμονα (οὐ γὰρ νῦν χρῆναι περισῴζειν Λεύκιον, ἀλλὰ κωλύειν. ὅτε σου τὸν υἱὸν εἶναι πολέμιον ἐψηφίζετο). Antonius reproached her for being an unreasonable mother, although a good sister, saying that she ought to have prevented Lucius in the first place from voting her son a public enemy instead of seeking to save him now.56

The anecdote implicitly accepts that a woman not only had an opportunity but also a duty to lobby on behalf of relatives.57 Julia was able to save her brother, but Antonius’ complaint that she should have done more to prevent her son being voted a hostis in the first place is not without justification. In fact, she had tried to do just that on at least one occasion, when she and her daughter-in-law Fulvia put on mourning clothes and visited the houses of leading senators to gather support for him at the beginning of 43.58 When Julia was compelled to leave Italy in the wake of the Perusine War, Sextus Pompeius assigned his most significant senatorial supporters the task of escorting her to Antonius’ headquarters. Antonius made this act of generosity his excuse for distancing himself from the younger Caesar and, with Pompeius as his ally, proceeded to engage in open conflict.59 Julia’s role changed from providing him with the means to do what he probably wanted to do anyway to clearer intervention when she reportedly advised Antonius to let the blame fall on the recently deceased Fulvia and to resolve his differences with young Caesar at Brundisium.60 Of course, this was only part of the movement to bring the two Caesarian generals back into friendship but her insertion into the story with little further comment again suggests just how normal such an event was regarded. Similarly, in 39, the people of Rome persuaded Mucia, the mother of Sextus Pompeius, to travel to Misenum and assist with the negotiations that followed a further outbreak of fighting, thus making Mucia into a latter-day Veturia.61 Octavia, the younger Caesar’s sister and Antonius’ wife, is credited with actively slowing down

56 App. civ. 4.37.158; Plut. Ant. 20.3. 57 Earlier intercessors, mediators, and advisers, both historical and legendary, include the Sabine wives, Veturia and Volumnia, mother and wife of Coriolanus (Welch 2011, 311–314), and Sulpicia gravis(sima) femina, mother-in-law of Spurius Postumius Albinus cos. 186 (Liv. 39.11.3–5). On Cornelia as active (or conceived of being active) in the politics of her day, Webb 2022, 169–172. 58 App. civ. 3.51. Contra Rossi 1993, I cannot see that the incident reveals anything about Julia’s own politics. On Julia and Lentulus Sura, see also Rohr Vio 2017, 99. 59 App. civ. 5.51; Welch 2012, 230–235. Cf. Gowing 1992, 86. 60 Osgood 2006, 188–195; Welch 2012, 236–238; Schultz 2021, 100–103. 61 Welch 2012, 240–251; Vivas García 2019.

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what many regarded as an inevitable rift that developed between her brother and her husband in the later 30s.62 The emphasis on female negotiating skills in narratives of the period bespeaks a desire to include them in the story – and even to emphasise their efficacy in these delicate and fraught situations. In none of these cases were the individual women criticised for playing a decisive and visible role. They were not viewed as ‘interfering’ or ‘out of place’. Rather, I suggest, their interventions are extensions of the role they had always played but performed in circumstances that could mean life and death for individuals and communities alike. Defender and Sentinel Fulvia attracts a unique level of hostility in civil war literature for her cruelty, avarice, sexual activity, and propensity for military intervention. She is a scapegoat, however, rather than a paradigm.63 It has been noted that in many ways she displays similar virtues to her female contemporaries, especially in her loyalty to Antonius and her care for their children.64 Less noted is the fact that she is not alone in taking an active part in the violence and that others who do so are praised rather than blamed for their ‘military’ capacity. Evidence for this comes from the remarkable inscription recording a laudatio fune­ bris of a husband for the woman he had been married to for four decades. We do not know her name, but the story of her life has given scholarship much rich information about a woman experiencing civil war at Rome.65 That her husband felt so compelled to deliver such a eulogy in the first place and then to have it inscribed in stone for future generations to read speaks volumes for the emotions that the memory of civil war could arouse and one person’s determination to commemorate his wife for her individual actions. There has been comment on the possibility that the laudator risked both his own reputation and hers in including such descriptions, because both would be seen to have overstepped the boundaries that confined both male and female members of Roman society. In my own view, the striking words of the orator will have resonated with as many people as they offended. After all, the original audience will have known them both. Rather than trying to explain a situation that does not match our expectation, it is possibly better to change our expectation.66 62 63 64 65 66

Singer 1947; Christ 1993, 143–146; Welch 2011, 314–319. Delia 1991, 200–204; Welch 1996; Hemelrijk 2004; McHugh 2004, 88–94. For a full-length treatment of Fulvia’s life, see Schultz 2021. Delia 1991, 204; Cluett 1998, 82–83. Treatments include Osgood 2006, 67–73; 2014; Lindsay 2009; Franco 2016; Hopwood 2019. Hemelrijk 2004, 185. As Hemelrijk 2015, 205 later notes: ‘Rather than regarding these women as the proverbial exceptions to the rule, we may suggest that in the Roman world, the ‘rules’ may have been less rigid, or less uniform across the Empire than we have often been inclined to think’.

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As Osgood notes, the wife’s “female” virtues are merely listed, whereas the wife’s singular bravery is illustrated by specific examples.67 The laudator proudly tells us that she had to defend her home against attack. She risked proscription herself when she hid her husband during the massacres of 43–42, and more than once she supported her husband by means of her wealth.68 Osgood summarises this lesson by saying that the oration shows, ‘not just how law affected women, it reveals too a Roman woman’s ingenuity, her stamina, her willingness to fight.’ The orator relied on his wife’s courage and was happy to celebrate it. In fact, he showed so little regard for any impact his words might have on his own reputation that he turned them into a permanent memorial. In the climactic ending to this dramatic text, this man sums up what he has lost, using distinctive, specifically feminised, military language which is as revelatory as it is unusual: sed quod tranquilli status erat mihi tecum totum amisi quam speculatricem et propugnatricem meorum pericolorum. cogitans calamitate frangor But I have wholly lost my peace of mind along with you, who were the warner(-ess) and front fighter(-ess) of my dangers. Confronted with that disaster, I am shattered.69

The laudator calls his wife his propugnatrix (female ‘champion’) and speculatrix (female ‘scout’), not only in the time of greatest peril but also for the whole period of their life together. His cry from the heart suggests the extent to which the current state of calm only masks the memory of horror. And only her death has finally defeated him. Frango must be a deliberate choice. In a military setting, it describes the utter capitulation of an army. Caesar, for example, uses the same word to describe the humiliation of the Aedui at the hands of the Germans: Quibus proeliis calamitatibusque fractos … plurimum ante in Gallia potuissent, coactos esse Sequanis obsides dare nobilissimos civitatis. Shattered by these battles and disasters, those men who had previously been preeminent in Gaul … were forced to surrender the leading men of the community as hostages.70

Similarly, the word carries the same sense in the finale of Livy’s Alexander digression. Livy uses frango in a way that is just as rhetorically moving as the laudator’s lament:

67 68 69

Osgood 2006, 67; 2014, 37–8. Osgood 2014, 7. Osgood 2014, 55, 93–8; Hopwood 2019, 75–77. ILS 8393 ll. 59–62. On the rarity of these expressions, see Franco 2016, 155–7. In conveying the choice of gender in the translation, one longs for the elegant latinity embedded in Italian. 70 Caes. Gall. 1.31.7, trans. Hammond, adapted.

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uno proelio victus Alexander bello victus esset: Romanum, quem Caudium, quem Cannae non fregerunt, quae fregisset acies? Alexander, on losing one battle, would have lost the war; what army could have shattered Roman strength that Caudium, that Cannae had not shattered?71

Perhaps closest to home for this discussion is Livy’s choice of frango to describe Coriolanus’ capitulation to the lamentations of his wife, and children, following the exhortations of his stern mother: uxor deinde ac liberi amplexi, fletusque ab omni turba mulierum ortus et comploratio sui patri­ aeque fregere tandem virum. Finally, the embraces of his wife and children and the tears of the entire company of women, and their lamentations for themselves and their country, at last broke through his resolution.72

Coriolanus is not broken by enemy arms in a valorous contest of virtus but by a mother’s commands and the tears of women and children as they plead for their safety and that of their city. Although Livy depicts Coriolanus as an ambivalent character and even at this point proceeds to suggest that he would face an uncertain future at the hands of the Volsci, he does not criticise him for yielding to the blandishments of the women, who are the undoubted heroes of the episode.73 In using the passive form frangor, the husband generates an image of himself as a thoroughly defeated and humiliated army. It is far from any ideal of Roman masculinity, but he does not appear to care. One can only imagine the impact of these words on those who first heard them, men and women who if they had not lived through the turmoil themselves will have been reminded not just of this woman’s bravery but also that of their own mothers, grandmothers, and neighbours.74 Caecilia Metella and the Roman landscape The first-century tomb of Caecilia Metella remains the most impressive and enduring example of female commemoration in the Roman landscape. Perched on a rise of the Via Appia at the third mile mark, this structure survived the lime kilns of ages past, and even a decision of Pope Sixtus V to strip it of its marble cladding.75 When this proposal

71 72 73 74 75

Liv. 9.19.9. Liv. 2.40.9; Webb 2022, 168. Welch 2012, 248–250; Webb 2022, 167–169. Welch 2009; Osgood 2019. Gerding 2002, 14.

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was mooted, the Roman populace protested so vociferously that the pope yielded to their demands, and so preserved a beloved landmark. We have not only the tomb itself, but also the full text of the titular inscription, still visible from the road. Caeciliae Q. Cretici f. Metellae Crassi (‘For Caecilia Metella, daughter of Quintus Creticus, wife of Crassus’).

Fig. 1 Inscription, Tomb of Caecilia Metella (Photo: Kathryn Welch)

For most commentators, the tomb is not about Caecilia Metella at all. Rather, it commemorates her husband’s family, the Licinii Crassi. Gerding, in examining the design of the building and its history over time, comments on the martial themes embedded in the decoration.76 He concludes that the commissioner was Caecilia Metella’s son, Marcus Licinius Crassus, the consul of 30 B. C. E. who, though he was not able to dedicate the spolia opima after he killed King Deldo of the Bastarnae in hand-tohand combat, still managed to celebrate a triumph over the Getae. For Gerding, the monument is about a man caught in the transition between the libera res publica and an Augustan future whose dilemmas were expressed in code via this expensive and stately tomb. As detailed and fascinating as this thesis is, the emphasis on Caecilia’s son is not convincing. If he had wished to commemorate his own deeds or those of his family or even his grandfather, he could have found a far more obvious way to do it. The impact of the new Principate did not prevent others from self-promotion no matter how close they had been to Antonius or even Sextus Pompeius. At very least he could have referenced himself as the dutiful son who raised a beautiful monument to his mother. More recently, Kinee has suggested that it probably recalls the triumph of Quintus Metellus Creticus, consul along with Hortensia’s father, Quintus Hortensius, who locked horns with Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus while serving as proconsul in

76

Gerding 2002. See Kinee 2016; Webb 2019b, art. 3. 18.

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Crete.77 This, at least, returns the focus towards Caecilia Metella’s own family rather than that of her husband. It appears that some observers find it hard to believe that this magnificent monument could really be about a woman, even though it fits an extended pattern of commemorating the interventions of women during and after the civil war.78 As Schultz demonstrated in 2006, Caecilia could well have been commemorating another Caecilia Metella whose reported dream led to the restoration of the Temple of Juno Sospita in 90 BCE as well as her father and husband.79 Yet even if the incomplete trophy frieze remains a mystery, the inscription is absolutely clear. It signifies that the tomb is for Caecilia and not for her menfolk. They are included to ensure that she is properly identified. Her name is emphasised by the larger letters that spell it out, while father and husband are delivered in an increasingly smaller font.80 Her husband’s name is relegated to its shortest form, in smallest letters and shares space with her cognomen. Furthermore, as Webb and Brännstedt note, including her father’s cognomen ex victa gente associated her with the triumph too.81 However it is interpreted, the inscription is about no-one else but her. In the end, it is Caecilia Metella and not her son who impresses the passer-by even today, and whoever commissioned the tomb must have intended this. What might she have done or been to warrant such an exceptional monument? We know nothing of her actions on behalf of her son (if he was responsible for it), but her female contemporaries isto loco allow us to speculate. As a prominent woman with a network of male and female friends and relatives, she might have smoothed over enmities and spoken to the triumvirs and their wives about her son’s welfare. She might have put her considerable wealth at his disposal once he returned to Rome. It is more probable, however, that she commissioned the tomb for herself to advertise to her far less distinguished contemporaries her own status as a daughter of one of Rome’s proudest consular families.

77 78 79 80

81

Kinee 2016, 200–203. Osgood 2014, 139–142; 2022. Schultz 2006b, 224–227. Webb (pers. comm.). The same can be said of the inscription on Eumachia’s building in Pompeii (CIL X 801 = ILS 3785; Cooley 2013, 32–36) where Eumachia, by using the nominative case and third person singular verbs, takes all the credit while relegating her son to the status of associate in much smaller letter forms. Webb 2019b, art. 3.1–16.

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Commemoration and Audience In his rightly influential article of 1986, Purcell begins with six evocative lines from the anonymous Consolatio ad Liviam: Ad te oculos auresque trahis, tua facta notamus, Nec vox missa potest principis ore tegi. Alta mane supraque tuos exurge dolores Infragilemque animum, quod potes, usque tene. An melius per te virtutum exempla petemus, Cum tu Romanae principis edis opus. You draw our eyes and ears to you; we notice all your actions, and the word of a leader once spoken cannot be concealed. Stay upright, rise above your woes, keep your spirit unbroken – as you can. Our search for models of virtue, certainly, will be better when you take on the role of female leader of Rome.82

The author of the consolatio, whether Livia’s contemporary or not, has no qualms about demanding that she be mindful of the public eye.83 The double use of princeps is significant: the first offers no hint of gender while the second calls her Romana prin­ ceps (‘female Roman leader’). Velleius, in introducing Livia, also suggests that she is a model for women first but also for all of society.84 Men, as well as women, learn from observing Rome’s First Lady, and so she cannot let down the team.85 The consolatio and other later and post-Augustan material offers us a Livia who has been raised above the level of other principes feminae.86 Before she attained that distinction, however, many other women had already gained fame or notoriety by using their wealth, status, and connections to preserve themselves and (if they chose) their menfolk.87 By accepting the evidence for what women were able to do – and even encouraged to do, it becomes possible to see why the Triumvirs, and later Caesar Augustus, promoted models of ‘good’ behaviour in an age of civil war and beyond. They needed to win the support of such grand, long-lived, and rich female opponents as Mucia, Junia, and their peers.88

82 83 84 85 86 87 88

Cons. ad Liv. 351–56. Translation and text, Purcell 1986, 78, 97 amended. quam si is an accepted alternative to cum tu. Jenkins 2009, 16–7. Purcell 1986; Jenkins 2009. Jenkins 2009, 16; Welch 2011, 324–326. Purcell 1986; Jenkins 2009; Brännstedt 2015. Brännstedt (forthcoming). Treggiari 2005; Welch 2011, 330–331; Osgood 2014. Jenkins 2009, 12 stresses the need of the poet to separate Livia from other women, but the task is difficult precisely because she was not still so very different from them. E. g., Severy 2003, 43.

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It has been suggested that Livia’s real period of visibility began after the death of her son Drusus, the dramatic occasion also of the consolatio. Her relative lack of visibility, however, does not mean that she was suddenly less valued once peace was restored or that the women of Rome did not continue to do what they had always done.89 It means that the world of Roman women ran on separate tracks that have left little trace of what Livia herself or other individual feminae isto loco were doing for most of the time.90 Of course, a woman’s role continued to be restricted by legal limitations and social conventions based on gender and conditions changed over time as they did for everyone. Women could be harder hit by moral legislation not because the law targeted women specifically but because a different standard of behaviour was expected of them. It is notable, however, that the expectation that a woman could enrich herself remained and some changes to law even reinforced it. Laws regulating fideicommissa made it less possible for the man to whom the estate was entrusted to take a woman’s inheritance for himself.91 The ‘right of three children’ (or four) released some women from the restrictions of tutela, which was already weakened for many and would disappear under Claudius.92 Being able to claim it also, perhaps, contributed to a woman’s due of public honour.93 The situation was not so easy for freedwomen but that any provision was made for them at all is testament to the widespread view that women were capable of managing their real property transactions.94 At the same time, there was little legal regulation (as distinct from social convention) to direct how women organised their estates. Only in the time of Hadrian was the concept of a female testamentum inofficiosum introduced, and this appears to be as a result of a general social movement rather than being specifically ‘anti-women’.95 Thus, a woman such as the wife of the laudatio ‘Turiae’ or her contemporary Murdia could be congratulated for being officiosa, because she could have disposed of her property in a far less dutiful way.96 Junia could be seen to be making a deliberate political comment when she chose to overlook the princeps in her will. It is impossible to ascertain the exact legal intent of these changes, but important 89

90 91 92 93 94 95 96

See also Horace Odes 3.14; Treggiari 2005, 130–133. For a recent (and subtle) expression of the “re-domestication” position, see Strong 2016, 20. ‘And it is true that the Augustan marriage and adultery laws set new traps (Strong 2016, 1–2). However, this should not cause us to lose sight of other laws that gave or extended considerable agency to (the majority of) women who were not caught in this insidious net and as a result received new forms of public honour, as Hemelrijk 2015 demonstrates. Gardner 1995, 393 makes this point with respect to Roman law. Dixon 1985, 527; Gardner 1986, 135–136; Osgood 2022. Gardner 1986, 10–16, 110, 127; 1993, 86–94; Dixon 2007, 76–88; Hemelrijk 2015, 22, 36; Kelly 2017, 110–113; Hopwood 2019: 72; Morrell 2020, 90–92. Milnor 2005, 153; Morrell 2020, 91. Morrell 2020 outlines the many impediments that severely restricted access to this right for some women, especially those who had previously been enslaved. Under Hadrian, steps were taken to prefer blood relatives, but women benefitted as well as were restricted by legislation in the period (Gardner 1993, 128, 144–149). Lindsay 2004, 91–97; Osgood 2014, 88; Strong 2016, 18–20 (for a more traditional interpretation).

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to note that they coincide with evidence for wealthy women acting as benefactors and patrons in many Roman centres and being publicly commended for it.97 Many Roman women had the means to affect individual outcomes because they had control of their own resources and because they were already an integral part of society. Apart from their family connections, they were part of an organised ordo that ensured close contact with their social peers who were also role models. In a time of chaos, some used those resources to protect and assist the men of their families who otherwise might have been killed or bankrupted. Those who behaved “badly” could also make their decisions because they themselves stood to profit from their choices. What stands out in this period is the very public way in which their actions were remembered and reported. The fashion for commemoration that followed the violence shone a spotlight on actions that, while they befitted the times, were made possible by the social position that these women already held. We should not assume that these well-connected, wealthy Roman women ever stopped their political conversations, their networking efforts and their profitable economic activities just because surviving authors sometimes pay them less attention or criticise them. Despite the rules of gender and undoubted restrictions to which they were subjected, the glimpses that we get of such women suggest that this picture is remarkably consistent. List of Illustrations Fig. 1 Inscription, Tomb of Caecilia Metella (Photo: Kathryn Welch)

Bibliography Bailey, D. R. S. 1968. Cicero: Letters to Atticus, vol. 3, Cambridge. Bailey. D. R. S. 1977. Cicero: Epistulae ad Familiares, vol. 1, Cambridge. Bartman, E. 1999. Portraits of Livia: Imaging the Imperial Woman in Augustan Rome. Cambridge. Beness, L. / Hillard, T. W. 2016. Wronging Sempronia, in: Antichthon 50, 80–106. Borrello, S. 2016. Prudentissima et diligentissima femina. Servilia, M. Bruti mater, tra Cesariani e Cesaricidi, in: F. Cenerini / F. Rohr Vio (eds.), Matronae in domo et in re publica agentes, Trieste, 165–193. Brännstedt, L. 2015. Livia on the Move, in: I. Östenberg / S. Malmberg / J. Bjørnebye (eds.), The Moving City: Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome, London, 37–46.

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Brännstedt, L. 2021. Coniunx et sacerdos: Livia as widow and priestess of divus Augustus, in: M. Bayless / J. Liliequist / L. Webb (eds.), Gender and Status Competition in Pre-Modern Societies, Turnhout, 255–273. Brennan, T. C. 2012. Perceptions of Womens Power in the late Republic, in: S. L. James / S. Dillon (eds.), A Companion to Women in the Ancient World. Wiley, Malden, 354–366. Canas, M. 2009. Scribonia Caesaris et le Stemma des Scribonii Libones, in: RPh 83, 183–210. Cenerini, F. / Rohr Vio, F. (eds.) 2016. Matronae in domo et in re publica agentes: spazi e occasioni dellazione femminile nel mondo romano tra tarda repubblica e primo impero. Trieste. Christ, K. 1993. Der Frauen der Triumvirn, in: A. Gara / D. Foraboschi (eds.), Il Triumvirato Constituente alla fine della Repubblica, Como, 135–153. Cluett, R. G. 1998. Roman Women and Triumviral Politics, 43–37 B. C., in: ECM 42, 67–84. Cooley, A. E. 2013. Women beyond Rome: trend-setters or dedicated followers of fashion? in: E. A. Hemelrijk / G. Woolf (eds.) Women and the Roman City in the Latin West, Leiden, 23–46. Cornell, T. et al. 2013. Fragments of the Roman Historians, Oxford. Dixon, S. 1985. Breaking the law to do the right thing: the gradual erosion of the Voconian Law in ancient Rome, in: Adelaide Law Review 9, 519–534. Dixon, S. 2001. Reading Roman Women: Sources, Genres and Real Life, Bristol. Dixon, S. 2007. Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, Abingdon. Emberger, P. 2008. Divided Nation – children during the Civil War between Caesar and the Pompeian Party (49–44 BC), in: Childhood in the Past 1, 49–61. Franco, C. 2016. La donna e il triumviro. Sulla cosiddetta laudatio Turiae, in: F. Cenerini / F. Rohr Vio (eds.), Matronae in domo et in re publica agentes, Trieste, 137–164. Flower, H. 2002. Were women ever ‘ancestors’ in Republican Rome?, in: J. Munk Højte (ed.), Images of Ancestors, Aarhus, 157–182. Flower, H. 2018. Servilia’s consilium: Rhetoric and Politics in a Family Setting, in: H. Van Der Blom / C. Gray / C. Steel (eds.), Institutions and Ideology in Republican Rome: Speech, Audience and Decision. Cambridge, 252–264. Gardner, J. 1986. Women in Roman Law and Society, 2nd ed., London. Gardner, J. 1993. Being a Roman Citizen. London. Gardner, J. 1995. Gender-role assumptions in Roman Law, in: EMC 39, 377–400. Harder, A.-C. 2014. “Kann man(n) Frauen vertrauen?” Zur Rolle und Bedeutung von Frauen in aristokratischen Nahbeziehungen während der römischen Republik,” in: S. Feickert / A. Haut / K. Sharaf (eds.), Faces of Communities Social Ties between Trust, Loyalty and Conflict, Göttingen, 77–96. Hinard, F. 1985. Les proscriptions de la Rome rèpublicaine, Rome. Hemelrijk, E. A. 2004. Masculinity and femininity in the Laudatio Turiae, in: CQ 54, 185–97. Hemelrijk, E. A. 2015. Hidden Lives, Public Personae: women and civic life in the Roman West. Oxford. Hopwood, B. 2009. Livia and the Lex Voconia, in: E. Herring / K. Lomas (eds.), Gender Identities in Italy in the First Millennium BC, 143–148. Hopwood, B. 2015. Hortensia Speaks: an authentic voice of resistance, in: K. Welch (ed.), Appian’s Roman History: Empire and Civil War, Swansea, 305–322. Hopwood, B. 2019. The Good Wife: fate, fortune, and familia in Augustan Rome, in: K. Morrell / J. Osgood / K. Welch (eds.), The Alternative Augustan Age, New York, 63–77. Huntsman, E. D. 2009. Livia before Octavian, in: AncSoc 39, 121–169.

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Jenkins, T. E. 2009. Livia the Princeps: gender and ideology in the consolatio ad Liviam, in: Helios 36, 1–25. Kelly, B. 2017. Proving the ius liberorum: P.Oxy. XII 1467 reconsidered, in: GRBS 57, 105–135. Kinnee, L. 2016. The Trophy Tableau Monument in Rome: from Marius to Caecilia Metella, in: Journal of Ancient History 4, 191–239. Lewis, R. G. 2006. Asconius: Commentaries on Speeches of Cicero, Oxford. Lindsay, H. 2004. The Laudatio Murdiae: Its Content and Significance, in: Latomus 63, 88–97. Lindsay, H. 2009. The man in Turia’s life, with a consideration of inheritance issues, infertility, and virtues in marriage in the 1st C. B. C., in: JRA 22, 183–198. Lucchelli, T. M. V. / Rohr Vio F. 2016. La ricchezza delle matrone. Ortensia nella dialettica politica al tramonto della Repubblica, in: A. Bielman Sanchez / I. Cogitore / A. Kolb (eds.), Femmes influentes dans le monde hellénistique et à Rome, Grenoble, 175–196. Manzo, b. 2016. La parola alle matrone. Interventi femminili in sedi pubbliche nell’età tardo repubblicana, in: F. Cenerini / F. Rohr Vio (eds.), Matronae in domo et in re publica agentes, Trieste, 121–136. Marshall, B. A. 1985. A Historical Commentary on Asconius, Columbia. Milnor, K. 2005. Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus: Inventing Private Life, Oxford. Morrell, K. 2020. Tutela mulierum and Augustan marriage laws, in: EuGrStA 10, 89–116. Nisbett, R. G. M. 1995. The Survivors: old-style literary men in the Triumviral Period, in: Collected Papers on Latin Literature, Oxford, 390–413. Osgood, J. 2006. Caesar’s Legacy, Cambridge. Osgood, J. 2006a. Eloquence under the Triumvirs, in: AJPh 127, 525–551. Osgood, j. 2014. Turia: a Roman Woman’s Civil War, Oxford. Osgood, j. 2019. Family history in Augustan Rome, in: i. Gildenhard et al. (eds.), Augustus and the destruction of history: The politics of the past in early imperial Rome, 135–155. Osgood, J. 2022. Urgulania, Plancina, and Livia: women’s initiative in early imperial politics, in: R. M. Frolov / C. Burden-Strevens (eds.), Leadership and Initiative in Late Republican and Early Imperial Rome, Leiden, 189–212. Pettinger, A. 2012. The Republic in Danger: Drusus Libo and the Succession of Tiberius, Oxford. Pölönen, J. 2002. The division of wealth between men and women in Roman succession, in: P. Setälä et al. (eds.), Women, Wealth and Power in the Roman Empire, Rome, 147–179. Powell, A. 2008. Virgil the Partisan, Swansea. Purcell, N. 1986. Livia and the Womanhood of Rome, in: PCPhS 32, 78–105. Richlin, A. 2021. The Woman in the Street: Becoming Visible in Mid- Republican Rome, in: R. Ancona / G. Tsouvala (eds.), New Directions in the Study of Women in the Greco-Roman World, Oxford, 213–230. Rohr Vio, F. 2017. Protagoniste della memoria, interpreti del passato, artefici del futuro: matronae doctae nella tarda repubblica, in: R. Cristofoli / A. Galimberti / F. Rohr Vio (eds.), Costruire la Memoria: uso e abuso della storia fra tarda repubblica e primo principato, Venice, 95–112. Rohr Vio, F. 2019. Le custodi del potere: Donne e politica alla fine della repubblica Romana, Venice. Rosillo-López, C. 2022. Political Conversations in Late Republican Rome, Oxford. Rossi, R. F. 1993. M. Antonius … Iuliae f., in: A. Gara / D. Foraboschi (eds.), Il Triumvirato Constituente alla fine della Repubblica, Como, 113–125. Sannicandro, L. 2010. I personaggi femminili del Bellum Civile di Lucano, Rahden/Westf.

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Part II Shaping the Memory of Civil War

The Spaces of Civil War* Amy Russell Bellum civile is war between cives, war internal to a civitas. The civitas of classical Latin was properly a community, rather than a city; the spatial meaning, from which our own word ‘city’ derives, is a metonymy.1 Yet civil war in the Roman world was always civic war too. In civil war, violence intrudes into the civic sphere, which in Roman terms was defined literally as civic space: domi, the space of the city of Rome.2 In this chapter, I argue that the city was the primary space of civil war. In the sections that follow, I discuss a range of ways in which civil war was spatialized and Roman space was marked by civil war. My focus is on the city of Rome itself, and on the civil conflicts of the 80 s and the shadows they cast over the generations that came after. Sulla was the first Roman commander to bring his army into the city, and the city would never be the same again. For Romans of Cicero’s generation, the experience of walking through spaces marked with the tangible and intangible traces of civil war must have been profound. They had seen blood flow in the Forum and heads exposed on the Rostra; they looked up every day at a ruin where the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus should be. Both the experience of civil war and the experience of living in a place marked by civil war must have had deep and lasting effects. Civil war disrupted the large-scale categories Romans used to understand and structure space. Friends and foes were separated conceptually, religiously, and spatially; so *

1 2

My thanks to Wolfgang Havener, Ulrich Gotter, and all the participants in Konstanz, for a stimulating atmosphere and helpful feedback. I also delivered a version of this paper at University College Dublin in 2018, and received valuable comments from Alexander Thein. I prepared the present manuscript shortly after; later revisions took place under pandemic conditions, and I regret that as a result I have not been able to take full account of more recent scholarship. All mistakes are my own, as are all translations. Dates are BCE unless otherwise noted. Civitas is defined as a group of people by e. g. Cic. rep. 1.41; Isid. orig. 15.2.1 says that the inhabitants of a city, not its stones, are properly the civitas. But see TLL s. v. civitas, 3.0.1232.75–34.5 for plenty of examples of classical authors extending its meaning to cover urban space. Arguably, violence was never totally absent from Rome’s civic space and civic life: see Nippel 1988; Lintott 1968. But Appian, at least, seems to see the political violence of the Late Republic as different from previous riots or episodes of folk justice.

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were military and civic life. Civil war made a mockery of all these classifications, as Roman faced Roman on the battlefield and Sulla led his legions into the Forum. I begin this chapter by exploring these spatial problems and how ancient authors used them to think through the paradoxes of civil war, before looking into how they played out in practice in a single case study of Sulla’s attack on Rome in 88 BCE. Finally, I move to the post-Sullan period, asking how Romans in the generations after lived with the fact that their city had been violated by civil war. Spatial definitions of civil war Appian begins his five books on the civil wars not with Sulla or Caesar, but with the death of Tiberius Gracchus. His first chapter is a potted history of early Roman civil strife, from the secessions of the plebs to the attack on Rome by Coriolanus, but he presents it explicitly as a prologue:3 a series of examples of conflict between Romans that did not constitute civil war. The real narrative does not begin until 1.2: ξίφος δὲ οὐδέν πω παρενεχθὲν ἐς ἐκκλησίαν οὐδὲ φόνον ἔμφυλον, πρίν γε Τιβέριος Γράκχος δημαρχῶν καὶ νόμους ἐσφέρων πρῶτος ὅδε ἐν στάσει ἀπώλετο καὶ ἐπ᾽ αὐτῷ πολλοὶ κατὰ τὸ Καπιτώλιον εἱλούμενοι περὶ τὸν νεὼν ἀνῃρέθησαν. The sword was never brought into the assembly, and there was no slaughter within the community, until Tiberius Gracchus was bringing in new laws as tribune. He was the first to die in civil strife, and many others, penned in on the Capitol around the temple, were killed with him.4

The death of Gracchus might seem an odd beginning for a narrative of civil war: there are no armies, no pitched battles, no declaration of hostilities.5 But Appian is explicit about why it is the flashpoint for the story he is going to tell. Gracchus was not just killed by a fellow-Roman; his murder was the beginning of violence in the spaces of political assembly and civic religion.6 Not all historians were as spatially focused as Appian, who divided his entire history of Rome’s wars by theatre. Yet a range of authors do see space as a defining feature of civil war. Velleius, for example, laments the battle between Pompeius Strabo and Cinna at the gates of Rome in 87 BCE for its location:

3 App. civ. 1.1. 4 App. civ. 1.2. 5 On the political and ideological force of Appian’s choice, see Russell 2015, 128–129. 6 The specific spatial force of ἐκκλησία here is made clear in the next sentence, in which Appian writes that in the following years magistrates were slain ἐν ἱεροῖς ἢ ἐκκλησίαις ἢ ἀγοραῖς – ‘in temples or places of assembly or fora’. Appian means ‘in the comitium’, not just ‘in the contio’.

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cuius commissi patratique sub ipsis moenibus focisque urbis Romanae pugnantibus spectanti­ busque quam fuerit eventus exitiabilis, vix verbis exprimi potest. It can scarcely be expressed in words how calamitous this event was to soldiers and spectators, begun and ended as it was under the very walls and hearths of the city of Rome.7

He intensifies the tragedy by citing not only the city walls but also domestic hearths, home to those who had to watch the dreadful battle. Seneca uses a slightly different tactic in his discussion of Caesar’s civil war, highlighting the contrast between the spaces of war and the spaces of civic life: ingratus ipse Pompei hostis ac victor; a Gallia Germaniaque bellum in urbem circumegit, et ille plebicola, ille popularis castra in circo Flaminio posuit propius, quam Porsinae fuerant. Pompey’s enemy and victor was ungrateful himself; from Gaul and Germany he brought war to the city, and this friend of the people, this popularis, placed his camp in the Circus Flaminius, closer than Porsenna’s had been.8

War, Seneca implies, belongs on the frontiers. Civil war upsets the natural order of things by bringing violence to the centre, to the city. The spatial aspect of civil war is in part a consequence of a fundamental aspect of Roman culture. The Roman world was divided into two spheres, domi and militiae: internal and external, the civic and the military.9 The Latin words are locatives, and the division was felt concretely and spatially, often apparently in connection with the pomerium, Rome’s ritual boundary.10 The space inside the boundary was not a space of war. Political meetings discussing war could not take place there, and a general who crossed the boundary without special permission forfeited his imperium.11 Civil war violated all kinds of boundaries, as the papers in this volume show in abundance. The distinction between domi and militiae was one more casualty, both conceptually, as internal politics became a military matter, and spatially, as hostile Roman armies occupied Roman territory and even the city of Rome itself. The disorder civil war produced was thus intrinsically spatialized. 7 Vell. 2.21.3. 8 Sen. benef. 5.16. 9 The locus classicus of the phrase domi militiaeque for the two spheres of Roman (elite male) achievement is Liv. praef. 9; cf. e. g. Cic. Manil. 48; Sall. Cat. 9; for discussion, Gargola 2017; Drogula 2015, 47–56; Rüpke 1990, 29–57. Giovannini 1983 proposes that the distinction was not spatial, but the inconsistencies he finds can be better interpreted, as Gargola does, as the result of multiple and sometimes ambiguous boundaries, rather than the lack of any boundary at all. Drogula 2015: 49 must be correct: although domi could mean more than just the city, the city was always domi. 10 On the pomerium, see Gargola 2017; Stevens 2017, 13–60; Drogula 2015, 49–56; Goodman 2007, 42–56; Rüpke 1990, 29–41; and below, pp. 120–2. 11 Beard, North and Price 1998, 1:177–181 collect and discuss the sources for the technical and religious restrictions on activity inside and outside the pomerium.

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Alongside the binary contrast between military space and urban space, the texts I have quoted also rely on a more nuanced spatial system. Caesar was a greater threat than Porsenna because his camp was closer to the city, while within the city, the thought of violence infringing on the Capitol or the citizen’s hearths adds further dismay. Bringing war into Italy was bad; bringing it into the city was worse, and bringing it to the literal centres of Rome’s civic or domestic life was worst of all.12 Daniel Gargola has argued that Romans conceptualized space in series of concentric circles around the urbs.13 The pomerium, the city walls, and the edges of built-up urban space all defined the city in slightly different ways; beyond that, some magistrates’ powers extended to one mile beyond the walls, while some activities were permitted, or forbidden, within five or ten miles of the city. Further afield the limits of the ager Romanus, of Latium, of Italy, and so on all delineated different spatial zones. Gargola collects an impressive range of evidence for all these boundaries and the rules and norms attached to them, but they are perhaps even more visible in the breach than in the observance. Civil war had the potential to throw all the boundaries that structured Roman space into chaos. The largest of all, the boundary between what was Roman and what was not, was vital to the idea of bellum, at least in the first century BCE Roman imaginary: the fetial procedure, the religious ritual which marked a formal declaration of war, supposedly involved a priest journeying to the edge of Roman territory to cast a spear into enemy land.14 Bellum civile makes a mockery of the rite: there was no enemy territory into which a spear could be thrown. Civil war collapsed the entire structure of concentric circles. The most distant category, hostis, was equated with the most central, Romanus. Urbs and ager, domi and militiae became interchangeable, as armies manoeuvred in the city streets while senatorial meetings were held in the Greek countryside. In response to the spatial disorder of civil war, the texts I analysed above sketch out a kind of counter-structure: the same concentric circles which differentiated Rome’s peace-time space continue to exist, if only to call attention to ever-increasing horror as war comes closer and closer to the centre. But the culture of civil war which consumed such a large part of the first century BCE could disrupt even this negative spatial framework. In his introduction to the first conflict that he titles bellum civile, the war between

12 13 14

Distances could be quantitative as well as qualitative; below I discuss an order that Sulla keep his army more than 40 stades from the city (App. civ. 1.47), while Antony was told not to move closer than 200 miles from Rome (Cic. Phil. 6.5). Gargola 2017; cf. Goodman 2007, 42–56. For the fetial rite, see Liv. 1.32; Rüpke 1990, 97–117, with references, for the controversy over the authenticity of the rite, which is not attested in Republican sources. The debate takes in the columna bellica, situated in a patch of ‘enemy territory’ outside the temple of Bellona, which was apparently used for the ritual in cases where the frontier was too far away; see La Rocca 1993, arguing for authenticity, against Wiedemann 1986. Rich 2011, 204–209 proposes that the ritual at the column was real, but that the explanation about ‘enemy territory’ was an invention of the triumviral period – itself therefore intended to help Romans deal with the conceptual difficulties of civil war.

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Marius and Sulla, Florus uses the same trope of war penetrating civic space as the authors already cited: hoc deerat unum populi Romani malis, ut iam ipse intra se parricidale telum domi stringeret, et in urbe media ac foro quasi harena cives cum civibus suis gladiatorio more concurrerent. Only this evil still remained to beset the Roman people, that they themselves should draw the kin-killing sword against each other at home, and that citizens should fight their fellow-citizens like gladiators with the centre of the city and the forum as their arena.15

Just as in Appian or Velleius, Romans fighting Romans is bad enough, but the horror is compounded by the fact that the slaughter took place inside the city.16 But just a few chapters later, as Florus refers back to the conflict between Marius and Sulla while introducing the civil wars of Caesar and Pompey, the spatial pattern is reversed: ac Mariana quidem Cinnanaque rabies iam intra urbem praeluserat, quasi si experietur. Sul­ lana tempestas latius, intra Italiam tamen, detonuerat. Caesaris furor atque Pompei urbem Italiam, gentes nationes, totum denique qua patebat imperium quodam quasi diluvio et inflam­ matio corripuit, adeo ut non recte tantum civile dicatur, ac ne sociale quidem, sed nec externum, sed potius commune quoddam ex omnibus et plus quam bellum. The madness of Marius and Cinna had already acted as a prelude within the city, a test run, as it were. Sulla’s storm had thundered more broadly, but still within Italy. The rage of Caesar and Pompey rushed through Rome and Italy, the peoples and the nations, and then finally wherever our empire stretched, like flood and fire, so much so that it should not really be called a civil war or even a war with allies; nor should it be called a foreign war, but rather something which shares in all of these and is more than a war.17

In contrast to Seneca’s image of Caesar bringing war from Gaul to Rome, Florus pictures Rome as the focus from which discord spreads until it encompasses the entire empire.18 Decades of civil war had made the city violence’s natural home.19

15 Flor. epit. 2.9.1. 16 Florus’ metaphor here, comparing the citizens to gladiators and the Forum to their arena, might already suggest a certain irony: the Forum was often used as a literal arena for gladiatorial performance, for which see Welch 2007, 30–71. 17 Flor. epit. 2.13.2. 18 Breed/Damon/Rossi 2010, 6–8 explore some other visions of civil discord spreading outwards from a rotten centre. 19 Compare Cass. Dio fr. 109.3: discussing Sulla’s conduct in 82, he writes that Sulla changed completely after he had defeated the Samnites (presumably at the battle of the Colline Gate). He left his former merciful and pious self outside the walls, and began his reign of terror. Chivalry and clemency are associated with the battlefield and the space outside the walls; the city is a place of bloody strife.

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Boundaries in practice: Sulla’s spatial crime All the historians I have cited discuss how war arrived at Rome with hindsight. But how did contemporaries understand the relationship between civil war and urban space? The first century BCE offers any number of examples to investigate, but for the sake of this paper I turn to beginnings. In 88 BCE, Sulla became the first Roman general to bring an army into the city of Rome itself. We could see this as both a religious and a spatial crime: he crossed the pomerium under arms, thus polluting the city and threatening the pax deorum.20 In the ancient sources, however, the pomerium is not emphasised. His opponents were not only keen to keep him out of the city: they wanted him further away. In Plutarch, they ask him to halt at Picinae, while in Appian he is met by envoys who order him to stay more than 40 stades distant from the city.21 As well as being sound military strategy, these orders fit into a paradigm in which distance from the centre is measured on a sliding scale, rather than a binary distinction between domi and militiae marked by the pomerium. When Sulla arrived at the walls of Rome, he divided his troops into four different detachments. He himself captured the Esquiline gate, fought a battle on the Esquiline, and then descended to the Via Sacra. Appian gives a relatively long narrative of his movements:22 Plutarch’s account is similar, though less detailed.23 Neither author, however, emphasises the moment at which he entered the city. Appian writes ‘ὁ Σύλλας ἐς τὴν πόλιν ἐχώρει δόξῃ καὶ ἔργῳ πολεμίου’, ‘Sulla entered the city with the appearance and behaviour of an enemy’.24 Appian uses Sulla’s entry into the city to bring out the paradox of civil war, in which Romans become enemies, but his concern is not with the particular moment of crossing. The specific details Appian and Plutarch report about individual detachments of troops and the pincer strategy Sulla devised on the Esquiline presumably derive eventually from Sulla’s own memoirs. It would make sense that Sulla himself did not pause on the moment of his sin, the crossing of the pomer­ ium, just as Caesar’s commentarii elide the Rubicon. But it is hard to find expressions of shock at the breach of Rome’s sacred boundary in any of our ancient sources. The periochae of Livy, like Appian and Plutarch, are more concerned with the fact that Sulla was in the city than how he got there. Neither there nor in the wider Livian tradition is there any hint that Livy made the crossing of the pomerium into a setpiece. As the ‘sliding scale’ model in the previous section might predict, then, Sulla’s spatial crime was less the breach of the religiously-defined pomerium and more the fact that

20 Thus e. g. Keaveney 1982, 53. 21 Plut. Sull. 9; App. civ. 1.57; Picinae is unknown, and the text of Plutarch may be corrupt here, but clearly some place outside Rome is meant. 22 App. civ. 1.58–59. 23 Plut. Sull. 9. 24 App. civ. 1.58.

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he appeared with his soldiers in civic space. The specific moment of crossing the po­ merium under arms does not seem to have done lasting damage to the Roman spatial imaginary: modern scholarship cares about it more than ancient authors did. It was only one of a set of concentric circles, or even a spectrum of overlapping zones, that kept warfare away from civic life. The religious threat to the auspices of a commander who entered the city under arms in a time of civil war might have bothered Cicero and a few of his erudite augural friends, though if it did he failed to mention it explicitly in any of his surviving writings.25 And if the question did occur to Romans of Cicero’s generation, it could have been because of Sulla’s interventions after the fact. Once dictator, Sulla concerned himself with defining and regulating many aspects of Roman political life, and some of the laws he passed definitely concerned the spatial boundaries of a commander’s imperium (though, again, the pomerium itself is not specifically mentioned).26 In this context, it is possible to reconstruct a narrative in which the city’s ritual boundary was polluted and needed healing. Sulla did care about the pomerium: he apparently extended it. All the sources that mention the Sullan extension do so as an afterthought, in the context of later, imperial pomerial extensions; it is not clear how the episode fitted into Sulla’s own story.27 Trevor Luke has argued that that Sulla’s pomerial extension was the natural consequence of his pomerial rupture. Having transgressed the boundary, he needed to reconstitute it.28 But it is also possible that Sulla’s religious performance in extending the pomerium was less about reassert25

There is evidence that pomerial rules were taken seriously by some people some of the time, though none of the episodes are specifically concerned with entering under arms. See e. g. Cic. nat. 2.4.1, on the religious and political problems caused when a second-century consul crossed the pomerium by accident; Plut. Caes. 13 on how Caesar had to give up his triumph after his praetorship because he needed to cross the pomerium to campaign for the consulship. A more relevant example is App. civ. 1.70, the second major advance of an army on Rome, in which Cinna and Marius are invited back into the city after besieging it in Sulla’s absence; the text is concerned with space, and particularly who is on which side of the wall, which may represent the pomerium, but the only invocation of religious or legal barriers comes from Marius, who points out that he cannot accept the Senate’s invitation to enter the city until the exile legislated against him by Sulla has been rescinded. It is Marius’ personal legal status as hostis (Cic. Brut. 168) that is highlighted. 26 In general on Sulla’s reforms, see Flower 2009, 117–134. For the spatial limits of imperium as the subject of a lex Cornelia, see Cic. fam. 1.9.2, on his disagreement with Appius about handing over the governorship of Cilicia: se, quoniam ex senatus consulto provinciam haberet, lege Cornelia imperium habiturum, quoad in urbem introisset. See Giovannini 1983, 91–97 for discussion. 27 Tac. ann. 12.23; Sen. dial. 10.13.8; Gell. 13.4; Cass. Dio 43.50. Boatwright 1986 suggests that the entire episode is a later invention; arguing for its authenticity, see Sordi 1987, 206–208. 28 Luke 2014, 47. Luke also dwells on Sulla’s use of triumphal imagery, and one could go even further: there are hints of the triumphal route in narratives of the urban battle of 88. Although Sulla entered the city via the Esquiline (App. civ. 1.58; Plut. Sull. 9; Flor. epit. 2.8), he eventually joined the Via Sacra (App. civ. 1.59; Oros. 5.19) and made his way to the Forum and thence up to the Capitoline (Flor. epit. 2.8; Oros. 5.19), thus following the triumphal route. The triumph was the only occasion when a general with imperium in command of an army was legitimately allowed to enter the city, for which see Stevens 2017, 343–351. The Livian tradition emphasises the Capitoline most strongly: Florus points out that the citadel which had resisted the Gauls finally fell to Sulla, a detail which

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ing the ancient and self-evident power of the pomerium, and more about resolving the paradoxes and ambiguities of civil war. It was only in Sulla’s time that the religious and legalistic taboos surrounding the mixing of the worlds of domi and militiae, which had always been vague and general, needed clear definition. As Jörg Rüpke has pointed out, Romans who had seen Hannibal ravage Italy did not imagine war as something confined to far-away provinces. They may not have thought in terms of domi and mi­ litiae at all.29 For Rüpke, it was the long period of peace (at least on Italian soil) in the second century BCE that allowed these concepts to develop. But Romans of the late second century, just like their grandfathers who lived through the Punic Wars, never had to parse the details: when war was always far away, there was no need to define exactly how close violence could come to the city before it constituted a threat to civic life. Once the Social War intervened, however, the fuzzy nature of Rome’s concentric circles must have become a more pressing problem. Soon, Sulla tested their limits; perhaps Sulla himself made the first moves towards defining and differentiating them. His pomerial extension thus becomes an invention of tradition, or at least an innovative codification of traditional concepts. From concepts to experience The silence of our sources about crossing the pomerium might at first sight seem to challenge the claim with which I began, that bringing violence into civic space is a fundamental feature of civil war. A close reading of the narratives of Sulla’s progress through Rome, however, shows that the space of the city was indeed vital to how Rome’s first civil war was experienced and remembered. The underlying paradox of a Roman army attacking Rome is high in all our sources’ minds: Florus says that Sulla took the Arx and quasi captivam victor insedit, ‘occupied it as if he had captured it as a victor’.30 Appian comments that this was the first battle fought in Rome with bugles and standards, contrasting it with the earlier staseis, urban riots or factional brawls.31 But one recurring feature of descriptions of the battle would not be found on a standard battlefield. Plutarch goes into the most detail: ὁ πολὺς καὶ ἄνοπλος δῆμος ἀπὸ τῶν τεγῶν κεράμῳ καὶ λίθῳ βάλλοντες ἐπέσχον αὐτοὺς τοῦ πρόσω χωρεῖν καὶ συνέστειλαν εἰς τὸ τεῖχος, ἐν τούτῳ δὲ ὁ Σύλλας παρῆν ἤδη, καὶ συνιδὼν τὸ γινόμενον ἐβόα τὰς οἰκίας ὑφάπτειν, καὶ λαβὼν δᾷδα καιομένην ἐχώρει πρῶτος αὐτός, καὶ τοὺς τοξότας ἐκέλευε χρῆσθαι τοῖς πυροβόλοις ἄνω τῶν στεγασμάτων ἐφιεμένους might well go back to Livy’s lost text. But if the details of the route through the city derive from Sulla’s memoirs, he might have used triumphal imagery to justify his boundary-crossing. 29 Rüpke 1990, 55–57. 30 Flor. epit. 2.9. 31 App. civ. 1.58.

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The unarmed multitude of the people, pelting them with tiles and rocks from the rooftops, stopped them from advancing any further, and pressed them back towards the wall. Meanwhile, however, Sulla had arrived. When he saw what was happening, he shouted to his men to set fire to the houses, and with a burning torch in his hand he himself went first. He ordered his archers to use burning arrows to set fire to the roofs above.

In Appian, too, the people resist by hurling roof-tiles until Sulla threatens to burn the city.32 These narratives move the focus from the invading army to the people of Rome: this was a time when Rome defended itself. Civilians became soldiers by using missiles that belonged naturally in an urban environment, and the advantage of height given to them by the multi-storey buildings of this great metropolis, but they also faced the ultimate urban vulnerability to fire. The confusion of the horizontal and the vertical is characteristically urban: in no other ancient battlefield would danger come so decisively from above, or would archers fire up rather than across towards their enemy. Yet this version of the spatial disorder of bellum civile was not based on a breach of the pomeri­ um or the Servian walls. The city as defined by the trauma of urban warfare was the area marked by dense occupation, flimsy wooden construction, and towering insulae: not an administrative, legal, or religious unit, but a spatial and architectural one. Already by the 80 s it stretched well beyond the urbs’ traditional borders of pomerium or walls. Long after the fires had been put out, the experience of urban warfare must have inscribed itself on the experience of the city. Who, after living through the battle, could walk down a narrow alleyway and not be reminded of fire and falling roof-tiles? It is in this sense that Sulla’s entry into Rome most definitively made the city as a whole into a space of civil war on a practical, rather than a conceptual, level. Rome had long outgrown its walls, and for decades it had needed none.33 It was only when Roman armies turned on their own city that the weakness of the centre was exposed. A similar tale could be told of the bands of slaves Marius set loose on the populace, or the plague which devastated Rome as Pompeius Strabo’s army lurked outside the walls just a few years after. Later, when violence did not necessarily touch Rome itself, urban warfare still lay in the background as the ultimate threat, and Romans living in the age of civil war were aware of their city’s vulnerability. Cicero could use it to whip up his audience against Catiline, while Pompey was so worried about repeating it that he withdrew to Greece.34 It was this threat, and not worries about religious pollution, that prompted the Senate to send Octavian the usual order to remain a certain distance from the city

32 App. civ 1.58., Florus (2.8) and Orosius (5.19) also mention the threat of fire, though not the rooftiles. 33 Stevens 2017 discusses how the walls were gradually dismantled or subsumed by construction. App. civ. 1.66 suggests that some hasty repairs were made to the Servian wars in 87, but they were no defence against the arrival of Marius and Cinna. 34 On Cicero and Catiline, see below, p. 125; Vasaly 1993, 77–80.

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(this time 100 miles) after the deaths of Hirtius and Pansa in 43; when he ignored their demands and approached the suburbs, the garrisons surrendered immediately.35 From experience to memory In the final section of this chapter, I attempt to analyse in more detailed terms how later generations understood the memory of the urban trauma of the 80 s in spatial terms. It is possible to interpret the street battles of 88 as a lieu de memoire, a prominent constitutive element in Rome’s collective memory. The memory happened to be tied to a specifically urban experience, but was not grounded in any one spot. Lieux de memoire, as theorized by Pierre Nora, do not have to be spatial at all: he uses ‘place’ primarily as a metaphor.36 But places are particularly suitable to become lieux de memoire: they remind people of events that took place there, spark them to tell stories that pass on the memory to others, or even host monuments or rituals deliberately designed to memorialize the past. Roman culture too found and made use of a deep and enduring connection between place and memory. Cicero wrote that places remind people of the past: equidem etiam curiam nostram–Hostiliam dico, non hanc novam, quae minor mihi esse videtur, posteaquam est maior–solebam intuens Scipionem, Catonem, Laelium, nostrum vero in primis avum cogitare; tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis And indeed when I looked on our senate-house – I mean the old Curia Hostilia, not the new one, which seems lessened to me even though it is larger – I used to think of Scipio, Cato, Laelius, and most of all my grandfather; places have such a strong power to remind us of things.37

He writes similarly of locations in Athens tied to stories of long ago and spots rich in recollections of his own childhood; in his speeches, he uses the places around him to call on memories he shares with his audience.38 And he had plenty to work with: the history of the Roman people and its leaders was memorialized in its spaces, with statues, inscriptions, and buildings testifying to the deeds of generations past.39 It is likely, then, that Rome held spatial lieux de memoire connected to civil war, places where visitors might be directly prompted to remember various facets of past 35 36

Cass. Dio 46.44–5. I draw here on theories of cultural memory elaborated by Assmann 2011; Nora 1984–92. Galinsky 2016 has a useful overview of these concepts and their application to antiquity. 37 Cic. fin.5.2; Piso is speaking. 38 For full discussion of his tactics, see Vasaly 1993. 39 Important works on Roman monuments and memory include Hölkeskamp 2012; Walter 2004; Meadows/Williams 2001; Hölscher 2001.

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conflicts. Not all the memories preserved in Rome’s fabric were glorious, and Cicero could draw on his audience’s collective trauma as well as their pride. In 63, when he wanted to remind them of how easily their community could fall into discord, he used the power of place: etenim recordamini, Quirites, omnes civiles dissensiones, non solum eas, quas audistis, sed eas, quas vosmet ipsi meministis atque vidistis. L. Sulla P. Sulpicium oppressit; C. Marium, custo­ dem huius urbis, multosque fortes viros partim eiecit ex civitate, partim interemit. Cn. Octavius consul armis expulit ex urbe collegam; omnis hic locus acervis corporum et civium sanguine redundavit. And remember, Quirites, all the civil conflicts – not just those you have heard about, but the ones you yourselves remember and saw with your own eyes. Lucius Sulla defeated Public Sulpicius; Gaius Marius, the guardian of this city, cast many brave men out of the community and killed many more. The consul Gnaeus Octavius drove his colleague out of the city by force; all this place was heaped with corpses and flowed with citizen blood.40

Cicero calls on his audience’s own memories of civil bloodshed to make his rhetorical point. The effect must have been shocking: just twenty years earlier, the spot on which they stood had indeed held the bodies of citizens slain by both sides in the civil war. Sulla had fought his way through the Forum to the Capitoline with his soldiers in 88, and had Sulpicius’ head displayed on the Rostra, a practice Marius and Cinna followed the next year and Sulla took up again on his return.41 Now, citizens who had seen the bloodshed, lost friends and family, or perhaps even participated in the slaughter themselves had returned to normal life. But as they strolled through the Forum or stopped to listen to a political speech, the memory of the blood that had been shed in this very place could never be far away. It seems natural, then, that Cicero made use of the Forum’s space to activate his audience’s collective memory, in order to convince them of the horrors of Catiline (and thereby Cicero’s own heroism). And yet one of the most striking things about this text is how unusual it is.42 Elsewhere in his speeches, Cicero is remarkably restrained in his references to the recent dark history of the places in which he spoke. Even in the passage quoted he avoids specificity. He was standing on the Rostra, the speaker’s platform in the Forum which had been used to display the severed heads of some of

40 Cic. Catil. 3.24. 41 The first head to be displayed on the Rostra was that of the consul Octavius in 87 (App. civ. 1.71), but Vell. 2.19.1 records that Sulpicius had already suffered the same fate. 42 Vasaly 1993, 79 n.80 compares S. Rosc. 11–12 and 154, passages in which Cicero recalls the horror of civil war – but, as we might expect in such a delicately tuned speech, the references are vague. For my purposes, they are not comparable, because they do not make explicit use of space.

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the most prominent victims of civil war.43 He and his audience knew the details: as he points out to his listeners, they had seen them with their own eyes. And he was not blind to the implications. At de Oratore 3.10, in his own voice, Cicero notes the terrible irony that Antonius Orator’s head was fixed to the very Rostra from which he had spoken, and which he had decorated with the spoils of his military success. Dio’s version makes the importance of memory even more explicit: καὶ τὰς κεφαλὰς τῶν ἐλλογιμωτάτων ἐπὶ τὸ βῆμα ἀνετίθεσαν. καὶ ἦν τὸ θέαμα οὐδέν τι τοῦ ὀλέθρου αὐτῶν πραότερον: τά τε γὰρ ἄλλα καὶ τοῖς ὁρῶσι προσπαρίστη νομίζειν ὅτι, ὅσα πολεμίων ἀκροστολίοις οἱ προπάτορές σφων ἐκεκοσμήκεσαν, ταῦτα τότε ταῖς τῶν πολιτῶν κεφαλαῖς ἀπεκοσμεῖτο. They fixed the the heads of the most eminent men to the Rostra. And the spectacle was no less pitiful than their deaths: apart from anything else, it prompted those who saw it to think that the same monument which their forefathers had adorned with enemy ships’ beaks was now disfigured with the heads of citizens.44

The Rostra had always been a lieu de memoire, a place where Romans monumentalized past military and political success. When Marius and then Sulla affixed their enemies’ severed heads to the Rostra, the contrast with the memories it held made the grisly display even more poignant; later, the memory of slaughter coexisted with and challenged the memory of past glories.45 Why, then, did Cicero not make more regular and pointed use of the powerful emotions this place could stir up? The particular detail of heads on the Rostra, apt though it would be for rhetorical elaboration as a negative exemplum or just a piece of horror theatre, never appears in a speech.46 There are a number of possible explanations for Cicero’s apparent reticence to make full rhetorical use of the spaces of civil war. Above, I suggested that if our sources do 43 44 45 46

Lange 2020 now offers a full discussion of the rostra’s bloody history and significance as a lieu de memoire. On the significance of heads and beheading in Roman culture, see Richlin 1999, esp. 193–5. Cass. Dio. fr. 102.9. Hinard 1985, 42 points out that the severed heads occupied the same space and served the same purpose as the honorific statues of dead Roman heroes which provided a focus for memory at the Rostra. The detail of heads on the Rostra is oddly distributed in our sources. Lange 2020 has a full analysis of its presence in Dio. Lucan, unsurprisingly, is not afraid to make the most of the gory possibilities of the Forum flowing with blood (2.118–232); it is odd, however, that he does not mention the specific detail of heads fixed to the Rostra. They are frequent in later sources including Vell. 2.19; App. civ. 1.71; Flor. epit. 2.9.12; Oros. 5.19; Aug. civ. 3.27; but not Exsuperantius, Firmicius Maternus, or the scholia on Lucan, the three surviving sources which draw on Sallust for the 80 s (for the scholia and Firmicius, see p. 130–1). It seems likely that Sallust did not mention them; judging from Florus and Orosius, it may have been Livy who first made them a central feature of his description. Livy certainly mentions heads on the rostra in 43, quoted by Seneca (suas. 6.17; see further Richlin 1999).

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not complain about Sulla’s breach of the pomerium as much as we might expect it could be our expectations that are at fault: the pomerium may not have been as important as modern scholarship has traditionally assumed. Similarly, it would be possible to argue that our understanding of the ‘blood in the Forum’ trope is skewed by hindsight.47 Yet, where sources from all periods are completely silent on Sulla’s breach of the pomeri­ um, we do have evidence for the bloodshed of the 80 s that predates the 40 s. Cicero bemoans Antonius’ fate, if only in a treatise rather than a speech to the people, and it would be perverse to argue that Romans did not care about murder. It is more likely that Cicero’s generation avoided speaking explicitly in public about the carnage they had seen not because it was not worth discussing, but because it was too traumatic to mention. It was only after recovering from Rome’s second experience of civil war, political murders, and proscriptions that people felt safe talking about the first.48 Cicero and his contemporaries lived in a city that was still dominated by Sulla’s own monuments, something which may well have affected the way they thought and spoke about these spaces. The dictator had impressive success in winning the battle for spaces of memory in Rome.49 He destroyed Marius’ monuments and erected his own.50 Indeed, as part of his rebuilding of the Curia it seems likely that he destroyed and rebuilt the Rostra itself. So the Rostra from which Cicero delivered the Third Catilinarian was not in fact the same Rostra on which heads of defeated Sullans and Marians alike had been displayed. It was a monument built by Sulla and was adorned with his equestrian statue, a statue which would not find true focalization in negative memory until the

47

48

49 50

Heads on the Rostra are a frequent trope in discussions of the proscriptions of 43; several of our sources for that year explicitly draw a parallel with events of the 80 s, and it is possible that some details have been projected back to the earlier episode, and many authors point out that Cicero’s head, in particular, was displayed in the spot where he had spoken. It might be possible to argue, therefore, that the bloodshed of the 80 s was not as great as the imperial sources imagine, or was at least not so bloodily remembered in the first generation. In this interpretation, the highly visible Forum murders were confined to a small elite; the Tiber did not in fact flow with blood. Cicero’s generation, this argument goes, did not imagine that civil war could return with a vengeance. By the late 60 s, it all seemed less relevant, and it was only after Rome had been forced to relive the same horrors once again under the triumvirs that the memory of blood in the Forum was displaced onto the earlier generation. For variants on this argument, see Eckert 2016; Batstone 2010; Dowling 2000. The distribution of the trope of heads on the Rostra in our sources for the 80 s, discussed at n. 46, is instructive. I suggest there that Sallust did not emphasise the display of heads, but Livy did. We know for sure that Livy discussed the display of Cicero’s head on the Rostra forty years later (Sen. suas. 6.17 quotes his account verbatim). Repetition, it seems, made these experiences less unspeakable. For discussion of Sulla’s monumental success, see Stein-Hölkeskamp 2013; Coarelli 2010; Flower 2008; Sumi 2002. In 65, Caesar re-erected Marius’ monuments (Vell. 2.43; Plut. Caes. 6; Suet. Iul. 11): the outpouring of emotion with which Plutarch records that the Romans greeted them is testimony both that memories of Marius were powerful, and that they had previously been stifled.

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second civil war was nearly upon Rome, when it was finally torn down.51 History is written by the victors; at the time that Cicero spoke, Sulla was decisively the victor, and the monuments of the Forum told a story that was potentially at odds with the Romans’ own memories of being in that space during the 80 s.52 They might even have felt grateful that the space had changed so dramatically, and was not such a pointed reminder of their trauma.53 Romans who had lived through the 80 s were surely still reminded of their experiences when they entered the Forum, but except in the extreme case of the Third Catilinarian their voices risked being drowned out. Their memories are preserved in our sources only through passing or oblique references. I began this section by quoting the words Cicero gives to Piso about the memories attached to the senate-house.54 The examples he cites are appropriately glorious, but he calls attention to the fact that they all come from the pre-Sullan era. He notes that the new Curia, a building we might interpreted as one of Sulla’s most triumphant successes in dominating space and setting the narrative, feels smaller. The positive memories he attaches to the earlier building subtly highlight the less pleasant associations of the current one. For a fuller example of how Romans might treat the spaces of civil war obliquely, I turn to a different episode of bloodshed. In her study of Sullan memory, Alexandra Eckert has shown that it was not necessarily individual murders or even the mass proscriptions that resonated through Roman culture with the full force of shared trauma, but the indiscriminate murders of surrendered enemies after the battle of the Colline Gate in early 82.55 The random and senseless cruelty of these deaths scarred Roman collective memory. Of all the episodes of slaughter in the 80 s, this is also one of the most clearly linked to place: most of our sources specify that it happened in the Villa Publica on the Campus Martius.56 Dio and Plutarch go on to say that Sulla assembled the senators in the nearby temple of Bellona so that they could hear the cries of the dying.57

51 App. civ. 1.97; the statue is shown on a coin, RRC 381. 52 Compare Sulla’s appropriation of memory in another central place, the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus that had been destroyed by fire during his final approach to the city in 83: Flower 2008 explores how his use of portents in his memoirs successfully interpreted this highly visible wound at the heart of the city as a positive verdict on himself, when it could easily have become a generically negative reminder of the pain of civil war. 53 I owe this point to Harriet Flower. 54 Above, p. 124; Cic. fin. 5.2. 55 Eckert 2016, esp. 140–2, 162–3. 56 Strab. 5.4.11; Val. Max. 9.2.1; Lucan. 2.196–7; Cass. Dio Hfr. 109.5–7; DVI 75.10; Aug. civ. 3.28; Flor. epit. 2.9.23; Ampelius 42.3. The range of authors represented is telling: this was a story widely remembered, and one firmly attached to a place across a number of different traditions. Authors who do not mention the location include Plut. Sull. 30 (who mistakenly places it in the Circus Maximus, presumably because he confuses it with the Circus Flaminius); Sen. dial. 5.16; App. civ. 1.93; Oros. 5.21.1. 57 Cass. Dio fr. 109.5–7 has the fullest description, but Plut. Sull. 30 also mentions the Senate being gathered at the temple of Bellona to hear the slaughter, and Val. Max. 9.2.1 reports that the trembling citizens overheard the dying men’s cries.

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The third book of Varro’s de re rustica takes place in the Villa Publica itself. This was a suitable location for a discussion of a villa-based agricultural system, but the Villa Publica’s own history can contribute more to our interpretation of Varro’s text than has previously been recognised. The scene is charged with civil war, because the date is that of Rome’s last free elections; and it is loaded with political symbolism and irony. For much of the early part of the book, the assembled characters discuss the correct management of aviaries. The four new characters’ names are Merula (‘Blackbird’), Pavo (‘Peacock’), Pica (‘Woodpecker’), and Passer (‘Sparrow’), and Varro makes Axius join the conversation with the question ‘recipis nos … in tuum ornithona, ubi sedes inter aves?’ (‘Will you accept us into your aviary, where you are sitting among the birds?’) Birds stand for men, and the entire discussion is a relatively transparent metaphor for the government of a state. Scholars have explored how the various aviaries they mention map onto forms of political organization; the tyrannical master can run the aviary entirely for his own personal profit, for example.58 One detail, however, has a more direct relevance to their location in the Villa Publica: cum opus sunt, ex hoc aviario ut sumantur idoneae, excludantur in minusculum aviarium, quod est coniunctum cum maiore ostio, lumine illustriore, quod seclusorium appellant. ibi cum eum numerum habet exclusum, quem sumere vult, omnes occidit. hoc ideo in secluso clam, ne reliqui, si videant, despondeant animum atque alieno tempore venditoris moriantur. When the master needs to take suitable birds from this aviary, he should close them off them in a smaller aviary called a seclusorium, which is joined to the larger by an opening and is more brightly lit. When he has as many closed off there as he wants to take, he kills them all. He does it secretly in a separate place for this reason: so that the others do not become upset upon seeing it and die at a time that would be inconvenient for the seller.59

When we consider that these words are spoken in the Villa Publica, they read as a heavily disguised and ironic comment on the fact that in this very spot Sulla had not even kept to the courtesies expected of bird-sellers: he had deliberately massacred his prisoners where the senators themselves could hear. Not even the proponent of tyrannical aviary-keeping recommends such a cruel tactic, and in the long run it does not even benefit the master’s bottom line. Varro give his reader no explicit hints about the story his metaphor conceals. Whether or not his reserve shows that it was too traumatic to discuss these memories openly, it is certainly evidence that Romans did remember them, and needed no special prompting to tie them to the spaces in which they had occurred.

58 Scholars who interpret Varro’s text allegorically include Nelsestuen 2015; Green 1997. 59 Varro rust. 3.5.

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Varro’s aviary metaphor could be understood as one way of acknowledging the damage civil war had done to the way Romans experienced their city. My final example, however, shows a later generation of Romans actively reclaiming the urban spaces of civil war. The Lacus Servilius, a small fountain, stood in the Forum at the top of the Vicus Jugarius between the Basilica Sempronia and the temple of Saturn. Like all the Forum’s monuments, it held a range of potential associations with Rome’s past. Modern scholars sometimes suggest that the name of this place was somehow connected to Servilius Ahala, and that some of the stories concerning Ahala in Livy are meant as an aetiology of why this place was connected to the punishment of internal enemies.60 In historical time, it was probably named for Gnaeus Servilius Capito, censor of 125 and builder of the Aqua Tepula.61 It enters our story because of a rather cryptic aside in the pro Roscio Amerino, delivered in 80, in which Cicero ties the Lacus to recent deaths: multos caesos non ad Trasumennum lacum, sed ad Servilium vidimus. “Quis ibi non est volne­ ratus ferro Phrygio?” non necesse est omnis commemorare Curtios, Marios, denique Memmios quos iam aetas a proeliis avocabat, postremo Priamum ipsum senem, Antistium quem non modo aetas sed etiam leges pugnare prohibebant. We have seen many men killed, not at the Trasiminian lake, but at the Servilian. “Who there was not wounded by Phrygian steel?” There is no need to mention all the Curtii, the Marii, even the Memmii; old age was calling them away from battle. And lastly, that old man Priam himself, Antistius, whom not only age but the laws prevented from fighting.62

One might assume that Cicero is referring to judicial murder, not literal battle: he has just complained about the activities of delatores, and the Lacus Servilius would be a sensible spot for a iudex to set up his tribunal. But the next paragraph refers to the violence and turbulence of war. And we know from elsewhere that the Lacus Servilius had a particular connection with the violence of the 80 s. Seneca asks his reader to consider supra Seruilianum lacum (id enim proscriptionis Sullanae spoliarium est) senatorum capi­ ta: ‘heads of senators above the Servilian pool (this was the place where the bodies of those proscribed by Sulla were stripped)’.63 Seneca is writing more than a century later, and may be confused.64 But two other late sources support his testimony: Firmicius Maternus, writing in the fourth century CE, and the scholia to Lucan.65 A flimsy foun60 E. g. Forstythe 2005, 240. 61 Festus 372L says it was named after its builder; see further La Regina 1996. 62 Cic. S. Rosc. 89–90. 63 Sen. dial. 1.3.7–8. 64 Alexander Thein points out to me that those whose heads ended up here were almost certainly victims of extrajudicial murder rather than proscription. 65 Adn. Lucan. ad 2.160: cum congesta essent ad Servilianum lacum capita peremptorum; Firm. Math. 1.7.34 visne aliquid tibi … de lacu Servilio referam, in quo multorum senatorum capita ad ostentationem inmanissimi facinoris sectis cervicibus pependerunt?

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dation, perhaps, but there is reason to place trust in the scholiast, at least: it seems that when he was writing his historical commentary on Lucan’s account of the 80 s, he had a text of Sallust to hand, which he quotes verbatim just a few lines later.66 The otherwise anomalous reference to the Lacus should also come from Sallust. Together with Cicero’s reference to death at the Lacus, therefore, a picture emerges of a place where the horrors of civil war were remembered over multiple generations. Cicero and his audience would have seen it in person; Sallust would have heard of it from those who had. This space was one of horror and trauma in the communicative memory of the 80 s, 70 s, 60 s, and 40 s, and by the imperial period it had been inscribed in a cultural memory closely tied to this spot. For Seneca, its meaning was refracted through more recent periods of civic strife and bloodshed. But the final proof that the Lacus was experienced as a place tied to the horrors of civil war is its ultimate fate. Festus records that Agrippa destroyed the Lacus and replaced it with a fountain in the shape of a hydra.67 It may be that his concern was less with the 80 s than with the civil wars of his own time: if it was also used to display heads during the 40 s too, he and Augustus had every reason to want to supersede it and the memories it held. Adriano La Regina has pointed out that the hydra, a beast that grew stronger when attacked – and particularly when decapitated – made for an appropriate substitute.68 In the myth, for every head Hercules lopped off, two grew in its place. At about the same time that Agrippa was renovating Rome’s hydraulic infrastructure, Horace wrote of the resilience of the Roman gens:69 like a tree being pruned, the Romans become stronger when they are cut back. Just like, he continues, the hydra: non hydra secto corpore firmior, ‘not even the Hydra drew more strength from its slashed body’.70 The ancient scholiast Porphyry read the comparison in the same way. He comments: oportuna con­ paratio, qua Romanos uult intellegi caede sui potentiores fieri, ‘an apt simile, by which he wants us to understand that the Romans grew more powerful by the deaths of their own’.71 When you strike the Romans, they come back fighting. The hydra was a suitable monument to the violence of the 80 s, and a way of reclaiming this space of civil war for an uplifting conclusion about Roman resilience. There were plenty of places, in Rome and beyond, that could in theory have become attached to memories of civil war during the first century BCE. The whole of Italy

Adn. Lucan. ad 2.174, on the torture of Marius Gratidianus: ut ait Sallustius, ‘ut in M. Mario, quoi fracta prius crura bracchiaque et oculi effossi, scilicet ut per singulos artus expiraret.’ Firmicius may well also be reading Sallust, either directly or via some intermediate source, for his information on the 80 s: the episodes he mentions line up well with those of the scholiast, and his account of Marius’ death also includes the phrase prius crura (1.7.31). 67 Fest. 372L. 68 La Regina 1996. 69 Hor. carm. 4.4.53–62. 70 Hor. carm. 4.4.61. 71 Porph. ad. loc. 66

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was reshaped through Sullan and triumviral land redistributions, and Greece (especially Athens, after the Sullan sack) had its own stories of violence playing out in urban space.72 In the city of Rome, ordinary people lived among places where bloody events had played out, from the Forum where the bloody hasta had been set up to the Capitoline that hosted the Marians’ final retreat in 88.73 The houses and tombs of the various parties and their victims might have prompted recollections.74 And, of course, there were the monuments erected in victory, some of which stood for decades throughout the time of peace while others were torn down by the next set of victors.75 I have discussed how Rome’s urban structure left it vulnerable to civil war, and how Romans negotiated traumatic memories tied to its streets and monuments. But the city of Rome as a whole was marked by civil war, not just because of individual atrocities that had taken place there but because Roman civic and political life was always conceived of in spatial terms, and inextricably tied to place. Armies within the city were a fundamental threat to Roman concepts of space, and yet Romans could no more abandon their city after Sulla had captured it than they could after it had been sacked by the Gauls. They had to live among their memories, good and bad. The age of civil war began with bloodshed in the Forum and came to fruition when Sulla brought his troops into the city, but the city remained implicated in civil war even as the battles themselves moved to Greece or Africa. It was the seat of power, the prize for which the armies fought: the ultimate space of civil war. Bibliography Assmann, J. 2011. Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance, and Political Imagination. Cambridge and New York. Batstone, W. W. 2010. World at war: the prequel, in: B. W. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.), Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars, New York, 45–71. Beard, M. / North, J. / Price, S. 1998. Religions of Rome, Cambridge. Boatwright, M. 1986. The pomerial extension of Augustus, in: Historia 35, 13–27. Breed, B. W. / Damon, C. / Rossi, A. 2010. Introduction, in: B. W. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.), Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars, New York, 3–22. Coarelli, F. 2010. Substructio et tabularium, in: PBSR 78, 107–132. Dowling, M. B. 2000. The clemency of Sulla, in: Historia 49, 303–340.

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On Athens, Eckert 2016, 86–102; Dowling 2000; Hoff 1997; the lieux de memoire of civil war battles outside Italy have been treated by Gotter 2006, and those in Italy outside Rome by Thein 2016. On the hasta, see García Morcillo 2016. Walter 2004, 115–116 discusses Sulla’s tomb as a lieu de memoire; another tomb that crops up frequently in our sources is the tomb of the Lutatii, where Marius Gratidianus was tortured and murdered. On the monuments and their later fates, see Stein-Hölkeskamp 2013.

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Drogula, F. K. 2015. Commanders and Command in the Roman Republic and Early Empire, Chapel Hill. Eckert, A. 2016. Lucius Cornelius Sulla in der antiken Erinnerung. Jener Mörder, der sich Felix nannte, Berlin. Flower, H. I. 2008. Remembering and forgetting temple destruction: the destruction of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in 83 BC, in: G. Gardner / L. Osterloh (eds.), Antiquity in Antiquity: Jewish and Christian Pasts in the Greco-Roman World, Tübingen, 74–92. Flower, H. I. 2009. Roman Republics, Princeton. Forstythe, G. 2005. A Critical History of Rome: From Prehistory to the First Punic War, Berkeley and Los Angeles. Galinsky, K. 2016. Introduction, in: K. Galinsky (ed.), Memory in Ancient Rome and Early Christianity, Oxford, 1–39. García Morcillo, M. 2016. Placing the hasta in the Forum: Cicero and the topography of patrimonial sales, in: M. García Morcillo / J. H. Richardson / F. Santangelo (eds.), Ruin or Renewal? Places and the Transformation of Memory in the City of Rome, Rome, 113–133. Gargola, D. J. 2017. The Shape of the Roman Order: The Republic and its Spaces, Chapel Hill. Giovannini, A. 1983. Consulare imperium, Basel. Goodman, P. J. 2007. The Roman City and its Periphery: From Rome to Gaul, London. Gotter, U. 2006. Vom Rubicon nach Actium – Schauplätze der Bürgerkriege, in: E. Stein-Hölkeskamp / K.-J. Hölkeskamp, (eds.) Erinnerungsorte der Antike. Die römische Welt, Munich, 242–257. Green, C. M. C. 1997. Free as a bird: Varro de re rustica 3, in: AJPh 118, 427–448. Hinard, F. 1985. Les proscriptions de la Rome républicaine, Rome. Hoff, M. C. 1997. Laceratae Athenae. Sulla’s siege of Athens in 87/86 BCE and its aftermath, in: M. C. Hoff / S. I. Rotroff (eds.), The Romanization of Athens, Oxford, 33–51. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 2012. Im Gewebe der Geschichte(n). Memoria, Monumente und ihre mythhistorische Vernetzung, in: Klio 94, 380–414. Hölscher, T. 2001. Die Alten vor Augen. Politische Denkmäler und öffentliches Gedächtnis im republikansichen Rom, in: G. Melville (ed.), Institutionalität und Symbolisierung. Verstetigungen kultureller Ordnungsmuster in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, Cologne, 183–211. Keaveney, A. 1982. Sulla: The Last Republican, London. La Regina, A. 1996. Lacus Servilius, in: LTUR 3, 172–173. La Rocca, E. 1993. Columna Bellica in: LTUR 2, 300–301. Lange C. H. 2020. Talking heads: the Rostra as a conspicuous civil war monument, in: C. H. Lange / A. G. Scott (eds.), Cassius Dio: The Impact of Violence, War, and Civil War, Leiden, 192–218. Lintott, A. W. 1968. Violence in Republican Rome, Oxford. Luke, T. S. 2014. Ushering in a New Republic: Theologies of Arrival at Rome in the First Century BCE, Ann Arbor. Meadows, A. / Williams, J. 2001. Moneta and the monuments: coinage and politics in Republican Rome, in: JRS 91, 27–49. Nelsestuen, G. A. 2015. Varro the Agronomist: Political Philosophy, Satire, and Agriculture in the Late Republic, Columbus, OH. Nippel, W. 1988. Aufruhr und “Polzei” in der römischen Republik, Stuttgart. Nora, P. 1984–92. Les lieux de mémoire, Paris. Rich, J. W. 2011. The fetiales and Roman international relations, in: J. H. Richardson / F. Santangelo (eds.), Priests and State in the Roman World, Stuttgart, 187–242.

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Richlin, A. 1999. Cicero’s head, in: J. I. Porter (ed.), Constructions of the Classical Body, Ann Arbor, 190–211. Rüpke, J. 1990. Domi militiae. Die religiöse Konstruktion des Krieges in Rom, Stuttgart. Russell, A. 2015. The tribunate of the plebs as a magistracy of crisis, in: V. Goušchin / P. J. Rhodes (eds.), Deformations and Crises of Ancient Civil Communities, Stuttgart, 127–139. Sordi, M. 1987. Silla e lo ‘ius pomerii proferendi’, in: M. Sordi (ed.), Il confine nel mondo classico, Milan, 200–211. Stein-Hölkeskamp, E. 2013. Macht, Memoria und Monumente. Marius, Sulla und der Kampf um den öffentlichen Raum, in: Klio 95, 429–446. Stevens, S. 2017. City Boundaries and Urban Development in Roman Italy. Leuven. Sumi, G. 2002. Spectacles and Sulla’s public image, in: Historia 51, 414–432. Thein, A. 2016. Booty in the Sullan civil war of 83–82 BC, in: Historia 65, 450–472. Vasaly, A. 1993. Representations: Images of the World in Ciceronian Oratory, Berkeley. Walter, U. 2004. Memoria und res publica. Zur Geschichtskultur im Republikanischen Rom, Frankfurt am Main. Welch, K. E. 2007. The Roman Amphitheatre: From its Origins to the Colosseum, Cambridge and New York. Wiedemann, T. E. J. 1986. The fetiales: a reconsideration, in: CQ 36, 478–490.

Speak, Memory Oral Remembrances of the Civil Wars of the Republic and the Triumvirate Cristina Rosillo-López

La vida no es la que uno vivió, sino la que recuerda y cómo la recuerda para contarla.1 (Gabriel García Márquez)

In the immediate aftermath of the murder of the emperor Caligula in 41 C. E., the senator Sentius Saturninus called for the restoration of the Republic and for the senators to seize the reins of government. The historian Josephus puts the following words in his mouth: ‘I do not remember our earlier libertas because I was born after it.’2 Notwithstanding the effectiveness of such a rhetorical utterance, it is important to note here that Josephus overlooked one medium of memory through which experiences and stories from the past were passed on to later generations, that is, oral memories. While Sentius Saturninus was indeed born after Augustus took control of the state, he had almost certainly heard stories and testimonies about the days of the Republic, in general, and the civil wars, in particular. This paper argues for the importance of this very phenomenon that Josephus elided. As of 133 B. C. E., the Roman state weathered several instances of internecine strife between different political and/or military groups.3 The trend began with the murder of Tiberius Gracchus in 133, which was soon followed by that of his brother Caius, Fulvius Flaccus and their supporters in 121. After a brief respite, the murder of Saturninus and his followers in 100 marked the first violent occurrence in what would prove to be

1 2 3

‘Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it.’ This research has been funded by the Humboldt Research Fellowship for Experienced Researchers of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. Jos. AJ. 19.169: ἐμοὶ δὲ τῆς μὲν πρότερον ἐλευθερίας ἀμνημονεῖν ἔστι διὰ τὸκατόπιν αὐτῆς γεγονέναι. Cf. Gowing 2005, 24, n. 66 on Sentius Saturninus. All dates are B. C. E., unless otherwise stated.

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a series of decades marked by conflict: the Social War (91–88), Sulla’s first (88–87) and second (82–81) civil war and his the proscriptions, the Sertorian War (83–72), Lepidus’ rebellion (77), the Catiline conspiracy (63–62) and the civil war between Caesar and the Pompeians (49–45). All this was immediately followed by a number of wars in the wake of Caesar’s murder: from 44 to 42 against his assassins (including proscriptions), between 44 and 36 the war against Sextus Pompeius, the Perusine War of 41–40 and, finally, the war between Antony and Octavian in 32–31. Some of these wars and revolts mainly affected the elite, whereas others had a huge impact on Rome, the Italian cities (e. g. Sulla’s marches on Rome, the Social War and the Perusine War) and in some cases even further afield in the rest of Rome’s dominions (the Sertorian War in Hispania; Caesar’s civil war and the war against his murderers, which covered the entire Mediterranean). Even if physical conflict and violence were not witnessed first-hand, famines and blockades were the most widespread consequences of these wars (for example, Sextus Pompeius’ blockade of grain shipments from Sicily to the Italian mainland).4 Some of these conflicts, such as the proscriptions or the bloody attack unleashed by Sulla at Rome in 82, provoked traumatic memories for some people. This period marred by conflict and violence, which spanned at least four generations, is a perfect case study for analysing the transmission of memories concerning traumatic events in ancient Rome. How did oral memories fare in comparison with the written sort? What kinds of memories were transmitted? How were memories adapted and changed by subsequent generations? Oral memories, as will be seen, could be transmitted at least over three generations and could change as they were integrated and appropriated by the listening audience. First of all, this paper intends to identify oral memories of the civil wars of the second and first centuries which have been preserved in literary and epigraphic sources. After being contextualised and contrasted with other channels through which memories and information have been passed down, the following sections analyse the chains of transmission of these memories, their repression and the strategies that allowed them to pass from one generation to the next. This took place through a complex system of reworking and updating, processes that made memories about the past relevant and influential years and even decades later. Finally, since Cicero’s speech Pro Rabirio perduellonis reo offers an exceptional instance of the transmission of family memories and strategies for dealing with them, it is examined in some detail.

4

See Maschek in this volume.

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1. How were the civil wars remembered? Memories of the civil wars were transmitted through several channels and genres. Due to the nature of our sources, written accounts, unsurprisingly, feature predominantly. Many of those accounts were not recopied and have thus been lost, although they were consulted during the composition of later works that have survived.5 The recent edition of the Fragments of Roman Historians (FRH) has conveniently collected, in chronological order, some of the works from which fragments have been preserved. For many of them, we only have the passing mention of the title of a lost work; information can be so scarce that frequently we are even unaware of the genre of a given piece. Indeed, it warrants stressing that memories could be expressed through different genres: autobiography, the recounting of the memories of another person, historical accounts, plays, poetry and even popular songs. Without intending to be exhaustive, the following pages provide a representative overview of the period and the genres used to record the past. Sulla’s and Rutilius Rufus’ autobiographies recounted the civil war of the 80 s from their own point of view.6 Valerius Messalla Corvinus penned an account of his experiences during the civil wars of the 40 s and 30 s, including how he had led Cassius’ troops at the Battle of Philippi in 42 (a source that Plutarch subsequently used and quoted).7 Both Agrippa and Augustus wrote their own autobiographies.8 Memoirs and biographies were popular genres in Rome. Hirtius and Caesar circulated writings against Cato the Younger (Anticatones) after his suicide in Utica, whereas Cicero, Brutus, Marcus Fadius Gallus, Calpurnius Bibulus and Munatius Rufus took it upon themselves to defend his memory.9 C. Oppius wrote a work about Caesar,

5 6 7

8 9

Tatum 2011. Lewis 1991 (with attempts at a reconstruction of the text); Smith 2009; Tatum 2011. See Flower in this volume on the autobiography of Rutilius Rufus. For example, the description of a dinner between Cassius and Valerius Messalla Corvinus just before the battle: Plut. Brut. 40 ((FRH), M. Valerius Messalla Corvinus, F1 = Peter F1). On Messalla’s political career during the civil wars and his writings, cf. Welch 2009, 200–209. Cassius was a friend of Messalla’s mother. Agrippa: FRH, 451–453. Augustus: FRH, 454–462 (covering up until the Cantabrian Wars in 29– 19), which also contains references to previous bibliography. Hirtius: Cic. Att. 12.40.1; 12.44.1; 12.48.1; 12.45.2. Caesar: Cic. Att. 12.41.4; Caes. Antic.; Tschiedel 1981; Piotrowicz 1912. Marcus Fadius Gallus: Cic. fam. 7.24.1 (written in 45). Calpurnius Bibulus: FRH, 407–409. Munatius Rufus: Plut. Cat. min. 37.1 (probably a work in the tradition of Xenophon’s Memorabilia; Plutarch accessed it through Publius Clodius Thrasea Paetus’ eponymous work, written in the time of Nero: Plut. Cat. min. 9.1–3; Geiger 1979; FRH, 358–360; Fehrle 1983, 15 claims that the work is rather a biography). On the struggles over Cato’s memory, cf. Fehrle 1983, 279–302; Rosillo-López 2017, 111–112, 143.

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either a biography or a memoire, and a life of Cassius.10 P. Volumnius composed an eyewitness account of the last hours of Brutus’ life, which Plutarch used as source.11 Historiography, written by people who had lived through such events, flourished. C. Fannius, a friend of the Gracchi, wrote his Annales, which included several passages about their lives.12 Asinius Pollio wrote his Historiae, covering the period between 60 and the Battle of Philippi in 42. In several fragments, he stands out as an eyewitness: he famously mentioned himself, for instance, among those present just before the crossing of the Rubicon, when Caesar pondered on what course of action to take; he also claimed to have been present following the Battle of Pharsalus, when Caesar reflected on the outcome.13 Q. Dellius, for his part, wrote an account of Antony’s Parthian campaign.14 Memories of the civil wars also featured in other genres. In Gades, L. Cornelius Balbus Minor staged a praetexta that represented the negotiation that he had undertaken during the war in 49, when he had daringly entered Pompey’s camp in secret in order to persuade the consul Lentulus Crus to join Caesar.15 According to Velleius, during the joint triumph of Munatius Plancus and Lepidus, the soldiers sung a witty carmen: ‘Over Germani, not Gauls, the two consuls triumph.’16 The double meaning of Germa­ ni, both ‘Germans’ but also ‘brothers,’ infuses this song with a disturbing double entendre: the soldiers would be telling the Roman population that the consuls had allegedly put the names of their own brothers on the proscription list.17 Inscriptions also conveyed first-hand accounts and memories of the civil wars. In his Res Gestae, Augustus famously memorialised his own very subjective version of events, quickly passing over the thorniest issues: Antony, for example, is referred to

10 11 12 13

14 15 16 17

Cf. FRH, 380–382, for the discussion on whether there were two separate works or a single one in the line of De viris illustribus. Plut. Caes. 17.6–11. FRH, 404–405. The genre of the work is unknown. Bardon 1952, 106–107. Cic. Brut. 81; de orat. 2.270. Fannius’ work may have been one of the sources for Plutarch’s biographies of the brothers. On the Rubicon: Plut. Caes. 32.4–6. After Pharsalus: Plut. Caes. 46.1–2. Cf. Ward 1980; Bardon 1952, 94–96. On Pollio, cf. especially André 1949; Morgan 2000; FRH, Vol. 1: 430–445 (Drummond) with full bibliography. On the Historiae, cf. the latest account ibid: 436–44. On Pollio as a source for Plutarch and Appian, cf. André 1949, 43; Osgood 2006, 55; FRH, Vol. 1:107; 439–444. Morgan 2000, 54–60 on Pollio’s autopsy. FRH, 424–425. Negotiation: Cic. Att. 8.9a.2; 9.6.1; Rosillo-López 2022, 52 n. 100 and 239. Play: Cic. fam. 10.32.3; Vell. 2.51; cf. Flower 1995, 176–177; Manuwald 2001, 54–62. According to Asinius Pollio, Balbus burst into tears during the performance. Vell. 2.67.4: de germanis, non de Gallis duo triumphant consules. Velleius’ story poses a problem because the consuls celebrated their triumphs over Gaul and Hispania separately and because the historian then devoted a long paragraph to the cruel deeds of Munatius, probably deriving from the speeches of the latter’s enemy, Asinius Pollio (Pliny remarked that people used Pollio’s account uncritically; Plin. nat. 13.25). Cf. Wright 2002.

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just once as ‘the man against whom I had waged war.’18 The original text of the Res Gestae was displayed in Augustus’ Mausoleum after his death in 14 C. E., in plain view for all Roman citizens to see. As if that were not enough, copies of the text were also engraved throughout the Empire, sometimes translated into Greek.19 The so-called Laudatio Turiae offers a highly enthralling account of these turbulent times. In contrast to the Res Gestae, neither was this inscription an officially sanctioned text, nor was it a written memoir that circulated widely. Only those who stood before the tomb where it was placed could read it.20 In it, the anonymous husband recalls the heroic deeds of his wife during the civil wars of the 40 s and especially the proscriptions: when his name was added to the list, she managed to obtain a pardon for him by publicly supplicating the triumvir Lepidus.21 Objects could also preserve memories of the civil wars. After 41, Tiberius Claudius Nero (the father of the future emperor) and his wife Livia fled to Sextus Pompeius’ stronghold in Sicily. As a supporter of Lucius Antonius during the Perusine War, Tiberius had failed to spark a revolt against Octavian in Naples. As a result, his name was added to the proscription list.22 Baby Tiberius was warmly welcomed by Pompeia, the sister of Sextus, who gave him a cloak, a clasp and golden studs as gifts. Those objects, at least until Suetonius’ time, were ‘still kept and exhibited at Baiae’.23 So, more than a century later, they continued to conjure up the context in which they had come into Tiberius’ possession, thus bearing witnesses to the family memories of the civil wars (more on this later). Should the statues of the Gracchi, erected by popular initiative in the places where each man had died, be considered as vehicles for transmitting memories of their lives and deeds? These objects were venerated by people who made sacrifices before them.24 In this wide array of means by which memories of internal conflicts were passed on, oral communication has been overlooked as a mechanism for the transmission of those of the civil wars. Despite the relative scarcity of sources, there are attested R. Gest. div. Aug. 24: … is cum quo bellum gesseram. The Greek version described him as the enemy. Flower 2006, 116–121 on Antony’s memory in the Principate. 19 Suet. Aug. 101.4. See the latest editions: Scheid 2007; Cooley 2009; Cerro Calderón 2010; Weber 2011; Arena 2014. 20 Osgood 2014, 142–143 on the inscription itself and how it was displayed. Osgood 2006, 74–75 on literary mentions of funerary inscriptions that commemorated a son and a slave who saved their father and master, respectively, from the proscriptions (App. civ. 4.41; Val. Max. 6.8.6). 21 Laud. 2.15–18; Osgood 2014, 56–57. Laud. Turiae column 2, 23–24: quom pr[o magnitudine erga me] meritorum tuorum oc[ulis] omnium praeferam titulum [vitae servatae.] ‘In recognition of the greatness of all the good deeds you did on my behalf, I shall display to the eyes of all an inscription that tells how you saved my life’ (translation Osgood 2014). 22 Cass. Dio. 48.15. On Tiberius Claudius Nero as a supporter of Antony, cf. Ferriès 2007, 366–367. On his proscription, cf. Hinard 1985, 451–453. 23 Suet. Tib. 6.3: durant ostendunturque adhuc Baiis. Tiberius was born in November 42. 24 Plut. C. Gracchus 18. LTUR, s. v. Statuae: Sempronii Gracchi (M. Sehlmeyer); Sehlmeyer 1999, 185– 7; Marco Simón/Pina Polo 2000. 18

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instances of the role that oral memories could play, thus allowing for analysing them and the mechanisms involved in their transmission. Various scholars have suggested that Valerius Maximus’ accounts of those who survived the proscriptions thanks to the efforts and loyalty of their wives, sons or slaves were based on oral tradition. Furthermore, some have added that Valerius Maximus, writing in the time of Tiberius, may himself have heard such narratives and thus included them in his work.25 A closer examination of the sources yields several specific references to oral memories of the civil wars, about how they were recalled and transmitted alike. Oral memories made their way into public speeches, both in the Senate and in con­ tiones before the people. In 51, when the conflict between Caesar and the Senate already loomed large and had become a matter of urgency, the consul Servius Sulpicius Rufus took the floor in the Senate with the aim of reminding those present about the previous civil conflicts, warning them that the next one would have an even crueller outcome, as Cicero recounts in a letter: cum accuratissime monuisti senatum collectis omnibus bellis civilibus, ut et illa timerent, quae meminissent. I [Cicero] was myself present in the first period of your consulship when, after passing in review all the civil wars, you warned the senate in the most impressive terms, to fear those wars they remembered.26

Contiones were also an ideal stage for speakers to hark back to the past, with an eye to recalling previous episodes of civil strife. In 63, during the Catiline conspiracy, Cicero encouraged the citizenry to bear in mind previous internal conflicts: ‘Indeed remember, citizens, all our civil conflicts, not only those that you have heard of, but those that you recall and have seen yourselves.’27 The orator launched into a tirade against the wars between Sulla and Marius and the uncountable deaths, the Cinnan period and Lepidus’ rebellion. His words clearly illustrated the current situation: civil conflicts personally experienced by some people, during which the city of Rome had become a battlefield on several occasions, about which other people had heard, thus conjuring up two types of memories, namely, the personal and the transmitted kind, for the purpose of engaging listeners of all ages with their different kinds of memories. There was a clear strategy behind this, for his intention was to present the Catiline conspiracy as the most serious conflict by evoking yet again the memories of war, calling it ‘the great-

25 Osgood 2006, 75. Cf. Bloomer 1992, 59–146 on Valerius’ sources. 26 Cic. fam. 4.3.1. Sulpicius Rufus was born in 105. 27 Cic. Cat. 3.24: Etenim recordamini, Quirites, omnes civiles dissensiones, non solum eas, quas audistis, sed eas, quas vosmet ipsi meministis atque vidistis. Cf. Pina Polo 2018, 223.

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est and most cruel in the memory of man.’28 That same year, in another contio, Cicero argued that the people of course knew that Marius’ and Papirius’ consulship was straight before Sulla’s dictatorship; the memories of that period, he presumed, were still fresh in his audience’s minds.29 Oral memories about the civil wars also abounded in the private sphere. Middleton and Edwards have posited the concept of ‘conversational remembering’, that is, the notion that people remember more in conversations than they do alone. The dynamics of conversation are conducive to jogging people’s memory and making things easier to recall, even if one or more of those taking part in it did not actually witness the event in question, but had only heard about it second hand. Neither is individual remembering as rich in detail, nor does it generate the same amount of information.30 Furthermore, conversational remembering provides the opportunity to rework or adjust those memories through the interaction between the listeners.31 That conversational remembering is present in the ancient sources. Indeed, those instances of people remembering during conversations are more frequent than those of individual remembering. At the request of her visitors, Cornelia used to talk about her sons, Tiberius and Caius Gracchus, with great calm and clarity.32 The historian Fenestella (born ca. 56 or 52) heard an aged woman describe her personal experience of Cinna’s government (85–84): while being enslaved in Hispania at the time, she was sent to a cave by her owner in order to entertain and serve the young M. Licinius Crassus, who had fled from Rome after the murder of his father and brother at the hands of Marian agents.33 Fenestella specified that the old woman was willing to recount that episode in full.34 Plutarch’s grandfather, Lamprias, knew Philotas of Amphissa, a physician who was in Alexandria at the time of Antony, with whose son, Antyllus,

28 Cic. Cat. 3.25: in hoc autem uno post hominum memoriam maximo crudelissimoque bello. 29 Cic. leg. agr. 3.6: Sed quem vestrum tam tardo ingenio fore putavit cui post eos consules Sullam dic­ tatorem fuisse in mentem venire non posset? Cf. Pina Polo 2018 on how the Romans did not have a crystal-clear chronology or sequence of all the events from their own past; instead, many of them could be conceived as free-floating fragments. Cf. Cic. parad. 46 on the memories of Sullan times; cf. Eckert 2016. 30 Middleton/Edwards 1990; Hirst/Echterhoff 2012. 31 Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 201. 32 Plut. C. Gracchus 19.2. 33 Cf. Marshall 1976, 11–12: Crassus fled to Hispania for an undetermined time (eight months, according to Plutarch; three years, according to Cicero, cf. n. 79), when he was ca. 29–30 years old. Marshall suggested that, because of his age, he did not stay at Rome during the Cinnan regime, but took to his heels immediately (although he did not remain in the cave all the time; Marshall also proposed that he had collected inheritances). At the end of his stay in Hispania, Crassus gathered an army of 2,500 men and joined Sulla. Marshall does not mention the anecdote involving the woman. Cf. Marshall 1980. 34 Fenestella, fr. 15 and 25 (Plut. Crass. 5. 5: τούτων φησὶ τήν ἑτέραν ἤδη πρεσβῦτιν οὖσαν ὁ Φαινεστέλλας ἰδεῖν αὐτός, καί πολλάκις ἀκοῦσαι μεμνημένης ταῦτα καί διεξιούσης προθύμως).

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he was acquainted.35 Philotas offered him a detailed account of the lavish dinners in Alexandria and Antyllus’ generosity towards him; decades later, Lamprias retold those stories to his grandson, who included them in his biography of Antony.36 During his exile, Cicero recalled Marius’ misfortunes as a way of summoning up courage, although he did not specify whether he had an audience while pondering on them.37 In 14 C. E., when troops were deployed during the funeral procession of Augustus, people mocked this decision, recalling the very different situation after the murder of Caesar, whose body the people had spontaneously cremated in the forum. According to Tacitus, those present in 14 C. E. had either witnessed the cremation of Caesar themselves or had been told about it by their fathers and mothers (a parentibus acceperant).38 Ovid described a conversation that he had held in the theatre with a veteran of the Battle of Thapsus in 46, who had fond memories of his commander Caesar.39 In the previous cases, oral memories were not isolated, but were remembered in connection with others. As already observed, the civil wars were meaningful and unforgettable events in the lives of many people, whose memories were transmitted through a wide variety of means, including autobiographies, biographies, histories, plays, popular songs, inscriptions and objects. To this long list orality should also be added. Even though our ability to access and grasp this phenomenon is limited in comparison to written accounts, it should not be underestimated, as evidenced by the fact that oral memories of the civil wars are attested in both public and private spheres. After identifying oral memories as a widespread phenomenon, the time has now come to enquire into their mechanics. How were they transmitted? Which vehicles and strategies were employed? Were they repressed in any way? How did memories function in the family setting? 2. Patruus meus cum Saturnino fuit: mechanisms of oral transmission and the memories of the civil wars Memory studies have flourished over the past several decades. Because of the complex methodology employed in this sort of research, however, few of them have focused on the examination of oral memories and their transmission through the family. Some 35

Cf. Oldfather 1924 on an inscription from Delphi (Klio 17, 1921, p. 186, no. 175) bestowing proxeny upon a certain Philotas from Amphissa, a physician; Oldfather suggested identifying him with the acquaintance of Plutarch’s grandfather. 36 Plut. Ant. 28.2–7 (winter 41–40). 37 Cic. div. 2.140. 38 Tac. ann. 1.8.6, 58 years later. 39 Ov. fast. 4.379–370. I would like to thank Pedro López Barja de Quiroga for bringing this episode to my attention.

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preliminary theoretical considerations are useful for the analysis of Roman memories of the civil wars. In a study based on conversations with Germans belonging to three generations, Welzer, Moller and Tschuggnall have analysed the transmission of the memories of the Nazi regime and the Holocaust. In the appropriately entitled book Opa war kein Nazi, they have examined how memories have been transmitted over generations, how they have been modified and what mechanisms have been involved in such changes. When working with the delicate and complicated nature of memories, it should be recalled that we are not dealing with events as they actually happened in the past, but rather with the way in which they have been recounted and explained to others.40 Welzer, Moller and Tschuggnall have posited that family memories (Fami­ liengedächtnis) form a central part of Assmann’ kommunikative Gedächtnis or communicative memory, that is, recent memory based on the immediate past (defined as approximately 80 years or three generations).41 This is the same time frame as that of this contribution. There were two criteria governing the transmission of family memories: group loyalty (Wir-Gruppenloyalität) and identity.42 Furthermore, such memories provide a version of events that differs from that transmitted at school or in the media. In the case of ancient Rome, family memories allowed individuals, for instance, to go beyond cultural/mental uniformity and the ‘official version’ that was transmitted through the rich cultural programme that Augustus devised and implemented during his rule.43 In the process of memory transmission, listeners are not passive recipients, but play an important and active role in the evolution of memories as part of the process of socialisation. They appropriate the story and fill in the gaps with their own experiences and ideas, making that memory part of their own.44 As this process is extremely important for the survival of memories, there are three criteria that ensure their transmission. First of all, they have to be open and fragmented; secondly, and in the same vein, they must be associated with the experiences of listeners. Finally, those memories should have an emotional meaning for listeners.45 All of which ensures that listeners

40 41

42 43 44 45

Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 195. Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 13. Cf. Assmann 1992, 48–66, for differentiating between communicative and cultural memory. Pace Hölkeskamp 2005, 259–60, who holds that this distinction did not apply in Rome, arguing in favour of a transgenerational memory. Although this distinction does not have any real impact on the arguments deployed here, I am of the mind that the personal stories that were retold in Rome are examples of communicative memory. Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 13 and 196–199. Cf. Zanker 1988; Galinsky 1998 suggests that Augustus ‘sanctioned’ the initiatives of authors and re-appropriated them for his own public cultural programme, thus imbuing them with additional auctoritas, which made them more desirable in the private realm. Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 197–198. Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 196.

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will be actively involved in their transmission and will modify and adapt them to their own experiences. In the transmission process, some aspects, especially the emotional tension and atmosphere, remain unchanged. However, other elements, such as the context, causality and development of events, are more likely to change so that listeners can ‘make sense’ of (Sinn machen) and patch together a coherent narrative. The anecdote about Augustus’ grandson who was nervous when caught reading a work of Cicero perfectly illustrates this mechanism: the princeps pondered on the written work of a person who he had condemned to death by agreeing to include him on the proscription list, and reconstructed his memories of him to make sense of it all, declaring, ‘A learned man, my child, a learned man and a lover of his country.’46 The study performed by Welzer, Moller and Tschuggnall allows for framing the analysis of Roman oral memories from a broader perspective. First of all, the spotlight is placed on the chains of transmission, whose lifespan and dynamics ensure the survival of memories. Secondly, an enquiry is made into the extent to which the Romans felt free or inhibited to recall potentially controversial people and events. Finally, the transmission of family memories is examined through the case study of the speech Pro Rabirio perduellionis reo, in which contentious events taking place 37 years earlier were rehashed. 2.1 Repression of oral memories Were people free to recall and transmit memories of the civil wars in Rome or was there some sort of repression? This question cannot be answered definitively, since much depends on the political context in which those memories were recalled, as has just been observed in the anecdote about Augustus’ trembling grandson. The memory of individuals, such as Cicero, Brutus, Cassius and Antony, was undoubtedly a prickly issue during the Principate.47 But such questions were far from new, since in the Republic uncomfortable memories of people whom many would have preferred to forget also had to be confronted. To what point could or would the state try to control oral memories? Recollections of turbulent times and periods of civil war could be repressed at certain moments. A tribune of the plebs was convicted in 98 for having a statue of Saturninus in his house.48 After the dreadful events of 121, Opimius, the consul who had led the repression against at least 3,000 people, built a temple of Concord in the forum. Plut. Cic. 49.5: “λόγιος ἁνὴρ, ὦ παῖ, λόγιος καὶ φιλόπατρις”. Cf. Rawson 1986 on the memory of Cassius and Brutus; Flower 2006, 116–121 on the memory of Antony during the Principate. 48 Cic. Rab. perd. 24; Flower 2006, 81–85 (the nature of the statue is unknown). 46 47

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The well-known graffito, ἔργον ἀπονοίας ναὸν ὁμονοίας ποιεῖ (‘an act of madness made a temple of concord’) that appeared overnight on the walls of the temple indicates the anger and disagreement of the people, corroborated by elite sources.49 In normal life, but especially in times of repression, the value and force of oral memories increased, precisely because they could not be controlled or repressed. Nobody was ever accused of or convicted for merely mentioning someone, even if that someone had been declared an “enemy of the people”. There is just one such instance, but the evidence is controversial since it was clearly used as a rhetorical weapon by the most skilful orators. Apart from the tribune convicted for keeping a statue of Saturninus at home, Cicero mentioned that another tribune, C. Appuleius Decianus, had been condemned in 98 for expressing his regret over the death of Saturninus in a contio.50 Should this be true, it would be the only known case in Roman history in which comments in a contio led to a trial and a conviction. The context of Cicero’s speech should be taken into account, since it is the only source referring to this matter: the trial for perduellio of Rabirius in 63, which conjured up the murder of Saturninus (cf. below). Against this backdrop, it is important to be aware of Cicero’s well-known ability to conflate facts and fiction so as to deceive jurors with half-truths. In light of this, it is conceivable that Decianus might have been convicted for his comments on the death of Saturninus or, alternatively, for a number of other reasons.51 Apart from this problematic case, restrictions on freedom of speech were only applied to the theatre, there being no mention of any punishment for speaking out in public, whose control was unheard of in the Republic.52 During the Principate, members of the elite avoided expressing criticism of the emperor at dinner parties, lest any 49 Plut., Tib.Gracchus 13; C. Gracchus 17.6. On the graffito, cf. Morstein-Marx 2004, 102–103; Morstein-Marx 2012; Rosillo-López 2017a, 145–147. Flower has suggested that the construction of the temple might have been a reaction to the cult of the Gracchi, namely, the sacrifices that were made to their statues, set up by the people shortly after Caius’ death in the places where each of them had died (Flower 2006, 80–81). For statues of the Gracchi, cf. Plut., C. Gracchus 18. LTUR, s. v. Statuae: Sempronii Gracchi (M. Sehlmeyer); Sehlmeyer 1999, 185–7; Marco Simón/Pina Polo 2000. 50 Cic. Rab. perd. 24: At C. Decianus, de quo tu saepe commemoras, quia, cum hominem omnibus insignem notis turpitudinis, P. Furium, accusaret summo studio bonorum omnium, queri est ausus in contione de morte Saturnini, condemnatus est. Alexander 1990, no. 81. Russell 2013, 110–111 suggests that Furius was prosecuted for his veto of Numidicus’ recall. In that case, Decianus, who expressed regret at Saturninus’ death, was in favour of recalling Numidicus, which, according to Russell 2013, shows that the simple model of populares and optimates does not work for the years 99–98, with each tribune making his own interpretation of how a popular tribune should behave. 51 Badian 1956, 96 suggested the charge as maiestas, for his behaviour as a tribune. He would not have been the only prosecuted tribune in 99–98. Apart from Sextus Titius (allegedly) for owning that portrait (Alexander 1990, no. 80), Decianus uttered those words in the context of a prosecution brought by P. Furius (trib. pleb. 100 or 99), who had proposed the confiscation of Saturninus’ property. Furius was prosecuted twice the same year and lynched by a crowd before the second trial took place (cf. Alexander 1990, no. 79, n. 2 on the discussion on whether there were two separate trials, only one or one prosecution by two men). 52 Arena 2012; Rosillo-López 2017, 27–41.

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guest should report them to the authorities. Outside elite circles, it was impossible to control what people said in private. Popular utterances and criticism, for instance, are regularly mentioned in the sources.53 As to the elites, however, imperial censorship mainly focused on written accounts offering alternative versions of the civil war, but not on opinions expressed in private. Cremutius Cordus was condemned in 25 C. E. for publishing a history in which he praised Brutus and claimed that Cassius was the last of the Romans.54 Tacitus’ Dialogus de oratoribus opens with the aftermath of Curiatius Maternus’ reading of a play which had irritated certain important people due to his eulogies of Cato.55 In both cases, neither Cremutius Cordus nor Curiatius Maternus were criticised for their own personal views, but only for their public writings. In contrast, Lucius Sestius (cos. 23) kept Brutus’ memory alive during the Principate, displayed images of him at home and even praised his deeds.56 Understandably, oral memories had a more restricted audience, but it should be borne in mind that the impact of a conversation or a personal recollection could be much greater than that of a written text.57 2.2 Chains of transmission The transmission of oral memories was constrained by generational factors. Ancient sources provide examples of oral transmission between at least three generations. At the beginning of his treatise De re publica, Cicero remembers how his mentor Mucius Scaevola told him about a conversation that he had had with Laelius and Fannius. Rutilius Rufus (cos. 105) lived for 81 years and, at that age, told young Cicero about his conversations with Scipio Aemilianus.58 Plutarch learned details about Antony’s stay in Alexandria in 41–40 through his grandfather who, in turn, had heard about it from his acquaintance Philotas of Amphissa, a physician.59 First-hand accounts were, of course, restricted to the lifespan of those who experienced the events in question. In that sense, people who lived a long life were invaluable. Women with long lifespans, for example, were crucial for the transmission of memories of the civil wars. If they survived childbirth, they were less likely to die of unnatural causes, such as falling in battle or being involved in failed conspiracies (although some of them did). Since Cornelia lived to a ripe old age (born in ca. 190), her 53 Courrier 2014. 54 Tac. ann. 4.34–35; Quint. inst. 10.1.104; Sen. contr. suas. 6.19. Cf. McHugh 2004 on Cremutius Cordus; Gowing 2005, 2–20 on the memory of the Republic during the Principate. 55 Tac. dial. 2–3. The dramatic date is 74 C. E. 56 Cass. Dio. 53.32.3–4. Sestius had served as Brutus’ proquaestor. 57 On the impact of orality and conversations on Roman politics, cf. Rosillo-López 2022. 58 Cic. rep. 1.13; 1.17; cf. Brut. 316. 59 Plut. Ant. 28.2–7.

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memories of her sons reached a wide audience over the years. Other long-lived women included Livia (RE 34), the wife of P. Rutilius Rufus (cos. 105), who died when she was 97, and Terentia (98 B. C. E.-6 C. E.) who passed away at the incredible age of 103.60 Nevertheless, both were surpassed by Clodia, the wife of the jurist Aulus Ofilius, who died at 115 (some of the longest lifespans should be taken with a pinch of salt).61 Other women involved in the civil wars died when well into their 80 s: Scribonia, the second wife of Octavian and sister of Lucius Scribonius Libo, who supported Pompey and Sextus Pompeius; Junia Tertia, the wife of Cassius, daughter of Servilia and half-sister of Brutus, who died in 22 C. E. (either in her late 80 s or early 90 s); Livia Drusilla, the third wife of Octavian, who died in 29 C. E.62 An enslaved woman who served Crassus between 85–84 lived to be old enough for Fenestella (born in the 50 s) to listen to her. We do not know for sure whether or not Terentia, Scribonia or Livia used to tell stories about their experiences during the civil wars. However, other women certainly did. Cornelia spoke explicitly about her sons. The unnamed female slave eagerly repeated her tale about meeting Crassus. When young Claudius entertained the idea of writing a history covering the civil wars, he was often rebuked by his grandmother and mother, Octavia, the wife of Antony, and Antonia Minor, respectively.63 The knowledge and memories of those two women, especially Octavia, played an important role in the Principate. After her death, Junia Tertia left a myriad of legacies in her will to many people in Rome, except to the emperor Tiberius, who accepted such a rebuke with grace because of her wealth and social connections, although he forbade the family to parade the masks of Brutus and Cassius during her funeral. Tacitus pointed out that their absence made all these ancestors more visible.64 While we do not have any direct testimony about Junia’s thoughts and opinions on the new regime, her actions point to formulated and fixed ideas. She did not go meekly into that good night.65 At the beginning of his Annales, Tacitus passed judgement on the foundations of Augustus’ regime:

Livia, wife of Rutilius Rufus, and Terentia: Val. Max. 8.13.6; Plin. nat. 7.158. See Welch’s paper in this volume on women as independent agents during the wars and their role in collective memory. 61 Plin. nat. 7.158. Ofilius, a friend of Cicero and Caesar, was a student of Servius Sulpicius Rufus and master of Tubero, Labeo and Capito. Cf. RE, s. v. Ofilius (Münzer). 62 Scribonia: RE. s. v. Scribonia. Junia: Tac. ann. 3.76. Livia: RE. s. v. Livia. 63 Suet. Claud. 41: Initium autem sumpsit historiae post caedem Caesaris dictatoris, sed transiit ad infe­ riora tempora coepitque a pace civili, cum sentiret neque libere neque vere sibi de superioribus tradendi potestatem relictam, correptus saepe et a matre et ab avia. Antonia Minor never met her father, since she was born in 36, when he had already abandoned Octavia. Flower 2006, 117–119 on Octavia’s image as a symbol of Roman values from the 30 s onwards. Memory sanctions were limited to Antony himself. 64 Tac. ann. 3.76. Flower 1996, 253. 65 It should be recalled that, together with her mother, she was present at the political meeting in Antium in June 44, which was well attended by anti-Caesarian supporters, including Cicero (Cic. Att. 15.11.1; see Rosillo-López 2022, 148 and 249). 60

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At home all was calm. The officials carried the old names; the younger men had been born after the victory of Actium; most even of the elder generation, during the civil wars; few indeed were left who had seen the Republic.66

It is undeniable that Augustus’ youth in 44 and his long life helped him to cement his rule, meaning that the establishment of the new regime can be analysed in biological terms.67 However, the situation was not as bleak as Tacitus painted it. In any case, even for those who did not survive the civil wars, oral memories allowed their experiences to endure. Once those people had died, oral memories could and would still be transmitted, at least for up to three generations. Finally, it is worth highlighting that many of the references to the oral transmission of memories of the civil wars originated from people who usually did not record their own experiences or memories in writing: the common people, an enslaved person (or freewoman), elite women and an ordinary physician. They are people who were usually deprived of what today is considered to be the regular strategies for leaving behind a record, such as monuments or written accounts, and therefore opted to transmit their experiences and memories orally. 2.3 The transmission of family memories The family was naturally the place where memories were transmitted. When describing the atmosphere at the funeral of Augustus, Tacitus made a point of stressing that many people actually remembered Caesar’s death or that they had been told about it by their parents.68 As stated above, it was his grandfather Lamprias who told Plutarch about the gaudy life of Alexandria in the time of Antony. While it is obviously impossible to conduct research by examining conversations held between people who have been dead for over 2,000 years, it is possible to reread their works with that perspective in mind. As to the civil wars, the most likely candidate is the speech Pro Rabirio perduellionis reo, delivered in 63. What does this speech tell us about how memory strategies work? How were family memories in particular transmitted? The events discussed in the speech had occurred 37 years before: after his second tribunate, L. Appuleius Saturninus sought to be elected tribune for a third time and was opposed by the most conservative group of the Senate. At the same time, Saturninus’ associate C. Servilius Glaucia canvassed for the consulship, without complying 66 Tac. ann. 1.3: domi res tranquillae, eadem magistratuum vocabula; iuniores post Actiacam victoriam, etiam senes plerique inter bella civium nati: quotus quisque reliquus qui rem publicam vidisset? 67 Hurlet 2016. 68 Tac. ann. 1.8.6, 58 years later.

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with the mandatory two-year gap between magistracies. When one of the winning consuls was murdered during the election, the Senate declared a senatus consultum ulti­ mum and tasked C. Marius with defending the state.69 Glaucia escaped at first but was later killed, whereas Saturninus and his followers took refuge in the Capitol. They surrendered and were gathered in the Curia Hostilia by Marius. However, some members of the aristocratic elite climbed up on to the roof, removed the tiles and stoned them all to death.70 In 63, the tribune T. Labienus, whose paternal uncle, Quintus Labienus, was among the victims in the Curia, launched a prosecution against the elderly C. Rabirius, who had taken part in the murder of Saturninus and his followers.71 The prosecution was clearly a way of attacking the repression to which the senatorial class had subjected conflictive politicians, such as the Gracchi and Saturninus; such repression, after all, had violated the sacrosanctitas of the tribunes of the plebs and had condemned people to death without a trial. Due to the accusation of perduellio, high treason, a charge that had not been brought since the fourth century, the trial had an unusual procedure for those times: two duumviri perduellionis, Caesar and Lucius Iulius Caesar, were appointed to judge the case, and they handed down a traditional penalty: death by hanging from a tree. Rabirius appealed to the comitia centuriata where he was defended by Hortensius and Cicero, whose relatively brief speech, Pro Rabirio perduellionis reo, has survived.72 Cicero’s speech, which examined the turbulent events of 100, provided him with the opportunity to (re)interpret them from multiple perspectives, all with the aim of justi-

69 70 71

72

Cf. Duplá Ansuategui 1990 on the senatus consultum ultimum. Tyrrell 1978, 105–106, Saturninus was not formally declared a hostis by the Senate (the first senatus consultum naming individuals as hostes was passed in 88 against Marius, his son and 10 of his followers; cf. Cic. Brut. 168; App. civ. 1.271). Flower 2006, 82–85 on the memory sanctions of Saturninus; also see above. Abbott 1917 pointed to the active term of Labienus as a tribune, when he led three powerful attacks against the boni: 1) the granting of privileges to Pompey so he could don his corona aurea and other triumphal accoutrements (Vell. 2.40.4); 2) the repeal of Sulla’s law that had taken the election of the pontifex maximus out of the hands of the comitia tributa; and 3) the case against Rabirius. Scholarship has not usually recognised Labienus’ own agency, such as Abbott 1917: 6–7, who thought that he had worked ‘under Caesar’s direction during his tribunate’ and that the fact that he had been chosen to conduct the case ‘proves more clearly than any other incident of the year that he was Caesar’s most trusted political lieutenant.’ Syme 1983, 115–116, referring to Labienus, warned about foreshadowing Caesar’s brilliant future in his past. In fact, it is clearly the murder of his own uncle in 100 that determined Labienus’ role in the prosecution. Young men avenging slights to their family name were commonplace in Rome; it is possible that Labienus was accompanied by a younger brother in the accusation (Cic. Rab. perd. 22: propinqui vestri and 14: patruus vester). In any case, it is worth pointing out that the previous year, Caesar, as iudex of the quaestio de sicariis, had accepted accusations against men who had killed people during Sulla’s terror and had been rewarded for this (Suet. Iul. 11; Cass. Dio. 37.10.2). In certain circles there was a penchant for dredging up crimes committed with impunity during the previous civil wars. T. Labienus had limited the defence speeches to half an hour. On the procedure, cf. Lengle 1933. See Maschek in this volume on the Pro Rabirio speech and the material context of violence in this period.

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fying Rabirius’ actions some 40 years before. In doing so, the orator discussed the role of family memories and crafted a version of the past in which strategies for transmitting them, such as heroisation (Heldentum), fascination (Faszination) and justification (Rechtfertigung), can be identified. More than focusing on the facts per se, the speech reflects and discusses the memories of this time and how they had been transmitted to the following generation. It should be borne in mind that, with the exception of Rabirius, none of the main participants in the trial had lived through that time: Caesar and Labienus had been born in that same year, whereas Cicero had only been six years old. Only Hortensius, who was 14 in 100, had in all likelihood any personal memories of the case; he probably included these in his speech, which regrettably has not survived.73 First of all, what strategies for transmitting memories can be found in the speech? Welzer, Moller and Tschuggnall have identified several types of transmission: victimisation, justification, distancing (through irony and criticism), fascination, reduction and cumulative heroisation. Victimisation and heroisation are the mechanisms that by far play the most important role in family memories.74 Some of these mechanisms of transmission can be found in the speech under consideration. Cicero turned those taking part in the repression of Saturninus into heroes: he named the great men who had participated in it, describing them as ‘every illustrious man’ (omnes clarissimi viri). Leading personages such as Scarius, Catulus, Metellus and Scaevola had risked their lives to participate in a ‘dangerous pact’ (societas periculi).75 Welzer, Moller and Tschuggnall point out how cumulative heroisation plays a leading role in family memories, even though in some cases they may seem absurd or even contradictory when contrasted with the events in question.76 In this case, Cicero did not have any blood ties with those aristocratic members of the elite, since he was a homo novus, with the exception of Marius, a distant relative who also came from Arpinum. In his speech, the consul Cicero clearly considered himself to be Marius’ heir and champion: if Labienus acted like Saturninus, he even went so far as to claim, he would act like Marius: he would pass a senatus consultum ultimum and take up arms against the rebel tribune.77 In his speech, the orator elaborated on this tenuous family relationship and even considered himself the political heir of all the senators who had ganged up on Saturninus. He called the souls (mentes) of Marius and his illustrious colleagues as

73 Cic. Rab. perd. 18 mentioned that Hortensius had argued at great length (copiosissime) that Rabirius had not murdered Saturninus. If the speech had been published (which is unknown to us) and preserved, it would have been very interesting to analyse how Hortensius, who had first-hand memories of the events of 100, deployed his arguments, in contrast with Cicero, who had only heard about them. 74 Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 82–104. 75 Cic. Rab. perd. 21. 76 Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 82–104. 77 Cic. Rab. perd. 35. Note the parallels with Cicero’s own behaviour during the Catiline conspiracy, to which the orator certainly wanted to draw attention.

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witnesses, stating that he himself would take up arms, if need be, to defend their fama, gloria and memoria.78 The stress on the last word is important, since the speech and the case were being fought over different transmissions of memories. At the same time, by stating that everybody in the city had joined the consuls against Saturninus, Cicero was clearly employing the idea of group loyalty (Wir-Gruppenloyalität), to which the deceased uncle of Labienus did not belong and to which Rabirius could not help but belong under the circumstances.79 In fact, the sense of group loyalty was so strong, he claimed, that had Labienus been alive at the time, he would have had to choose sides.80 The mechanism of fascination can be perceived throughout the speech, in which Cicero is awed by the courage and political stature of those figures from the past, of the good old times in which rebellious tribunes were kept in their place, instead of a time when noble people were hauled into court. That of justification is blindingly apparent in two sections of the speech in which Cicero ponders on the reason why Quintus Labienus had supported Saturninus. The orator speculates on this point, stating that friendship might have justified the uncle’s decision, together with financial straits or domestic problems.81 In the case of Rabirius, he declared that the accused could not have acted otherwise, since ‘virtue, honour and shame compelled him to take the side of the consuls.’82 Such justifications are typical of strategies for transmitting memories, through which events and decisions are justified a posteriori in order to make sense of them.83 Secondly, the speech is linked to the transmission of family memories, beyond Cicero’s claim to be their political heir. Welzer, Moller and Tschuggnall discovered that descendants did not usually listen to the most grisly stories or those that cast their family members in a negative light. In the stories that were transmitted, some elements (such as murdering someone or denouncing a Jew) were not passed on or comprehended as such. Such a mechanism is meant to make a clean sweep of the past, preserving the moral integrity and family loyalty of individuals.84 This forms part of a natural tendency to harmonise the perception of personality, biographical life and historical time.85 Collective family memories serve to guarantee the coherence and unity of the Erinnerungsgemeinschaft, namely, to ensure that the stories and history of each one is shared by other members of the group.86 In the end, they construct the idea

78 Cic. Rab. perd. 30. 79 Cic. Rab. perd. 20–21. 80 Cic. Rab. perd. 25. 81 Cic. Rab. perd. 23. 82 Cic. Rab. perd. 24: virtus et honestas et pudor cum consulibus esse cogebat. 83 Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 82–83. 84 Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 52–54. 85 Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 74. 86 Welzer/Moller/Tschuggnall 2002, 196–197.

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of the family as a tightknit group, with a specific and canonised history that provides them with an identity. Brutus was brought up with family memories of the murder of his father Marcus Junius Brutus (RE 52), which occurred during the revolt of Aemilius Lepidus in 77. After the latter’s defeat, Brutus pater brought his forces to Mutina, which he defended in a siege against Pompey, sent by the Senate with praetorian imperium to end it. Forced to surrender, Brutus retired to the town of Regium Lepidi, where he was murdered under Pompey’s orders. Brutus held Pompey responsible for the deed and, in an unprecedented decision in Roman politics, refused to speak to or acknowledge him.87 Indeed, there is no recorded conversation between the two. According to a rather vague reference in Plutarch, it was only at the start of the civil war that Brutus seems to have reconsidered his policy.88 Family memories shaped Brutus’ political stance and attitude towards one of the most powerful men in Rome. Returning to the case at hand, Titus Labienus was born around the time of the death of his uncle, so he never actually met him.89 Therefore, an important part of Labienus’ speech was based on what he had been told about his uncle and about the latter’s connection with Saturninus:‘for you have undertaken the advocacy of a cause which is older than your own recollections.’90 At a key moment in his speech, Cicero referred to Labienus’ previous bold claim about his uncle: patruus meus cum Saturnino fuit (my uncle was with Saturninus.)91 Taking into account the repression after the murder of the tribune and the fact that some senators felt uncomfortable with his memory, Labienus’ assertion was not just a straightforward and necessary statement of facts relevant to the trial (i. e. the accusation was based on the fact that his uncle had been stoned to death in the Curia Hostilia), but also amounted to a political statement in which he upheld the memory of the losing side in a violent conflict. Cicero presumed that Labienus had heard about the events and the role played by his uncle. Although he did not elaborate on this any further, as seen in previous cases, family memories were the likeliest source.92 The deeds and murder of Labienus’ uncle formed, in all likelihood, part of his family’s lore.

87 Plut. Pomp. 64.3; Brut. 4.3. Brutus was only eight years old. On Brutus pater’s death (ancient historians have differed on the exact circumstances): Liv. Per. 90; Plut. Pomp. 16.3–5; Oros. 5.22.17, 24.16; cf. RE s. v. Iunius Brutus 52 [Münzer]. 88 Plut. Brut. 4.3. In an unexpected turn of events, Theodotus, one of the councillors who advised Ptolemy to murder Pompey, fled from Egypt and ended up in Asia, where he was captured and tortured to death under Brutus’ orders (Plut. Pomp. 80.6). 89 Labienus was probably born in ca. 100 and Cicero specifically mentioned that he had never known his uncle (quem numquam vidisti; Cic. Rab. perd. 14). 90 Cic. Rab. perd. 25: causam enim suscepisti antiquiorem memoria tua. 91 Cic. Rab. perd. 22. 92 Cic. Rab. perd. 25.

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In the trial against Rabirius, Cicero tried to dismantle and depreciate those family memories by characterising them as something exceptional and not shared by anyone else in Rome: In truth, I affirm this; that that which you confess of your uncle, no man has ever yet confessed with respect to himself. No one, I say, has been found so profligate, so abandoned, so entirely destitute, not only of all honesty, but of every resemblance of and pretence to honesty, as to confess that he was in the Capitol with Saturninus.93

However, the additional arguments that he deployed in his speech cast doubt on such an assertion: a tribune was condemned for keeping a portrait of Saturninus at home, while another had expressed his regret over the former tribune’s death two years afterwards.94 Such a transmission of family memories should be connected with the moment, shortly before Cicero made such a claim, when the orator had abused Saturninus: shouts and boos could be clearly heard, which he tried to downplay by attributing them to a minority.95 For part of the elite, Saturninus was the epitome of the radical and destructive tribune.96 The people and at least some politicians cherished the memory of Saturninus. Considering that the tribune was not commemorated in any way, his memory could only have been transmitted orally. Although he tried, Cicero could not deny the existence of such a positive memory of the tribune and its transmission through family recollections. 3. Conclusions Events emerge for a moment and then disappear. Memories are like human beings: they grow, change and die. It can easily happen that, years or decades later, the memory of an event has not much to do with the one that actually occurred. However, those memories can acquire a new meaning and become relevant at a later date. This chapter has identified the channel through which memories of the civil wars were transmitted. Those turbulent times were usually recalled in conversations with others, namely, conversational remembering, in which people who had experienced those events in person and those who had not reworked those memories through oral 93 Cic. Rab. perd. 23: Equidem hoc adfirmo quod tu nunc de tuo patruo praedicas, neminem umquam adhuc de se esse confessum; nemo est, inquam, inventus tam profligatus, tam perditus, tam ab omni non modo honestate sed etiam simulatione honestatis relictus, qui se in Capitolio fuisse cum Saturnino fatere­ tur. 94 Cic. Rab. perd. 24. Cf. above. 95 Cic. Rab. Post. 18. This reaction may suggest that the crowd surrounding the court of justice was composed mainly of non-elite citizens, since it is extremely unlikely that the Roman elite would have been offended by Cicero’s comments about Saturninus (see Pina Polo 2018). 96 van der Blom 2010, 107.

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interaction. In fact, one of the main contributions of this chapter is the plasticity of the memories and the active role of listeners. This did not involve a passive audience, but rather a more dynamic one, whose commitment to those memories ensured their transmission to the next generation. As has been seen, in ancient Rome memories were transmitted orally over at least three generations. The study of oral memories of the civil wars has provided first-hand accounts of the period’s context, difficulties and baffling moments. It has also given a voice to people who are usually excluded from elite sources: the story of the elderly woman, maybe a freedwoman at her age, who remembered her youth in Hispania and the time spent with a 30-year old man, who would go on to become the richest citizen in Rome and one of the most powerful senators, offers a touching glimpse of the past that usually has not found a place in the historical record. At the same time, it reflects a timeless psychological mechanism, that feeling of rubbing shoulders or consorting with important people. For that same reason, Philotas the physician used to tell his story of having dinner with Antony’s son or about watching the preparations for the royal supper in Alexandria. Applying the findings of studies of how oral memories are transmitted to ancient Rome yields interesting results. Oral memories were transmitted through a complex series of mechanisms, since listeners played an active role in shaping them. Heroisation, justification and other formulae breathed new life into those memories of the past, while addressing present questions and issues, thus ensuring their survival. Cicero employed all of these strategies in his speech in defence of Rabirius. For instance, the complex family memories of the Julio-Claudian dynasty and their recollection of Antony became less restricted over time: his two daughters, Antonia Maior and Minor, were powerful people in Rome, especially the latter, honoured as Antonia Augusta. Her son, Germanicus, during a tour of Greece, visited not only the site of the Battle of Actium, as was only natural, but also the site of Antony’s camp. Tacitus stressed that Germanicus was remembering both his great-uncle and his grandfather.97 As we have seen in detail by studying the memory of Quintus Labienus and his death alongside Saturninus, family memories were an important way of transmitting group identity. Labienus’ claim that ‘my uncle was with Saturninus,’ clearly chimes with this context. Despite Cicero’s attempt to denigrate such memories, it seems that part of the population held them in high regard and transmitted them to their descendants. Such an approach to studying memory in ancient Rome is far from exhausted, since several promising lines of research have yet to be explored. Relating to group loyalty (Wir-Gruppenloyalität), an in-depth study of the sons and relatives of those proscribed by Sulla, who were banned from public life until 49, could establish whether or not

97 Tac. ann. 2.53: cum recordatione maiorum suorum. Namque ei, ut memoravi, avunculus Augustus, avus Antonius erant.

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they shared a group identity due to their common situation and family history (and memories) linked to the civil wars and the traumatic proscriptions.98 What about the repression against the supporters of the Gracchi and their memories; was the phrase ‘Grandpa was a Gracchanus’ ever heard in Rome?99 Storytelling forms a central part of human experience. Oral memories share a lived experience with people who were either elsewhere or had not yet been born when certain events transpired. They also provide a way through which identity, both individual and collective, is constructed. Furthermore, even though they refer to a precise moment in the past, they may be relevant for the present and even for the construction of the future: the updating of oral memories through retelling creates categories and reinforces ideas even years later. In that sense, memory can be a powerful agent of change. Bibliography Abbott, F. 1917. Titus Labienus, in: CJ 13, 4–13. Alexander, M. C. 1990. Trials in the Late Republic, 149 BC to 50 BC., Toronto. André, J. 1949. La vie et l’oeuvre d’Asinius Pollion, Paris. Arena, P. 2014. Res gestae. I miei atti, Bari. Arena, V. 2012. Libertas and the Practice of Politics in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge. Assmann, J. 1992. Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen, Munich. Badian, E. 1956. P. Decius P. f. Subulo, in: JRS 46, 91–96. Bardon, H. 1952. La littérature latine inconnue, Paris. van der Blom, H. 2010. Cicero’s role models: the political strategy of a newcomer, Oxford. Bloomer, W. M. 1992. Valerius Maximus & the rhetoric of the new nobility, Chapel Hill. Cooley, A. E. 2009. Res gestae divi Augusti: text, translation, and commentary, Cambridge. Courrier, C. 2014. La plèbe de Rome et sa culture (fin du IIe siècle av. JC-fin du Ier siècle ap. JC), Rome. del Cerro Calderón, G. 2010. “Testamento” del emperador Augusto: “Monumentum Ancyranum”, Madrid. Duplá ansuategui, A. 1990. Videant consules: las medidas de excepción en la crisis de la República Romana, Zaragoza. Fehrle, R. 1983. Cato Uticensis, Darmstadt. Ferriès, M.-C. 2007. Les partisans d’Antoine (des orphelins de César aux complices de Cléopâtre), Bordeaux. Flower, H. I. 1995. Fabulae Praetextatae in Context: when were plays on contemporary subjects performed in republican Rome?, in: CQ 45, 170–190.

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The most complete prosopographical study of the sons of the proscribed is Vedaldi Iasbez 1981. Their political rights were restored by Caesar in 49, after being one of the burning political issues in the aftermath of Sulla’s dictatorship (Vell. 2.43.4; Suet. DI. 11; Plut. Cat. Min. 17.4–5; Dio. Cass. 43.50.5). Rosillo-López 2021 on the memory of popular tribunes.

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Flower, H. I. 2006. The art of forgetting: disgrace and oblivion in Roman political Culture, Chapel Hill. Galinsky, K. 1998. Augustan culture: an interpretive introduction, Princeton. Geiger, J. 1979. Munatius Rufus and Thrasea Paetus on Cato the Younger, in: Athenaeum 67, 48–72. Gowing, A. M. 2005. Empire and Memory. The Representation of the Roman Republic in Imperial Culture, Cambridge. Hinard, F. 1985. Les proscriptions de la Rome républicaine, Rome. Hirst, W. / Echterhoff, G. 2012. Remembering in conversations: The social sharing and reshaping of memories, in: Annual review of psychology 63, 55–79. Hölkeskamp, K. J. 2005. Images of power: memory, myth and monuments in the Roman Republic, in: SCI 24, 249–72. Hurlet, F. 2016. Naître au début du principat d’Auguste. La génération d’Actium et le nouvel horizon d’attente, in: Chr. Müller / M. Heintz (eds.), Les transitions historiques, Paris, 169–183. Lengle, J. 1933. Die staatsrechtliche Form der Klage gegen C. Rabirius, in: Hermes 68, 328–340. Lewis, R. G. 1991. Sulla’s Autobiography: Scope and Economy, in: Athenaeum 79, 509–519. Manuwald, G. 2001. Fabulae praetextae: Spuren einer literarischen Gattung der Römer, Munich. Marco Simón, F. / Pina Polo, F. 2000. Mario Gratidiano, los compita y la religiosidad popular a fines de la república, in: Klio 82, 154–170. Marshall, B. 1980. Asconius and Fenestella, in: RhM 123, 349–354. Marshall, A. 1977. Crassus, a Political Biography, Amsterdam. Mchugh, M. R. 2004. Historiography and Freedom of Speech: The Case of Cremutius Cordus, in: I. Sluiter / R. M. Rosen (eds.), Free Speech in Classical Antiquity, Leiden, 391–408. Middleton, D. – edwards, D. 1990. Conversational remembering, in: D. Middleton / D. Edwards (eds.), Collective remembering, London, 23–45. Morgan, L. 2000. The Autopsy of C. Asinius Pollio, in: JRS 90, 51–69. Morstein-Marx, R. 2004. Mass Oratory and Political Power in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge. Morstein-Marx, R. 2012. Political Graffiti in the Late Roman Republic: “Hidden Transcripts” and “Common Knowledge”, in: C. Kuhn (ed.), Politische Kommunikation und öffentliche Meinung in der antiken Welt, Stuttgart, 191–218. Oldfather, W. A. 1924. A Friend of Plutarch’s Grandfather, in: CPh, 19, 177. Osgood, J. 2014. Turia: A Roman Woman’s Civil War, Oxford. Phillips, E. J. 1974. The prosecution of C. Rabirius in 63 B. C., in: Klio 56, 87. Pina polo, F. 2018. How much history did the Romans know? Historical references in Cicero’s speeches to the people, in: K. Sandberg / C. Smith (eds.), Omnium annalium monumenta: Annals, Epic and Drama in Republican Rome, Leiden, 230–263. Piotrowicz, L. 1912. De Q. Caecilii Metelli Pii Scipionis in M. Porcium Catonem Invectiva, in: Eos 18, 129–136. Rawson, E. 1986. Cassius and Brutus: the memory of the Liberators, in: I. S. Moxon / D. Smart / A. J. Woodman (eds.), Past Perspectives, 101–119. Rosillo-López, C. 2017. Public Opinion and Politics in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge. Rosillo-López, C. 2021. The Memory of Populism: Popular Tribunes and Popular Political Culture in the Late Roman Republic, in: G. Urso (ed.), Popularitas. Ricerca del consenso e “populismo” in Roma antica, Roma, 101–126. Rosillo-López, C. 2022. Political Conversations in Republican Rome, Oxford.

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Russell, A. 2013. Speech, competition, and collaboration: tribunician politics and the development of popular ideology, in: C. Steel / H. van der Blom (eds.) Community and Communication: Oratory and Politics in Republican Rome, Oxford, 101–115. Scheid, J. 2007. Res Gestae Divi Augusti. Hauts faits du divin Auguste, Paris. Sehlmeyer, M. 1999. Stadtrömische Ehrenstatuen der republikanischen Zeit: Historizität und Kontext von Symbolen nobilitären Standesbewusstseins, Stuttgart. Smith, C. 2009. Development of Roman Autobiography, Swansea. Syme, R. 1938. The allegiance of Labienus, in: JRS 28, 113–125. Tatum, W. J. 2011. The Late Republic: Autobiographies and Memoirs in the Age of the Civil Wars, in: G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity: A Brill Companion, Leiden, 161–188. Tschiedel, J. 1981. Caesars Anticato. Untersuchung der Testimonien und Fragmente, Darmstadt. Tyrrell, W. B. 1973. The Trial of C. Rabirius in 63 B. C., in: Latomus 32, 285–300. Tyrrell, W. B. 1978. A legal and historical commentary to Cicero’s Oratio pro C. Rabirio perdu­ ellionis reo, Amsterdam. Vedaldi Iasbez, V. 1981. I figli dei proscritti sillani, in: Labeo 27, 163–213. Ward, A. M. 1977. Marcus Crassus and the Late Roman Republic, Columbia. Weber, E. 2011. Meine Taten. Res gestae divi Augusti. Berlin. Welch, K. 2009. Alternative memoirs: tales from the ‘other side’ of the civil war, in: C. Smith / A. Powell (eds.), The Lost Memoirs of Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography, Swansea, 195–224. Welzer, H. / Moller, S. / Tschuggnall, K. 2014. Opa war kein Nazi: Nationalsozialismus und Holocaust im Familiengedächtnis, Frankfurt am Main. Wright, A. 2002. Velleius Paterculus and L. Munatius Plancus, in: CPh 97, 172–184. Zanker, P. 1988. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, Ann Arbor.

Self-Representation in a Time of Civil Strife Publius Rutilius Rufus’ de vita sua* Harriet I. Flower No work, in this section, is a more grievous loss than the apologia of P. Rutilius Rufus.1

This paper examines the autobiographical writings of Publius Rutilius Rufus (consul in 105) in the context of the fierce political tensions and episodes of civil war that he experienced during his long lifetime. Previous treatments have tended to see Rutilius’ autobiography as mainly concerned to explain his political activities during the 90 s, with the rather particular and somewhat narrow aim of highlighting his unfair conviction on a charge of extortion in the province of Asia, in what many saw as a travesty of justice committed by a jury composed of equites eager to protect their peers from being held accountable for their notoriously abusive tax-farming methods.2 While his administrative service in Asia, where he was writing in exile at Smyrna, was surely one important theme for Rutilius, I will argue that a vital impetus for composing a first-person account in Latin aimed at a Roman audience can most likely be found in his later experiences in exile during the 80 s. During that decade he remained closely involved with the politics of civil war between rival Roman armies and with the violent clashes between the Romans, their provincial subjects in the Greek cities, and Mithridates VI of Pontus, a Hellenistic king seeking to expand his own empire. Despite his loss of status under Roman law, Rutilius’ voice remained influential in public discourse even as he produced treatments of historical events in both first and third

*

1 2

I would like to thank the following for help and advice with this paper: Michael Flower, Ulrich Gotter, Wolfgang Havener, the anonymous readers for the press and members of the audience at the conference in Konstanz in 2017 and at the Department of Classics at New York University in 2018. All dates are B. C. E. Badian 1966, 25 (in a discussion of the early Roman historians). Previous specific treatments of Rutilius’ memoirs include Hendrickson 1933, Badian 1966, Amiotti 1991, and Suerbaum 2002, no. 171.

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person narratives, written separately in Latin and in Greek respectively, apparently well into the 70 s.3 Before proceeding to an examination of Rutilius’ life and times, it is necessary to consider the brief and controversial history of first-person autobiographical accounts written by prominent Romans in Latin earlier in the first century.4 There is no secure evidence to suggest that memoirs had been written by Romans in the second century or earlier.5 Indeed, autobiography was not a traditional genre in Latin literature. Rather, prestige and personal standing within Roman political culture was heavily based on the idea of community recognition and family identity. As far as we can judge from our evidence, it seems safe to say that the idea of memoir in Latin and the first experiments in autobiographical writing were circulated at the beginning of the first century, at a time when Rutilius was himself already a senior statesman of consular rank. The surviving fragments of these memoirs were first collected by Hermann Peter, who arranged them in a logical order that was chronological according to the birth of each author.6 Nevertheless, their actual publication dates did not inevitably follow this same sequence; looking at them in their original political and intellectual contexts is essential to any more nuanced interpretation, especially given how meager the extant fragments are. Meanwhile, the early memoirists knew each other well and had all held the supreme office of consul. They moved in the same cultural and social circles of the most powerful and prestigious of Rome’s political elite, even as they experienced the political turmoil of the generation after the Gracchi, when a traditional career path had become much more difficult to pursue. The initial experiments in first-person prose narrative seem to have been undertaken by Quintus Lutatius Catulus (consul in 102) around the year 100, in two short publications that focused specifically on his consulship and subsequent role in the defeat of the Cimbri in the year after he held the highest office.7 Subsequently, Marcus Aemilus Scaurus (consul in 115), a contemporary and political rival of Rutilius, is the first Roman we know of to use the title de vita sua for a work in 3 books, which offered a broad-

3

For recent editions of the fragments, see Chassignet 2004, no.1 (164–169), Scholz/Walter/Winkle 2013, 59–70, and FRHist no. 21 (Christopher J. Smith) with Suerbaum 2002, no. 171. 4 For autobiographies written in Latin, see Badian 1966, Suerbaum 2002 no. 169.1, Walter 2003, Baier 2005, Smith/Powell 2009, Candau 2011, Tatum 2011, Scholz/Walter/Winkle 2013, 20–37. 5 Chassignet 2004, LXXXVI–VII argues for earlier lost memoirs on the basis of Tacitus Agr. 1.2–3, as well as a possible memoir by Gaius Gracchus. The latter seems to have been a biography of his brother Tiberius. 6 Peter 21914, has the order: Scaurus, Rutilius Rufus, Catulus, and Sulla. 7 For editions of the fragments, see Chassignet 2004, no. 2, Scholz/Walter/Winkle 2013, 71–79, FRHist no. 19 (Christopher J. Smith) and ORF4 no. 63 for the speeches. For discussion, see Suerbaum 2002, no. 172 and Flower 2014. The Communes Historiae attributed to a Lutatius seem to be the work of Catulus’ freedman Quintus Lutatius Daphnis, according to Chassignet 2004, XX–XXI and Smith in FRHist no. 32. For further discussion, see Flower 2022.

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er account of his life than Catulus’ specific focus on very recent events.8 Scaurus’ work was probably published during his lifetime, most likely in the 90 s but possibly earlier.9 In any case, these two authors’ memoirs clearly predated Rutilius’ account of his life, which has traditionally been placed third in a list that culminates with the extensive but unfinished memoir of Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix, published soon after the former dictator’s death in 78. There can be no doubt that Sulla’s autobiography in 22 books reshaped the field of first-person accounts in Latin and continued to be an influential text well into Late Antiquity.10 Meanwhile, Rutilius certainly outlived Sulla and may well have published his de vita sua, an account in at least 5 books but perhaps much longer, when Sulla’s work was already in circulation. For the purposes of this discussion, I will treat Rutilius and Sulla as effectively writing at about the same time, rather than seeking to impose a strict chronological hierarchy between them. These men knew each other and may well have discussed their literary interests and ambitions during the time they spent together in Asia in the mid-80 s. It is tempting to posit mutual influence as a factor. Publius Rutilius Rufus, perhaps a son of Publius Rutilius Calvus (praetor 166), is well known for a number of signal achievements, including his ability to continue playing a role as a public intellectual and personality even after his exile to Asia Minor, where he lived for many years.11 He was married to a Livia, a woman with a more distinguished set of male relatives than his own.12 Her relations included the two (in) famous reforming tribunes, her brother Marcus Livius Drusus and his son of the same name. Her younger relatives also counted Livia Drusilla, the future wife of the man who would call himself Augustus. As far as we know, Livia and Rutilius both outlived their children; a son died before he could make progress in a political career.13 Livia herself was well known for living to the age of 97 and presumably had a hand in keeping her husband’s memory alive and in circulating his writings, particularly those com-

For the fragments, see Chassignet 2004, no. 2, 161–163, Scholz/Walter/Winkle 2013, 49–58, FRHist no. 18 (Christopher J. Smith) and ORF4 no. 43 for the speeches, with Badian 1966, 23 and Suerbaum 2002, no. 170. 9 Smith (FRHist. no. 18 p. 267–270) opens up the possibility of a second century publication, whereas others put the memoirs in the 90 s, at the end of Scaurus’ life. There is not enough explicit evidence to be sure. 10 For the fragments, see Chassignet 2004, 172–184, Scholz/Walter/Winkle 2013, 80–135, and FRHist no. 22 (Christopher J. Smith). For discussion, see Suerbaum 2002 no. 173 and Flower 2015a and 2015b, with a special emphasis on religion. 11 The best discussion of Rutilius’ life remains Münzer in RE 34, but the recent editions of the fragments all have their own introductions (see also n. 3 and n. 42). 12 For Rutilius’ wife Livia (RE 34), see Val. Max. 8.13.6 and Plin. NH 7.158. She was probably the daughter of the consul of 147, sister of consul of 112 and tribune of 122, aunt of the tribune of 91, and great-aunt of Livia Drusilla, the wife of Augustus. 13 Frontin. str. 4.1.12 records a son who is described as grown up at the time of Rutilius’ consulship in 105. See Münzer RE 34, col. 1276. 8

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posed during his long exile in Smyrna.14 Rutilius’ sister married a Marcus Aurelius Cotta, by whom she had three sons who all became consuls in the 70 s, a family connection that also contributed to Rutilius’ own standing and access to networks of influence and commemoration beyond his immediate family and peer group.15 Rutilius’ birth has variously been placed as early as 160 or as late as 154, with a recent reconstruction arguing for 158.16 In other words, he belonged to the same generation as Gaius Marius and was probably around twenty years older than Sulla. A pupil of the philosopher Panaetius, Rutilius was also known as an adherent of the Stoic school and as a lover of Greek culture.17 Throughout a long and distinguished career, he demonstrated varied talents as a soldier and military leader, an innovative administrator of Rome’s expanding empire, a leading orator, and influential jurist. Rutilius displayed the broad intellectual scope and fierce political ambitions typical of prominent Romans of the later second century. As a politician he persisted in public life until he eventually reached the consulship in his early to mid 50 s, some ten years after he had first presented himself as a candidate for that office. The following is a brief outline that includes simply the highlights of a career that suggest his remarkable energy and continued active engagement with Rome’s rapidly changing political landscape, both at home and abroad, perhaps even (well) into his 80 s. We catch a first glimpse of Rutilius in his twenties serving in the camp and on the staff of Scipio Aemilianus during the brutal siege of Numantia in 134, along with Gaius Marius, Gaius Sempronius Gracchus, and so many others destined to play a role in Roman politics.18 At that point he was already very much in the thick of things but would not, therefore, have been in Rome to witness the tumultuous year of Tiberius Gracchus’ tribunate. As already noted, he failed to be elected consul in 116 for the following year, which indicates that he had already held the praetorship by 118 and other more junior political offices before that time.19 From 109 to 107 he served in Numidia in the war against Jugurtha and distinguished himself as a legatus of Quintus Caecilius Metellus (consul in 109), who received the name Numidicus in honor of his achievements in this war.20 As consul in 105, Rutilius played a decisive role in providing strong leadership after the disastrous Roman defeat at Arausio, the biggest military setback

14 15 16 17 18 19 20

See Welch in this volume for the roles of women in times of civil war. For Rutilia, wife of M. Aurelius Cotta, see Münzer in RE 38 and Kelly 2006, 136, 183–184. She went into exile to Athens with her son C. Aurelius Cotta (Kelly 2006, no. 28). It is interesting that Rutilius did not opt to join them there, which he had the opportunity to do during the 80 s. Münzer (RE 34) opts for 154, followed by Chassignet 2004. Badian 1966 posits 160, while Smith (FRHist. No. 22) reckons Rutilius cannot have been born any later than 158. See Cicero Brut. 113–116 and off. 3.10 with Meier2 1980, 318–320. For Rutilius in Numantia, see Cic. rep. 1.17, Brut. 85–89, and Appian Hisp. 88.382 with Pina Polo 2002. For the events surrounding the consular elections in 116, see Cic. Brut. 113–116. For Rutilius in Numidia, see Sall. Iug. 86.4–5 and Plut. Mar. 10.1.

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since the battle of Cannae over a century before.21 Despite initially failing to be elected to the consulship at the customary age, Rutilius was ultimately lucky in gaining the highest office in his 50 s, immediately before Marius came to dominate the post over successive election cycles at the very end of the century. Meanwhile, some of the army reforms often attributed to Marius seem to have been originated by Rutilius, first during his time in Africa and then after Arausio.22 In the mid-90 s, when he was already over 60 years old, Rutilius opted to spend time in the Roman province of Asia as an aide to the governor Quintus Mucius Scaevola (consul of 95), a man many years his junior in age and rank.23 Together they engaged in reforms that seriously limited the extortionate practices of the Roman tax farmers and held some of these publicani accountable for their harsh treatment of provincials. It was this policy of bold political and fiscal innovation in provincial administration that resulted in Rutilius’ own conviction on a charge of extortion after a notorious show trial, probably in 92.24 The huge fine imposed by the equestrian jury ruined Rutilius, who went into exile in Asia, after being forced to liquidate most of his assets. He ostentatiously chose the province he had been accused of exploiting and received a warm reception there. Subsequently, he spent the rest of his life in exile in Asia, first in Mytilene on Lesbos and then in Smyrna, where he became a well-established local citizen. Marcus and Quintus Cicero visited him there in 78; Cicero imagines him as still alive in a dramatic dialogue set in the year 75, when he would have been at least 80, or perhaps as old as 85.25 He never returned to live in Rome, although his writings on historical topics in both Latin and Greek written during his retirement period were disseminated in the city. Cicero had fond memories of Rutilius as a charismatic and inspiring figure, when he recalled his own personal experience travelling in Asia in his late 20 s, a young Roman eager to converse with the grand old man, who belonged to the generation of his grandfather. Similarly, in his Brutus written in the mid-40 s, Cicero conjures up a vivid picture of Rutilius as a compelling orator, albeit in a plain and old-fashioned style,

21 See MRR 1 p. 555 for the references. 22 For the army reforms, see Val. Max. 2.3.2 and Licinianus 23.25–27. Cadiou 2018 has questioned the content of these reforms as they have traditionally been understood. For the Roman army in the second century, see now also Taylor 2020. 23 Badian 1956 and Morrell 2017, 12–14. For the date of their activity in Asia, see MRR 3.145–6 with Ferrary 2000, 163–165. 24 For Rutilius’ trial and conviction, see Cic. Brut. 115, de orat. 1.53, Font. 17, Pis. 39, Liv. per. 70, Vell. 2.13, Val. Max. 2.10.5, Quint. 11.1.12, Dio fr. 97, Oros. 5.17.12 with Gruen 1966, 53–5 and Alexander 1990, no. 94. Elster 2020 no. 82, 245–250 outlines the extortion law of Servilius Glaucia that was in force in the 90 s. Kelly 2006, no. 25 places the exile in 92. For an earlier dating proposal, see Kallett-Marx 1990. For the purpose of the present discussion the precise date of the trial and conviction is not crucial. 25 Cic. rep. 1.13.17, Brut. 85–89, and nat. 3.80.

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a man exemplary of an earlier time and a set of very Roman traditional values.26 As Cicero indicates, Rutilius the orator was just as memorable as Rutilius the leading jurist or Rutilius the historian of his own times, even some 50 years after his infamous conviction and exile. Yet, does this picture depend specifically or entirely on the memoirs? In fact, there is secure evidence that Rutilius had also published his speeches separately, as many leading Roman orators in the second century were doing.27 Augustus read one such speech aloud in the senate.28 Publishing his speeches gave voice to Rutilius’ political views and to his perspective on legal matters in a timely fashion. Indeed, for a man of Rutilius’ age and background, published speeches were the obvious vehicle for first-person self-representation in a tradition that went back over a century before his trial. It seems very probable, therefore, that he circulated a version of his defense speech soon after his conviction, even as he was setting off for a new life in Asia, immediately before Rome was rocked by the shocking murder of his wife’s nephew Marcus Livius Drusus and the subsequent outbreak of the savage Social War. When, how, and why then did Rutilius decide to write his memoir in exile? In order to answer these questions, the turbulent events of the 80 s offer a more nuanced and suggestive context for his literary experiment than the specific circumstances of his trial in the late 90 s, which he had surely already memorialized in a published speech. It is also important to note that as an exile, who no longer enjoyed the consular rank he had worked so hard to attain, Rutilius was not in a position to deliver any more speeches (in Latin) that he could also circulate in written versions. Similarly, he did not have access to other means of self-representation in the city of Rome, such as the putting up of monuments, statues, dedications, or inscriptions of any kind, whether paid for by himself or by anyone else who wanted to honor him.29 Ultimately, when he died he would receive no funeral accompanied by wax masks of his office-holding relatives (imagines) or a funeral eulogy from the rostra in the forum (laudatio), such as his father and other relations had surely had.30 No epitaph would be inscribed in his name at a family tomb since he was not (to be) buried in Rome.

ORF4 no. 44 with Cic. Brut. 110, 114–116, 118, orat. 1.227–9. Havener in this volume discusses exemplarity. 27 Malcovati’s ORF4 has been supplemented in important ways by Manuwald 2019. See Steel in this volume for a more general consideration of oratory during Rutilius’ lifetime. The Fragments of the Republican Roman Orators project at the University of Glasgow (http://www.frro.gla.ac.uk) will offer a completely new edition with many more orators and fragments. 28 Suet. Aug. 89.2 described Augustus reading Rutilius’ speech de modo aedificiorum aloud in the senate. 29 Other memoirists who were recalled by important statues and buildings in Rome include most notably Catulus and Sulla. We are less well informed about Scaurus. See Cadario in this volume for monuments and civil war. 30 See Flower 1996 for the funeral and commemorative practices of the nobiles. 26

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It was in his specific role as an exile that Rutilius now turned to writing his own accounts of his life and times, in a broader historical narrative in Greek and a parallel memoir in Latin, the latter with a more specific focus on his own lifetime. These texts were written at the same time and contained overlapping material presented from different points of view and with separate audiences in mind. When he left Rome, Rutilius was accompanied by Aurelius Opillus, a learned freedman who had been manumitted by an Aurelius Cotta, from the family that Rutilius’ sister had married into.31 Opillus also lived to an advanced age in Smyrna and was well known as a grammarian and philosopher, cited by Varro and Verrius Flaccus. Despite the dire circumstances of his loss of rank, status, and means, Rutilius apparently set out with his intellectual ambitions and at least some resources intact. It would obviously be interesting to know about other learned members of his household who also made the move to his new home(s) abroad. We have only 12 short fragments of Rutilius’ memoir, 9 of which include brief verbatim quotations that indicate a first-person narrative.32 It is impossible to reconstruct either the overall shape or the tone of this text. It may lie behind a number of works by later authors, such as Sallust’s account of the war against Jugurtha as waged by Metellus and Rutilius, Plutarch’s version of Marius in Africa, or Appian’s description of Sulla’s actions in Asia after the Peace of Dardanus, but we cannot be sure on the basis of our current evidence.33 Meanwhile, the succession of Rutilius’ own movements and involvements after his conviction do provide the framework within which the memoirs will have been composed, which is to say its essential political and cultural context over a period of more than 15 years. Unlike other elite Romans who had trouble in the courts, Rutilius did not take steps to save either his social status or his personal fortune from the full penalties he was subject to after conviction under the extortion law. In this unusual circumstance, it is all the more striking to see him choose to go into exile in the province of Asia, where he was greeted not only with kind words but also with financial support for his new life as a local citizen.34 We have various pieces of information about his whereabouts, although other equally interesting episodes are surely lost to us. His initial choice was to go to Mytilene on the island of Lesbos, where he may have tak-

31

32

33 34

For Aurelius Opillus, whose praenomen we do not know, see Suet. gramm. 6.2, Gell. NA 1.25.17, and Symm. epist. 1.20.2 with Christes 1979, 17–20, Kaster 1995, 110–116, Suerbaum 2002 no. 193.2, and Kelly 2006, 90. Fragments of his work in GRF 86–95 attest to a publication entitled Musae, probably a type of miscellany in 9 books, one named for each muse. See Chassignet 2004, CIX for the authors who quote Rutilius, in comparison with the other memoirists. These are Cicero, Plutarch, Appian, and the later grammarians Charisius, Diomedes, Isidore, and Granius Licinianus. Pelling 2009, 73–75 sees him as much less influential than (for example) Badian 1966 does. For discussion, see Mastrocinque 1999, 62–4, Scholz 2003, 175–176 and many essays in Welch 2015. Dio 28 fr. 97.4 records the financial support Rutilius received.

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en up residence as early as 91 or 90. In 88 Rutilius was one of the few Romans to escape the general massacre of the Roman and Italian population that was instigated by Mithridates VI and enthusiastically pursued by local leaders on the island.35 It was the Mytilineans who handed over Manius Aquillius (consul in 101) to Mithridates, leading to the lengthy parading around Asia of the most senior Roman commander to be captured by the king and his eventual public execution.36 Mytilene continued to resist Roman domination even after the Peace of Dardanus and Sulla’s return to Italy in the later 80 s.37 Needless to say, handing over Rutilius himself would have provided Mithridates with an even more senior POW, although one who had now lost his civic status. In a detail that is surely drawn from the autobiography, Rutilius describes how he dressed as a Greek and was thus able to escape from being hunted down with the other victims.38 After this narrow escape from genocide, Rutilius chose to settle in Smyrna, where he was awarded local citizenship and spent the rest of his life.39 Yet, Smyrna was also a community that took the side of Mithridates. By 85 we find Rutilius in the camp of Sulla, where he acted as a go-between in negotiations between Sulla and Fimbria, a rival Roman commander who had instigated the murder of his own commanding officer Lucius Valerius Flaccus (suffect consul in 86) and taken over the latter’s army.40 Fimbria was cornered by Sulla’s army but accepted the free passage offered to him by Rutilius on behalf of Sulla. Fimbria’s army joined Sulla, although two of its officers defected to Mithridates. Soon after, Fimbria killed himself in the Temple of Asclepius at Pergamon. We do not know how long Rutilius spent with Sulla but he refused to accompany him on his return journey to Rome by way of Greece.41 After these events, Rutilius seems to have spent the rest of his life in Smyrna, where he was visited by Cicero in 78 and described as still being alive in 75. It is also possible that other family members, including his wife Livia, might have joined him there for more or less extended periods of time. Meanwhile, Livia would presumably have been able to support herself in Rome with resources that were part of her dowry or other personal posses-

35 See Cic. Rab. Post. 10.27 and Dio 24 fr. 95.3–4 with Amiotti 1980 and Ferrary 2002. 36 Amiotti 1979 examines the various traditions about the death of Aquillius. 37 App. Mithr. 21. 38 See the references in n. 35 above. Heskel 1994, 136 argues that Cicero distorts the account of Rutilius’ escape for his own purposes. It is notable that Opill(i)us, a freedman with the status of a Roman citizen, also escaped to Smyrna with Rutilius. 39 For Rutilius in Smyrna, see Cic. Pro Balb. 11.28, Suet. gramm. 6, Tac. ann. 4.43, and Oros. 5.17.12–13 with Keaveney 2005, 192–193. 40 For Flaccus, Fimbria and Sulla, see Liv. per. 85, Vell. 2.24, Plut. Sull. 25, App. Mithr. 59–60, Oros. 6.2.11, and De vir ill. 70 with Keaveney 2005, 189–193. More sources are listed by Greenidge/Clay 1960, 185–189. 41 For Rutilius’ well-known refusal(s) to return to Rome, see Ov. Pont. 1.3.63–4, Val. Max. 6.4.4, Sen. epist. 24.4, benef. 6.37.2, dial. 1.3.7, and Quint. 11.1.13.

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sions (peculium) and may have been able to contribute to her husband’s upkeep, after he lost his own personal fortune.42 Rutilius clearly had an unusual life, both before and after his conviction and exile, a life shaped by historical circumstance but also by the singular and energetic choices he himself made. We find him an eyewitness to many of Rome’s conflicts and crises, in a world shaped by highly partisan politics and escalating violence between Romans, provincials, and dangerous enemies, such as Mithridates. Rutilius’ clash with the publi­ cani involved fundamental but highly controversial questions about how Rome’s provinces should be governed and taxed, as well as what recourse provincials might have in cases of extortion.43 The resentment caused by Roman rule was much in evidence in the massacres of many Romans and Italians in Asia, a bloodbath that speaks both to local grievances in many Greek cities and to the foreign policy objectives of Mithridates VI. Meanwhile, the Pontic king was eager to take advantage of the Social War in Italy to seize control of the province of Asia and to challenge Roman domination in mainland Greece as well.44 At the same time, the brutal civil war(s) between Sulla, Marius, Cinna, Carbo and their respective adherents played out in successive stages against the background of a bitterly divided Italy, a string of Mediterranean provinces ready to be rid of Roman rule, and the ambitions of a Hellenistic monarch eager to claim the inheritance of Alexander the Great. Far from leading the quiet life of an exile in retirement, Rutilius had often been close to the action and surely had much to explain in terms of his own choices, not least to an audience in Rome. He also had a potentially exciting story to tell, although it is hard for us to know whether that was part of his original purpose in writing. He was interested in expressing himself in various genres, in both Latin and in Greek, to a Roman and to a wider Mediterranean audience.45 The evidence that we do have allows us to pose a series of questions that come to mind as obvious topics that Rutilius would have wanted to address, not least because his contemporaries would have been asking him how things had come to pass and why he had chosen his own, particular life path. These questions are suggestive, although we do not know the details of his answers. Beyond the initial question of why he had decided to play the role of a Roman Socrates during his extortion trial – presumably as a matter of principle for a just man not intimidated by corrupt jurors! – his life as an exile was even stranger and much less predictable. Why did he choose Mytilene and how long was he living there before the 42 43 44 45

Kelly 2006, 133–137 explains who usually accompanied an exile. Wives and children usually stayed in Rome. See above n. 23. For the foreign policy of Mithridates VI, see Cic. Manil. 3.7, 5.11, Plin. NH 2.209, Tac. ann. 4.14, App. Mithr. 17–27, and Dio fr. 101 with McGing 1986, Mastrocinque 1999, and Mayor 2009, especially 13–26. For the fragments of Rutilius’ history in Greek, see Chassignet 2004, 2–5 and Beck in BNJ (2011) no. 815 with full bibliography.

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catastrophe of 88? Was he really caught off guard in the middle of that terrible crisis? Or had he deliberately inserted himself into what he knew was a hotbed of anti-Roman feeling? Was the violent outcome something he had feared or foreseen for some time? All of these issues lead to the main question: how did he manage to emerge as one of the few survivors from the massacre of the Romans on Lesbos, despite the fact that he might have been handed over as a prize captive to Mithridates? This status as survivor would itself have served as a powerful catalyst for his memoir. Unsurprisingly, we know that other Romans also escaped by taking off their togas and hiding their ethnicity.46 Rutilius had apparently usually worn a toga in Mytilene despite his status as an exile.47 Was his spoken Greek good enough that he could ‘pass’ as a local or a visitor from another city? Or did he have an existing network of influence that allowed him to escape in ways that were simply not available to others from Italy? On the face of it, his description of using a disguise to save his life indicates that he claimed not to have been given a free pass or to have made a deal with the enemy but to have had to use deception to avoid being rounded up with the others. Even in this brief snipet of information, therefore, we can discern Rutilius’ desire to explain himself, whether he was completely truthful or not in his later account. He felt the need to write a first-person account in Latin to record precisely this kind of circumstantial detail in his own defense. In this context, it is interesting to note that, according to Plutarch, Theophanes of Mytilene, a close ally of Pompey, would later accuse Rutilius of collusion with Mithridates in the early 80 s, a not entirely unwarranted suspicion that could have been raised by his behavior and movements before the peace of Dardanus.48 At the time when Pompey had captured Mithridates’ private papers after the king’s death, Theophanes claimed that among them was found a piece of writing composed by Rutilius that explicitly urged the king to massacre the Italians in the province of Asia. Termed a logos, this was perhaps in the format of a speech of exhortation, whether it ever existed as an actual document or was only a malicious rumor circulated by Theophanes. A modern historian will doubt that Mithridates needed a Rutilius to suggest the idea of the killing the Italians to him and Plutarch expresses his own reservations about Theophanes’ truthfulness. Nevertheless, it is interesting to see that Rutilius evidently remained so controversial and prominent a figure that he was worth attacking around 64 to 62, the years of Pompey’s victory in the East and his triumphant return to Rome. Surely by then Rutilius would have been dead for many years and a generation had passed since

46 Posidonius FGH 87 F 36.50 (=Athenaeus 213B) describes other Romans taking off their togas in order to disguise their identities. 47 Kelly 2006, 148 n. 44 explains that Roman exiles were expected to continue to wear Roman dress abroad. 48 For Theophanes of Mytilene, see BNJ no. 188 F 1 (= Plut. Pomp. 37.1–3) with Gold 1985, Anastasiadis 1999, Yarrow 2006, 57, Santangelo 2015 (Italian edition of the fragments) and 2018.

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the massacre of Italians in Asia. What kept his memory alive, if not his writings, which had painted a much more positive picture of his escape? Now the leading citizen of Mytilene in Rome set out to blacken Rutilius’ memory, by producing ‘proof ’ that he had been working for Mithridates even in the short time that Rutilius was in Asia before the massacre and that, beyond preserving his own safety, he bore some responsibility for the brutal deaths of so many of his countrymen. Why Mytilene? logically leads to the question: Why Smyrna? Quintus Servilius Caepio (consul in 106) had gone into exile there after his conviction for reckless incompetence in causing the Roman defeat at Arausio, presumably arriving in Asia around 103.49 Caepio had also lost his social status and faced a huge fine, but it seems unclear whether Rutilius would have seen him as a role model, even if their situations were formally somewhat analogous. Moreover, other venues, such as the island of Rhodes, which successfully resisted Mithridates’ fleet, offered more obvious places of political refuge, as well as attractive intellectual environments for a scholar.50 Rutilius’ mentor and commanding officer Metellus Numidicus had chosen Rhodes as his place of voluntary exile in the year 100.51 Moreover, Smyrna was situated only about 50 miles away from Mithridates’ headquarters at Ephesus and also supported the king.52 Yet this community received Rutilius, apparently before he went to join Sulla, and offered him local citizenship. In effect, the people of Smyrna were protecting him as one of their own, if we assume that he was not greeted openly as an agent of Mithridates. It is hard to imagine that the years after 88 allowed much space for neutrality, if that was what Rutilius was claiming.53 On the other hand, Mithridates may have spared Rutilius precisely in order to blacken his reputation. When and why did Rutilius then opt to travel north and join Sulla? Indeed how long was he with Sulla’s army? Did he even play a role in negotiating between Mithridates and the Romans at the time of the treaty of Dardanus? It is striking to meet Rutilius in 85 very much acting the part of the senior statesman in negotiating between Sulla and Fimbria, two rival Roman generals neither of whom had a strictly legal standing

49

50 51

52 53

For Q. Servilius Caepio (RE 49) in Smyrna, see Kelly 2006, no. 17. He became a citizen of Smyrna, according to Cicero (Balb. 28). He seems still to have been alive at the time of Rutilius’ conviction and exile. Kelly 2006, 83 sees Caepio’s choice of Smyrna as an indication that he was not hopeful of a recall from exile. For Rhodes as a destination of exile, see Peachin’s 2016 discussion of the future emperor Tiberius and his time on the island. For Metellus Numidicus (RE 97) on Rhodes, see Liv. per. 69 and Plut. mor. 29 with Kelly 2006, no. 22. Scholz/Walter/Winkle 2013, 44–8 discuss a possible ‘memoir’ by Numidicus. His letters (Gell. NA 15.13.6 and 17.2.7) are characterized by Kelly 2006, 86 as a possible ‘speech’ given by an exile. He was accompanied in his exile by L. Aelius Stilo (Suet. gramm. 3.3), a Roman citizen of equestrian rank, who acted as his speechwriter (Cic. Brut. 206). De vir ill. 62.3 has him in exile at Smyrna (presumably in error). McGing 1986, 113 notes that the order for the massacre was issued at Ephesus. See Mitchell in this volume for the difficulty of staying neutral in a civil war.

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as representing the Roman state and its interests in Asia. In the shadow of Mithridates, whom Fimbria had just failed to capture when Sulla would not join his effort, civil strife loomed again between two Roman armies. Rutilius, an exile without civic status, was the official negotiator acting for Sulla, himself technically a hostis in the eyes of the contemporary government in Rome. Fimbria, who had seized power by causing a mutiny and assassinating his own commanding officer, was disappointed not to be dealing with Sulla himself but accepted Rutilius’ offer to hand over his army and leave the area. We do not have enough detailed information about Fimbria’s subsequent suicide in the Temple of Asclepius at Pergamon to know whether he designed his death as a type of curse on his political enemies, in the same way that the flamen Dialis L. Cornelius Merula had killed himself in the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in Rome shortly before.54 Once more Rutilius played a highly irregular role in an unprecedented political and military situation. Again he would have had much to explain and few traditional venues left for such an explanation. In 85 he was clearly on good terms with Sulla but refused to travel back to Rome with his army, preferring to return to his life in Smyrna. In fact, Rutilius never moved back to Rome despite having numerous opportunities over the coming years. It is perhaps not surprising that he felt uncertain of Sulla’s chances in his initial march back to Italy, with a new civil war looming. But after Sulla’s victory in 82, many exiles took up the dictator’s invitation to come back to Rome, including Gaius Aurelius Cotta, a nephew of Rutilius’ who had helped to defend him during his trial and who had been living in voluntary exile in Athens for some years.55 Similarly, a return would surely have been possible in the early 70 s, after Sulla’s death, if Rutilius preferred not to be further associated or indebted to the man who had seized power so ruthlessly. Indeed, his same nephew Cotta, who had come back from Athens, was elected consul for 75 and could surely have helped to rehabilitate his maternal uncle.56 Consequently, the final decision to stay a citizen of Smyrna, perhaps by now clad in a typical Greek-style tunic and wearing sandals, was also an option that set Rutilius ostentatiously apart from most others of his time. Rutilius Rufus had been no friend of Gaius Marius, whose rise to power in Numidia and eclipse of Rutilius’ own commander Metellus we may hear echoes of in Sallust’s description of the war against Jugurtha. Like so many others amongst Rome’s political elite, Rutilius had found his own achievements overshadowed and even coopted by the sudden monopoly of power and prestige enjoyed by Marius at the end of the second century. In this sense his memoir will have been in the tradition of Catulus’. On the

For Merula’s suicide in 87, see App. civ. 1.74. Full references can be found in MRR 2 p. 47. For the return of exiles under Sulla, see Plut. Sull. 22.1 and 34.1 with Kelly 2006, 99–100. Some of them walked in Sulla’s triumph, an experience that Rutilius will presumably have been happy to miss. 56 See RE 96 and MRR 2 p. 96. 54 55

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other hand, Rutilius also does not seem to be a true partisan of Sulla, Marius’ great rival, whose patronage he could have enjoyed much more fully. Meanwhile, Rutilius was clearly not playing the part of the philosopher who is leading a life of cultivated leisure, detached from politics in the city or from the administration of the empire. Despite and perhaps even because of his new status as an outsider after 92, he could and did play a more independent, perhaps even a more consciously independent if not neutral, role that still at least claimed to favor Roman interests, presumably as he understood them in each new political situation. It is notable that he was still an object of admiration to Cicero, even in the 40 s, while having been reviled in the 60 s by Theophanes of Mytilene, who may himself have gone so far as to forge written proof of Rutilius’ perfidy in acting as an adviser to king Mithridates VI. Surprisingly, in comparison to many other Roman exiles, Rutilius remained relevant to the Roman political landscape, even as he had set landmarks in the law and in oratorical practice. His literary pursuits should surely be seen as integral to his self-presentation in an age of crisis, not least in creating and maintaining his personal standing and independent public voice, an essential attribute that the Romans termed auctoritas.57 Over a period of almost 20 years during which Rutilius was no longer a man of any formal rank (dignitas) and subject to loss of status (infamia), his writings allowed him a means for representing his own views. In this context, writing in Latin in the first person took on a rather specific function and valence. The decision to cover his own lifetime was an imitation on a larger scale of the memoir written by Aemilius Scaurus, his contemporary and political rival, while being more ambitious than the specific focus chosen by Catulus in response to Marius. It will have allowed him a larger canvas on which to depict the variety of challenges he faced in a public career that lasted from Scipio Aemilianus’ famous siege of Numantia to the eve of the Social War, from the guerilla conflict in Numidia to the lengthy struggle against the Cimbri and Teutoni, and the subsequent contest with Mithridates of Pontus for control of the eastern Mediterranean. As suggested in this paper, he will surely also have explained his version of the violent events in the 80 s in Asia, as well as his very personal decision to remain a citizen of Smyrna. The parallel with Sulla’s expansive autobiographical project is suggestive, even without a detailed knowledge of either text. Sulla’s memoirs were originally written in Latin but a Greek version seems soon to have been in circulation.58 It is possible that a bilingual edition was planned from the start, with a wide audience in mind. We do not know how long Sulla’s work was originally envisioned to be. As already mentioned, we can imagine these men discussing the possibility of writing their own versions of mo57 58

See Augustus’ RGDA 34.3 for his claim that he excelled others by virtue of his personal prestige (auctoritate omnibus praestiti) rather than his legal power (potestas). He may have had his eye on Rutilius, amongst others. For Sulla’s memoirs, see above n. 10.

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mentous contemporary events in various formats during their time together in Asia in the mid-80 s. They could already have been planning or working on their own autobiographical projects at that time. Caecilia Metella, the widow of Scaurus the memoirist, would also have been present in these conversations, in addition to Rutilius’ literary associate Aurelius Opill(i)us, Sulla’s freedman and editorial assistant Epicadus, and other learned members of each man’s entourage.59 Although we characterize these first-person narratives as ‘autobiographies’, many advisers and editors surely lie behind the way each memoir was conceived and executed, even as the raw material was probably compiled and organized by secretarial assistants. Like Sulla, Rutilius also wrote accounts in both Latin and Greek, but seems to have distinguished between them in voice (first or third person) and scope (defined by his own lifetime or by other historical markers), rather than choosing the more economical path of simply translating his memoirs into Greek. As things turned out, he had more time than Sulla to think through how to present his own life and the history of his times. Both Sulla and Rutilius’ works emerged from the crucible of the late 90 s and 80 s, a time when civil war and external conflict caused unprecedented instability in Roman political culture and in the careers of its leading men. Rutilius’ trial and exile, a political drama about taxation, extortion, and accountability in the provinces, closely prefigured the brutal ethnic cleansing of Romans and Italians in the Greek cities of Asia Minor, at the instigation of Mithridates VI of Pontus. The Romans were having trouble controlling their empire in the East. Meanwhile, the Social War with the Italian allies unleashed devastating violence on Italian soil in the context of what must have been experienced by many on each side as a civil war, even as Romans and Italians were being massacred side by side and without distinction in Asia. A hard-won victory in Italy soon dissolved into repeated episodes of civil strife in Rome, as the city was captured by rival armies, citizens were declared to be public enemies (hostes), and the decade ended in one-man rule and a constitutional settlement imposed by a dictator, Sulla the fortunate.60 Both Sulla and Rutilius faced political and social annihilation at the hands of partisan rivals, even as they each made their own accommodations with Mithridates and the various Greek cities in Asia. Sulla chose to use violence, even marching on Rome twice and overthrowing the existing political order. Rutilius followed an alternative path in yielding to his attackers, the Roman tax farmers (publicani), and by putting the decision of the law court at his trial above his career and personal standing, regardless of how biased and partisan that jury had been. He imitated Metellus Numidicus in some ways but not in others. His actions provide a marked contrast to those of Sulla (and later also Julius Caesar). Each memoir was written to justify the actions of its 59 60

Sulla’s wife, Caecilia Metella (RE 134) had barely escaped Rome with her children, according to Plut. Sull. 22 and Oros. 5.20. For Sulla’s freedman L. Cornelius Epicadus, see Suet. gramm. 12. See Flower 2010, esp. 81–114.

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protagonist, Rutilius and Sulla, within the highly unusual and rapidly evolving political landscape that included the end of traditional republicanism in Rome and the emergence of powerful generals with client armies pursuing individual objectives. There is every reason to believe that each text also played a key role in defining this time period for contemporaries, as well as for later Romans. Bibliography Alexander, M. C. 1990. Trials in the Late Roman Republic: 149 to 50 BC, Toronto. Amiotti, G. 1991. A proposito dell’ immagine di P. Rutilio Rufo, in: M. Sordi (ed.), L’immagine dell uomo politico: vita pubblica e morale nell’antichità, Milan, 159–167. Amiotti, G. 1979. La tradizione sulla morte di Manio Aquillio, in: Aevum 53, 72–77. Amiotti, G. 1980. I Greci ed il massacre degli Italici nell’ 88 a. C., in: Aevum 54, 132–139. Anastasiadis, V. 1999. Inventing a kakoetheuma: A Propagandistic Attack against P. Rutilius Rufus, in: PP 304, 48–68. Badian, E. 1956. Q. Mucius Scaevola and the Province of Asia, in: Athenaeum 34, 104–123. Badian, E. 1966. The Early Historians, in: T. A. Dorey (ed.), Latin Historians, London, 1–38. Baier, T. 2005. Autobiographie in der späten römischen Republik, in: M. Reichel (ed.), Antike Autobiographien. Werke – Epochen – Gattungen, Cologne, 123–142. Bardon, H. 1952. La littérature latine inconnue, vol 1: L’époque républicaine, Paris. Cadiou, F. 2018. L’armée imaginaire. Les soldats proletaires dans les legions romaines au dernier siècle de la république, Paris. Candau, J. M. 2011. Republican Rome: Autobiography and Political Struggle, in: G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity, Leiden, 121–159. Chassignet, M. 2004. L’annalistique romaine 3: l’annalistique récente, l’autobiographie politique, Paris. Christes, J. 1979. Sklaven und Freigelassene als Grammatiker und Philologen im antiken Rom, Wiesbaden. Elster, M. 2020. Die Gesetze der späten römischen Republik, von den Gracchen bis Sulla (133– 80 v. Chr.), Göttingen. Ferrary, J.-L. 2000. Les gouverneurs des provinces romaines d’ Asie Mineure (Asie et Cilicie) depuis l’organisation de la province d’Asie jusqu’ à la première guerre de Mithridate (126–88 av. J.-C.), in: Chiron 30, 161–193. Ferrary, J.-L. 2002. La création de la province d’Asie et la présence italienne en Asie Mineure,” in C. Müller / C. Hasenohr (eds.), Les Italiens dans le monde grec, Athens, 133–146. Flower, H. I. 1996. Ancestor Masks and Aristocratic Power in Roman Culture, Oxford. Flower, H. I. 2010. Roman Republics, Princeton. Flower, H. I. 2014. Memory and Memoirs in Republican Rome, in: K. Galinsky (ed.) Memoria Romana: Memory in Rome and Rome in Memory. Ann Arbor, MI, 27–40. Flower, H. I. 2015a. Sulla’s Memoirs as an Account of Personal Religious Experiences, in: Religion in the Roman Empire 1, 297–320. Flower, H. I. 2015b. The Rapture and the Sorrow: Characterization in Sulla’s Memoirs, in: R. Ash / J. Mossman / F. B. Titchener (eds.), Fame and Infamy: Essays for Christopher Pelling on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiography, Oxford, 209–223.

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Flower, H. I. 2022. The Most Expensive Slave in Rome: Quintus Lutatius Daphnis, in: CPh 117, 99–119. Gold, B. 1985. Pompey and Theophanes of Mytilene, in: AJPh 103, 312–327. Greenidge, A. H. J. / Clay A. M. 1960. Sources for Roman History 133–70 B. C, 2nd ed., Oxford. Gruen, E. S. 1966. The Political Prosecutions in the 90 s B. C., in: Historia 15, 32–64. Hendrickson, G. L. 1933. The Memoirs of Rutilius Rufus, in: CPh 28, 153–175. Heskel, J. 1994. Cicero as Evidence for Attitudes to Dress in the Late Republic, in: J. L. Sebesta / L. Bonfante (eds.), The World of Roman Costume, Madison, WI, 133–145. Kallett-Marx, R. M. 1990. The Trial of Rutilius Rufus, in: Phoenix 44, 122–139. Kaster, R. A. 1995. C. Suetonius Tranquillus. De Grammaticis et Rhetoribus, Oxford. Keaveney, A. 2005. Sulla, the Last Republican, 2nd ed., London. Kelly, G. P. 2006. A History of Exile in the Roman Republic, Cambridge. Manuwald, G. 2019. Fragmentary Republican Latin: Oratory, vols 3–5, Cambridge, MA. Marasco, G. ed. 2011. Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity, Leiden. Mastrocinque, A. 1999. Studi sulle guerre Mitridatiche, Stuttgart. Mayor, A. 2009. The Poison King: The Life and Legend of Mithradates, Rome’s Deadliest Enemy, Princeton. Mcging, B. C. 1986. The Foreign Policy of Mithridates VI Eupator, King of Pontus, Leiden. Meier, C. 1980. Res Publica Amissa. Eine Studie zu Verfassung und Geschichte der späten römischen Republik, 2nd ed., Berlin. Morell, K. 2017. Pompey, Cato, and the Governance of the Roman Empire, Oxford. Peachin, M. 2016. Tiberius on Rhodes, in: F. Marco simón / F. Pina Polo / J. Remesal Rodríguez (eds.), Autorretratos: la creación de la imagen personal en la Antigüedad, Barcelona, 29–42. Pelling, C. B. R. 2009. Was there an Ancient Genre of ‘Autobiography? Or, Did Augustus know what he was doing? In: C. J. Smith / A. Powell (eds.), The Lost Memoirs of Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography, Swansea, 41–64. Peter, H. 1914. Historicorum romanorum reliquiae, 2nd ed., Stuttgart. Pina Polo, F. 2002. Die Freunde des Scipio Aemilianus im numantinischen Krieg. Über die sogennante cohors amicorum, in: M. Peachin / M. L. Caldelli (eds.), Aspects of Friendship in the Greco-Roman World, Portsmouth, RI, 89–98. Rawson, E. 1985. Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic, Baltimore. Santangelo, F. 2015. Teofane di Mitilene: testimonianze e frammenti, Rome. Santangelo, F. 2018. Theophanes of Mytilene, Cicero and Pompey’s Inner Circle, in: H. van der Blom / C. Gray / C. Steel (eds.), Institutions and Ideology in Republican Rome: Speech, Audience, and Decision, Cambridge, 128–146. Scholz, P. / Walter, U. / Winkle, C. 2013. Fragmente römischer Memoiren, Heidelberg. Smith, C. J. / Powell, A. eds. 2009. The Lost Memoirs of Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography. Swansea. Scholz, P. 2003. Sullas commentarii – eine literarische Rechtfertigung. Zu Wesen und Funktion der autobiographischen Schriften in der späten römischen Republik. In: U. Eigler / U. Gotter / N. Luraghi / U. Walter (eds.), Formen römischer Geschichtsschreibung von den Anfängen bis Livius, Darmstadt, 172–195. Suerbaum, W. ed. 2002. Die Archaische Literatur. Von den Anfängen bis Sullas Tod. Handbuch der Lateinischen Literatur der Antike 1. Munich. Tatum, J. 2011. The Late Republic: Autobiography and Memoirs in the Age of Civil Wars, in: G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity, Leiden, 161–187.

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Taylor, M. 2020. Soldiers and Silver: Mobilizing Resources in the Age of Roman Conquest, Chicago. Walter, U. 2003. Natam me consule Romam. Historisch-politische Autobiographien in republikanischer Zeit – ein Überblick, in: AU 46, 36–43. Welch, K. ed. 2015. Appian’s Roman History: Empire and Civil War. Swansea. Yarrow, L. 2006. Historiography at the End of the Republic: Provincial Perspectives on Roman Rule, Oxford.

Writing Down Uncivil Wars Or: How Roman Generals Justified Themselves in the Wake of Civic Bloodshed* Ulrich Gotter

When it comes to historical narratives of the contemporary, the author always walks the tightrope, mainly from two grounds. First: Whenever the recent past has a bearing on one’s own identity, historiographical statements become increasingly precarious while readers become less willing to believe what they read. Consider, for instance, German history of the 20th century, which provides ample evidence of this.1 Second: Contemporary narratives collide with the eyewitness. This, too, is a somewhat structural, and thus natural, phenomenon. The historian’s supraindividual perspective is often incompatible with the experiences of those involved; and this not least because historical representation is generally plotted with wisdom of hindsight, while the memory of the contemporary witnesses contains traces of the unfinished.2 For a range of reasons, the biotope of Roman history offers an intensified version of this problem. Perhaps most important was the conviction that historiography should *

1 2

This essay is the revised and translated version of Gotter, U. 2019. Schreiben nach dem Morden, oder: wie Bürgerkriegsgeneräle der späten römischen Republik Glaubwürdigkeit generierten, in: I. Mülder-Bach / J. Kersten / M. Zimmermann (eds.), Prosa schreiben: Literatur – Geschichte – Recht, Paderborn, 15–38. On the so-called Historikerstreit about the singularity of the holocaust see Augstein 1987; on the debate about the modernity of National Socialism see Zitelmann 1989, Mommsen 1995 and Wippermann 1996. On the contemporary witness as a methodological problem, cf. Sabrow/Frei 2012. How the historiographical narrative changes when one knows the full plot can be exemplified by Byford-Jones 1945, whose account of the Greek civil war of 1943 and 1944 appeared in May 1945 and, in contrast to all other (later) research, terminated the civil war with the ceasefire at the beginning of 1945, instead of autumn 1949 after three more years of slaughter. Roughly 1900 years earlier, Velleius Paterculus had to experience something similar. He published his work, which culminated in a detailed praise of the Praetorian prefect Sejanus (probably as the presumptive successor of Emperor Tiberius; Vell. 2.127–128), shortly before the latter’s ignominious execution (on the publication date of the work, cf. Biesinger 2016, 289–295).

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not be authored by individuals who were unable to also do politics, that is, who did not belong to the elite capable of assuming political office (the ‘regimentsfähige Schicht’, as Gelzer put it).3 Given this basic setting, the person of the author and the person of the politician was bound to overlap. As a result, the field of Roman historiography did not reproduce the default role of intellectuals acting as commentators of the actions of rulers. Quite on the contrary: Political action and commentary were often blurred beyond recognition, for example, when Cato the Elder narrated his own actions in the last book of his Origines, and even quoted his own speeches in full. Here, historiography was hardly more than politics moved to another battlefield.4 This extreme model did not pervade, as historiography was taken over by second-tier aristocrats in the shadow of a professionalising discourse in the late second and in the first century BC.5 They fostered an idea of a specifically historiographic author, as it is still preserved in Sallust’s and Tacitus’ proems. Mind you: Tacitus’ famous claim that he had been sine ira et studio when drafting his work indeed does not reflect any kind of neutrality.6 It means nothing more than the author’s claim to not immediately benefit from conceiving his work, neither by satisfying his appetite for revenge (ira) nor his desire for personal gain (studium). However, since self-reflection on the author’s role became the cutting feature of the genre,7 historiography about the author’s own actions was widely rendered inacceptable. This issue is strikingly reflected on in Cicero’s famous letter to Lucius Lucceius dated June 56 BC. In it, Cicero tries, at first carefully, then quite bluntly, to persuade his historian friend to write a historiographic work about his foiling of the Catilinarian conspiracy, preferably a monograph. In this context, the former consul unashamedly reveals his desire to be depicted as prominently and positively as possible, while explicitly stating that he knows that such a retouching can only be effective if he himself does not appear as its author. But if I fail to induce you to grant me this request, by which I mean if anything prevents your doing so (for it is inconceivable to me that any specific request of mine should be refused by you), I shall perhaps be forced to do what some have frequently found fault with – write about myself; and yet I should be following the example of many distinguished men. But, as you are well aware, this kind of composition (genus) has a double drawback – the author is obliged to write about himself with a certain reserve, when there is anything to be praised, and to pass over what is deserving of censure. Besides which, it is less convincing, less impressive (ut minor sit fides, minor auctoritas), and there are many in short who take exception

3 4

Vgl. Gotter/Luraghi/Walter 2003, 13–14. Gotter 2003, 133; Gotter 2009. Therefore, the frequently encountered talk of Cicero or Caesar as ‘intellectuals’ (see, for example, Fantham 2009) is in principle misleading. 5 Cf. Gotter/Luraghi/Walter 2003, 32–36; Walter 2003, 135–156; Walter 2004, 340–353. 6 Tac. ann. 1.1.3. 7 Cf. Marincola 1997, 159–174.

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to it, and say that the heralds at the public games show more modesty; for when they have crowned all the other victors and announced their names in a loud voice, and are then themselves presented with a crown before the dispersal of the games, they engage the services of some other herald, so as not to proclaim themselves victors with their own voices. This is just what I desire to avoid, and if you accept my brief, I shall avoid it; and I entreat you to do so.8

However, as we all know, Cicero was not felicitous in recruiting other voices for his glorification. Neither Lucceius nor Poseidonius gave in to his pleading, not even when Cicero added a commentarius “as a material basis”, which was obviously a non-historiographical representation of the events.9 Eventually, the consular had to walk the stony path of selfpraise: He wrote an epic de consulate suo and published his commentarius in Greek.10 This episode underscores one aspect: Autobiographical writing was especially precarious in the contested political field as the credibility of its authors was reduced to the core. If that held true for the genre at large, it must have been applied still more to politicians whose actions were somehow illegitimate. Even Cicero’s foiling of the Catilinarian conspiracy had claimed a whole series of lives among aristocrats and consequently produced serious tensions within the élite,11 but these deaths were of course only a quantité négligeable compared to the events of the actual civil wars 88–82 (Sulla against Marius and Cinna), 49–45 (Caesar against Pompey and his allies) and 43–31 (Octavian against the murderers of Caesar, against Sex. Pompeius and M. Antonius). In these confrontations, hundreds, and even thousands of members of the extended ruling class (i. e., knights and senators) had been killed,12 and an alarming number of assets that guaranteed membership in the first two orders had been expropriated. Friends and relatives of those whose lives had been shattered polarized society in perpetuity.13 Thus, a leader might well have thought it sensible to publish an apologia –

8 Cic. fam. 5.12.8–9: Quod si a te non impetro, hoc est, si quae te res impedierit (neque enim fas esse arbit­ ror quicquam me rogantem abs te non impetrare), cogar fortasse facere, quod non nulli saepe reprehend­ unt, scribam ipse de me, multorum tamen exemplo et clarorum virorum. sed, quod te non fugit, haec sunt in hoc genere vitia: et verecundius ipsi de sese scribant necesse est, si quid est laudandum, et praetereant, si quid reprehendendum est. accedit etiam ut minor sit fides, minor auctoritas, multi denique reprehendant et dicant verecundiores esse praecones ludorum gymnicorum, qui cum ceteris coronas imposuerint victor­ ibus eorumque nomina magna voce pronuntiarint, cum ipsi ante ludorum missionem corona donentur, alium praeconem adhibeant, ne sua voce se ipsi victores esse praedicent. haec nos vitare cupimus et, si recipis causam nostram, vitabimus, idque ut facias rogamus (transl. D. R. Shackleton-Bailey). The fact that this letter was written in a situation in which Cicero was under elementary political pressure (see Gelzer 1969, 172–173) made him wish all the more to have the eulogy done by others. 9 Gelzer 1969, 117. Only the faithful Atticus wrote, at the same time as Cicero, at least hypomnemata in Greek about his friend’s consulship. On the commentarius as a genre, see below p. 185–186. 10 Gelzer 1969, 118, 173. 11 Gelzer 1969, 101–108, 131–141; Habicht 1990, 31–48. 12 On the loss figures, especially for the proscriptions, which are generally overstated in the testimonies of the sources, cf. still Hinard 1985. 13 Gelzer 2008, 30–31, 35–36, 40.

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while at the same time he was under general suspicion for wanting to disguise his murderous acts and for presenting a version that was detached from reality. This statement is the starting point of my paper. In light of what has been said, I believe that the autobiographical texts written by Roman civil war generals are simply the most precarious group of Roman texts, texts that were least likely to be accepted by the reader. Conversely, they offer the most valuable heuristic case studies, indicating the most effective techniques used to generate credibility in the age of civil wars. The Tableau People who write autobiographies usually have problems. That, at least, is one’s impression when reviewing the tableau of autobiographical writers before the mind’s eye.14 It is, therefore, both significant and unsurprising that nearly all surviving civil war generals left behind autobiographical texts. Since the opposing side was regularly dead, as befits civil wars,15 no more texts about their own achievements could be expected from them. Nevertheless, taking a bird’s eye view to look at the works of the three major victorious civil war generals, significant differences are notable, not only in the amount of fragments but also in the communicative set-up. Lucius Cornelius Sulla, the first to march on Rome and thereby start a civil war, in the course of which he took every effort to wipe out his real or imagined adversaries, penned his autobiography in 22 volumes on his country estate after resigning from his dictatorship. The work that contemplates his entire life, starting with his birth, is conceptionally drawn from the end of his political life.16 That only 23 fragments of this monumental work are preserved17 no doubt represents one of the worst losses in the history of Latin literature. Caesar chose a distinctly different approach to circulate his version of the civil war. Instead of integrating the inner conflict into the history of his life and his leadership, he isolated it as a monographic topic. He published his portrayal of the civil war (as Commentarius de Bello Civili) during his dictatorship and did not even feel like dying at the time. The date of release cannot be determined precisely but ending with Pompey’s

14 15 16

17

The fragments of late Republican autobiographical writings have been presented and commented on by Scholz/Walter 2013; on the emergence of autobiographical writing in Rome see also Chassignet 2003; Riggsby 2007. On the logic of extinction of the upper classes in the Rome’s civil wars, cf. Gotter 2011, 64–65. Cf. Scholz 2003, 176–182. The original title of the work has not survived with certainty: L. Cornelii Sullae rerum gestarum libri seems just as possible as L. Cornelii Sullae res gestae and L. Cornelii Sullae commentarii rerum gestarum libri. Although there is no direct evidence for the last title, the term hypomnemata, which Plutarch uses (Plut. Sull. 6, 8; see also Plut. Luc. 1, 4), would find its direct equivalent here. S. Scholz/Walter 2013, 99–137.

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death and neglecting the subsequent anticlimactic acts of the civil war, one can safely assume it was finished between 47–46.18 The work is completely preserved and will therefore provide the backbone for my subsequent deliberations. And finally, Augustus wrote about his career and his civil wars twice: First, a ra­ ther classic autobiographical text after 25 BC, of which only few text fragments remain, but which probably survived in its basic outline in Nicolaus of Damascus’ biography of the young Caesar.19 Eventually, Augustus wrote the final account of his deeds in 13 AD, which was posthumously put up on bronze panels in front of his mausoleum by testamentary order.20 This specific quality distinguishes this text from the other autobiographical texts mentioned, all of which have been materialised as scrolls. I emphasize this point because, content aside, it entails a decisive differentiation of the implicit reader. “Publication” in first century BC Rome was likely nothing more than the request to allow releasing a work ad personam for transcription within an extremely narrow circle of the ruling elite.21 Publicly putting up bronze panels however, not only signified a claim to address anyone capable of reading, but also the entitlement to present a textual monument with similar authority as a triumphal inscription, a state

On the dating of the Bellum Civile, the literature is rich and controversial: cf. Barwick 1951, 88–134 (already with most of the relevant arguments); Adcock 1955, 62–66; Abel 1958; Boatwright 1988; MacFarlane 1996. For the date of publication, the reference to Caesar’s commentarii in Cicero’s Brutus (262; see below p. 185–186) as terminus ante quem is decisive in my opinion. Since I do not believe that the plural “Commentarii” in this passage should be taken to refer solely to the books of the Bellum Gallicum (pace Boatwright 1988, 36 note 19), this would confirm a composition by about mid-46 BC (see also Raaflaub 2009, 180–181). Asinius Pollio’s criticism of the text, which Caesar allegedly still wanted to rewrite or revise (Suet. Iul 56, 4; see below fn. 53), does not suggest the incompleteness of the Bellum Civile, as some scholars think (Boatwright 1988, 36 with further evidence) but on the contrary its publication in the state we know, against which Pollio sets his own work and mobilises Caesar, as it were, in a perfidious reading as a key witness for the unsatisfactory quality of his own text. Boatwright’s idea of the Bellum civile as an ideological fragment that has been put aside is based on a completely arbitrary linking of Caesar’s work with his second consulate and, moreover, on an erroneous interpretation of the Bellum Civile itself (see below p. 189–193). The thesis of Caesar’s non-publication of the text has, for reasons I do not understand, become so firmly established, especially in Anglo-Saxon literature (Raaflaub 2009, 180–182; see also Rüpke 1992, 202), that it can sometimes appear in text editions without further discussion (e. g., Carter 1991). However, the views of Caesar’s intentions for the writing of the Bellum Civile and for his techniques of reader manipulation, as presented in my essay, ultimately remain unaffected by the controversy over the publication or non-publication of the text. 19 On the biography of Augustus by Nicolaus see Malitz 2006, 1–14; Dobesch 1978; Bellmore 1984, XI–XXVII. 20 Suet. Aug. 101, 4; cf. Ridley 2003. 21 The literature on the character of the Roman literary public during the last decades of the Roman Republic is unsatisfactory, even though our data is better than for any other period in antiquity. Eich’s account (2000) remains patchy, as he is unfortunately less concerned with the analysis of audiences than with the question of how ‘modern’ Roman ‘journalism’ was, and Fantham’s ‘sociological’ approach to literature (1996, esp. 2–19) is aphoristic. The view I take here is largely based on observations about the circulation of late Ciceronian works (including a product such as the Second Philippic) in the last books of the Letters to Atticus. 18

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treaty, or a law.22 I will risk a side glance to this text as well as to Sulla’s autobiography in due course. Working on Credibility: Caesar’s Manipulative Techniques Caesar’s argumentative position regarding the civil war was extraordinarily unfavourable, perhaps even weaker than Sulla’s when he marched his legions from Nola to Rome in 88 BC.23 The legal situation, after all, was in fact crystal clear. There was no option other than for Caesar to surrender his provincial command of Gaul after having received it twice for five years and having changed Roman law in 49. To obtain his second consulate, he had to return to the capital, should the senate not have allowed him the privilege to apply in absentia for whichever reason. If he were to cross the boundaries of Rome, not having received the privilege, he would inevitably have been brought to justice for the violations of the law in his consular year 59, with an uncertain outcome. This Caesar tried to prevent at all costs and by exploiting all political means at his disposal. Upon failing, he commanded his legions to cross his provincial borders and march on Rome.24 Having caused thousands of deaths during the civil war, his depiction’s primary objective must have been to shift the blame for the military conflict away from himself. German research, after long nurturing a notorious admiration for Caesar, only late and rather grudgingly recognised that the truth inevitably fell by the wayside in Caesar’s portrayal of the civil war.25 This might explain why there are significantly fewer publications on the Civil War, especially compared to publications on the Bellum Gal­ licum.26 The picture shifted slightly after World War II: The license to say what had not been opportune for the longest time enabled a host of publications, which unfortunately did hardly venture beyond their eager joy to prove Caesar’s lies and manipulations.27 Caesar’s specific manipulative techniques remained underexposed, at least from a narratological viewpoint. I will deal with these in the following. 22 23 24 25

26 27

Meyer 1983, 17–20; Weber 1983; Havener 2016, 175–176. Cf. Keaveney 1982, 56–68. For the political situation at the beginning of the civil war see Gelzer 2008, 142–166; Raaflaub 1974, 13–105; Dahlheim 2011, 124–140. On the image of Caesar in the 19th and 20th centuries, cf. Christ 1994, 122–246. How sensitive the topic in Germany was, even after the war, is shown not least by the request of the ‘Latin teaching schoolmen’ to the doyen of German Caesar research, Matthias Gelzer (1954, 449), to write a reply to the ‘negative’ characterisation of Caesar by Hermann Strasburger (1953). Grillo 2012, 1–2 The evidence has authoritatively been collected by Barwick 1951, 15–85, whose critical approach to the Caesarean text was supplemented a decade and a half later by Rambaud 1966 with similarly critical findings on the Bellum Gallicum; see now also Peer 2015, 59–66, without substantially new insights.

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Let us start with the presentation of the text itself. Here, the author considerably radicalised a technique he had already put to the test in the Bellum Gallicum, namely that of starting without a proem and without addressing the reader. Whereas the Gallic Wars start out at least with a sort of introduction in which Caesar outlines the geographical setting and the internal political structures of Gaul,28 the Bellum Civile lacks any form of an explicit bridge between text and reader. The text simply begins as follows: When Caesar’s letter was delivered to the consuls, their consent for it to be read out in the senate was obtained with difficulty, indeed after a huge struggle by some tribunes. But consent could not be obtained for a motion on the letter’s contents.29

This opening can hardly be outdone in terms of abruptness. There is, however, no indication that the beginning has been marred.30 On the contrary: Beyond its unconventionality, the beginning is extraordinarily programmatic for what follows: For one, Caesar confirms that the real exclusive audience of Roman political prose were also meant to be the implicit readers of his text. From a literary-sociological point of view his case was extreme: He likely knew all of his imagined readers personally; and the text confesses precisely this: The beginning of the text could not mean any­thing to anyone who was not part of Rome’s political elite. Caesar clearly addresses all those who were familiar with the debates pertaining to his proconsulate and the question of his application in absentia.31 Secondly, he impressively shows us what the manipulative quality of the narrative prose form actually consists of: its unrivalled effective arrangement of temporality. Hayden White has very successfully pointed out how a text’s plot structures are determined by its temporal caesuras.32 By starting out the report at a highly dramatic moment, namely with the senate’s final consultative meeting, virtually face to face with civil war, Caesar could claim moderation for himself, while painting his opponents as warmongers. Had his report begun six months or a year earlier, the illegitimacy of his legal position and his intransigence to negotiate it would have been significantly more overt. Thus, Caesar unceremoniously shortens the prehistory of the civil war to the last week before the fighting. His tribunes’ continued obstructions appear as the last efforts for peace that were maliciously and cunningly sabotaged by his opponents.

28 Caes. Gall. 1.1–2. 29 Caes. civ. 1.1: litteris C. Caesaris consulibus redditis aegre ab his impetratum est summa tribunorum plebis contentione, ut in senatu recitarentur. ut vero ex litteris ad senatum referretur, impetrari non potuit (transl. C. Damon). 30 As is assumed by Richter 1977, 174–175, and Raaflaub 2009, 176, (without arguments). 31 This would be an essential argument for me to assume a very limited intended readership of Caesar’s Commentarii, indeed (unlike Wiseman 1998, 4–5 and Krebs 2018, 42); see also below note 59. 32 See, for instance, White 1990, 11–39.

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As a matter of fact, such a perspective was more plausible after the slaughtering in the civil war than at the time when the decisions were actually made – with the wisdom of hindsight that Caesar’s troops indeed marched on Rome in the end.33 Even after this opening scene, Caesar manipulates mainly by working on the temporal structure; in other words, he uses omissions and sensitive regroupings of events to make his version plausible. The prose writing’s ability to create causalities by arbitrarily stringing details together provides the backbone of the narrative: Only when Caesar’s narration is brought into a tabular structure – displayed in the mode of a chronicle,34 so to say, – do the discrepancies and distortions with which his plot operates become apparent. I will briefly demonstrate what this technique looks like using as an example the crossing of the Rubicon, which is typically omitted in Caesar’s narrative. Caesar begins the initiation of the war with the senatus consultum ultimum, which lifted the popular tribunes’ veto against the former senate decision that Caesar had to dismiss his soldiers, then follows the escape of the same tribunes from Rome: At the time, he was at Ravenna, awaiting response to his extremely mild demands, in case by some humane sense of equity the situation could be steered toward peace.35

Upon learning about the tribunes, Caesar supposedly holds his speech in front of the soldiers, asking them for help and obtaining from them a carte blanche for any further action. Then, he marches to Ariminum where he encounters the people’s tribunes that had fled to him.36 Thus, with just a few strokes of the pen, Caesar gives reality a new spin. The adjustment of the timing of his address to the soldiers is a decisive factor, as it did not actually happen before his departure, but afterwards in Arminium.37 And Ariminum was situated beyond the border of his province. Without a doubt, the crossing of the provincial border and thus the final starting signal of the war occurred before it was legitimised by his speech to the soldiers; as a surprise attack, so to speak, it was carried out completely independently and was only authorized post festum. Through this portrayal, Caesar obfuscated his actually extremely aggressive, reckless, and rapid advance. This line of manipulation seamlessly continues in the following, where several of his mediation attempts are described at length.38 Consequently, he achieved two

33

Gelzer 1969, 239–246 (on Cicero’s low enthusiasm for the civil war, which was a plausible setting for an ex-post perspective). 34 On the difference between chronicle and historiography, again White 1990, 17–22, 28–31; for the manipulations of the temporal structure of the Bellum Civile, cf. Grillo 2011, 245–246. 35 Caes. civ. 1.5.5. 36 Caes. civ. 1.8.1. The twist in his account, of course, is that he foreshadows the flight of the tribunes. Although he does not meet them until Ariminum, he already presupposes their causa in his motivational speech to the soldiers. 37 Cf. Gelzer 2008, 162–166; for a comparison of the surviving Rubicon narratives, see Rondholz 2009; Beneker 2011. 38 Caes. civ. 1.9.1–6; 1.24.5; 1.26.2–4.

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things: First, he managed to emphasise the Archimedean point of his portrayal once more, namely, that he himself had not sought war, and that he, in contrast to his opponents whose rejections are discussed in detail,39 had repeatedly tried to stop it. At the same time, however, the text installs retarding elements, the main purpose of which is to conceal how quickly Caesar’s advance actually took place, how well it was prepared, how much it presented the opposing side with a fait accompli and finally forced them to flee Rome in a hurry.40 The diffuse time structure, which can only be cleared up by the reader’s use of his own detailed itinerary, produces the fog which brings about an image of a moderated Caesar, ready to negotiate up until the very end. And finally, the introductory sentence of the Bellum Civile accomplishes a third goal that is crucial for the effect of the book, especially in its atmospheric aspects: It advertises the text’s very own character. Lacking a proem and starting medias in res without any metatextual component, the beginning underlines the factual style of the work, its unaffectedness and low rhetorical stylisation, consequently: its authenticity. That this obviously was the rocher de bronze of his credibility had already been picked up by his contemporaries, even by those who were not particularly fond of the dictator. In the second half of 46 BC, Cicero took up Caesar’s style as a topic in his Brutus: At this point Brutus broke in: ‘His orations certainly seem to me very admirable; I have read a number of them, as well as the Commentaries which he wrote about his deeds.’ ‘Admirable indeed!’ I replied; ‘they are like nude figures (nudi), straight (recti) and beautiful (venusti); stripped of all ornament of style (omni ornatu orationis tamquam veste detracta) as if they had laid aside a garment. His aim was to furnish others with material for writing history, and perhaps he has succeeded in gratifying the inept, who may wish to apply their curling irons to his material; but men of sound judgment he has deterred from writing, since in history there is nothing more pleasing than brevity clear and correct (nihil est enim in historia pura et illustri brevitate dulcius).41

By labelling them as nudi and stripped of all rhetorical jewellery, Cicero explains Caesar’s technique in a nutshell. One could almost speak of an aesthetic of the unrhetorical, which undoubtedly is underlined by a central feature of the text: a substantial lack of direct speech. In my opinion, this characteristic distinguishes the text by genre from the finished historiography and authenticates its label commentarius. Glancing at 39 Caes. civ. 1.10–11; 1.26.5. 40 See Hillmann1988, who then somewhat misleadingly labels Caesar’s actions as ‘aggressive forward defence’ (252). Stadter (1993) rightly observed that there is a fundamental connection between style and narrative content in Caesar, even if the passage he examined – in contrast to the opening section of the Bellum Civile – stylistically supports the narrative of Caesar’s speed. 41 Cic. Brut. 262: Tum Brutus: ‘Orationes quidem eius mihi vehementer probantur. compluris autem legi ; atque etiam commentarios quosdam scripsit rerum suarum.’ ‘Valdc quidem’ inquam ‘probandos; nudi enim sunt, recti et venusti, omni ornatu orationis tamquam veste detracta, sed dum voluit alios habere parata, unde sumerent, qui vellent scribere historiam’ (transl. H. M. Hubbell).

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the Greek equivalent hypomnema, a commentarius is probably best understood as an informal record, which claims to have ephemeral or transitory character.42 The term ‘duty report’ has repeatedly been proposed,43 but the commanders’ reports to the se­ nate were rather called litterae or epistulae.44 Carefully composed speeches surely have no place in such a genre, and thus there are hardly any passages of direct speech in the Bellum Gallicum.45 There are also only a handful in the Bellum Civile;46 but since the more elaborate ones only appear in the second and third books of the work, there has been talk of a development, indeed of an emancipation of the work towards the finished historiography.47 However, I would like to point out, that ironically Caesar’s three most important speeches, namely the ones pertaining to his justification of the war, are written in indirect speech.48 Complementary to that, the first occurrence of direct speech at all is by C. Curio49 that is associated with the greatest failure of Caesar’s party, the destruction of two of his legions. This was certainly no coincidence.50 For that reason, it seems more sensible to me to address Caesar’s use of direct speech from the aspect of their precarious credibility. It was already known in early Greek historiography that the use of direct speech creates a gap of credibility. Of course, a sophisticated rhetorical product immediately poses the problem of authenticity, to a very different extent than a bare listing of events. Basically, the speech situation itself resulted in a dilemma that could not be resolved. On the one hand, a renowned speaker had to speak well in order to be depicted accurately. But on the other hand, it was hardly possible to make direct speech credible without sources to rely on.51 So, how could the depiction of a rhetorical speaker in the rush of events claim objectivity? In his famous method chapter, Thukydides pursued a rather radical solution, which emphasised the problem rather than solving it:

42 For the debate of the genres, see Richter 1977, 39–48; Rüpke 1992, 202–210; Batstone/Damon 2006, 8–11; Raaflaub 2009, 179–180; Nousek 2018. 43 Rüpke 1992, 203. 44 Knoche 1951, 139–160, esp. 140. 45 For a list and detailed interpretation see Rasmussen 1963, 20–104; Richter 1977, 67–78. 46 Cf. Rasmussen 1963, 105–129. 47 Thus, for instance, Richter 1977, 70–72; basically, this is probably what Rowe 1967, 413–414 also aims to argue; on the relation of Caesar’s Commentarii to (genuine) historiography Nousek 2018, 107–108, without an innovative profile, though. 48 Caes. civ. 1.7.1–7; 1.32.2–9; 1.85. 49 Caes. civ. 2.31.2–8; 2.32.2–14; 2.39.2–3. 50 Mutschler 1975, who has dealt intensively with the Curio episode in the context of the Bellum Civile, shows that Curio, in order to persuade his soldiers, also enriches the direct speech with concessions to the facts known from the book itself (16–37). In this sense, the difference between direct and indirect speech can be interpreted quite in line with Caesar’s use of indirect speech in the first book of the Bellum Civile as a difference between levels of trustworthiness. On the options for a negative characterisation of Curio through the orationes rectae, cf. Rasmussen 1963, 148. 51 See Rasmussen 1963, 148–150.

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As to the speeches that were made by different men, either when they were about to begin the war or when they already engaged therein, it has been difficult to recall with strict accuracy the words actually spoken, both form e as regards that which I myself heard, and for those who from various other sources have brought me reports. Therefore the speeches are given in the language, in which, as it seemed to me, the several speakers would express, on the subjects under consideration, the sentiments most befitting the occasion, though at the same time I have adhered as closely as possible to the general sense of what was actually said.52

The way I see it, Caesar’s solution to the problem of rhetorical credibility was, complementary to Thucydides’ constructivist approach, to transform direct into indirect speech. In this way, he basically achieved something similar: He boiled the speeches down to their material content, reduced them to their innermost immutable core – a trick that was only viable because his text was not historiography. Nevertheless, and that accentuates the findings, indirect speech in Caesar’s Commentarii entailed far more than that. Looking at the Caesarian prose, and particularly at the first book of the Civil War, it is striking that indirect speech is virtually ubiquitous. As a matter of fact, Caesar consistently referenced a significant part of his narration, either by explicitly identifying it as information from third parties or by putting it in the mouth of the characters in his text.53 Additionally, summaries of letters as well as of other documents appear in indirect speech. For the most part, the narrator vanishes behind this widespread network of various references. Here we are touching upon a key characteristic of the text. The specific relationship between author and protagonist (Caesar writes about Caesar in the third person) has often been interpreted as an objectifying approach to tighten the gap between Caesar’s autobiographical writing and the historiographical genre.54 But the matter is not quite 52

53

54

Thuk. 1.22: καὶ ὅσα μὲν λόγῳ εἶπον ἕκαστοι ἢ μέλλοντες πολεμήσειν ἢ ἐν αὐτῷ ἤδη ὄντες, χαλεπὸν τὴν ἀκρίβειαν αὐτὴν τῶν λεχθέντων διαμνημονεῦσαι ἦν ἐμοί τε ὧν αὐτὸς ἤκουσα καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοθέν ποθεν ἐμοὶ ἀπαγγέλλουσιν: ὡς δ᾽ ἂν ἐδόκουν ἐμοὶ ἕκαστοι περὶ τῶν αἰεὶ παρόντων τὰ δέοντα μάλιστ᾽ εἰπεῖν, ἐχομένῳ ὅτι ἐγγύτατα τῆς ξυμπάσης γνώμης τῶν ἀληθῶς λεχθέντων, οὕτως εἴρηται (transl. C. F. Smith). Incidentally, Asinius Pollio seems to refer to this method and to evaluate it negatively (Suet. Iul. 56.4): ‘Asinius Pollio thinks that they [Caesar’s Commentarii] were put together somewhat carelessly and without strict regard for truth; since in many cases Caesar was too ready to believe the accounts which others gave of their actions, and gave a perverted account of his own, either designedly or perhaps from forgetfulness; and he thinks that he intended to rewrite and revise them’ (Pollio Asinius parum diligenter parumque integra veritate compositos [sc. commentarios] putat, cum Caesar pleraque et quae per alios erant gesta temere crediderit et quae per se, vel consulto vel etiam me­ moria lapsus perperam ediderit; existimatque rescripturum et correcturum fuisse; transl. J. C. Rolfe). Asinius must have adressed the Bellum Civile because the Bellum Gallicum did not compete with his own historiographical enterprise (on the competition as a reason for the negative description of Caesarian writing, see Grillo 2012, 4–5). Grillo 2011 also seems to go in this direction, firstly when he generally assigns quasi-historiographical omniscience (244; 266: objectivity) to the author of the Bellum Civile, and secondly by not

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that simple; if that were the case, the dictator would have gotten out of step quite a lot. It is indeed often stated that ‘Caesar does this’ and ‘Caesar does that’, and there is also mention of ‘Caesar’s soldiers’. Then again, when Caesar writes about his own military unit and the units of his lieutenants, he often speaks of ‘nostri’ or uses other first-person plural forms.55 Considering that these dissimilarities repeatedly come up, they can hardly be interpreted as unintentional forgetfulness. As we have seen from the narrative’s central characteristics, the genre of historiography does not represent the reference frame for Caesar’s commentarius. But where then does the use of third person singular and of indirect speech point us? In a pedestrian way of describing, this serves to limit the I-presence of the autobiographical hero. A randomly selected bit from the Res Gestae Divi Augusti shows how a text looks like, in which the author’s ego has intentionally been unleashed: At the age of nineteen on my own responsibility and at my own expense I raised an army, with which I successfully championed the liberty of the republic when it was oppressed by the tyranny of a faction. On that account the senate passed decrees in my honor enrolling me in its order in the consulship of Gaius Pansa and Aulus Hirtius, assigning me the right to give my opinion among the consulars and giving me imperium. It ordered me as a propraetor to provide in concert with the consuls that the republic should come to no harm. In the same year, when both consuls had fallen in battle, the people appointed me consul and triumvir for the organization of the republic. I drove into exile the murderers of my father, avenging their crime through tribunals established by law; and afterwards, when they made war on the republic, I twice defeated them in battle. I undertook many civil and foreign wars by land and sea throughout the world, and as victor I spared the lives of all citizens who asked for mercy. When foreign peoples could safely be pardoned I preferred to preserve rather than to exterminate them. The Roman citizens who took the soldier’s oath of obedience to me numbered about 500,000. I settled rather more than 300,000 of these in colonies or sent them back to their home towns after their period of service; to all these I assigned lands or gave money as rewards for their military service. I captured six hundred ships, not counting ships smaller than triremes.56

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analysing the differences between Caesar’s account and the historical work of Asinius Pollio as differences of genre (264–266); see also Grillo 2012, 4. The following passages for nostri and the like can be cited in the sense of what has been argued: Caes. civ. 1.18.1; 1.22.1; 1.40.7; 1.43.5; 1.44.3; 1.45.3; 1.51.6; 1.52.3; 1.56.1; 1.56.4; 1.57.3; 1.64.1; 1.73.2; 1.75.2; 1.80.3; 2.2.6; 2.11.3; 2.13.2; 2.14; 2.16; 2.22.4; 2.25.52; 2.34.6; 2.42.2; 3.23.1–2; 3.24.3–4; 3.26.2–4; 3.27.1–2; 3.28.1; 3.37.3; 3.37.5; 3.38.4; 3.39; 3.40.1; 3.44–45; 3.46.3; 3.48.2; 3.50; 3.51; 3.52; 3.63.2; 3.63.5; 3.63.7; 3.64.3; 3.64.1–2; 3.67.5–6; 3.69.1–2; 3.70.2; 3.72.2; 3.93.1; 3.96.3; 3.101.4. The following passages have the first person plural in direct connection with Caesar in the third person: Caes. civ.1.45.1; 1.52.3; 1.64.1; 1.90.3; 3.46.3; 3.63.2; 3.70.2; 3.101.4. R. Gest. div. Aug. 1–3: [1] Annos undeviginti natus exercitum privato consilio et privata impensa com­ paravi, per quem rem publicam a dominatione factionis oppressam in libertatem vindicavi. [Ob quae] senatus decretis honorificis in ordinem suum me adlegit, C. Pansa et A. Hirtio consulibus, consularem locum sententiae dicendae tribuens, et imperium mihi dedit. Res publica ne quid detrimenti caperet, me propraetore simul cum consulibus providere iussit. Populus autem eodem anno me consulem, cum cos.

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Even in Latin, where the pronoun of the first-person singular essentially disappears in the verb, this triumph of the “I” becomes abundantly clear. In my view, this is due to Augustus’ efforts to intersperse other visible pronouns beyond the verb form (mihi, me, meus etc.) as often as possible, even without grammatical necessity. In this text, which is gesturally reminiscent of a triumphal inscription,57 the ego is programma­ tic. Caesar obviously did not aim for anything of that sort: Instead of exhibitionist transgressions, we find techniques of distancing and referencing, and thus a massively cooled-off diction overall: There is no significant direct speech relating to Caesar as a person, no dramatized battle scenes, no masterly employed stress curves.58 All in all, there is de-emotionalisation on a broad level, the function of which remains to be discussed in a final conclusion – beyond his gain in credibility already reviewed. Text and Contexts The meaning of the text’s form can only be clarified, of course, with a view to Caesar’s circle of addressees. I have already claimed that the Bellum Civile was not primarily – and perhaps not even secondarily – written for posterity. We find an argument for this in the Bellum Gallicum, a parallel text that is comparable in every respect and for which there is firm ground in terms of evidence. Evidently, the Bellum Gallicum was a blatant political functional text of the purest kind. Hastily published, even before Caesar’s provincial command expired, it was meant to highlight the enormous accomplishments of the conqueror of Gaul, paving the way for his privileged treatment, for instance for the acceptance of his application for the consulate in absentia.59 This is, where Caesar’s

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uterque bello cecidisset, et triumvirum rei publicae constituendae creavit. [2] Qui parentem meum tru­ cidaverunt, eos in exilium expuli iudiciis legitimis ultus eorum facinus, et postea bellum inferentis rei publicae vici bis acie. [3] Bella terra et mari civilia externaque toto in orbe terrarum saepe gessi, victorque omnibus veniam petentibus civibus peperci. Externas gentes, quibus tuto ignosci potuit, conservare quam excidere malui. Millia civium Romanorum sub sacramento meo fuerunt circiter quingenta. Ex quibus deduxi in colonias aut remisi in municipia sua stipendis emeritis millia aliquanto plura quam trecenta, et iis omnibus agros adsignavi aut pecuniam pro praemiis militiae dedi. Naves cepi sescentas praeter eas, si quae minores quam triremes fuerunt (transl. F. W. Shipley). For the Res gestae divi Augusti as ‘triumphal text’, see Havener 2016, 193–222. Against this finding, Mutschler and others (1975, 198–207, with further references) try to pinpoint dramatising means of representation in Caesar’s text. However, their argument suffers firstly from the fact that the passages discussed are of an extremely limited number, and secondly that the relationship between rule and exception is reversed. For in the case at hand, it is not dramatisation that is inserted into a text that is regularly undramatic because in a description of a civil war (see below on Sulla: p. 192) and incidentally in proper historiography in general, dramatisation is surely part of the standard. Therefore, it is not dramatisation that should be looked out for as a textual marker, but de-dramatisation. In the sense argued by me here, see Rambaud 1966, 9–10; Richter 1977, 40–41, 49–75 and already convincingly Knoche 1951, 144; differently Wiseman 1998, 2; Welch 1998, 85. To gain from Caesar’s staging as popularis the idea that his addressee of the Bellum Gallicum would have been ‘the Roman

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central argument is to be found. Consequently, in the Bellum Civile, references to Caesar’s unparalleled success appear to be the most important basis of his justification of the attack on Rome.60 It therefore feels safe to conclude that Caesar’s addressees must have been those aristocrats who had survived the civil war.61 In order to find acceptance for its goals among these readers, he had to present a tolerable interpretation of the conflict. In my point of view, his strategy was based on two elements: 1. He repeatedly and forcefully argued that he was not to blame for the conflict. He emphasised this by continually reciting his claim that he had kept trying to end the bloodshed by negotiating, even during the war.62 His complementary apportionment of blame to his opponents was at least equally important,63 and here, mind you, he very purposefully only targeted the dead. Research has often held Caesar’s negative characterisation of deceased opponents against him and contrasted it with the supposedly appreciative characterization of Vercingetorix in the Bellum Gallicum.64 But the detrimental portrayal of Pompey, Scipio, or Lentulus does not signify a lack of generosity or personal dislike; rather, it is entirely functional for his story. Only if Caesar managed to credibly transfer the blame from himself to a group acceptable for everyone involved, his counterfactual exculpation could succeed. In this context, a brilliant, albeit perfidious narrative strategy needs to be mentioned. To some extent, Caesar inverted the characterization of his opponents by colouring their image with the precise characteristics they held against him just before the civil war: extortion of high political officials by threat of armed force, absolute desire for army and province, intent of personal enrichment, high debt, fear of lawsuits.65 The message was, that the real Caesari, in the sense of ‘enemies of the Republic’, had been the leaders of the Optimates, and that

people’ is, in my opinion, just as unconvincing as the model of historiographic declamation as public entertainment in Rome, which is knitted entirely and without evidence along Greek lines (Wiseman 1998, 4–5). 60 Caes. civ. 1.7.1; 1.7.7; 1.9.1–3; 1.13.1; 1.24.4–5; 1.26.3–4; 1.85.10–11. 61 Mutschler (2003, 96–99), who, despite a methodological approach that is convincing in principle (98), finally falls for the equation: “Whoever could read was also the addressee intended by Caesar”. 62 Caes. civ. 1.1.1; 1.9; 1.85.1–3; 1.85.12. 63 Batstone/Damon 2006, 89–113. At this point, however, I simply cannot go along with the very influential idea of Christian Meyer (1970) and, following him, Kurt Raaflaub (1984, esp. 180–192), that Caesar had set a very personal agenda against the cause of the state at the outbreak of the civil war and had therefore exercised clementia. Morstein-Marx 2009, 122–135, has rightly stressed Caesar’s thoroughly meritocratic argument in his speech to the soldiers (civ. 1.7.1–8). 64 Treacherousness for Lentulus and Scipio: Caes. civ. 1.1.2–4; generation of fear: Caes. civ. 1.2.6; 1.3.2– 5; Pompey’s jealousy: Caes. civ. 1.4.5; ‘all divine and human right is trampled underfoot’ (omnia divina humanaque iura permiscentur): Caes. civ. 1.6.8. Rambaud 1966, 310–311 (Vercingetorix), 339– 358 (leaders of the Pompeian party); Richter 1977, 168–170; for the barbarisation of his opponents see Grillo 2012, 110–130; Peer 2015, 19–26, 30–40. 65 Caes. civ. 1.3.2–5; 1.4.2–3.

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most of the Senate members and, by the way, all other honourable people had been seduced by this small clique.66 This relabelling could only work because all members of the group of perpetrators that Caesar identified were dead without exception when he published the Bellum Civile. The fact that this was carefully calculated becomes strikingly apparent in the explicit exculpation of M. Claudius Marcellus, a fierce opponent of Caesar’s, who, unlike his brother Gaius, had survived the civil war.67 That the dead, and only the dead, were to blame for the catastrophe, might have seemed like a perfectly acceptable interpretation to the survivors. 2. Perhaps Caesar’s second coping strategy was even more important – I will provocatively call it his ‘selection ramp’: After taking Corfinium, his first major victory in the civil war in which an illustrious group of members of the elite had fallen into his hands, the following occurred: When the sun came up, Caesar ordered all senators, sons of senators, staff officers, and men of equestrian rank to be brought before him. From the senatorial order there were these: Lucius Domitius, Publius Lentulus Spinther, Lucius Caecilius Rufus, the quaestor Sextus Quintilius Varus, and Lucius Rubrius. In addition, Domitius’ son and several other young men and a large number of men of equestrian rank and council members whom Domitius had summoned from the towns. When they stood before him he protected them from insults and derision by his soldiers. He spoke briefly about the failure of some of them to show gratitude for the great favors he had conferred, then dismissed all of them unharmed. As for the six million sesterces that Domitius had brought to Corfinium and deposited in the public treasury, although they were delivered to Caesar by the town’s magistrates, he returned them to Domitius so that he would not be thought to have shown less self-control with respect to money than with respect to human lives. And yet everyone knew that that this was public money and had been given by Pompey for paying the troops. He ordered Domitius’ soldiers to swear fidelity to himself (…).68

66 Caes. civ. 1.2.8; 1.4.4; 1.33.1–2. 67 Hardly to be expected in view of his earlier decisive positioning against Caesar, M. Marcellus, of all people, is characterised as a proponent of a more moderate position in the decisive phase of escalation before the civil war, because he had first advocated the deployment of enough troops before a conflictual senate decision was taken (Caes. civ. 1.2.2). Caesar allows him to have been dissuaded from this request only by massive intimidation (Caes. civ. 1.2.5). For M. Marcellus see Münzer 1899, 2734–2736. 68 Caes. civ. 1.23.1–3; 5: Caesar, ubi luxit, omnes senatores senatorumque liberos, tribunos militum equi­ tesque Romanos ad se produci iubet. erant quinque senatorii ordinis, L. Domitius, P. Lentulus Spinther, L. Caecilius Rufus, Sex. Quintilius Varus quaestor, L. Rubrius; praeterea filius Domiti aliique complures adulescentes et magnus numerus equitum Romanorum et decurionum, quos ex municipiis Domitius evocaverat. hos omnes productos a contumeliis militum conviciisque prohibet; pauca apud eos loquitur, quod sibi a parte eorum gratia relata non sit pro suis in eos maximis beneficiis; dimittit omnes incol­ umes. Sestertium LX, quod advexerat Domitius atque in publico deposuerat, allatum ad se ab IIIIviris Corfiniensibus Domitio reddit ne continentior in vita hominum quam in pecunia fuisse videatur. Etsi eam

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To readers who had undergone civil war experiences, this must have been an eerie scene. What Caesar did, and I am adding a little colour here, was the following: He lined up the captive troops visible for everyone, and then separated the simple soldiers and centurions on one side – who he would later make swear an oath on him – from the members of the elite on the other side. Everyone present at this scene immediately understood its meaning: The alleged perpetrators were separated from the mere followers, as best civil war tradition had it. The victorious general would then take a last look at the ones he knew, perhaps cynically address them, and then also before all eyes, proceed to execute them. And at that moment, in January 49, Caesar inverted this tradition by pardoning his opponents. What is important to me is not that he did this, but that he staged the scene as a sham execution, and then accurately depicted it in his Commentarius. This produces a maximum difference to the audience’s expectation and can only mean one thing. By doing this, Caesar states: “And I, by the way, am not Sulla”. Once you have noticed the plot, you will find more pragmatic intertextualities, as I would call it.69 And just as Caesar staged himself as an Anti-Sulla on a level of actions, he did on the textual level: What we can draw from the aforementioned 23 fragments of Sulla’s autobiography, points to a significantly different stylization than Caesar’s: Sulla’s text apparently bristled with epiphanies, dreams, divine designations, bodements, and omens through which Sulla consistently represented himself as a favourite of the gods. He celebrated his exceptional nature with dramatizing speeches, theatrical stagings, charismatic remarks,70 and not least of all his motto: He had surpassed all his friends in doing good and all with his enemies in doing evil.71 It is obvious that the textual design of the Bellum Civile provides a radical antithesis to all these points, and the list could well be extended. Caesar’s acts, Caesar’s stagings, and Caesar’s textualizations refer consistently to Sulla as exemplum malum. This demarcation was extremely favourable since even Sulla’s political friends had him driven into the deepest circles of hell, in consequence of his immense transgressions.72 Thus, Caesar’s plot confirms once again the enormous impact Sulla’s unleashing of civil war had on Roman society. Thirty years later, one could still appeal to the memory of it and the fear of a repetition – and profit from this argument. However, and this is the ingenious twist that provides the perfidious meaning at the heart of Caesar’s text: The prose consequently abstaining from pathos and hubris was penned by a man who knew one thing very well at the exact moment in which he wrote it: He, unlike the incriminated epiphanious Sulla before him, would never step down from his position of omnipo-

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pecuniam publicam esse constabat datamque a Pompeio in stipendium. Milites Domitianos sacramen­ tum apud se dicere iubet … (transl. C. Damon). Grillo 2012, 151–157. Scholz/Walter 2013, frg. 6; 8; 9; 11; 17; 20; 23; see Scholz 2003, 181–184; Scholz/Walter 2013, 82–85; Flower 2015, 213–223. Scholz 2003, 190; Scholz/Walter 2013, 80–81; for Sulla’s self-fashioning, see Behr 1993. Diehl 1988, esp. 217–225.

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tence. And that constitutes the final inversion of the historical intertext: Promoting its author in the way it did the Bellum civile was not primarily an apologetic interpretation of a civil war that had been weathered; it was the legitimation of a rising tyranny sine fine. He said, crassly formulated: Is my anti-Sullan moderation, even if it leads to my permanent superiority, not much better than the continuation of civil wars73 in which a victor might be found who will clearly be more Sullan than I am? Bibliography Abel, K. 1958. Zur Datierung von Cäsars Bellum civile, in: MH 15, 56–74. Adcock, F. 1959. Caesar als Schriftsteller, Göttingen. Barwick, K. 1951. Caesars Bellum Civile. Tendenz, Abfassungszeit und Stil, Berlin. Batstone, W. W. / Damon, C. 2006. Caesar’s Civil War, Oxford. Bellemore, J. 1984. Nicolaus of Damacsus. Life of Augustus, Bristol. Beneker, J. 2011. The crossing of the Rubicon and the outbreak of civil war in Cicero, Lucan, Plutarch, and Suetonius, in: Phoenix 65, 74–99. Biesinger, B. 2016. Römische Dekadenzdiskurse. Untersuchungen zur römischen Geschichtsschreibung und ihren Kontexten (2. Jahrhundert v. Chr. bis 2. Jahrhundert n. Chr.), Stuttgart. Boatwright, M. T. 1988. Caesar’s Second Consulship and the Completion and Date of the ‘Bellum Civile’, in: CJ 84, 31–40. Bruhns, H. 1978. Caesar und die römische Oberschicht in den Jahren 49–44 v. Chr. Untersuchungen zur Herrschaftsetablierung im Bürgerkrieg, Göttingen. Byford-jones, W. 1945. The Greek Trilogy, London et al. Carter, J. M. (ed.) 1991. Julius Caesar: The Civil War, vol. 1: Book I,II, Warminster. Chassignet, M. 2003. La naissance de l’autobiographie a Rome: ‘laus sui’ ou ‘apologia de vita sua’?, in: REL 81, 65–78. Christ, k. 1994. Caesar. Annäherungen an einen Diktator, München. Dahlheim, W. 2011, Julius Caesar. Die Ehre des Krieges und die Not des Staates, Paderborn et al. Diehl, H. 1988. Sulla und seine Zeit im Urteil Ciceros, Hildesheim. Dobesch, G. 1978. Nikolaos von Damaskus und die Selbstbiographie des Augustus, in: GB 7, 91–174. Eich, A. 2000. Politische Literatur in der römischen Gesellschaft. Studien zum Verhältnis von politischer und literarischer Öffentlichkeit in der späten Republik und frühen Kaiserzeit, Cologne et al. Fantham, E. 1996. Roman literary culture from Cicero to Apuleius, Baltimore. Fantham, E. 2009. Caesar as an Intellectual, in: m. griffin (ed.), A Companion to Julius Caesar, Oxford, 141–156. Flower, H. I. 2015. The Rapture and the Sorrow: Characterization in Sulla’s Memoirs, in: R. Ash / J. Mossmann / F. B. Titchener (eds.), Fame and Infamy. Essays on Characterization in Greek and Roman Biography and Historiography, Oxford, 209–224. Gelzer M. 1954. War Caesar ein Staatsmann?, in: HZ 178, 449–470.

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Gelzer, M. 1969. Cicero. Ein biographischer Versuch, Wiesbaden. Gelzer, M. 2008. Caesar. Der Politiker und Staatsmann. 2nd ed., Stuttgart. Gotter, U. / Luraghi, N. / Walter, U. 2003. Einleitung, in: U. Eigler / U. Gotter / N. Luraghi / U. Walter (eds.), Formen römischer Geschichtsschreibung von den Anfängen bis Livius. Gattungen – Autoren – Kontexte, Darmstadt, 9–38. Gotter, U. 2003. Die Vergangenheit als Kampfplatz der Gegenwart. Catos (konter)revolutionäre Konstruktion des römischen Erinnerungsraums, in: U. Eigler / U. Gotter / N. Luraghi / U. Walter (eds.), Formen römischer Geschichtsschreibung von den Anfängen bis Livius. Gattungen – Autoren – Kontexte, Darmstadt, 115–134. Gotter, U. 2009. Cato’s Origines: The Historian and his Enemies, in: A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians, Cambridge, 108–122. Gotter, U. 2011. Abgeschlagene Hände und herausquellendes Gedärm. Das hässliche Antlitz der römischen Bürgerkriege und seine politischen Kontexte, in: S. Ferhadbegović – B. Weiffen (eds.), Bürgerkriege erzählen. Zum Verlauf unziviler Konflikte, Paderborn, 55–69. Grillo, L. 2011. Scribam ipse de me: The Personality of the Narrator in Caesar’s Bellum Civile, in: AJPh 132, 243–271. Grillo, L. 2012. The Art of Caesar’s Bellum Civile: Literature, Ideology, and Community, Cambridge. Habicht, C. 1990. Cicero the Politician, Baltimore et al. Havener, W. 2016. Imperator Augustus: Die diskursive Konstituierung der militärischen persona des ersten römischen princeps, Stuttgart. Hilman, T. P. 1988. Strategic Reality and the Movements of Caesar, January 49 BC, in: Historia 37, 248–252. Hinard, F. 1985. Les proscriptions de la Rome républicaine, Paris. Keaveney, A. 1982. Sulla. The last Republican, London. Knoche, U. 1951. Caesars Commentarii, ihr Gegenstand und ihre Absicht, in: Gymnasium 77, 139–160. Krebs, C. B. 2018. More Than Words. The ‘Commentarii’ in their Propagandistic Context, in: L. Grillo / C. B. Krebs (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Writings of Julius Caesar, Cambridge, 29–42. Macfarlane, R. T. 1996. Ab inimicis incitatus: On Dating the Composition of Caesar’s Bellum Civile, in: SyllClass 7, 107–132. Malitz, J. 2006. Nikolaos von Damaskus. Leben des Kaisers Augustus. Herausgegeben, übersetzt und kommentiert, Darmstadt. Marincola, J. 1997. Authority and tradition in ancient historiography, Cambridge. Meier, C. 1970. Caesars Bürgerkrieg, in: C. Meier (ed.), Entstehung des Begriffs ‘Demokratie’. Vier Prolegomena zu einer historischen Theorie, Frankfurt am Main, 70–150. Meyer, E. 1983. Einführung in die lateinische Epigraphik, Darmstadt. Mommsen, H. 1995. Noch einmal: Nationalsozialismus und Modernisierung, in: Geschichte und Gesellschaft 21–3, 391–402. Morstein-Marx, R. 2009. ‘Dignitas’ and ‘res publica’: Caesar and Republican Legitimacy, in: K.-J. Hölkeskamp (ed.), Eine politische Kultur (in) der Krise? Die “letzte Generation” der römischen Republik, Munich, 115–140. Münzer, F. 1899. M. Claudius Marcellus (Claudius Nr. 216), in: RE III.2, Stuttgart, Sp. 2734– 2736. Mutschler, F.-H. 1975. Erzählstil und Propaganda in Caesars Kommentarien, Heidelberg.

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Mutschler, F.-H. 2003. Caesars Kommentarien im Spanungsfeld von sozialer Norm und individuellem Geltungsanspruch, in: A. Haltenhoff / A. Heil / F.-H. Mutschler (eds.), O tempora, o mores! Römische Werte und römische Literatur in den letzten Jahrzehnten der Republik, Munich, 93–118. Nousek, D. L. 2018. Genres and Generic Contaminations: The ‘Commentarii’, in: L. Grillo / C. B. Krebs (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Writings of Julius Caesar, Cambridge, 97–109. Peer, A. 2015. Iulius Caesar´s Bellum Civile and Composition of New Reality, Farnham. Raaflaub, K. A. 1974. Dignitatis contentio. Studien zur Motivation und politischen Taktik im Bürgerkrieg zwischen Caesar und Pompeius, Munich. Raaflaub, K. A. 2009 Bellum Civile, in: M. Griffin (ed.), A Companion to Julius Caesar, Oxford, 175–191. Rambaud, M. 1966. L’art de la déformation historique dans les Commentaires de César, Paris. Rasmussen, D. 1963. Caesars commentarii. Stil und Stilwandel am Beispiel der direkten Rede, Göttingen. Richter, W. 1977. Caesar als Darsteller seiner Taten. Eine Einführung, Heidelberg. Riggsby, A. 2006., Caesar in Gaul and Rome. War in Words, Austin. Riggsby, A. 2007. Memoir and Autobiography in Republican Rome, in: J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman historiography, Malden/Oxford, 266–277. Rondholz, A. 2009. Crossing the Rubicon. A Historiographical Study, in: Mnemosyne 62, 432–450. Rowe, G. O. 1967. Dramatic Structures in Caesar’s Bellum Civile, in: TAPhA 98, 399–414. Rüpke, J. 1992. Wer las Caesars bella als commentarii?, in: Gymnasium 99, 201–226. Sabrow, M – Frei, N. 2012. Die Geburt des Zeitzeugen nach 1945, Göttingen. Scholz, P. 2003. Sullas commentarii – eine literarische Rechtfertigung. Zu Wesen und Funktion der autobiographischen Schriften in der späten römischen Republik, in: U. Eigler / U. Gotter / N. Luraghi / U. Walter (eds.), Formen römischer Geschichtsschreibung von den Anfängen bis Livius. Gattungen – Autoren – Kontexte, Darmstadt, 172–195. Scholz, p. / Walter, U. (eds.). 2013. Fragmente römischer Memoiren, Heidelberg. Stadter, P. A. 1993. Caesarian Tactics and Caesarian Style: Bell. Civ. 1,66–70, in: CJ 88, 217–221. Strasburger, H. 1953. Caesar im Urteil der Zeitgenossen, in: HZ 175, 225–264. Walter, U. 2003. Opfer ihrer Ungleichzeitigkeit. Die Gesamtgeschichten im ersten Jahrhundert v. Chr. und die fortdauernde Attraktivität des ‘annalistischen Schemas’, in: U. Eigler / U. Gotter / Ν. Luraghi / U. Walter (eds.), Formen römischer Geschichtsschreibung von den Anfängen bis Livius. Gattungen – Autoren – Kontexte, Darmstadt, 135–156. Walter, U. 2004. Memoria und res publica, zur Geschichtskultur im republikanischen Rom, Frankfurt am Main. Weber, E. 1983. Bronzeinschriften und Inschriften auf Bronze, in: RÖ 9/10, 209–234. Welch, K. 1998. Caesar and his Officers in the Gallic War Commentaries, in: K. E. Welch / A. Powell (eds.), Julius Caesar as Artful Reporter. The War Commentaries as Political Instruments, London, 85–110. White, H. 1990. Die Bedeutung der Form. Erzählstrukturen in der Geschichtsschreibung, Frankfurt am Main. Wippermann, W. 1996. Revisionismus light. Die Modernisierung und “vergleichende Verharmlosung” des “Dritten Reiches”, in: B. Bailer-Galanda / W. Benz / W. Neugebauer, Die Auschwitzleugner. “Revisionistische” Geschichtslüge und historische Wahrheit, Berlin, 237– 251.

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Wiseman, T. P. 1998. The Publication of De bello Gallico, in: Julius Caesar as Artful Reporter. The War Commentaries as Political Instruments, in: K. E. Welch / A. Powell (eds.) Julius Caesar as Artful Reporter. The War Commentaries as Political Instruments, London, 1–9. Zitelmann, R. 1989. Nationalsozialismus und Moderne. Eine Zwischenbilanz, in: W. Süss (ed.), Übergänge. Zeigeschichte zwischen Utopie und Machbarkeit. Beiträge zu Philosophie, Gesellschaft und Politik, Hellmuth Bütow zum 65. Geburtstag, Berlin, 195–223.

Part III A Transformation of Norms and Values?

Exempla sibi viam faciunt Exemplarity in Times of Civil Strife* Wolfgang Havener Introduction In his account of Late Republican history, the historian Velleius Paterculus marked the murder of Tiberius Gracchus in 133 BCE as a crucial caesura. From this point onwards, the res publica was thrown into turmoil. Brute force and power prevailed over ius, traditional mechanisms of conflict resolution sunk into oblivion, superseded by armed conflict, and wars were started not for a good reason but just out of greed.1 The murder of Gracchus initiated a spiral of violence that would ultimately lead to disaster before the establishment of the Principate brought back pax and stability.2 The incident thus constituted an exemplum malum, a dangerous precedent for what was going to come. Velleius makes this clear by interposing a brief yet highly significant excursus on the nature of exemplarity. For him, it is not surprising that this exemplum constituted a starting point for the following fatal events, for precedents do not stop where they begin, but, however narrow the path upon which they enter, they create for themselves a highway whereon they may wander with the utmost latitude; and when once the path of right is abandoned, men are hurried into wrong in headlong haste, nor does anyone think a course is base for himself which has proven profitable to others.3

*

1 2 3

I would like to thank all the participants of the Konstanz conference for their helpful comments, especially Henning Börm, Harriet Flower, Ulrich Gotter, Martin Jehne and Catherine Steel. I am also grateful to Matt Roller and Henriette van der Blom who read earlier versions of this text and made valuable suggestions. In addition, thanks go to my students at Heidelberg with whom I had the pleasure to read and discuss both Nepos and Valerius Maximus; this text owes much to their insights. Vell. 2.3.3. On Augustus’ achievement of ending the civil wars, see Vell. 2.89.2–4 and Richardson 2012, 76–77 and Havener 2016, 84–85 on the passage. On the exemplum of the Gracchi in Late Republican discourse, see Bücher 2009. Vell. 2.3.4: Quod haut mirum est: non enim ibi consistunt exempla, unde coeperunt, sed quamlibet in

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Exempla, in other words, develop their own dynamic and initiate a process that at some point can no longer be stopped. Such a concept attributes to the exemplum an immense efficacy and the potential to influence not only the actions of the political protagonists but the course of events in general to a high degree. According to Velleius, under the conditions of discord within a civic community, this potential could have devastating effects as it undermined the foundations of the community by eroding traditional norms and values. This notion stands in a stark contrast to more traditional definitions that focus on the stabilising role of the exemplum both in its original context of rhetoric and for Roman society more generally. In the Rhetorica ad Herennium, the exemplum is defined as the citing of something done or said in the past, along with the definite naming of the doer or author. It is used with the same motives as a Comparison. It renders a thought more brilliant when used for no other purpose than beauty; clearer, when throwing more light upon what was somewhat obscure; more plausible, when giving the thought greater veri­ similitude; more vivid, when expressing everything so lucidly that the matter can, I may almost say, be touched by the hand.4

As a rhetorical device, the exemplum strengthens the orator’s argument by bringing into effect the binding power of the mos maiorum, personified in the words and deeds of outstanding personalities from Roman history.5 It has long been noted, however, that the exemplum was far more than a mere oratorical instrument. For Roman society as a whole, the concept of exemplarity was both a central medium to communicate common norms and a key element of collective memory.6 Exempla developed an enormous binding potential as they provided certain feats with a positive moral value.7 Exemplary accomplishments thus incited all members of Roman society not only to remember, but also to emulate them and to make the past a kind of roadmap for conduct in the present as Cicero emphasised in his speech for the poet Archias.8 In a study on Livy’s Exemplary History, Chaplin detected a fundamental shift in the use of exempla from Ciceronian to Augustan times, a shift that ‘must then have occurred somewhere between the middle of the first century BCE and the third decade of the tenuem recepta tramitem latissime evagandi sibi viam faciunt, et ubi semel recto deerratum est, in praeceps pervenitur, nec quisquam sibi putat turpe, quod alii fuit fructuosum. Translations are taken from the LCL. 4 Rhet. Her. 4.62: Exemplum est alicuius facti aut dicti praeteriti cum certi auctoris nomine propositio. Id sumitur isdem de causis quibus similitudo. Rem ornatiorem facit cum nullius rei nisi dignitatis causa sumitur; apertiorem, cum id quod sit obscurius magis dilucidum reddit; probabiliorem, cum magis veri similem facit; ante oculos ponit, cum exprimit omnia perspicue ut res prope dicam manu temptari possit. See also the shorter but similar definition in Cic. Inv. 49. 5 On the use of exempla in ancient rhetorical theory, see Price 1975, esp. 84–129. 6 On the importance of exemplarity in Roman memorial culture, see among others Roller 2018 and 2009; Langlands 2018 and 2015; Bell 2008; Walter 2004, 51–70. 7 See Hölkeskamp 2003, 180. 8 Cic. Arch. 14; see also Roller 2004, 7–8.

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first century CE, and that intermediate period, the period of triumviral and Augustan Rome, is thus unique in the history of the exemplum.’9 It has been argued that this process consisted of a degradation of the binding force of exempla that mirrored the gradual loss of cohesion especially within the Late Republican senatorial elite. The inherent flexibility or even ambiguity of exempla like that of the Gracchi allowed interpretations to become more pointed or even polarising which turned the exempla from instruments of propagating common values into mere weapons of aristocratic competition.10 In this contribution I aim to demonstrate that exempla in fact retained their inherent auctoritas also in Late Republican and, as Velleius’ statement cited above clearly shows, early Imperial times.11 Yet Velleius’ remark with its focus on the destructive potential of exempla also indicates that there was indeed a change in the ways they were used in political and memorial discourse alike. It will be argued that this change has to be tied to the specific circumstances of the last decades of the Republic. Precisely because of their persistent binding potential, politicians and writers alike employed exempla not only as a convenient instrument to bolster particular arguments in public debates, but as a means to reflect on the effects that discordia had on common norms and values and even to reformulate and adapt them according to the challenges of ongoing civil strife. An analysis of the notion of exemplarity and the use of exempla in Late Republican discourse can therefore yield valuable insights into the characteristics of the “culture of civil war” outlined in this volume. The following case studies on Cicero, Cornelius Nepos and Valerius Maximus aim to illustrate three different aspects of the complex connection between the exemplum virtutis and the particular context of the bellum civile. Cicero and his exemplary civil war victory In a letter to Sergius Sulpicius Rufus, written in the autumn of 46 BCE, Cicero laments the gruesome state of the Roman Republic, the pernicies et pestis rei publicae. Simultaneously, he tries to comfort Rufus who, as Cicero himself, had foreseen the looming disaster and tried his best to prevent his contemporaries from going to war against each other. Cicero reminds Rufus, that he had witnessed the latter’s efforts in a speech before the senate. According to Cicero, Rufus’ argument centred on the notion of exemplarity. On the one hand, Roman history had offered no exempla for the outrage that had haunted the res publica during the last decades:

9 10 11

Chaplin 2000, 172. Bücher 2006, 322–325 and 2009, 111–114; see also the more nuanced remarks of Walter 2004, 60–61 and Langlands 2018, 226–257. The term auctoritas exempli is borrowed from Stemmler 2000; on its implications, see below, p. 206.

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I remember how you rehearsed all the civil wars of former days, and told your audience both to fear the calamities they remembered and to be sure that, as the men of the past, with no such precedents in our history to follow, had perpetrated these atrocities, any subsequent armed oppressor of the commonwealth would be far worse to endure.

On the other hand, Rufus warned his fellow senators that they themselves were at risk of setting a dangerous exemplum for future generations, as ‘[p]eople think they have a right to do a thing for which there is an exemplum, but they also put in some contribution, say rather a large contribution, of their own.’12 Like Velleius, Cicero in this letter emphatically warns of the dangerous potential the exemplum can develop in times of civil discord. Under the conditions of civil war, the original function of the exemplum is being perverted, so to speak. There can be no doubt that violent internecine conflict with its truly unprecedented savagery is fundamentally wrong and illegitimate. As soon as political protagonists can invoke respective historical precedent in order to legitimise their transgressive action, however, a process for which there may not be an exemplum becomes an exemplum itself. Traditional criteria for the evaluation of exemplary deeds as positive or negative exempla are suspended under these circumstances, the exemplary precedent is deemed authoritative ipso facto. The medium to communicate common norms and values becomes an instrument allowing to disregard these norms and values. Cicero committed these gloomy thoughts to paper when he was on the defensive. In the autumn of 46 there could be no doubt that he had been on the losing side of the preceding civil war, as his efforts to legitimise his decisions and to come to terms with the Caesarian regime clearly show. Twenty years earlier, Cicero would hardly have consented to this view, as he was just about to carry the development he laments in his letter to extremes himself during the trial of the Catilinarians. At the end of his fourth Catilinarian speech, Cicero addresses his fellow senators with ‘a few words about myself ’.13 Although he knows that he has made many enemies among the conspirators and their sympathizers, he asserts that he will never have regrets about his role in the discovery of the conspiracy. Cicero weighs the death threats he is likely to receive against the exceptional honours that the res publica has bestowed on him due to his equally exceptional accomplishments: “Others have received public thanksgivings from you for serving the Republic well, none but I for preserving it.” ([…] ceteris enim semper bene gesta, mihi uni conservata re publica gratulationem decrevistis.)

12 Cic. fam. 4.3.1 (202 SB): […] cum accuratissime monuisti senatum collectis omnibus bellis civilibus ut et illa timerent quae meminissent et scirent, cum superiores nullo tali exemplo antea in re publica cognito tam crudeles fuissent, quicumque postea rem publicam oppressisset armis multo intolerabiliorem futu­ rum. nam quod exemplo fit id etiam iure fieri putant, sed aliquid atque adeo multa addunt et adferunt de suo. (transl. modified) 13 Cic. Cat. 4.20.

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In order to underline this point, he invokes the exempla of Scipio Africanus, Scipio Aemilianus, Aemilius Paullus, Marius and Pompeius, praising their victories and triumphs over foreign enemies.14 Cicero here draws on a pattern that can also be discerned in several other speeches when he adduces lists of successful triumphant generals.15 Cicero embeds these rows of exempla into specific contexts, thereby activating a certain aspect of these generals’ exemplary potential in order to achieve his rhetorical aim.16 Most of these lists had an affirmative purpose, as they strengthened particular arguments like ‘Pompeius is as favoured by felicitas as Fabius Maximus, Marcellus, Scipio or Marius’, or ‘Murena’s victory against Mithridates is as praiseworthy as the deeds of Curius Dentatus, Quinctius Flamininus, Fulvius Nobilior, Aemilius Paullus, Caecilius Metellus and Lucius Mummius’.17 In his speech against Piso, Cicero invokes a whole armada of military heroes from the past who all celebrated triumphs for their victories against external enemies in order to highlight the outrageous conduct of his adversary who had deliberately declined the highest military honour Rome could bestow.18 According to Cicero, such an attitude constitutes an unprecedented insolence towards the mos maiorum, as is clearly demonstrated by the sheer number of exempla that stand against it.19 Yet Piso’s behaviour not only ridicules the achievements of former successful generals. Cicero argues that he also questions the importance of exempla as an instrument of transmitting crucial Roman values. Although Roman history is full of exempla for adequate conduct following a military victory, Piso deliberately chooses not to imitate them and thus frankly repudiates their auctoritas.20 The thrust of the row of exempla invoked in the fourth Catilinaria deviates from this pattern in a significant way. After the enumeration, Cicero adds himself and his achievement to the illustrious list: There will certainly be some place for my fame amid the praise of these men, unless of course it is a greater achievement to open up provinces to which we may go as governors than to ensure that those who have gone out to them have a homeland to which they may return from their victories. Yet in one respect a victory won abroad is preferable to a

14 Cic. Cat. 4.21. 15 On Cicero’s use of exempla in general, see Bücher 2006, 152–316; Stinger 1993; Robinson 1986, none of whom, however, take this passage into account. See also van der Blom 2010, 73–147 and 184 f. 16 See Itgenshorst 2005, 69–80 who is, however, mostly interested in the insights that these passages yield regarding the question whether Cicero himself desired a triumph for his achievements as proconsul of Cilicia. 17 See Cic. Manil. 47 and Mur. 31, respectively. 18 Cic. Pis. 58. 19 See Havener 2016, 286–288. 20 According to Cicero, he even does so explicitly when he makes Piso characterize triumphant ge­ nerals like Flamininus, Aemilius Paullus, Quintus Metellus, Titus Didius, as men ‘who were stirred by petty ambitions’ (levitate et cupiditate commoti triumpharunt […]; see Cic. Pis. 61.)

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victory gained in a civil war because foreign enemies are either conquered and become subjects or are accepted as allies and feel themselves bound by ties of gratitude; but when some of your own citizens have been unhinged by an attack of madness and have once become enemies to their own country, and you have repulsed their attempt to destroy the State, you can never coerce them by force or win them over by kindness. I realize, therefore, that there lies before me an unending war against evil citizens.21

Cicero explicitly calls the conflict with the Catilinarians a bellum cum civibus, drawing on a terminological paradox that brought together two elements that were incompatible under normal circumstances.22 As has been outlined in the introduction, a bellum was firmly situated in the militiae sphere, that means it was conducted against a foreign enemy.23 A civis, in turn, with his specific duties, rights and privileges, simply could not be a foreign enemy by definition. In the fourth Catilinarian, Cicero thus deliberately chose this paradox with all the follow-up costs it entailed to describe the present conflict between himself, or rather the res publica in his view, and the conspirators. This leads to the question what benefits he expected from such a move. It will be argued here that the key to a possible answer lies precisely in the combination of the term and the notion of exemplarity made in the passage cited above. On the one hand, the use of the term bellum allowed Cicero to straighten the front line. In a bellum, the adversary was clearly defined as hostis, an enemy of the res publica, while the own party could equally unmistakably be portrayed as her champion.24 Cicero explicitly calls the Catilinarians hostes patriae. Thus, it was possible to claim moral superiority and to assign responsibility for violence and bloodshed to the opposing party that had turned against the Roman commonwealth. As has been outlined in the introduction, however, at the same time the hostis-declaration obviously could (and probably should) not completely hide the fact that the war was fought against other

21 Cic. Cat. 4.21 f.: erit profecto inter horum laudes aliquid loci nostrae gloriae, nisi forte maius est pate­ facere nobis provincias quo exire possimus quam curare ut etiam illiqui absunt habeant quo victores revertantur. Quamquam est uno loco condicio melior externae victoriae quam domesticae, quod hostes alienigenae aut oppressi serviunt aut recepti beneficio se obligatos putant, qui autem ex numero civium dementia aliqua depravati hostes patriae semel esse coeperunt, eos, cum a pernicie rei publicae reppuleris, nec vi coercere nec beneficio placare possis. Qua re mihi cum perditis civibus aeternum bellum susceptum esse video. (transl. modified.) 22 On the semantics of the term and its negative implications, see, among others, Gotter 2001, 61–62; Brown 2003, 102–103; Rosenberger 1992, 155–156; Jal 1963, 21–32. On Cicero’s use of the term bellum civile, see van der Blom 2019. 23 See above, p. 11 f. This holds equally true for other expressions like bellum domesticum or patriae bel­ lum, also used in the Catilinarian speeches (see the list of passages complied by van der Blom 2019, 113 n. 5). On the fundamental distinction between the spheres domi and militiae, see the seminal study of Rüpke 2019. 24 On the development of the concept of hostis in the Late Republic, see Cornwell 2018 and Allély 2012.

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Romans.25 By choosing a rather unusual as well as highly provocative term that even highlighted this particular issue Cicero declared that this specific kind of conflict could not simply be termed a conventional bellum and thus paralleled with other military undertakings. A hostis-declaration, in other words, did not automatically turn violence between Romans into a foreign war. When he combined the terms hostis and bellum civile, Cicero transferred the semantics of the former to the domestic sphere without concealing the particular nature of the conflict. On the other hand, the connection of the terms bellum and victoria proves absolutely crucial in Cicero’s deliberations. Ideally, each bellum ended with a Roman victory, celebrated in the triumphal ritual. For the triumphant general himself as well as for his descendants, military victory and its ostentatious presentation to the Roman public laid the foundation for gaining socio-political prestige both on the level of the actual ceremony and on the level of public commemoration, for example during the pompa funebris.26 This close relation between the term bellum and the notion of victory constituted the background for Cicero’s efforts to make the best of his role during the Cati­ linarian conspiracy. By emphasising the unprecedented honours he had been awarded by the res publica for his victory, he aimed not only at equating his accomplishments with that of the most illustrious generals of Republican history. Actually, he claimed to have outdone even the feats of the Scipios or Aemilius Paullus. When he chose to take this line of argument and to incorporate his accomplishments in a history of Roman military success, Cicero ran a considerable risk – not out of hybris, but of a thorough cost-benefit analysis. Both elements of this calculation were very clear: On the one hand, if Cicero succeeded in portraying his actions in such a favourable light his prestige and thus his position within the Roman socio-political system would be immensely strengthened. On the other hand, Cicero himself and many of his contemporaries decidedly denounced civil war and those who engaged in it. The process of coming to terms with the bloody internecine conflicts between Marius and Sulla, Caesar and Pompeius as well as Antonius and Young Caesar clearly shows that civil war always constituted a highly problematic resource that was suited for exploiting in the aristocratic competition over socio-political pre-eminence only to a very limited degree.27 Embarking on this strategy therefore necessitated a plan to brace oneself for conceivable harsh criticism. Although Cicero presented his actions as necessary in order to rescue the res publica from peril, potential adversaries could portray the conviction of the Catilinarians as highly transgressive act that disregarded fundamental norms and legal provisions. After all, Clodius precisely took this line in

25 26 27

See Havener 2016a, 155–157, as well as the p. 12 f. On the pattern of ‘triumphalist history’, see Havener 2019, 112–119. On the various strategies developed by the protagonists in order to legitimise their actions during the civil war, see Flower and Gotter in this volume. On civil war in the Res Gestae divi Augusti, see Havener 2016, 151–192; Lange 2019 and 2008.

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his successful attempt to exile Cicero in 58 BCE. In the fourth Catilinarian, Cicero adopted an extremely offensive strategy in order to counter such accusations by making his victory over fellow Romans, that means the very transgression of the norms itself, the core element of his argument. In order to foster this argument, Cicero employed the legitimising potential of exemplarity. When he enumerated the military heroes of the Roman past and linked them to his own achievements, he drew on a crucial feature of Roman exempla already mentioned above: their auctoritas. According to Stemmler, this auctoritas was based on the fundamental principle of meritocracy, as certain persons and their actions like the devotiones of the Decii, were furnished with a kind of nimbus because of the enormous benefits they had yielded for the res publica.28 The use of exempla thus provided orators with an invaluable resource in political debates: the authority of the mos maiorum whose effects could even be increased by serial accumulation. According to Stemmler, exemplary lists could create the impression that the line-up of heroes from the past directly ended with the speaker himself who had to take responsibility in a difficult situation and to prove himself worthy of his ancestors or predecessors. When Cicero deployed this pattern in his speech, however, he gave it a particular thrust that distinguished his approach from the traditional use made of the auctoritas exempli. Instead of simply comparing and equating his achievements to those of the military heroes of the past and then claiming equal honours he emphasised a crucial difference between their feats and his own accomplishment. By paralleling the victo­ riae externae of the Scipios and Paullus with his own victoria domestica, Cicero ostentatiously demanded that in principle the same evaluation criteria had to be applied. A victory against domestic enemies had to be presented and celebrated like a success in war against external enemies. Yet at the same time, according to Cicero, precisely the particular conditions of his victory also set it apart from the accomplishments of his predecessors. The bellum he had to fight could not be won by the traditional combination of force and concessions. In this existential conflict, other means had to be found in order to obtain victory. Yet despite such difficulties, Cicero’s actions had rescued the res publica from turmoil and internecine strife and thus provided other generals with a place to which they could return after their own victories. Such a feat certainly had to be valued as being more important than every military success in external conflicts. And another point also distinguished Cicero’s war from others: it was a bellum aeternum. His war against evil citizens could not be ended by simple military victory but could turn into a potentially perpetual cycle of violence and revenge. To overcome discordia required much more effort than to succeed in a war designed to enhance the Roman imperium. A civil war victor has to constantly be vigilant so that civil discord

28

See Stemmler 2000, 160–161 as well as the case studies collected in Roller 2018.

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will not erupt again. Therefore, his efforts as well as his achievements are to be appreciated even more than those of the generals who ended a war by conquering the enemy.29 This two-pronged approach of defining the general criteria to evaluate his achievement and simultaneously underlining the specific circumstances that set it apart, set the stage for the climax of Cicero’s argument: It is my confident belief that your support and the support of all loyal citizens, the recollection of the seriousness of these dangers, a recollection that will always remain fixed not only among our own people because of its salvation, but upon the lips and in the minds of every nation, can easily repel these perils from me and my supporters. […] Accordingly, in place of the supreme command, of the army, of the province to which I have shown myself indifferent, in place of the triumph and the other marks of honour which I have rejected in order to have the safety of Rome and of yourselves in my care, in place of the ties formed with clients and hosts in a province – although I still strive by means of my influence in Rome to acquire them as energetically as I maintain them – in place of all these lost opportunities, then, and in return for my exceptional devotion to your cause and for the painstaking efforts with which, as you see, I have preserved the Republic, I ask nothing of you except that you remember this occasion and the whole of my consulship. So long as they remain fixed in your minds, I shall feel that I am protected by an impregnable wall.30

Cicero claims not to be seeking political prestige nor any of the material or symbolic rewards traditionally awarded to a victorious Roman general, although there could be no doubt that he had earned them. Instead, he expresses his hopes that his accomplishment as well as the particularly dangerous and difficult conditions in which it was achieved find their way into the collective public memory of the res publica. The purpose of the row of exempla is thus not primarily to legitimise Cicero’s actions. His argument aimed not only at cushioning the blow of his transgression of traditional norms, but rather at reinterpreting his actions in a highly positive way. In Cicero’s view, the parallelization of his victory in the bellum against the Catilinarians with the achievements of other exemplary figures from the Roman past provided his own actions with an exemplary quality, too. Cicero himself made use of this new exemplum

29

Cicero’s strategy therefore goes beyond a mere comparison of two incomparable issues in order to claim equal honours, as Itgenshorst 2005, 72 suggested. 30 Cic. Cat. 4.22 f.: Id ego vestro bonorumque omnium auxilio memoriaque tantorum periculorum, quae non modo in hoc populo qui servatus est sed in omnium gentium sermonibus ac mentibus semper haere­ bit, a me atque a meis facile propulsari posse confido. […] Quae cum ita sint, pro imperio, pro exercitu, pro provincia quam neglexi, pro triumpho ceterisque laudis insignibus quae sunt a me propter urbis ves­ traeque salutis custodiam repudiata, pro clientelis hospitiisque provincialibus quae tamen urbanis opibus non minore labore tueor quam comparo, pro his igitur omnibus rebus, pro meis in vos singularibus studiis proque hac quam perspicitis ad conservandam rem publicam diligentia nihil a vobis nisi huius temporis totiusque mei consulatus memoriam postulo: quae dum erit in vestris fixa mentibus, tutissimo me muro saeptum esse arbitrabor.

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on various occasions, for example in his speeches pro Flacco or in Pisonem. In the Philippicae, Catiline is called on repeatedly as a negative exemplum in connection with Antonius while Cicero portrays his own conduct during the conspiracy in a highly positive way.31 In his fourth Catilinaria, Cicero thus acted exactly according to the pattern that he later deplores in his letter to Sulpicius Rufus. He turned an essentially illegitimate and unprecedented act into something positive and thus created a new exemplum that was to set the standards for future conduct in the face of civil discord.32 At first sight this observation of two completely contrary approaches might be taken as evidence for the proposition that the protagonists of the civil war era were not able to reflect on the changes to which the notion of exemplarity as well as the res publica as a whole were submitted under the conditions of permanent civil strife.33 A close analysis of the evidence leads to a slightly different conclusion. The letter to Sulpicius Rufus as well as the passage from the fourth Catilinaria clearly demonstrate that Cicero reflected on the effects of civil war on the notion of exemplarity and vice versa. In both cases, the bellum civile is portrayed as a context in which new norms and values are (and probably have to be) created and propagated. The different evaluation of these developments is due to Cicero’s own position at the time of writing. From the perspective of the defeated, he formulated a fundamental critique of the disruptive potential of the ex­ emplum. In a situation where he tries to benefit from his role in the suppression of civil discord, he employs the exemplum as a means to establish a new norm that eventually undermines the traditional values of the res publica. That Cicero walked a tightrope in his effort to render civil war victory an exemplary feat becomes even clearer when his statements are brought together with other contemporary reflections on this topic and on the state of the res publica in general. The following section will briefly focus on several relevant sections from Cornelius Nepos in order to demonstrate that the notion of exemplarity could become an important medium for such considerations.

31

32

33

See Evans 2008; Bücher 2006, 310–315; Robinson 1986, 83–175 and especially van der Blom 2010, 287–310. Van der Blom 2019, 127 and 131 points out that, after the Catilinaria, Cicero never again termed the conflict a bellum civile, but always called it a bellum domesticum and that the conspiracy is absent from Cicero’s lists of exemplary bella civilia in the Philippics. Van der Blom suggests that this was due to Cicero’s efforts to underline the singularity of the events as well as of his own accomplishments, an interpretation that goes well together with the argument made here. Although Cicero drops the expression civile, he holds on to the decisive term bellum and even emphasises this explicitly when faced with opposition (Cic. Phil. 12.17). This may explain why Sulla is omitted from the list of exempla. Since the Sullan victory and especially his conduct in its aftermath had become a marked exemplum malum, it was in no way suited for Cicero’s purpose of presenting civil war victory as something positive; on Sulla as exemplum malum, see Gotter in this volume and Eckert 2016. See Bücher 2009, 113.

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Exemplary conduct in times of civil strife: Cornelius Nepos’ Lives In an introductory article from 1982, Nicholas Horsfall famously called Cornelius Nepos ‘an intellectual pygmy whom we find associating uneasily with the literary giants of his generation.’34 Since then, various studies have corrected this image and demonstrated that Nepos has to be seen as a highly creative author and perceptive observer of the developments of his time, that means the last decades of the Republic.35 Unfortunately, most of his works are lost, among them the Chronica, a universal history in three volumes, the potentially first collection of Greek and Roman exempla as well as a number of letters to Cicero and Atticus that the former mentions in his own letters. The same is true for most of his de viris illustribus, a collection of biographies of famous generals, politicians, but also scholars and writers both Greek and Roman, that has earned Nepos the epithet of ‘father of political biography’.36 The only part of this work that seems to have survived in its entirety contains over 20 biographies of non-Roman generals like Miltiades, Timoleon or Hannibal. In another volume, unfortunately lost, Nepos paralleled these lives with those of famous Roman generals. It is difficult to date the period of composition, as the text does not yield any precise information. It is commonly argued that the de viris illustribus was Nepos’ last work, written after the year 54 since it is not mentioned in Catullus’ first poem in which he dedicates the collection of his works to Nepos.37 More can be said about the biography of Atticus, which must have been part of a book on Roman historians that also contained a biography of Cato the Elder. This text must have existed in two versions, an earlier and a later one, as Nepos mentions Atticus’ death that occurred in 32 and explains that he has decided to continue the biography that had so far been published during Atticus’ lifetime but had not covered the period of the conflict between Young Caesar and Antonius.38 This, in turn, means that Nepos must have been active at least until the battle of Actium and possibly even beyond – which would of course have made his biographies of Roman generals and politicians a highly valuable source as he obviously did not refrain from relating contemporary events. Actually, in several of the surviving biographies Nepos explicitly comments on contemporary circumstances. He repeatedly addresses the delicate question of how to deal with an outstanding individual, denounces collective

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Horsfall 1982, 290. See, for example, Lobur 2021; Stem 2012; Anselm 2004; Titchener 2003; Milne 1994; Holzberg 1989. For a short overview of the debates on Nepos’ extant works, see Pryzwansky 2009. 36 On the question of whether Nepos can be called the founder of political biography, see Geiger 1985 with the comments of Holzberg 1989; Tuplin 2000; Stem 2012, 113–114. On Nepos’ particular method, see Beneker 2009. 37 See Millar 1988, 40–41; Lindsay 1998, 332–333. 38 Nep. Att. 19. See also Lindsay 1998, 334–335; Leppin 2002, 192–193.

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envy and timidity but also laments the selfishness and brutality of Roman generals in times of civil war.39 The most explicit reflections on civil war and its repercussions can be found in the biographies of Epaminondas and Pelopidas. At the end of his biography of the Theban general Epaminondas, after he had extolled at length his protagonist’s bravery, elo­quence, patience and countless other virtues, Nepos briefly addressed his role in a crucial episode of Theban history. When Pelopidas and his fellow exiles sneaked into the town and murdered the Theban magistrates who collaborated with the Spartan garrison, Epaminondas stayed out of the fighting. According to Nepos, only when the exiles began to drive out the Spartans from the Cadmea and thus turned civil slaughter into a fight against an external enemy, Epaminondas joined in. In order to explain that the most distinguished Theban general maintained a neutral stance in this situation, Nepos explains that Epaminondas was unwilling to spill the blood of his countrymen ‘for he thought that every victory won in a civil war was pernicious.’40 Significantly, Nepos refrains from evaluating or commenting on Epaminondas’ conduct in this epi­ sode. The legitimizing considerations are presented not as views of the author but as thoughts of the protagonist himself. This leaves open the question whether civil war victory actually has to be deemed funestas. As Manuwald has pointed out, a potential answer to this question is given in the Life of Pelopidas.41 After he has outlined the course of events that led to the liberation of Thebes from Spartan dominance, Nepos explicitly refers back to the quoted passage from the Epaminondas and states that, although in general Pelopidas had to take second place behind the towering figure of his fellow general, ‘this glorious deed of freeing Thebes belongs wholly to Pelopidas’.42 Only Pelopidas’ feat enables Epaminondas to ultimately liberate Greece from Spartan dominance and to establish Theban hegemony.43 This line of argument shows remarkable parallels to Cicero’s deliberations in the fourth Catilinaria. In order to give successful generals a place to return to and the opportunity to celebrate their victories over external enemies, someone has to establish and maintain stability and security at home – even if this entails the killing of fellow citizens. Civil war victory is thus presented not as an abomination but as an exemplary feat in its own right. Manuwald and Stem have concluded that, even if he did not explicitly criticize Epaminondas’ passivity, Nepos preferred Pelopidas’ actions as an active fight for libertas and against tyranny.44 Although at first this seems to be a straightforward conclusion, the picture gets more complicated when these observa39 See, for example Nep. Milt. 6.2; Them. 8.1; Kim. 3.1; Alk. 4.6; Thras. 1.1–4; Ages. 4.2 40 Nep. Epam. 10.3: […] namque omnem civilem victoriam funestam putabat. 41 See Manuwald 2003, 446–448. 42 Nep. Pel. 4.1: Itaque haec liberandarum Thebarum propria laus est Pelopidae […]. 43 See Stem 2012, 195. 44 See Stem 2012, 197–198. Dionisotti 1988, 40–45 has pointed out that the fight against tyranny is one of the main topics of the Lives.

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tions are brought together with another part of Nepos’ work, the Life of Atticus from the book on Roman historians.45 It has been pointed out repeatedly that the biography of Atticus constitutes a veritable laudation of political neutrality in times of civil strife.46 Already in his youth, in a move reminiscent of Epaminondas’ behaviour, Atticus determines that the only way to live according to his ideal of dignitas without alienating either the party of Sulla or that of Cinna in the upcoming violent internecine conflict is to elude taking sides by moving to Athens.47 When Sulla is captured by the young man’s eloquence and charm and tries to convince Atticus to return, he underlines that he will not take part in any retaliatory measures against Sulla’s enemies but instead retain the neutral stance he has taken when he was called to take up arms against Sulla himself.48 He declines to hold public office because he thinks that it cannot be ‘administered to the advantage of the state without risk in so debauched a condition of public morals.’49 When civil war between Caesar and Pompeius breaks out, Atticus decides not to leave Rome, thus able to avoid the ‘new dangers’ of a time of renewed discordia ‘by the long-standing policy of his life’.50 He does not take sides in the conflicts between the Caesarians and the Liberators, nor in the dispute between his friend Cicero and Antonius that would soon turn into the bellum Mutinense.51 In the turmoil of the triumviral period and during the time of the proscriptions he eschews the ‘numerous and terrible civil tempests’ that so many members of the senatorial and equestrian elite fall victim to.52 Yet in a marked contrast to Nepos’ characterisation of Epaminondas, this did not mean that Atticus just kept out of public life altogether. On the contrary, most statements about Atticus’ neutrality are grouped with episodes that demonstrates his willingness to help his friends as well as potential adversaries in times of need, regardless of their political orientation.53 During his stay at Athens he nevertheless supports the younger Marius with money to enable him to escape from his adversaries and regularly attends his friends’ electoral rallies in order to support them.54 He refrains from Stem 2009 demonstrates in a comparison between the Lives of Atticus and Epaminondas, that Nepos’ biographies should not only be read as parts of the respective books, but as parts of a more comprehensive text aiming to establish certain moral constants underlying all of his exemplary biographies independent from the protagonists’ respective qualities. 46 See among others the seminal study of Millar 1988; Lindsay 1998; Sauer 2011. On the relation between Nepos and Atticus, see Lobur 2021, 98–105; on the historical figure of Atticus, Welch 1996. 47 Nep. Att. 2.2. 48 Nep. Att. 4.2. 49 Nep. Att. 6.2: […] neque geri e re publica sine periculo corruptis civitatis moribus. 50 Nep. Att. 7.3: Sic vetere instituto vitae effugit nova pericula. 51 Nep. Att. 8.4 and 9.3. 52 Nep. Att. 10.6 and 12.3. 53 Nepos also does not suggest that Atticus did not have any political views at all but explicitly counts him among the optimates (Nep. Att. 6.1). The crucial point is that this does not result in any political partisanship, especially during times of civil discord. 54 Nep. Att. 2.2 and 4.3 f. 45

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personal gain at the expense of political adversaries and instead provides those of his friends who have taken the side of Pompeius during the escalating conflict with Caesar with financial means.55 He supports the cause of Brutus and Cassius against Antonius as well as the latter’s adherents when they are driven out of Rome in the wake of the bel­ lum Mutinense.56 During the proscriptions, Atticus shows equal care for all of his amici, present and absent from Rome.57 In addition, Nepos underlines that Atticus throughout the whole period permanently communicates in person or by letter with all the protagonists, including Sulla, Caesar, Cicero, Brutus, Young Caesar and Antonius even in times when they were in open enmity.58 Atticus thus represents a third alternative model that might be termed ‘dedicated neutrality’. In contrast to Pelopidas, Atticus strictly avoids getting involved in any kind of fighting or violence between Roman citizens. At the same time, however, he does not choose a stance of ‘splendid isolation’, but rather deliberately keeps up his relations with all the protagonists of the civil war era not only in order to ‘weather such a political storm […] in comfortable retirement’, but to maintain his social commitments.59 In a time when such commitments are generally neglected, Atticus thus becomes a stabilising factor and paragon of the traditional mores, as Nepos explicitly underlines.60 Leppin has pointed out the paradoxal nature of this characterisation, as the mores that Atticus personifies stand in marked contrast to the traditional norms and values of the Roman elite, centred around the notion of gloria through the holding of offices and the gaining of military victories.61 Atticus, in other words, is by no means a classic exem­ plum. The norms and values that the Life of Atticus propagates are not traditional but new and provocative which repeatedly necessitates Nepos to defend his protagonist’s behaviour against potential criticism.62 Nevertheless, Nepos deliberately chooses to promote these new values as exemplary in their own way. The key to understanding how a new set of norms and values can acquire such an exemplary character is to be found in the special circumstances in which they are developed. Throughout the whole of his biographical works, Nepos leaves no doubt that ci­ vil strife, the ambition of Rome’s military leaders and the decay of traditional moral values have rendered the condition of the res publica highly deplorable. The models

55 Nep. Att. 7.1. 56 Nep. Att. 8.6 and 9.3. 57 Nep. Att. 12.5. On friendship as central topic of the Life, see Stem 2005. 58 Nep. Att. 4.1 (Sulla); 7.3 (Caesar); 8.2 (Brutus); 10.4 (Antonius); 12.1 (Agrippa); 16.2–4 (Cicero); 20.1 f. (Young Caesar); 20.4 (Antonius). 59 Stem 2012, 59. 60 Nep. Att. 18.1. 61 See Leppin 2002, 197–200. 62 Nep. Att. 6.5; 9.6 f.; 10.6; 11.4; 12.2; 15.3. On the inherent problems of the notion of neutrality and Cicero’s use of exempla to reflect upon his own stance in his communication with Atticus in 49 BCE, see Mitchell’s contribution in this volume.

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of Epaminondas, Pelopidas and Atticus outlined above all centre on the same fundamental question of how to comport oneself appropriately in such difficult times of civil discord. The ways in which Nepos deals with this question in his Lifes demonstrates that exemplary history cannot offer a final solution to the problem, as there are various models that can either draw on historical precedent or set new precedents themselves.63 This does not mean that the exempla lose their inherent auctoritas, on the contrary. Yet precisely because the exemplum remains an effective means of establishing and communicating norms and values, the variety of partly contradictory exemplary options may exacerbate the problem. This is where Nepos’ innovative method comes in. The collection and serial presentation of exemplary biographies allows readers to compare, interpret and evaluate the different modes of exemplary behaviour. As Rex Stem states: It is Nepos’ role as a biographer to demonstrate the complexity of these lessons through specific examples, and it is the role of his reader to recognize these examples as thematically focused in order to be morally and politically resonant. The practice of studying history for exemplary conduct does not deal in moral truism so much as in moral context.64

One of Nepos’ primary aims seems to have been to show that civil war is a particular ‘moral context’ that has to be distinguished from others. In a time when internecine conflict becomes the ‘new normal’ and when Roman society is confronted with immense formerly unknown challenges, new existential questions necessarily arise and cannot be answered conclusively. Civil war with all its distortions requires a comprehensive new orientation both of the moral compass itself and of the way in which the set of common norms and values is presented and communicated.65 The collection of all exemplary options in a single work might contribute to such a re-orientation and therefore constitute a means of creating stability in times of severe turmoil. By an analysis of some selected passages from Valerius Maximus, the following section aims to demonstrate how this approach could be taken up and developed in the aftermath of the bella civilia.

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That Nepos chose to look for such precedents not only in the Roman past but also in Greek history can be related to other ways in which Romans referred to Greek models from the discourse on stasis (see Börm in this volume). Stem 2012, 200. Lobur 2021, 156–233 argues that ‘Nepos is […] more forward looking and proto-imperial than republican. His “republicanism” prefigures the modified “republican” ethos of the early empire.’ (157)

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Valerius Maximus and the exemplarity of civil war Valerius Maximus wrote his Facta et dicta memorabilia in the reign of Tiberius who is addressed in the preface as ‘surest salvation of the fatherland’.66 Besides this, not much is known of the author except from the sparse indications given in the text, for example that he belonged to the entourage of a Sextus Pompeius, probably the consul 14 CE, during his proconsulship of Asia.67 In the preface, Maximus states that he has collected Roman as well as non-Roman exempla mainly ‘to the end that those wishing to take examples [and employ them as rhetorical tools] may be spared the labour of lengthy search.’68 In accordance with this supposed agenda, the text has mostly either been seen as a mere rhetorical finger exercise or – because Maximus reports a number of episodes for which he is the only extant source – has been used as a kind of quarry for historical information. More recently, however, a number of studies have focused on the work as a whole and tried to identify its underlying guiding questions and common themes.69 Civil war doubtlessly constitutes to one of these topics that is present throughout the whole work: some 280 out of 967 Roman and non-Roman exempla in 79 sections of the text are directly or indirectly related to civil strife or are situated in the period between 133 and 29 BCE.70 The bellum civile and its historical context thus formed an integral part of the exemplary canon presented by Valerius Maximus in the Facta et dicta. Given the highly problematical nature of this topic, this is by no means a matter of course. In order to find an explanation, three questions have to be raised. (1) What methods were employed by Valerius Maximus in order to integrate civil war in the course of Roman history as a constant series of episodes of exemplary conduct? (2) What was the potential purpose of this step? (3) How was it influenced by the historical circumstances under which it was taken i. e. the conditions of the early Principate? Regarding questions (1) and (2), two compatible strategies can be observed throughout the work. In some sections, civil war takes centre stage, sometimes even being the only historical context from which the recounted Roman exempla derive. A prominent example is section 4.7 de amicitia. In the preface to this passage, Valerius reflects on the character of friendship, whose power even supersedes family ties, being ‘even more reliable and safe in that the latter is contracted by the accident of birth, a work of chance, the former by will beginning in solid judgment.’ And Valerius even goes further, assurVal. Max. 1.praef.: certissima salus patriae. On the date, see Steffensen 2018, 441 with n. 10. On Valerius’ treatment of the principes and the domus Augusta, see Wardle 2000. 67 See Val. Max. 2.6.8 and 4.7.ext.2b. 68 Val. Max. 1. praef.: […] ut documenta sumere volentibus longae inquisitionis labor absit. 69 See, for example, Bloomer 1992; Skidmore 1996; Weileder 1998; Gowing 2005, 49–62; Lucarelli 2007; Steffensen 2018, 441–482; Langlands 2018; Murray/Wardle 2021. 70 See also Carney 1962 (on the figure of Marius); Bloomer 1992, 147–184; Wardle 1997 (on the treatment of Julius Caesar); Freyburger-Galland 1998. Wardle 2021, 19 f. gives slightly different numbers but confirms the general observation. 66

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ing that ‘truly loyal friends are most recognized in times of trouble, when whatever is rendered proceeds entirely from steady good will.’71 The following seven Roman exem­ pla and their protagonists can all be situated in the period from 133 to 12 BCE, not only by conjecture as in many other episodes, but by the explicit information given by the author who portrays the traumatic experience of civil strife in grim detail: When M. Lucullus, son of the famous general L. Lucullus and ally of Brutus and Cassius had been put to death by Antonius after the battle of Philippi, according to Valerius, his friend Volumnius ‘stuck to his lifeless friend, weeping and groaning unrestrainedly, so that by excess of piety he brought upon himself the cause of his death.’ Demanding from Antonius to be killed alongside his friend, Volumnius is taken to the corpse, ‘where he greedily kissed Lucullus’ hand, picked up the head which lay severed and clasped it to his breast, then bent his neck to the victor’s sword.’ For Valerius, these actions render Volumnius a paragon of friendship under highly traumatic circumstances: To see mingled blood of friends, wounds clinging to wounds, death fastened upon death – these are the true tokens of Roman friendship […].72

The other exempla collected in this section equally demonstrate the existential challenges the protagonists have to confront in the face of civil strife. Repeatedly they have to ponder whether to put friendship before their own survival (Pomponius and Laetorius in their defence of C. Gracchus; Petronius killing his patron Caepio and himself during Cinna’s siege of Placentia; Terentius pretending to be D. Brutus) or public judgment (L. Reginus choosing to accompany his friend Caepio into exile) – and even the fate of the res publica in the case of C. Blossius who ‘dared to defend [Tiberius] Gracchus’ character which a consensus of the entire senate had condemned.’73 This makes Valerius reflect on the difficulties concerning interpretation and evaluation that such exempla pose: can actions that are detrimental to the res publica nevertheless develop exemplary value? His answer is explicitly affirmative: Ti. Gracchus was considered to have been an enemy of his country, and rightly so, because he had put his own power ahead of her welfare. But how steadfastly loyal a friend he had even in this perverse design in C. Blossius of Cumae it is worth while to learn.74

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Val. Max. 4.7.praef: Contemplemur nunc amicitiae vinculum potens et praevalidum neque ulla ex parte sanguinis viribus inferius, hoc etiam certius et exploratius quod illud nascendi sors, fortuitum opus, hoc uniuscuiusque solido iudicio incohata voluntas contrahit. […] incerae vero fidei amici praecipue in ad­ versis rebus cognoscuntur, in quibus quidquid praestatur totum a constanti benivolentia proficiscitur. Val. Max. 4.7.4: […] amico adhaesit, huc usque in lacrimas et gemitus profusus ut nimia pietate causam sibi mortis arcesseret. […] dexteram Luculli avide osculatus, caput, quod abscisum iacebat, sublatum pectori suo applicavit, ac deinde demissam cervicem victori gladio praebuit. […] mixtum cruorem amicorum et vulner­ ibus innexa vulnera mortique inhaerentem mortem videre, haec sunt vera Romanae amicitiae indicia […]. Val. Max. 4.7.1: […] totius namque senatus consensu damnatos eius mores defendere ausus est. Val. Max. 4.7.1: Inimicus patriae fuisse Ti. Gracchus existimatus est, nec immerito, quia potentiam suam saluti eius praetulerat. quam constantis tamen fidei amicum etiam in hoc tam pravo proposito C. Blossi­

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In Valerius’ view, Blossius had disregarded both the senate’s judgement and the facts. Civil strife itself is to be condemned without any doubt. As a particular context, however, with its peculiar mechanisms and perverted logic, it can still yield exempla of Roman virtue: amicitia remains amicitia, even (and especially) in troubled times. Another highly significant section in which civil war and its effects take pride of place is 6.8, de fide servorum. Again, with a single exception, the collected exempla are situated in the context of civil war, three of them deriving from one of the most me­ morable and traumatic episodes, the proscriptions instigated by the triumvirs in 43 BCE. Time and again, Valerius recounts how loyal slaves save their masters from peril or at least spare them further cruelty by killing them in time. The row of exempla culminates in the story of a slave whom his master Antius Restio ‘had put in chains and branded with inexpiable letters on the face to his extreme indignity.’ Watching the proscribed Restio sneak out of his home, in spite of his misfortune, the slave chose to accompany his master and even saves him from being discovered, in Valerius’ view filling ‘the most perfect measure of unlooked-for loyalty’.75 Thus, during a time when the members of the nobility, that means the traditional paragons of traditional Roman norms and values, obviously chose to abandon them, tearing each other apart instead and thus bringing the res publica to its knees, others step in and take their place, individuals or groups of people who – with some notable exceptions – had hitherto not been the primary exponents of exemplarity: slaves, as in this section, but also common soldiers or women.76 In the section de constantia, for example, Valerius recounts the story of Sempronia, the sister of the Gracchi, introducing her exemplum with an explicit reflection on the particular conditions: What business has a woman with a public meeting? If ancestral custom be observed, none. But when domestic quiet is stirred by the waves of sedition, the authority of ancient usage is subverted, and compulsion of violence has greater force than persuasion and precept of restraint.77

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um Cumanum habuerit operae pretium est cognoscere. Val. Max. 6.8.7: […] perfectisimum inexspectate pietatis cumulum expleverat. On common soldiers in the army of Julius Caesar, see Val. Max. 3.2.22 f. Significantly, Caesar himself gave pride of place to common soldiers or subaltern officers and their exemplary conduct in his own works; see Nolan 2016. Such a message might be of particular significance for an audience that might not belong to the upmost section of Roman society (on potential addressees of Valerius’ work, see Maslakov 1984, 445, Bloomer 1992, 11–17 and Skidmore 1996, 105–107; Steffensen 2018, 482 even attributes a certain creative impetus to Valerius who, according to Steffensen, aimed to actively participate in the constitution of a new elite by reminding them of their responsibilities and of the traditional norms and values they had to follow. Val. Max. 3.8.6: Quid feminae cum contione? si patrius mos servetur, nihil: sed ubi domestica quies se­ ditionum agitata fluctibus est, priscae consuetudinis auctoritas convellitur, plusque valet quod violentia cogit quam quod suadet et praecipit verecundia. See also Val. Max. 6.7.2, the exemplum of Turia who has long been deemed the subject of the famous laudatio Turiae (see Osgood 2014), or 8.3.3, the exemplum or Hortensia. See also Roller 2018, 66–94 and 197–232 (on Cloelia and Cornelia, the

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This passage is an example for the second strategy of integrating civil war exempla into the more comprehensive exemplary canon. In most of the sections, stories from the civil wars are not singled out, but interspersed among more ‘conventional’ ones, as in the chapter de fortitudine. Having recounted the feats of exemplary heroes like Romulus, Horatius Cocles, Cossus, Marcellus and Scipio, without any particular transition, Valerius adduces a whole series of civil war exempla: Caesar’s opponents Metellus Scipio, Cato the Younger and his daughter Porcia, the wife of M. Brutus as well as Scipio Nasica and M. Aemilius Scaurus.78 In the chapters on friendship and the piety of slaves cited above, civil war is described as a particular context which has to be distinguished from ‘normal’ circumstances and is to be detested yet which can provide episodes of exemplary value nevertheless. The present section, in contrast, derives its special thrust precisely from the fact that civil war and non-civil war exempla are grouped together. While both kinds of exempla illustrate the virtue of fortitudo, the kind of bravery illustrated by Metellus and Cato differs significantly from the kind of bravery demonstrated by the likes of Romulus or Marcellus. Both the preceding and the following exempla focus on military fortitudo as a means to display personal valour or to turn the fortune of battle in favour of the Roman army. The bravery of Metellus and Cato as well as Scipio Nasica and Aemilius Scaurus, however, lies either in the ways in which they endure death in the face of defeat by the hand of Roman adversaries or in their strength of character confronting danger to the res publica. Thus, for Valerius the bellum civile itself is on a structural par with the bellum externum regarding its exemplary potential, as both contexts provide episodes of exemplary conduct.79 At the same time, this holds true also for the specific manifestations of virtue shown in both contexts. This allows Valerius to bring together Caesar as a paragon of the first kind of bravery and his opponents as exponents of the second kind. Fortitudo, in other words, is portrayed here as an essential feature of Romanness, a bipartisan Roman virtue even in times of bitter civil strife – and thus a potential starting point for reintegrating society by returning to its traditional values. This constitutes the core of the message Valerius aims to disseminate regarding civil war. For him, there could be no doubt that civil war constituted an abomination which, in turn, produced other abominations like Sulla, the epitome of cruelty and

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mother of the Gracchi, respectively); on the role of women in times of civil war, see Welch’s contribution in this volume. Val. Max. 3.2.11–19. See also Val. Max. 5.1 de humanitate et clementia, where Caesar’s clementia in the aftermath of civil war is paralleled with the conduct of Roman generals towards defeated external enemies. Bloomer 1992, 154, in contrast, states that civil war enemies could ‘peaceably cohabit’ in Valerius work as he did not aim at historical accuracy but, based on his primarily rhetorical outlook, simply collected under the individual headings those exempla that for him were the most suitable to illustrate his points, regardless of their historical context; see also Maslakov 1984, 454 and Steffensen 2018, 445.

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exemplum malum par excellence.80 Its devastating effects profoundly changed the res publica in a variety of ways. However, the fact that civil war and the upheaval it entailed could – or even had to81 – be incorporated into the exemplary canon, that it might even provide a context in which new values were developed or in which new aspects of traditional values were brought forth and in which new exponents carried on the torch of the mos maiorum, clearly demonstrated that the notion of exemplarity prevailed and might even provide a path for coming to terms with this detrimental episode of Roman history. Thus, the prominent presence of civil war in a collection of exempla can be seen, on the one hand, as an indicator of the degree to which the particular conditions of the last decades of the Republic influenced Roman politics, society and culture.82 On the other hand, it constituted a means to come to terms with the past in a time when a new political order – the Principate – based its legitimation primarily on the idea that the establishment of monarchic rule was the only way to break the vicious cycle of discordia and internecine conflict. One of the main aims of Augustus and his successors was to portray themselves as sole guarantors of internal peace and the absence of civil war.83 At the end of his Res Gestae, the first princeps explicitly declared to have ‘extinguished’ the flames of the bella civilia, that means to have ended civil war once and for all.84 At the same time, the new order was presented as a res publica restituta based on the return to traditional norms and values. Valerius’ work with its particular thrust and purpose clearly echoed and developed these strategies of imperial self-presentation and legitimation, assigning civil war its proper place in this picture. On the one hand, in a number of sections and individual exempla, Valerius explicitly contrasts the perils of civil war with the current state of the res publica under the princeps, most notably in the last of his Roman exempla when he emphasises that ‘Caesarian equity brought the commonwealth back from Sullan violence and a juster leader held the rudder of Roman empire’.85 On the other hand, the fact that – according to Valerius – the traditional system of norms and values as 80 81 82 83

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See Val. Max. 2.3.2: civilium bellorum detestandam memoriam; on Sulla as exemplum malum in Valerius’ account, see Bloomer 1992, 170–175. See Val. Max. 9.2.praef where he emphasises that cruelty cannot be countered by silence but only by constant recollection and rebuke (not mentioned by Bloomer 1992, 48–54 in his analysis of the section). It might not have been by chance that the last decades of the Republic and the reigns of the first two principes constituted a heyday of exemplary literature, producing collections by Nepos, Hyginus, Varro or Pomponius Rufus (see Bloomer 1992, 18). See Havener 2016, 51–192. According to Steffensen 2018, 441–449, one of the main aims of Valerius was to demonstrate how Roman society that had been corrupted for decades could be consolidated by returning to the traditional virtues and values of the mos maiorum – a goal not fully achieved in the time of Tiberius; see also Maslakov 1984, 449–452 and Skidmore 1996, 53–82. R. Gest. div. Aug. 34.1: In consulatu sexto et septimo, postquam bella civilia exstinxeram […]. Val. Max. 9.15.5: a Sullana violentia Caesariana aequitas rem publicam reduxit, gubernacula Romani imperii iustore principe obtinente […]. See also, for example, 1.7.1 (Young Caesar’s dream on the eve of the battle of Philippi foreshadowing his destiny); 2.8.7, contrasting civil war victory and the

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well as the established way of commemorating and transmitting them persisted and even developed under the conditions of civil war showed what a durable ‘moral compass’ for the new order could look like. In other words: integrating civil war into the exemplary canon facilitated the re-integration of Roman society after decades of internal bloodshed by demonstrating the stability of the notion of exemplarity and its inherent auctoritas. Conclusion In the context of Late Republican and Early Imperial discourse on civil war, exem­ pla continued to constitute an important instrument of legitimising certain ways of conduct. The points of reference for an argumentative strategy based on exempla, however, could be fundamentally shifted or even changed in the face of the pervasive effects of permanent civil strife on Roman politics, society and culture. A comparison of the texts of Cicero and Nepos analysed here yields remarkable results in this respect. Whereas Cicero had to expend considerable efforts to legitimise and exploit his actions during the Catilinarian conspiracy, in Nepos’ Lifes prevailing in internecine conflict by killing fellow citizens is presented as a viable option that even acquires exemplary authority under certain conditions. For Nepos, conspicuously, it even seems to be of greater necessity to justify a position of political neutrality in times of civil strife than to legitimise the determined actions of Pelopidas that aim to liberate his community from tyranny. While Cicero’s offensive strategy of presenting his actions as equal or even superior to the feats of the great generals of Roman history has to be seen as a tightrope walk, Nepos takes great pains to assign exemplary value to Atticus’ provocative stance of ‘dedicated neutrality’ as a model that in his view might constitute the best way to engage with the challenges presented by ongoing civil discord. This fundamental difference cannot be explained exclusively by referring to the differences between the two texts in genre and potentially desired impact. Both statements rather have to be understood against the background of a more comprehensive debate focusing on the question of whether (and how) a victory achieved in violent conflict with fellow citizens could be turned into an acceptable achievement and thus be exploited as a resource in aristocratic competition. When Nepos composed his collection of exemplary biographies in the 30 s BCE, the protagonists of the civil wars had used multiple opportunities to turn civil war victory into an effective means of self-presentation and into an (arguably extreme) resource of aristocratic competition. This did not mean that civil war victory was automatically assigned a positive conno-

honours decreed for Augustus ob cives servatos (on this passage, see Havener 2016a, 152–160); 4.7.7 (Agrippa’s amicitia).

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tation. Generals, from Sulla to Young Caesar, had to develop various strategies to cope with the problem that they tried to benefit from the fact that they had spilled Roman blood in order to gain political supremacy.86 The events that unfolded during the years from the assassination of the Gracchi to the victory of Young Caesar over Antonius at Actium proved some of these strategies more effective and successful than others. Yet the fact that the future Augustus could make this victory and the ultimate ending of civil war the hallmark of his rule clearly demonstrates that there had been a fundamental change. In a ‘culture of civil war’, the exemplum did not only constitute a means to cushion the blow of a provocative rhetorical argument. Instead, the case studies analysed in the preceding paragraphs have illustrated three different aspects of the connections between exemplarity and the particular conditions of the bella civilia. The case of Cicero demonstrates how and to which effect exempla could be used in political debates in a time of internal conflict. Cornelius Nepos’ exemplary biographies can be interpreted as a way to employ the exemplum in order to reflect on internal conflict and its effects on Roman society, in other words: as a means to make sense of and process the traumatic experiences of civil war. Valerius Maximus, in turn, shows how the bellum civile itself could develop exemplary value under certain circumstances and thereby facilitate a collective process of coming to terms with those experiences in the aftermath of bloody conflict. Thus, the notion of exemplarity could be used in order to define new values that actually differed from the traditional mos maiorum fundamentally and legitimise these new values by incorporating them into the exemplary canon; to reflect on the cataclysmic effects of civil war on the state of the res publica in a more general way; and to demonstrate that the traditional norms and values as well as the established way of commemorating and transmitting them to posterity could be adapted to the challenges of internal conflict in order to prevail and constitute a starting point for re-integrating Roman society. The evolution of the exemplum during the last decades of the Roman Republic and the first decades of the Principate therefore illustrates the reciprocity of political processes, interpretive models and the strategies developed by various protagonists in order to make sense of the devastating experiences of civil war. When Velleius formulated his warning of the potentially dangerous dynamics of historical precedence, he could look back upon a long period in which the bellum civile had created its own exempla.

86

On the triumphal ritual as one way of presenting civil war victory, see Havener 2014 and Lange 2016.

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Richardson, J. 2012. Augustan Rome 44 BC to AD 14. The Restoration of the Republic and the Establishment of the Empire, Edinburgh. Robinson, A. 1986. Cicero’s Use of People as Exempla in his Speeches, Diss. Univ. of Indiana. Roller, M. 2004. Exemplarity in Roman Culture: The Cases of Horatius Cocles and Cloelia, in: CPh 99, 1–56. Roller, M. 2009. The Exemplary Past in Roman Historiography and Culture, in: A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians, Cambridge et al., 214–30. Roller, M. 2018. Models from the Past in Roman Culture. A World of Exempla, Cambridge et al. Rosenberger V. 1992. Bella et expeditiones. Die antike Terminologie der Kriege Roms, Stuttgart. Rüpke J. 2019. Peace and War in Rome. A Religious Construction of Warfare, Stuttgart. Sauer, J. 2011. Werte und soziale Rollen in der Atticus-Vita des Cornelius Nepos, in: A. Haltenhoff / A. Heil / F.-H. Mutschler (eds.), Römische Werte und römische Literatur im frühen Prinzipat, Berlin, 113–44. Skidmore, C. 1996. Practical Ethics for Roman Gentlemen. The Work of Valerius Maximus, Exeter. Steel, C. 2001. Cicero, Rhetoric, and Empire, Oxford. Steffensen, N. 2018. Nachdenken über Rom. Literarische Konstruktionen der römischen Geschichte in der Formierungsphase des Principats, Stuttgart. Stem, R. 2005. Nepos’ Atticus as a Biography of Friendship, in: C. Deroux (ed.), Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History 12, Brussels, 115–29. Stem, R. 2009. Shared Virtues and the Limits of Relativism in Nepos’ Epaminondas and Atticus, in: CJ 105, 123–36. Stem, R. 2012. The Political Biographies of Cornelis Nepos, Ann Arbor. Stemmler, M. 2000. AUCTORITAS EXEMPLI: Zur Wechselwirkung von kanonisierten Vergangenheitsbildern und gesellschaftlicher Gegenwart in der spätrepublikanischen Rhetorik, in: B. Linke / M. Stemmler (eds.), Mos maiorum. Untersuchungen zu den Formen der Identitätsstiftung und Stabilisierung in der römischen Republik, Stuttgart, 141–205. Stinger, P. 1993. The Use of Historical Example as a Rhetorical Device in Cicero’s Orations, Diss. State Univ. of New York. Titchener, F. 2003. Cornelius Nepos and the Biographical Tradition, in: G & R 50, 85–99. Tuplin, C. 2000. Nepos and the Origins of Political Biography, in: C. Deroux (ed.), Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History 10, Brussels, 124–61. van der Blom, H. 2010. Cicero’s Role Models. The Political Strategy of a Newcomer. Oxford 2010. van der Blom, H. 2019. Bellum Civile in Cicero: Terminology and Self-fashioning, in: C. H. Lange / F. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden and Boston, 111–36. Walter, U. 2004. Memoria und res publica. Zur Geschichtskultur im republikanischen Rom, Frankfurt/Main. Wardle, D. 1997. The Sainted Julius: Valerius Maximus and the Dictator, in: CPh 92, 323–345. Wardle, D. 2000. Valerius Maximus on the Domus Augusta, Augustus, and Tiberius, in: CQ 50, 479–493. Wardle, D. 2021. “Not Putting Roman History in Order?” – Regal, Republican and Imperial Boundaries, in: J. Murray / D. Wardle (eds.), Reading by Example: VAlerius Maximus and the Historiography of Exempla, LEiden and Boston, 17–46. Weileder, A. 1998. Valerius Maximus. Spiegel kaiserlicher Selbstdarstellung, Munich. Welch, K. 1996. T. Pomponius Atticus: A Banker in Politics?, in: Historia 45, 450–71.

Piety and Civil War* Federico Santangelo Contesting pietas That pietas should belong in any discussion of the late Republican civil wars is uncontroversial. The very fact that it received pride of place on Augustus’ clipeus uirtutis should be decisive in itself;1 even those with a superficial knowledge of the Aeneid are aware of the political relevance of the portrait of pius Aeneas; going further backwards into the Triumviral period, the role that it plays in the political discourse of Sextus Pompeius, or the choice of Lucius Antonius, the key figure in the War of Perusia, to add the word Pietas to his own name – a considerable step further than what Sulla Felix had done with felicitas four decades earlier – stand as powerful reminders of the weight and significance of the concept at all ends of the political spectrum. There will be differing views, however, on how seriously the notion of pietas should be taken in the context of internecine strife and warfare on a Mediterranean scale. To some extent, modern reservations on the explanatory power of pietas belong in a wider intellectual and historical context, where sharply differing assessments have been given on the place of religion in Republican Rome. To convey a somewhat superficial summary of a misconception that remains fairly widespread, if religion in Rome is always a political matter, subject to the pressures of partisan controversy and manipulation, then pietas is a political matter too, and one should refrain from seeking genuine instances beyond the fulfilment of the requirements of ritual orthopraxy, or the deployment of powerful and pervasive political catchwords.2 Much has been done over the last twenty years or so to restore pietas to its rightful place in the late Republican political and cultural discourse. Matthew Roller has writ*

1 2

I am very grateful to audiences in Konstanz, La Plata and Rio de Janeiro for their reactions to aspects of the argument presented in this paper. I have much profited from the comments of Juan García González and the late Anton Powell on previous drafts. An earlier Spanish version of this paper appeared as Santangelo 2019a. R. Gest. div. Aug. 34.2. For a recent overview see Hoklotubbe 2017, 13–16, with ample bibliography. On the role of ‘catchwords’ in the modern historiography on the Roman Republic see Santangelo 2020.

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ten illuminating pages on its importance as a ‘community-oriented … ethical category’, which warrants close consideration along with uirtus, and lends itself to a reading both through its ‘enacted’ usage and its ‘dispositional’ one: through acts of pietas and through personal commitment to pietas.3 At a time of civil war both categories are put under barely sustainable strain: civil wars are conflicts in which ‘competing ethical discourses’ are at play, the very boundaries of the civic body are a matter of controversy, and competition over community-oriented notions becomes more intensive than ever. Even the reading of familiar texts has yielded valuable insights. Anton Powell rightly took issue with those that regard Aeneas’ pietas as a chilling or dull quality, and advocated the need for a close appreciation of the role of pietas in the poem as a whole.4 In so doing he combatively spoke of a ‘theft of pietas’ on the part of Octavian and his faction, appropriating claims that Antony and Sextus Pompeius had been making to that quality and, in the latter case, with far greater credibility than the members of the Triumvirate could. Indeed, Powell continues, the proscriptions are the great historical and moral problem that Virgil’s generation must confront, and one in which pietas towards one’s relatives and friends (the primary meaning of the word, according to Powell) plays a crucial role. Virgil ‘the partisan’ sets out to retort pietas against those who opposed Octavian, and turns it into ‘his title to rule’.5 The call to put pietas at the very core of Triumviral politics has been heeded by Kathryn Welch, who has framed her whole account of Sextus Pompeius around the importance of pietas to his public discourse, first and foremost on his coinage, and has argued that Sextus’ actions could credibly be regarded as ‘pious’ by many of his contemporaries, especially in comparison with the conduct of the Triumvirate: the notion of Sextus as the leader of a ‘piratical state’ has been definitively invalidated.6 The ideological discourse that propped Sextus’ political operation was as ambitious as it was well crafted. Pietas’ plays a central role in the developments of the Triumviral period, however, had long been a well-recognised point, albeit one that many have tended to take for granted. In The Roman Revolution, Syme firmly set it as the driving ideological force behind the civil wars that lead to the demise of the Republic. The problem is set in firmly positivistic terms, which remind one of Fustel de Coulanges or Glotz: The family was older than the State; and the family was the kernel of a Roman political faction. Loyalty to the ties of kinship in politics was a supreme obligation, often imposing inexpiable vendettas. Hence the role of the words ‘pius’ and ‘pietas’ in the revolutionary wars.7

3 4 5 6 7

Roller 2001, 27. Cf. Syme 1939, 448: ‘Virtus and pietas could not be dissociated’. Powell 2008. Powell 2008, 31–85, esp. 77. Welch 2012, esp. 291–318. Cf. also Hoklotubbe 2017, 34. On the theme of pietas in Sextus’ coinage see Cresci Marrone 1998, 15–18; Rowan 2019, 47–50, 75–78; de Méritens de Villeneuve 2021, 222–233 (esp. on RRC 511). Syme 1939, 157.

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In what immediately follows, Syme charts the competing claims that were made between the Ides of March and Actium, stressing how the theme of pietas towards Caesar was central to the rise of Octavian. It was the pull of pietas that enabled him to override the accommodation that Antony had reached with the assassins of Caesar, and provided, along with ‘a state of public emergency’, ‘the excuse for sedition’. The importance of pietas is brought out most forcefully at the end of the chapter on the proscriptions, as the demise (or, indeed, as Syme puts it, the abolition) of the Republic is sketched, and Tacitus’ commentary on the twenty years of continua discordia following Pompey’s third consulship is borrowed to provide a compressed account of the period.8 However, Syme notes, pietas towards Caesar is the point on which the Caesareans justify their actions: ‘Pietas prevailed, and out of the blood of Caesar the monarchy was born’.9 While pietas firmly belongs in the number of the ‘political catchwords’ of the ‘revolutionary era’, it is a notion that can provide significant insights into the historical developments of the time. To paraphrase another great master of English prose, it is quite possible that pietas may be poisoning everything: for that very reason it warrants close scrutiny. The Stakes of Piety Arguably, in fact, the weight of pietas is best understood as part of a wider, if closely related issue: the place of piety in an age of civil war. Wortstudien are necessary and often rewarding.10 In this case, however, there is a good case for looking beyond the attestations of a single term like pietas, no matter how frequent and unfailingly loaded these might be, and turn to how the wider issue of the proper engagement towards family, fellow-countrymen, and gods was approached in an age of unrivalled commotion and disruption. If one is prepared to look beyond the attested occurrences of pietas, a more robust understanding of its hinterland might be attained, and a better appreciation of its profound significance and value might be reached. A remarkable incident from a later Roman civil war, that of 69 CE, provides a strikingly neat summary of the issues at stake, even in the late Republican period. Shortly after the victory of his troops at Bedriacum, probably towards the end of May, Vitellius visits the neighbouring town of Cremona, which had served as the head-

8 Tac. ann. 3.28.2: non mos, non ius. 9 Syme 1939, 20. Such an openly political use of pietas does not amount to its irrelevance from a cultural standpoint: cf. the comment on Prop. 3.22.21–22 at 448 (‘Though debased by politics, the notion of pietas had not been entirely perverted’). 10 Ulrich 1930 remains a valuable read on pietas. On the late Republican period see also Berdowski 2014, 143–145; Gagliardi 2018 charts the ramifications of the theme in the Augustan period. Pietas receives sustained attention in the recent overview by Burgeon 2017.

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quarters of his lieutenant Aulus Caecina over the previous months.11 He is welcomed by a special session of gladiatorial games in a hastily built wooden amphitheatre, and then expresses the wish to visit the battlefield: forty days after the battle, in late May 69 CE, the scene was unspeakably gruesome, piles of corpses and a devastated countryside.12 The people of Cremona had oddly decorated the road that led to the battle site with garlands and roses, and had erected purpose-built altars on which they performed sacrifices in honour of Vitellius – as Tacitus sharply points out, regium in morem, ‘as if he were a king’. He wryly points out that they soon came to suffer a horrible fate at the hands of Vespasian’s troops, who captured and destroyed the city a few months later. The focus then shifts to Vitellius and his entourage: some describe to the leader, who was still making his way to Italy on the day of the battle, how the operations had unfolded, some bragged about their achievements; others took pleasure in the sight of the dead. Some did shed a tear for the death of those fellow-citizens, and reflected on what had happened. More piquantly, however, it was Vitellius who fell short: he showed no pain before the sight of thousands of fellow-citizens that had not received a proper burial (tot milia insepultorum ciuium). He was, in fact, glad (laetus) of what he saw, and decided to perform a sacrifice on the spot: like the people of Cremona, he was unaware of the fate that awaited him. As G. Chilver noted, the gladiatorial games at Cremona may well have been part of a religious festival, possibly related to the cult of the dead (‘an act of piety rather than of sadism’).13 That is significant, but largely irrelevant to the purposes of this discussion: what matters is that such a hostile reading of Vitellius’ conduct and of its ritual implications could be constructed. This passage – which does not include a single reference to pietas, but is inherently preoccupied with matters of piety – brings out some themes of great importance to our purposes: the emphasis on the problems posed by the death of fellow-citizens in war; the duties of the victor to show restraint, and indeed the place that compassion has in that connection; the role that religious rituals and their correct performance have in the context of irreparable civic division; the treatment of the bodies of the dead; and the role that local communities play in the context of a civil war that has much far-reaching relevance. The question of how to confront the death of fellow-citizens in a civil conflict, and more generally the problem of civic strife, has rightly received close attention in recent work on the development of the Roman triumph in the late Republic. Carsten Lange has recently shown what degree of ingenuity and engagement was put into revisiting the established tradition of granting triumphs to fit with a context in which a number of civil wars were fought, and the boundaries between civil and foreign wars were often

11 Tac. hist. 2.70. 12 On the sack of Cremona and its aftermath see Santangelo 2017, 83–86. 13 Chilver 1979, 231.

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blurred.14 The principle that triumphs could be awarded only at the end of a war against a foreign enemy was upheld, and the presence of external enemies had to be proved in order to warrant a triumph at the end of a civil war; the Actian campaign being of course a classic case in point. The aftermath of Mutina, however, presented altogether new problems. Unlike Munda, the war had been fought on Italian soil, and the controversy that had triggered it was inextricably tied with the workings of the Roman government and the dysfunctional political process that had unfolded after the Ides. A problem of that magnitude required a solution that was firmly steeped in sound legal and religious arguments, and we get a glimpse of the complexity of the problem at hand from a passage of Cicero whose significance is rightly stressed by Lange.15 In the Fourteenth Philippic, delivered on 21 April 43, Cicero points out that his long-standing assessment of Antony as a public enemy (hostis) has now been vindicated by the recent developments, and proceeds to discuss a proposal that has been tabled at that session by the consular P. Servilius Isauricus (cos. 48) to decree supplicationes marking the victory of the consuls Pansa and Hirtius and of Octavian, and in reaction to the dispatches (ex litteris) sent to Rome by the victorious magistrates.16 It is a matter of ius diuinum – of piety – that has major political implications. Cicero provides a brief overview of the comparable instances in which a supplicatio was neither requested nor granted, starting from Sulla’s victory in 82 and ending with Pharsalus. Caesar, however, did receive supplicationes after Alexandria and Zela; the link between foreign victories and triumph, after all, is a long-established one. Cicero also overlooks Thapsus and Munda, and the omission is surely disingenuous.17 His broader point, however, is clearly set out: Antony should be treated on a par with foreign enemies, since his victory would have posed an existential threat to Rome; by granting the supplicationes, the Senate will in the same breath brand Antony a public enemy.18 By making arrangements for an act of public gratitude to the gods for the support they afforded the city, the Senate is also making an act that redefines the terms of the civil war. There is no meaningful divide between political decision-making and an expert, technical assessment of what ritual action is needed. The exercise of piety enables one to define the terms of the problem at hand and to envisage a long-term solution. It is proper to salute the victors of Mutina as imperatores, not least because they are asking to be granted that distinction: in doing so, appropriate orientation on the nature of the actions may be gained. Piety, in this instance, also offers a formidable chance for denial. It affords the opportunity to 14 Lange 2016, esp. 49–124. 15 Lange 2016, 88, 113. 16 Cic. Phil. 14.22–24; On the portents preceding Pansa’s death cf. Cass. Dio 46.33 and Obs. 69, with the imaginative reading of Meulder 1995. 17 Cf. Lange 2016, 84–85. On Caesar’s supplicationes see Weinstock 1971, 63–64; Roller 2001, 57–58. 18 Lange 2016, 86–90; see also Havener 2014, 166–167 and 2016, 168–173, with a different emphasis on the notion of hostis and the problems that triumphs over Roman citizens posed. For a brief overview of the events following Mutina see Allély 2008, 98–100, 248–249.

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suggest that no civil war is actually unfolding; that whatever conflict may be going on, it is a foreign one. It could of course be suggested that the ingenuity that Cicero displays in discussing the circumstances that warrant the granting of supplicationes is a political and rhetorical move which should not be regarded as the rule, or as the symptom of wider trends in Roman political culture. There is indeed always a case for arguing some kind of Ciceronian exceptionalism, but there are other instances in this period in which considerations of public law, and indeed of ius diuinum, make a demonstrable impact on the political decisions that are made, and on the ways in which the political discourse is shaped. Cassius Dio pauses to reflect on the significance of the choice of the Pompeiani, who did not elect new magistrates for the year 48 BCE after the crossing to Greece, because no lex curiata authorising their election had been passed: that piece of legislation could only be voted in Rome.19 Dio explains their reluctance to go against traditional practice with a scruple not to breach well-established formal requirements; he concedes that they had taken up arms against their country, and notes that they would have had a case for appointing new magistrates, since both consuls of 49 BCE were present, as well as hundreds of senators; a sacred precinct had even been identified to carry out augural rituals. Both their political force and the resolve they had shown in taking a stance against Caesar make their decision not to flaunt the requirement of a lex curiata appears all the more remarkable. The willingness to abide by the constraints set by piety is a consideration that must be borne in mind by those who are mindful of what awaits them after the end of the war. Precedents cannot be done away with lightly, even in a context where, as Dio notes towards the end of his account of the episode, two men stand out as the most influential forces of their time, regardless of their legal status.20 Piety is especially significant at a time when the basic coordinates of civic coexistence appear to have been lost, and there is a strong risk of losing sight of any hurdles and restraints. As he reflects on the consequences of Sulla’s march on Rome of 88 and on its periodising significance, Appian points out that after 88 all seditions were solved only by the power of arms, and that since Sulla’s march on Rome there was no longer any ‘restraint upon violence either from the sense of shame, or regard for the law, the institutions, or the fatherland’:21 moral and political filters no longer apply, and the example set by Sulla led others to the choice of taking equally divisive and abrasive steps. The choice to do away with any form of restraint is, first and foremost, a political one:

19

Cass. Dio 41.43; On this episode see the thorough reconsideration by Driediger-Murphy 2014, who convincingly takes issue with the view (expounded among others by Nicholls 1967, 269–270 and Van Haeperen 2012, 104–107) that the arguments of the Pompeiani were a thinly disguised pretext. 20 Cass. Dio 41.43.5. 21 App. civ. 1.60: οὐδενὸς ἔτι ἐς αἰδῶ τοῖς βιαζομένοις ἐμποδὼν ὄντος, ἢ νόμων ἢ πολιτείας ἢ πατρίδος.

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it is the decision to abolish politics. This new mode of thinking, however, also entails some unwanted, unforeseen consequences. Unrestrained civil strife also blinds men, and leads them to take acts that are beyond repair and beyond expiation. A fragment of Sisenna records a story that takes us into the very core of internecine strife: during the so-called bellum Octauianum in 87 BCE, a soldier of Cn. Pompeius Strabo kills his brother, who is fighting on the other side.22 Once he realises what he has done, he takes his own life. Survival cannot be contemplated after the unity of the family has been fatally undone, no matter how deep one’s political loyalties might be. Livy also related the story, and the Periochae add a touch that gives the whole scene a disturbing sacrificial feel: the survivor builds a funeral pyre for his brother and has himself burnt by the same fire with which his brother’s corpse is cremated;23the same detail was stressed by Valerius Maximus and Granius Licinianus. A summary of Sisenna’s version is known from Tacitus, who contrasts the episode of 87 BCE with the conduct of a common soldier who had fought on the Flavian side and had killed his brother in action: he asked his commanders for a reward.24 The historian singles out this conduct as an instance of the debasement of morals in the year of the Four Emperors. Tellingly, that loss of any moral compass is compounded by the loss of the ability to make any decision: the Flavian leaders cannot bring themselves to rewarding that despicable act, but do not feel in a position to punish it either, on grounds of military prudence. They produce a dilatory pretext, and the outcome of the affair is left unrecorded. The theme of restraint – of choosing not to target or to harm certain enemies, under certain circumstances – is inextricably linked with the problem of the boundaries of the political community at the end of the war: it betrays a preoccupation with the possibility and the difficulties of reconciliation. A paradoxical case in point is provided by the proscriptions, especially the Sullan ones, which are, quite understandably, regarded by most sources as a moment of unbridled violence, in which unspeakable greed prevailed, but are presented by their promoter, and should to some extent be understood as moments in which a serious attempt was made to contain the unleashing of violence in the aftermath of a civil war. The list of the victims also set a chronological endpoint, beyond which inclusion would no longer be possible, and gave the community some clarity on who was in the frame. An important aspect of the ancient tradition depicts the Sullan proscriptions as a moment in which the Dictator heeded calls for restraint from sectors of the senatorial order, and accepted the principle that violence had to be contained by introducing a legal framework.25 The view that Sulla had used

FRHist 26 F 132. See Bannon 1997, 149–150, who points out that the lack of enmity between the brothers adds pathos to the story. 23 Liv. per. 79.2; Val. Max. 5.5.4; Granius Licinianus 35.24–25 Flemisch. Cf. also Aug. civ. 2.25 and Oros. 5.19.12–13. 24 Tac. ann. 3.51.2. See Bannon 1997, 186–187; Ash 2010, 126–128. 25 Plut. Sull. 31.2–4; Flor. 2.9.25; Oros. 5.21.2–3. 22

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violence and coercion with a measure of restraint was no doubt put forward in Sulla’s autobiographical work. Another strand in the tradition, which may also be traced back to Sulla himself, emphasizes his strong commitment to respecting and benefiting his friends a claim that he famously stated on his tombstone, and was no doubt intended to be seen in stark contrast with the treacherous conduct of his enemies.26 Cinna does not hesitate to revive civic discord shortly after Sulla’s departure, in spite of having made a public oath not to do so;27 Fimbria exterminates the people of Ilium who have let him into the city, in spite of Sulla’s clear instructions not to harm them, as they are friends of his;28 Sulla, on the contrary, promptly reassures the Senate and the Italians of his intention to respect their standing and rights.29 The Triumviral proscriptions unfold on a larger scale, although the decree of the Triumvirs made a general claim to restraint and a pledge to concentrate the repression on the worst and most guilty; it states an explicit preference for the proscription, rather than for sudden arrests, and an intention to contain the violence of the soldiers.30 However, the impression conveyed by the sources is that the involvement of three victors, rather than one, makes the whole process much bloodier and disorderly, and opens fronts of conflict and appetites that would not have otherwise occurred. Besides the act of political treachery par excellence, the young Caesar’s betrayal of Cicero, there is also scope for the demise of fraternal pietas, with Lepidus accepting the inclusion of his brother L. Aemilius Paullus (cos. 50 BCE) on the list.31 Piety and Foundation On the higher end of the political and intellectual debate, the problem of restraint and its discontents is tied up with the difficulty of founding, or re-founding a political community. To quote one example, drawn from a central text: Aeneas’ killing of Turnus is a meditation on the limits of restraint, and on the need to overcome restraint if a foundation process is to be initiated. It is as much preoccupied with the tension between Rome and Italy and with the legacy of civil war as it is with the problem of foundation. The verb that describes the act of inflicting the fatal blow upon Turnus is condere;32 the instance is far from isolated, and marks the culminating point of a sequence in which the burial of a sword in a body becomes an icon of rupture that conjures up much wid26 Plut. Sull. 38.6. On his generosity – striking and disturbing in equal measure – cf. Sall. BJ 96.2. 27 Plut. Sull. 10. 3–4. 28 App. Mithr. 53. 29 Liv. per. 86.3. 30 App. civ. 4.10. 31 App. civ. 4.12; cf. Cass. Dio 47.8.1, who reports that he abetted his brother’s escape. For a full overview of the evidence see Hinard 1985, 419–421. Cf. also Bannon 1997, 156–158. 32 Verg. Aen. 12.950: ferrum sub pectore condit.

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er associations. In turn, the use of the verb condere/recondere in Aeneid IX–XII has two distinctive features: it always applies to the death of an Italian, and nothing is said on the subsequent fate of the dead body.33 The political loadedness of the verb becomes apparent from a new angle: the sword may be buried in the chest of the victim, but his body receives no burial (we shall come back below to the problem of the treatment of the bodies of the defeated, and of the political problems it presents). The basic foundation ritual is thus recast as potentially subversive. Civil war is a context in which rituals – i. e. public and collective rituals – are carried out on a very frequent basis: especially, though not exclusively, because armies are involved. It hardly needs stating that the civil wars of the late Republic entailed the involvement of large contingents of troops. The consistent performance of public rituals is central to the unfolding of any military endeavor in the Roman world: extispicial rituals and augural procedures were carried out on a regular basis, and the fact that they tend to be seldom reported in the surviving sources is not evidence that they were not carried out, or that they had fallen into some sort of neglect or disrepute. It can be safely assumed that the performance of religious rituals could play a crucial role in building morale or conveying reassurance to the army. Haruspical consultations play an especially significant role: the performative value of the consultations of entrails – a ritual that required the involvement of highly specialised experts, but could be carried out in public – was of clear significance in the context of a military campaign. Two examples stand out. Sulla received clear and firm guidance from the haruspex Postumius at some crucial junctions: before the attack on Nola during the Social War, in 89 BCE;34 on his march towards Rome, in the summer of 88;35 and shortly after his return to Italy from Greece, in 83, at Tarentum.36 On all three occasions, the performance of an ordinary extispicy ritual – something that would have normally taken place at various points during a campaign – gave way to the uttering of striking predictions on Sulla’s own predicament: that he should immediately launch an attack on Nola, that he should continue his march towards Rome all the way to the Urbs, and that victory awaited him at the end of the imminent civil war. The extraordinarily innovative quality of those prophecies is steeped in the performance of rituals that are altogether traditional. The power of those claims is based on a claim to religious observance: traditional piety was at the basis of Sulla’s claim to extraordinary qualities. Four decades later, during a ritual that he carried out at Spoletium in 43 BCE, Octavian performed a ritual of extispicy on the first day of his potestas: again, an ordinary act that happens in the thick of civil strife to mark the beginning of his term in office.37 Pliny records a brief, if relatively

33 See James 1995; Rimell 2015, 53–54. 34 Cic. div. 1.72. 35 Cic. div. 2.24.1 and Plut. Sull. 9.7. 36 Aug. civ. 2.24.9–10. 37 Plin. nat. 11.190; Suet. Aug. 95.2.

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detailed of the aspect of the liver that was found. The technical tone of his summary suggests a direct reliance on an official record of the consultation. The shape of the liver is regarded as predictive of the imminent increase of his power: it was to double within the year. Suetonius mentions this episode within a summary of other instances in which Octavian displayed attention to divinatory signs, and in which the responses he received yielded valuable numerical patterns: the episode is mentioned along with the appearance of twelve vultures in the sky during an augural ritual, and shortly after an extended discussion of the horoscope of Octavian produced by the astrologer Theogenes.38 Piety, in these instances, seems to prop a novel world-ordering effort that is conducted through specific numerological choices. Again, a sacrifice that is carried out as a routine operation, albeit during a civil war, is turned by the expert response of the haruspices into a solid prediction on the lasting influence of young Caesar at a time of unparalleled instability. Again, the link between traditional piety and revolutionary tensions is strongly asserted, and is likely to have strongly resonated with the soldiery. There are, however, uncomfortable resonances, especially if one deploys hindsight. The performance of a sacrifice in Umbria in the late Forties inevitably draws the attention of the modern student of the period to a much more disturbing and controversial sacrifice, and one that has received much scholarly discussion. The capture of Perusia in 41 BCE was followed by the plunder and destruction carried out by the victorious troops, and by the assassination of many senior members of the Antonian camp. Suetonius and Cassius Dio take a step further, however, and relate a version that was reported by a number of authors, who claimed that three hundred knights and many senators were sacrificed on an altar built in honour of Divus Julius built for the occasion. Suetonius points out, whilst maintaining a tone of sceptical distance, that the killings took place on the Ides of March and that the three hundred men were treated like sacrificial victims (hostiarum more):39 a wording that implies that the act of revenge was not quite a sacrifice, in spite of the venue at which it took place. Cassius Dio speaks in more direct terms of a sacrifice, and stresses that the death inflicted upon those who were not pardoned by Octavian was altogether out of the ordinary.40 More interestingly for our purposes, he frames this disturbing event within a wider pattern of piety that is both asserted and threatened. The massacre is accompanied by the destruction of the city, in which only the temple of Vulcan and a statue of Juno are spared. The latter is eventually removed from the city and taken to Rome: Dio states that this was done in accordance with a dream that young Caesar had had. Eliciting from this tradition a coherent historical account of how the aftermath of 38 Suet. Aug. 94.12–95. For a full discussion see Wardle 2014, 530–535. 39 Suet. Aug. 15.1: ‘slaughtered like sacrificial victims’ (transl. Wardle 2014, 45; see also the commentary at 137–138). 40 Cass. Dio 48.14.4.

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Perusia actually unfolded is probably a misplaced ambition. There are, however, two themes that stand out: on the one hand, the asserted link between the punishment of the defeated and the tribute to the legacy of Julius Caesar – pietas towards him, with a sacrificial mode of discourse prevailing over any reference to the process the led to the executions.41 On the other, the destruction of the city of Perusia is considerable, but not comprehensive. Two sacred items are salvaged, and one of those is appropriated by Octavian, both physically (with its translation to Rome) and ideologically (with its appearance in a dream of young Caesar). The latter detail firmly stresses the piety of the Triumvir in that highly contentious situation. Whatever firm action he took, it was carried out with a firm focus on the considerations dictated by piety towards the gods and his late father. Local Piety That narrative was not of course unanimously accepted. The position of another Umbrian community in that very phase of the civil war draws attention to a specific aspect of piety and its importance in this context: the treatment of the dead. The role of the ‘bad death’, the male mort, in the phase of the proscriptions has received a fair share of attention;42 the treatment of the bodies of those who died in battle has comparatively received far less attention. The tradition on the arae Perusinae presents problems in both respects. On one possible reading, the enemies are treated like animals, effectively de-humanised; far from being an act of piety, their killing may be viewed as an indictment of Octavian’s conduct.43 In a civil war, as the passage of Tacitus with which this discussion began reminds us, it is not uncommon for the bodies of the defeated to remain unburied, especially when the defeat was comprehensive. There is, however, no hard and fast rule. In the early phase of the Perusine War, the city of Nursia was part of the coalition that took up arms against Octavian; it then reached a settlement with the Triumvir before being directly attacked. The town then set up a communal burial for the citizens that had fallen in the military operations against Octavian, and the inscription on the monument made explicit reference to their fight.44 Their involvement

41 Syme 1939, 212 envisaged judicial assassinations, for which there is no evidence. 42 Cf. Hinard 1984. 43 Sen. benef. 1.15.1 speaks of arae Perusinae. App. civ. 5.48–49 has a comprehensively different version: Octavian publicly pardoned his Roman enemies and the people of Perusia, and executed only the members of the local senate; he intended to let his soldiers sack the city, but the fire that led to its destruction was caused by a citizen who had decided to burn his own house down; cf. Vell. 2.74.4. On this aspect of the tradition on the Perusine War see Gabba 1970, 80–82; Gowing 1992, 84; Westall 2017, 57–62. 44 Suet. Aug. 12.1 (who claims that the monument honoured the citizens of Nursia who had died in the War of Mutina: pro libertate eos occubuisse); Cass. Dio 48.13.6. Wardle 2014, 129 points out that

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in a civil war was not edited out; on the contrary, it was proudly asserted as an example of their patriotism and civic commitment. Nursia was a self-governing community, but one of Roman citizens, and the emphatic commitment to Libertas was a pointed reference to the principle that set citizens apart from subjects and slaves.45 The dead were paid their dues in its name, and their actions were celebrated through a collective framework. Octavian did not accept that choice and punished the city with a fine that had lasting consequences. Neither Suetonius nor Cassius Dio suggests that there was anything anomalous about the decision of the Nursini to build a memorial in honour of their dead and put up an inscription.46 The controversy was about the political claim that the inscription made. The choice of setting up a memorial in the context of a civil war was not unparalleled in this period, nor were the political concerns that underpinned the decision of the people of Nursia isolated. They find a powerful echo, in fact, right at the core of the Roman political discourse, again in the Fourteenth Philippic. In the same speech in which he articulated the case for regarding Antony as an external enemy and saluted the achievements of those who had defeated him with the same ritual action that is reserved to those who have defeated a foreign enemy, Cicero raises a cognate issue. The merits of the commanders that have won at Mutina deserve to be acknowledged, but the achievements of the soldiers that have lost their lives in that battle must also receive solemn recognition. He therefore proposes to build a monument of suitable magnitude in honour of the soldiers of the legio Martia that died at Mutina.47 The choice of this legion is explicitly determined by the extent of the losses it suffered. The Quarta, which was involved on the same front, did not meet any: the need to acknowledge its merits and the extent of its losses is less pressing. The obvious connection of the Martia with the god of warfare enables Cicero to expand at some length on its extraordinary achievements: an operation that is all the more necessary since, as he himself admits, the decision to grant a monument in honour of a lost legion has never been taken in the past, after any of the wars fought by Rome.48 What warrants the request is the extent of the threat that Rome faced at Antony’s hands: a uniquely insidious sort of external enemy. The victory against a foe that used to be a fellow-citizen clearly justifies Dio’s account is preferable to Suetonius’ for its ‘greater detail and logic’; Westall 2017, 62 stresses the link between this episode and the Perusine War in Dio. 45 A fragmentary inscription (AE 1996, 534) suggests that Nursia may have received a contingent of Antonian settlers right after Philippi (Panciera 2006a = 2006b, 965–976; Gallo 2018, 171–172). If Nursia was indeed a Colonia Concordia Antonia Ultrix, as Panciera suggests, Octavian’s punishment may have actually amounted to revoking its colonial status and ordering the settlers to either buy the land they had been assigned or leave (see Panciera 2006a, 188 = 2006b, 973). 46 Cooley 2012, 76 views the decision of the people of Nursia as exceptional. 47 Cic. Phil. 14.31: monumentum fieri quam amplissimum. On this episode see Cooley 2012, 64–66. 48 Cf. Cic. Brut. 1.15.9, where Cicero concedes that his proposal was altogether extraordinary, and explains it with the need to establish a monument ‘of the public hatred towards the cruellest enemies’ (in crudelissimos hostis monimenta odi publici sempiterna).

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an extraordinary, unprecedented kind of honour. No mention is made here of civil war, of course: Cicero has been devoting a significant part of his argument to denying that a civil war is actually unfolding. The exceptional nature of the circumstances is never spelled out, and strong emphasis is conversely placed on the need to provide comfort to their families, and to make clear to them and to the community as a whole that the action taken by the legion was decisive in averting disaster.49 At this junction, Cicero frames the problem in terms of traditional piety, effectively blurring the private and the political domains: the families of the dead will be reminded of their valour (uirtutem), of the piety (pietatem) of the people, the loyalty (fidem) of the Senate, and more generally of the memory (memoriam) of a most cruel conflict. The emphasis on the need to bring relief to one’s relatives stands in sharp contrast with the definition of Antony’s action as a parricidium, and further brings the conceptual horizon of pietas more sharply into focus: Antony is treating the fatherland like parricides treat their fathers, and displays the same shocking lack of pietas that the Roman people is called to display. The war is neatly framed as a clash between pii and impii.50 It is likely that most of those who had fallen at Mutina were buried in the vicinity of the battle site, probably in common graves, as we know was the case at Pharsalus.51 Under Cicero’s proposal, they were to be buried in a monument that would also be an altar to their valour and would firm place their presence within the landscape of the Urbs.52 Cicero does not discuss the logistics of the process; his focus is squarely on its political and symbolic implications. His proposal is presented as an effort to bring a semblance of order after the trauma of Mutina: as Cicero stresses, the envisaged monument will not be accompanied and corroborated by an inscription providing eternal testimony to the ‘divine valour’ of those men.53 The proposal appears to have been endorsed by the Senate, but was never carried out.54 Some notable exceptions were made, though: the two consuls of 43 BCE, A. Hirtius and C. Vibius Pansa, who both lost their lives at Mutina, were buried in the Campus Martius, probably at the edge of an estate owned by Mark Antony.55 That was not unprecedented: a brief notice in Appian mentions the arrival at Rome of the bodies of the consul of 90 BCE, P. Rutilius

49 Cic. Phil. 14.34. 50 Cic. Phil. 14.32. 51 App. civ. 2.82, where mention is also made of Caesar’s decision to grant a special burial to his brave centurion Crassinius. Plin. nat. 7.187 states that cremation was used in Republican Rome, especially after the beginning of the transmarine wars. 52 Cic. Phil. 14.34: contectos publicis operibus atque muneribus eaque extructione, quae sit ad memoriam aeternitatis ara Virtutis. 53 Cic. Phil. 14.33.: litterae divinae virtutis testes sempiternae. 54 Cass. Dio 46.38.1. 55 See Coarelli 1999 and Macciocca 1999 for a full discussion of the archaeological evidence. Gerding 2008, esp. 151 makes the case for an Augustan restoration or rebuilding of the tombs.

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Lupus, ‘and many other noblemen’ (καὶ πολλῶν ἄλλων ἐπιφανῶν), and of the devastating emotional impact it had.56 The link between pietas and memory is one of great political significance. Recognising political developments for what they are and securing their correct understanding in the future is a task of fundamental importance, and one that monuments play a crucial role in enabling. Hence the need to make the case for monuments that can carry divisive political messages: the cenotaph of those fallen at Mutina is not unparalleled at this historical juncture. When his friend, the consular Ser. Sulpicius Rufus, died of natural causes on an embassy that was taking him to Cisalpine Gaul for talks with Antony, in January 43 BCE, he devoted a significant part of the Ninth Philippic to the need to dedicate a statue to him, as was customarily the case when someone met a violent death on diplomatic business (10). That statue would not simply be a monument: it was to be accompanied by a public burial (14: sepulcrum publice decernendum).57 Again, pietas plays a significant, indeed leading role. The pietas of Sulpicius’ son (12) is singled out as a major factor mobilising interest and sympathy for his father’s plight, and, at the same time, as an instance of the qualities displayed by his father (9, 12). The plight of Perusia and Nursia powerfully illustrates the importance of the local dimension in the dynamics of piety in the age of the late Republican civil wars. This is hardly at all surprising in a context in which much of the impact of the wars is experienced and negotiated on the level of the individual community, in a world in which the horizon of most people remains that of their own community, and where each political community retains its religious structures and regulatory institutions – its sacra.58 The duae patriae, of which Cicero speaks in such famously lofty terms,59 are very much an elite commodity – a minority concern.60 Much of the analytical framework of this discussion has been provided by Cicero, notably in some of his late work: it hardly needs stating how partial and imperfect this invaluable standpoint is to the purposes of historical reconstruction. As one points out the limits of our main source for this period, it is perhaps not out of place to lament the consequences of the loss of a valuable source. It is beyond doubt that our understanding of the role of cities in the workings of piety in the age of the civil wars would be on a much stronger footing if the relevant books of Livy’s ab Urbe condita had survived. We would be able, for instance, to probe in much greater detail the value and significance of his claim that neglegentia in religious matters has prevailed in his time, and that prodigies are no longer being reported;61 we would also be able to make better sense of the religious and ritual context in

56 App. civ. 1.43. 57 See Cooley 2012, 65–66. 58 Raggi 2011. 59 Cic. leg. 2.3–5. 60 On this theme cf. the perceptive remarks of Carlà-Uhink 2017a, 259–262 and 2017b, 282–283. 61 Liv. 43.13.

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which the prodigies (or portents, as is no doubt safer to call them) listed for this period by Cassius Dio and, to a lesser extent, by Suetonius, should be understood.62 The array of omens that are reported in the run-up to the Ides of March, for example, strongly suggest that the infrastructure that had long enabled the transmission of prodigy reports from the local communities to Rome was still in existence. What we lack for this period is a narrative source that systematically records the expiation processes that take place once prodigies are reported: something that Livy does systematically, and neither Appian nor Cassius Dio are interested in. The set of prodigy notices that Obsequens records for the years 43 and 42 BCE shows beyond doubt that Livy retained a keen narrative focus on the role of divine warnings and the quality of the responses that were devised for them.63 Admittedly, most of the occurrences recorded for those years have to do with military contexts: there is, however, a remarkable episode that is recorded for 47 BCE and took place at Patavium, the historian’s hometown. The augur C. Cornelius is said to have performed his customary ornithomantic ritual, and to have seen signs that predicted the victory of Caesar. The episode is no doubt known to us because it involves a city that Livy knew well; he may well have witnessed it himself.64 There is no reason, however, to regard Patavium as exceptional in any way, both in the continuing performance of its local sacra, and in the attempt to use them as a conduit to engage with the events of the wider world. At a different end of the political spectrum, and in a very different geographical context, the need to uphold and root piety in local settings is apparent in the inscription that C. Calvisius Sabinus put up at Spoletium (very probably his hometown), where Pietas is at the forefront, and a competing claim over it is made in the aftermath of the Perusine War. An inscription from Spoletium celebrates the pietas of C. Calvisius Sabinus, one of the two senators that had sought to defend Caesar on the Ides of March: Pietati / C(ai) Calvisi C(ai) f(ili) Sabini, / patroni, co(n)s(ulis), / VIIvir(i) epul(onum), cur(ionis) max(imi).65

This dedication dates to an advanced stage of Calvisius’ career, after his rise to the consulship, in 39 BCE. In Syme’s reading it is a powerful document to some major historical trends of the time. It is testimony to the enduring connection between a man of municipal origins that had reached senior public office in Rome and his hometown: his role of patron of Spoletium is pointedly advertised along with (and in fact imme-

62 63 64 65

See Santangelo 2019b, 155–159. Obs. 65a; cf. Plut. Caes. 47.3–6 ; Cass. Dio 41.16.4–5. The wording of Plut. Caes. 47.6 strongly suggests it. Cf. Westall 2017, 55–57 and Santangelo 2019b, 157 on the surviving accounts of this episode. CIL 11.4772; see Syme 2016, 314–335, with the bibliographical addenda at 381–382; Andermahr 1998, 203–204; Kavanagh 2009, 88–89.

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diately before) his consulship.66 The choice to place Pietas at the forefront, however, is even more instructive: the theme had become especially significant in the aftermath of the severing of relations between Octavian and Q. Salvidienus Rufus, who had originally been designated for the consulship of 39 BCE. It is conceivable that Calvisius was, to use Syme’s terms, the ‘gainer’ by Salvidienus’ demise.67 Stressing and celebrating his pietas was both a way of celebrating a quality that had enabled his political rise and an opportunity to speak to the discourse that Octavian had been shaping since his return from Epirus. It also established a powerful connection between war and peace: just as pietas had been central to the war effort against Caesar’s assassins, it was now a central quality to claim as civil governance was being reinstated, in Rome and across Italy. Calvisius could further back it up by his reference to his priestly role. He was a member of a distinguished college, the septemuiri epulonum, and the sole holder of an ancient priesthood that had a connection with the curiae and their voting assembly: a key figure in the upkeep of the orderly and effective transactions between the people as a political community and the gods.68 Calvisius’ political fortunes soon reached a low ebb when his contribution to the campaign against Sextus Pompeius proved less than successful.69 The weight of the reference to his own pietas, though, has a significance that exceeds his own personal trajectory, and takes us to the heart of the complexities of what may be understood as a culture of civil war in the mid-first century BCE. At a time of comprehensive, deadly disruption, as civic cohesion is unravelling, claims to piety become a strategy to assert lines of continuity with the past. If a culture of civil war did indeed take shape in late Republican Rome, denial must have been a central part of it. What has been conducted here is merely a diverse and selective overview of the functions and modes of discourse that piety can serve in the late Republican period. Its central ambition has been to convey a sense of the vaste programme that the study of piety in the age of the civil war entails. The debate on the duties that one has towards family, fellow-citizens, and the gods impinges on all the crucial aspects of the political life of the time. Whether the debate was on how to define the limits of the political community, issuing a call to restraint, making the case for full-scale repression, or asserting a level of continuity with the past at a time of traumatic change, considerations 66

67 68 69

The connection with Spoletium does not of course rule out involvement with other regional contexts: an inscription from Canusium mentions him both as consul and patron of the community (CIL 9.414 = Epigrafi romane di Canosa I, no. 20); the presence of L. Calvisii of libertine status suggests that he also had longer-term economic interests in the area (Grelle et al. 2017, 134–135; cf. 55, 63 on his military action in Apulia in 36 BCE). Syme 2016, 331. On the curio maximus see Smith 2006, 216. Cf. n. 19 above on the role of the lex curiata in the strategy of the Pompeiani in 48 BCE. Syme 2016, 334–335.

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of piety stood out as central. As a civil war is unfolding, the need for piety becomes more pressing than ever. In light of that background, then, the Augustan revival, the invention and reinvention of religious institutions, must be taken all the more seriously. Piety was not stolen, nor was it up for grabs: as befitted an ugly time, it was a key rule of engagement for all the warring parties. Bibliography Allely, A. 2008. La déclaration d’hostis sous la République romaine, Bordeaux. Andermahr, A. M. 1998. Totus in praediis: senatorischer Grundbesitz in Italien in der frühen und hohen Kaiserzeit, Bonn. Ash, R. 2010. Tarda moles ciuilis belli: the Weight of the Past in Tacitus’ Histories, in: B. W. Breed / C. Damon / A. Rossi (eds.), Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars, Oxford, 119–131. Bannon, C. J. 1997. The Brothers of Romulus. Fraternal Pietas in Roman Law, Literature, and Society, Princeton. Berdowski, P. 2014. Pietas erga patriam: Ideology and Politics in Rome in the Early First Century BC. The Evidence from Coins and glandes inscriptae, in: K. Twardowska et al. (eds.), Within the Circle of Ancient Ideas and Virtues. Studies in Honour of Professor Maria Dzielska, Krakow, 143–160. Burgeon, C. 2017. Autour des valeurs romaines: la fides, la pietas et la virtus des guerres puniques à la Dynastie flavienne, Louvain-la-Neuve. Carlà-Uhink, F. 2017a. Alteram loci patriam, alteram iuris: “Double Fatherlands” and the Role of Italy in Cicero’s Political Discourse, in: L. Cecchet / A. Busetto (eds.), Citizens in the Graeco-Roman World. Aspects of Citizenship from the Archaic Period to AD 212, Leiden and Boston, 259–282. Carlà-Uhink, F. 2017b. The “Birth” of Italy: The Institutionalization of Italy as a Region, 3rd-1st Century BCE, Berlin and New York. Chilver, G. E. F. 1979. A Historical Commentary on Tacitus’ Histories I and II, Oxford. Coarelli, F. 1999. Sepulcrum: A. Hirtius, in: E. M. Steinby (ed.), Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 4, Rome, 290–291. Cooley, A. 2012. Commemorating the War Dead of the Roman World, in: P. J. Rhodes (ed.), Cultures of Commemoration. War Memorials, Ancient and Modern, Oxford, 63–88. Cresci Marrone, G. 1998. Pietas di Ottaviano e pietas di Sesto Pompeo, in: G. Cresci MArrone (ed.), Temi augustei, Amsterdam, 7–20. Driediger-Murphy, L. 2014. Cassius Dio 41.43: Religion as a Liability in Pompey’s Civil War, in: Hermathena 196/197 (publ. 2019), 99–120. Gabba, E. 1970. Appiani Bellorum Civilium Liber Quintus, Florence. Gagliardi, L. 2018. La pietas al tempo di Augusto. Tra sentimento e diritto, in S. Segenni (ed.), Augusto dopo il bimillenario. Un bilancio, Florence, 153–169. Gallo, A. 2018. Prefetti del pretore e prefetture. L’organizzazione dell’agro romano in Italia (IV–I sec. a. C.), Bari. Gerding, H. 2008. Reconsidering the Tomb of Aulus Hirtius, in: OpAthRom 1, 145–154. Gowing, A. M. 1992. The Triumviral Narratives of Appian and Cassius Dio, Ann Arbor.

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Grelle, F. et al. 2017. La Puglia nel mondo romano. Storia di una periferia. L’avvio dell’organizzazione municipale, Bari. Havener, W. 2014. A Ritual against the Rule? The Representation of Civil War Victory in the Late Republican Triumph, in: C. H. Lange / F. J. Vervaet (eds.), The Roman Republican Triumph: Beyond the Spectacle, Rome, 165–179. Havener, W. 2016. Triumphus ex bello civili? Die Präsentation des Bürgerkriegssieges im spätrepublikanischen Triumphritual, in: H. Börm, M. Mattheis / J. Wienand (eds.), Civil War in Ancient Greece and Rome. Contexts of Disintegration and Reintegration, Stuttgart, 149–184. Hinard, F. 1984. La male mort. Exécutions et statut du corps au moment de la première proscription, in L. Gernet (ed.), Du châtiment dans la cité. Supplices corporels et peine de mort dans le monde antique, Rome, 295–311. Hinard, F. 1985. Les Proscriptions de la Rome républicaine. Rome. Hoklotubbe, T. C. 2017. Civilized Piety. The Rhetoric of pietas in the Pastoral Epistles and the Roman Empire, Waco, TX. James, S. 1995. Establishing Rome with the Sword: condere in the Aeneid, in: AJPh 116, 623–637. Kavanagh, B. 2009. Senators and Senatorial Politics in Julio-Claudian Spoletium, in: Epigraphica 71, 85–106. Lange, C. H. 2016. Triumphs in the Age of Civil War. The Late Republic and the Adaptability of Triumphal Tradition, London. Macciocca, M. 1999. Sepulcrum: C. Vibius Pansa, in: E. M. Steinby (ed.), Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae 4, Rome, 302. De méritens de villeneuve, G. 2021. La communication de Sextus Pompée en Sicile: examen croisé des inscriptions de Lilybée et de la série monétaire RRC 511, in: S. Segenni / M. Bellomo (eds.), Epigrafia e politica II. Documenti e iscrizioni per lo studio di Roma repubblicana, Milan, 217–238. Meulder, M. 1995. C. Vibius Pansa. Un guerrier impie selon Auguste, in: DHA 21, 247–273. Nicholls, J. J. 1967. The Content of the lex curiata, in: AJPh 88, 257–278. Panciera, S. 2006a. Storia locale dell’Italia romana. Nursia colonia antoniana’, in: M. Silvestrini, T. Spagnuolo Vigorita / G. Volpe (eds.), Studi in onore di Francesco Grelle, Bari, 181–191. Panciera, S. 2006b. Epigrafi, epigrafia, epigrafisti. Scritti vari editi e inediti (1956–2005) con note complementari e indici, 3 vols., Rome. Powell, A. 2008. Virgil the Partisan. A Study in the Re-integration of Classics, Swansea. Raggi, A. 2011. ‘Religion’ in Municipal Laws?, in: J. H. Richardson / F. Santangelo (eds.), Priests and State in the Roman World, Stuttgart, 333–343. Rimell, V. 2015. The Closure of Space in Roman Poetics. Empire’s Inward Turn, Cambridge. Roller, M. B. 2001. Constructing Autocracy. Aristocrats and Emperors in Julio-Claudian Rome, Princeton and Oxford. Rowan, C. 2019. From Caesar to Augustus (c. 49 BC-AD 14). Using Coins as Sources, Cambridge. Santangelo, F. 2017. Vespasiano: il rapporto con la città, in: L. Passi Pitcher et al. (eds.), Amoenissimis … aedificiis. Gli scavi di Piazza Marconi a Cremona. Volume I: lo scavo, Mantova, 81–86. Santangelo, F. 2019a. Pietas y guerra civil, in: Auster 24, 9–26. Santangelo, F. 2019b. Prodigies in the Early Principate?, in: L. Driediger Murphy / E. Eidinow (eds.), Ancient Divination and Experience, Oxford, 154–177. Santangelo, F. 2020. La monotonia delle parole d’ordine. Catchwords e cultura politica nella tarda Repubblica romana, in: FutClass 6, 43–63.

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Smith, C. J. 2006. The Roman Clan. The gens from Ancient Ideology to Modern Anthropology, Cambridge. Syme, R. 1939. The Roman Revolution, Oxford. Syme, R. 2016. Rome and Umbria, in: Id., Approaching the Roman Revolution. Papers on Republican History, ed. F. Santangelo, Oxford, 272–338. Ulrich, T. 1930. Pietas-pius als politischer Begriff im römischen Staat bis zum Tode des Kaisers Commodus, Breslau. Van Haeperen, F. 2012. Auspices d’investiture, loi curiate et légitimité des magistrats romains, in: CCG 23, 71–112. Wardle, D. 2014. Suetonius. Life of Augustus, Oxford. Weinstock, S. 1971. Divus Julius, Oxford. Welch, K. 2012. Magnus Pius. Sextus Pompeius and the Transformation of the Roman Republic, Swansea. Westall, R. 2017. The Sources of Cassius Dio for the Roman Civil Wars of 49–30 BC, in: C. H. Lange / J. M. Madsen (eds.), Cassius Dio. Greek Intellectual and Roman Politician, Leiden and Boston, 51–75.

Missing in Action? Law and Civil War* Kit Morrell This paper enquires after the fate of law and the ‘rule of law’ in Rome’s civil wars, especially the civil war of 49.1 Earlier approaches to the topic of law and civil war have tended to take a ‘constitutional’ or ‘Rechtsfrage’ approach, focussed on particular legal problems, or else to reframe the question in terms of dignitas or ‘legitimacy’.2 The former places perhaps too much, the latter too little emphasis on legality in the study of a society distinctive for its concern with procedural correctness.3 What this paper offers instead, in keeping with the theme ‘a culture of civil war’, is a preliminary attempt to assess the impact of civil war on Rome’s ‘culture of legality’: socio-political attitudes to law and legality that may support the (re)implementation of rule of law, even while the reality is suspended. I ask how and how far the opposing parties sought to act through and within the law even in times of civil war, a condition associated with the breakdown of legal norms and traditional institutions, and what this can tell us about Roman attitudes to law and legality. In doing so, my focus is less on the ‘big *

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I gladly acknowledge the support of a Fondation Hardt Research Scholarship in undertaking preliminary research for this paper. I am grateful to the editors and to all participants for stimulating discussion during the Konstanz conference and to Kathryn Welch and Frederik Vervaet for their helpful comments on written versions. All dates are BCE. Translations are from the most recent Loeb edition, unless otherwise specified. And especially the period prior to Caesar’s victory at Pharsalia. ‘Law’ here can include not only statute law and ‘constitutional’ norms (concerning office-holding, etc.), but also augural law and senatus consulta of a norm-setting character. On religious law and norms as reflected in exempla, cf. Santangelo and Havener in this volume respectively. For the latter, see e. g. Morstein-Marx 2009, esp. 135–139, with critique of the ‘legalistic’ approach at 135. See e. g. Mouritsen 2017, 2–3. Christian 2008 explores the limits of ‘legitimacy beyond the law’ in 44–43 (155). Moreover, arguments for legitimacy over legality, in seeking to give greater weight to the perspective of the ‘general population’ (Morstein-Marx 2009, 137)–or Caesar’s soldiers– risk unduly minimising the perspective of the ‘political élite’, who arguably had most at stake. The ‘fragmentation of legitimacy’ (Morstein-Marx and Rosenstein 2006, 632–3) may be a more useful approach.

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issues’ of the war, which are impossible to disentangle from their political and personal dimensions,4 than on procedural matters and other more pragmatic legal questions that can illuminate an underlying culture. The results suggest that Rome’s ‘culture of legality’ to a large extent survived the civil war (and periods of dictatorship), as is reflected particularly in enduring concern with procedural correctness and the authority accorded to laws formally passed by the Roman people, even where those laws tended to diminish the people’s power. At the same time, civil war witnessed an escalation of extraordinary powers and even changes in the nature of law itself that in some ways foreshadow developments under the emperors. The rule of law in Rome Recent scholarship has begun to consider how far Rome existed under the ‘rule of law’–or, better, a rule of law:5 in other words, even if Rome does not measure up to the desiderata of modern rule-of-law theory,6 how far did Roman society value and manifest principles that are ‘rule of law-like’?7 Another way of approaching the question (apropos to this volume) is through Zimmermann’s framework of a ‘culture of legality’, a term which describes not the rule of law as such but the social and political culture or preconditions necessary for its realisation–in particular, ‘a positive attitude toward legal norms’ and a general expectation of compliance.8 In fact, the case can be made that Republican Rome did, at least, aspire to something like the ‘formal legality’ model of the rule of law–the expectation that law should be general, prospective, clear, and

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For example, Caesar’s account of his speech to the senate in civ. 1.32 blends legal, political, and personal considerations. Modern studies include Raaflaub 1974; Girardet 2017; Morstein-Marx 2021, esp. chs 6–7. Peachin 2017; McKnight 2017; Cowan et al. (forthcoming). For a similar approach in a Greek context, see Harris 2013; Canevaro 2017. The predominantly anglophone concept of the ‘rule of law’ has much in common with the idea of a ‘Rechtsstaat’, with a similarly broad range of meanings, including both more ‘formal’ and more ‘substantive’ variants. Here I use the term ‘rule of law’ in a rather general sense. My interest in the modern concept lies in its utility as a lens for detecting distinctively Roman ideas of law. These vary widely, but some commonly cited requirements, such as separation of powers and an independent judiciary, would seem to exclude Rome, as do ‘thicker’ definitions which make individual rights requisites for the rule of law. I adopt the phrase from Paul Burgess’ comments as part of a panel on ‘The Rule of Law in Ancient Rome’ at the 2018 Classical Association conference in Leicester. How far such principles extended beyond ‘elite’ society (the usual starting-point for the rule of law: e. g. Fukuyama 2010, 41) is a separate question–reflected, perhaps, in the different manner in which Caesar justified his march on Rome to his soldiers and to his peers. Zimmermann 2007, esp. 24, and 2013, 97–100 (with references to earlier scholarship on legal culture). Cf. Taylor (forthcoming), applying Zimmermann’s framework to imperial Rome.

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certain, so as to guide decision-making and guard against arbitrary power.9 But what is fundamental to all rule-of-law theories–and to Republican legal culture–is that there should be rule by law, as distinct from anarchy, violence, or the whim of individuals. Thus, Cicero and Livy, for instance, described the Republic as a community founded on law, in which magistrates and citizens alike are governed by law.10 This most fundamental principle is generally seen as breaking down in times of civil war–both in Roman thought (as we shall see) and in more recent theory.11 Scholarship on Rome, too, tends to view civil war as antithetical to the rule of law, whether the breakdown of law is seen as causing civil war, or vice versa.12 Yet, there are signs that the importance of law and legality endured during and after Rome’s civil wars. This chapter asks, therefore, how far (the ideal of) the rule of law survived and was affected by Rome’s civil wars–in other words, how Rome’s ‘culture of legality’ was affected by a culture of civil war. The rule of law came under pressure in the late Republic, even before the outbreak of civil war. Appian’s account of the end of the Republic can be read as an account of the breakdown of the rule of law, first through violence within the city, then outright civil war.13 The 50s witnessed periods of gang violence and interregna that left Rome without courts and almost without magistrates. Arguably more damaging than the violence itself, from the perspective of the rule of law, was the justification of private violence in defence of the state during this period, as in Cicero’s defence of P. Sestius in 56.14 Yet these years were not an uninterrupted slide into civil war. Pompey’s third consulship in 52, though a product of crisis and emergency powers, witnessed a reas-

9

See Morrell (forthcoming). On the significance of ideals or aspirations, cf. e. g. Hayek 2006, 181 and, in an ancient context, Canevaro 2017, esp. 217 and Peachin 2017, 19. The four criteria of ‘formal legality’ offered here (from Tamanaha 2004, 91) represent common ground between the various ‘shopping lists’ produced by theorists. It is worth noting that the rule of law (at least in its formal-procedural variants) does not necessarily imply substantive justice (see e. g. Raz 2009, 211). In Rome, too, justice can be regarded as a separate discourse, perhaps with a higher value than ‘rule of law’ (see, for the imperial period, Peachin 2017, 63 and Tuori [forthcoming]), but one beyond the scope of this paper. 10 E. g. Cic. Cluent. 146; rep. 1.39; leg. 3.2; Liv. 2.1.1. As the Livy and Pro Cluentio passages make explicit, law is thus also the foundation of libertas. 11 Classically, Hobbes Leviathan 1.194–6. Cf. e. g. Zimmermann 2013, 83, who defines the rule of law in opposition to ‘a “Hobbesian” state of war of every man against every man’. However, a study of 20th- and 21st-century civil wars suggests that countries that experience civil war tend to have only weak rule of law to begin with (Haggard and Tiede 2012). 12 To quote one recent commentator, ‘Truth and rule of law were the first victims claimed by civil war at Rome’ (Westall 2017, 177). On the ‘chicken and egg’ problem, see e. g. Gruen 1974, esp. 504 and Flower 2010 (also 2010a), with opposite conclusions. 13 App. civ. 1.2–6. 14 Cic. Sest. 86, 92, etc. Cicero argues that law should rule, but where law and the courts have failed to control reckless men, it is the duty of good men to use violence to defend the state, according to natural law. However, Sestius (unlike T. Annius Milo) had not attempted to use the courts before raising an armed band (cf. Kaster 2006, 311).

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sertion of magisterial authority and the rule of law over private violence. In contrast to his line in Pro Sestio, Cicero’s defence of T. Annius Milo gave voice to the policy of the senate and sole consul: a condemnation of all violence between citizens (13), and the hope that, with license and passion checked and laws and courts set in order, the community would be restored to health (78).15 Less than two years before the outbreak of civil war, the ideal of the rule of law was at the centre of public policy. Civil war as lawlessness? As noted earlier, civil war is typically seen as a condition of lawlessness. Tacitus famously referred to the twenty years of civil war that began in 49 as a period without custom or law (non mos, non ius).16 Contemporary sources make similar observations. In a letter to Ser. Sulpicius Rufus of April 49, Cicero lamented that statutes, courts, and law had ceased to exist;17 in Bellum Civile, Caesar pronounced that, at the outbreak of the war, ‘all divine and human rights are thrown into confusion’.18 It hardly needs stating that the civil war witnessed many illegalities. For instance, when Caesar seized the treasury gold in April 49, he violated not only the rights of the tribune L. Metellus, who tried to stop him, but also (according to Plutarch) specific laws.19 Caesar’s march into Italy could probably have formed grounds for a maiestas prosecution, and Caesar could have argued in turn that he acted rei publicae causa in defence of the rights of the tribunes.20 Of course, law-breaking was not unique to civil war–and breaking the law must be distinguished from the absence of the rule of law.21 But civil war was associated with the (further) weakening of the authority of law and traditional institutions. Caesar’s alleged comment to Metellus, ‘that arms and laws have not the same season’, encapsulates the idea that force, not law, now ruled;22 viewed in Zimmermann’s terms, 15 See further Morrell 2017, ch. 7 and 2018a. 16 Tac. ann. 3.28. 17 Cic. fam. 4.1.2 (SB 150); cf. e. g. Att. 9.7.5 (SB 174) (March 49). 18 Caes. civ. 1.6.8: omnia divina humanaque iura permiscentur, referring particularly to the circumstances of his opponents’ departure from Rome. For Cicero (Off. 1.26), it was Caesar who ‘overturned all laws divine and human’ (omnia iura divina et humana pervertit, my trans.). 19 Plut. Caes. 35.6; Cic. Att. 10.4.8 (SB 195); cf. Pelling 2011, 332. Beyond this, Caesar either wanted or actually threatened to kill the tribune (cf. App. civ. 2.40). 20 Under the lex Cornelia maiestatis (Cic. Pis. 50; cf. Rab. Post. 20 for the defence rei publicae causa, presumably available under the lex maiestatis as well as the lex repetundarum). Cic. Att. 7.17.2 (SB 141) describes Caesar as having violated and made war on the res publica. For Caesar’s claim to defend the rights of the tribunes, see esp. Caes. civ. 1.7. 21 See e. g. Zimmermann 2007, 18; the distinction depends above all on social attitudes, as well as the frequency of violations. 22 Plut. Caes. 35.6: οὐκ ἔφη τὸν αὐτὸν ὅπλων καὶ νόμων καιρὸν εἶναι; see e. g. Cic. Mil. 11 for a similar idea in a non-civil war context. On the treasury episode, cf. Gelzer 1968, 209 and Morstein-Marx 2021, 408–409, who argues that the exchange between Metellus and Caesar as reported by Plutarch

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what is lacking is not only compliance with legal rules but any insistence on or expectation of compliance.23 Similarly, in Pro Ligario, Cicero described the civil war period as one ‘when no one obeyed the senate who did not wish to do so’.24 In Pro Marcello he makes explicit the connection between civil war and illegality: it was to be expected, in so grave a civil war, that the leaders on both sides would do many things they would have forbidden in peacetime (24). Cicero is describing not only a temporary disregard for rules or relaxing of standards, but more lasting damage, which he calls on Caesar to rectify through strict laws.25 Indeed, there are indications that Romans considered civil war innately illegal, at least on the part of the (alleged) aggressor. In a letter to Atticus of January 49, Cicero judged an unjust peace preferable to the most just war with citizens.26 In April, he contrasted civil war with iustum bellum, though he subsequently proclaimed Pompey’s cause non iniustum, even necessary and pius27. Later, in the second Philippic, he pronounced that there could never be any iusta causa for taking up arms against the patria.28 For Lucan, looking back, civil war not only represented the failure of law but was itself nefas, an unspeakable crime.29 But the civil war of 49 was also a war about law.30 Cicero characterised it as a dispute about public law (de iure publico) carried on by force of arms;31 specifically, about the

is probably ahistorical but nonetheless reflects an authentic debate about ‘what civic rules apply when there is a war on’, in which Metellus forced Caesar ‘to acknowledge openly that he really was now fighting a civil war’ (409). 23 Zimmermann 2013, 97: ‘Commitment [to principles and institutions of the rule of law] is demonstrated by generally complying with legal rules, insisting on their compliance, criticising those who fail to comply with them, and, finally, taking whatever action is necessary to correct any lack of compliance.’ (Cf. 2007, 24.) 24 Cic. Lig. 20: cum paruit [sc. senatui] nemo qui noluit. 25 Cic. Marcell. 23: Omnia sunt excitanda tibi, C. Caesar, uni quae iacere sentis belli ipsius impetu, quod necesse fuit, perculsa atque prostrata: constituenda iudicia, revocanda fides, comprimendae libidines, propaganda suboles, omnia quae dilapsa iam diffluxerunt severis legibus vincienda sunt. (‘It is for you alone, Gaius Caesar, to reanimate all that you see shattered and laid low, as was inevitable, by the shock of the war itself; courts of law must be set on foot, good faith restored, licentiousness checked, and the growth of population fostered; all that has become disintegrated and dissipated must be girded with strict laws.’ Trans. Watts, modified.) 26 Cic. Att. 7.14.3 (SB 138); cf. fam. 6.6.5 (SB 234) to A. Caecina in 46. 27 Cic. Att. 9.19.1 (SB 189); cf. 10.4.3 (SB 195). 28 Cic. Phil. 2.53. 29 Lucan. 4.172. 30 The same is true of the civil war of the 80s: e. g. Cic. Font. 6; Phil. 8.7. Cf. Straumann 2016, 56–7; also 2017, 145 on Cicero’s conception of civil wars generally as essentially constitutional disputes. 31 Cic. fam. 4.4.3 (SB 203); 4.14.2 (SB 240); 6.1.5 (SB 242) (all written in 46); cf. Vervaet 2014, 337. Earlier letters refer to the war as the defence of res publica (e. g. Cic. Att. 7.3.4 [SB 126] of 9 December 50), translated by Shackleton Bailey as ‘constitution’; this is the dominant theme of the later sources, which probably preserve contemporary rhetoric (see e. g. Raaflaub 2003, 49–50). Cf. Plut. Cat. Min. 57.3, quoted below.

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legality of Caesar standing for the consulship in absentia and/or retaining his army.32 Caesar, of course, claimed to be fighting not only in defence of his dignitas but also in defence of the rights of the tribunes and the Roman people.33 As Raaflaub and others have noted, Caesar’s legal pretext takes second place to his emphasis on dignitas; neither is it particularly convincing.34 His claims concerning the ratio absentis are vague at best,35 and his mantle as defender of tribunician rights was severely tarnished by his handling of L. Metellus.36 Nonetheless, it is significant that he attempted to justify his actions in legal terms.37 At the outbreak of civil war, both sides claimed to be acting in defence of the res publica and public law.38 For that reason, perhaps, it was particularly important for both sides to (be seen to) respect the law, so far as possible. Indeed, Plutarch explicitly attributes such an attitude to M. Cato, in explaining the propraetor Cato’s decision to yield command to the proconsul Metellus Scipio: ‘he had no intention of breaking the laws when their war was about supporting those laws against their transgressor’.39 In fact, it is not clear that any See e. g. Cic. Att. 7.7.6 (SB 130); 7.8.4 (SB 131); 7.9.2–4 (SB 132). The details, which were (Cic. Mar­ cell. 30) and remain contested, need not concern us here; for modern discussion, see e. g. Gruen 1974, ch. 11, esp. 492–494 and, most recently, Morstein-Marx 2021, ch. 6. The actual legal issues were clouded not only by the shifting morass of contradictory legislation, vetoed senate decrees, and attempted tribunician action but also by the knowledge that Caesar was prepared to fight for his position. 33 Caesar’s argument was strongest in respect of the tribunes, whose vetoes had been ignored: civ. 1.5.3; 1.5.5; 1.7; 1.22; 1.32.6; cf. Plut. Caes. 31.2–3; Caelius in Cic. fam. 8.11.3 (SB 91) (April 50, predicting that Caesar would defend his tribunes). Caesar’s defence of the Roman people depended on a specious legal argument, chiefly that his opponents had denied him the benefit of the ratio absentis (civ. 1.9, 1.32.3). 34 Raaflaub 1974, esp. 1–3 and Zweiter Teil, passim. Cf. e. g. Peer 2015, 48. Morstein-Marx’s argument (2009; followed by Hölkeskamp 2013, 15–16) that Caesar’s defence of his dignitas was in fact a legitimate defence of popular sovereignty (in the form of the people’s right to elect Caesar consul) seems to me to give too little weight to the importance of formal legality, not least in Caesar’s self-presentation (and to the fact that the consuls in office were with Pompey). Cf. Morstein-Marx 2021, esp. 309–320. 35 Westall (2017, 55–56) suggests that Caesar deliberately avoided entering into technicalities and instead focussed on the issue of the tribunes. 36 See above. Naturally, Caesar omits the incident from his account of Metellus’ opposition (civ. 1.33). Cf. de Libero 1988 on Caesar’s attempt to create a fiction of respect for law and custom in his account of the treasury incident, which in itself reflects how far Romans continued to think in constitutional terms, even under conditions of civil war (132). 37 Perhaps principally for the benefit of moderate or ‘undecided’ senators: see e. g. Boatwright 1988 (though recently Adler [2019] has argued that Caesar’s tendentious arguments were likely to have convinced only his ‘stalwart partisans’). The key distinction, therefore, would be not between ‘public’ and ‘private’ rationales (Raaflaub 1974, with critique by Morstein-Marx 2009, 122–3), but between different publics (and different times; cf. e. g. Batstone and Damon 2006, 31–2 and Raaflaub 2003 on Caesar’s use of libertas). 38 Cf. e. g. Cass. Dio 41.17.3, who emphasises that both sides claimed (falsely) to be defending the public interest. 39 Plut. Cato min. 57.3: οὐκ ἔφη καταλύσειν τοὺς νόμους περὶ ὧν τῷ καταλύοντι πολεμοῦσιν (trans. Pelling). Earlier Cato had offered to give up command to Cicero for the same reason (55.3). 32

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actual laws would have prevented Cato from accepting command if Scipio agreed,40 but the response attributed to him nonetheless advertised a concern with norms that was, I suggest, typical of this period. Dio, similarly, ascribes to the republicans the overt concern that acts made necessary by civil war should not be in contravention of (augural) law.41 While some of this evidence comes from later sources, it very likely derives from contemporary material and as such reflects a debate carried on (especially in the early stages of the war) in terms of legality.42 Caesar’s own contribution is preserved in Bellum Civile (probably composed in stages, close to the events in question),43 and if it lacked conviction, that only tends to confirm the importance of legality in the minds of his audience. Similarly, both sides emphasised their claims to legitimacy founded on traditional institutions. The issue was particularly acute in civil war, when the community was divided and both sides purported to defend the res publica.44 In 49, it was of great value to the Republican side that they could claim not only the consuls but the legitimate senate, though absent from Rome;45 Dio’s reference to ‘about two hundred of the senate’ in Thessalonica probably preserves a contemporary claim to the quorum necessary for certain senate business, including the assignment of provinces,46 while the number of consulars and fasces present heightened its legitimacy.47 More generally, the very attempt to carry on ‘business as usual’ while in Thessalonica constituted a claim to legitimacy.48 Caesar, meanwhile, claimed legitimacy for the senate with him in Rome,49 40 See Drogula 2015, 208. Normally a proconsul was automatically superior to a propraetor in the same province (Vervaet 2014, 200–201); however, from Cass. Dio 42.57.2–3 it seems that Scipio and Cato were free to agree other arrangements. 41 Cass. Dio 41.43.4, quoted below. I use ‘republicans’ to denote Caesar’s opponents; the term is at least preferable to ‘Pompeians’ (on which see Welch 2012, 6–7). Morstein-Marx 2021, ch. 7 argues that Caesar too could claim to represent the res publica in early 49, but that claim was weakened from April onwards. 42 See e. g. Berti 1987, 64, 106–7 on Dio; Westall (2016, 74) argues that Dio’s constitutional information derives from Cremutius Cordus. The evidence of Dio and Plutarch thus presents an important counterweight to Cicero’s pessimistic pronouncements (many of which were written during his long period of indecision in the first months of 49); cf. Raaflaub 2003, 49–50. 43 See e. g. Raaflaub 2009, 180–183 and Grillo 2012, 178–179, with review of earlier scholarship. 44 A related issue was whether civil war opponents should be seen as (bad) citizens or hostes (or both); see e. g. Cic. Phil. 12.17; Brut. ad. Brut. 1.4.2 (SB 10); Roller 2001, ch. 1; Lange 2019. Cf. Armitage 2017, esp. 132 on Emer de Vattel’s notion (1758) of civil war as, in effect, war between two nations. 45 Cass. Dio 41.18.5; Lucan. 5.29–30. 46 Cass. Dio 41.43.2 (quoted below); Ryan 1998, 34. 47 Cic. Phil. 13.28; Lucan. 5.7–14; Steel 2013, 197. As Lintott (1971, 503) notes, Pompey is, for Lucan, the representative of ‘Republican legitimacy’ and ‘adherence to constitutional form’ (though not the ‘higher cause’ of libertas). 48 Cf. Habenstein 2015, 157. 49 Caesar called for a senatus frequens on 1 April 49 (Cic. Att. 9.17.1 [SB 186]). Cicero described the meeting as a gathering of senators, rather than a senate (Att. 10.1.2 [SB 190], 3 April 49; fam. 4.1.1 [SB 150], c. 21 April 49), though he does elsewhere refer to the senate in Rome as senatus (e. g. Att.

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and showed concern for formal legality, in that the senate was convened by tribunes outside the pomerium (on account of Caesar’s imperium),50 although in April 49 he was frustrated in his attempts to obtain a legal basis for his position.51 From 1 January 48, however, he took up the baton of consular legitimacy–and legality. Caesar’s own account emphasises the lawfulness of his election: ‘Caesar as dictator presided over the elections and Julius Caesar and P. Servilius were created consuls, this being the year in which the laws permitted Caesar to hold the consulship.’52 As Boatwright observes, Caesar’s narrative henceforth emphasises his legal status as Roman consul.53 By contrast, from 48 the republicans could no longer claim magistrates in office or convene the senate; instead they emphasised the valid imperium of their promagistrates.54 Equally revealing are the ways in which the two sides attacked each other, not only on the big issues, but on finer points of law and procedure. For Cicero, for instance, irregularities in the appointment of C. Curio’s lictors emblematised Caesar’s disrespect for traditional rules.55 The augurs’ criticism of Caesar in 48 for appointing a master of horse for longer than six months need not have been mere quibbling, but rather reflects a society where (even after Pharsalus) such details still mattered.56 On Caesar’s side, to take one example, a much-discussed passage of Bellum Civile makes several complaints against Caesar’s opponents:

9.6.6 [SB 172] of 11 March and 10.3a.2 [SB 194] of 7 April). Cf. Caesar’s description of Pompey’s meeting on the evening of 1 January 49 as an (illegitimate) informal gathering of senators: Caes. civ. 1.3.1; Frolov 2021. 50 Cass. Dio 41.15.2. The tribunes were M. Antonius and Q. Cassius. The display of respect for legality seems pointed (cf. Morstein-Marx 2021, 408), despite the fact that Caesar had invaded Italy and (according to Plut. Caes. 35.6–10) would soon cross the pomerium anyway to seize the treasury gold. Woytek 2003, 49 and Morstein-Marx 2021, 408–409, however, have argued that Caesar remained outside the pomerium; Pelling 2011, 332 defends Plutarch’s testimony. 51 E. g. Cic. Att. 9.18.1 (SB 187); Caes. civ. 1.32–3; Gelzer 1968, 210. See below on Caesar’s difficulties in arranging elections for 48. 52 Caes. civ. 3.1.1: Dictatore habente comitia Caesare consules creantur Iulius Caesar et P. Servilius; is enim erat annus, quo per leges ei consulem fieri liceret (trans. Peskett). I. e., Caesar observed the full decen­ nium between his first consulship in 59 and his second in 48. That may not have been his original plan, if the lex X tribunorum of 52 contemplated a candidacy in 51 for 50 (Gruen 1974, 476, but see Ramsey 2009, 49). 53 Boatwright 1988, 33–34, e. g. Caes. civ. 3.11.4 and 3.12.2. Cf. e. g. Bell. Alex. 68.1, where Caesar reproaches Deiotarus of Galatia for his apparent ignorance of who was consul in 48. 54 Reflected in their use of Jupiter on coinage: Welch 2012, 80–81. Cf. e. g. Lucan. 5.12–13: tot strictas iure securis, | tot fasces (so many Rods | so many Axes bared legally, trans. Braund). Konrad (1994, 185) observes that the republicans never questioned the legitimacy of the magistrates elected for 48. 55 See Cic. Att. 10.4.9 (SB 195) with discussion in Westall 2017, 175–6. Curio’s laurels were, in essence, the tip of the iceberg. 56 Cass. Dio 41.21.1; and even to Caesar: Vervaet 2004, 82. Dio (41.21.2) reports that the augurs were ridiculed for criticising Caesar over the master of horse after they themselves had approved a yearlong dictatorship.

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provinciae privatis decernuntur, duae consulares, reliquae praetoriae. Scipioni obvenit Syria, L. Domitio Gallia. Philippus et Cotta privato consilio praetereuntur, neque eorum sortes deiciuntur. in reliquas provincias praetores mittuntur. neque exspectant – quod superioribus annis acciderat – ut de eorum imperio ad populum feratur paludatique votis nuncupatis exeant. consules – quod ante id tempus accidit nunquam – * * * ex urbe proficiscuntur, lictoresque habent in urbe et Capito­ lio privati contra omnia vetustatis exempla. tota Italia dilectus habentur, arma imperantur, pecuni­ ae a municipiis exiguntur, e fanis tolluntur, omnia divina humanaque iura permiscentur. The provinces, two consular, the rest praetorian, are decreed to private persons. Syria falls to Scipio, Gallia to L. Domitius; Philippus and Cotta are passed over by private arrangement, nor are their lots cast into the urn. To the rest of the provinces praetors are sent. Nor do they wait, as had been the habit in previous years, for a motion to be brought before the people about their imperial command; but, wearing the scarlet military cloak, they leave Rome after offering the usual vows. The consuls quit the city, a thing which had never previously happened, and private persons have lictors in the city and the Capitol, contrary to all the precedents of the past. Levies are held throughout Italy, arms are requisitioned, sums of money are exacted from the municipal towns and carried off from the temples, and all divine and human rights are thrown into confusion. (trans. Peskett)57

As scholars have noted, some of Caesar’s contentions here rest on highly partisan sleight of hand. For instance, Caesar’s complaint that ‘provinces are decreed to private persons’ does not point to any illegality on the part of the senate (though it may have been intended to imply as much in the minds of his readers); the appointments in question were made under the lex Pompeia de provinciis of 52, the point of which was that provinces would be assigned to former magistrates after an interval of perhaps five years, and thus to privati.58 In a similar vein, Westall pronounces Caesar’s allegations of wrongful exactions as ‘merely an example of the rhetoric of civil war, damning one’s rivals for what was routinely done by oneself ’.59 By contrast, Caesar’s comment that no lex de imperio had been passed (meaning, presumably, the lex curiata) was quite correct: the senate in Thessalonica acknowledged as much, as we shall see.60 However, the omission in question was probably less shocking than Caesar’s narrative implies:61 we know that the consuls of 54 also failed to secure a lex curiata, and Ap. Claudius

57 Caes. civ. 1.6.5–8, ed. Klotz. There is evidently a textual problem here; most likely Caesar complained that the consuls left the city without completing all of the usual rituals; see Giovannini 1983, 81; Rafferty 2019, 220. 58 See Caes. civ. 1.85.9 for acknowledgement that the law had been changed, to his disadvantage; further discussion in Morrell 2017, ch. 7 (esp. 222). Cf. e. g. van Haeperen 2012, 105; Vervaet 2014, 338 (‘partisan contention’). 59 Westall 2017, 59. 60 See Vervaet 2014, 338. The lex curiata did not confer imperium but rendered it iustum in some way; see e. g. Rafferty 2019, 35, with further references. 61 Cf. Vervaet 2014, 338 n. 112.

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Pulcher (though not his colleague) claimed there was no impediment to taking up his province;62 in De Lege Agraria, Cicero indicates that the lex curiata was often obstructed.63 In other words, Caesar attacks his opponents for failing to do something that had already begun to be treated as a non-essential formality.64 The passage thus illustrates the importance–perhaps even enhanced importance–of formal legality in the context of civil war. Arguably, Caesar’s caution in making direct legal allegations (as opposed to vaguer and often tendentious insinuations) points in the same direction. Even Caesar’s damning critique of Metellus Scipio and the republicans’ financial exactions in the east acknowledges that, in each case, the actions he ascribes to avarice and debt were given an official basis, as taxes or loans authorised by decree of the senate, or anything for which a name could be found.65 And his report of the succession of hostile senatus consulta passed in the first week of January 49 preserves the interesting procedural detail that his enemies did not hold senate meetings on two dies comitiales,66 even amid the haste and disorder of civil war.67 Makeshift legality I have already noted the importance of being seen to respect the law. Still more revealing are the concrete steps taken by both sides to solve legal problems created by the civil war context, so as to act with at least a veneer of legality and, so far as possible, through traditional institutions.

Appius pronounced the lex curiata requisite but not essential: Cic. fam. 1.9.25 (SB 20). Though his argument was questionable, in practice he prevailed: see Rafferty 2019, 35–9 for discussion. It is also worth noting that the consuls of 49, who seem to have cited the lack of a lex curiata as an impediment to holding elections (Cass. Dio 41.43.3, discussed below), did not refrain from taking up military command, but cf. Driediger-Murphy 2014. Vervaet 2015 emphasises that, without a lex curiata, a magistrate lacked iustum imperium. 63 Cic. leg. agr. 2.30; cf. Rafferty 2019, 35. Cic. div. 2.76–7 may imply the same; see Vervaet 2014, 348. As Vervaet notes (338 n. 112), Caesar’s careful wording allows that the lex curiata was not always passed. 64 The passage might therefore be seen as evidence for the politicisation of the lex curiata in civil war (see further below on Cass. Dio 41.43.3); the lex curiata already was (or had been) political, however, in that the tribunes could use it as leverage over the consuls by threatening obstruction: Rafferty 2019, 35, 100; Driediger-Murphy 2014, 114–118; cf. van Haeperen 2012, esp. 100–103, 108. 65 Caes. civ. 3.31–2; cf. 3.32.2: cuius modo rei nomen reperiri poterat; cogendas pecunias (3.32.2), however, evokes the language of the lex repetundarum (cf. Roman Statutes no. 1, ll. 2–3). Caesar is conveniently quiet regarding his own fundraising activities, which employed the same methods (Cass. Dio 42.48–9). Westall 2017 rightly directs attention to the economics of the civil war. 66 Caes. civ. 1.5.4. 3 and 4 January were comitial days, when the senate normally could not meet, though exceptions were possible: see Michels 1967, 42–5, who notes that 7 January was also comitial, but perhaps fastus. 67 Caes. civ. 1.5.1 (His de causis aguntur omnia raptim atque turbate). Caesar (civ. 1.6.4) also records that, following the SCU and the departure of M. Antonius and Q. Cassius, the tribune L. Marcius Philippus did veto a decree that would have sent Faustus Sulla to Mauretania. 62

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Dio portrays the republicans in Thessalonica as deeply concerned with legal and religious propriety. After describing the elections conducted by Caesar for 48 (to which we shall return), he goes on: … οἱ δὲ ἐν τῇ Θεσσαλονίκῃ τοιοῦτο μὲν οὐδὲν προπαρεσκευάσαντο, (2) καίτοι τῆς τε ἄλλης βουλῆς, ἐς διακοσίους ὥς φασί τινες, καὶ τοὺς ὑπάτους ἔχοντες, καί τι καὶ χωρίον ἐς τὰ οἰωνίσματα, τοῦ δὴ καὶ ἐν νόμῳ δή τινι αὐτὰ δοκεῖν γίγνεσθαι, δημοσιώσαντες, ὥστε καὶ τὸν δῆμον δι’ αὐτῶν τήν τε πόλιν ἅπασαν ἐνταῦθα εἶναι νομίζεσθαι, (3) (αἴτιον δὲ ὅτι τὸν νόμον οἱ ὕπατοι τὸν φρατριατικὸν οὐκ ἐσενηνόχεσαν), τοῖς δὲ δὴ αὐτοῖς ἐκείνοις οἷσπερ καὶ πρόσθεν ἐχρήσαντο, τὰς ἐπωνυμίας σφῶν μόνας μεταβαλόντες καὶ τοὺς μὲν ἀνθυπάτους τοὺς δὲ ἀντιστρατήγους τοὺς δὲ ἀντιταμίας ὀνομάσαντες. (4) πάνυ γάρ που τῶν πατρίων αὐτοῖς ἔμελε τά τε ὅπλα ἀνταιρομένοις καὶ τὴν πατρίδα ἐκλελοιπόσιν, ὥστε μὴ πάντα τὰ ἀναγκαῖα πρὸς τὴν τῶν παρόντων ἀπαίτησιν καὶ παρὰ τὴν τῶν τεταγμένων ἀκρίβειαν ποιεῖν. Those in Thessalonica had made no such appointments, (2) although they had by some accounts about two hundred of the senate and also the consuls with them and had appropriated a small piece of land for the auguries, in order that these might seem to take place under some form of law, so that they regarded the people and the whole city as present there. (3) They had not appointed new magistrates for the reason that the consuls had not proposed the lex curiata; but instead they employed the same officials as before, merely changing their names and calling some proconsuls, others propraetors, and others proquaestors. (4) For they were very careful about precedents, even though they had taken up arms against their country and abandoned it, and they were anxious that the acts rendered necessary by the exigencies of the situation should not all be in violation of the strict requirement of the ordinances.68

Dio identifies two challenges faced by the ‘government in exile’:69 holding senate meetings and conducting elections. The first was soluble: there was evidently no legal or religious obstacle to convening the senate outside of Rome; therefore, those with the consuls and Pompey could declare themselves the legitimate senate in 49.70 However, the senate could only convene in a templum, an inaugurated space, which is probably

68 69 70

Cass. Dio 41.43.1–4. This passage presents several puzzles, not all of which can be considered here; for further discussion, see Driediger-Murphy 2014 with further references. This is how Caesar’s opponents viewed themselves in 49: Cass. Dio 41.18.5; App. civ. 2.50; cf. e. g. Konrad 1994, 185 (but rejecting other ‘senates in exile’ identified by Gabba 1973, 427–441); Mouritsen 2017, 1. Cass. Dio 41.18.5, with no indication of illegality, though it may be relevant that the withdrawal from Rome followed Pompey’s edict and tumultus decree; cf. Plut. Pomp. 61.3; Caes. 33.6; Vervaet 2006, 932. They could even claim a quorum of 200 senators: Cass. Dio 43.41.2; Plut. Pomp. 64.3 with Ryan 1998, 34; Botsford 1909, 194. Earlier, Dio reports that Pompey authorised the senators’ absence from Rome by edict (41.6.2).

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what Dio means by a ‘small piece of land for the auguries.’71 Presumably augurs present in the Thessalonica had formally inaugurated a templum for the purpose of convening senate meetings.72 As for the holding of elections, according to Dio the obstacle was that the consuls of 49 had failed to secure the lex curiata.73 That may not be correct, in practice if not in law: as noted earlier, the consuls of 54 had also failed to pass the lex curiata, yet neither they nor the senate seem to have considered the omission a bar to conducting elections.74 That it was treated as such in 49 may reflect (heightened) interest in procedural correctness in a civil war context.75 As Mouritsen puts it, the lex curiata ‘was in political terms a formality … Still, it mattered sufficiently to stay the hand of the rulers of the empire during one of the most dramatic confrontations the Republic had yet experienced.’76 Alternatively, or additionally, various scholars have suggested that the consuls pointed to the lack of a lex curiata as respectable cover for not holding elections on other grounds (such as the destabilising infighting that an electoral campaign would likely have produced).77 Either way, it seems reasonable to conclude that the lack of a lex curiata was a technical obstacle, one which would at least have cast doubt on the

71 72

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75 76 77

Gell. 14.7; see Catalano 1978, 500–501 (this would also have involved making the land in question ager Romanus). Driediger-Murphy 2014, 103 suggests the possibility that what the republicans created was an alternative pomerium or urbs. Inauguratio was performed by an augur on the command of a magistrate (see Linderski 1986, 2223– 2225, who inclines to the view that authorisation from the senate or people was required as well). Several augurs were present, including Pompey, Cicero, and Ap. Claudius. Gargola 2017, 128–9 suggests that inauguratio could not be performed so far from Rome, but this is not certain and any such limit was probably customary rather than legal. With Catalano 1960, 265 n. 69 and Vervaet 2014, 336–7, I take it that the republicans did in fact inaugurate a templum and conduct valid senate meetings, which produced the dispensation of provinces for 48 and at least one other senatus con­ sultum (Plut. Pomp. 65.1; Cato. min. 53.4, discussed below). Cf. Driediger-Murphy 2014, 105–109 and above on Caesar’s evidence. Driediger-Murphy (115) argues that the consuls of 49 tried to pass the lex curiata but were obstructed in some way; however, it seems more likely from Cass. Dio 41.43 (οὐκ ἐσενηνόχεσαν) and from Caes. civ. 1.6.6 (neque ex­ spectant … feratur) that they did not propose it. Cf. Botsford 1909, 193–194; Rafferty 2019, 38. The elections for 54 were in fact delayed into 53, but there were other reasons: see e. g. Cic. Att. 4.17.3–4 (SB 91); Morrell 2014, 669–73. Further, the republicans had at least entertained the idea of holding elections in Thessalonica in 49. Vervaet 2015, 221–2, however, connects the consuls’ failure to hold elections in 54 (and 49) with their lack of a lex curiata. Cf. above on Caes. civ. 1.6. Mouritsen 2017, 1–2. So e. g. Botsford 1909, 194; more recent references in Driediger-Murphy 2014, 109 n. 39. See e. g. Cic. fam. 7.3.2 (SB 183); Caes. civ. 3.82.3–4 for sordid squabbling among the republicans in 48. Rafferty (2019, 40) suggests that the consuls conceded their lack of a lex curiata to distract from the greater irregularity of contemplating holding elections away from Rome. The possibility that Caesar might also hold elections–resulting in two sets of magistrates–was another possible cause for concern (cf. Cic. rep. 1.31 for duo senatus et duo … populi as portentous). Van Haeperen (2012, 104) suggests, less plausibly, that Pompey would have preferred not to be flanked by consuls. Pompey had cooperated closely with the consuls of 49.

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legitimacy of the comitia, albeit an obstacle that might have been ignored in other circumstances. It is also possible that there was a different (or additional) legal objection: according to Livy, a plebiscite of 357 made it a capital offence for anyone to convene an assembly of the people away from Rome.78 Nonetheless, the republicans had considered the possibility of holding elections in Thessalonica, but decided not to, citing the lack of a lex curiata as reason. As Driediger-Murphy emphasises, this was a significant admission, with implications for the legitimacy of the current consuls and other impe­ rium-holders.79 But their restraint is the more significant in view of the serious practical and strategic disadvantages that failing to hold elections entailed: the republicans were left not only without magistrates and the legitimacy they conferred, but also without the ability to convene formal meetings of the senate.80 Dio’s testimony to their religious and legal scruples deserves to be taken seriously.81 Whatever the true reasons, however, the terms in which the republicans chose to justify their decision are significant.82 Indeed, Dio’s account suggests that they tried to turn a strategic weakness into positive P. R.–namely, evidence of their deference to the auspices and the laws: ‘For they were very careful about precedents … and anxious that the acts rendered necessary by the exigencies of the situation should not all be in violation of the strict requirement of the ordinances’. This is only more significant if Dio’s account derives from a hostile source, as Berti has argued–a source that accused Caesar’s opponents of abandoning Rome and acting with only a semblance of legality (ἐν νόμῳ … τινι), but took on the republicans’ claims in their own terms, on the battleground of legality.83 Caesar in Rome faced a different set of problems, so far as the elections were concerned. He had control of the regular spaces of government, but not the consuls, who were the only magistrates competent to hold the elections (or, normally, to name a dictator). In March 49, Caesar was apparently considering having elections held by a praetor, and at least one ‘squalid wretch’ endorsed this approach.84 However, according to

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79 80 81 82 83 84

Liv. 7.16.7 (populum sevocaret); cf. Catalano 1960, 266–267; Giovannini 1983, 25; and, on the historicity of the law, Pina Polo 2011, 110–111 with references in n. 69. Earlier, Livy (5.52.16) has Camillus raise the vaguer objection that the comitia centuriata could not have been held in Veii with proper auspices (accepted by Rafferty 2019, 40 n. 56), but see Ogilvie ad loc., who judges the argument very weak. Indeed, Camillus’ rhetorical question (5.52.17: Veiosne haec transferemus?) suggests that transfer was a possibility. Driediger-Murphy 2014, esp. 110–113, 118. The Republican commanders’ insistence on their iustum imperium (see earlier note) may have responded to such doubts. From 1 January 48, therefore, the ‘senate’ could meet only as Pompey’s consilium: Vervaet 2006, 938 n. 39. Cf. Driediger-Murphy 2014, 118; Mouritsen 2017, 1–2, emphasising concern with proper procedure. Cf. Driediger-Murphy 2014, 110. Berti 1987, 106–107. That is, it seems, without any special enabling measure: Cic. Att. 9.9.3 (SB 176) (17 March 49). The identity of omnium turpissimus ac sordidissimus is not known, but he is probably not the praetor

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Cicero (who was one of the augurs), the augural books prescribed that it was illegal (non ius) as well as unprecedented for consuls or even praetors to be elected under the presidency of a praetor.85 Cicero therefore expected that Caesar would want a sena­ tus consultum and a decree from the augurs allowing a praetor either to hold consular elections or to name a dictator, and he was putting pressure on Cicero to help resolve the issue. According to Cicero, neither solution was ius, but he notes Sulla’s precedent: ‘if Sulla could arrange for a Dictator to be nominated by an Interrex, and a Master of Horse, why not Caesar?’86 In the end, Caesar got his way: in October he was named dictator by the praetor M. Aemilius Lepidus, covered by a lex and an augural decree;87 in December, Caesar returned to Rome and convened comitia at which he himself was elected consul.88 As Mouritsen notes, it is telling that Caesar went to these lengths.89 After all, consular elections convened by a praetor would not have been the most shocking irregularity of 49; the situation was not clear-cut even to those versed in augural law.90 Caesar, however, chose to concern himself with it. Linderski emphasises the formal validity of Caesar’s approach: the people cured the legal problem and the augurs removed the religious doubt.91 Furthermore, by having Lepidus name a dictator rather than hold consular elections, Caesar chose ‘the legally and augurally least objectionable way’.92 At any rate, having secured a legal basis for his appointment, he flaunted it. In contrast to the imprecision and insinuation of other passages, civ. 2.21.5 states plainly: M. Aemilius Lepidus (Shackleton Bailey 1965–70, 4.374). Bauman (1983, 339), following Münzer, takes him for Q. Mucius Scaevola (tr. pl. 54) and an augur. 85 Cic. Att. 9.9.3 (SB 176) (17 March 49); cf. 9.15.2 (SB 183) (25 March 49). 86 Cic. Att. 9.15.2 (SB 183): sed si Sulla potuit efficere ab interrege ut dictator diceretur et magister equitum, cur hic non possit? 87 Lex: Caes. civ. 2.21.5 (quoted below). The augural decree is not attested, but we should assume Caesar got what he wanted, as for his second dictatorship in 48 (Cass. Dio 42.21.2); cf. Linderski 1986, 2184; Vervaet 2004, 82. (As Vervaet notes, Caesar’s concern with augural law even after Pharsalus is evidence of his concern with propriety.) There is broad consensus that Caesar’s first dictatorship was comitiorum habendorum causa (see e. g. Ferrary LEPOR no. 11, with references). 88 Caes. civ. 3.1.1. 89 Mouritsen 2017, 1. Mouritsen speaks of the arrangement as conferring ‘a veneer of legitimacy’, but, more than that, the use of a lex shows concern with legality. We should not assume, as de Wilde 2013, 28 does, that the lex Aemilia was a means of bypassing the senate, even if Caesar originally considered relying on a senatus consultum. Any proposed SC on the elections was probably among those obstructed in April (cf. Caes. civ. 1.33.3–4; Cic. Att. 10.4.9 [SB 195]; 9.9a.1 [SB 200a] [from Caelius]); however, the senate may have been in a different mood later in the year. Ferrary (LEP­ OR no. 11) suggests that the lex Aemilia was passed ex SC, which would explain Plutarch’s statement that Caesar was made dictator by the senate (Caes. 37.2); Appian’s plainly incorrect version (civ. 2.48) could reflect hostile propaganda. Sulla’s dictatorship, of course, had been authorised by a lex Valeria. 90 Cic. Att. 9.9.3 (SB 176); M. Valerius Messalla Rufus ap. Gell. 13.15.4 with Linderski 1986, 2181–2182. 91 Linderski 1986, 2182–2184. 92 Linderski 1986, 2182 (similarly, Jahn 1970, 184–185). There was a precedent available in Q. Fabius Maximus in 217: cf. e. g. Ferarry LEPOR no. 11; Vervaet 2007, 197–200.

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[Caesar] learns that a law had been passed about a dictator, and that he himself had been nominated dictator by the praetor M. Lepidus.93

Lex stands in the text as a powerful marker of legitimacy founded on law.94 Caesar’s subsequent report of his election as consul likewise advertises the lawfulness of his position, as does his notice that he laid down the dictatorship after just eleven days.95 The fate of the leges Pompeiae A further test of how well Rome’s ‘culture of legality’ endured civil war is the handling of opponents’ laws. Both Roman and modern conceptions of the ‘rule of law’ require that laws should apply to everyone: one cannot not simply ignore a piece of legislation because one dislikes either the content or the author.96 Thus Cato obeyed Caesar’s laws, despite their personal enmity, and defended the validity of Clodius’ laws against Cicero’s attack, even though he disapproved of their content;97 in a similar spirit, Cicero’s recall from exile in 57 was effected by a lex centuriata, even though some leading senators were prepared to declare that the lex Clodia had been invalidly passed.98 The correct way to deal with a bad law is to repeal it or to change it, not to ignore it.99 And indeed, in the previous round of civil wars, Marius, Sulla, and Cinna each took the trouble to repeal their opponents’ laws before enacting their own; as Vervaet notes, this behaviour is testimony to the importance of legality in Roman politics.100 Caesar’s handling of the laws Pompey passed as consul in 52–especially the lex de provinciis and the lex de ambitu–therefore provides an informative test case.101 Caesar virulently attacked these laws in Bellum Civile (although, significantly, he raised no

93 Caes. civ. 2.21.5: legem de dictatore latam seseque dictatorem dictum a M. Lepido praetore cognoscit (trans. Peskett). 94 On lex as a badge of legitimacy, even in times of conflict, cf. Walter 2017, 538–539. 95 Caes. civ. 3.1.1 (discussed earlier); cf. 3.2.1 96 In a modern setting, see e. g. Waldron 2016, § 2; Zimmermann 2007, 23. 97 Caesar’s laws: Cic. Sest. 61; Plut. Cato min. 32; Cass. Dio 38.7.1–2, 38.7.6. Clodius’ laws: Plut. Cato min. 40.2; Caes. 34.1. See Morrell 2018, esp. 194–199. 98 Cic. dom. 68–9; Sest. 73–4. Sources for the lex centuriata in MRR 2.200. 99 For Roman views on the matter, see esp. Cic. Cluent. 150. In 50, however, M. Calpurnius Bibulus had pointedly ignored provisions of Caesar’s lex repetundarum (Cic. fam. 2.17.2 [SB 117]). There were of course also laws that fell into desuetude (see e. g. Cic. Verr. 2.5.45) and a great deal of law-breaking that was not political in intent; these phenomena should be distinguished from more ‘existential’ challenges to legislation. 100 Vervaet 2004, 75 with references. From the perspective of the rule of law, however, too-frequent repeal does undermine the criterion of stability. 101 We lack comparable information for the republicans, and in any case they could not have convened the comitia to repeal laws (see above).

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objection in 52).102 We might therefore expect Caesar to ignore Pompey’s laws after the outbreak of civil war, and some scholars suggest that he did.103 Yet the evidence indicates a more cautious approach. In the case of the lex Pompeia de ambitu, Caesar’s actions suggest a combination of disregard for the statute and rulings under it, and insistence on procedural correctness. Pompey had passed the law in 52 with the backing of the senate as part of a law-and-order campaign,104 and a large number of citizens were convicted and exiled under its provisions. Caesar recalled all of them, with the exception of Milo.105 For Caesar, the exiles presented a source of ready-made supporters: many had offered their services at the start of the war.106 For others, they were criminals,107 and Ser. Sulpicius Rufus even threatened to go into exile himself if the convicts were brought back.108 Recall of exiles was regarded as a typical–and sordid–feature of civil war.109 Caesar therefore proceeded carefully. In Bellum Civile, he seeks to impugn the legitimacy of the lex de ambitu and convictions under it, commenting that the trials had been carried out when Pompey’s troops were present in the city and in a single day, with different jurors hearing the evidence and delivering the verdict. There is more sleight of hand here: Pompey had brought troops into the city to restore order and (in Milo’s case, at least), the guard was present at the request of the defence;110 the shorter trials and different form of procedure were not illegal but rather prescribed in Pompey’s law.111 Caesar could disapprove, and induce his readers to do the same, but the fact remained that the lex Pompeia was a valid law of the Roman people. Caesar therefore emphasises that he too proceeded through the people, duly convened by praetors and tribunes, and in accordance with the people’s wishes:112

102 On the contrary, Caesar (civ. 7.6.1) praised Pompey’s actions as sole consul. Cf. Gruen 1974, 457– 460; Morrell 2017, 214–15. 103 See e. g. Girardet 1987, 301 (disregard or abrogation); Weigel 1992, 27; Koortbojian 2010, 268 on the lex Pompeia de provinciis. For the attitude, cf. Cic. Lig. 20 (quoted earlier). Cass. Dio 42.22.1 suggests that, in 48, M. Caelius Rufus disregarded Caesar’s arrangements on debts on the assumption that Caesar had been defeated and killed, but the arrangements in question were not laws and Caelius went on to promulgate his own bills; see Frederiksen 1966, esp. 134–135. 104 The lex de ambitu was promulgated ex SC (Ascon. 36C); Cato objected to its retroactivity (Plut. Cato. min. 48.3), but there is no hint that it was in any way invalid. On the joint policy of senate and sole consul, see above and Morrell 2018a, esp. 168. 105 Cass. Dio 41.36.2. A. Gabinius’ recall suggests that Caesar also recalled exiles under other laws (Kelly 2006, 127–128). 106 Caes. civ. 3.1.4; cf. Cic. Att. 10.4.8 (SB 195). 107 E. g. Cic. Att. 10.8.2 (SB 199). 108 Cic. Att. 10.14.3 (SB 206); cf. Bauman 1985, 43. The letter describes a private conversation; there is no indication that Sulpicius communicated the threat publicly. 109 E. g. Cic. Verr. 2.5.12; Kelly 2006, 127. 110 Ascon. 40C. That is not to deny that they could have been used to influence trials. 111 See Ascon. 36C, 39C. 112 Caes. civ. 3.1.4–5.

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For he had determined that [the exiles] ought to be restored by a decision of the popular assembly rather than be supposed to be reinstated by his own act of kindness.113

It is not clear if Caesar also repealed the law,114 but, with the exiles recalled by popular vote, he did not need to.115 It is possible that Caesar did ignore the lex Pompeia de provinciis. The law had changed the nature of provincial appointments by imposing a five-year gap between praetorship or consulship and provincial command.116 In Bellum Civile, Caesar portrayed the law as untraditional and an attack on his own position,117 but there is no evidence that he repealed it and he did not pass his own lex de provinciis (which would have superseded Pompey’s law) until 46.118 Yet, in at least two cases, Caesar’s provincial assignments for 48 did not respect the interval between magistracy and provincial command mandated in Pompey’s law. M. Aemilius Lepidus and A. Allienus, praetors in 49, both held provinces the following year.119 Furthermore, both are attested as proconsuls, whereas under the lex Pompeia they should have held only praetorian imperium.120 In fact, Dio seems to say that the lex Pompeia had been ignored in 49: describing the assignment of provinces for 48, he writes, ‘the citizens pretended to allot themselves those which fell to the consuls, but voted that Caesar should give the others to the praetors without the casting of lots; for they had gone back to consuls and praetors again contrary to their decree’.121 As Jehne observes, the last clause seems to refer to the lex Pompeia, according to which provinces should have been assigned to former praetors and consuls.122 It

113 Caes. civ. 3.1.5: statuerat enim prius hos iudicio populi debere restitui quam suo beneficio videri recep­ tos … (trans. Peskett) It is also worth noting that Caesar chose to proceed through other magistrates, even though he was dictator at the time (Caes. civ 3.1; Cass. Dio 41.36.2). Possibly the recall of exiles involved a number of enactments, over several years (Yavetz 1983, 64–66). 114 Repeal seems possible, in view of Caesar’s criticism and evidence that penalties for ambitus were reduced between 52 and 18 (see Lintott 1990, 10; Suet. Iul. 40.2). 115 See Liv. 7.17.12 for the rule of the Twelve Tables that whatever the people voted last should have the force of law. 116 Cass. Dio 40.56.1. 117 Caes. civ. 1.85.9: in se iura magistratuum commutari, ne ex praetura et consulatu, ut semper, sed per paucos probati et electi in provincias mittantur. (The rights of magistrates are transformed against me, so that men are sent to provinces not following praetorship or consulship, as ever before, but as approved and selected by the few, my trans.) Cf. 1.6.5, quoted above. 118 Cass. Dio 43.25.3. 119 Hispania Citerior and Sicily respectively, both assigned by Caesar: App. civ. 2.48 with MRR 2.275 n. 6. 120 See Brennan 2000, 403; Morrell 2017, 218. Vervaet 2012, 84 n. 154 regards the return to proconsular imperium as ‘a deliberate rejection of the lex Pompeia’. 121 Cass. Dio 42.20.4: … τοῖς μὲν ὑπάτοις αὐτοὶ δῆθεν ἐκλήρωσαν, τοῖς δὲ δὴ στρατηγοῖς τὸν Καίσαρα ἀκληρωτὶ δοῦναι ἐψηφίσαντο· ἔς τε γὰρ τοὺς ὑπάτους καὶ ἐς τοὺς στρατηγοὺς αὖθις παρὰ τὰ δεδογμένα σφίσιν ἐπανῆλθον. 122 Jehne 1987, 131 n.5.

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seems likely, however, that Caesar’s actions were covered by a senatus consultum, especially in view of his careful handling the lex Pompeia de ambitu.123 It is perhaps worth comparing Caesar’s handling of other laws relating to office-holding, in particular the lex annalis.124 As noted earlier, Caesar declares in Bellum Civile that his second consulship in 48 was held in accordance with the leges annales–another instance of technical legal language used as a badge of legality and legitimacy.125 Sumner has shown that Caesar’s choice of magistrates down to 46 also complied with the leges annales, so far as we can tell.126 From 45, however, Caesar showed increasingly little regard for traditional rules: besides various under-age magistrates, M. Antonius became consul in 44 without having held the praetorship.127 In March 45, Ser. Sulpicius Rufus could lament that he and Cicero had lost a Republic where men sought offices in the correct order.128 There were other oddities, too, starting in 49 with M. Antonius as tribunus plebis pro praetore129 and culminating in December 45 with the farce of a suffect consul elected on the last day of the year (and with incorrect auspices).130 The trend aligns with other evidence that Caesar became more willing to depart from the laws and tradition as time went on and his position became more entrenched,131 a transition that also represents a shift from civil war conditions to established dictatorship. Nonetheless, as with Caesar’s departures from the lex Pompeia de provinciis, it seems possible that deviations from the lex annalis (though not, for example, the augural flaw at

123 According to Dio (42.20.4), in 48 Caesar received the power to assign the praetorian provinces, but the basis of the assignments in 49 for 48 is unfortunately not clear. Appian (civ. 2.48) says that Caesar ‘appointed or changed the governors of provinces according to his own pleasure’ (ἡγεμόνας τε ἐς τὰ ἔθνη περιέπεμπεν ἢ ἐνήλλαττεν, ἐφ’ ἑαυτοῦ καταλέγων; cf. 2.50). Jehne (1987, 131) infers that Caesar acted eigenmächtig. Probably the best solution is that a senatus consultum was passed on Caesar’s recommendation, as seems to have been the case for Sulla’s provincial assignments (Vervaet 2004, 48–49); the senate evidently had discretion to deviate from the terms of the lex Pompeia (Morrell 2017, 222 n. 133). As Frederik Vervaet has suggested to me, the ad hoc arrangements for 49 likely set the precedent for the law of 48. 124 We unfortunately know too little of Pompey’s lex de iure magistratuum to assess Caesar’s handling of it. It is possible the rules known in modern scholarship as the lex Pompeia de provinciis were in fact part of this law; Caes. civ. 1.85.9 may suggest as much. See Morrell 2017, 204 n. 1. 125 Caes. civ. 3.1.1. 126 Sumner 1971. 127 Sumner 1971, 363–364. 128 Cic. fam. 2.5.3 (SB 248) (honores ordinatim petituri), part of his consolation to Cicero on the death of Tullia. 129 Cic. Att. 10.8a (SB 199a), 1 May(?) 49; also Q. Cassius, simultaneously tribune and pro praetore in Hispania Ulterior (MRR 2.261). Cf. Jehne 1987, 385 n. 62, who links such irregularities with strategic requirements before Thapsus. 130 Cic. fam. 7.30.1 (SB 265); cf. Suet. Iul. 76.2–3. According to Cicero, Caesar took auspices for an assembly of the tribes but convened the comitia centuriata. C. Caninius Rebilus was elected and held office less than a day. Cicero claims that such incidents were common (§ 2). 131 See e. g. de Wilde 2013, 37–38 on the escalating irregularity of Caesar’s dictatorships, and Boatwright 1988, 39–40, from the perspective of the dating of Bellum Civile.

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the election of C. Caninius Rebilus)132 were covered either by exemptions, as Sumner suggests,133 or the various special powers attached to Caesar’s dictatorships. The cumulative effective of such exemptions, however, remains to be considered.134 Enabling legislation (and other laws) The civil war of 49 was not only a war about law; it was also, to an extent, a war fought through law. The republicans’ opening moves were a series of senatorial decrees (the validity of which Caesar disputed);135 as we have seen, Caesar’s dictatorship was authorised by lex, as was the recall of exiles. Another lex Antonia of 49, restoring rights to the children of persons proscribed by Sulla, also sought to strengthen support for Caesar,136 and other measures Caesar introduced early in the war (for instance, on debt) were at least partly political in character.137 The use of enabling laws and exemptions was a recurring feature of Rome’s civil wars (though not unique to them). Caesar’s first dictatorship required both a law and an augural decree; his subsequent dictatorships and third and following consulships also involved special authorisation.138 Looking back to the 80 s, Sulla’s dictatorship was facilitated by a lex Valeria, which also ratified Sulla’s past actions and authorised him, for the future, to enact laws by edict.139 As Vervaet observes, the lex Valeria reflects the importance of legality even in a civil war context: Sulla had achieved his ends through

132 Indeed, it is highly doubtful that there could be exemption from augural law, which was supposed to be immutable (Linderski 1986, 2153); hence perhaps the insurmountable problem of the lex curiata (see above), while the augural decree Caesar sought in 49 was not a matter of negating an augural obstacle (religio) but rather of ‘discovering’ that there was no obstacle (cf. Linderski 1986, 2184). 133 Sumner 1971, 370. He suggests that exemptions from the lex annalis, such as that proposed for L. Egnatuleius in 43 (Cic. Phil. 5.52), may have been commonplace in this period. Caesar’s own third consulship in 46, in contravention of the mandatory decennium between consulships, was covered by privileges granted in 48 (Cass. Dio 42.20.3). 134 Cf. Yavetz 1983, 195, who remarks that Caninius’ consulship respected the letter of the law, but not its spirit. A further sore point was that magistrates were no longer performing many of their traditional functions (see Welch 1990, esp. 60). 135 See e. g. Caes. civ. 1.3–5; Cic. Att. 11.7.1 (SB 218). Previously the consuls had called on Pompey to defend the city without the backing of an SC; C. Curio therefore disputed the legality of the levy (App. civ. 2.31; cf. Plut. Pomp. 59.1; Cass. Dio 40.64.4; 40.66.2–3). On this incident, see Botermann 1989; Morstein-Marx 2021, 298. 136 References in MRR 2.258. As Yavetz (1983, 62–3) notes, the law (passed at Caesar’s instigation) continued Caesar’s longstanding policy but had a clear political motive in the context of the civil war. 137 See Yavetz 1983, chs 2–3. 138 See e. g. Cass. Dio 42.20.3; 42.21.1–2; other sources in MRR under the relevant years. The details cannot be discussed here. 139 See Vervaet 2004.

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force and terror, yet the terms of the law ‘still responded to legalistic scruples and the need of public legitimacy, both of paramount importance in [the] sphere of Roman politics’.140 Dio’s account of the special powers offered to Caesar in 48 suggests a similar concern with giving legal form to political reality.141 Later, the triumvirate too was formally established by the lex Titia as a magistracy with legally-defined (if extremely wide-ranging) powers.142 A measure such as the lex Valeria is problematic from the perspective of the rule of law. It in effect authorised arbitrary action, and did so retroactively.143 Nonetheless, Cicero could defend the legality of Sulla’s actions (see below). Moreover, while Sulla was empowered under the lex Valeria to declare law without consulting the people,144 he preferred to pass measures through the assembly.145 Caesar, too, although he also seems to have had the power to effectively declare law, frequently made use of the assembly, sometimes acting through other magistrates.146 Even the triumvirs, with their still greater powers, continued to make use of traditional institutions and laws formally passed by the assembly.147 Indeed, both Sulla and Caesar are outstanding for the number of their laws, many of which were not purely political but should be seen as genuine attempts at problem-solving (whether or not we agree with their solutions).148 In the Philippics, Cicero remarks that, if asked about his civilian achievements, Caesar would have said that he passed many fine laws (leges multas … et praeclaras).149 All this is testimony to the enduring value of law and legality under conditions of civil war and even dictatorship.150 Indeed, even some of Caesar’s departures from law and procedure demonstrate the continuing importance of law and legal instruments. In December 48, Cicero wrote to 140 Veraet 2004, 75. 141 E. g. Cass. Dio 41.36.4; 42.20.1–2 (see below). 142 Sources in MRR 2.338; for discussion, see e. g. Millar 1973, esp. 51–52; Bleicken 1990, 21–65 with Rich’s review (1992); Vervaet 2020. 143 Cf. Tuori 2016, ch. 1 esp. 35, 66 on the impact of proscriptions on conceptions of law and justice. 144 Thus the Gronovian Scholiast (125St) could say that any law Sulla carried through the assembly was valid as a lex Cornelia and anything else by the lex Valeria. 145 See e. g. Vervaet 2004, 49–51 and Straumann 2016, 81–82, with further references. 146 See Yavetz 1983, chs 2–4 and summary at 175–176. 147 See Millar 1973, esp. 53–54; Laffi 1993; Pina Polo 2020. An interesting example is the lex Fonteia (Roman Statutes no. 36) of perhaps 39, granting various privileges and protections to persons from Cos. As Crawford et al. 1996, 1.504 remark, the entire document is ‘redolent of the casual disregard for Republican institutions that characterises the IIIviri’, yet the law was passed by the assembly and inscribed in traditional form. 148 See e. g. Williamson 2005, esp. 17 and list in app. C. Yavetz (1983) attempts (admittedly somewhat arbitrarily) to distinguish Caesar’s ‘political’ (chs 2–3) from his ‘economic and social’ (ch. 4) measures. This is not the place for the discussion of either Caesar or Sulla’s legislative programmes. 149 Cic. Phil. 1.18. 150 Cf. Williamson 2005, ch. 9, esp. 397. Despite the volume of legislation 49–44, however, Williamson argues that increasing monopolisation of the legislative process led to the decline of popular lawmaking (401–403).

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Atticus, ‘I hear that Caesar does not recognize senatorial decrees passed after the departure of the tribunes.’151 That was no doubt convenient for Caesar, but it is significant that, in contrast to the ‘free for all’ attitude Cicero describes in Pro Ligario,152 Caesar had a legal rationale for his position: he considered invalid those decrees made in violation of the tribunes’ rights, of which he claimed to be the defender (see above). Arguably Caesar’s later falsification of senate decrees also reflects the continued importance of the senatus consultum as an instrument.153 A culture of legality Civil war placed new pressures on Rome’s legal culture. Legal and governmental institutions were displaced and divided. Both sides sought to bend law to serve strategic needs. Yet, although civil war conditions were incompatible with ‘normal’ observance of law, the foregoing survey suggests that neither side embraced the idea of civil war as lawlessness. Indeed, the case of the lex curiata suggests that concern with formal legality and procedural correctness was, if anything, more pronounced in civil war. For the republicans, such concerns played a key role in their self-presentation and, to a considerable extent, practice. Caesar’s actions show that he too chose to proceed by legal means where possible and was prepared to accept delay (though not obstruction) in doing so.154 And if his actions were motivated more by concern for his public image than by personal scruples,155 they are nonetheless testimony to the values and expectations of the society within which he was operating–that is, to Rome’s culture of legality. Casual or routine disregard of law does not feature until the later years of Caesar’s dictatorship, by which stage we are looking not at civil war conditions so much as established autocracy–a situation that was increasingly unacceptable to the senatorial elite largely because it transgressed legal and constitutional norms.156 In 46 Cicero

151 Cic. Att. 11.7.1 (SB 218): audio enim eum ea senatus consulta improbare quae post discessum tribunorum facta sunt. 152 Cic. Lig. 20. 153 Cic. fam. 9.15.4 (SB 196) (Intercalarius 46) indicates regular falsification of decrees, perhaps particularly in dealing with the provinces. 154 For instance, while Caesar hoped to make arrangements for elections in April 49, the lex Aemilia was not passed until (probably) October, and he abandoned the idea of consular elections convened by a praetor (see above). But Caesar was prepared to dispense with the senate if it did not cooperate (Cic. Att. 10.4.9 [SB 195]; Caes. civ. 1.32.7). 155 Cf. Curio’s assessment of Caesar’s clemency in Cic. Att. 10.4.8 (SB 195) (14 April 49): ‘it was not by inclination or nature that he [Caesar] was not cruel but because he reckoned that clemency was the popular line’ (non voluntate aut natura non esse crudelem, sed quod popularem esse clementiam). Cicero (Att. 10.8.6 [SB 199]) referred to Caesar’s clemency as simulatio. 156 An attitude reflected not just in Caesar’s murder but in the abolition of the dictatorship by Antonius in 44 (see esp. Cic. Phil. 1.3–4).

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complained to Papirius Paetus that Caesar’s will had replaced law, and that libertas was lost;157 to M. Marcellus, that Caesar was now all-powerful158–an inversion of the rule of laws over men basic to both Roman and modern conceptions of the rule of law. Yet, even then, Caesar’s position had the formal sanction of the Roman people (see further below). The most thoroughgoing attempt to separate legitimacy from legality came not from Caesar but from Cicero, seeking to justify extra-legal action by Brutus and Cassius in 43.159 In a famous passage of the 11th Philippic, Cicero justifies the setting aside of positive law in the interests of the res publica: ‘Under what law, by what right’, he asks, did Cassius act in excluding Dolabella from his lawful province of Syria? By the right which Jupiter himself established, that all things beneficial to the Republic be held lawful and proper.160

For Straumann, Cicero’s desperate appeal to natural law amounts to ‘a veritable obituary to the positive institutions of the Republic’–one which effectively substituted Cicero’s arbitrary judgement for legal rules,161 admittedly at a time when, Cicero says, positive law had been overthrown.162 Significantly, however, both the senate and Brutus himself rejected this approach: as Christian puts it, ‘Unfortunately for Cicero, what the Philippics demonstrated was that in times of political turmoil black and white legality carried more sway than philosophical ideas of right.’163 Brutus’ letter reads as a reaffirmation of the ideal of the rule of law, even in circumstances where expediency and strategic considerations might dictate a different course: What the Senate has not yet decreed, nor the Roman People ordered, I do not take upon myself to prejudge, I do not make myself the arbiter.164

157 Cic. fam. 9.16.3 (SB 190) ( July 46): De illo autem quem penes est omnis potestas, nihil video quod time­ am, nisi quod omnia sunt incerta cum a iure discessum est nec praestari quicquam potest quale futurum sit quod positum est in alterius voluntate, ne dicam libidine. (‘As for the All-Powerful [Caesar], I see no reason why I should be apprehensive, unless it be that all becomes uncertain when the path of legality has been forsaken, and that there is no guaranteeing the future of what depends on someone else’s wishes, not to say whims.’) Libertas … amissa comes a little further on. Cf. 9.26.4 (SB 197) (to Paetus, November 46): non contra legem, si ulla nunc lex est (‘We don’t go beyond the law [Caesar’s sumptuary law], if there is such a thing as law nowadays’). 158 Cic. fam. 4.9.2 (SB 231) (September 46): omnia enim delata ad unum sunt. is utitur consilio ne suorum quidem, sed suo. (‘All power has been handed over to one man; and he follows no counsel, not even that of his friends, except his own’). Cf. e. g. 4.7.4 (SB 230). 159 See e. g. Gotter 1996, esp. 252–256 and app. 13; Christian 2008; Harries 2006, 225–226. 160 Cic. Phil. 11.28: Qua lege, quo iure? Eo quod Iuppiter ipse sanxit, ut omnia quae rei publicae salutaria essent legitima et iusta haberentur. 161 Straumann 2016, 116; cf. Gotter 1996, 253–254. 162 Cic. Phil. 11.28. 163 Christian 2008, 166. 164 Cic. ad Brut. 1.4.2 (SB 10): quod enim nondum senatus censuit nec populus Romanus iussit, id adro­ ganter non praeiudico neque revoco ad arbitrium meum.

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In fact, Cicero had tried to obtain a decree of the senate granting Cassius legal status, ‘Jupiter’s law’ notwithstanding.165 Beyond this, it tells us something that Cicero couched his argument in terms of law. Presumably he could have argued that, when the res publica is threatened, the safety of the state must come before law;166 instead, he makes this principle into (natural) law. Thus, even Cicero’s bold departure from positive law reflects the importance of law in the Roman mindset. The combination of persisting respect for legal forms and the exigencies of civil war drove the sort of ‘makeshift legality’ that saw a templum inaugurated in Thessalonica and a dictator nominated by a praetor. In fact, few of the means involved were new: enabling laws, exemptions, and the reinterpretation of augural rules had precedents in peacetime as well as earlier civil wars. However, civil war presented a ‘pressure-cooker’ situation wherein such developments could happen more quickly or to a more extreme degree than in other situations.167 We might attribute this in part to expediency; in part to the disruption of norms and institutions that normally moderated change: in Pro Marcello, Cicero describes the obscuritas of civil war, when ‘some even hesitated as to what was lawful’ (non nulli etiam quid liceret), while the effective division of the senate and people and even the augural college on partisan lines made it simpler for each side to procure change favourable to itself.168 In addition, we see a slippery-slope effect at play through successive rounds of civil war (as well as, for instance, the escalation of Caesar’s powers): what Sulla could do, Caesar could do, as Cicero observed,169 while the triumviral period witnessed still more extreme departures from law and tradition. Early in 51, still before the outbreak of civil war, the consul Ser. Sulpicius had warned of this danger, recalling previous civil wars and cautioning the senate that ‘as the men of the past, with no such precedents in our history to follow, had perpetrated these atrocities, any subsequent armed oppressor of the commonwealth would be far worse to endure’.170 In De Officiis, Cicero described Sulla’s proscriptions as the cause of Caesar’s still fouler victory, snowballing crimes against citizens and allies, and the loss of Republican freedom.171 Changes to law, and to Rome’s legal culture, can therefore be considered the consequence not (purely) of any particular civil war, but of the experience and culture of civil war over an extended period. 165 Cic. Phil. 11.29–31. 166 Cf. ‘Cato’s’ argument in Sall. Cat. 52.4 and Cicero’s justification of self-defence in Mil. 9–11, although both can be read as arguments about what the law is, rather than as alternatives to law. 167 For instance, while Linderski 1986, 2184 identifies a ‘straight line of augural development’ from 426 to Sulla and Caesar, the latter cases reflect accelerated change. 168 Cic. Marcell. 30. There were effectively two senates in 49; cf. e. g. Cic. Att. 9.9.3 (SB 176) on ‘Caesar’s’ augurs. 169 Cic. Att. 9.15.2 (SB 183), quoted earlier. 170 Cic. fam. 4.3.1 (SB 202): cum superiores nullo tali exemplo antea in re publica cognito tam crudeles fuissent, quicumque postea rem publicam oppressisset armis multo intolerabiliorem futurum. 171 Cic. off. 2.27–9; see Griffin 2008, 107–108 for explication of Cicero’s somewhat convoluted argument.

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The net result, arguably, was change in the nature of law itself, in ways that foreshadowed the later powers of the Roman emperor. One aspect of this was a change in the sources of law, including greater use of edicta (or even dicta) in public law contexts, where leges would be more usual.172 Although the use of enabling legislation meant the people retained a façade of power,173 the results could be drastically out of step with popular sentiment (as in the case of the triumviral proscription edict). The ‘ratification’ of the dead Caesar’s notebooks was a more extreme example of the same phenomenon–one which, for Williamson, sounded the death-knell of popular law-making.174 A second strain–a feature of Caesar’s dictatorship rather than civil war per se–was the emergence of personal jurisdiction.175 This appears clearly in the Pro Ligario of 46, where Cicero explicitly distinguishes the proceedings before Caesar from a regular trial before a jury. Consequently, Cicero’s strategy is not to mount a legal defence but to beg for pardon, thus placing Caesar in effect above or outside the law.176 It was this sort of situation that Cato protested with his suicide, when he is supposed to have said that he did not wish to be under obligation to a tyrant for his unlawful acts, ‘for he acts unlawfully in saving, as if their master, those whom he has no right to rule’.177 Deiotarus’ ‘trial’ in November 45 moved still closer towards imperial jurisdiction, in that it was held in private, in Caesar’s house.178 As noted earlier, a recurring theme in Rome’s civil wars was the use of exemptions, enabling legislation, and extraordinary powers to legalise (formally, at least) what would otherwise have been illegal actions.179 While that was the effect in any given case, the cumulative impact of such measures cut both ways. It is possible for laws to be, in effect, ‘exempted out of existence’, as was the case with the lex annalis in Caesar’s latter years (if indeed his various departures from it had any legal basis). Sweeping 172 See Pettinger (forthcoming) on the increasing use of edicts and implications for the rule of law. According to Suet. Iul. 77.1 (albeit from a hostile source, T. Ampius), Caesar advised people to regard his word as law (pro legibus habere quae dicat); Cicero judged this the prudent course (e. g. fam. 9.16.3 [SB 190]). Cf. Pomp. dig. 1.2.2.10–12 (Pomponius). The praetor’s edict was of course long established as a source of private law. 173 Indeed, the notion that the emperor received his power by delegation from the populus persisted down to Justinian’s day: Ulp. dig. 1.4.1.pr. (Institutes, book 1). 174 Williamson 2005, 403. Cic. (Phil. 1.18) distinguished Caesar’s notes from his laws (but was nonetheless willing to uphold them, for the sake of order and tranquillity: cf. Cic. Att. 16.16b.1–2 [SB 407b]). 175 See Tuori 2016, ch. 1. Caesar exercised jurisdiction either as consul or dictator (27). Already in Pro Marcello (23) Cicero had called for the restoration of the courts; Velleius (2.89.3) later claimed the return of auctoritas to the courts as a key element of the restoration of the traditional form of the res publica. 176 Cic. Lig. 30: Ad iudicem sic, sed ego apud parentem loquor (‘That is the tone to use to a jury, but I plead before a father’). Cf. Tuori 2016, 59. 177 Plut. Cato min. 66.2: παρανομεῖ δὲ σῴζων ὡς κύριος, ὧν αὐτῷ δεσπόζειν οὐδὲν προσῆκεν (my trans.). 178 Cic. Deiot. 5; Tuori 2016, 48–51. 179 Cf. Straumann 2016, ch. 2, for discussion of the dictatorship and other extraordinary powers from the perspective of constitutional thought.

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enabling laws were perhaps the most damaging to Rome’s legal culture. A law that gave blanket authorisation to the actions of an individual applied only a thin film of legality over arbitrary power. In the Verrines, Cicero describes Sulla as ‘he about whom the Roman people ordered by law that his very will should have the force of law’.180 Elsewhere, he pronounced the lex Valeria ‘the most iniquitous and un-law-like of laws’ because it established tyranny.181 Such measures risk creating what rule-of-law theorists have characterised as a state of rule by law that is in fact no more than a screen for autocracy (and thus not the rule of law by even most formal definitions).182 Appian describes the lex Valeria as almost a face-saving measure:183 Sulla was in reality a tyrant, but, ‘for propriety’s sake’ (εἰς εὐπρέπειαν), the people chose him dictator.184 Dio ascribes a similar motivation to the people in voting special powers to Caesar: ‘Nevertheless, because they wished still to appear to be free and independent citizens, they voted him these rights and everything else which it was in his power to have even against their will.’185 Wiseman insists that Caesar was not a tyrant because all of his powers were voted to him ‘constitutionally’ by the Roman People.186 However, the people’s involvement does not mean that Caesar’s powers were not damaging to Rome’s legal and ‘constitutional’ character–and the damage was greatest when such powers became permanent. Arguably, Caesar’s perpetual dictatorship and the popular enactments that

180 Cic. Verr. 2.3.82: Ille, de quo legem populus Romanus iusserat ut ipsius voluntas ei posset esse pro lege (my trans.). 181 Cic. leg. agr. 3.5: Omnium legum iniquissimam dissimillimamque legis esse arbitror eam quam L. Flac­ cus interrex de Sulla tulit, ut omnia quaecumque ille fecisset essent rata. Nam cum ceteris in civitatibus tyrannis institutis leges omnes exstinguantur atque tollantur, hic rei publicae tyrannum lege constituit. (‘Of all laws, I judge the most iniquitous and un-law-like that which L. Flaccus as interrex passed about Sulla, that anything whatsoever he [Sulla] did should be ratified. For while, when tyrants are set up in other states, all laws are extinguished and abolished, this man [Flaccus] established a tyrant in the Republic by law.’ My trans.) Cicero adds that the law had an excuse in the times. Cf. Hurlet 1993, 174–176 on ‘le coup d’Etat légal’. 182 See e. g. Friedrich Hayek, writing in 1944: ‘It may well be that Hitler has obtained his unlimited powers in a strictly constitutional manner and that whatever he does is therefore legal in the juridical sense. But who would suggest for that reason that the Rule of Law still prevails in Germany?’ (Hayek 2008, 119). 183 App. civ. 1.99. 184 Appian’s comment (civ. 1.99) that the people ‘welcomed this pretence of an election as an image and semblance of freedom’ (τὴν ὑπόκρισιν τῆς χειροτονίας ὡς ἐλευθερίας εἰκόνα καὶ πρόσχημα ἀσπασάμενοι) makes a similar point, though he is mistaken that Sulla was elected. Cf. 1.100. 185 Cass. Dio 42.20.2: ὅμως δ’ οὖν αὐτῷ (πολῖταί τε γὰρ καὶ αὐτοτελεῖς ἔτι δοκεῖν εἶναι ἤθελον) ταῦτά τε οὕτως ἐψηφίσαντο καὶ τἆλλα πάντα καὶ ἀκόντων αὐτῶν ἔχειν ἐδύνατο. Cf. § 1, where the senate grants Caesar the right to deal with Pompey’s former adherents as he wished, ‘not that he had not already received this right from himself, but in order that he might seem to be acting with some show of legal authority’ (οὐχ ὅτι καὶ αὐτὸς παρ’ ἑαυτοῦ οὐ τοῦτ’ ἤδη λαβὼν εἶχεν, ἀλλ’ ἵνα καὶ ἐν νόμῳ δή τινι αὐτὸ ποιεῖν δόξῃ). 186 Wiseman 2009, 198. For this reason, Wiseman maintains, ‘It did not follow that Caesar was a despot, or that the rule of law had been abandoned.’ That depends on the definition of the rule of law adopted, however.

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made it possible amount to a case of what John Keane has called ‘democide’, whereby a democracy signs away its own rights.187 Nonetheless, even the thinnest veneer of legality counted for something. Cicero condemned Sulla’s regime, yet he could also remark that Sulla acted iure, because he acted with the sanction of a law of the people.188 The sentiments Appian and Dio ascribe to the Roman people suggest an intention of preserving constitutional forms. Conceivably, then, even the most sweeping enabling measures acted as a kind of ‘ark’ or ‘seed bank’, preserving the ideal of the rule of law in periods where the reality was suspended, and thus also the possibility of later restoration;189 we might think of something like a ‘state of exception’, where the constitution is suspended in order to preserve it (but without a clear ‘sovereign’ decision to introduce such a state).190 Even Cicero’s complaints that Caesar was all-powerful and libertas lost are interspersed with hope for future restoration of the constitution;191 indeed, the complaints themselves–and ultimately Caesar’s murder–bespeak the survival of an underlying culture of legality to which Caesar’s position was anathema. Later still, in 28–27, community demand for ‘leges et iura’192 and Augustus’ action in repealing the ‘illegal and unjust’ acts of the triumvirs193 suggest that aspects of Republican legal culture had survived decades of civil war, even as the res publica itself was transformed.194 Indeed, we might even detect some evidence of positive legal developments during Rome’s civil wars–testament, perhaps, to the extent to which legality was still valued, as well as the potential for legal creativity in (civil) war conditions.195 Plutarch records a decree passed by the Republican senate on Cato’s motion: ‘that no Roman should be killed except in battle, and that no city subject to Rome should be plundered’.196 187 Keane 2009 (esp. xxxiii for the term) and 2010. Cf. Chou 2011, esp. 350–352; Lushkov 2017. For Cicero, the perpetual dictatorship was regnum (Phil. 1.4); various scholars have recognised it as the decisive break with Republican law and tradition. Cf. Cic. leg. agr. 3.5 (quoted in n. 181) on Sulla. 188 Cic. Att. 9.10.3 (SB 177) (March 49); Vervaet 2004, 74–75. Cf. Verr. 2.3.82 and leg. agr. 3.5, above. 189 A Roman analogy might be something like the temporary evacuation of the sacra from Rome during the Gallic sack (Liv. 5.39.11), or indeed the republicans’ evacuation of the city in 49 in order to save it. 190 Cf. Lowrie 2010 on dictatorship in Rome and the ‘state of exception’. 191 Complaints: see above. Hope: e. g. Cic. Marcell. 2; fam. 4.4.3 (SB 203) (October 46); 6.2.2 (SB 245) (April 45). In July 43, however, he was uncertain, should Brutus and Cassius fail (ad Brut. 1.15.10 [SB 23]). 192 See Cowan (2019 and forthcoming) on community demand for the rule of law in this period and Augustus’ claim to have restored ‘leges et iura’, reflected in an aureus of 28 and e. g. Vell. 2.89.3. 193 Cass. Dio 53.2.5 (καὶ ἀνόμως καὶ ἀδίκως); cf. Tac. ann. 3.28.3. Val. Max. 6.2.12 records that the jurist Cascellius refused to give formulae in respect of properties conferred by the triumvirs because they had acted outside the law. 194 Cf. Nicolet 1980, 398, who remarks that successive restorations following civil war brought ad­ vances in the rule of law, but also transformed Rome into a monarchy. 195 See Cic. Manil. 60 for war (foreign and, implicitly, civil) as a time of innovation. 196 Plut. Pomp. 65.1: μηδένα Ῥωμαίων ἄνευ παρατάξεως ἀναιρεῖν μηδὲ διαρπάζειν πόλιν ὑπήκοον Ῥωμαίοις (my trans.). Cf. Cato min. 53.4.

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Plutarch adds that this show of mildness and restraint (τὴν ἐπιείκειαν … καὶ τὸ ἥμερον) brought great acclaim and won many over to the Republican side.197 We may doubt whether it truly made much impact, but the decree should be accepted as historical.198 Cato’s interest in provincials is typical.199 Most obviously, the decree was a public declaration that there would not be proscriptions following a Republican victory.200 But it can also be interpreted as an attempt to introduce elements of a kind of ius belli of civil war–an attempt that is the more striking in view of the exclusion of combatants in civil conflicts from the protections of modern international law until the 19th century.201 It also contrasted with Caesar’s policy of clemency by substituting a fixed rule for individual discretion, which tended to place the granter above the law.202 Finally, all of this affords insights into the nature of law and legal culture in Republican Rome. The importance of law as a source of legitimacy is clear (also traditional institutions and proper procedure), as is the importance of the populus as the body competent to create law. Interestingly, the division of the civitas in civil war does not seem to have diminished the authority of law as notionally the will of the (single) po­ pulus, an observation that may strengthen the case for viewing the authority of Roman law as rooted in procedure rather than a fiction of consensus.203 The Roman fixation on formal legality should therefore be seen not as ‘mere’ legalism, but rather as an essential and characteristic part of Rome’s legal culture (and one that should be taken into account in any attempt to articulate a Roman rule of law). In addition, the persistent linking of law, libertas, and elected, time-limited office-holding may point to a ‘substantive’ element of the rule of law in Rome, although one that was quickly attenuated under the Principate.204 This in turn strengthens the case for approaching the rule of law generally not as fixed or universal in content but as dynamic and culturally contingent.

197 Plut. Cato min. 53.4. 198 Geiger 1971, 338. 199 Morrell 2017, 115 and passim. It is not clear how ‘subject to Rome’ would have been defined. 200 Welch 2012, 59; Geiger 1971, 338, though he notes that Otacilius Crassus’ massacre of citizens (Caes. civ. 3.28.4) must have preceded the decree or blatantly contravened it. Cicero feared proscriptions if Pompey won (e. g. Cic. Att. 9.10.6 [SB 177]); he was not alone (9.15.3 [SB 183]). Att. 11.6.2 (SB 217) (November 48) describes proscriptions as actually planned. 201 See Armitage 2017, chs 5–6 on the gradual extension of international law to civil conflicts. The Geneva Convention (1864) and even the foundation of the Red Cross in 1863 originally excluded civil wars from their remit, partly in deference to state sovereignty. The 20th century saw significant advances, yet civil combatants remain less protected than those in ‘international’ wars, despite the fact that civil conflicts are often nastier than international ones. Armitage does not discuss the SC of 49. 202 See e. g. Plut. Cato min. 66.2 (above); Yavetz 1983, 174–175. 203 So Meyer 2005. On the (fictional) notion of law as consensus, see e. g. Williamson 2005, passim; Walter 2017, 535–539. Both Williamson (397) and Walter (539) emphasise the enduring authority of lex even in times of conflict. Russell (forthcoming) emphasises the singular nature of the popu­ lus Romanus, irrespective of how it was constituted in any given assembly. 204 See Peachin 2016 on some of the problems of approaching the rule of law under the Roman empire.

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Welch, K. 2012. Magnus Pius. Sextus Pompeius and the Transformation of the Roman Republic, Swansea. Westall, R. W. 2016. The Sources of Cassius Dio for the Roman Civil Wars of 49–30 BC, in: C. H. Lange / J. M. Madsen (eds.), Cassius Dio: Greek Intellectual and Roman Politician, Leiden, 51–75. Westall, R. W. 2017. Caesar’s Civil War. Historical Reality and Fabrication, Leiden. Williamson, C. 2005. The Laws of the Roman People: Public Law in the Expansion and Decline of the Roman Republic, Ann Arbor. Wiseman, T. P. 2009. Remembering the Roman People, Oxford. Woytek, B. 2003. Arma et Nummi. Forschungen zur römischen Finanzgeschichte und Münzprägung der Jahre 49 bis 42 v. Chr., Vienna. Yavetz, Z. 1983. Julius Caesar and His Public Image, London. Zimmermann, A. 2007. The Rule of Law as a Culture of Legality: Legal and Extra-Legal Elements for the Realisation of the Rule of Law in Society’, in: eLaw Journal 14, 10–31. Zimmermann, A. 2013. Western Legal Theory: History, Concepts and Perspectives, Chatswood.

The Groundswell of Civil War Material Culture and Changing Worldviews in the Last Three Generations of the Roman Republic Dominik Maschek

When, in 63 BCE, the aged senator Gaius Rabirius appeared in court, not many members of the jury, let alone the elected magistrates of the year, would have been consciously aware of the crime he was accused of. Rabirius was about to be tried for per­ duellio, high treason, due to his active role in the tumultuous killing of the tribune Saturninus in 100 BCE, six years after the birth of Cicero, the man who would now speak up in his defense.1 Almost forty years had passed before this deed was brought to trial in the year of Cicero’s consulship, after the turmoil of the Social War and the subsequent first Civil War that had ended in the dictatorship of Sulla and the establishment of a new senatorial regime. However, as Cicero himself emphasized in his speech, this matter reached even further back in time than to the killing of Saturninus: evoking the violent death of Gaius Gracchus, Cicero referred to the lawfully proclaimed state of emergency during which Rabirius would have acted in defense of the res publica: If the killing of Saturninus was a crime, the taking of arms against Saturninus cannot but have been a wrongful act: if you agree that the taking of arms was lawful, you must also agree that the killing was lawful.2

Far from being unique, the trial of Rabirius therefore stands for a common and recurrent phenomenon in history: outbursts of excessive violence, in particular during civil conflict, disrupt the traditional fabric of society, leading to an all-pervasive experience of ‘unresolved trauma’ which extends well beyond the generation of the actual perpetrators.3 This has important implications for our understanding of the late Roman Republic, in particular with respect to the crucial question to what extent the traumatic 1 Cic. Rab. perd.; Suet. Caes. 12; Cass. Dio 37.26–38; Tyrell 1973; Philipps 1974. 2 Cic. Rab. perd. 14–19, trans. H. Grose Hodge. 3 Hutchinson/Bleiker 2015; Lange 2018; Rosenblitt 2019, 87–89.

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impact of violence would have affected people’s worldviews and lifestyles. The aim of this paper is to sketch out a range of scenarios, mostly from central Italy and Rome and based upon an integrated reading of the literary sources and the archaeological material, that bring us closer to the communities and individuals living through the turbulent decades of the late Republican period. It therefore attempts to focus on the often overlooked connections between the micro and the macro level which have been identified as crucial factors in recent research on the dynamics and effects of civil wars.4 Civil war, material culture, and social generations In order to trace the cross-generational consequences of civil conflict and violence in the late Roman Republic, it is necessary to first establish a conceptual framework that enables us to identify their short- and long-term effects. Pertinent evidence can clearly be derived from the extant literary sources, with writers such as Cicero, Sallust, Appian, and Cassius Dio frequently referring to the profoundly violent nature of the period from 133 to 31 BCE.5 The challenge is how to correlate this with the image we get from archaeology. Despite some clear discontinuities, the material record of the same decades shows a clear tendency of increasing complexity and more widespread patterns of consumption.6 In the authorative accounts of Paul Zanker, Filippo Coarelli, Andrew Wallace Hadrill and others this has been interpreted as a mostly positive development of cultural exchange and economic growth.7 However, the written sources leave us beyond any doubt about the fact that the decades from 133 BCE to the dictatorship of Sulla and then from the Fifties to Young Caesar’s victory over Mark Antony and Cleopatra brought massive inner conflicts and frequent violent outbursts in Rome and Italy on a previously unknown scale.8 We can assume that during this period a high percentage of the Italian population must have been seriously affected by violence and by the consequences of warfare, such as the lack of public order and the destruction of resources. Traditionally, history and archaeology have developed two interpretive frameworks for these seemingly contradictory trajectories of the available sources: On the one hand, many historical narratives tend to stress the negative aspects of crisis which is first and foremost seen as resulting from the political events of the 1st century BCE.9 On the other hand, archaeologists and historians working on late Republican art and material culture have come up with a narrative which emphasizes the positive aspects of

4 5 6 7 8 9

Balcells/Justino 2014. Jal 1961; Lintott 1968; Hinard 1985; Gotter 2011; Barrandon 2018. Maschek 2018, 53–64, 120–44. Coarelli 1976; Zanker 1976a; Coarelli 1990, 1996; Wallace-Hadrill 2008. Brunt 1971, 285–293; Maschek 2018, 91–97. E. g. Gruen 1974; Meier 1980; Morstein-Marx/Rosenstein 2006; Walter 2009.

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an essentially peaceful cultural revolution, driven by elite consumption and powerful waves of fashion that quickly spread across the Mediterranean.10 By contrast, since the late 1970 s a much more profound theoretical discussion of possible archaeological indicators for crisis and collapse in ancient societies has taken in place in prehistory, in particular in the works of Colin Renfrew and Joseph Tainter.11 Both authors point towards the potentially detrimental effects of increasing specialisation and complexity in pre-modern communities: Under favourable circumstances, it would have been advantageous for such societies to maximise the cultivation of cash crops and artisanal production, thus facilitating population growth and conspicuous consumption. However, this steep rise in complexity would often lead to huge disparities in wealth and to socio-economic tensions which could produce a systemic overload and subsequent collapse of the overly elaborate social fabric. Based on this proposition, Renfrew drew up a comprehensive list of archaeological indicators for crisis and disruption whilst also pointing to the fact that one should expect the shockwaves of societal collapse to extend over a prolongued period of time, from three to four generations.12 During this time, levels of endemic violent conflict would have been high, alongside the disruption of settlement patterns, and the fall from power of traditional elites. This is, by and large, corroborated by studies in Roman history and archaeology, from the imperial to the late antique period.13 In order to recognise the effects of such drawn-out processes in the archaeological record alongside the impact of sharp, short-term disruptions, it is necessary to look at the consequences of the late Republican civil wars in a cross-generational perspective that comprises the period from the end of the third Punic War to the early years of the Augustan Principate.14 However, it is equally important to emphasise that, in this view, ‘generations’ are not defined on the grounds of biological lineage but rather as a social category. This definition has been fruitfully applied by the sociologist Carmelo Lisón-Tolosana to a village community in the post-civil war Spanish region of Aragón.15 Within the village, Lisón-Tolosana was able to identify three chronologically overlapping social groups of men which he labelled the ‘declining’, the ‘controlling’, and the ‘emerging’ generation. Membership of these generations was primarily defined through prestige and material wealth, but also by the cultural legacy of previous generations alongside particular worldviews and visions for the future. Although the Spanish Civil War only lasted for three years, from 1936 to 1939, it had a long-term impact on the village community studied by Lisón-Tolosana: even in

10 11 12 13 14 15

E. g. Zanker 1976b; Gruen 1992; Coarelli 1996; Wallace-Hadrill 2008. Renfrew, 1978, 1979; Tainter 1988. Renfrew 1979, 481–489. Millet 1981; Witschel 1999; Gerrard 2013, 15–117; Gilhaus et al. 2016. Maschek 2018, 16–18. Lisón-Tolosana 1983, 170–201.

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1961, 22 years after the end of the war, the village’s ‘controlling generation’ exclusively consisted of men who had lived through the conflict as anti-Republican soldiers and had been profoundly shaped by this experience. We should therefore expect that a sequence of such ‘controlling generations’, even if only intermittently being exposed to a series of violent conflicts, would inevitably draw upon these episodes in the formation of both their belief-systems and their material world. Moreover, Lisón-Tolosana’s work also offers an important reminder that the impact of civil war on ‘controlling generations’ will not necessarily always lead to a massive disruption in the material record studied by archaeologists, but in many cases, it is even more likely to manifest itself over a drawn-out period of time after the actual end of a conflict’s ‘hot’ phase. The same is true for the transformation of belief-systems and worldviews which more often than not transpire over the course of several decades. Ultimately, this could even lead to the preservation of long-held grudges and exacerbate new waves of violence and hostilities, as in the case of the trial of the old senator Rabirius. The socio-cultural impact of violence in civil war As already stated above, the most recent archaeological accounts of 2nd to 1st century BCE Rome and Italy differ hugely from the notions of ‘crisis’, ‘decline’, ‘fall’ or ‘revolution’ that are all well established in the historiography of the late Roman Republic.16 Instead, in authorative publications like Andrew Wallace-Hadrill’s book ‘Rome’s Cultural Revolution’, the reader encounters a colourful bunch of wealthy, ‘hybrid’, ‘creolizing’ or ‘code-switching’ societies, populating 2nd and 1st century BCE Italy in a rather peaceful mood.17 This strand of research clearly promotes the positive effects of multiculturalism in the 2nd and 1st centuries BCE by establishing a direct link between increasing material complexity, affluent lifestyles, and the deliberate choice of identities.18 Although this perspective has granted us important new insights into the formation of late Republican material culture, it has also played a vital role in the creation of an archaeological narrative that widely ignores the darker sides of life in 2nd to 1st century BCE Italy. However, it is necessary to recognise that both the historical sources and the archaeological evidence for the period actually provide us with structurally different but nonetheless converging information about the same social, cultural, political, and economic processes. Therefore, only an integrative approach will lead to a deeper understanding of the interplay between political conflict and civil war and the articulation of material culture in the last generations of the Roman Republic. In this context it is essential 16 17 18

Morstein-Marx/Rosenstein 2006; Hölkeskamp/Müller-Luckner 2009. Wallace-Hadrill 2008. E. g. Bradley/Riva/Isayev 2007; Stek 2013; Versluys 2014.

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to look at the phenomenon in a truly transdisciplinary way, in particular as recent research on ancient and modern conflicts has unlocked a host of new perspectives on the dynamics and impact of civil war. The violent paroxysms which ultimately led to the establishment of the Principate have received renewed and vigorous attention over the course of the last years.19 At the same time, sociology and political science have focused on the crucial links between aims, motivations, and the use and impact of violence in situations of internecine conflict.20 In his fundamental studies, Stathis Kalyvas has identified four key characteristics which, in conjunction with Lisón-Tolosana’s idea of social generations, can help us to sketch out various scenarios of civil violence and its short- to long-term consequences for an affected community:21 Firstly, violence in civil war is jointly produced and frequently the outcome of a transaction between armed groups and civilians, most commonly facilitated through the process of denunciation. In this way, civilians gain a lot of agency and the exertion of violence extends beyond the group of perpetrators. Thus, the boundaries between perpetrators and victims will often be blurred. Such acts of denunciation and collaboration will become key elements in the commemoration and self-identification of ‘controlling generations’ for decades after the end of the actual conflict. Secondly, civil war violence can easily be privatised. The process of providing information to a hostile group opens the door to moral hazard and people will regularly use their opportunities to settle old grudges on a very local level. Such actions, alongside malicious denunciations, paradoxically lead to a privatisation of politics rather than a politicisation of the private life, thus representing the flip side of ideological polarisation. As a consequence, small and confined spaces (e. g. villages and neighbourhoods) can quickly become much more dangerous than large urban centres. Thirdly, in civil wars there is a profound disconnect between master cleavages (e. g. conflicting political ideologies or religions) and local cleavages (e. g. family and clan conflicts or competition amongst villages). Leading groups often propagate the former, whilst their success on the ground relies on the latter. This can easily lead historians and sociologists to the flawed assumption that the master cleavage actually provides the prime motivation for actions on the local level. By contrast, members of ‘emerging generations’ growing up under such conditions will internalise both the official ideologies and the peculiar nature of local violence, drawing upon this blend of experiences when they themselves rise into the ranks of the ‘controlling generation’. This, fourthly, can lead to the formation of endogenous identities over time as master and local cleavages come together through the transformative power of violence. Out 19 20 21

E. g. Breed/Damon/Rossi 2010; Lange 2013; Börm/Mattheis/Wienand 2016; Lange 2018; Maschek 2018; Lange/Vervaet 2019. E. g. Collier/Hoeffler 2004; Kalyvas 2006; Weinstein 2008; Christia 2012; Kalyvas 2012; Armitage 2017. Kalyyas 2006, 2012.

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of this process, new identities emerge which are infused with a strong legacy of the bygone conflict. Such legacies of civil wars can have a substantial impact on political decision-making processes in the decades following the end of hostilities, and they are usually kept alive by new ‘controlling generations’ whose members were largely complicit in the acts of denouncing and killing. It would therefore be a fallacy to try and make sense of civil war dynamics exclusively based upon reference to the pre-war situation. As highlighted by several recent archaeological studies, it is to be expected that such manifestations of violence in civil war, with their disruptive short-term impact and equally profound aftermath, would have left traces in the archaeological record.22 Indeed, a large number of urban centres and landscapes throughout 1st century BCE Italy and the wider Mediterranean were affected by immediate and unmitigated violence on a scale which had not been experienced for more than 100 years.23 From the Social War down to the battle of Actium, looting and destructions must have had a direct impact on the socio-political structure of many communities. Apart from the most serious threat of physical destruction, the annihilation of the material resources upon which local elites based their prestige and lifestyle must have led to profound societal changes. Being a traumatic experience for one local group, this situation could also have offered real opportunities for the social or political promotion of other local individuals or families. Due to the dynamics of civil war, old hierarchies and systems of power were often destabilised or completely remodelled, destroyed cities and settlements were abandoned and forgotten. This would give rise to new socio-political systems, led by new ‘controlling generations’, which emerged in a profoundly altered economic but also ideological framework. It is mainly through an integrated reading of archaeology and literary sources that we can fathom this fundamental relationship between civil conflict and cultural transformation in the late Republican period. Civil war violence and socio-political change in the late Roman Republic Nineteen years before the trial of Rabirius, in 82 BCE after the final victory of Sulla against the followers of Marius and Cinna, the city of Rome had become a theatre for all sorts of cruel vengeance.24 The most graphic source for these events is surely the epic ‘Pharsalia’, written by the poet Lucan in the age of Nero, whose lines are packed with gruesome details of brutality and carnage:

22 23 24

E. g. James 2007, 2011; Ralph 2012; Karl 2018. Heredia Chimeno 2015; Maschek 2018, 74–108, with sources. Hinard 1985, 42–51; Lovano 2002, 130–134; Santangelo 2007, 78–80, Barrandon 2018, 96–98, 235– 238.

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The heads of the chief men were borne on pikes through the terrified city and piled in the centre of the forum; the victims slaughtered in all places were displayed there. / Thrace never saw so many murdered corpses in the stables of the Bistonian king, nor Africa at the doors of Antaeus; nor did mourning Greece lament so many mutilated bodies in the courtyard of Pisa. / When the heads, dissolving in corruption and effaced by lapse of time, had lost all distinctive features, their wretched parents gathered the relics they recognised and stealthily removed them.25

Lucan goes on to describe the particularly shocking murder of a certain Marius Gratidianus,26 which was allegedly committed in a ritually charged and extremely brutal manner at the grave of Quintus Lutatius Catulus, himself the victim of an earlier wave of political assassinations: Why tell of the bloody atonement made to the ghost of Catulus? A Marius was the victim who paid that terrible offering, perhaps distasteful to the dead himself, that unspeakable sacrifice to the insatiate tomb. / We saw his mangled frame with a wound for every limb; we saw every part of the body mutilated and yet no death-stroke dealt to the life; we saw the terrible form taken by savage cruelty, of not suffering the dying to die. / The arms, wrenched from the shoulders, fell to the ground; the tongue, cut out, quivered and beat the empty air with dumb motion; one man cut off the ears, another the nostrils of the curved nose; a third pushed the eye-balls from their hollow sockets and scooped the eyes out last of all when they had witnessed the fate of the limbs. Few will believe such an atrocity, or that a single frame could be large enough for so many tortures.27

In classical scholarship, the accounts of Lucan and others have sometimes been disregarded as rhetorical or poetic exaggerations, even inventions.28 However, already Elizabeth Rawson pointed out that this fascination with atrocities should not be discounted too quickly as literary invention and that ‘sceptical modern historians sometimes suffer from a happy failure of imagination in refusing to envisage the horrors which we all ought to know occur too often in civil war’.29 This statement is supported by an extraordinary archaeological discovery from the Roman town of Valentia, modern day Valencia, in south-eastern Spain, securely dated to the year 75 BCE (Alapont Martín, Calvo Gálvez, and Ribera i Lacomba 2009; Ribera i Lacomba 2014). In this year, the forum of Valentia resembled a slaughterhouse: after siding with the Roman insurgent leader Sertorius, the town had been taken by the pro-senatorial troops of Pompey the Great, and now the time for brutal vengeance had

25 26 27 28 29

Lucan. 2.160–168, trans. J. D. Duff. Marshall 1985; Rawson 1987, 174–176; Damon 1993 with sources. Lucan. 2.173–187, trans J. D. Duff. Nuanced views in Masters 1992; Gotter 2011. Rawson 1987, 180.

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come. Small scale excavations in the forum of Roman Valentia have so far uncovered the remains of 14 male individuals, who were left dead in a very small area next to the town’s Curia. All of these individuals show clear signs of extreme injuries, in particular limbs which were cut off with swords, and fatal head wounds:30 According to the forensic study, two young men, aged between 15 and 20, had their right legs amputated. A couple of slightly older men were mutilated with swords and pointed weapons, at a moment when their hands were obviously tied behind their backs. One of the individuals suffered the complete removal of his lower legs at a time when he must have been still alive; subsequently, he was decapitated and his head, in an obscene or ritualistic act, was placed between his legs. Overall, the interpretation is clear: these must be the victims of public torture and execution. The methods are strikingly similar to the gruesome treatment of Marius Gratidianus in 82 BCE. The most senior of the victims from Valentia, perhaps a commanding officer, was treated in a particularly brutal way. His hands tied behind his back, a pilum was driven into his rectum; furthermore, his lower legs were cut off with a sword. By empaling and amputation, the torturers obviously did not only demonstrate their abject cruelty, but they also intended to create a specific image: through extreme disfigurement their victim was transformed into a trophy, a tropaion, one of the most popular symbols for triumph and victory in Roman art that was widely propagated on silver coins throughout the Late Republican period. Under normal circumstances, such cases of ritualised torture and the theatrical staging of public executions were exclusively reserved for

Fig. 1 Denarius, military mint travelling with Julius Caesar in Spain, 46–45 BCE: Head of Venus (obverse), Gallic tropy (reverse)

30

Alapont Martín 2008.

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slaves and convicted criminals.31 However, in times of civil war, these measures were also used against fellow Roman citizens and countrymen, not only in remote places like Valentia, but also against the allied town of Fregellae in 125 BCE, against Rome’s allies in the Social war from 91 to 88 BCE, and, ultimately, in the heart of Rome itself. In order to put the massacre of Valentia into a broader context, it is essential to note that, in the early 1st century BCE, the epicentre of the most intense violence and instability in the whole of the Mediterranean world had definitely shifted to Italy itself.32 From the outbreak of the Social War down to the late Forties of the 1st century BCE, sieges and battles took place in the most fertile and most densely populated regions of the Apennine peninsula. Captive Greece, to paraphrase Horace, may have introduced the arts to rustic Latium, but the Romans themselves brought the trauma of destruction to their native soil.33 Tactics of wholesale extinction and destruction which previously had been practised by Roman commanders and soldiers in Spain, Northern Italy, and the Balkans were now put into action against fellow Romans and Italians. The consequences of these methods become most obvious in the Social War and in the civil wars of the 1st century BCE. One particularly notorious example was the siege of Asculum in Picenum, which was conducted by Pompeius Strabo, father of Pompey the Great, with extreme brutality from 90 to 89 BCE.34 After sacking and destroying the city, Pompeius, back in Rome, even celebrated a triumph over Asculum.35 Finds of lead slingshot provide evidence for the involvement of multiple communities in this siege, for example slingers from the town of Firmum now fighting on the Roman side against their neighbours from Asculum who presumably also got support from the Veneti in the Po valley.36 Moreover, a Late Republican relief from Asculum shows a group of slingers in action, and it is difficult, despite the unknown context, not to associate this remarkable public monument with the fall of the city in 89 BCE.37 Based on the style of the relief, the monument would have been erected at some point in the mid-1st century BCE, presumably as a memorial for the victorious siege and perhaps even commissioned by members of the new ‘controlling generation’ who could have been actively involved in the fighting on the Roman side. Similar finds of slingshot come from the siege of Perugia, the so-called bellum Perusinum, in 41 to 40 BCE;38 famously, these glandes Perusinae provide vivid insights into the exchange of insults

31 Lintott 1968, 35–88; Kyle 2001, 49–55, 67–9 n. 88–93; Dillon 2006, 263–267. 32 Maschek 2018, 83–108. 33 Hor. epist.1.156–7. 34 Flor. epist. 2.6.11; Oros. 5.18.26; Liv. per. 76; Cic. Cluent. 21–23; Brunt 1971, 285. 35 Degrassi 1947, 84–5. 563; Dart/Vervaet 2914, 62–63. 36 Raggi 2014, 89–97. 37 De Maria/Giorgi 2014, 218; Raggi 2014, 99. 38 Benedetti 2012; Spadoni/Benedetti 2012.

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between the troops of Young Caesar and Lucius Antonius, but they also, as in the case of Asculum, stand for an extreme escalation of violence on Italian soil.39 Another incisive case for this is the Latin town of Praeneste. In the civil war between Marius and Sulla, Praeneste sided with the former and was consequently besieged by Sulla’s troops in 82 BCE. Both Appian and Plutarch report that after the final conquest almost the whole male population of Praeneste was killed, with the staggering number of 12,000 victims.40 Strong supporting evidence for this account comes from the epigraphical record, as shown in a famous study by Attilio Degrassi.41 In the corpus of inscriptions from the mid- to late Republican necropolis of La Colombella, only 20 elite families out of 138 still figure after the siege of 82 BC, implying a dramatic reduction of about 85 %. This becomes even more evident in public inscriptions related to the Sullan colony that was established after the conquest: in these inscriptions only 10 % of the town’s magistrates come from old families.42 Civil war violence thus led to a profound transformation of Praeneste’s sociopolitical structure, a fact also reflected upon by Cicero in the Fifties of the 1st century BCE, when he reports that the territory of Praeneste was currently owned by a very small group of wealthy landholders.43

Fig. 2 Praeneste, family background of colonial magistrates after the sack of 82 BCE.

39 Hallett 1977. 40 App. civ. 1, 87–94; Plut. Sull. 32. 41 Degrassi 1969, 114–116. 42 Coarelli 1987, 65. 43 Cic. leg. agr. 2.28; Harvey 1975.

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Tellingly, this is perfectly in line with the archaeological evidence from the La Colombella necropolis, where we can see a significant change in the material culture of burial in the 1st century BCE: Whilst elite tombs of the 3rd and 2nd centuries BCE had been characterised by similar size and design, both the number and the architectural layout of tombs changed notably in the first half of the 1st century.44 Now there was only a small overall number of newly built tombs, but these were monumental in size, clearly reflecting the dominance of only a few elite families.45 This is a very tangible consequence of the violence from which Praeneste suffered during the civil war, but it is by no means an exception: Similar processes of brutal social transformation, economic re-distribution, and the violent rise of a new ‘controlling generation’ are reflected in the funerary architecture of central Italy throughout the 1st century BCE.46 Changing lifestyles and worldviews in the 1st century BCE According to the archaeological record, the eruptions of extreme violence and the destruction of prosperous cities in Italy happened alongside a remarkable growth of socio-economic complexity. Many towns and sanctuaries in Latium and Campania experienced a boom in monumental building that happened within only a couple of generations, urban centres boomed, and huge quantities of fine tableware, wine amphorae, and animal bones appear both on small rural sites and in lavishly decorated urban houses.47 Physical destruction and material wealth were therefore two sides of the same coin when it comes to the terminal crisis of the late Roman Republic. One possible explanation for this development can be derived from theories of socio-political collapse, developed in both archaeology and the social sciences. As Jürgen Habermas and Colin Renfrew have stated, in times of crisis ruling elites tend to invest heavily in their charismatic authority to avoid loss of control and ensuing political collapse.48 This kind of investment can encompass a bundle of strategies, such as the construction of sacred or administrative buildings or an increase in public representation and performance. These conditions produced a powerful feedback loop between the widespread rise of conspicuous consumption and the escalating internal violence of the 1st century BCE. The literary sources leave us beyond any doubt that the brutal purges of the Sullan and Triumviral period were often driven by what we, with Kalyvas, have previously defined as jointly produced and internalised violence, both in the city of Rome and in

44 45 46 47 48

Pensabene 1982. Coarelli 1991; Santangelo 2997, 144–146. E. g. Maschek 2017. Wallace-Hadrill 2008; DeRose Evans 2013; Maschek 2018, 174–226. Habermas 1973, 100.30; Renfrew 1979, 490–498.

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the smaller municipal towns in central Italy.49 In many cases, the master cleavage of the major conflicting factions was utilised by local elites in order to settle scores and increase their own wealth and status. The grand feuds between Sullans and Marians, or Pompeians and Caesarians, were thus trumped by greed and local rivalries that had been caused by the fast and often disproportionate growth in material wealth since the mid-2nd century BCE.50 With respect to the archaeological evidence, this can be demonstrated by a wide range of indicators, such as the size and decoration of houses and villas, the quantity of silverware, metal objects, pottery, amphorae, animal bones, and the percentage of imported foodstuffs. The same is true for dozens of honorific statues which show a peculiar combination of idealised nudity and veristic portraiture and start to make their appearance only in the later second century BCE, when the social cohesion of elites in Rome and central Italy started to come under threat and new ‘controlling generations’ rose to power.51 Contemporaries were conscious of this development but largely described it within the moralising framework of luxuria.52 When Cicero, in his Pro Roscio Amerino, sketched out the gradual progress from luxuria to criminal behaviour, he explicitly stated that this predominantly happens in an urban environment, where luxury is created.53 This clearly reflects the vigorous process of urbanisation, another fundamental feature of Roman and Italic society in the late Republican period.54 Apart from posing a threat to traditional moral norms, the emergence of ever larger and complex urban communities would have created enormous tensions in the entire socio-political fabric of the Apennine peninsula. In certain regions of central Italy it seems fair to see his process in analogy to the dramatically changing world of 19th century Europe, which Ferdinand Tönnies memorably characterised as the shift from Gemeinschaft to Gesellschaft, i. e. from village communities to urban society.55 Recently, Francis Fukuyama has proposed that this shift would have caused a ‘psychological dislocation’ which ‘laid the basis for an intense nostalgia for an imagined past of strong community’.56 Arguably, something similar happened, in different stages, in late 2nd and 1st century BCE Italy. In this sense, the Social War can be seen as a first, albeit futile, reaction of the Roman minority group against potential newcomers from the allied communities who, themselves, had come under intense pressure due to a crisis of legitimacy which resulted 49 50 51 52

Cf. Santangelo 2007, 78–99; Osgood 2014, 11–64; Santangelo 2016; Lange 2018, 72–75. Shatzmann 1975; Hopkins 1978, 37–56; Kay 2014, 87–105; Beck/Jehne/Serrati 2016. Zanker 1988, 5–16; Hölscher 1990; Zanker 1995; Hölscher 2004; Cadario 2010, 119–123. E. g. Diod. 37.3; Sall. Cat. 10–11; Iug. 41; hist. frg. 1.13; Liv. 39.6.7; Plin. nat. 34.14.34; 33.148; 37.12; cf. Lintott 1972; Gruen 1992, 69–70, 94–95, 105–16; Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 315–316, 28–29, 46–53. 53 Cic. S. Rosc. 15. 54 Patterson 2006, 89–183; Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 103–210; de Ligt 2012; Maschek 2018, 125–140, 91–204. 55 Tönnies 1887; engl. Harris 2001. 56 Fukuyama 2018, 64–65.

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Fig. 3 So-called ‘general’ of Tivoli, nude honorific statue, c. 80–60 BCE (Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano).

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from the rapidly changing material conditions in their hometowns.57 Later on, the charismatic leaders of the civil wars, such as Marius, Sulla, Metellus Pius, Pompey, or Domitius Ahenobarbus, would rely upon violent social engineering, alongside their immense material wealth, in order to become patrons for new clientelae many of which, again, would have been communities on the margins of the rich and densely urbanised core of central Italy, e. g. in Picenum or Northern Italy. Due to their family history or pre-existing landholdings in these areas, such leaders would morph into quasi-feudal warlords who could challenge the political system on multiple levels, even though they did not yet try to abolish the Republican order but rather to carve out a larger portion of the proceeds of empire for themselves.58 Ultimately, a similarly forceful move from Gemeinschaft to Gesellschaft also happened within Late Republican urban centres, as demonstrated by the well-studied case of slaves and freedmen who, for a short period of time, displayed their new dignity and pride in conspicuous funerary monuments. The veristic group portraits on such monuments, largely of freedmen such as the Appuleii from Nomentum, were produced in a specific social milieu and under very particular political circumstances: Paul Zanker and many other scholars saw these monuments as evidence for the self-representation of a new class of social upstarts who profited from the new period of peace after the battle of Actium.59 However, this explanation is simply contradicted by the chronology of these monuments.60 Dated on the grounds of style, their numbers peak in the last twenty years of the Republic and in the first two decades after the end of the civil wars. It is therefore clear that their creation was much more closely linked to the dramatic social upheavals of the civil wars of the 40 s and 30 s BCE than to the peace after Actium. The crisis of a war-ridden society made it possible for these so-called ‘social climbers’ to emerge and to find their own style of visual expression, consciously demonstrating the strength of the family unit in perilous times. Similar changes affected elite worldviews and lifestyles amongst members of the new ‘controlling generations’. Alongside the anti-materialist moralising offered by the likes of Sallust and Diodorus, the quest for a definition of ‘Roman’ identity and Roman urbanitas, as encapsulated in the writings of such diverse authors as Varro, Cicero, Catullus, and Vitruvius, can only be fully understood against the backdrop of civil war and social transformation.61 Equally, the growing allure of philosophical and esoteric movements such as Epicureanism and Stoicism amongst prominent Roman senators finds a striking parallel in the design and decoration of Late Republican villas.62 This is

57 58 59 60 61 62

Mouritsen 1998, 39–58, 109–151; Dart 2014; Santangelo 2018. Patterson 1993; Crawford 2008; Rankov 2018. Zanker 1975; Petersen 2006; Borg 2012, 26–30, 40. Kockel 1993, 56–79. Dench 2005, 61–73, 184–193, 298–321, 34–37; Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 144–212. Zarmakoupi 2014.

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Fig. 4 Mentana (Nomentum), funerary relief of the Appuleii, c. 40–30 BCE

neatly illustrated by the lavish sculptural finds from Fianello Sabino, located between Civita Castellana and Rieti in northern Latium.63 Here we find a whole assortment of Dionysian characters, young athletes, portraits of Greek philosophers and statesmen, but also statuettes and marble lamps, which originally decorated a late-second or early first-century villa. Given the obvious reference to the Dionysian sphere, already this early example of villa decoration makes it clear that such fashionable artworks were chosen from a set of styles and themes which were closely associated with conspicuous consumption and the pleasures of life beyond the grim realities of contemporary

63

Vorster 1998.

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politics.64 A similar trend of cultural escapism in the face of internecine violence is recognisable in late Republican and early Augustan poetry.65 Conclusion: Socio-political conflict, material culture, and changing worldviews in the late Republican period The harsh realities and disruptions of civil war therefore sit right at the core of the late Republican paroxysm: on the one hand, they were fuelled by the increasing complexity of urban life and conspicuous consumption which gave rise to greed and violent appropriation; on the other hand, by the forceful and premature promotion of new ‘controlling generations’, they also played a vital role in conditioning the worldviews and socio-cultural norms that regulated the use of material culture. In conclusion, it is important to note that these ‘controlling generations’ would have appeared across all levels of society. Thus, a study of late Republican material culture that focuses only on elites will, as a matter of fact, always remain woefully incomplete and myopic. It seems therefore quite appropriate to end this paper with a glimpse into the lives of some ordinary people who, at least in principle, could have been contemporaries of the old senator Rabirius and the consul Cicero. Twenty years after Rabirius’ trial, we could envisage a sculptor who, in his workshop in Rome, was about to carve the last details of a funerary relief for three members of the same family; with hammer and chisel, he worked in travertine, a stone that was familiar to him since his early days as an apprentice. However, this relief was different, as it had been commissioned by two grieving parents as a memorial for their only son who had fought and died as an officer in the army of Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. Although he was essentially proud of his work, the sculptor nonetheless could not avoid the thought that, over the last six, seven years, all too many young men had not returned to the neighbourhood. Roughly at the same time, a slave in a large pottery workshop in Etruria spent her working hours shaping clay into moulds that were decorated with a bewildering array of intricately carved images. By doing so, she produced hundreds of red-glazed bowls and cups which were the latest fashion for wealthy diners in the city. The lavish sceneries of gods, dancers, gladiators, and erotic couples on these dishes struck her as particularly ornate when compared to the plain and unglazed pots and plates she herself used for cooking and eating in the slaves’ quarters.

64 65

Wójcik 1986; Neudecker 1988; Zanker 1988, 35–41; Mayer 2005, 149–163. Osgood 2006, 152–201, 298–349; Breed 2010; Feldherr 2010.

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Likewise, in the hills of Latium, we could encounter a wage labourer who had been given a tiny plot of land by his noble patron just to find out that farming was not lucrative, leaving him heavily indebted and desperate to get back to his urban life. However, due to his miserable state and after having spoken to a few of his neighbours who were equally impoverished Caesarian veterans, he seriously considered enlisting in one of the opposing armies fighting in Italy. Myriads of such individual realities of Late Republican civil war, spanning multiple generations of senators, landowners, merchants, farmers, artisans, freedmen, and slaves, are preserved in the large structural patterns of archaeology and across a wide range of written accounts, from literary texts to inscriptions. It is only through a combined interpretation of all available sources that we will be able to bring them back to life. List of Illustrations Fig. 1 Fig. 2 Fig. 3 Fig. 4

Denarius, military mint travelling with Julius Caesar in Spain, 46–45 BCE: Head of Venus (obverse), Gallic tropy (reverse); RRC 468/1, Roma Numismatics Ltd, Auction XVIII, 29 September 2019, lot number: 962. Praeneste, family background of colonial magistrates after the sack of 82 BCE (author). So-called ‘general’ of Tivoli, nude honorific statue, c. 80–60 BCE (Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano). (Photo: D–DAI-ROM 34.412) Mentana (Nomentum), funerary relief of the Appuleii, c. 40–30 BCE (Photo: D–DAIRom 74.320, C. Rossa)

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Part IV A Language of Civil War

Stasis in Rome? Hellenistic Discourse and the bella civilia of the Late Republic* Henning Börm

In the city of Rome, the seventh decade before the turn of the millennium was characterized by unrest and turmoil. Since Pompey’s and Crassus’s first consulate in 70 BCE, the conflict within the nobility had increased in intensity, and in 65 BCE, according to Cassius Dio, several conspiracies gave the people great concern.1 We do not learn any more details from him, but presumably Dio refers here, in particular, to Gnaeus Piso, a young nobilis and factiosus, who, as Sallust explains, was said to have planned an attack on the assembled senators, intending to enter the Capitol and put down both consuls.2 The project only failed because Piso, allegedly, could not find enough assassins to commit the bloody deed. Merely two years later, unrest in Rome reached a new climax: First, a tribunus plebis, in covenant with Cicero’s co-consul Gaius Antonius, tried in vain to achieve the restitution of political exiles;3 another tribune campaigned for a cancellation of debt, while a third – Publius Servilius Rullus – advocated a large-scale redistribution of the land.4 Cassius Dio notes briefly that all these attempts failed because of Cicero’s re-

*

This paper goes back to lectures that I gave in Konstanz, Münster, Bochum and Rostock. I would like to thank Jon Albers, Ulrich Gotter, Wolfgang Havener, Bernhard Linke and Christian Wendt for their helpful comments. 1 Cass. Dio 37.9.2. 2 Sall. Cat. 18.4–7: Erat eodem tempore Cn. Piso, adulescens nobilis, summae audaciae, egens, factiosus, quem ad perturbandam rem publicam inopia atque mali mores stimulabant. Cum hoc Catilina et Autro­ nius circiter nonas Decembris consilio communicato parabant in Capitolio kalendis Ianuariis L. Cottam et L. Torquatum consules interficere … Iam tum non consulibus modo, sed plerisque senatoribus pernici­ em machinabantur. 3 Cf. Heftner 2013. 4 Cass. Dio 37.25.3–4: ἄλλος χρεῶν ἀποκοπάς, ἄλλος κληρουχίας καὶ ἐν τῇ Ἰταλίᾳ καὶ ἐν τῷ ὑπηκόῳ γενέσθαι ἐσηγεῖτο.

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sistance,5 and thanks to his own explanations in the second speech de lege Agraria, we know the arguments the consul used to achieve his goal: Cicero accused the tribune, Rullus, of intentionally obscuring the actual purpose of the bill. First of all, the consul argued that the proposed law would allow certain rich landowners to sell worthless land at high prices.6 More importantly however, Cicero claimed that the tribune strove for much more, as his proposals were in fact an expression of the excessiveness of a rex. Cicero notably supports this grave accusation with a telltale detail: the tribunus plebis planned to equip each of the decemviri that were to be appointed, but above all himself, with a bodyguard of 20 men, ministros et satellites potestatis, and this was, as the consul explains, the most visible mark of a tyrannus.7 This is the only time in the speech that Cicero uses this term instead of rex; so it seems obvious that he was purposely and quite specifically talking about a τύραννος in Greek fashion.8 By using land distribution as an instrument, the consul concluded, Rullus wanted to rob the Romans of their freedom.9 It was probably partly this rhetorical frontal attack that ruined the tribune’s plan. Immediately after the failure of the three tribunes, however, others swiftly took on these issues: Both Sallust and Cassius Dio emphasize that Lucius Sergius Catilina,10 who was said to have been implicated in the Pisonian conspiracy,11 in the run-up to his own coup, attempted to attract followers by promising a debt cancellation (tabulae novae) and a distribution of the land.12 We are told that Catilina argued that the res publica had come under the rule of a clique against which a violent revolt was justified.13 The aristocrats in his retinue were asked to take an oath, binding themselves to Catilina and the common cause – although we may doubt that in this context a human sacrifice was made, as Dio claims,14 the vow is confirmed by Sallust, who says that bowls of human blood mixed with wine were passed around.15

5 Cass. Dio 37.25.3–4. 6 Cic. leg. agr. 2.6.16. 7 Cic. leg. agr. 2.13.32: Formam adhuc habetis, Quirites, et speciem ipsam tyrannorum. 8 At least since Herodotus, a bodyguard was considered a typical attribute of a tyrant; cf. Luraghi 2015, 73. 9 Cic. leg. agr. 2.11.29: Reges constituuntur, non decemviri, Quirites, itaque ab his initiis fundamentisque nascuntur, ut non modo cum magistratum gerere coeperint, sed etiam cum constituentur, omne vestrum ius, potestas libertasque tollatur. 10 Cf. Tatum 2006, 193–197; Steel 2013, 150–159; Urso 2019. 11 Sall. Cat. 18.5. 12 Cass. Dio 37.30.2; Sall. Cat. 21.2. Cf. Giovannini 1995. 13 Sall. Cat. 20.7: Nam postquam res publica in paucorum potentium ius atque dicionem concessit, semper illis reges, tetrarchae vectigales esse, populi, nationes stipendia pendere; ceteri omnes, strenui, boni, nobiles atque ignobiles, volgus fuimus sine gratia, sine auctoritate, eis obnoxii, quibus, si res publica valeret, for­ midini essemus. 14 Dio. Cass. 37.30.3. 15 Sall. Cat. 21.1: Fuere ea tempestate qui dicerent Catilinam oratione habita cum ad iusiurandum popula­ ris sceleris sui adigeret, humani corporis sanguinem vino permixtum in pateris circumtulisse.

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The panorama offered by our sources is quite remarkable: calls for a restitutio of exiles, for a (re-)distribution of the land and for a cancellation of debts; the accusation that political opponents were in fact seeking a tyranny or had already established one; aristocrats conspiring to bring about a revolution, recruiting followers for this purpose; attempts to assassinate leading members of the social and political elite gathered in the curia – what our sources tell us about these events would not have seemed possible to any nobilis only a few decades earlier. In a Roman context, these were relatively new phenomena, symptoms of profound and violent changes to the political order of the res publica.16 For any Greek observer, however, it must have seemed quite obvious what was happening in Italy during these years: clearly, there was stasis raging in Rome.17 This was something only too familiar in Hellas, as, in contrast to what is sometimes assumed, even in late Hellenistic Greece, civil strife, frequently associated with Archaic and Classical times,18 had by no means disappeared from the world of the polis.19 On the contrary: Only a few years before Catilina called for a cancellation of debts and the liberation of Rome from the tyranny of a faction, bloody staseis had broken out all over the Greek world in the wake of the First Mithridatic War (89 to 85 BCE).20 For example, in Adramyttium in western Asia Minor, the rhetor Diodorus, is said to have been the instigator of a massacre; according to Strabo, the entire city council fell victim to him and his followers.21 Around the same time, 16 young men, led by an aristocrat named Damon, attacked the assembled officials of the small city of Chaeronea in Boeotia, killing them all.22 Violent civil strife also occurred in Lydian Magnesia, where, according to Plutarch, two parties were fighting for control of the city, with the stasis only coming to an end when one of the two στασίαρχοι finally went into exile.23 In Colophon there were bloody riots, too, eventually resulting in a short-lived “tyran-

16

For an overview, the following works on the last decades of the Republic are particularly useful: Christ 2000, 231–268; Bringmann 2003, 63–69; von Ungern-Sternberg 2004; Dahlheim 2005, 17–35; Tatum 2006; Steel 2013, 140–177. 17 Ando 1999 discusses the question of whether the Greeks considered Rome to be a polis. 18 Cf. especially Heuß 1973, 24–34; Lintott 1982; Gehrke 1985, 11–199; Loraux 1995; Fisher 2000; and Hansen 2004. 19 Cf. Börm 2019, 37–170. See also Gray 2015, 159–291. On the discourse of violence in Hellenistic Greece, see Zimmermann 2013, 165–218. 20 Cf. Börm 2019, 133–147. See also Ñaco 2011 and Niebergall 2011. 21 Strab. 13.1.66: ἠτύχησε δὲ τὸ Ἀδραμύττιον ἐν τῷ Μιθριδατικῷ πολέμῳ. τὴν γὰρ βουλὴν ἀπέσφαξε τῶν πολιτῶν Διόδωρος στρατηγὸς χαριζόμενος τῷ βασιλεῖ, προσποιούμενος δ᾽ ἅμα τῶν τε ἐξ Ἀκαδημίας φιλοσόφων εἶναι καὶ δίκας λέγειν καὶ σοφιστεύειν τὰ ῥητορικά; cf. Berve 1967, 430. 22 Plut. Kim. 1.2–2.2. Cf. Ma 1994, Kallet-Marx 1995, 279–281, and Niebergall 2011, 63–65. 23 Plut. mor. 809b–d; Cretinas and Hermeias were involved in a stasis (ἀντιπολιτευόμενος ἀνδρὶ) at the moment that Pontic troops approached the city. Instead of seeking support from the external enemy, the στασίαρχοι of both parties – according to Plutarch – reached a peaceful agreement: Cretinas supposedly proposed to Hermeias that one of them should leave the city so that the other could defend it against Mithridates. Hermeias agreed and willingly went into exile with his family.

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ny”,24 while in Tralles the sons of a man named Cratippus seized power by force.25 Such conflicts are even recorded for the southern coast of the Eastern Mediterranean: In Cyrene, a man called Leander was brutally killed as an alleged tyrant together with his family and friends.26 As far as can be inferred from our sources, however, Athens seems to have been hit the hardest: At first, the followers of the philosopher Athenion, promising debt cancellation and a redistribution of the land, took control of the city in 88 BCE,27 and this was immediately followed by the “tyranny” of another philosopher called Aristion, who sided with Mithridates VI and allegedly had his opponents killed in droves until after one and a half years Sulla’s troops conquered the city,28 putting an end to his rule.29 Moreover, this was by no means the last major outbreak of internal violence that the Greek world experienced in the first century BCE: Twenty years after Catilina’s violent death, Hellas and Asia Minor became the battleground of the Roman bella civilia after the Ides of March, with internal conflicts in many poleis escalating once again.30 All these cases have in common that they have been transmitted to posterity only accidentally and usually in just a few sentences, which allows the assumption that this was only the tip of the iceberg; probably the number of staseis during the Hellenistic age was in fact significantly larger.31 Only with the establishment of the Principate and the enforcement of the pax Augusta would it become possible to pacify the Greek cities to some extent.32 But until then, at least the fear of a violent stasis was virtually omnipresent in Hellas. Are the striking parallels between these staseis in the late Hellenistic East and the events in contemporary Rome a mere coincidence? Are our sources perhaps misleading, because some of the most important authors, namely Plutarch, Appian, and Cassius Dio, saw the Roman bella civilia through Greek eyes, subjecting them to an interpretatio Graeca? The latter, to some extent, certainly plays a role, even though one may wonder how ‘Greek’ some of these Imperial authors actually were. However, on the factual level, despite some misunderstandings and topical embellishments, there is no reason to doubt the veracity of the literary sources in principle: The writings of men such as Sallust, Cicero and Velleius Paterculus may in fact serve as proof that the 24 Plut. Luc. 3.3. 25 Strab. 14.1.42. 26 Plut. mor. 257a–e. 27 Athen. 5.47–53 (= FGrHist 87 F 36); cf. Antela-Bernárdez 2015 and Börm 2019, 134–140. 28 Plut. Sull. 13.2–4; cf. Eckert 2016, 86–101. 29 App. Mithr. 5.28; cf. Deininger 1971, 255–258. The old question of whether Aristion and Athenion are perhaps one and the same person is of no importance in this context; cf. Bugh 1992. 30 Cf. Börm 2016a. 31 Notwithstanding the extremely fragmentary literary tradition, the sources mention over 120 cases in the Hellenistic period; moreover, numerous direct and indirect references to staseis can be found in the epigraphic evidence. 32 Cf. Börm 2019, 157–162.

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corresponding discourse was in fact also shared by Roman authors. The presuppositions and consequences of this takeover of central elements of the Hellenistic stasis discourse by the Romans will therefore be of focus in the following reflections. To do so, however, some basic remarks on the phenomenon of stasis are required.33 Staseis were widely feared; even in the Imperial period writers such as Dexippus still considered them to be the worst catastrophe that could hit a polis.34 The way in which these authors narrated these internal conflicts while attempting to make sense of them was informed by various patterns that were usually conceptualized as dichotomies: rich versus poor,35 old versus young,36 tyrants or oligarchs against democrats,37 friends of Rome against enemies of Rome.38 It is important to note that these categories were not only applied by historians and philosophers, but also by people directly involved in stasis, as is attested by the epigraphic record.39 Thus, in the third century BCE, an inscription recording the oath taken by the citizens of the Cretan polis Itanus required the politai to swear to seek neither a cancellation of debts (χρεῶν ἀποκοπή) nor a redistribution of the land (γῆς ἀναδασμός);40 moreover, they were forbidden to

33

Cf. Gehrke 1985, 309–353; Lintott 1982, 252–263; Shipley 2000, 132 f.; Hansen 2004; and Schmitz 2014, 95–110. 34 BNJ 100 F 32–33: ὅτι ἰσχυρότατον στάσις ταράξαι εὐεξίαν καὶ εὐταξίαν φθεῖραι πόλεώς τε καὶ στρατοπέδων. I cannot go into the complex question of whether stasis was a ‘typical Greek’ phenomenon, and whether and to what extent conflicts in poleis were different in character from those in other cities. For this paper, it is crucial how internal strife was talked about in Greece. 35 For example, Aristotle (pol. 1266a) notes that according to Phaleas of Chalcedon ‘all staseis’ (τὰς στάσεις πάντας) were in fact property disputes (περὶ τὰς οὐσίας); In the third century BCE, the philosopher Cercidas of Megalopolis attacked the rich, apparently urging them to improve the situation of the poor before it was too late; Pap. Oxy. VIII 1082. 36 Diod. 18.46.1–18.47.2: In Termessus, for example, a division within the citizen body apparently escalated in 318 BCE, with Diodorus depicting it as a conflict between younger men, who had taken a stand against their parents and their seniors. 37 On Hellenistic oligarchy, see Hamon 2007; Müller 2018 (with further literature); and Ando 2018; cf. also Leppin 2013, 147: ‘There is no clear mark on the spectrum from oligarchy to democracy which might serve as the boundary between the two’. On Hellenistic democracy, cf. Mann 2012; Bugh 2013; Cartledge 2016, 231–245; Chaniotis 2018, 122–147; and especially Wiemer 2013. 38 In a famous passage (Liv. 42.30.1–7), Livy (probably following Polybius) explains that the urban elites in the Greek cities had fallen into three groups in the run-up to the Third Macedonian War: first of all, there were the alleged ‘friends of the Romans’, who, according to Livy, simply wanted to control their cities. Secondly, there were those who were already inferior to this first group and who therefore directed their hopes to the Macedonians: Livy makes it clear that this was mostly done out of pure need to somehow resist the ‘Romanizers’. And thirdly, another group (tertia pars) appears whose attitude, following Livy and Polybius, has often been misinterpreted as neutrality, while in my opinion these politicians were in fact men who had simply failed to portray themselves as friends of the Romans in time, but were too afraid to join Perseus and his lost cause. For a different interpretation, cf. de Ste. Croix 1981, 518–529. 39 Cf. Börm 2019, 268–272. 40 οὐ[δὲ γᾶς] ἀναδασμὸν οὐδὲ οἰκιᾶν [οὐδὲ] ο̣ἰκοπέδων, οὐδὲ χρεῶν ἀ[ποκ]ο̣π̣ὰν ποιησέω; I.Cret. III iv 8, l. 21–24.

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form a conspiracy or to begin a stasis.41 Other inscriptions defamed the defeated opponents as tyrants and oligarchs – in Hellenistic Greece, every politician was claiming to fight for democracy which by then was the only legitimate order.42 The danger of taking polemics at face value is correspondingly great. Moreover, few things tend to be portrayed as subjectively as a civil strife in which one is involved.43 It was always the others who were the ‘tyrants’ and ‘oligarchs’: As far as I can tell, not a single Hellenistic inscription is known in which a faction describes itself as oligarchic, not to mention tyrannical.44 All in all, inscriptions thus do not offer an objective representation of events, because they either reflect the partisan point of view of the victors or were intended to make possible a reconciliation after a stalemate by expressly withholding most details of the conflict.45 In the face of this, it is hardly surprising that modern research still struggles to identify the main causes of stasis.46 If especially the literary sources claim that clashes between the young and the old or between the rich (εὔποροι) and the poor (πένητες) played an important role in the outbreak of stasis, then these statements of course must not be dismissed altogether;47 and the same is true for those ancient writers that connect internal conflicts with external ones;48 or for those that narrate them as a struggle of the advocates of democracy with oligarchs or tyrants.49 However, a synoptic ana­lysis of these reports reveals that whenever the authors go into some detail describing Hellenistic stasis, they usually focus on members of the elite as the key players and leaders on both sides, as στασίαρχοι.50 In my opinion, this seemingly contradictory finding can

41 42 43

I.Cret. III iv 8, I. 16–21. Cf. Hansen 2006, 112. Cf. Ma 2009, 256: ‘Within cities, the construction of memory may have been the means or the prize in struggles or personal agendas […]. “Collective memory”, like other products of the Greek city, may have to be read against the grain’. 44 No less an authority than Polybius (2.59.6) attests how serious an allegation of tyranny was in the Hellenistic period: ‘It would not be easy to bring a graver or more bitter charge against a man than this. For the mere word involves the idea of everything that is wickedest and includes every injustice and crime possible to mankind’ (ταύτης δὲ μείζω κατηγορίαν ἢ πικροτέραν οὐδ᾽ ἂν εἰπεῖν ῥᾳδίως δύναιτ᾽ οὐδείς. αὐτὸ γὰρ τοὔνομα περιέχει τὴν ἀσεβεστάτην ἔμφασιν καὶ πάσας περιείληφε τὰς ἐν ἀνθρώποις ἀδικίας καὶ παρανομίας). 45 For a detailed discussion, cf. Börm 2019, 171–272. 46 For an excellent summary, cf. Hansen 2004. 47 Cf. Finley 1983, 108: ‘Distrust of such sources is certainly justified – but distrust, not neglect’; cf. de Ste. Croix 1981, 300–326: The assumption that there was a ‘class struggle’ between ‘rich’ and ‘poor’ in the poleis still appears in recent scholarly studies; cf. Martínez-Lacy 2000 and Cartledge 2012: 323. Thériault 1996 (5) also argues that ‘les conflits sociaux sous-jacents entre riches et pauvre, c’est-à-dire entre citoyens possédants et non-possédants,’ were the root cause of stasis. 48 For a very thorough discussion, cf. Gehrke 1985, 277–287. 49 See, for example, Teegarden 2014, 115–214: Although this study is quite illuminating on individual questions, in my view it suffers from the basic assumption that ‘tyranny,’ ‘oligarchy,’ and ‘democracy’ in the Hellenistic period are descriptions of facts. 50 Cf. Börm 2019, 274–278.

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be best explained by the assumption that it was usually conflicts between aristocrats – by which I do not mean a hereditary nobility but merely members of the elite – that triggered stasis, with both sides trying to legitimize their position and gain support by drawing on slogans and topics that seemed suitable for achieving a high degree of mobilization and support among the demos.51 In other words, at least some of these Greek politicians apparently practised something reminiscent of what in the Roman context has famously been dubbed the ‘popular method’.52 Apparently, this was necessary because since the end of the Archaic era private feuds between members of the elite usually no longer seemed acceptable as a legitimate reason for throwing a whole community into turmoil.53 Of course, civil strife in itself was nothing peculiar to Greek poleis. History knows of other cases of endemic urban violence, for example in northern Italy during the Renaissance. However, the particularly high susceptibility of many if not all poleis for such catastrophic events can probably be attributed at least in part to the peculiar character of ancient Greek society and culture: Although internal rivalries and fierce competition are characteristic of most aristocracies, including the Roman nobility,54 in Hellas, solidarity towards the community seems to have been especially low, even if one avoids excessive generalizations. The roots were deep. Egon Flaig has pointed out that in a culture that thought less in terms of gradation than in dichotomies, to many Greeks anyone who could not demonstrate beyond a doubt that he was a lord was suspected to be a slave.55 The notion that every human community is divided into rulers and subjects and that those with power inevitably use it as ruthlessly as possible were already quite common in Classical Athens, as Ulrich Gotter has argued, and this still had a considerable influence on Greek political thought during Hellenistic

51 52 53 54

55

In my view, it may be that this was actually instrumental in keeping democratic institutions alive in many Hellenistic cities, even though the local elites had become overwhelmingly superior in many places by the late fourth century; cf. Börm 2019, 286–295. Cf. Meier 1965, esp. 549, and Walter 2017, 220 f. On the dichotomy of boni and mali in the context of the late Roman Republic, see now Nebelin 2021. Cf. Hölkeskamp 1989; cf. Gotter 2006, 246: ‘In Bürgerkriegen, so zeigte sich, mußte mehr noch als sonst der Verlierer der Schuldige sein, denn anders ließ sich weder mit den eigenen Toten noch mit denen der anderen Seite leben. ‘ It seems important to emphasize that as early as the third century BCE, the Roman elites were clearly marked by great competition and considerable conflict; cf. Bleckmann 2002, 225–243; Hölkeskamp 2006; Linke 2014 and 2018. On the problem of distrust within the nobility cf. Timmer 2017, 257–266. Cf. Flaig 2006, 33: ‘Die Peitsche wurde in der Klassik zum politischen Symbol, weil jeder Freie wußte, daß sie ihm niemals drohen würde, wohingegen Sklaven ständig mit ihrer Drohung leben mussten […]. Die Diskurse über Gewalt und über die Differenz zwischen Freien und Sklaven waren deswegen so plausibel, weil die soziale Wirklichkeit diesen Diskursen massive Anhalts­ punkte bot’.

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times.56 In the second century BCE, Polybius used “freedom” and “domination” almost as synonyms.57 Anyone claiming an outstanding position within a polis had to be prepared to demonstrate his superiority again and again, which in turn made it almost impossible for the losers to accept this open dominance.58 The social norms that could have protected inferiors were underdetermined; and in case of defeat, there was a lack of compensatory mechanisms.59 So it was all the more important to defend one’s honour (and thus one’s status) at all costs.60 Even more important: according to Hans-Joachim Gehrke, in the eyes of many Greeks τιμωρία had a fundamentally agonal, surpassing character;61 it was not enough to take an eye for an eye, rather, the aim was to inflict more damage on the opponent than what you thought you had suffered yourself.62 Thus it is obvious that a dispute could therefore escalate very quickly, and it comes as no surprise that even a comparatively late author such as Plutarch warns that a private feud could still plunge an entire city into misfortune.63 In many cases, Greeks evidently did not succeed in developing generally and permanently accepted criteria for delimitation and internal hierarchization of the elites, in particular holding

56 57

Cf. Gotter 2008, 183–199. Pol. 5.106.5: ‘All those who by nature are inclined towards domination and love freedom, fight incessantly against one another because they are not prepared to back off in the competition for primacy’ (ἅπαντες γὰρ ἡγεμονικοὶ καὶ φιλελεύθεροι ταῖς φύσεσι μάχονται συνεχῶς πρὸς ἀλλήλους). 58 Diodorus (FGrHIst 87F 108c [= Diod. 34.2.33]), probably quoting Poseidonius of Apamea, draws an illuminating parallel: anyone who occupies a position of power, whether as a citizen in a polis or as the master of slaves in a household, should treat his subordinates mildly, because the arrogance (ὑπερηφανία) and excessive harshness (βαρύτης) of those in power lead slaves to revolt against their masters and cause staseis within the citizen community. 59 Cf. Scholz 2008, 71–76. 60 Jon Lendon (2011, 378) has summarized the principles of the so-called ‘Mediterranean honour’ well: ‘The self-image of the man of honor consists chiefly of what his community thinks of him … He regards the public’s perception of him as unstable and in need of protection, and so he reacts strongly to any perceived attack on his honor, taking revenge for it’. Lendon (2011, 389) assumes that the Roman concept of revenge was atypical in that it was usually non-violent, especially among the elite, arguing that nobiles had unusually little concern about loss of honour: ‘The honor an aristocrat of an ancient family with great estates drew from those sources was incontrovertible’. If this observation is correct, then the cultural difference between Roman and Greek aristocrats was particularly great in this regard. 61 Cf. Gehrke 1987 (a not very well known but insightful paper). See also Flaig 1998 and Fisher 2000. 62 Cf. Flaig 2006, 50: ‘Die eigenhändige Rache führt zur Gewaltanwendung innerhalb der Bürgerschaft und zur Tötung von Mitbürgern. Sie provoziert Gegenschläge und befördert damit Eskalationen, die den inneren Frieden einer Gemeinschaft außer Kraft setzen und damit die Grundlagen des Zusammenlebens einer Polis zerstören’. 63 According to Plutarch (mor. 824f–825a), ‘just as a conflagration does not often begin in sacred or public places, but some lamp left neglected in a house or some burnt rubbish causes a great flame and works public destruction, so disorder in a state (στάσιν πόλεως) is not always kindled by contentions about public matters, but very frequently differences arising from private affairs and offences pass thence into public life and throw the whole State into confusion’.

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public office in the service of the polis. Instead, rank and position had to be constantly renegotiated, and they needed to be demonstrated again and again.64 Therefore, even after the final elimination of a party within a polis this pacification was often not permanent, as the chronic problem of escalating conflicts within the elites persisted even after a victory. This can probably most clearly be seen in the case of Sicyon, where, according to Plutarch, during the fifty years after 301 BCE there had been new staseis, tyrannies and banishments.65 Significantly, every upheaval seems to have led to ever new banishments and not to a return of the previously exiled, which can only be explained if we assume that within those parties that had gained the upper hand and had removed their enemies from the city, new divisions had occurred, leading to ever new clashes. On the one hand, this is a strong indication that rivalries, feuds, and mistrust within Greek aristocracies were indeed the root cause of most, albeit not all, staseis.66 For if these conflicts had been primarily about economic issues, about democracy or foreign policy, stability would have had been established after the victory of one party and the elimination of the other, as the alleged goals had now been achieved.67 Instead, it was not uncommon for men to become enemies of their former allies, as the problem of hierarchization within the elites persisted. On the other hand, this explains why the control of an external power over Greek towns was always precarious and why the destabilization of a city had to be much easier than stabilization: Not even the uncompromising elimination of all citizens who allegedly or actually resisted the current overlord could guarantee that no new stasis broke out between the victors, replacing the often-vaunted concord (ὁμόνοια).68 The local elites regularly tried to win the support of Hellenistic kings and – later – the Romans in order to prevail against their internal rivals,69 but as not every Greek aristocrat was equally successful in this contest, of course, this inequality often further exacerbated internal conflicts.70 Against this background, latent instability was almost a structural feature of the polis, although of course not every Greek city was affected.71 This also ex-

64 For a detailed discussion, cf. Börm 2019, 274–286. 65 Plut. Arat. 2.1f; Errington 2008 (93) rightly interprets this as ‘longstanding strife among the ruling families’. 66 For the assumption that most staseis were caused by conflicts within the urban elites, cf. Gehrke 1985, 328–335, while Eich 2006, 522–540 is critical of this ‘elitäre Stasismodell.’ 67 Cf. Börm 2019, 65–70. 68 Thériault 1996, 5–70 offers a useful overview of the Greek cults of Homonoia. It is noticeable that apparently these were particularly widespread among the Western Greeks. 69 A thorough study of the ‘friends’ of the kings in early Hellenistic cities is now offered by Egetenmeier 2021. See also Savalli-Lestrade 2003 and Dreyer/Weber 2011. 70 Cf. Scholz 2008, 77: ‘Zwangsläufig gewannen diejenigen innerhalb der städtischen Führungs­ schicht an Macht und Einfluß, die über Kontakte oder gar nähere freundschaftliche Beziehungen zu den Königshöfen verfügten’. 71 Cf. Hansen 2004.

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plains why the accusation of acting like a tyrant72 played such a central role in the stasis discourse.73 To put it simply, many Greek politicians ultimately expected their rivals to seek absolute power – and this reproach was immediately plausible, for the surest way to prevent the unbearable rule of another man was, of course, to try to forestall him.74 The question of when it came to the first cultural contacts between Latium and Hellas is of secondary importance for my argument. The Romans had come to know the phenomenon of stasis at an early stage, as the tendency towards civil strife was very widespread among the Western Greeks,75 and the Republic took advantage of this fact in the course of its expansion into Southern Italy and during the Punic Wars.76 However, in the early second century BCE, when the Roman upper classes came into closer contact with Greek culture, including the above-mentioned patterns of thought, Hellenes and Romans were certainly still quite alien to each other. Above all, despite growing tensions and distrust,77 most nobiles were usually much more able to compromise than Greek aristocrats were. Moreover, the fact that the Senate generally voted in exclusion of the public, contributed to making defeats more bearable while concealing dissent within the ruling class.78 Not boasting was expected of a nobilis, but joviality and symbols of repercussion,79 and there was widespread agreement about the public roles – for example, as a general, as a priest and in court – in which you could gain status, prestige and auctoritas, thus setting your rank within the elite.80 Ultimately, it was the populus Romanus who decided on the hierarchy within the Roman elite by voting on which politicians were to hold offices. The most important difference, however, was that a Roman politician, unlike his Greek counterpart, usually did not have to worry about paying with his life in the event of defeat. In the worst case, exile was imminent, and this, too, was a rare exception.81 A century later, however, as we saw at the beginning of this chapter, all of this had fundamentally changed.

72 73 74

75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Cf. Meier 2014, 21–23. Cf. Börm 2019, 241–268. Cf. Gotter 2008, 186–7: ‘This concept of power entails a strict dichotomy between those who have it and those who do not. Politics therefore revolve around one crucial question: who possesses power? It is the extreme situation of violent conflict that defines the answer: to be able to rule implies the ability to kill’. Cf. Lomas 1993, 3: ‘The political life of many cities was bedeviled by stasis and instability’; cf. Ber­ ger 1992, 117–18. Cf. Börm 2019, 58–63 and 83–91. Cf. Steel 2013, 42: ‘The members of Rome’s governing class were intensely competitive’; see also Steel 2013, 49: ‘popular discontent was inseparable from divisions within the ruling elite’. See also Gotter 2020. Cass. Dio 39.28.3: εἰ γάρ τις τῶν μὴ βουλευόντων ἔνδον ἦν, οὐδεμία ψῆφος αὐτοῖς ἐδίδοτο. Cf. Jehne 2000. Cf. Rosenstein 2006 and Beck 2008. Cf. Flower 2010, 82: ‘In political terms any violence was in itself a basic breach of republican principles … There was virtually no societal or legal precedent to support any argument that a citizen should forfeit his life in an internal political conflict’.

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Of course, I do not intend to argue that the Romans imported the civil war from Hellas.82 This path was taken quite independently.83 However, what was taken over by the Romans, not least mediated by Hellenistic philosophers like Poseidonius and Panaetius,84 were apparently central elements of the way in which civil war constellations could be talked about.85 For the Gracchi,86 this cannot yet be said with absolute certainty, as the two single most important sources, Plutarch and Appian, interpret the events explicitly as a stasis, thus possibly distorting the realities.87 Nevertheless, there is no reason to doubt that Tiberius Gracchus actually used Hellenistic rhetoric while posing as the champion of the populus against oligarchy – according to Plutarch, a Greek exile named Diophanes was one of his closest advisers.88 The report that his opponents in return accused him of seeking to establish a tyranny is not implausible either.89 To be sure, what Tiberius Gracchus demanded did not in fact amount to a genuine γῆς αναδασμός,90 and neither did the plans of Publius Rullus decades later.91 Nevertheless, it is certainly no coincidence that these two men were accused of striving for monocracy: In a Greek context, claiming that someone had demanded a γῆς

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To date, there is no generally accepted definition of ‘civil war’; cf. Waldmann 1998; Sambanis 2004; and Kalyvas 2007. I have suggested the following definition elsewhere, partly based on Kalyvas, who has rightly stressed intimacy as a distinct feature setting internal war apart from interstate conflicts: “Civil war is a violent conflict between at least two armed parties, both of which, as a rule, have a structure that is at least paramilitary; furthermore, it is necessary for at least one of the parties of the conflict to see the enemy principally as (former) members of the same group, that is, they themselves consider the war to be an internal affair” (Börm 2016b, 18). 83 Ulrich Gotter has recently argued that the events of 133 BCE should perhaps be interpreted primarily as a conflict between a group of particularly rich senators, including Tiberius Gracchus himself, who did not depend on the ager publicus and the majority of ‘middle class senators’ who did; cf. Gotter 2020, 83–4. 84 Cf. Wiemer 2018. 85 For the Hellenistic stasis discourse, cf. Börm 2018a. 86 Cf. Fisher 2022, 132–141. 87 Cf. Ossier 2004, 64: ‘Unwittingly these Greeks projected many Greek ideas upon the histories they wrote of Tiberius Gracchus, for neither could rise above the zeitgeist of his own day’. 88 This does not mean that Tiberius followed Hellenistic models when it came to the actual implementation of his reform. This point has been controversial for a long time, but it does not play a major role in my study. For a Greek influence, cf. Nicolet 1968. Contra Ossier 2004, 65: ‘Tiberius arrived at his revolutionary policies by being immersed by Roman tradition and was not inspired by the Greeks at all’. 89 Plut. Tib. Gracch. 19.3: πάντες μὲν οὖν ἐθορυβήθησαν ὁ δὲ Νασικᾶς ἠξίου τὸν ὕπατον τῇ πόλει βοηθεῖν καὶ καταλύειν τὸν τύραννον. 90 On γῆς ἀναδασμός, cf. Asheri 1966; Gehrke 1985, 323–325; and Orth 1986 739, who assumes that the phenomenon is situated less in the real social development than in the realm of political slogans. See, however, Eich 2006, 543–555. 91 Regardless of the actual reasons why Tiberius Gracchus sought the division of the ager publicus (cf. Heuß 1960, 130–147; Badian 1972; Rich 1983; Christ 2000, 117–120; Blösel 2015, 140–149; Prei­serKapeller 2021, 205–212), it is quite clear that it was not about redistributing property, while in the first century it was mostly about looking after the veterans; and this, too, was a specifically Roman problem.

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ἀναδασμός was as closely linked to tyranny as the establishment of a bodyguard or the occupation of the Acropolis and had long assumed downright topical character: These were things that were almost expected when describing a τύραννος.92 To the nobiles of the Late Republic, not a few of which had studied in Hellas, therefore, this connection was undoubtedly familiar. Of course, not every parallel between Hellas and Rome was based on takeovers from Greece, because in many cases we are dealing with phenomena characteristic for civil strife as a whole. However, ideas such as the notion that killing a tyrant and his followers was not a crime but a blessing for the community had been around for a long time in Greece,93 and since we can trace the gradual development of this idea, while it was apparently already known to Roman nobiles when Tiberius Gracchus was slain, it seems reasonable to assume that we are indeed dealing with a takeover, not with an independent development: At the latest, in early Hellenistic times, as can especially be seen in the Athenian Eucrates Psephisma94 and the so-called Tyrant Law of Ilium,95 the notion had developed that all enemies of democracy were tyrants and should therefore be slain without punishment, with the law of Ilium characteristically detailing that ‘oligarchs’ should be killed even if everything seemed democratic.96 Significantly, the law does not determine who was to decide whether someone was a tyrant or a ‘leader of the oligarchy’ and should be killed. In Hellas, the most important prerequisite for trying to legitimize an assassination as a tyrannicide seems to have been that the attack had to be carried out before the eyes of as many citizens as possible in order to mark it as a political, not private, act.97 One could hardly have been killed in a more public way than Tiberius Gracchus.98 In short, at the moment when internal political violence first occurred in Rome, the Greek discourse of stasis was ready to provide the nobiles with already well-established catchphrases, justifications, interpretations and conceptualizations of civil strife. The fact that this discourse also often depicted the Greek reality only to a limited extent

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Cf. Gehrke 1985, 325; Orth 1986, 726–7. Cf. Ober 2003, 224–5: ‘Those who seek to replace the democracy with any other form of government are tyrannical. Democracy and tyranny thus define a bipolar political universe. There is no legitimate ‘third way’ between the rule of the demos and the rule of the tyrant […]. Killers of tyrants are defenders of democracy and therefore deserve immunity, honors and celebration’. 94 IG II/III3 1.320, l. 7–11: ἐάν τις ἐπαναστῆι τῶι δήμωι ἐπὶ τυραννίδι ἢ τὴν τυραννίδα συνκαταστήσηι ἢ τὸν δῆμον τὸν Ἀθηναίων ἢ τὴν δημοκρατίαν τὴν Ἀθήνησιν καταλύσηι, ὃς ἂν τὸν τούτων τι ποιήσαντα ἀπο κείνηι, ὅσιος ἔστω; cf. Börm 2019, 241–244. 95 OGIS 218 (cf. I.Ilion 25). Cf. Teegarden 2014, 173–214 and Börm 2019, 244–254. 96 OGIS 218, l. 111–116: ἐάν τις ἐν ὀλιγαρχίαι κακοτεχνῶν περὶ τοὺς νόμους βουλὴν αἱρῆται ἢ τὰς ἄλλας ἀρχάς, ὡς ἐν δημοκρατίαι θέλων διαπράσσεσθαι τ[ε]χνάζων, ἄκυρα εἶναι καὶ τὸν τεχνάζοντα πάσχειν ὡς ἡγεμόνα ὀλιγαρχίας. 97 Cf. Rieß 2016, 98–9. 98 App. civ. 1.16: κἀν τῷδε τῷ κυδοιμῷ πολλοί τε τῶν Γρακχείων καὶ Γράκχος αὐτός, εἱλούμενος περὶ τὸ ἱερόν, ἀνῃρέθη κατὰ τὰς θύρας παρὰ τοὺς τῶν βασιλέων ἀνδριάντας.

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did not diminish its usefulness; on the contrary, it even facilitated the adaptation of these ideas to the differently shaped political culture of Rome.99 We have already seen how easily Cicero, for example, made polemical use of the allegation, clearly borrowed from Hellas, that someone advocating a land distribution actually strove for a tyranny. The fact that the Late Republican practice of veteran settlement in reality100 had as little to do with an actual γῆς αναδασμός as demands for tabulae novae101 had with a χρεῶν ἀποκοπή obviously hardly mattered in the context of political polemics.102 It seems that now that internal strife began to escalate in Rome,103 Greek ideas and slogans fell on fertile ground – ideas whose proponents, at least since Thucydides, suggested that they were universal anyway, not describing cultural peculiarities of the Hellenes but anthropological constants.104 It is important to stress that the Hellenistic stasis discourse did not supersede Roman thought patterns: it influenced and inspired them. However, while hardly anyone reading Sallust would doubt that Greek thought patterns were used to retrospectively interpret the catastrophe that was the bella civilia,105 it seems that the stasis discourse did not only shape the way Romans thought and spoke about their civil wars post factum, but that it already played an important role during the events. Discourse and reality are intertwined, influencing each other. Arguably, this helped make the Greek ideas about internal conflict more plausible over time, at least for a certain segment of the Roman upper class. Already for someone like Cicero, rex and tyrannus had become – at least when it came to Rome – almost interchangeable.106 And so, it seems that the conceptualization of conflicts inspired by contemporary stasis discourse not

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Cf. Meier 2014, 12: ‘Als heuristische und in dieser Form reflektierbare Kategorie ist die politische Kultur der Republik den Akteuren nicht geläufig. Aber sie schlägt sich nieder in spezifischen Rahmenbedingungen politischen und gesellschaftlichen Handelns (…). Das bedeutet aber nicht, dass die Akteure im Diskurs die Ordnung direkt identifizieren und ansprechen’. Cf. Brunt 1962. Cf. Meier 2017, 17: ‘Im ganzen hat nicht wirtschaftliche oder gesellschaftliche Veränderung auf die Politik gedrückt, sondern die Veränderungen im Politischen haben es bedingt, welchen Gebrauch man von den wirtschaftlich-gesellschaftlichen Gegebenheiten machte’. Remarkably, the many differences did not prevent someone like Cicero (off. 2.78) from talking about Roman land reforms as if he were dealing with an actual γῆς ἀναδασμός: Qui vero se populares volunt ob eamque causam aut agrariam rem temptant, ut possessores pellantur suis sedibus, aut pecuni­ as creditas debitoribus condonandas putant, labefactant fundamenta rei publicae, concordiam primum, quae esse non potest, cum aliis adimuntur, aliis condonantur pecuniae, deinde aequitatem, quae tollitur omnis, si habere suum cuique non licet. It seems reasonable to assume that Cicero is closely following Panaetius here. On the ‘logic of violence’ in Roman civil wars, cf. Lange 2018, 69–75. On the question whether Thucydides intended his work to be a sort of ‘Stateman’s Manual’ see Wendt 2018. See, for example, Wiater 2017 and especially Meister 2018. See, however, Meier 2014, 22: ‘Cicero unterscheidet ganz selbstverständlich zwischen guter und schlechter Alleinherrschaft: In dem Moment, in dem sich ein rex ins Unrecht setzt, wird er zum tyrannus’.

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only influenced political rhetoric and Roman thought patterns, but also, over time, the available options for action and constraints. While one gets the impression that the Romans in the beginning were mainly inspired by the Greeks with regard to rhetoric and polemics, over time the stasis discourse seems to have increasingly influenced the political analysis of Roman civil strife. In other words, the longer Hellenistic rhetoric and thinking was used in Rome, the more likely it became that someone would follow up these words with deeds. The first climax of this development was undoubtedly the conflict between Sulla and his opponents, for that was when the internal power struggle in Rome gained a new quality, and a seditio turned into an outright civil war.107 It was hardly a coincidence that it was precisely in this context that two phenomena make their first appearance in our sources, raising the conflicts within the Roman ruling class to another level: the hostis declaration and the proscriptions. I will look at them briefly one after the other. It is in connection with Sulla’s march on Rome 88 BCE108 that we hear for the first time about certain men being declared a hostis publicus,109 even if it cannot be ruled out that there were already precursors, for example in connection with the sen­ atus consultum ultimum against Gaius Gracchus and Fulvius Flaccus.110 According to Appian, Sulla not only justified his actions in a very Hellenistic fashion by claiming to have to free the city from its tyrants,111 but after he had established control over Rome he made sure that twelve high-ranking persons, including the six-time consul Marius, were declared to be enemies of the state. They were outlawed.112 For a Roman nobilis, to take such an action against his peers was as novel as it was monstrous. Remarkably, however, this was by no means true for the Greeks: Already the Athenian Demophantos Psephisma of 410 BCE had spoken of treating every proponent of an oligarchy as an enemy of the demos,113 and in the third century a civic oath from the polis Chersonesos Taurica explicitly forbade the citizens to make common cause with someone who had been declared a πολέμιος τῷ δάμῳ.114 So far, we do not know enough about the process and the specific background of this procedure; however, the parallel is notable enough to at least consider that there were Greek precursors 107 Already Appian (civ. 1.7.58) made a fundamental distinction between stasis and war: When Sulla marched on Rome for the first time in 88 BCE and engaged the Marians in what was to all intents and purposes a battle, this fight, according to Appian, could no longer be termed stasis but was practically a war: καὶ γίγνεταί τις ἀγὼν ἐχθρῶν, ὅδε πρῶτος ἐν Ῥώμῃ, οὐχ ὑπὸ εἰκόνι στάσεως ἔτι, ἀλλὰ ἀπροφασίστως ὑπὸ σάλπιγγι καὶ σημείοις, πολέμου νόμῳ. 108 Cf. Levick 1982. 109 Vell. 2.19.1. Cf. von Ungern-Sternberg 2004, 98. 110 Cf. Flower 2010, 86. 111 App civ. 1.7.57: πρέσβεις δ᾽ ἐν ὁδῷ καταλαβόντες ἠρώτων, τί μεθ᾽ ὅπλων ἐπὶ τὴν πατρίδα ἐλαύνοι. ὁ δ᾽ εἶπεν, ἐλευθερώσων αὐτὴν ἀπὸ τῶν τυραννούντων. On Sulla’s self-representation cf. Ramage 1991. 112 App. civ. 1.7.60. 113 And. 95–98; cf. Teegarden 2014, 15–53. 114 IosPE I2 401, l. 30–40; cf. Dössel 2003, 179–196.

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or models for the Roman hostis declaration. Of course it cannot be ruled out that Sulla was ignorant of these Hellenistic measures and simply drew his own conclusion from the charge that the Marians were tyrants, as it had been customary since ancient times to declare any τύραννος to be outlawed (ἄτιμος).115 However, the fact that Sulla later gave the order to pull Marius’ dead body from his grave and throw him into the river Anio is certainly reminiscent of similar practices that were common in the Hellenistic East, where people would often take their posthumous revenge on alleged tyrants in this way.116 Incidentally, Sulla’s opponents seem to have paid him back in his own coin shortly afterwards: According to Appian, Cinna forbade his dead enemies to be buried, leaving their bodies to the wild animals.117 Now for the second possible ‘import’ from Hellas: Anyone even superficially familiar with Roman history associates Sulla with a measure that symbolizes the horrors of the bella civilia like no other: After his return from the Greek East and his final victory in the civil war, he ordered proscriptions to which about 40 senators and 1,600 equites are reported to have fallen victim.118 These aristocrats were therefore not killed in the context of confusion and upheaval, as the Gracchi had been, but they were deliberately physically destroyed. Again, this measure was completely unprecedented in the context of Roman history; in Hellas, on the other hand, producing lists of the names of aristocratic rivals and enemies had a long tradition,119 and by the middle of the second century BCE, this custom had already taken on a new dimension: Livy famously reports that after the Third Macedonian War those Greeks who had succeeded in appearing as reliable allies of Rome produced long lists of rivals who were to be deported to Italy.120 However, it was the prominent ‘friend of Rome’, Charops, who a couple of years later took this a decisive step further by presenting the federal assembly of Epirus with a comprehensive list of wealthy men and women and had all of them sentenced not only to exile, but to death.121 Polybius tells us that the Roman senate knew full well 115

It is often assumed that since Classical times, ἀτιμία usually no longer meant that it was permissible to kill someone with impunity. However, it seems that even in Hellenistic times, in connection with stasis and tyrannicide, the original meaning still applied; cf. Dmitriev 2015. For a different view cf. Rainer 1986 172: ‘Diese politische Atimie dürfte in hellenistischer Zeit abgeschwächt worden sein, und in manchen Fällen ist lediglich mit einer floskelhaften Übernahme der Atimieklausel zu rechnen’. 116 Val. Max. 9.2.1: Nam C. Marii, cuius, etsi postea hostis, quaestor tamen aliquando fuerat, erutos cineres in Anienis alueum sparsit. For example, in the first century BCE, the body of Nicias of Cos is said to have been torn from his grave after he had been declared a tyrant; Anth. Gr. 9.81; cf. Börm 2019, 156–7. 117 App. civ. 1.8.73. 118 Plut. Sull. 31; App. civ. 1.9.95; cf. Cic. S. Rosc. 20–21; cf. Hinard 1983. All in all, about 4,700 Romans fell victim to these proscriptions; Val. Max. 9.2.1; cf. Christ 2000, 16. 119 In the third century, for example, Cleomenes III made a list of 80 citizens whom he ordered to be exiled from Sparta; Plut. Cleom. 10.1. 120 Pol. 30.13.7; Zonar. 9.31; cf. Deininger 1971, 194–197 and Börm 2019, 119–121. 121 Pol. 32.5.7–13: προέγραφε γὰρ τοὺς εὐκαιροῦντας τοῖς βίοις φυγάδας.

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about these proscriptions, since Charops later travelled to Rome to justify his actions in person.122 As a Roman general, Sulla had been able to study some of the staseis raging all over Greece during the First Mithridatic War, including the civil strife that surrounded the ‘tyranny’ of Aristion in Athens, already mentioned above. This fact should probably not be overestimated; one way or another, however, it seems possible that Sulla, by proscribing his own enemies, was adapting an instrument that was already well known from a Greek context and introduced it to Rome. Once again, of course, this cannot be definitively proven. Perhaps he simply drew his own consequences from the increasingly uncompromising perpetration of the enemy’s factio.123 In any case, however, it seems clear that an idea that was very widespread in Hellenistic political culture – namely that one could call whole groups of men tyrants and treat them accordingly – was now transferred to the Roman world. It is hardly a coincidence that Sulla’s epitaph, written by himself and preserved by Plutarch,124 claimed that he had outbid all his friends regarding benefits and all his enemies regarding inflicted evil: Even a Greek could hardly have summed up better this aristocratic ethos and the associated concept of revenge with its tendency to right a wrong by surpassing it.125 As described earlier, this bloody acculturation phenomenon can also be observed over the following decades, with Sallust and Cicero testifying that these parallels are not just projections of later Greek authors such as Plutarch, Appian and Cassius Dio, but that at least some elements of the Hellenistic stasis discourse were actually known to the Romans during the late Republic. It should perhaps be emphasized once more that these patterns of thought did not replace the Roman ones but complemented and inspired them. There was never only one narrative. Of course, this resulted in contradictions and idiosyncrasies.126 Not every nobilis acted as ‘Hellenistic’ as Sulla, whose

122 Pol. 32.6.2–7: In the end, Charops sought in vain for the backing of powerful senators; after the Senate ruled against him, he found death in an obscure manner. 123 Cf. Genschel/Schlichte 1997, 503: ‘Die Antizipation fremder Gewalt schafft Gewaltbereitschaft auch da, wo sie bisher gar nicht vorhanden war. Gewalt wird zur self-fulfilling prophecy’. 124 Plut. Sull. 38.4: τὸ μὲν οὖν μνημεῖον ἐν τῷ πεδίῳ τοῦ Ἄρεώς ἐστι τὸ δὲ ἐπίγραμμά φασιν αὐτὸν ὑπογραψάμενον καταλιπεῖν, οὗ κεφάλαιόν ἐστιν ὡς οὔτε τῶν φίλων τις αὐτὸν εὖ ποιῶν οὔτε τῶν ἐχθρῶν κακῶς ὑπερεβάλετο. 125 Cf. Flaig 2006, 35–38. Flaig argues that, in the eyes of the Greeks, the key question was who had started the argument. Although it was often not in accordance with the law, even lethal violence was tolerated in certain circumstances: ‘Der Gegenschlag durfte demnach übermäßig ausfallen … Die Berechtigung zur Überbietung sieht der Angeklagte darin, daß wer mit der Gewalt anfängt nicht Gleiches erleiden soll.’ 126 As Latin authors such as Cornelius Nepos depict Greek staseis as if they were Roman bella civilia, e. g. talking about populares and optimates in early Hellenistic Athens (nam populares Polyperchonti favebant, optimates cum Cassandro sentiebant; Nep. Vir. Ill. Phoc. 3.1), one gets the overall impression that from a certain point in time we are perhaps dealing with a kind of fusion of Greek and Roman civil strife discourse.

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deliberate retreat from power,127 on the other hand, would have astonished most Greeks. No Roman was forced to adhere to the Greek way of civil war, there were always other options. For example, a politician like Caesar could, depending on the context, sometimes act like a Hellenistic demagogue, putting his dignitas – or τιμή – above everything128 and appearing disrespectful to people and senators alike,129 sometimes like a traditional Roman nobilis, treating his defeated peers demonstratively with respect and clementia.130 Obviously in 44 BCE his assassins claimed to have killed a tyrant;131 but at the same time, Brutus and Cassius acted surprisingly cautious, refraining from slaying the dictator’s aristocratic followers, including Marc Antony – contrary to what many had expected.132 And even the year 63 BCE was shaped not only by people like Catilina, but also by someone like Cato the Younger, who ostentatiously acted like the Romans of old. Moreover, until the very end of the res publica libera, the role of the populus acting as a ‘third instance’ (Georg Simmel),133 deciding the internal ranking of the nobility through elections, continued to be a matter of course, a decidedly Roman approach.134 It was only Tiberius, the second princeps, who in 14 CE dared to deprive the populus Romanus of the right to elect the most important magistrates.135 It is time to attempt a brief summary. When Tiberius Gracchus and his followers were clubbed to death with chair legs,136 this introduced something into Roman politics that until then had been largely foreign to them: the physical annihilation of the enemy was henceforth, just like in Greece, a real possibility, and soon it became part of the instruments of inner-aristocratic conflict, meaning that in the long run rivalries within the nobility unavoidably assumed a very different character.137 Now a genie was out of the bottle that would never get back in again, because the anticipation of violence by others, the knowledge that the other side might resort to extreme means, necessarily

127 Cf. Christ 2000, 225. 128 Cf. Dahlheim 2005, 151–2. 129 Cic. Att. 14.1.2; Suet. Iul. 76–78. 130 Cf. Meier 1982, 446–452. 131 App. civ. 2.17.119: οἱ δὲ σφαγεῖς ἐβούλοντο μέν τι εἰπεῖν ἐν τῷ βουλευτηρίῳ, οὐδενὸς δὲ παραμείναντος τὰ ἱμάτια ταῖς λαιαῖς ὥσπερ ἀσπίδας περιπλεξάμενοι καὶ τὰ ξίφη μετὰ τοῦ αἵματος ἔχοντες ἐβοηδρόμουν βασιλέα καὶ τύραννον ἀνελεῖν. See also Plut. Brut. 18.4; cf. Gotter 1996, 21–29. 132 Plut. Anton. 13.2. 133 Cf. Simmel 1968, 67–76. 134 Cf. Walter 2017, 203–4. On Roman elections cf. Lundgreen 2011, 53–120. 135 Tac. ann. 1.15.1: Tum primum e campo comitia ad patres translata sunt. nam ad eam diem, etsi potissima arbitrio principis, quaedam tamen studiis tribuum fiebant. 136 Plut. Tib. Grachh. 19.5: οἱ μὲν οὖν περί αὐτοὺς ῥόπαλα καὶ σκυτάλας ἐκόμιζον οἴκοθεν αὐτοὶ δὲ τῶν δίφρων καταγνυμένων ὑπὸ τοῦ φεύγοντος ὄχλου τὰ κλάσματα καὶ τοὺς πόδας λαμβάνοντες ἀνέβαινον ἐπὶ τὸν Τιβέριον, ἅμα παίοντες τοὺς προτεταγμένους καὶ τούτων μὲν ἦν τροπὴ καὶ φόνος. 137 On this, see the remarks by Flower 2010, 80–87.

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increased the willingness to use violence as a preventative measure.138 The sword of Damocles of a deadly escalation had become a part of Roman politics and would not disappear from it until Late Antiquity.139 It is not my intention to overemphasize the year 133 BCE as a caesura. Probably at that time people could not fully anticipate just how fatal the killing of Tiberius Gracchus and his followers should prove in the long run. However, everybody was deeply shocked. Ironically, the pontifex maximus Scipio Nasica had not only been directly involved in the killing of a nobilis, but he had also disregarded the sacrosanctitas of a tribune of the people. In order to justify this monstrous breaking of a taboo, resorting not only to the distant Roman past,140 but also to Greek models – especially the concept of tyrannicide – must have seemed to show a promising way out of the dilemma. Since the regifugium and the “struggle of the orders” belonged to a distant, mythical past – soon to be subjected to an interpretatio Graeca themselves –, the Romans of the second century BCE had no experience of their own regarding the discursivation of civil strife.141 When it came to the legitimization of political violence,142 the Greeks, in contrast, could draw both on an age-old tradition as well as on current experiences with stasis.143 Against this background, it must have seemed an obvious choice to try to use this rhetorical arsenal, doubtless familiar to many nobiles due to their παιδεία, once the conflicts within the nobility escalated.144 If Appian and Plutarch are to be believed, Tiberius Gracchus himself had already used elements of stasis rhetoric to win over the plebs urbana.145 However, the Hellenistic stasis discourse had a very specific background, originating from a political culture in which the aristocracy was significantly less able to compromise than the Roman nobility. Unfortunately, therefore, while at short notice the Greek way of conceptualizing civil strife could indeed be suited to justify increasingly vicious attacks on the political opponent, even declaring massacres to be a service to the res publica, the one thing most nobiles actually longed for, namely societal reintegration, was not made easier by subscribing to the ‘Greek’ reading of a conflict,146 on the

138 Cf. Yarrow 2021, 139: ‘The Roman Republic failed in the end because of internal conflict among the leading generals to gain supreme authority over the state … The men who destroyed the Republic claimed at every step of the way to be defending that same Republic from other threats’. 139 I have argued elsewhere that civil wars played a central role in the events leading to the disintegration of the Western Roman Empire in the fifth century CE; cf. Börm 2018b, 127–130. 140 On Nasica’s unsuccessful attempts at a religious justification of the killings, cf. Linderski 2002. 141 Wiseman 2010 offers a good overview of the way in which the Romans later tried to understand their civil wars, including many direct quotes from the relevant sources. 142 Cf. Veit/Schlichte 2011. 143 Cf. Börm 2018. 144 Cf. Meier 2014, 23–26. Meier argues that during the Late Republic there was a growing tension between ‘Diskurs’ and ‘Handlungsrahmen’. 145 Plut. Tib. Gracch. 9.4–5 ; App. civ. 1.1.11. 146 It goes without saying that this does not mean that all Greeks and all Romans thought alike.

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contrary. Cicero’s desperate attempt to pacify the Republic after Caesar’s assassination by suggesting a general amnesia – this μὴ μνησικακεῖν was also very much a Greek concept,147 of course – was doomed to failure.148 The stasis discourse was connected to its own logic of internal violence, and apparently its reception by the Romans contributed to the transformation of the political matrix of the Republic.149 Therefore, when Lucius Opimius consecrated the great temple of Concordia at the Forum Romanum shortly after the bloody end of Gaius Gracchus and his factio,150 this ultimately did not create any more civic harmony151 than the cult of Homonoia did in Greek poleis: Opimius himself was forced into exile only a few years later.152 Centuries later, Augustine would famously ask: ‘If they wanted to reflect truly what had happened, why didn’t they build a Temple of Discord instead?’153 Thucydides couldn’t have put it better. Bibliography Ando, C. 1999. Was Rome a Polis?, in: CQ 18, 5–34. Ando, C. 2018. The Political Economy of the Hellenistic Polis. Comparative and Modern Perspectives, in: H. Börm / N. Luraghi (eds.), The Polis in the Hellenistic World, Stuttgart, 9–26. Antela-Bernárdez, B. 2015. Athenion of Athens Revisited, in: Klio 97, 59–80. Asheri, D. 1966. Distribuzioni di terre nell’antica Grecia, in: MAST 10, 3–127. Badian, E. 1972. Tiberius Gracchus and the Beginning of the Roman Revolution, in: ANRW 1.1, 668–731. Beck, H. 2008. Die Rollen des Adeligen. Prominenz und aristokratische Herrschaft in der römi­ schen Republik, in: H. Beck / P. Scholz / U. Walter (eds.), Die Macht der Wenigen. Aristokratische Herrschaftspraxis, Kommunikation und ‘edler’ Lebensstil in Antike und Früher Neuzeit, Munich, 101–123. Berger, S. 1992. Revolution and Society in Greek Sicily and Southern Italy, Stuttgart. 147 Cf. Loraux 2002, 141–143, Carawan 2012, and Rubinstein 2013. 148 Cic Phil. 1.1: Omnem memoriam discordiarum oblivione sempiterna delendam censui; cf. Plut. Cic. 42.3; cf. Gotter 1996, 25: ‘Cicero gelang es lediglich, den Begriff clementia durch das griechische amnestia zu ersetzen’. 149 Cf. Bücher 2009, 112: ‘Der Gegner mußte dann konsequenterweise vernichtet werden. Recht behielt derjenige, der sich am Ende durchsetzen konnte’. Morstein-Marx/Rosenstein 2006 and Hölkeskamp 2009 provide very useful summaries of the most important modern approaches to explaining the ‘crisis’ of the Republic. On the problem of how to end a Roman civil war, see Osgood 2015. 150 Plut. C. Gracchus 17.6; Varro ling. 5.156 151 Cf. Steel 2013, 26–35; cf. Timmer 2017, 284: ‘Das auf Beidseitigkeit hin ausgerichtete Vertrauen, das für das politische System der römischen Republik notwendig und Teil des Wertesystems römischer Aristokraten war, das durch Vertrautheit, das Bemühen, vertrauenswürdig zu erscheinen, und Transparenz zumindest als Wert erzeugt wurde, war an ein Ende gekommen’. 152 Plut. C. Gracchus. 18. 153 August. civ. 3.25: Cur enim, si rebus gestis congruere voluerunt, non ibi potius aedem Discordiae fabri­ carunt?

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From inimici to hostes Internal Conflict in the Oratory of the Roman Republic, 133–88 BCE* Catherine Steel

The tribunate of Tiberius Gracchus in 133 marked a radical shift in the nature of Roman political life.1 The shift lay not so much in any single element in Gracchus’ ambitious and wide-ranging programme of activity, but in the consequences of the reactions of part of the Senate towards it: with his literal call to arms, the pontifex maximus Scipio Nasica unleashed lethal violence within the res publica. The deaths of Gracchus and many of his followers were horrifying, and the episode fundamentally shaped the historiography of the Republic. His death also changed the nature of political debate, by bringing the possibility of violence into civic deliberation as a latent alternative to peaceful deliberation. That personal hostility should shape how politicians spoke and acted was a given: the fact that the elder Cato and Lucius Lentulus could disagree on so fundamental a matter as Rome’s policy towards Carthage without a contest between them was remarkable.2 Cato himself was more usually seen in a personally combative mode.3 But whilst po-

*

The research underpinning this paper draws on the European Research Council-funded project (2012–2017) The Fragments of Roman Republican Orators (www.frro.gla.ac.uk), of which I was PI. I am extremely grateful to the editors of this volume for their invitation to participate in the original conference and for their feedback on earlier versions of this chapter. 1 On the tribunate of Gracchus, Badian 1972; Flower 2006, 69–76; Golden 2013, 175–178; Straumann 2016, 119–125 2 Cic. Tusc. 3.51, quid enim? de bello Punico agitur? de quo ipso cum aliud M. Catoni, aliud L. Lentu­ lo uideretur, nulla inter eos concertatio umquam fuit. (‘Well then? Are we dealing with war against Carthage? In that case, though Marcus Cato and Lucius Lentulus had different views, there was no struggle between them.’) 3 See, e. g., Prisc. inst. gramm. 1.533.10–11 Cato contra C. Pisonem: uideo hac tempestate concurrisse omnes aduersarios; Char. ars grammatica 297.18–21, atque quamquam multa noua miracula fecere inimici mei, tamen nequeo desinere mirari eorum audaciam atque confidentiam. References in later writers of Cato’s range of inimici: Liv. 39.40.5–12.

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litical life could offer highly dramatic scenes, they had hitherto, at least in more recent decades, been non-violent. Gracchus’ death changed that fundamental expectation. The purpose of this paper is to explore how the possibility of violence was explored in public speech and shaped its uses between 133 and the death of Sulpicius in 88. The period has been identified because it involved the intensification of violence, often lethal, within the city, which overwrote processes of deliberation, but not yet outbreaks of fighting between Roman citizens in Italy.4 The surviving oratorical material from the period illustrates how recourse to violence was both normalised and justified as a legitimate process within the res publica. The political culture of the Republic habituated itself during this period of four decades to a mixed economy of deliberation, in which consensus could be achieved through the forcible silencing of dissenting and delegitimated voices as well as through the emergence of agreement through peaceful deliberation. This expansion to the mechanisms of decision-making involved the reshaping of issues of power and legitimacy which in turn contributed to the creation of a framework for integrating autocracy into the res publica. What emerged, I argue, was the rapid development of a justification for violence based on the argument that the res publica was in danger. This justification was developed and employed by conservative elements; popularis politicians continued for much longer to frame their position in terms of a conflict between competing programmes within the res publica. By reframing political debate as a matter of community survival, conservative politicians could develop a range of mechanisms, of which the ‘Last Decree’ was the most striking, which enabled and legitimated the deployment of violence against their opponents.5 The development of the argument depends in part upon fragments of speeches, almost certainly preserved as such in texts disseminated by the orator or his close collaborators; but to a larger extent on accounts of oratory found in other kinds of sources. The resulting narrative reflects the shaping of the late Republican and earlier imperial periods; even if we are willing to accept that key later sources had access to earlier accounts, they nonetheless, at best, offer a selective interpretation of a highly complex series of events. Even what purport to be direct quotations reveal in their fragmentary state the priorities of the quoting authors. The following discussion must be read with

4 5

There were four between 88 and 49: the bellum Octauianum of 87; the Sullan civil war in 84/83–82; Lepidus’ revolt in 78; and Catiline’s revolt in 63–62. The fact that not all of these episodes are described as civil war is a historiographical issue. This paper works on the premise that there was those in Roman politics who advocated the legal and political rights and economic advantage of the Roman people as a whole, and those – predominantly members of the Senate – who did not; to posit that distinction, and the term popularis as a meaningful contemporary descriptor for the former, does not preclude individual politicians changing their positioning over time, systematic collaboration or conflict between those on the same side of the divide, or identical ideological positions and tactical approaches on either side. On the debate, Robb 2010; Russell 2013.

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this insurmountable methodological problem in sight at all times; but arguably it does not entirely vitiate the enterprise. Insofar as the material reflects an attempt to interpret the violence of the late Republic on the basis of internal political dispute, as it does in the case of Cicero’s and Sallust’s accounts, it reflects the analysis of highly intelligent and informed spectators; and where it does not (as, for example, in the motives for quotation that appear to drive Gellius’ selections) it provides reassurance that the material relevant to this encounter is not totally exceptional within the largely lost source texts. Scipio Nasica’s motives for launching his attack on Tiberius Gracchus remain contested.6 What does emerge, however, from the surviving accounts is an intimate connection between the institutions of the Republic, their alleged failure, and a resulting recourse to violence.7 Nasica went, with his impromptu band of supporters, to the assembly that Gracchus was holding directly from a meeting of the Senate in the temple of Fides, and did so because he claimed that the consul presiding over that meeting was failing to protect the res publica. As Cicero describes the scene in Tusculans; … he abandoned a feeble consul and himself, a private individual, ordered, as though he were a consul, those who wished the res publica to be safe to follow him.8

Scaevola, the consul in question, had apparently claimed that he would not employ uis.9 He put his confidence in a legal remedy, claiming that acts done illegally by Gracchus would not be binding.10 His reliance on legal procedure is pitted by Scipio in Valerius’ retelling as an undermining of the laws: ‘At this point Scipio Nasica said: Since the consul, in following legal procedure, brings about the the collapse of Roman imperium together with all the laws, I present myself, a private individual, as leader to accomplish what you want.’11

The conceit itself is suspiciously neat, but the contrast it establishes between those members of the Senate who believed that the res publica’s systems were robust enough

6 Badian 1972; Stockton 1979; Ungern-Sternberg 1984; Flower 2013; Straumann 2016. 7 The key accounts are Cic. Tusc 4.51; Val. Max. 3.2.17; Plut. Tib. Gracch 19.3–5; App. civ. 1.67–68. 8 Cic. Tusc. 4.51, consulem languentem reliquit atque ipse priuatus, ut si consul esset, qui rem publicam saluam esse uellent, se sequi iussit. 9 Val. Max. 3.2.17, ‘… though all agreed that the consul should protect the res publica with armed force, Scaevola said that he would not take any violent action.’ (… cunctisque censentibus ut con­ sul armis rem publicam tueretur, Scaeuola negauit se quicquam ui esse acturum). Scaevola may have refused to use uis, but given that uis becomes central to discussion of internal dissension in the Republic there must be a suspicion that Valerius has shaped his anecdote, whether consciously or not, in the light of the end of the Republic. Cicero simply says (dom. 91) that Scaevola was considered to be segnior (‘a bit inert’) in this matter. 10 Plut. Tib. Gracch. 19.4 11 Val. Max. 3.2.17, tum Scipio Nasica, “quoniam” inquit, “consul, dum iuris ordinem sequitur, id agit ut cum omnibus legibus Romanum imperium corruat, egomet me priuatus uoluntati uestrae ducem offero”. Nasica almost certainly did not use the word imperium in this way; see Richardson 2008, 66–79.

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to protect it and those who did not can be accepted as a plausible outline of the faultlines within this senatorial debate. By presenting Scaevola’s failure to act as an existential threat to the res publica, Nasica set up the possibility that citizens could and should act outside the institutional framework at moments of crisis.12 A rationale for seeing Gracchus’ actions as a threat to the res publica is only implied in accounts of Nasica’s action, but one was articulated in a speech which Scipio Aemilianus delivered between 131 and 129 B. C. E. after his return to Rome from the campaign which culminated in the capture of Numantia.13 As a result of this campaign he had been absent from Rome during Gracchus’ tribunate. The context of his remarks was a contio to which Aemilianus had been summoned by one of the year’s tribunes, C. Papirius Carbo. Carbo, in addition to being a noted orator, appears to have been aligned with Gracchus in terms of political sympathies, as is evident from two legislative proposals, which must date to to his tribunate. One (which did not pass) permitted re-election to the tribunate: this was clearly a response to Gracchus’ own failed attempt to stand for the office a second time. The other, which did become law, introduced the secret ballot to votes on legislation, following its earlier introduction for electoral voting and voting at iudicia publica.14 The secret ballot was seen as a popularis measure because it reduced the influence of the elite.15 Thus Carbo’s summoning of Aemilianus to a contio set up the expectation of conflict between the presiding tribune and the individual whom he had brought before the people to question.16 Carbo asked Aemilianus for his opinion on Tiberius Gracchus’ death.17 This was an unexceptionable line of inquiry in one sense: Tiberius’ death had been profoundly shocking, and it was legitimate for the people to know what one of their leading citizens thought of it, whom circumstances thus far had removed from the debate.18 But at the same the enquiry was designed to constrain Aemilianus by forcing him to take sides on a divisive issue. Carbo may not have known what Aemilianus would do in response to his question, but he must have expected Aemilianus either to criticise those responsible for Gracchus’ death, or to declare his support for them. If the latter, Carbo must have hoped for a hostile response from the audience which would demonstrate to Aemilianus the unpopularity of the position which he had just adopted.

Nasica’s position as pontifex maximus was surely a vital if unquantifiable factor in enabling him, despite his status as a priuatus in 133, to present himself as an alternative to Scaevola; see Linderski 2002. 13 On the difficulties of dating this contio, Beness 2009. 14 Repeat tribunates, Cic. amic. 95–96; ballot law, Cic. leg. 3.35. 15 That, at least, is the interpretation offered by Cicero in De legibus. On the purpose and effects of this series of laws, Yakobson 1995; Feig Vishnia 2008; Lundgreen 2009. 16 On the practice of inviting speakers to contiones Morstein-Marx 2004, 161–172. Carbo may not yet have become one of Tiberius’ land commissioners (MRR 1:503) 17 Cic. de orat. 2.106; cf Val. Max. 6.2.3. 18 On the response more generally to Tiberius Gracchus’ death, Flower 2006, 69–76. 12

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In fact, although Aemilianus’ response was at least couched in hypothetical terms, it demonstrated a clear anti-Gracchan positioning: ‘he was lawfully killed if he had been intending to seize the res publica’.19 Occupare is the language of enemy attack. A hostile response from the audience duly followed; where events diverged from what Carbo might have expected to transpire was at Aemilianus’ contemptuous dismissal of his listeners’ disapprobation, with a demand that they be silent. His basis for doing so also relies on questions of legitimacy, since he said he was not afraid of ‘those for whom Italy is a step-mother’. His point, which Valerius Maximus’ version makes explicit, was that his audience were former slaves who had been brought to Italy as war-booty. Velleius Paterculus is slightly more subtle: his Scipio offers as proof of his immunity to their shouts his proven capacity to withstand the battle-cry of the enemy. This exchange sets up a latent contrast between true Romans, characterised by military competence (and victory), and those from outside Italy whose defeat by the Romans and resulting servile status makes any subsequent incorporation in the res publica less than fully convincing. The result is an opposition between the res publica and its legitimate citizens, and the prospect of tyranny dependent upon the dubious support of the newly enfranchised. The tactic of introducing gradations of citizen status and suggesting that parts of the citizen body had, or should have, less influence in debate than others is one that Cicero, in particular, seized upon.20 In subsequent historiography – at least by the time Cicero was writing – the opposition to Tiberius Gracchus, and the ensuing lethal violence against Roman citizens, was justified by an appeal to an existential threat to the res publica. The dispute between Gracchus and his opponents was no longer framed as one between politicians of different views which could be contained within the framework of domestic politics: internal politics has become, in the sense that it had acquired state-ending capacity, comparable to a war against external enemies. And whilst this is an explanatory framework which gained force from its frequent apparent confirmations from the early 80 s B. C. onwards, it is not implausible as an immediate justificatory narrative by a Senate traumatised by its collective involvement in these violent deaths. The benefits of this developing narrative lay with the opponents of popularis tribunes, who now had a precedent and a model for the redefinition of civic debate into a matter of crisis and threat. By contrast, popularis politics continued to use a model of civic discourse in which politicians’ disputes remained within the framework of a 19

20

Vell. 2.4.4., si is occupandae rei publicae animum habuisset, iure caesum. Cicero (de orat. 2.106) does not include the protasis, but Crassus’ focus at this point in the discussion in De Oratore is on arguments from definition. In pro Milone (Mil. 8) the argument – that killing someone is not always regarded as murder – is strengthened by the absence of the protasis. As a result, it is not necessarily the case that Velleius has added the qualification. The definition of the optimates in pro Sestio (97–98) is striking for its breadth, but it supports a division of the res publica into two groups, and the other group, when it has leaders, has the potential to threaten the res publica (99; 136–139); Kaster 2006, 31–37.

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functioning res publica; they seem to have been slower to develop an argument that their opponents were acting in a way that threatened the res publica. This divergence is evident in fragments of speeches delivered by Tiberius’ brother Gaius Gracchus during his tribunates in 123 and 122 B. C. E. The younger Gracchus was acknowledged to be an outstanding orator, arguably the most significant figure between the elder Cato and Cicero, and a technical innovator as well as an author of texts of many of his speeches.21 However, he described his activities as tribune within the familiar frame of dispute between politicians. In the speech Against the lex Aufeia, from which Gellius preserves a substantial quotation, he sets out an analysis of political behaviour in which all public speakers are motivated by the expectation of personal benefit: neminem nostrum inueneritis sine pretio huc prodire.22 He proceeds to explain that whereas the benefit which motivates him is the hope of office which the people will bestow on him (by implication, in return for his good advice), all other speakers (and those who choose not to take sides) are motivated by the financial rewards which the kings of Pontus and Bithynia are distributing. One of the curious aspects of this extract is that Gracchus’ dismissal of his peers’ integrity apparently extends even to those who, like him, are speaking against the measure. In the absence of more information on the lex Aufeia and the circumstances surrounding its proposal, it is difficult to determine how this argumentative move should be understood. It may be explained as being the most effective tactic to secure the audience’s rejection of the bill. But it also enabled Gracchus to develop his own character as a uniquely honest broker in contrast to all other speakers on any issue, not simply this one.23 According to Gracchus, the choice that faces the voting public is one between those who are looking out for their own advantage, and those (of which he is apparently the only example) who seeking the good of the people. This is an important choice, but it is also a choice which does not involve the prospect of destroying the res publica if the people make the ‘wrong’ choice. Elsewhere, Gracchus sets out his position in relation to his opponents in similar terms, framing the political contests in which he is engaged as matters of personal dispute. He identifies those who take up positions in opposition to him as his inimici; they are defined as such by their relationship to him.24 In the exclamation of despair

21

Gaius Gracchus’ reputation as an orator was assisted by his dissemination of written versions of many of his speeches and by the appeal they had to Gellius, which advance him over, for example, L. Crassus, who did not create texts as enthusiastically; see further below. On Gracchus as an orator, Sciarrino 2007; van der Blom 2016, 69–112. 22 Gell. e 11.10.1–6. The content of the lex Aufeia is unknown beyond what can be deduced from the quotation in Gellius; Rotondi 1912, 309; Hill 1948; Kallet-Marx 1995, 109–113; Hodgson 2017, 49–53. 23 The phrase huc prodire and opening of the following sentence (omnes nos, qui uerba facimus, aliquid petimus, neque ullius rei causa quisquam ad uos prodit, nisi ut aliquid auferat), indicate that he is reflecting on all contional oratory. 24 Gell. 1.1.7 (credo ego inimicos meos hoc dicturum); Prisc. inst. gramm. 1.88.4–6 (inimicorum meorum factio).

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he uttered towards the end of his life, ‘Where shall I, poor wretch, turn …’, he sets his imminent death in the context of familial loss.25 He cannot go to the Capitol, he claims, because it drips with the blood of his brother, or to his home, because there he will find his mother in a state of despair.26 His death matters, or at least is framed as an emotionally charged event which should affect his audience, because it will be a personal tragedy for his family. Despite the radicalism of Gracchus’ political proposals and oratorical style and the defiance of norms in terms of repeated office holding, his profile as a politician was in some respects rather traditional.27 This approach was in sharp contrast to the innovations of his opponents in the circumstances of his death as well as in subsequent events. At first, Gracchus’ opponents attempted to neutralise his activity as tribune by exploiting the size of the tribunician college and the absence of a mechanism to resolve conflict within it. Another of the tribunes of 122, M. Livius Drusus, employed his veto against some of Gracchus’ proposals, and at the same time sought to undermine his popular support with his own programme of popular legislation.28 But when disputes over aspects of the Gracchan legislative programme became violent, the Senate took collective action in passing a decree instructing the consuls to ensure ‘that the res publica came to no harm’.29 Gracchus and many of his followers were then killed by mercenaries employed by the res publica and commanded by one of the consuls.

25 Cic. de orat. 3.214; Quint. inst. 11.3.114–5; Iul. Vict. rhet. 24; cf. Scholia Bobiensia Sull. 81.18–24St 26 None of the quoting sources preserves more than the Capitol and his home, and his brother and mother; it remains unknown, therefore, whether the younger Gracchus referred in this context to his wife Licinia. Although that relationship could be productive of pity, Licinia did not have the public profile of the other two individuals. 27 Another area in which Gracchus’ oratory could be argued to point backwards, particularly towards the elder Cato, is in terms of narratives of personal probity. Indeed, the extent to which Cato acted as a model for Gaius Gracchus’ oratory, and in particular his textual recording of his speeches, is a topic worth further investigation. 28 Plut. C. Gracchus. 8–11; App. civ. 1.23. The extent to which Drusus developed this tactic independently is difficult to assess. 29 One of the few testimonia to survive about the elder Drusus as an orator is in a quotation ascribed to Carbo Arvina (himself the son of the Carbo who cross-examined Aemilianus and was to defend Opimius) (Cic.de orat. 213): O Marce Druse, patrem appello … tu dicere solebas sacram esse rem publicam … quicumque eam uiolauissent, ab omnibus esse ei poenas persolutas (‘O Marcus Drusus, I hail you as father … you used to say that the res publica was inviolate … all who harmed it paid a penalty to it ’). The context in which Drusus, who held the consulship in 112, may have made this remark cannot be precisely determined. Nonetheless, a reference to the death of Gaius Gracchus which justified it because of the danger he posed to the res publica seems an overwhelming likely interpretation. Drusus’ language may also align the res publica to the tribunate of the plebs, whose holders’ sacrosanctity was preserved by the collective punishment by the community of those who violated it; Drusus appears to be suggesting that the res publica itself was protected by a similar capacity to demand punishment from those who harmed it.

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The nature of the actions which could be authorised by such a decree was deeply contested and remained so until the end of the Republic.30 But it was used on this occasion and later to justify the extra-judicial killing of those who could be presented as a danger to the res publica and whose elimination was, as a result, an obligation which the Senate placed upon the consuls. It also was, in terms of its form, a notable contrast to the manner in which Tiberius Gracchus’ death had come about. The younger Gracchus was killed following a senatorial decree, which demonstrated a collective acknowledgement of crisis by the community’s leaders. In the case of Tiberius’ death, internal divisions within the Senate prevented collective senatorial action and as a result Nasica’s action was undertaken when he was a priuatus. Opimius, the consul who carried out the Senate’s decree, was tried at a iudicium publicum, the charge arising from the deaths of citizens without a trial. Opimius’ advocate – who was, remarkably, the same Carbo who had attempted to show Aemilianus the strength of popular feeling in favour of Tiberius a decade earlier – is said to have based his defence on the issue of definition. That is, he did not deny Opimius’ actions, but claimed that they were justified because they were done ‘for the safety of the fatherland’, pro salute patriae.31 Carbo’s argument was successful: Opimius was acquitted. His construction and dedication of a temple to Concordia, harmony, made literally visible to all the interpretation of these events which supported his acquittal and was, in effect, proved by it: collaboration between Senate and people had permitted the elimination of a threat to everyone’s existence.32 The trial of Opimius, though highly significant, did not end the debate on the boundaries of legitimate state-sanctioned violence, just at the time that political activity itself was increasingly complicated by a new locus of power. By drawing the jurors in repetundae cases from the equestrian order, Gaius Gracchus had, perhaps unwittingly, created a third political element in the res publica alongside people and senate and turned the composition of juries into a recurrent source of dispute. In 106 a law was put forward to alter the composition of these juries, and one of those who spoke in favour was L. Licinius Crassus. A fragment from his speech survives (a written text evidently circulated), in which Crassus appealed to his audience: ‘Take us away from our miseries, take us away from the jaws of those whose cruelty cannot be satisfied except by our blood; do not allow us to be slaves to anyone except to you as the entire citizen body,

30

On this decree and its subsequent history, see in particular Ungern-Sternberg 1970; Drummond 1995, 79–113; Lintott 1999, 149–174; Arena 2012, 200–220; Golden 2013, 104–149; Straumann 2016, 88–100. 31 Cic. de Orat. 2.106. Cicero draws attention to the veracity of the account by having the character speaking, L. Crassus, say that this happened me audiente, ‘with me in the audience’. That Carbo’s defence was seen as a transformation of political stance, Cic. de Orat. 2.170. 32 Not everyone accepted the message; Plut. C. Gracchus. 17.6 records an unconvinced graffito. On concordia, Akar 2013.

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to whom we can and should be slaves.’33 This was a startling statement of the fundamental premise of Republican political life, the sovereignty of the Roman people; so startling, in fact, that Cicero records within De Oratore the view of Rutilius Rufus that these remarks were ‘shamefully and disgracefully uttered’, turpiter et flagitiose dicta.34 Elsewhere Cicero uses the whole story as a way into a discussion of the Stoic paradox of the wise man’s immunity to slavery.35 Crassus’ assertion of the Senate’s total obedience to the popular will expresses in extreme form a thoroughly popularis position; yet it clearly went alongside a powerful assertion of the Senate’s authority. The point of the reference to this speech in pro Clu­ entio, which is the evidence for the fact that Crassus circulated a written version, was to provide an exemplum for Cicero himself for an orator’s self-contradiction; this speech on the lex Servilia Caepionis was a problem for Crassus because ‘he praised the Senate very highly’ whereas earlier in his career, in the speech on founding a colony at Narbo, he had ‘done everything to diminish the Senate’s authority’.36 Crassus’ political career defies any simple classification in terms of political labels – though whether that is because he was genuinely unusual, or because his role in De Oratore means his career is unusually well-recorded, is less easy to determine.37 But at this point in 106 he seems to have combined the popularis rhetoric of popular sovereignty with a strong statement of a role for the Senate within the res publica: the emergence of the equestrians as a political force forced Crassus to frame the ideal relationship between Senate and people in a way that used the res publica as a whole to solidify the role of senatorial leadership. The danger which needs to be addressed is one which might seem to affect only part of the res publica, namely the Senate, though the effect on that element is presented as profoundly dangerous. But Crassus’ approach in the fragment implies that this attack undermines the proper functioning of the whole state insofar as it encroaches on the prerogatives of the Roman people. The equestrian jurors are arrogating to themselves a power which should belong to the people alone. One of the most significant developments in the legal framework of public life towards the end of the second century was the passage of a law on maiestas in 103 or 100. The proposer was L. Appuleius Saturninus, whose radical policies and attempts to hold repeated office led to conflict with the Senate, the passage of the ‘Last Decree’ and his death, along with a number of his associates, at the hands of a lynch mob. 33 Cic. de orat. 1.225, eripite nos ex miseriis, eripite ex faucibus eorum, quorum crudelitas nisi nostro san­ guine non potest expleri; nolite sinere nos cuiquam seruire, nisi uobis uniuersis, quibus et possumus et debemus. On the existence of a written text, Cic. Cluent. 140–141. 34 Cic. de Orat. 1.227. 35 Cic. parad. 41. 36 Cic. Cluent. 140, … quod in dissuasione rogationis eius quae contra coloniam Narbonensem ferebatur quantum potest de auctoritate senatus detrahit, in suasione legis Seruiliae summis ornat senatum laudi­ bus, … On the written version of this speech, cf Cic. Brut. 164 37 On Crassus, Fantham 2004, 26–48

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The offence which this law created was that of ‘diminishing the majesty of the Roman people’ and its motive may have been to create a means to hold to account the incompetence of Roman generals in conducting war with the Cimbri and Teutones in northern Italy and southern Gaul over the previous years.38 Saturninus’ profile as a whole indicates that the measure was part of a programme which asserted popular sovereignty, of which another element was a demand the senators bind themselves by oaths to uphold legislation. That mechanism provoked what may have been the first trial to take place under this lex Appuleia, when Metellus Numidicus refused to swear to uphold Saturninus’ agrarian law in 100.39 The outcome was Numidicus’ departure into exile. But the next uses of the lex Appuleia, though unsuccessful, showed that it could be used to control popularis politicians as much as their opponents. In 98 Sex. Titius, who had been tribune the previous year, was tried and convicted, probably under this law; the charges related to his activities as tribune and M. Antonius, one of the consuls in 99, gave evidence against him. In De Oratore, the character ‘Antonius’ describes what he said: ‘I explained all of the measures through which, during my consulship, I had resisted that tribune of the plebs on behalf of the res publica, and I exposed the deeds which I believed that he had carried out against the res publica.’40 Another former tribune, C. Appuleius Decianus, was similarly tried and convicted in this year or the next; the charge may have been maiestas. A little later in the decade another former tribune, C. Norbanus, was definitely prosecuted under the maeiestas law for the actions he had taken as tribune in 103; his acquittal followed a trial which is described extensively in De Oratore.41 Norbanus’ alleged offence was to have overseen as tribune violence which prevented two other tribunes from vetoing Caepio’s trial in 103; Antonius’ defence, on his retelling of it, was based, in addition to popular hostility towards Caepio because he had been responsible for heavy Roman casualties, on a history of Rome which emphasised that violence had always been legitimate under certain circumstances: ‘If it was ever admitted to the Roman people that their violence was justified – and I showed that that had often been admitted – then none was more just than this case’.42 Sulpicius, who was the prosecutor at Norbanus’ trial as well as a character in De Oratore, there acknowledges the importance of this framing to AnSaturninus also, in 103, successfully proposed a measure to set up an extraordinary quaestio to prosecute Mallius and Caepio, which resulted in the conviction of both, though not without considerable violence in the case of Caepio’s trial (see below); it seems reasonable to hypothesise that the lex Appuleia de maiestate was a response to that experience. 39 There may or may not have been a trial, and if there was, it may or may not have been under the lex Appuleia de maiestate: Alexander 1990, 40. 40 Cic. de orat. 2.48, explicaui … omnia consilia consulatus mei, quibus illi tr. pl. pro re publica restitissem, quaeque ab eo contra rem publicam facta arbitrarer exposui. Possession of a statue of Saturninus was also one of the charges, or at least used against Titius at the trial: Cic. Rab. perd. 24–25. 41 Cic. de orat. 2.197–204; Fantham 2004, 123–126 42 Cic. de orat 2.199, quod si umquam populo Romano concessum esset ut iure incitatus uideretur, id quod docebam saepe esse concessum, nullam illa causa iustiorem fuisse. 38

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tonius’ success: ‘… that you were defending what was not the sedition by Norbanus, but anger on the part of the Roman people, and not unjustified, but deserved and necessary.’43 Norbanus escaped legal penalty, but it is clear that the maiestas law had become a means to restrict popularis tribunes’ capacity to act by redefining certain activities, particularly violence and the threat of violence at assemblies, as dangers to the res publica. Antonius’ unexpected success in defending Norbanus involved a rewriting of Roman history to make violence a legitimate activity, in certain circumstances; that normalisation of violence within domestic politics built on thirty years of conservative arguments that internal violence was justified because politics could undermine the res publica in the same way that external enemies could, and therefore political activity could on occasion demand a violent response if it threatened the res publica. In the case of Norbanus’ trial, this argument protected a political actor of popularis sympathies, but the argument itself had its origins and development in the repression of popular activity. Nonetheless, it is striking that in the description of the trial in De Oratore, the character Antonius acknowledges that Norbanus’ prosecutor Sulpicius had among his advantage the fact that he was speaking pro re publica.44 The expectation that popularis actors and the interests of the res publica would be mutually opposed appears already, by the 90 s, to be firmly embedded among the elite participants at the iudicia publica.45 These developments in the use of maiestas to respond to internal enemies reached a logical conclusion in the lex Varia, which was proposed by the tribune Varius in 90 to institute a quaestio into those ‘by whose aid or advice the allies had taken up arms against the Roman people’.46 The outbreak of the Social War shocked Rome, and the idea that the allies had received encouragement from elements within Rome filled an explanatory gap about their motives and resources in embarking on such a high-risk and resource-intensive conflict.47 A series of trials took place under the lex Varia, only one of which securely ended in a conviction, before Varius himself was charged under his law and convicted in 89; the quaestio was thereafter suspended.48 The initial panic about the allies’ attack on Romans at Asculum, following by increasingly bad news

43 Cic. de orat. 2.203, … ut illam non Norbani seditionem, sed populi Romani iracundiam neque eam iniustam, sed meritam ac debitam fuisse defenders; cf Cic. de orat. 2.167, ex genere autem: si magistratus in populi Romani esse potestate debent, quid Norbanum accusas, cuius tribunatus uoluntati paruit ciui­ tatis? (But here is an argument deduced from a general concept: ‘If magistrates ought to be under the legal control of the Roman people, of what do you accuse Norbanus, whose tribunate served the will of the community?). 44 Cic. de orat. 2.198 45 On the difficulty of recuperating a popularis viewpoint within Roman political discourse, Wiseman 2009. 46 Ascon. 22C, quorum ope consilioue socii contra populum Romanum arma sumpsissent. On the law, Gruen 1965; Badian 1969. 47 Mouritsen 1999, 133–137. 48 Alexander 1990, 53–58. The only secure conviction, apart from Varius’ own, was that of C. Aurelius Cotta.

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from the battlefields (including the death in battle of one of the consuls of 90), fuelled an environment in which betrayal from within the res publica seemed plausible and created a narrative in which Drusus had initiated the problem and his allies in Rome continued to be an internal threat after his death. Where Varius himself sat on the political spectrum – whether he was or claimed to be a popularis – is a challenging question. The framing of the lex Varia can easily be placed within a popularis framework in which those who should be trusted to protect the res publica – its magistrates, and as a collective, the Senate – fail in their duty and as a result the people and its advocates must step in to punish and protect. But the ultimate object of Varius’ attack, Livius Drusus, could also be assimilated into a popularis canon; as Varius himself was not.49 Instead, he was the object of personal abuse and his claim to citizenship called into question.50 The complexity of the circumstances of the opening months of the Social War, combined with the ambiguity of Varius’ positioning and his eventual acquittal, made him a difficult exemplum to use effectively. But the blurring of boundaries between war and domestic politics continued. In 88 a highly significant new term entered the lexicon of Roman domestic politics: hostis. Twelve Roman citizens, including Marius and the orator P. Sulpicius were declared hostes by a decree of the Senate after their attempt to transfer the consular army destined for the war against Mithridates to Marius failed.51 Marius escaped to Africa, but Sulpicius was killed; an allusion in the Rhetorica ad Herennium indicates that, whilst the guilt or innocence of his killer could potentially be a matter for the lawcourts, a potentially successful defence could be constructed on the basis of consular authorisation.52 Sulla himself, whose return to Rome and military takeover of the city paved the way for the senatorial decision, claimed that he was returning to Rome with an army ‘in order to free it from those behaving tyrannically’.53 This language arguably looks back to the hostility that Tiberius Gracchus provoked; but the use of hostis to eliminate citizens from the res publica and its legal protection draws on the developments of the intervening forty years.54 Political dissension had now literally become a variety of war, and the capacity to talk about political dissension as though it were a military crisis had become normalised across the spectrum of political debate.

See, e. g. Rhet. Her. 4.31, (Gracchi, Saturninus, Drusus, Sulpicius); Cic. Cat. 1.29 (Saturninus, Gracchi, Flaccus); Vat. 28 (Gracchi, Saturninus, Drusus, Sulpicius, Cinna); Ascon 80C, quoting pro Cornelio, (Sulpicius, Saturninus, Gracchi) 50 Cic. de orat. 1.117, uastum hominem atque foedum; Val. Max. 8.6.4 (citizenship). 51 Cic. Brut. 168; Liv. Ep. 77; cf. App. civ. 1.60. On the use of hostis-declaration, Ungern-Sternberg 1970; Allély 2012; Straumann 2016, 88–100 52 Rhet. Her. 1.25; the passage is no evidence that any such prosecution did take place though it may suggest that the identity of the killer was widely known. 53 App. civ. 1.57: ἐλευθερώσων αὐτὴν ἀπὸ τῶν τυραννούντων. 54 Ti. Gracchus as tyrant, Cic. amic. 41; Plut. Tib. 19.3. 49

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This process of normalisation involved an underpinning set of assumptions that were articulated with greater or lesser clarity by different actors. The key initial move, triggered by Nasica in 133, was to frame internal political debate as a threat to the res publica, which in turn justified action beyond the normal framework of laws. The development of this argument in practical terms was driven by conservative elements in the Senate, who saw in it the opportunity to prevent radical legislation and its consequences. The response to Gaius Gracchus involved initial obstruction through constitutionally valid mechanisms, above all, in the capacity of the tribunician colleage in any year to split and thus, in theory, be in a state of deadlock. When these methods proved inadequate to prevent Gracchus’ programme of activity, the safety of the res publica was invoked to justify violent oppression. Popularis politicians were slower to develop a counter-narrative of legitimate popular violence, and measures such as Saturninus’ maiestas law were easily appropriated to control popular violence in place of the initial target of senatorial misbehaviour. By the 80 s B. C., the result was to extend the nature of the threat to the res publica from popular violence into an actual equivalence to war against external enemies: Sulpicius, Marius and the other ten literally became hostes. The invocation of hostes as a term to describe political opponents thus precedes the development of the description of such conflicts as bellum civile, which does not become widely used until the 40 s.55 The redescription of internal opposition did not seek to modify the threat from within; it was to be seen as directly comparable to the danger that external enemies posed. Conservative elements within the state consistently led this process; their opponents were much slower to develop an alternative interpretation which accepted the premise that political crisis could justify violence. The success of conservative politics in this period was to generate a set of ideas which began to dissolve the nexus that Cicero later encapsulated as res publica, res populi.56 The res publica became an object, potentially separatable from the people, and capable of damage by it, if the populus was the victim of a particular kind of seditious and tyrannical leadership. Those who claimed to speak for the people were now obliged to show that its interests were aligned with the res publica; if not, the res publica could acquire its own defenders. One final observation deserves space. This essay has used the term popularis to describe a particular political disposition, which involved both an understanding of the role and rights of the populus as a whole within the res publica, in comparison with other groups such as the Senate, and a set of techniques which included certain kinds of legislative activity and methods of generating a relationship between politician and

Cicero describes the war between Sulla and Cinna, Carbo and their followers as ciuile at De Imp. 28, the first occurrence of the phrase; at Cat. 3.19 he refers to a prophecy of the haruspices from 65 foretelling bellum ciuile (cf. Dyck ad loc). 56 Cic. rep. 1.39. 55

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people, particularly through the contio.57 One of the aspects of political life in the period 133–88 that emerges from this study is that the relationship of an individual towards a wider ideological positions within the political landscape is deeply fluid. Carbo, the elder Drusus, Crassus, Antonius and Varius are all political actors who at different times are found at what appear to be different points of the political spectrum. In part this flexibility of ideological alignment may be more apparent than real, driven by competitive pressures now largely indiscernible from the surviving evidence.58 But it is important also to reflect on the circumstances through which political debate took place. It is not simply that certain universal truths framed debate in ways which prevented the articulation of certain positions, such as scepticism about the sovereignty of the populus.59 Individuals had the opportunity to reshape themselves on each occasion of interaction with the people. It is not a coincidence that Crassus’ subjugation of the Senate to the people survives; it drew the attention of posterity because he had preserved it in writing, and thus could be shown to be inconsistent over time through comparison with other texts. The implication is that without the preservative capacity of texts, his shift in position would have been less easy to observe and confirm. The conclusion is not that the underpinning forms of argument are themselves subject to reshaping on each occasion of public debate, but that the emerging discourse of the res publica’s vulnerability to internal threats and the consequent justification of violent measures as both legally and morally inescapable developed in dialogue with individual politicians’ assessment of what was personally beneficial and practically possible on any one occasion. Thus in assessing the development of the concept of civil war over the last century of the Republic we need to balance the logic and coherence of the discourse itself with the specifics of those occasions on which its articulation was in the interests of one or other group within the res publica. Bibliography Akar, P., 2013. Concordia: un idéal de la classe dirigeante romaine à la fin de la République, Paris. Allély, A. 2012. La déclaration d’hostis sous la République romaine, Bordeaux. Arena, V., 2012. Libertas and the practice of politics in the late Roman Republic, Cambridge. Badian, E., 1969. Quaestiones Variae, in: Historia 18, 447–491. Badian, E. 1972. Tiberius Gracchus and the Beginning of the Roman Revolution, in: ANRW 1.1, 668–731. Beness, L. 2009. Carbo’s tribunate of 129 and the associated dicta Scipionis, in: Phoenix 63, 60–72. Van der blom, H. 2016. Oratory and Political Career in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge.

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On the concept of popularis, Robb 2009. See the discussion in Russell 2013. Morstein-Marx 2004, 204–240.

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Drummond, A. 1995. Law, power and politics: Sallust and the execution of the Catilinarian conspirators, Stuttgart. Fantham, E. 2004. The Roman World of Cicero’s De Oratore, New York. Flower, H., 2006. The Art of Forgetting: disgrace and oblivion in Roman political culture, Princeton. Flower, H. 2013. Beyond the contio: Political Communication in the Tribunate of Tiberius Gracchus, in: C. Steel / H. Van der blom (eds,), Community and Communication: Oratory and Politics in Republican Rome, Oxford, 85–100. Golden, G. 2013. Crisis Management during the Roman Republic: the role of political institutions in emergencies, Cambridge. Gruen, E. 1965. The Lex Varia, in: JRS 55, 59–73. Hill, H. 1948. The so-called Lex Aufeia (Gellius xi.10), in: CR 48, 112–113. Hodgson, L. 2017. Res publica and the Roman Republic: ‘Without Body or Form’, Oxford. Kallet-marx, R. 1995. From Hegemony to Empire: the development of the Roman Imperium in the East from 148 to 62 B. C., Berkeley. Kaster, R. 2006. Cicero: speech on behalf of Publius Sestius, Oxford Linderski, J. 2002. The pontiff and the tribune: the death of Tiberius Gracchus, in: Athenaeum 90, 339–360. Lintott, A. 1999. Violence in Republican Rome, 2nd ed. Oxford. Lundgreen, C. 2009. Geheim(nisvoll)e Abstimmung in Rom: die “leges tabellariae” und ihre Konsequenzen für die Comitien und die “res publica”, in: Historia 58, 36–70. Morstein-Marx, R. 2004. Mass Oratory and Political Power in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge. Mouritsen, H. 1999. Italian Unification: a study in Ancient and Modern Historiography, London. Richardson, J. 2008. The Language of Empire: Rome and the idea of Empire from the Third Century BC to the Second Century AD, Cambridge. Robb, M. 2009. Beyond Populares and Optimates: political language in the late Republic, Stuttgart. Rotondi, G. 1912. Leges publicae populi Romani. Milan. Sciarrino, E. 2007. Roman oratory before Cicero: the Elder Cato and Gaius Gracchus, in: W. Dominik / J. Hall (eds.), A companion to Roman Rhetoric, Oxford, 54–66. Stockton, D. 1979. The Gracchi. Oxford. Straumann, B. 2016. Crisis and Constitutionalism: Roman Political Thought from the Fall of the Republic to the Age of Revolution, New York. Ungern-Sternberg, J. 1970. Untersuchungen zum spätrömischen Notstandsrecht. Senatus consultum ultimum und hostis-Erklärung, Munich Ungern-Sternberg, J. 1984. Die beiden Fragen des Titus Annius Luscus, in: V. Giuffrè (ed.), Scritti in onore di Antonio Guarino, Naples, 339–348. Feig Vishnia, R. 2008, Written ballot, Secret Ballot and the iudicia publica: a note on the leges tabellariae (Cic. De legibus 3.33=39), in: Klio 90, 334–346. Wiseman, T. 2009, Remembering the Roman People: essays on Late-Republican Politics and Literature, Oxford. Yakobson, A. 1995. ‘Secret ballot and its effects in the Late Roman Republic’, in: Hermes 123, 426–442.

Remarks on the Image and the Honorary Monuments of the Roman Ruling Class in the Age of the Civil Wars Pompey the Great, Caesar and Octavian Matteo Cadario Writing a paper on the late Republican portraiture in the age of the civil wars was a bit problematic because, on the one hand we know the full round portraits of many leaders, but on the other, as in the case of the first triumvirate, their heads were often imperial-age copies, and we do not know the original bodies for which they had been conceived. However, to understand the meaning of an ancient statue we need to combine both, heads and bodies, because they had different purposes in a monument, even though the viewer obviously considered them together. The portrait type had to express the personality and, once developed, was disseminated everywhere to be used on different bodies. The dedicator of a monument cannot change it and its meaning, but he might select the most effective statuary type to link the statue to the aims of the honor, and to its location. Therefore, statues and portraits are usually discussed separately. However, my purpose here is to put the heads on their bodies, by considering some famous urban honorary monuments that had a strong impact not only on politics, but also on the making of the image of the Roman élite. In fact, the honorary statues had never before played such an important role as they did in the age of the civil wars, when even literary sources give them more space than usual. I will focus my paper on the portraits of Pompey the Great, Caesar and Octavian. Pompey the Great On March 15, 44 BC, when Caesar fell at the foot of a portrait of Pompey, a real twist transformed an apparently ‘ordinary’ honorary statue into one of the most famous monuments of antiquity. Consequently, many scholars tried to understand what the

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statue ‘stained with the blood of Caesar’ looked like.1 On this point, a fascination for a naked image has emerged in the past few decades. According to Eugenio La Rocca, the statue might have depicted Pompey as Novus Neptunus in the same schema of the Lateran Poseidon, as in a famous coin of Sextus from Sicily.2 Similar statues probably existed, but there is no concrete evidence that Pompey adopted this schema in his Curia. Therefore, Gilles Sauron proposed a very complex allegorical reading of the mon­ umenta Pompeiana.3 According to him, Pompey placed many female statues depicting women fama mirabiles in his porticus to reproduce the crowd of the Heroines in the Elysian Fields, so that his portrait in the Curia could appear like a hero coming back from his katabasis, like Heracles, Dionysus, or Ulysses. As a result, Pompey’s statue could only be treated as a heroic portrait and, in fact, Sauron, following a suggestion by Filippo Coarelli, proposed its identification with a headless colossal nude statue in Palazzo Spada that was discovered in the area of Campus Martius.4 However style, workmanship, technique and iconography suggest a later imperial chronology. Art historians typically disagree on stylistic questions, but iconography can sometimes prove to be a more neutral and convincing ground. Firstly, the statue holds a globe carrying a Victory, and since Pompey was obviously a world conqueror, a small globus nikephoros in his hand is anachronistic. In fact, every Victoriola alludes to the small Nike from Tarentum that Octavian himself, the first concrete bringer of Victory, dedicated in the Curia Iulia in the aftermath of Actium.5 Secondly, the palm-like support is typical of Flavian portraits to allude to the Bellum Iudaicum. Thirdly, the rare Gorgoneion with closed eyes on the fibula calls to mind the same decoration of the fibula on Domitian’s cloak in the Palazzo Cancelleria reliefs, and no other parallels are available. So, in conclusion, the interpretation of the Pompeo Spada as Domitian, who was protected by Minerva and very active in Campus Martius, is a more convincing option.6 The idea that the statue of Pompey was nude based also on a passage of the De div­ inatione (2.23) in which Cicero called it simulacrum, apparently introducing a worship note, and suggesting that Pompey had been represented as a true hero within his Curia.7 However, this hypothesis misinterpreted the true meaning of simulacrum in Cicero’s text, as is shown by Nicolaus of Damascus’ tale of Caesar’s assassination. In fact, the historian clearly distinguished between an andrias of Pompey, i. e. the honorary statue, and the eidolon of him (Aug. 23.83; 24.90), that alludes to the virtual presence of Pompey himself, embodied in his statue, at the ‘crime scene’. In my opinion, Cicero, by 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Sehlmeyer 1999, 219–222. La Rocca 1987/1988; RRC 511/3. On Sextus and his images, cf. Welch 2012. Sauron 1994, 253–314. On the monumenta see also Cadario 2011 and Russell 2016, 153–186, Sauron 1994, 252–258. On the late Republican chronology see also Coarelli 1996, 378–379 and Celani 2013, 535–541. Koortbojian 2005; Cass. Dio 51.22; Suet. Aug. 100.2; Herodian. 5.5.7. Faccenna 1956; Cadario 2011, 51. Sauron 1994.

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using the term simulacrum, did not refer to a supposed heroic status of the monument, but only to the presence of the triumvir’s image, turning Pompey into a spectator of the accomplishment of his revenge, and reinforcing his interpretation of the murder as a divine punishment.8 So, we have no reason to posit that the portrait of Pompey was an ‘heroic’ naked statue. At this point, we have to come back to what we really know about the statue and its location. It adorned the central exedra of the porticus used also as a meeting place for the Senate, and according to the life of Brutus the city (polis) erected it when Pompey built the monument, so it was a civic honor and Pompey did not officially commission it.9 This fact is part of the ambiguities between the public and the private sphere associated with Pompey’s complex, ambiguities that kept growing, especially when the Senate began to use it for its meetings.10 In fact, the famous exedra did not probably host the Senate immediately, but only a few days after the burning of the Curia Cornelia on 19 January 52 BC.11 At that time Pompey, as proconsul, could not cross the pomerium, but, proclaiming to be in danger, he induced the Senate to meet in his monumenta, that were also close to his famous domus rostrata and horti. Before 52 BC the optimates were often unpleasant with Pompey, and probably he would be the patron of his own portrait in the exaedra. Since his election as consul sine collega, he became the real master of Rome,12 and the Roman People could honor him in his monumenta. There was also a very good opportunity to do so, when he completed in some way the building and dedicated an aedes to Victoria, emphasizing his third consulship in an inscription whose text he decided only after consulting many senators.13 So, we can disconnect the portrait of Pompey from the ‘female celebrities’, that he collected in his porticus. The portrait is instead the result of public patronage, and the city probably erected it to express gratitude to the new consul in the midst of a deep political crisis. In fact, Pompey’s statue, like every other public monument, was also part of an institutionalized context, namely the official honors celebrating the services that the honorand offered to the city and the relationship between the latter and the civic institutions.14 So, if, by the gift of the statue, the city thanked the patron of the building for his liberalitas, a monument erected in a new Curia was also the result of the balance of power between the Senate and Pompey himself, which was now clearly favorable to him. Actually, the Senate translated this unbalanced relationship into an honor very similar to those established by the Greek cities to praise the HellenCadario 2011, 48–49. In fact, in many other passages Cicero uses statua and simulacrum as a hendiadys: inv., 2.1.1; Archia, 30.6; Pis. 93.21; Verr. 2.2.159. 9 Plut. Brut. 14.2. Cf. Sehlmeyer 1999, 219–220. 10 Russell 2016, 153–186. 11 Ascon. 52C e cf. also 36 C and Cass. Dio 40.50.2. 12 On the political situation: Fezzi 2019, 143–151. 13 Gell. noctes Atticae., 14.7; cf. Russell 2016, 164–165. 14 Tanner 2000, 18–50. 8

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istic Kings or the Roman magistrates by erecting statues of them in their bouleuteria, as Teos did with Antiochus III or Syracuse with Marcellus and Verres.15 Obviously, nobody could really know today how Pompey appeared in 44, when Caesar’s blood marked his statue, but there is no reason why we should not explore other schemata apart from the nudity. For example, outside the pomerium a cuirassed image cannot be excluded, but the political circumstances, such as the civic patronage of the statue and the need to celebrate the consulship sine collega, point rather to a togate portrait, wearing the toga picta or the habitus consularis.16

Fig. 1 Portrait-type of Pompey the Great a) ‘Venezia’ type b) ‘Copenhagen’ type (from Schweitzer 1948)

This is enough for the body, but what about the head? There are only two surviving portrait types surely representing Pompey, the Venice one [Fig. 1a] and the Copenhagen [Fig. 1b].17 They raise questions of mutual chronology: usually, scholars considered the head now in Venice, in which Pompey is younger, the earlier one. However, the arrangement of the hairstyle and the lesser development of the anastolé has been re15 16 17

I recall here Antiochus III at Teos (Chanitois 2007) and Marcellus and Verres at Syracuse: Cic. Verr. 2.2.50 and 2.4.143. On a Hellenistic statuary group from the Bouleuterion of Aigai: Sezgin, Aybek 2016. Giulani 1986, 269; Cadario 2011, 50. According to la Rocca 1987/88, 282 the Copenhagen portrait-type was more appropriate to a togate statue. The Louvre marble head (Strocka 2004, 62; Megow 2005, 62–63; Roger 2017) essentially seems very similar to the Copenhagen portrait-type, cf. Boschung 2021, 168, and the Torlonia head probably was an imperial updating of the same type: Settis, Gasparri 2020, n. 6, 149 (I. Romeo).

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cently seen as evidence of an Augustan updating of the earlier Copenhagen portrait.18 This hypothesis does not seem very convincing, because the mass of honors and statues offered to Pompey immediately after 67 BC in the East implies the existence of a portrait type,19 and the middle-aged head of Copenhagen seems too mature for a portrait realized at the beginning of the sixties, when Pompey was about forty years old and intended to underline the difference in age with his competitors. In addition, the evolution of the anastolé in the Copenhagen type is consistent with the more explicit references to Alexander’s image in the triumph of 61, when Pompey wore Alexander’s chlamys, and again in 55, when he probably offered Nicias’ portrait of Alexander in his porticus.20 It seems better to consider the Venice type as a more dramatic version adopted at the beginning of the sixties, maybe for the equestrian statue on the Rostra,21 and the Copenhagen type as an update created in the aftermath of the triumph of 61. Indeed, the statue erected in the Curia must be a replica of the Copenhagen head also because Cnaeus and Sextus reproduced the same portrait type on their coins minted in Spain and Sicily.22 The two Pompey’s portrait-types are extremely important also because they steer clear of the seeming monotony of the realistic Roman portrait, which tended to state the prestige of the experience through an emphasis on old age. However, having reached a leading position very soon, Pompey, in the Venice type, had the opportunity of using a more youthful image than his competitors to recall the extraordinariness of his career. Later, in the Copenhagen head, he introduced age marks, as forehead wrinkles, to show his determination, energy, life experience and intensity of thinking. Therefore, he could not fail to remind the viewer that he had the charisma of the conqueror of the East. So his hairstyle deliberately recalls Alexander’s anastolé.23 However, the comparison with Alexander is based only on the central portion of his hairstyle, conveniently enlarged only in the Copenhagen type. On this point Plutarch was right: “The slight upward lift of his hair and the mobility of his features about the eyes made his face resemble that of King Alexander, as portrayed in his statues, though this was not so much apparent as something people said”.24

18

On the portrait-types of Pompey: La Rocca 1987/88, 270–273; Strocka 2004, 60–65; Megow 2005, 63–73; Junker 2007, 73–82, 90–93; Trunk 2008, 152, fig. 32; La Rocca, Parisi Presicce 2011, 190–191, nr. 2.46 (L. Buccino); Pollini 2012, 50–51; Roger 2021; Boschung 2021, 165–172. 19 Bentz 1992, 241–242; Rödel-Braune 2015, 136–153 e 437–457; Boschung 2021, 165–167. 20 Cadario 2011, 45; Plin. NH 35.132. 21 On the equestrian statue of Pompey: Sehlmeyer 1999, 209–211; 231–232. 22 RRC 470; 511/3. In choosing a portrait corresponding to that under which Caesar fell, Sextus pursued a perfect strategy of satisfying his desire of revenge while exhibiting his pietas towards his father. 23 Boschung 2021, 169–171. 24 Plut. Pomp. 2.2 (translation: R. Waterfield).

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The portrait was part of a very pragmatic agenda, and the anastolé here was little more than a passing reference to the uniqueness of his military campaigns. Otherwise, the mundane face of Pompey is not just a ‘face of power’. Above all, his head, almost smiling, consciously conveys a sense of affability and personal charm, cleverly constructed on the reference to the portrait of Menander. Pompey wanted to show a reassuring, cheering image consistent with the impression of sociability he gave of himself according to Plutarch.25 Between 55 and 52 BC he asked everyone for advice about his theater in a friendly way, and he tried to increase his popularity through the inaugural shows. Obviously, there is something self-contradictory in this portrait that was intended to mix the sociability of a ruling class member and the charm of the benefactor with the vigor of the conqueror, but it was part of the ambiguities between private and public also visible in his porticus. On the one hand, the statue in the Curia could be very similar to the figure of Pompey himself receiving his friends at home, and the exedra was really close to his domus. On the other, as a public honor, the statue was also the official image of the consul sine collega who had received new exceptional powers and ‘convinced’ the Senate to honor him in his monumenta as a patronus of the city.26 The use of the Copenhagen type for the head of the statue could effectively combine both needs. Indeed, a feature of the Roman portrait in the age of the civil wars was the extreme physiognomic variety represented by individual choices. Increasing the rate of realism or strengthening pathos and emotions resulted in a great assortment of different facial expressions.27 The Roman ruling élite was perfectly conscious of the great importance of self-representation in an extremely competitive political arena. A wealthy politician like Crassus opted for an individual realistic portrait full of wrinkles to show his strength, energy and determination, and his loyalty to the older model loved by the sullan ruling class (cf. the ‘Tivoli General’), perhaps to deflect the allegations of not respecting that model.28 Cicero, starting again from the portrait of Menander, made a similar choice and presented himself as a good citizen, calm, mature, determinate, jovial, and in good health. Since his rivals often accused him of arrogance, the portrait had to give an opposite impression. Here, his half-open mouth does not seem a reference to the pathetic Asian tradition but to his oratory skills.29 Paradoxically, a true conservative like Cato Minor chose a light classicistic and cool version of the usual realistic portrait.30 Lepidus instead possibly commissioned an additional pathetic version of his 25 Plut. Pomp. 2.1. See also Cic. Man. 5.13 (mansuetudo); 14.41 (facilitas). 26 Russell 2016, 182–184. 27 Giuliani 1986. 28 Boschung 1986, 276–287; De Kersauson 1986, 106–107, n. 47; Megow 2005, 75–80; Boschung 2021, 161–162. 29 Zanker 2001; Megow 2005, 109–124; Boschung 2021, 162–163. See La Rocca, Parisi Presicce 2017, 320–323 (M. Cadario). 30 Megow 2005, 125-130; Pollini 2012, 49.

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very realistic portrait.31 If, as Luca Giuliani claimed, the Roman portrait of the first century BC wanted to give a somewhat monotonous account of the possession of some standard virtues, such as dignitas or severitas, at least for the civil wars age the evidence, exhibiting an extreme variety of styles and individual options, calls this assumption in question. The sharing of the same values had been overtaken by the competition, leaving the exponents of the nobilitas free to follow their taste and to make their personal choices. Only the imperial age, when the Zeitgesicht of the Emperor came into play, will erase the freedom and variety of the age of the civil wars. Caesar It is time to turn to Caesar, and we need to start again from his honorary urban monuments erected between 46 and 44 BC.32 The first important location was the forum Iulium, inaugurated in 46 as a triumphal building. Inside the forum stood two portraits of Caesar, one equestrian and one standing. As depicting the builder inside his building, we can compare both to Pompey’s image in his Curia. The equestrian monument played more intimately with the aemulatio Alexandri. Caesar’s face had in fact replaced the original portrait of Alexander in a Lysippean statue that was probably part of the Alexandrian booty and celebrated the dictator’s triumph ex Aegypto (46 BC).33 Here, the merging of Caesar’s portrait with the body of Alexander replaced Pompey’s plainer reference to the hairstyle of the king. Obviously, Caesar’s bald spot did not let him exhibit a true anastolé, but the replacement of the head implicitly recalled his victory over the Roman Magnus. A standing bronze cuirassed statue, that Caesar himself allowed to be dedicated to him in his forum, stood there too. Caesar was not the patron of the monument, as Pompey in his Curia. The statue must be part of the honors that the Senate offered him in 46. And the dictator sometimes refused and sometimes accepted them, as he did for his cuirassed portrait; which was, according to the Pliny the Elder, the first statua loricata in Rome, i. e. inside the pomerium.34 It became also a landmark in the new forum, so it must have been a remarkable monument. This deliberate choice of wearing the military costume, in contrast to the usual toga, requires an explanation. Before his first triumph in 46, Caesar was unqualified to wear the toga picta, the conventional dress of the vir triumphalis. However, from late 49, the dictatorship gave him another option to show his excep-

31 Abbondanza, Coarelli 2014, 339–340 (M. Cadario). 32 Sehlmeyer 1999, 225–238; Cadario 2006; Zanker 2009; Koortbojian 2013, 94–100. On the urbanistic projects of Pompey and Caesar: Davies 2017, 215–274; Zampieri 2018. 33 Cadario 2006, 35–37; Zanker 2009, 291–292; Delfino et al. 2010, 352–353; Stat. S. 1.84–88. 34 Cadario 2006, 33–35; Zanker 2009, 291; Koortbojian 2010; Delfino 2014; Plin. NH 34.18; Plin. epist. 8.6.13; Suet. Claud. 28.1–2.

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tional status. When a magistrate crossed over the pomerium, he moved between two domains, the civic and the military; that is, using a dressing code, between toga and lorica. As dictator, having the power to exercise his imperium militiae within the po­ merium, Caesar’s cuirassed image publicly showed his authority as the only supreme commander, also declaring his extraordinary and legal role of imperator within Rome.35 Nobody else could legitimately wear the same costume. Caesar set up his images in the very prestigious area Capitolina as well. The first one, dedicated in 46 in front of the Capitolium, was an eccentric bronze statue that represented him – called hemitheos in the inscription – as victor orbis terrarum. According to Cassius Dio, Caesar was setting his foot on Oikoumene, a description usually explained as a reference to the female personification or to a globe.36 A later coin of Octavian in which the victor of Naulochus was setting his foot on the globe probably recalls Caesar’s cosmocratic image. On the coin Octavian is naked, so the heroic costume is a good option also for this portrait of Caesar as demigod.37 Then in 45 Caesar set up his annoying portrait inter reges, the biggest failure of his ‘propaganda’. The statue stood near the image of Brutus the Elder holding a sword, and Caesar most likely planned this location to celebrate himself as a new Brutus, that is, as conditor libertatis or better liberator rei publicae. However, Brutus’ statue belonged to the group of the Roman kings, and this placement prevailed in the monument reception and earned the dictator the charge of adfectatio regni. Besides, the proximity to the Roman armed tyrannicide became an open invitation to murder Caesar himself. A true epic fail for a monument whose appearance was probably more traditional than its location, because it presumably wore a toga like the statues of the kings and Brutus.38 Finally, in 44, the forum and the area of the Rostra, where Caesar himself had planned a strong renewal of the public spaces, played the most prominent role. In the first place he restored the equestrian statues of Sulla and Pompey, exhibiting his cle­ mentia, then he received from the Senate an equestrian golden statue, perhaps wearing the toga, on the Rostra and two standing statues, crowned with the civic crown and the corona obsidionalis respectively. Those two statues were ground-breaking because they deeply innovated the Roman portrait, introducing a new attribute in the form of the civic crown, an honor usually given for individual merits that Caesar cleverly transformed into a metaphor of the rescue of the res publica.39 This novelty is also a good example of how Roman portraiture works. In the Hellenistic world, the citizens could honor a magistrate or a king as soter, but they were not able to visualize this concept

35 36 37 38 39

Koortbojian 2010. Cass. Dio 43.14.6. Cadario 2006, 27–32; Zanker 2009, 289–290; Letta 2020, 10–11; Serv. ecl. 9.46. Cadario 2006, 38–41; Lentano 2008; Zanker 2009, 292–293. Cadario 2006, 51–55; Zanker 2009, 293–294. On the crowns in Caesar’s portraiture, see also Koortbojian 2013, 118–120.

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in a very specific monument or attribute. The plain language of the Roman portraiture established the civic crown as the exact element that allows to represent the honored as savior of his fellow citizens, i. e. the res publica.40 Naturally, even in Caesar’s case, we must ask ourselves which heads his statues featured. Today there is a substantial agreement on the identification of two portrait types of the dictator: the Tusculum type, the only one made during Caesar’s lifetime and represented on coins in 44 BC, and the Chiaramonti type, a posthumous portrait created to emphasize his closeness to Augustus.41 Recently, a new realistic portrait from Arelate has also been identified with Caesar. However, physiognomy and technical reasons allow us to rule out this identification. The marble bust of Arelate was not part of a standing statue, which is the monument we would expect for a portrait erected by the local veterans to celebrate the founder of their city, but it seems to have been worked to be inserted in a herm, a category that is incompatible with an important civic monument.

Fig. 2 Portrait of Caesar from Tusculum (Torino, Museo di Antichità) (from Schweitzer 1948)

40 41

On the crowns, see Bergemann 2010. RRC 80/3; 5b; Strocka 2004, 55–60; Zanker 2009, 295–296; 301–310; Koortbojian 2013, 100–106 and 110–111; Boschung 2021, 163–164. On the Tusculum portrait-type: Fittschen, Zanker, Cain 2010, 23–26, n. 13. On a remarkable Julio-Claudian version from Pantelleria: Schäfer 2015, n.1, 717–721.

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In essence, Caesar’s face seems to have only influenced the portrait of Arles, such as that of Leiden and others.42 In this sense, these portraits offer evidence of another important novelty, namely the beginning of the Bildnisangleichung. The local élites imitated the portrait types of their leaders in order to demonstrate their political affiliation or proximity to them, or simply because a portrait of a great commander was more fashionable and prestigious.43 It was not just Caesar: a beautiful portrait from Cagliari combined the anastolé of Pompey the Great with a very realistic face, demonstrating again the variety and the innovation of the portrait culture of the civil wars.44 Coming back to the statues of Caesar, they surely featured portraits reproducing the Tusculum type, in which the dictator selected both a sober realism, as we can see in the imperfections of the skull, and a form of stylization, as is suggested by the hairstyle and facial features, in order to show a very controlled and impartial expression. If this portrait type was developed, and disseminated in the aftermath of Pharsalus (as suggested by the 25 bases of bronze statues of Caesar dedicated in the East) perhaps the choice of a non-pathetic model did not depend only on the neo-Atticist personal taste of the honorand.45 The exceptionality of the political situation, the assumption of the dictatorship, the charges of aspiring to the kingdom may have imposed the choice of a less stimulating and emotional portrait, not too far from the Roman traditional virtues, but also new in its search for stylization to suggest the (ironic) self-control, that the dictator usually showed to his peers. This portrait, however, accompanied new statuary types and a very innovative managing of the locations of the public honors. There is no ambiguity or confusion here between public and private. As we have seen, between 46 and 44, Caesar had the power and the opportunity to occupy the most prestigious spaces in Rome, and he did it, like nobody before him. If we also consider the controversial statue in the aedes Quirini,46 this series of monuments really gives the idea of his power over the city. He acted with great freedom and was able to diversify the typologies and the costumes of his images according to their prominent locations. Not everything went well, anyway, and these issues in communicating Caesar’s role as victor in relation to the res publica, confirm the difficulties he encountered in defining it. However, after all, Caesar often tried to act within the tradition. He used the cuirassed image to emphasize the exceptionality and legitimacy of his imperium as dictator; the equestrian statue on the Rostra was an impressive but non-exclusive honor; the statue inter reges and the adoption of the civic crown served to corroborate the claim of defending the libertas rei publicae; his portraits on coins represented him wearing a triumphal crown 42 43 44 45 46

Koortbojian 2013, 106–110. On the Arles portait see also Rosso 2016 and Denti 2016. The new need to express loyalty to the leaders also manifested itself in holding their small portraits at home (Roger 2021) or in wearing signet rings with their faces or symbols (Sena Chiesa 2002). Angiolillo 1971, 119–124. Rödel-Braune 2015, 153–174 and 489–507. On a Caesar’s portrait from Corinth, see Vanderpool 2018. Cadario 2006, 47–51; Zanker 2009, 292.

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Fig. 3 Cuirassed statue from Minturnae (Napoli, Mann) (from Cadario 2004)

(RRC 480/3) or the toga velato capite.47 Only the image ‘overwhelming’ Oikoumene, naked or not, seems really very far from the Roman tradition. Caesar’s choice of the habitus militaris was the most successful novelty. In the following years, there was a spread of cuirassed images. Gnaeus Pompey immediately, Marcus Antonius and Octavian later on, wore the corselet on coins and reliefs to present themselves as commander on the field.48 In a few years, the habitus militaris became 47 48

RRC 480/6; 13. Cadario 2004, 92–95. The altar from Aesernia representing a cuirassed M. Nonius Gallus, imperator in 29 BC, deserves a mention here.

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very popular in Italy also among the local élites, as in Campania, where many people requested funeral cuirassed statues and steles from local workshops.49 Military career was becoming an instrument of social achievement for the veterans, who now had deeper connections with their generals and wanted to imitate both their portraits and their bodies. A cuirassed statue from temple B of Minturnae is a key document because it attests the use of the military image in a public and sacred space. Temple B was built shortly after the middle of the first century BC, perhaps to host the Caesareum, as suggested by the dedication of a Divus Iulius’ statue in compliance with the Lex Rufrena. So, the cuirassed statue could represent Caesar himself or, better, one of his supporters involved in his worship as Divus.50 Octavian and the second triumvirate After Caesar’s assassination, the area surrounding the Rostra remains a major focus of attention. The first public monument of Octavian was the equestrian statue erected at the beginning of 43 on the Rostra by the Senate, which conferred on him the imperium propraetore.51 The location and schema were prestigious but they replicated a formula already adopted for Sulla, Pompey and Caesar; on the contrary, the young age and the status of Octavian, who had privately enlisted his troops, were exceptional. In fact, he represented the statue several times on his coins from the 43 to 31 BC, to legitimize himself and highlight his controversial military qualities.52 We do not know how the statue really appeared. The image on the coins often changed and maybe Octavian himself had renewed the monument in the following years. Anyway, it broke with the previous tradition in underlining the role of Octavian as commander. In fact, the lituus hold by Octavian made a direct reference to his imperium propraetore and legitimacy as commander under his own auspicia.53 The Rostra monument could have influenced an equestrian image of Octavian in military costume found in the Aegean Sea, for which Eugenio Polito proposed a new chronology before Actium.54 This statue could give an idea of ​​how Octavian used to appear during the civil wars as a victorious commander. Dressed in a fringed cloak, probably a lacerna,55 and in an ancient equestrian costume,

49 50 51 52 53 54 55

Cadario 2012; Avagliano 2020. On Minturnae and temple B: Boschung 2002, 43–44; Wohlmayr 2004, 93–94. On the dedication: D. Nonnis in Abbondanza, Coarelli 2014, 341–342. On the cuirassed statue, cf. Cadario 2012, 855– 857. Sehlmeyer 1999, 249–251; Vell. 2.61.3; App. civ. 3.51.209. RRC 490/1 and 3; 497/1; 518/2; RIC I 262. Cf. Burnett 1999; Polito 2015; Cadario 2021, 113–117. Polito 2015. However, for a later chronology, see Boschung 1993, nr. 7, 110–111 On the fringed cloak, cf. Cadario 2016, 302

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the tunica angusticlavia, he came back from the war with the sword by his side and, holding a ring with a lituus, also proclaimed to have a legitimate imperium.56 A few years later, in 36 BC, after the victory over Sextus in Sicily, Octavian accepted a golden statue that was placed on a rostral column and, according to Appian, depicted him in the same schema he wore in the day of his entrance into the city.57 This strange formula probably described the costume of the ovatio. The statue celebrated, through the statuary type, the restoration of the peace terra marique that Octavian himself had announced. In fact, in 35, in the vicinity of the Rostra, Antonius was honored with two statues in the aedes Concordiae and with an empty quadriga.58 A fully naked military statue of Octavian erected on a rostral column is depicted on a later coin probably minted after Actium. This image does not reproduce the schema described by Appian, but it might represent one of the columnae rostratae Augusti and Agrippae erected after Actium and then moved to the Capitolium by Domitian.59

Fig. 4 Denarius RIC 271 depicting the statue of Octavian on a rostral column (from Cadario 2021)

Regardless of the identification of the column on the coin, the statue depicted Octavian fully naked, with the cloak on his shoulder, a spear and a sword by his side. The image proves that in the years of Actium, Octavian still focused on his charismatic leadership as commander in the forum. The schema of the statue is very similar to a statuary type often used by urban and local élites in the age of the civil wars, as we 56 57 58 59

Spalthoff 2010, 34–35. Cass. Dio 49.15–16. Sehlmeyer 1999, 255–259. See Serv. ad Georg. 3.29; Palombi 1993. On this coin, see Assenmaker 2007, 174–175; Schipporeit 2017, 146–151; Cadario 2021, 118–120. The laureate portrait of Octavian on the obverse of the coin matches the head represented on the cistophoroi from Pergamon, minted in the aftermath of the battle.

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Fig. 5 Statue of Navarch from Capua (Museo Provinciale Campano) (photo author)

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can see in the Agrippa Grimani and in a statue from Foruli. Thus, we can find further evidence for the dissemination of the same statuary types in two statues, both linked to the victory at sea. The Navarch from Capua, with his foot on a rostrum, and a very similar funeral statue from Aquileia, probably erected on a prow, concretely document the contemporary elaboration of an Urban monument representing a victor of the bella na­ valia, wearing the hip-mantle, and flanked by a cuirass.60 Indeed, during the civil wars the choice of the military nude portrait, holding weapons and wearing a military cloak, was a very widespread phenomenon. The display of weapons and military garments, establishing a close link between nakedness and exercise of a military power, ascribed to the male nudity a symbolic value strong enough to make it acceptable to a Roman. The idea of publicly honoring Octavian in the same schema of his entry into the city could also be an important precedent for the conscious transformation of the most spectacular way of entrance into the Urbs, the triumph, in a new monument type, which Octavian appropriated in 29, when he probably accepted his first triumphal arc. Again, in this case, by placing his statue in quadrigeis on the atticus of an arch, he deeply renewed the traditional image of the imperator triumphans, and invented a completely new civic monument. In fact, the only examples I know of using the quadriga group to crown a building are Greek: the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus and the Attalid pillars erected in Athens; but those quadrigae alluded to the victory in chariot races not at war.61 So, in the triumviral age, Octavian concentrated his Urban statues in the forum, and pointed out the exceptionality of his successes through images that were actually innovative in their schemata and meaning. He showed only an apparent loyalty to the Republican tradition, which he used in his own way. From this perspective are remarkable the underlining of his imperium in the equestrian statues, the renewal of the rostral column and the arch as a basement for his images, the transformation of the schema of his reditus in a civic monument, the new use of the image in quadrigeis, and the placement of his dramatic naked portrait in the forum itself. However, which portraits did these statues feature? Here we can see a true revolution. Before the assassination of Caesar, the existence of two portrait types is certain only for Pompey, while Crassus, Cicero or Caesar appear to have had only one single portrait type in their lifetime. In the aftermath of Caesar’s death there was a sudden acceleration in the development of portrait types and a greater variability in representing the same person. Unfortunately, Antonius’ portrait tradition escapes us, but this break seems evident for Lepidus, who probably changed in just a few years two different portrait types, which may correspond to the heads of Turin and Alba

60 61

On those nude or hip-mantel statues holding weapons, see Cadario 2012; Cadario 2017. On the Parthian arch, cf. Rich 1998; RIC I 267; on the statues in quadrigeis, cf. Weinstock 1971, 54–59. See also Jünger 2006; Cadario 2021, 122–125.

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Fucens.62 Octavian did more. The events of the late 40 s forced him to change his image at least twice.63 The first type, the Beziers/Spoleto [Fig. 6a], the only one in which he looked very young, could have appeared in 43 BC with his first public equestrian monument.64 The elaboration of the ‘Lucus Feroniae’ [Fig. 6b] type could be linked to the official consecration of Divus Iulius (42 BC) that made the young Caesar divi filius:65 Voconius’ coins represented this portrait type and emphasized precisely this aspect, alternating the portraits of the Elder and the Young Caesar.66 In fact, in the portrait of Octavian now in Venice, the veiled head implied participation in a sacred action and underlined the devotion of the young Caesar. In addition, the unshaven face, unusual in the all-round portraiture, might be interpreted here as a sign of mourning. Given the high chronology, the mourning might be that of Caesar’s death. So, the statue of the sacrificing young Octavian with his veiled head, his unshaven face and his unkempt hairstyle had to emphasize his double condition of pitiful son and strong avenger of his divine adoptive father.67

Fig. 6 The five portrait types of Augustus. a) portrait from Béziers (‘Béziers-Spoleto’ type); b) portrait from Lucus Feroniae (‘Lucus Feroniae’ type) c) portrait from Alcudia (‘Alcudia’ type); d) portrait at the Capitoline Museums (‘Louvre MA 1280’ type); e) head of the cuirassed statue from Prima Porta (‘Prima Porta’ type) (from Cadario 2021)

A few years later, probably between 40 and 38, before the Sicilian campaign against Sextus, Octavian began to use a new and more persistent portrait type, the ‘Alcudia’ [Fig. 6c]. In his frowning expression and chaotic hairstyle, he found the best combination of youth, energy and auctoritas required for the final challenges with Sextus 62

RRC 492/2; 494/1; 6b (with more hair) vs 491/1 (more realistic and with a receding hairline). See M. Cadario in Abbondanza, Coarelli 2014, 339–340. 63 Pollini 1999; Boschung 2021, 175–182. 64 Boschung 1993, 25–26, 107–108; Balty/Cazes 1995, 37–43; Rosso 2006, 339–341; Rocco 2019; Boschung 2021, 176–180. 65 Boschung 1993, 13–22; 118–119, n. 2. 66 RRC 526/1. 67 On this portrait: Boschung 1993, 109, n. 5., cf. the heads of Sextus (bearded) and his father facing each other in RRC 511/1.

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and Antonius. Thus, this portrait perfectly matches the more charismatic costumes as the cuirassed one and the heroic that Octavian often chose in the same years. Furthermore, for the first time a large number of marble portraits of the same type have survived.68 Indeed, the elaboration of the Alcudia Type enables to make a true qualitative leap in the distribution of the image of the leaders. Many marble portraits, in fact, presume a wide spread of an available model and the existence of ateliers engaged in its reproduction, a common phenomenon in the imperial age, but a great novelty for the 30 s.69 However, in the same years, many Greek workshops expert in copying processes moved to Italy and so began the exploitation of the marble quarries at Luni. Therefore, the circumstances were favorable for an upgrade in producing and disseminating standardized portraits. Moreover, Octavian strongly favored this spread: from 36 BC, Italian cities venerated him along with the civic gods, and, in 32 BC, the coniuratio Itali­ ae ratified this process of popular identification with him, stimulating the dedication of many statues. Later, the fourth type (the Louvre MA 1280) appeared. It depends on the oldest ‘Alcudia’ without any influence of the ‘Prima Porta’ type. So, it should have been realized after Actium, reworking the ‘Alcudia’ type in a classical sense, to build the new quiet image of the master of Rome. The specific occasion could be a key event such as the triumph of 29 BC. In fact, in a bust of the Capitoline Museums Octavian probably wears the golden or Etruscan triumphal crown, characterized by a central medallion [Fig. 6d].70 Finally, in 27, the Prima Porta type showed the new face of Augustus [Fig. 6e].71 To sum up, between 43 and 27 Augustus changed his face five times. The fluency of the political situation in civil wars age could explain this strong acceleration, because it forced the leaders to adapt to the circumstances. It happened to Lepidus, who oscillated between conflicting positions before joining the triumvirate, and to Octavian, who had to adjust his image frequently. He softly accentuated his maturity in the oldest portraits (his relaxed face does not show wrinkles only in the first portrait-type) and conversely emphasized the pathos in the years when he needed to show his resolve and strength in preparing the wars with Sextus and Antonius. Then, he recovered a classicist approach at the time of his triumph, and applied it more strongly in the Prima Porta type. The increase of speed and the consciousness of these changes were big novelties, and anticipated a trend that would continue in the imperial age. In conclusion, there are some new phenomena that, with regard to Roman portraiture, can be identified as the hallmark of the civil wars age.72 For the first time we can 68 69 70 71 72

Boschung 1993, 51–65; Pollini 1999, 728–730; Pollini 2012, 167–168; Boschung 2021, 180–182. Pfanner 1989. Fittschen/Zanker 1985, 7–10, n. 8; Boschung 1993, 129–131, n. 45; Pollini 1999, 727–730; Pollini 2012, 172–173; La Rocca, Parisi Presicce 2011, nr. 4.9, p. 262 (M. Cadario). On the golden crown: Bergmann 2010, 37–99. Boschung 1993, 38–59 and 60–65; Boschung 2021, 183–186. Boschung 2021, 174–175.

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really appreciate the relevance of the link between portrait, schema (often meaning the habitus) and the specific location of a monument. The increased importance of images urged the leaders to change their portrait types frequently and to reproduce them on coins, also promoting the development of the Bildinsangleichung. Meanwhile, the dissemination of multiple portraits, as in the case of the Octavian’s Alcudia type, promoted the standardization process of the types, making easier and faster the production of the statues. Specific measures such as the lex Rufrena73 or the coniuratio Itali­ ae probably helped, creating the opportunity to realize many monuments in a short time, combining similar heads and bodies. Finally, the spread of the military images, the cuirassed one and the naked, was strongly linked to the civil wars age, as Cicero confirmed in his De Officiis (1.61), using words of praise for the increase of the statuae ornatu militari in which he saw the studium bellicae gloriae and the magnitudo animi of the Roman people.74 So, a portrait culture typical of the age of the civil wars did indeed exist, and anticipated many qualities of the imperial age, but not everything was permanent. During the Augustan age the use of the statuary-types changed a lot, the naked heroic portrait lost the favor of the élites, the hip-mantle statue typically lost its weapons, a new larger ‘Augustan’ toga changed the civic dress-code, and the cuirassed image usually gained a decorative program, but it was also typically reserved to the emperor and his heirs. The ruling classes had to leave the military images and their charisma to them. But that’s another story. List of illustrations Fig. 1 Fig. 2 Fig. 3 Fig. 4 Fig. 5 Fig. 6

Portrait-type of Pompey the Great a) ‘Venezia’ type b) ‘Copenhagen’ type (from Schweitzer 1948) Portrait of Caesar from Tusculum (Torino, Museo di Antichità) (from Schweitzer 1948) Cuirassed statue from Minturnae (Napoli, Mann) (from Cadario 2004) Denarius RIC 271 depicting the statue of Octavian on a rostral column (from Cadario 2021) Statue of Navarch from Capua (Museo Provinciale Campano) (photo author) The five portrait types of Augustus. a) portrait from Béziers (‘Béziers-Spoleto’ type); b) portrait from Lucus Feroniae (‘Lucus Feroniae’ type) c) portrait from Alcudia (‘Alcudia’ type); d) portrait at the Capitoline Museums (‘Louvre MA 1280’ type); e) head of the cuirassed statue from Prima Porta (‘Prima Porta’ type) (from Cadario 2021).

73 Koortbojian 2013, 114–115. 74 Cic. off. 1.61; cf. Cadario 2012.

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General Index Ancient authors and emperors have been included with their commonly known denomination (Tacitus, Livy, Tiberius etc.). All other historical persons with the exception of Octavian/Augustus have been included with their nomen gentile. Actium  8, 57–59, 67 f., 70–72, 77–82, 154, 209, 227, 229, 282, 290, 344, 354, 355 M’. Aemilius Lepidus (cos. 66 BCE)  39, 41, 54 M. Aemilius Lepidus (cos 78 BCE)  136, 140, 152 M. Aemilius Lepidus  55, 75, 138, 139, 232, 258, 261, 348, 357, 359 L. Aemilius Paullus  54 f., 203, 205 f. L. Aemilius Paullus (cos 50 BCE)  232 M. Aemilius Scaurus  160 f., 171, 217 Aeneas  225 f., 232 Alexander the Great  102 f., 167, 347, 349 Alexandria  72, 78, 80, 82 f., 141 f., 146, 148, 154, 229 A. Allienus  261 amicitia  see friendship T. Annius Milo  95 f., 248, 260 P. Antistius  35 Antonia Minor  147, 154 C. Antonius Hybrida  7, 301 L. Antonius  139, 225, 286 M. Antonius  8, 16, 49 f., 52, 53, 55–59, 72, 75, 77–82, 99 f., 101, 104, 136, 138, 142, 144, 146, 148, 154, 179, 205, 208, 209, 211 f., 215, 226 f., 229, 23–238, 262, 278, 317, 353, 355, 357, 359 M. Antonius Orator  126 f., 336 f., 340 Appian  3, 2865 f., 38, 67, 75 f., 93 f., 97, 99 f., 116, 119, 120, 122 f., 165, 230, 237, 239, 247, 269 f., 278, 304, 311, 314–316, 318, 355

C. Appuleius Decianus  145, 336 L. Appuleius Saturninus  135, 144 f., 148–154, 277, 335 f., 339 M’. Aquillius  166 Asculum  285 f., 337 C. Asinius Pollio  57–59, 138 Athens  42, 51, 124, 132, 170, 211, 304, 307, 314, 316, 357 auctoritas  48, 171, 200 f., 203, 206, 213, 219, 271, 310, 335, 350, 358 Augustus   see Octavian Aurelia 99 C. Aurelius Cotta  170 L. Aurelius Cotta  53–56, 99 Aurelius Opillus  165, 172 autobiography/autobiographical writing  18, 120, 137, 159–173, 177–193, 232 bellum civile  11–18, 32, 60, 115, 118, 204–208, 217 f., 339 bellum sociale  14, 122, 136, 164, 167, 171 f., 233, 277, 282, 285 f., 288, 337 f. boni  19, 38, 41 f., 47 Bononia  58 f. Brundisium  39, 43, 46, 59, 75, 78, 100 Caecilia Metella  103–105, 172 Q. Caecilius Metellus Celer  99 Q. Caecilius Metellus Creticus  104 Q. Caecilius Metellus Nepos  99 Q. Caecilius Metellus Numidicus  162, 169 f., 172, 336

366

General Index

Q. Caecilius Metellus Scipio  190, 217, 250 f., 254, 290 A. Caecina Alienus  228 M. Caelius Rufus  40, 49 M. Calpurnius Bibulus  137 L. Calpurnius Piso Caesonius  53–55, 203 C. Calvisius Sabinus  239 f. P. Canidius Crassus  58, 79 C. Caninius Rebilus  263 Capitol  41, 118, 125, 132, 149, 333, 350 Capua 39–41 Carthage  see Punic Wars Cassius Dio  7, 38, 59, 75, 78 f., 81 f., 126, 128, 144, 215, 230, 234, 236, 239, 215, 255–257, 261, 264, 269 f., 278, 292, 301 f., 304, 316, 350 C. Cassius Longinus  91, 137, 146, 147, 212, 266 f., 317 Catullus  209, 290 civis/citizen  11–13, 47, 49, 52, 60, 115, 159, 204 f., 228, 236 f., 247, 249, 309, 331, 338, 351 Claudius 147 C. Claudius Marcellus  53 f., 191 M. Claudius Marcellus (cos 222 BCE)  217 M. Claudius Marcellus  191, 266 Tib. Claudius Nero  98, 139 Ap. Claudius Pulcher  253 f. clementia  16, 37, 49, 60, 192, 317, 350 Cleopatra  8, 72, 77–82, 278 Clodia  19, 92, 99 Clodia (wife of Aulus Ofilius)  147 P. Clodius Pulcher  42, 92, 99, 205 f., 259 commentarius/commentarii  17, 18, 120, 179–193 concordia  44 f., 47 consensus 17 consul/consular/consulate  32, 39, 41, 43 f., 45, 53–56, 58 f., 138, 148–151, 160, 162–164, 182, 189, 239 f., 248, 251 f., 255–258, 261 f., 333 f., 338, 345 f., 348 Corfinium 191 Cornelia (mother of the Gracchi)  91 f., 141, 146 f. Cornelia (daughter of Sulla)  95 L. Cornelius Balbus  44–46, 50, 51, 57, 138 L. Cornelius Cinna  14, 35 f., 43, 116 f., 125, 140 f., 167, 211, 215, 232, 259, 282, 315 A. Cornelius Cossus  217

P. Cornelius Dolabella  19, 40, 266 L. Cornelius Lentulus Crus  138 P. Cornelius Lentulus Spinther  45, 57, 190 L. Cornelius Merula  170 Cornelius Nepos  51 f., 209–213 P. Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus  146, 162, 171, 203, 205 f., 217, 330 f., 334 P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus  91, 203, 205 f. L. Cornelius Scipio Asiaticus (cos 83 BCE)  36, 43 P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica  217, 318, 327, 329 f., 334, 339 L. Cornelius Sisenna  231 L. Cornelius Sulla  12, 15, 17, 18, 35–37, 43, 51, 60, 95, 99, 115 f., 119–123, 125–129, 132, 136, 137, 140 f., 154, 161, 165, 166 f., 169–172, 179, 180, 192 f., 205, 211 f., 217 f., 225, 229–231 f., 233, 258, 259, 263 f., 267, 269 f., 278, 282, 286, 290, 304, 314–316, 338 Cremona  227 f. A. Cremutius Cordus  146 culture  9 f., 18, 19, 31, 33 f., 60, 90, 117 f., 124, 220, 245–247, 259, 265–271 Curia  127 f., 344 f. Curiatius Maternus  146 Deiotarus 268 Q. Dellius  138 Dexippus 305 dignitas  34, 51 f., 90, 171, 211, 245, 250, 317, 349 Diodorus 290 discordia  15, 201, 206, 211, 218, 227, 310 disintegration/reintegration  8, 16, 19, 34, 219 domi/militiae  11, 115, 117 f., 120–122, 204 L. Domitius Ahenobarbus  35, 41, 58, 290 C. Duilius  80 enemy  10, 12, 16, 35–37, 38, 51, 56, 57, 72, 76 f., 80 f., 100, 118, 120, 145, 170, 172, 190 f., 202, 204 f., 229, 235–237, 314 f., 317, 331, 337, 338–340 Epaminondas  210 f., 213 equestrians  36, 51 f., 59, 159, 163, 179, 234, 315, 334 f. ethics  51, 60 f., 226 exemplum  41–44, 49, 57, 60, 94, 192 f., 199– 220, 230, 335, 338 f. exile  32, 36 f., 41 f., 47, 50, 93, 159, 161, 163 f., 166–169, 255 f., 259 f., 301, 303, 309 f., 336

General Index

faction  31, 43, 48, 52, 94, 316 M. Fadius Gallus  137 family  20, 33 f., 36, 42, 53 f., 59 f., 90, 93, 96, 99, 142–144, 148–153, 160, 214, 227, 231, 237, 282, 333 C. Fannius  138 Fasti  76, 79 f., 82 fear  9, 35 f. Fenestella  90, 141, 147 Festus 131 Firmicius Maternus  130 C. Flavius Fimbria  43, 166, 169 f., 232 Flavius Josephus  135 Florus  31, 75, 119, 122 Forum Romanum  36, 76, 97, 115, 125, 127 f., 130, 132, 142, 350, 355, 357 freedom see libertas Fregellae 285 friendship  20, 33, 35 f., 43, 47, 49, 51 f., 58 f., 96, 99 f., 211 f., 214–216, 232, 316 Fulvia  19, 97 f., 100 f. M. Fulvius Flaccus  314 Aulus Gellius  47, 329, 332 L. Gellius Poplicola  58 Germanicus 154 Hannibal  72, 122, 209 A. Hirtius  124, 137, 229, 237 historiography  9, 19, 72, 138, 179–193, 327, 331 Horace  131, 285 Horatius Cocles  217 Hortensia  97, 104 Q. Hortensius Hortalus  49, 104, 149 f. hostis  see enemy imperium  18, 39, 71, 117, 121, 152, 252–254, 261, 350, 352, 354 f., 357 Italy  8, 14, 31 f., 34, 37–39, 42, 44, 47, 49, 51, 58 f., 60, 66, 74, 118, 131 f., 136, 167, 172, 229, 232 f., 240, 278, 282, 286, 287 f., 290, 310, 359 Iulia (mother of M. Antonius)  99 f. C. Iulius Caesar  8, 11, 15–17, 18, 31 f., 33, 37–56, 60, 95, 97, 99, 102, 117–119, 136, 137, 138, 140, 142, 148, 149 f., 172, 177–193, 205, 211 f., 217, 227, 229 f., 235, 239, 248–271, 317, 319, 343 f., 349–354, 357 f. L. Iulius Caesar  55 f., 149 Iulius Qbsequens  239 Iunia  91, 106 f., 147

367

D. Iunius Brutus  82, 215 M. Iunius Brutus  56, 91, 95, 99, 137 f., 144, 146, 147, 152, 212, 215, 217, 266, 292, 317 Justification   see legitimacy T. Labienus  149–152, 154 Lacus Servilius  130 f. laudatio Turiae  19, 101–103, 107, 139 law/lex  43, 47 f., 56, 71, 94, 107, 149–153, 165, 172, 182, 229, 230, 231, 246–271, 277, 329 f., 332–339 legitimacy/legitimation  12, 15, 18, 43, 67 f., 73, 149–151, 172 f., 177–193, 202, 206, 210, 218, 245, 250–252, 257, 262, 266, 271, 302, 307, 314, 318, 328, 331, 334, 339, 354 libertas  18, 42, 57, 60, 210, 236, 266, 267, 270 f., 308, 317, 350, 352 L. Licinius Crassus   334 f., 340 M. Licinius Crassus (triumvir)  141, 147, 301, 348, 357 M. Licinius Crassus (cos 30 BCE)  104 literature  9, 18 f., 90 f., 171 Livia Drusilla  91, 98, 106 f., 139, 147, 161 Livia (wife of Rutilius Rufus)  161 f., 166 M. Livius Drusus (the Elder)  333, 340 M. Livius Drusus (the Younger)   161, 164, 338 Livy  71 f., 90, 102 f., 120, 130, 231, 238 f., 247, 257 Lucan  97 f., 130 f., 249, 282 f. L. Lucceius  178 f. M. Lucullus  215 Q. Lutatius Catulus  160, 170 f., 283 Mamercus Aemilius  99 L. Manlius Torquatus  39 Cn. Marcius Coriolanus  103, 116 L. Marcius Philippus  43, 48 f., 53–55 C. Marius  12, 35 f., 93, 95, 119, 123, 125–127, 140–142, 149 f., 162 f., 165, 167, 170 f., 179, 203, 205, 259, 282, 286, 290, 314 f., 338 f. C. Marius the Younger  35 f., 211 M. Marius Gratidianus  284 marriage  92–96, 101–103, 166 memoirs  see autobiography memoria/memory  9, 90–92, 101–108, 124–132, 135–155, 178, 192, 200 f., 205, 207 f., 236–238, 278–280, 292 Metella 99

368

General Index

Miltiades 209 Misenum  56, 75, 100 Mithridates VI.  14, 159, 166–172, 303 f., 338 mos maiorum  8, 72 f., 200 f., 203, 206, 212, 218 Mucia  99 f., 106 Q. Mucius Scaevola (augur)  35, 146 Q. Mucius Scaevola (pontifex)  35, 43 f., 163, 329 f. L. Munatius Plancus  19, 138 Munatius Rufus  137 Munda 229 Mutina  8, 57, 82, 211 f., 229, 236–238 Naulochus  67 f., 70 f., 74–77, 80 f., 83 f., 350 neutrality  31–61, 169, 171, 210–213 Nicolaus of Damascus  344 nobility  31 f., 34, 216, 301, 303, 307, 310–312, 314, 316–318, 349 C. Norbanus (cos. 83 BCE)  36 f., 60, 336 f. norms  9, 36 f., 118, 200–202, 205–208, 212 f., 216, 218, 245, 251, 288, 308, 333 Nursia  235 f., 238 Octavia  100 f., 147 Octavian  8, 15 f., 18, 19, 53, 56–59, 67, 70–83, 90, 98, 100, 106, 123, 131, 136, 137, 138, 139, 142, 143 f., 147 f., 161, 164, 179, 181 f., 200 f., 205, 209, 212, 218, 225–227, 228, 232, 233–236, 240, 270, 278, 286, 344, 350, 351, 353, 354–360 L. Opimius  144, 310, 334 C. Oppius  45, 137 oratory  19, 97, 101 f., 140, 145, 148–153, 163 f., 186 f., 200 f., 203, 206, 214, 327–340 Ovid 142 Panaetius  162, 311 C. Papirius Carbo  330 f., 334, 340 Cn. Papirius Carbo  14, 35, 141, 167 L. Papirius Paeto  266 Patavium 239 patria  42 f., 47, 49, 249, 334 pax/peace  15, 18, 44–47, 49, 53–56, 57, 67, 70–83, 183, 199, 240, 249, 290, 304 Sex. Peducaeus  50 Pelopidas 210–213 M. Perperna  54 Perusia  100, 136, 139, 225, 234 f., 238, 285 f. Pharsalus  8, 38, 138, 229, 237, 252, 352 Philippi  8, 137, 138, 215, 292 philosophy  19, 34, 42, 162, 290, 311

pietas  18, 225–241 Pistoria 7 Pliny  233 f., 349 Plutarch  35, 36 f., 38, 78, 91, 95, 99, 120, 122 f., 128, 137 f., 141 f., 146, 148, 152, 165, 167, 248, 250, 270 f., 286, 303, 304, 308, 311, 316, 318, 347 f. Polybius  66, 315 f. pomerium  117 f., 120–123, 127, 252, 345 f., 349 f. Pompeia 139 Cn. Pompeius Magnus  13 f., 15 f., 19, 31, 34, 37–57, 60, 71, 104, 119, 123, 136, 138, 152, 168, 179, 190, 203, 205, 211 f., 227, 247, 249, 255, 259–262, 283, 290, 301, 343–349, 352, 357 Sex. Pompeius  19, 56, 67 f., 72, 74–77, 82 f., 98, 100, 104, 139, 179, 225 f., 240, 344, 347, 355, 358 f. Sex. Pompeius (cos 14 CE)  214 Q. Pompeius Rufus  95 Cn. Pompeius Strabo  116 f., 123, 231, 285 T. Pomponius Atticus  38–57, 99, 209, 211– 213, 249, 265 populus/people  32, 33, 36, 52, 100, 123, 124, 140 f., 145, 153, 184, 237, 240, 246, 250, 257 f., 260, 264, 266, 268–271, 310 f., 317, 330, 332–340, 345, 360 Porcia 217 M. Porcius Cato (the Elder)  178, 209, 327 M. Porcius Cato (the Younger)  38, 137, 146, 217, 250 f., 259, 270 f., 317, 348 portraiture  19, 153, 288, 290 f., 343–360 Porsenna  117 f. Porphyry 131 Poseidonius  179, 311 Praeneste  35, 286 f. precedent  34, 140, 151, 199 f., 202, 205 f., 213, 230, 258, 267 Principate/princeps  8 f., 90 f., 97, 104, 106, 144, 145 f., 147 f., 199, 214, 218 f., 268, 271, 279, 281, 304, 317, 349 prodigies  238 f. proscriptions  35–37, 52, 56, 92–94, 102, 127, 136, 138 f., 144, 154, 211 f., 216, 227, 231 f., 235, 263, 267, 271, 314–316 province  39, 122, 159, 163, 165, 167, 172, 182 f., 251, 253 f., 261 f. Punic Wars  66, 122, 279, 310, 327

General Index

C. Rabirius  145, 148–153, 277 f., 292 religion  11, 90, 116, 118, 120–122, 225–241, 255–258, 267 Res gestae divi Augusti  58, 70–73, 80 f., 138 f., 181 f., 188 f., 218 res publica  8, 9, 13, 14 f., 18, 31, 34, 42, 44, 50, 52, 55, 59 f., 104, 201, 202–208, 212, 215–218, 248, 250 f., 266 f., 270, 277, 302, 317, 327–340, 350 f. Rhetorica ad Herennium  200, 338 Rhodes  37, 169 ritual  11, 124, 228, 230, 233 f., 236, 238 f., 284 Rome  32, 34, 36, 45 f., 66, 74, 97, 115–132, 136, 140, 190, 230, 232, 233, 235, 240, 251, 257, 287, 301 f., 338 Romulus  80, 216 rostra  76, 80, 83, 96, 115, 125–127, 164, 347, 350, 354 f., 357 P. Rutilius Calvus  161 P. Rutilius Lupus  237 f. P. Rutilius Rufus  137, 146, 159–173, 335 Sallust  7, 131, 165, 178, 278, 290, 301 f., 304, 313, 316, 328 Q. Salvidienus Rufus  240 Scribonia  91 f., 147 C. Scribonius Curio  48, 186, 252 M. Scribonius Libo Drusus  91 Sempronia  91, 216 C. Sempronius Gracchus  91, 135, 138, 139, 141, 149, 155, 162, 215, 277, 311, 314, 319, 332–334, 339 Tib. Sempronius Gracchus  8, 31, 91, 116, 135, 138, 139, 141, 149, 155, 162, 199 f., 215, 311 f., 315, 317 f., 327–331, 333 f., 338 senate/senator  7, 8, 16, 19, 31, 34, 35 f., 37 f., 40–47, 49, 52–56, 59, 72, 82, 100, 123, 128, 134, 140, 148 f., 179, 182 f., 190 f., 202, 216, 229 f., 231 f., 234, 237, 248, 251–257, 260, 265 f., 315, 317, 327, 329–331, 333–336, 338– 340, 345, 348, 349, 350, 354 Seneca  90, 117, 119, 130 f. L. Sergius Catilina, Catilinarian Conspiracy  7, 123, 125, 136, 140, 178 f., 202–208, 302 f., 317 Q. Sertorius  136, 283 Servilia  91 f., 95, 99 C. Servilius Ahala  130

369

Q. Servilius Caepio  169, 215, 336 Cn. Servilius Capito  130 C. Servilius Glaucia  148 f. P. Servilius Isauricus  54, 229 P. Servilius Rullus  301 f., 311 L. Sestius Albanianus Quirinalis  146 P. Sestius  247 Sicily  39, 66, 74–77, 83 f., 136, 139, 344 Social War  see bellum Sociale Socrates 42 soldiers  7, 16, 40, 75, 79, 121, 123, 138, 188, 191 f., 231, 233 f., 236, 286, 292 f. Solon 47–49 C. Sosius  58 space  115–132, 281, 350–352, 354 f. Spoletium  239 f. Staatsrecht  11, 245 stasis  9, 18, 94, 301–319 statue  41, 76, 127 f., 144 f., 234, 238, 343–360 Strabo 303 Suetonius  58, 73, 95, 99, 139, 234, 236, 239 P. Sulpicius Rufus  35, 125, 328, 338 f. Ser. Sulpicius Rufus  41 f., 46, 54 f., 140, 201 f., 208, 238, 248, 260, 262, 267 supplicatio  7, 81, 229 f. Tacitus  65 f., 90, 142, 146, 147 f., 154, 178, 227 f., 231, 235, 248 temple of Bellona  128 temple of Concordia  144 f., 319, 334, 355 temple of Fides  329 temple of Janus  14, 67, 73, 81, 83 temple of Juno Sospita  105 temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus  115, 170 Terentia  50, 92 f., 96, 147 terminology  11–18, 32 f., 70–74, 204 f., 280 terra marique  67, 70–74, 76, 79–83, 355 Thapsus  142, 229 Theophanes of Mytilene  168 f., 171 Thucydides  186 f., 313, 319 Tiberius  98, 139, 147, 214, 317 Timoleon 209 Sex. Titius  336 trauma  18, 123–132, 136, 216, 237, 277 f., 282, 285 C. Trebatius Testa  40 tribune of the plebs  35, 51, 144 f., 148–153, 161, 183 f., 248, 250, 252, 260, 262, 265, 277, 301 f., 318, 330, 332 f., 335 f., 339

370

General Index

triumph  14 f., 68, 72, 78–83, 138, 189, 203, 205, 228 f., 285, 347, 349, 357, 359 Triumvirate, triumvirs  56, 60, 68, 71, 73, 75, 77, 83, 90, 92–94, 106, 132, 139, 201, 211, 216, 225 f., 232, 235, 264, 267, 287, 343, 359 M. Tullius Cicero  11, 13–17, 19, 31, 33 f., 37–56, 59, 71, 92, 95 f., 99, 121, 123, 124–128, 130 f., 137, 140 f., 142, 144 f., 146, 149–155, 163 f., 166, 171, 178 f., 185, 200–208, 209, 211, 229 f., 232, 236–238, 247–249, 252, 254, 258, 259, 262, 264–270, 277, 286, 288, 290, 301 f., 304, 313, 316, 319, 329, 331, 335, 339, 344 f., 348, 357, 360 Q. Tullius Cicero  51, 163 Turnus 232 tyrant, tyranny  42, 59, 193, 210, 269, 302–306, 310–318, 331, 338, 350 Valentia 283–285 L. Valerius Flaccus  43, 166 Valerius Maximus  95, 140, 214–219, 231, 329 f. M. Valerius Messalla Corvinus  137 Q. Varius Severus  337 f., 340 Varro  129 f., 165, 290

Velleius Paterculus  57 f., 93, 96, 98, 116 f., 119, 138, 199–201, 304, 331 Vespasian 228 C. Vibius Pansa  124, 229, 237 victor/victory  7, 15 f., 36, 58 f., 67, 70–83, 98, 128, 180, 192, 202–208, 210, 229, 232, 236 f., 239, 271, 306, 309, 331, 344, 350, 357 Villa Publica  128 f. violence  7–10, 18, 31, 35–37, 60, 101, 115–119, 122, 125, 128–132, 135 f., 149, 167, 172, 179 f., 199 f., 202–208, 212, 227 f., 231 f., 247 f., 277– 293, 302–304, 315, 317–319, 327–340 M. Vipsanius Agrippa  19, 75, 83, 131, 137 Virgil 226 Vitellius  227 f. Vitruvius 290 L. Volcacius Tullus  41 f., 54 P. Volumnius  138 warfare  65, 68–70, 73–82, 120, 123, 278, 285 wealth  20, 36, 90–96, 107, 211 f., 279, 288, 290 women  19, 60, 89–108, 139, 141, 146 f., 166 Young Caesar  see Octavian

The civil wars of the first century BCE disrupted Roman society, which in turn was a major cause of the destabilisation of the political system. While this has of course long been recognised, the cultural dimension of the disintegration of the res publica demands equal attention. The present volume aims for an analysis of the more implicit, yet fundamental effects which the increasingly militarised conflict had on Roman society, starting with the assumption that the radical dynamics and intrinsic brutality constituted a completely new experience for contemporaries. To solve this problem, Romans of the late

ISBN 978-3-515-13401-9

9 783515 134019

Republican period devised multiple strategies for coping with the phenomenon of civil war. While some turned to narrative patterns deployed by the Greeks who had been accustomed to civil conflict for centuries, the bella civilia also influenced many other aspects of cultural life. The latent fear of permanent civil strife thus became a source of innovation on multiple levels which (re-)shaped Roman collective imaginary. The resulting structures and developments constituted a highly elaborate and comprehensive “culture of civil war”.

www.steiner-verlag.de Franz Steiner Verlag