A History of Latin Literature From its Beginnings to the Age of Augustus 1108723241, 9781108723244

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A HIST ORY OF LATIN L ITERATURE F ROM ITS B E G I N N I N G S T O T H E AG E O F A U G U S T U S

Latin literature exploded onto the scene from relatively humble beginnings in the third century bce. In an astonishingly short time the Romans adopted and adapted nearly all the genres of literature known to them; not only were they well aware of their large-scale appropriation but even, curiously, boasted of it. This readable new history of Latin literature covers the full span of the Roman republic, concluding with the age of Augustus, whose great poets engaged with the enormous political and cultural changes of their time and laid the foundations for the literature of the Imperial period. All the major writers are covered but attention is also paid to more fragmentary but still key authors such as Ennius, Cato, Lucilius, and Varro. Readers are given the essential historical, cultural, and literary background as well as close readings of specific passages, which reveal the charm and complexity which animate Latin literature. laurel fulkerson is Professor of Classics Emerita at the Florida State University. She has written forty articles and book chapters and has written or edited seven books, including The Ovidian Heroine as Author: Reading, Writing, and Community in the Heroides (2005), No Regrets: Remorse in Classical Antiquity (2013), A Literary Commentary on the Elegies of the Appendix Tibulliana (2017), and Ovid: A Poet on the Margins (2016). She has won several local and national teaching awards, including the American Philological Association’s Excellence in Teaching Award and an ovatio from CAMWS, and has had visiting appointments or guest lectureships across the United States and the United Kingdom. She edited The Classical Journal for six years and currently serves on the editorial board of Oxford University’s Pseudepigraphica Latina commentary series. She was a co-founder and the first chair of the International Ovidian Society. jeffrey tatum is Professor of Classics at Victoria University of Wellington. He is the author of over 100 papers and book chapters and has written or edited seven books, including The Patrician Tribune: Publius Clodius Pulcher (1999), Always I Am Caesar (2008),

Plutarch: The Rise of Rome (2013), Quintus Cicero: A Brief Handbook on Canvassing for Office (2018), Athens to Aotearoa: Greece and Rome in New Zealand Literature and Society (2018), and A Noble Ruin: Mark Antony, Civil War, and the Collapse of the Roman Republic (2024). He has been a visiting fellow or guest lecturer at universities and learned institutions in Australasia, China, Europe, and North America; was the Visiting Professor of the Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens; and is a Fellow of the Royal Society of New Zealand. He has won several local and national teaching and engagement awards in the United States and New Zealand, including the American Philological Association’s Excellence in Teaching Award. He is currently chair of the editorial board of the Clarendon Ancient History Series.

A HISTORY OF LATIN LITERATURE FROM ITS BEGINNINGS TO THE AGE OF AUGUSTUS LAUREL FULKERSON Florida State University

JEFFREY TATUM Victoria University of Wellington

Shaftesbury Road, Cambridge cb2 8ea, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, ny 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, vic 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 103 Penang Road, #05–06/07, Visioncrest Commercial, Singapore 238467 Cambridge University Press is part of Cambridge University Press & Assessment, a department of the University of Cambridge. We share the University’s mission to contribute to society through the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781108481779 doi: 10.1017/9781108667784 © Laurel Fulkerson and Jeffrey Tatum 2024 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press & Assessment. When citing this work, please include a reference to the doi 10.1017/9781108667784 First published 2024 A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data names: Fulkerson, Laurel, 1972– author. | Tatum, W. Jeffrey, author. title: A history of Latin literature from its beginnings to the age of Augustus / Laurel Fulkerson, Florida State University ; Jeffrey Tatum, Victoria University of Wellington. description: Cambridge ; New York, NY : Cambridge University Press, 2024. | Includes bibliographical references and index. identifiers: lccn 2024010894 | isbn 9781108481779 (hardback) | isbn 9781108723244 (paperback) | isbn 9781108667784 (ebook) subjects: lcsh: Latin literature – History and criticism. | lcgft: Literary criticism. classification: lcc pa6003 .f85 2024 | ddc 370.9/001–dc23/eng/20240624 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024010894 isbn 978-1-108-48177-9 Hardback isbn 978-1-108-72324-4 Paperback Cambridge University Press & Assessment has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Contents

List of Maps Acknowledgements Chronology List of Abbreviations List of Sidebars Maps

page vii viii ix xii xviii xix

Introduction

1

Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature

6

2 All the World’s a Stage: Roman Republican Drama and Theatrical Traditions

41

3 A Good Man Skilled in Speaking: Oratory and Rhetoric in Rome

75

1

4 Song of Myself: The Personal Voice in Republican Literature

110

5 To Educate and to Entertain: Didactic and the Arrangement of Knowledge

148

6 What’s Past Is Prologue: History and Biography

198

7 Moments of Glad Grace: Augustan Love Poetry

244

8 Gods, Monsters, and Heroes: Augustan Epic

274

9 Further Voices: Augustan Personal Poetry

317 355

Coda

v

vi Glossary of Names and Terms Index Locorum Index Nominum General Index

Contents 359 363 372 380

Maps

1 2 3

Italy and Sicily. A. E. Astin, F. W. Walbank, page xix M. W. Frederiksen, and R. M. Oglvie (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 8 (Cambridge 1990), p. 479. The Roman world in 50 bce. A. E. Astin, F. W. Walbank, xx M. W. Frederiksen, and R. M. Oglvie (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 8 (Cambridge 1990), p. 479. The city of Rome during the republic. R. Morstein-Marx, xxi Oratory and Political Power in the Late Republic (Cambridge 2004), p. 43.

vii

Acknowledgements

It was Michael Sharp who first proposed this introduction to Latin literature and throughout its writing he has been enthusiastic in his support. Naturally, we are thankful. We are also grateful to friends who read earlier drafts of some or all of this book: Diana Burton, Isaac Bennett-Smith, Jon Hall, John Marincola, Hans Mueller and Chris Pelling. Megan Drinkwater aided us in structuring the poetic sections of the book (even though we ignored her good suggestions) and Gareth Williams provided early, and welcome, encouragement. Students in more than one class at Victoria University of Wellington were kind enough to read and react to drafts of various chapters: in doing so, they threw up concerns and uncertainties which might otherwise have eluded us. The readers for Cambridge University Press corrected errors and furnished valuable suggestions, nearly all of which we have seized upon avidly: we very much appreciate their close scrutiny. We are also grateful to Maria Whelan, our excellent copy editor. Our greatest debts are to Diana Burton and John Marincola. They know why.

viii

Chronology

The dates assigned to some literary works are provisional. BCE 1184/3 753 280–275 264–241 240 218–201 204 184 169 168 166–160 159 149 149–146 106

The fall of Troy according to most Hellenistic scholars (and the date commonly accepted by Romans). The founding of Rome according to Livy (other dates were advocated by distinguished figures: e.g. 754, 751, 750, 747, 728). War with Pyrrhus of Epirus (the Pyrrhic War); the wider Greek world takes notice of Rome. War with Carthage (First Punic War); Rome acquires overseas possessions. Livius Andronicus and the origins of Latin literature; death of Callimachus War with Carthage (Second Punic War, also known as the Hannibalic War); Rome becomes the major power in the western Mediterranean. death of Naevius death of Plautus death of Ennius Victory over Macedon (Third Macedonian War): Rome dismantles the kingdom of Macedon and is recognised as the sole superpower in the Mediterranean. the comedies of Terence death of Terence death of Cato the Elder War with Carthage (Third Punic War); destruction of Carthage. Marius is victorious in the war against Jugurtha (Jugurthine War); birth of Cicero. ix

x 103 101 100 91–87 88 87 86 83 82–81 79 70 65 63 late 60s 58–50 49–44 49–44 44 43 42 41–40 40 38 37–33 36 35 31 30

Chronology death of Lucilius Marius is victorious in the war against the Cimbri (Cimbrian War). birth of Caesar Social War Sulla marches on Rome; civil war. Marius returns to Rome; civil war. death of Marius Sulla returns to Rome: civil war; proscriptions. dictatorship of Sulla death of Sulla birth of Vergil birth of Horace consulship of Cicero through mid 50s the poetry of Catullus and Lucretius Caesar’s war against the Gauls; increasing political disruption in Rome civil war between Caesar and Pompey (and, after Pompey’s death, Pompey’s allies, including his son Sextus Pompey, fight on). Caesar’s autocracy, expressed in multiple dictatorships death of Caesar formation of the triumvirate (Mark Antony, Lepidus, Octavian); proscriptions; death of Cicero Civil war between the triumvirs and the assassins of Caesar (Horace fights on the side of the assassins); dispossession of landholders in Italy; blockade of Rome by Sextus Pompey. The Perusine War (civil war pitting Octavian and Lepidus against Antony’s brother and wife, who claimed to champion the dispossessed). consulship of Asinius Pollio: Vergil’s Fourth Eclogue Vergil’s Eclogues appear In this period, Horace’s Satires (Book One) and Varro’s On Agriculture appear. Civil war: Octavian and Lepidus defeat Sextus Pompey; Lepidus is removed from the triumvirate. death of Sallust battle of Actium; Octavian defeats Antony and Cleopatra. Octavian conquers Egypt: death of Antony and Cleopatra; Cornelius Gallus becomes governor of Egypt.

Chronology 30 29 27 24–23 22 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 8

xi

Horace’s Epodes and Satires (Book Two) appear. Vergil’s Georgics and first book of Propertius’ Elegies appear. Octavian receives the name Augustus; death of Varro. First three books of Horace’s Odes appear; Vitruvius’ On Architecture appears. Propertius’ Elegies (Books Two and Three) appear. Horace’s Epistles (Book One) and Ovid’s Amores appear. death of Vergil; death of Tibullus Augustus’ moral legislation Horace’s Carmen Saeculare Propertius Elegies (Book Four) appears. Ovid’s Heroides appears. likely death of Propertius Horace’s Odes (Book Four) and Epistles (Book Two) appear around this time. death of Horace

CE 1 2 7 9 13 14 17

Ovid’s Ars amatoria and Remedia amoris appear. Ovid begins writing the Metamorphoses and the Fasti at about this time. Ovid relegated to Pontus, begins composing Book One of the Tristia. Ovid’s Tristia (Book Two) appears. Ovid’s Epistulae ex Ponto appears. death of Augustus death of Livy; death of Ovid

Abbreviations

Accius fr. Ad Marcum filium J

Anacreon fr.

Anth. Pal. App. B. Civ. Apul. Apol. Arist. Poet. Asc.

Athen. Deipn. Caes. B. Civ. Caes. B. Gall. Call. Aet. Cat. Cato Agr. Cic. Acad.

The fragments of Accius in E. H. Warmington, Remains of Old Latin: Livius Andronicus, Naevius, Pacuvius, Accius (Cambridge MA 1936). The fragments of Cato’s Ad Marcum filium (Letter to his Son) in the edition of H. Jordon, M. Catonis praeter librum de re rustica quae exstant (Lepizig 1860). Fragments of Anacreon in D. A. Campbell, Greek Lyric, Volume II: Anacreon, Anacreontea, Choral Lyric from Olympus to Alcman (Cambridge MA 1988). Anthologia Palatina (The Palatine Anthology). Appian, The Civil War. Apuleius, Apologia (Apology). Aristotle, Poetics. Q. Asconius Pedianus, Orationum Ciceronis quinque enarratio (Commentary on Five Speeches of Cicero) in the edition by A. C. Clark, Q. Asconii Pediani orationum Ciceronis quinque enarratio (Oxford 1907). Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae (The Learned Banqueters). Caesar, Bellum Civile (The Civil War). Caesar, Bellum Gallicum (Gallic War). Callimachus, Aetia (Causes) in the edition of A. Harder, Callimachus: Aetia (Oxford 2012). Catullus. Cato, De agricultura (On Agriculture). Cicero, Academica (Academic Investigations). xii

List of Abbreviations Cic. Att. Cic. Brut. Cic. Cael. Cic. Clu. Cic. De orat. Cic. Dom. Cic. Fam. Cic. Fin. Cic. Inv. Cic. Leg. Cic. Mur. Cic. Off. Cic. Or. Cic. Phil. Cic. Pis. Cic. Rosc. Am. Cic. Sen. Cic. Sest. Cic. Tusc. Cic. Verr. CIL Dio Diom. K Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. Enn. Ann. Sk Enn. Sat.

xiii

Cicero, Epistulae ad Atticum (Letters to Atticus). Cicero, Brutus (Brutus). Cicero, Pro Caelio (In Defence of Caelius). Cicero, Pro Cluentio (In Defence of Cluentius). Cicero, De oratore (On the Orator). Cicero, De domo (On his House). Cicero, Epistulae ad familiares (Letters to Friends). Cicero, De finibus (On Moral Ends). Cicero, De inventione (On Invention). Cicero, De legibus (On Laws). Cicero, Pro Murena (In Defence of Murena). Cicero, De officiis (On Duties). Cicero, Orator (The Orator). Cicero, Philippicae (Philippics). Cicero, In Pisonem (Against Piso). Cicero, Pro Roscio Amerino (In Defence of Sextus Roscius of Ameria). Cicero, De senectute (On Old Age). Cicero, Pro Sestio (In Defence of Sestius). Cicero, Tusculanae disputationes (Tusculan Disputations). Cicero, In Verrem (Prosecution of Verres). Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin 1863–). Cassius Dio, Roman History. Diomedes Grammaticus in H. Keil, Grammatici Latini, 8 vols. (Leipzig 1857). Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities. The fragments of Ennius’ Annals in the edition of O. Skutsch, The Annals of Quintus Ennius (Oxford 1985). The fragments of Ennius’ Satires in the edition of S. M. Goldberg and G. Manuwald, Ennius. Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume II: Ennius, Dramatic Fragments. Minor Works (Cambridge MA 2022).

xiv Enn. Epig.

Epic. Ep. Hdt. Eur. Bacch. Festus L

Fronto Ad Ant. imp. FRHist. Gell. NA Hes. Op. Hes. Theog. Hdt. Hom. Il. Hom. Od. Hor. Ars P. Hor. Carm. Hor. Epist. Hor. Epod. Hor. Sat. Hirt. ap. Caes. B. Civ. ILS Inv. in Sall. Juv. Liv. Liv. Per. Liv. praef.

List of Abbreviations The fragments of Ennius’ Epigrams in the edition of S. M. Goldberg and G. Manuwald, Ennius. Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume II: Ennius, Dramatic Fragments. Minor Works (Cambridge MA 2022). Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus. Euripides, Bacchae (The Bacchants). Sex. Pompeius Festus, De verborum significatione (On the Meaning of Words) in the edition of W. M. Lindsay, Sexti Pompei Festi De verborum significatu quae supersunt cum Pauli epitome (Leipzig 1913). Fronto, Ad Antoninum imperatorem (Letter to Marcus Antoninus, Emperor). The Fragments of the Roman Historians in the edition by T. J. Cornell (Oxford 2013). Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae (Attic Nights). Hesiod, Works and Days. Hesiod, Theogony. Herodotus, History of the Persian Wars. Homer, Iliad. Homer, Odyssey. Horace, Ars Poetica (The Art of Poetry). Horace, Carmina (Odes). Horace, Epistulae (Epistles). Horace, Epodi (Epodes). Horace, Saturae or Sermones (Satires). This abbreviation refers to the parts of Caes. B. Gall. which were written by Aulus Hirtius (cos. 43). H. Dessau, Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae., 2nd ed. (Berlin 1954). Invectiva in Sallustium (Invective against Sallust), an anonymous work. Juvenal. Livy, Ab Urbe Condita (History of Rome from the Founding of the City). Livy, Periochae (Summaries). Livy, Praefatio (Preface).

List of Abbreviations Luc. Sat.

Lucr. Macrob. Sat. Menander DE fr.

Naev. fr.

Nep. Ages. Nep. Cato Nep. Eum. Nep. pr. Nonius L

Ov. Am. Ov. Ars am. Ov. Fast. Ov. Her. Ov. Met. Ov. Pont. Ov. Tr. Pers. Petr. Satyr. Pl. Phdr. Plaut. Bacch. Plaut. Cas. Plaut. Men. Plaut. Rud. Plaut. Trin. Plin. Ep.

xv

Fragments of Lucilius’ Satires in E. H. Warmington, Remains of Old Latin, Volume III: Lucilius. The Twelve Tables (Harvard 1938). Lucretius, De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things). Macrobius, Saturnalia (Saturnalia). The fragments of Menander’s Dis Exapaton in W. G. Arnot, Menander: Aspis. Georgos. Dis Exapaton. Dyskalos. Encheiridion. Epitrepontes (Cambridge MA 1979). The fragments of Naevius’ Bellum Punicum in E. H. Warmington, Remains of Old Latin, Volume II: Livius Andronicus. Naevius. Pacuvius. Accius (Cambridge MA 1936). Cornelius Nepos, Life of Agesilaus. Cornelius Nepos, Life of Cato. Cornelius Nepos, Life of Eumenes. Cornelius Nepos, praefatio (Preface to Lives of the Great Generals of Foreign Nations). Nonius Marcellus, De Compendiosa Doctrina (An Encyclopaedia of Learning), in the edition of W. M. Lindsay, Nonii Marcelli de compendiosa doctrina libros XX (Leipzig 1903). Ovid, Amores. Ovid, Ars amatoria (Art of Love). Ovid, Fasti (The Fasti). Ovid, Heroides (Heroines). Ovid, Metamorphoses (The Metamorphoses). Ovid, Epistulae ex Ponto (Letters from Pontus). Ovid, Tristia (Sad Songs). Persius. Petronius, Satyrica. Plato, Phaedrus. Plautus, Bacchides (The Two Bacchises). Plautus, Casina (Casina). Plautus, Menaechmi (The Menaechmus Brothers). Plautus, Rudens (The Rope). Plautus, Trinummus (Three Coins). Pliny the Younger, Epistulae (Letters).

xvi Plin. NH Plut. Alex. Plut. Arat. Plut. Caes. Plut. Cat. Mai. Plut. Hann. Plut. Luc. Plut. Pomp. Plut. Pyrr. Plut. Rom. Polyb. Prop. Pseudo-Asc. Stangl

Quint. Rhet. Her. Sall. Cat. Sall. Iug. Sappho fr. Schol. ad Hor. Sen. Contr. Sen. Ep. Sen. Suas. Serv. Auctus

List of Abbreviations Pliny the Elder, Naturalis historia (Natural History). Plutarch, Life of Alexander the Great. Plutarch, Life of Aratus. Plutarch, Life of Caesar. Plutarch, Life of Cato the Elder. Plutarch, Life of Hannibal. Plutarch, Life of Lucullus. Plutarch, Life of Pompey the Great. Plutarch, Life of Pyrrhus. Plutarch, Life of Romulus. Polybius, Histories. Propertius. Pseudo-Asconius’ Notes on the Cicero’s Orations against Verres in the edition of T. Stangl, Ciceronis Orationum Scholiastae (Vienna 1912). Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria (The Orator’s Education). Rhetorica ad Herennium (Art of Rhetoric Addressed to Herennius). Sallust, De Catilinae coniuratione (On the Catilinarian Conspiracy). Sallust, Bellum Iugurthinum (The Jugurthine War). The fragments of Sappho in D. A. Campbell, Greek Lyric, vol. 1: Sappho and Alcaeus (Cambridge MA 1982). Commentary on Horace, text in F. Hauthal, Acronis et Porphyrionis commentarii in Q. Horatium Flaccum (Berlin 1864). Seneca the Elder, Controversiae (Argumentative Speeches). Seneca the Younger, Epistulae (Epistles). Seneca the Elder, Suasoriae (Persuasive Speeches). The larger commentary on the Aeneid by Servius the grammarian, available in the edition by G. Thilo and H. Hagen, Servii

List of Abbreviations

SHA Hadr. Stat. Silv. Suet. Aug. Suet. Gram. Suet. Iul. Suet. Vita Hor. Suet. Vita Ter. Suet. Vita Verg. Tac. Agr. Tac. Dial. Ter. Ad. Ter. An. Ter. Eun. Ter. Haut. Ter. Phorm. Thuc. Tib. [Tib.] Val. Max. Varro Rust. Vell. Verg. Aen. Verg. Ecl. Verg. G. Vitr. De arch.

xvii

Grammatici qui feruntur in Vergilii carmina commentarii (Leipzig 1881–1902). Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Hadrian (Life of Hadrian in the Augustan History). Statius, Silvae (Poems of the Woods). Suetonius, Divus Augustus (Life of the Divine Augustus). Suetonius, De grammaticis (On Grammarians). Suetonius, Divus Iulius (Life of the Divine Julius). Suetonius, Vita Horati (Life of Horace). Suetonius, Vita Terenti (Life of Terence). Suetonius, Vita Vergili (Life of Vergil). Tacitus, Agricola (Life of Agricola). Tacitus, Dialogus de oratoribus (Dialogue on Oratory). Terence, Adelphoe (Brothers). Terence, Andria (The Girl from Andros). Terence, Eunuchus (The Eunuch). Terence, Heauton Timorumenos (The SelfTormentor). Terence, Phormio (Phormio). Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War. Tibullus. This abbreviation refers to poems in the Tibullan collection which are not composed by Tibullus. Valerius Maximus, Facta et dicta memorabilia (Memorable Doings and Sayings). Varro, De re rustica (On Agricultural Affairs). Velleius Paterculus, Historiae Romanae (Roman History). Vergil, Aeneid. Vergil, Eclogues. Vergil, Georgics. Vitruvius, De architectura (On Architecture).

Sidebars

I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI

Naming Names: Roman Nomenclature Clientela and Literary Patronage The Metres of Latin Poetry Roman Slavery Senators and Equestrians: The Roman Aristocracy Callimachus of Alexandria and the Aetia Men of Dedication: Cicero and Varro The Right Stuff: Manliness, High Culture, and War Things Fall Apart: Social War and Civil War in the Late Republic Roman Women The Trojan War and its Significance

xviii

page 33 34 36 70 106 144 193 238 240 271 312

Map 1 Italy and Sicily. A. E. Astin, F. W. Walbank, M. W. Frederiksen, and R. M. Oglvie (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 8 (Cambridge 1990), p. 479.

Map 2 The Roman world in 50 bce. A. E. Astin, F. W. Walbank, M. W. Frederiksen, and R. M. Oglvie (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 8 (Cambridge 1990), p. 479.

A LAT

1/ mile 2

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Map 3 The city of Rome during the republic. R. Morstein-Marx, Oratory and Political Power in the Late Republic (Cambridge 2004), p. 43.

Introduction

This book is written for anyone interested in the pleasures and challenges involved in reading Latin literature from its origins in the Roman republic to the age of Augustus. We begin at the beginning, with the fascinating origins of Latin literature in the second century bce, and end more or less when the millennium does. We lay out our subject in chapters structured around related (sometimes loosely related) genres. In a few cases, we separate out writers of the Augustan period from their republican predecessors: we believe this lends clarity to what can become a complicated story. No prior exposure to the Romans’ literature or history is assumed, nor any familiarity with Latin or Greek. Our discussion encompasses survey and summary of writerly trends, critical reactions and contexts, and close readings of individual passages, always with the goal of encouraging the reading of Latin literature itself. And – not least since we don’t agree about everything – we are suggestive rather than prescriptive in our interpretations: arriving at definitive, authoritative verdicts on the texts we discuss is not our aim.

A Cautionary Tale: Let the Reader Beware? Every introduction is a literary history, and literary histories entail hazards for the reader, especially in an unfamiliar area. The first hazard lies in taking too seriously the significance of the periods into which we divide this history of Latin literature. It is obvious why we begin with Livius Andronicus: his career constitutes the beginning of literary Latin. But why do we end with Ovid, with the literature of the Augustan age? In part, because the Augustan age marks a significant change in Roman society: instead of a (more or less) aristocratic republic, Rome becomes (more or less) a form of autocracy modelled on the appearance of the old republic. This transformation to empire ushers in a new and different context for Latin literature which can be seen in almost every genre. We also consider 1

2

Introduction

this slice of literary history appropriate for newcomers because Augustan writers so conspicuously look back to their earlier predecessors – and do so in ways which often influence our perceptions of their earlier predecessors. This is a dynamic of Latin literature we try to bring out throughout this book. But it is not the case that, during the Roman republic, Latin literature developed and improved until it reached a kind of perfection in Augustan writers – something we must bear in mind because Augustan writers often put forward that very claim. Readers will quickly discover that more than a few of the writers we talk about survive as little more than names attached to reputations, and many more subsist only in fragments. Their works survive but not in their entirety: instead, we get at them only by way of quotations in other writers (or, very occasionally, bits of texts on scraps of papyrus). The fragmentary survival of so many writers, especially early writers, creates interpretative difficulties. Consequently, our discussion of these writers and their works can only be provisional. But it is important that we keep in mind just how provisional. Filling in the gaps in fragmentary texts entails speculation and guesswork – and that very speculation and guesswork rely on our expectations of what the original work must have been like. It is all too easy, however, to overlook the contexts in which we have these fragments, and their implications. Sometimes these writers are cited because they said something unusual. More often, they are quoted because a later writer could put the earlier writer to some purpose of his own. Cicero, for instance, may recall a poet in order to make a political point, even if that means distorting a passage’s original context. Or Horace may allude to or quote from an earlier figure in order to disparage his style or observe his primitive poetics: of his predecessor Lucilius, for instance, Horace writes, ‘had fate allowed him to drop into our own age, he would polish and cut much of his work, and he would trim its excesses (Hor. Sat. 1.10.68–69). Horace’s point is clear enough: Lucilius, he insists, never arrived at an Augustan condition of technical artistry. This is an ancient perspective which all too easily colours our modern reading of the fragments of Lucilius. And Horace was not the only Roman writer who looked back at his predecessors in order to position himself as the culmination of their (imperfect) efforts. Early on, in the second century, Ennius, in announcing his epic, the Annales, pegged Livius Andronicus and Naevius as primitive: he distinguished himself from old-fashioned poets of their ilk and described himself as the first of Rome’s scholar-poets (Enn. Ann. 206– 209Sk – see Chapter 1). Cicero, too, in his Brutus, analysed early orators by

A Cautionary Tale: Let the Reader Beware?

3

way of metrics, and ended up concluding (implicitly) that he himself was the best of all possible speakers. The literary past, for writers like these, is merely prelude to a glorious present. Noticing this kind of teleology matters because it is seductive for modern critics too: it is all too easy to look at Naevius or Ennius as poets who were mostly just preparing the groundwork for, say, Vergil’s genius. Indeed, it is this habit of mind which often animates the division of the history of Latin literature into periods: it begins with an archaic (warm-up) period reaching from Livius Andronicus and lasting into the first century; then comes the (better) literature of the late republic; and, at last, we arrive at the excellence of the Augustan Age, after which, according to this outdated schema, Latin literature descends into a Silver Age (so-called because it is judged to be less good than the Golden Age which preceded it). But this is an approach to Latin literature which is not merely unfair but anachronistic and misleading. Naevius, as has been pointed out, was once – like Ennius later and Horace much later – a serious poet who did not compose solely to give later writers something to react to.1 So we must be cautious. Throughout our discussions of fragmentary authors, we endeavour to help readers to understand what we believe we can understand. If we cannot always unsee the refracted image imposed by later writers, we can at least be aware of the phenomenon. And we must make every effort to understand each writer on his own terms, avoiding the Romans’ own emphasis on a teleological trajectory in Latin literature. Readers, however, should remain alert for lapses. A final word on our choices. This introduction, like any literary history, presents its readers with an unavoidably restricted reception of works which (in most cases) are nearly inexhaustible in their literariness. Our choices about which authors and which works to discuss at length and which to treat more cursorily unavoidably imply a canon. There is nothing especially radical about the authors or texts we highlight, but it should be underlined that other choices were possible: again, our goal is to be helpful, not prescriptive in orienting readers to Latin literature. As for specific themes or stylistic features on which we concentrate, while we feel we have chosen well, we also acknowledge that there is always a degree of arbitrariness and exclusion in any choice. Our choices give shape to an account of Latin literature which, because it comes between two book covers, appears authoritative or final. Readers are urged to view our 1

S. Hinds, Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry (Cambridge 1998), 58.

4

Introduction

treatment of Latin literature as an introduction and certainly not the last word on the writers and works we discuss. The literature of Rome, like every other literature, was populated by talented and distinctive personalities who were creatures of their times but also shapers of their society. Consequently, tradition and originality are recurrent themes here. So, too, is the tension created whenever one wants to understand a literary work in its historical context without confining its significance to a dim past. We believe the historical situation of each text matters greatly: but literature takes on a life, perhaps an afterlife, of its own. We wrote this book because, we, each in a different way, relish Latin literature and are fascinated by the culture in which it was written. We very much hope that, after reading this book, you too, in your own way, will share our enjoyment in this marvellous subject.

Some Features of this Book This book presents the history of Latin literature by way of thematic slices. A premise of the book is that its readers will begin at the beginning and carry on until the end. Most readers, of course, will not but will instead dip in wherever curiosity leads them. Consequently, they will sometimes encounter names and ideas which have been explained elsewhere in the book. For these readers we have included cross-references which should direct them to a fuller discussion if they require clarification or more details. There is also a detailed index, which can furnish readers with guidance. Some names which recur, like Herodotus or Suetonius, are not explained in the book. In case these names are not familiar to readers, we provide a glossary which offers a very brief introduction. Major historical and literary events are conveniently gathered into a chronology. Several chapters in this book include sidebars. Each of these offers a concise introduction to an issue, possibly one unfamiliar to newcomers to Latin literature, which is pertinent to its chapter but is also relevant to the whole of the book. And, at the end of each chapter, we offer suggestions for English translations of the authors we discuss and a selection of further readings for readers wishing to go further in their experience of Latin literature. For the most part, we list works in English. But we also include a sample of scholarship in other languages. These are either fundamental works or relatively recent, helpful publications which can help to orient readers to criticism originating outside the Anglophone zone. Classics is a global discipline, and we encourage readers to engage with every point of view for understanding Latin literature.

A Note on Sources and Abbreviations

5

Roman names are never easy, so we provide an early sidebar on that topic. In English, we usually refer to Romans by their nomen or cognomen alone, but sometimes the praenomen appears too (for these terms, see Sidebar I). In English we usually say or write Sallust, not Gaius Sallustius Crispus, or Cicero, not Marcus Tullius Cicero. In some cases, our conventional name for a famous Roman diverges from its Latin form: most of us use Horace, not Horatius, or Pompey the Great instead of Pompeius Magnus, or Mark Antony (or in some instances simply Antony) instead of Marcus Antonius. Vergilius becomes either Virgil or Vergil: in this book, he is Vergil. If uncertainty arises about names, clarity can be found in the index.

A Note on Sources and Abbreviations Most of the sources we adduce are also authors in their own right, some from the period we treat here, some later. In the latter case, we often include a phrase by way of introduction, and in the former case, readers are referred to the treatments of those authors in the relevant chapter(s). Not all of these sources are of equal value, but sometimes they are all we have: much of Roman literature and Roman literary history is lost to us. We try to alert readers to the biases of particular authors, and we avoid entirely sources we deem untrustworthy. We sometimes discuss Greek authors influential on the Romans; these are similarly located, and sometimes receive extended attention when their importance warrants it. The glossary also supplies an introduction to some of the authors we rely on as sources. In referring to ancient texts we use a standard set of scholarly abbreviations. These are useful owing to their precision (regardless of which English translation anyone consults). Some of these abbreviations are clear enough but many will be mysterious to newcomers to the subject. For that reason, we furnish a key: there the reader will find a clear explanation of each abbreviation used here.

chapter 1

Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature

Peculiar Beginnings Literature is difficult, perhaps impossible, to define: we know what it is, more or less, but there are always things that don’t quite fit into existing categories (such as blogs and comics). For the Romans, however, certainly from the time of the late republic, this was a non-issue. Literature – litterae (‘letters’) – was what was written down, particularly if it conformed to the expectations of poetry and prose familiar from Greek. Indeed, Latin literature, while distinct, always has ‘classic’ Greek literature within its purview, even once there is an ample tradition of Latin literature. And regardless of which of the two languages a work was cast in, it nearly always fitted into these traditions, sometimes with Roman adaptations. From the start, then, Roman conceptions of literature were bi-lingual and bicultural. Latin texts were animated by an intimate, often explicit, relationship with Greek literature. There is no other literary sensibility quite like this, anywhere in history. And, also unusually, Romans never really sought an explanation for this derivative habit. When they looked back on their literary history, they focused not on originality but on innovations and innovators within the pre-existing (Hellenic) framework. By the late republic it was agreed that the first author of Latin literature – certainly, of Latin poetry – was Livius Andronicus, a freed slave, from Tarentum (modern Taranto). In his Letter to Augustus, the poet Horace (see Chapter 9) encapsulates the history of Latin verse by referring to ‘poets from the age of the writer Livius down to our own time’ (poetas | ad nostrum tempus Livi scriptoris ab aevo: Hor. Epist. 2.1.62). The Greek-speaking Livius Andronicus became the father of Latin poetry through translating and adapting Greek epic and drama, and it is on his dramatic poetry that Roman literary history chiefly concentrated. (In this volume, we usually refer to this poet as Andronicus rather than Livius in order to avoid confusion with the historian Livy, on whom see 6

Literacy and Literature

7

Chapter 6.) This meant that Romans could specify, with a surprising and suspicious exactitude, the moment when Latin letters began: the Roman Games (ludi Romani) of 240 bce (which was also, not coincidentally, the year Rome created its first province outside of Italy).

Literacy and Literature Literacy, even if not widespread, had been a Roman reality since the eighth century bce (i.e. since Rome’s foundation). Romans set up dedicatory inscriptions, and in 451 they set up the Twelve Tables, a legal code, in the Forum. In 304 the aedile Gnaeus Flavius oversaw the publication and promulgation of Rome’s civil law code. So, too, Roman civic religion relied on written texts, to the extent that even oral prayers to the gods were, we are told, scripted performances of established formulae. The administration of Rome’s many colonies and alliances also required writing, as did treaties with competing powers such as Carthage. Finally, the government of the city – drafting and passing legislation, for example, or conducting the census – demanded an advanced degree of literacy, at least on the part of some of its citizens. And, as in most pre-modern societies, here too literacy fluctuates by demography: wealthy urban men were much likelier to have basic literacy than poor rural women. The Romans, then, were literate for many centuries before 240, but it does not look like they were ‘literary’. And when they did move towards literary production, even their earliest efforts seem to be conspicuously Greek. Why did Greek literature loom so large for Roman writers and readers? For that we need to look farther back. The Greeks began to establish themselves in Sicily and southern Italy in the eighth century. As a consequence, the rise of Rome occurred in an area in which Greek cities like Syracuse, Croton, and Tarentum were conspicuous for their might, wealth and glamour. In varying degrees and ways, the peoples of central Italy, for all their different languages and cultures, felt the influence of Greek civilisation. Sometimes this took place directly, at other times by way of their neighbours. This eclecticism is most obvious in the different Italian adaptations of the Greek alphabet and in the uses to which it was put. Romans, as we have seen, set up inscriptions, in which practice they followed Greeks: later Romans believed that their Twelve Tables had been drafted in imitation of Greek law codes. Greek influence is reflected in other areas as well, such as pottery. Hellenism had long supplied Italian aristocrats with a universally recognisable form of cultural capital, whether their native language was Oscan, Etruscan or Latin. This preference

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Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature

remains visible in Etruscan tombs and tomb paintings, in the early presence in Rome of the Greek symposium and in the habit, frequent in central Italy, of rendering the iconography of Greek religion into vernacular art. Greek culture, at least some aspects of it, penetrated central Italy not because its peoples aspired to be Greek but because it was high culture, furnishing elite Italians with the trappings of elegance and privilege. It is no accident that Romans came to believe that their city’s mythical founders, Romulus and Remus, must have received a proper Greek education in their youth, or that Romulus’ successor on the throne, Numa, was an expert in Italian religion and Greek philosophy. This was wishful thinking, but it shows us what later Romans thought of when they conceived of sophistication, and how they imagined they could best make the case that they were emerging players in the Mediterranean world. Certain aspects of Greek culture were attractive, and by the third century bce, Hellenism was conspicuous throughout Mediterranean societies. Indeed, this was one important consequence of Alexander the Great’s conquests in the fourth century. Macedonian dynasts from Egypt to the Black Sea, like Greek cities in the west, competed with one another in displays of Hellenic high culture. The political and social significance of the Greek language was not lost on the Roman aristocracy, for whom bilingualism and acquaintance with Greek literature became increasingly important credentials. But reading Greek literature and administering Roman civic life in Latin are practices that could easily have persisted side by side for centuries: it was by no means inevitable that the Romans would create a literature in Latin that was explicitly, even proudly, modelled on Greek literature. Indeed, this literary turn was in some ways counterintuitive in terms of international prestige in the third century, since few outside Italy and not all within it could understand Latin.

Hellenisation and Latin Literature: The Show Must Go On Theatrical arts were a conspicuous and, for many, an attractive feature of Greek culture. Drama was a feature of civic life in Sicily from at least the fifth century, and by the fourth century the cities of southern Italy were furnished with handsome theatres. The natural environment for Greek drama was a public festival advertising a city’s sophistication and prosperity, and this facet of Greek theatre obtained in the Greek communities of Italy no less than elsewhere in the Greek world. Neighbouring non-Greek peoples liked what they saw. Hence the profusion in southern Italy of pottery decorated with scenes from comedy or tragedy, intended for Italian

Hellenisation and Latin Literature: The Show Must Go On

9

consumers. Our evidence is incomplete, but shows that the peoples of central Italy, each in their own way, quickly adapted elements of Greek dramatic performances to their own tastes. The Romans believed that the introduction of theatrical performances (ludi scaenici) to their city took place in the year 364. In the previous year, according to tradition, the hero Camillus had fallen victim to a plague. This man was esteemed a second founder of Rome because he had repulsed Gallic invaders in 390 and had brokered a resolution to the domestic political strife which had divided Rome against itself. His death, then, was a momentous event, and the disease that took his life, Livy tells us, ravaged the populace unabated. In 364 the Romans turned in desperation to novel methods for appeasing their gods, one of which was the production of theatrical performances at the Roman Games. The Roman Games (ludi Romani) were perhaps the oldest of Rome’s festivals. They were held in September in honour of Jupiter Optimus Maximus (‘Best and Greatest’), the chief god of the city. The central concern of Roman civic religion was the preservation of harmony between the gods and Roman people, a relationship the Romans described as pax deorum (‘peace with the gods’). The ludi Romani, then, which included processions, sacrifices, and horse races, were administered by elected magistrates as a sacred duty but also as a celebration for and of the Roman people. These games therefore supplied Rome’s leadership with a natural occasion on which to inaugurate an extraordinary appeal to the city’s gods in their time of need. As it turned out, the novel performances of 364 did nothing to mollify divine hostility. Indeed, the historian Livy (see Chapter 6) reports that they were interrupted when the Tiber overflowed its banks, and the plague persisted for another year. Notwithstanding this negative verdict on the part of the gods, the theatrical games (presumably some form of staged performances; see Chapter 2) proved popular with the public and the authorities who governed them: from that year on, they remained a part of the Roman Games. We do not know whether this story is historically accurate, but it is nonetheless telling – and was meant to be. For one thing, it is remarkable that the Romans associated the introduction of the theatre with momentous public events. These new performances were foreign imports and reflected the complicated nature of the influence of Greek drama in central Italy, for it was not to the Greeks directly but rather to their Etruscan neighbours to the north that the Romans turned for aid in incorporating elements of theatrical games. (The usual distinction between ‘Roman’ and ‘Etruscan’ is somewhat unhelpful: the two peoples had been entwined with

10

Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature

one another from the very beginning of Rome’s foundation.) Performers who were skilled in dancing to music were invited from Etruria. Very soon, we are told, the Romans added their own touches to this GrecoEtruscan art form, including jests delivered in what Livy describes as ‘unsophisticated verses’. Over time Roman dramatic technique became more refined and performances less improvisational. Indeed, these events came to rely on careful crafting and, if Livy is right, the use of a script (Liv. 7.2.4–13). The Etrusco-Roman theatrical scene was soon well established and catered to by groups of professional actors who were probably itinerant. The Romans, then, devised their own brand of dramatic art within the context of an important civic festival. Performances of this hybrid kind could still be viewed in Rome as late as 115, and probably even later. And the Etruscan language left a lasting impression on Latin vocabulary for stagecraft, supplying it with terminology like scaena (‘stage’) and persona (‘mask’). Popular though Etrusco-Roman performances remained, Roman drama was radically transformed when Livius Andronicus ‘was the first to be so bold as to compose a play with a plot’ (ausus est primus argumento fabulam serere), as Livy’s version puts it. This took place, we are told by Cicero and Aulus Gellius (though not by Livy), in 240, more than a century after the Romans had adapted the dramatic arts of Etruria. Andronicus’ plays were without question written works, and they became a feature of Rome’s literary canon down to Cicero’s day and beyond. Remarkably, no ancient writer mentions what seems to moderns the most innovative feature of this event: that Andronicus’ ‘play with a plot’ was a Latin translation of a Greek play. Andronicus did not compose a play in Latin about Roman heroes of the past, though of course he could have. Nor did Roman authorities produce a Greek play in its original language (although by the second century bce Romans did produce Greek dramas – in Greek – in Rome). Instead, Andronicus adapted the concepts, techniques, and storylines of Greek drama to Latin and to the distinctive circumstances of stage performance in Rome. This was, so far as we know, an achievement unprecedented in the ancient Mediterranean world. Indeed, Andronicus has aptly been described as Europe’s first literary translator, and he made a career composing both comedies and tragedies, all in Latin and adapted from Greek originals (see too Chapter 2). He also composed a Latin version of Homer’s epic Odyssey, using a native Italian versification rather than Homeric hexameters. These are the first Latin poems we know of, and later Romans considered them foundational. Andronicus, although we know little about him, provides

Literature before Andronicus?

11

the first model of a Roman author, and later writers emulated him as they attempted to move beyond his influence.

Literature before Andronicus? Was there no literature in Rome before Livius Andronicus? The question is complicated, not least because the Romans, when the question finally occurred to them, had little evidence to go on. Modern scholars have offered arguments in support of various pre-Livian kinds of structured verbal jousting – such as ‘Fescennine verses’, which we are told were rude, sometimes obscene, songs sung at wedding celebrations, or the shaming invective known as occentatio employed by Romans in the informal enforcement of civil conduct. There is no reason to reject these claims despite the lack of evidence for them. After all, both forms were features of Roman society in periods that are better documented. And speaking on issues of public import was central to Roman civic and military life from earliest times, presumably often if not usually in written and pre-rehearsed formats (Cicero, writing in the first century bce, claimed to have read the text of a speech that was delivered in 280; see Chapter 3). So too, long before Andronicus, Roman priests sang hymns when worshipping their gods, hymns influenced by Greek poetry. Whether these activities constituted a distinctively Latin literature or a Roman literary sensibility is a matter for debate. But the Romans had very little to say about such matters, remaining fixated on Andronicus whenever they thought about origins. When Romans did attempt to recover their early literary history, they appear to have done so largely by way of speculation modelled on the methods and conclusions drawn by Greek scholars about the origins and early history of Greek literature. Here is a prime example: the elder Cato (see Chapter 3) reports that ‘among our ancestors there had been a custom at banquets that while reclining they would take it in turns to sing, accompanied by a flute, of the glorious virtues of famous men’ (FRHist. 5 f. 113). These poems, routinely denominated carmina convivalia (‘banquet songs’), suggest the existence of an early Latin poetry which, by Cato’s day, the Romans had abandoned. Cato’s observation is cited by Cicero and is reflected in Varro (see Chapter 3), but neither they nor Cato had ever heard or read such a poem. Indeed, what they say suggests that it was an exclusively oral art form. Which raises the question: how did later Romans know about them? Perhaps Cato possessed this cultural memory because it was handed down by tradition, or perhaps he found it recorded

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Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature

in a now-lost source. But the Roman carmina convivalia closely reflect the practices of the Greek symposium, where skolia (‘songs sung in turn’) were performed. Naturally the Roman version of such singing concentrates on military renown and not the much broader subject matter of Greek skolia. This is not to say that the Romans consciously fabricated this early tradition, but rather that, stymied by ignorance of their earliest practices and keen to recover them, they may have looked to the recorded behaviour of another culture to find suitable comparative evidence to aid them in envisioning their own literary past. This is a pattern that recurs often in Roman literary history. That said, it is likely that there were songs and stories and poetry in early Rome, even literature in the sense of texts that could be circulated, read, and studied. And it is not certain that Andronicus was the first writer to translate Greek poetry into Latin. Indeed, there are good reasons to think he was not, given the nature of Latin poetic metre. Although Latin and Greek exhibit many similarities, the two languages are different enough to make it impossible for anyone composing in Latin to employ unchanged the rules and practices governing the metres of Greek poetry. Early Latin poetry adopted the metrical schemes of Greek by accommodating the different shape and sound of Latin words. These differences suggest that the imposition of Greek metrical techniques onto Latin verse would have taken a fair amount of trial and error, over several years at least. Two centuries later Horace (see Chapter 4) faulted his early predecessors for their inability to reproduce Greek metrical effects exactly. But even Horace, a metrical virtuoso, had occasionally to yield to the realities of Latin. And by Horace’s day the Romans had accumulated more than two centuries of experience. From this perspective it is nothing short of astonishing that we do not see Andronicus or his early successors struggling to make their Latin verse fit into its adopted metre. Quite the contrary: the difficulties of translating Greek verse into Latin are mostly resolved in his poetry, by way of a system that is both sophisticated and fully operational. It is (barely) possible that Andronicus alone devised and executed this remarkable and technical adaptation, but it is far more likely that exploratory attempts at the creation of Latin dramatic verse in Greek-like metres had begun before the breakthrough year of 240. This view receives some support from Andronicus’ translation of the Odyssey, which he entitled the Odusia. This work remains undated, but it is probable that it preceded the commission for the Roman Games of 240. After all, on what other grounds would his talent have been observed and esteemed? If this is the correct order, then the Odusia complicates the

Why Greek Literature? Why Now?

13

Roman emphasis on the year 240 as the starting point for Latin literature. Andronicus’ epic is composed in saturnians, a metre with strong if unclear Italian affiliations but also evidence of Greek influence. In other words, the metre of Rome’s first epic reflected the previous effects of Greek poetry on an Italian metre that was already available for Andronicus to employ as a medium for literary translation. The situation for tragedy and comedy was likely similar, even if we lack the evidence of earlier metrical experimentation in those literary forms.

Why Greek Literature? Why Now? Why would the Romans have invented a Latin version of Greek literature? And what was it about the middle of the third century that made it the moment for the Romans to embrace this cultural revolution? We have seen already that Greek culture was deeply influential amongst the peoples of central Italy, and that from its beginnings Roman culture incorporated Hellenic elements. This was a reality which the Romans did not try to hide; rather, they affirmed it, often. An important aspect of Roman identity was its creative and masterful engagement with Greek culture: the quintessentially Roman literary act was to domesticate a Greek form. And this reflects a general attitude towards Greece. Even in a matter so fundamental as religion, the means of preserving the pax deorum, the Romans regarded it as essential that some sacred actions be conducted ritu Graeco (‘in accordance with Greek ritual’), a remarkable designation that reveals how important Greek culture was to Roman self-identification. To be sure, Roman society was regularly marked by recurring and often intense controversy over which Greek practices to accept or reject and how to sustain the proper balance between Roman and Hellenic sensibilities. But this itself makes clear how central Greek culture was. The year 240, however, marked a new era in Rome’s international stature. Not that the city had been inconspicuous before, but the third century saw Rome become the leading power in Italy, reducing its neighbours to ‘allies’ who were functionally subjects. And this did not happen without formidable resistance. The Greek city Tarentum went so far as to ally itself with Epirus and its king Pyrrhus, who styled himself a descendant of Alexander the Great, in the hope of deflecting Roman expansion. Pyrrhus, proverbially, could not ultimately defeat the Romans, and his failure attracted the attention of other dynasts. In 273, for instance, Ptolemy II of Egypt sent an embassy to Rome seeking the city’s friendship. In general, however, affairs closer to home occupied Roman energies

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Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature

during this period. From 264 until 241 the Romans were locked in a gruelling war with Carthage, the greatest power of the western Mediterranean, over the possession of Sicily. Victory gave Rome its first possessions outside mainland Italy and solidified the city into a great power. This enhanced status did not go unappreciated by the Romans, who recognised the importance of publicising their new standing. It remains unclear why literature was a part of the articulation of that status: perhaps it was precisely the fact that it was conceived of as Greek. But it is not obvious why a society should require literature of the kind the Romans adapted from the Greeks. By the third century, however, some members of the aristocracy wished to possess more than a faculty for speaking Greek. Education, which always entailed a robust training in Greek literature, continued to seem important, and this is probably why Andronicus’ translation of the Odyssey, a text designed to appeal to readers of Latin who also knew Homer’s original, stimulated fascination on the part of its Roman audience. Whatever its merits or blemishes, here was a work that permitted Romans to relish their bilingualism while exhibiting a gratifying degree of biculturalism. And for readers lacking Greek, Andronicus supplied an ancient Greek poem, the mythology of which was already known in Italy, in a version that demonstrated the appropriation and appreciation of Greek culture (or really, just ‘culture’ itself) by a civilisation on the rise. But Latin drama did not – could not – hope to influence the Greekspeaking wider world, which had its own robust tradition. Nor is there any evidence that, before imperial times (several centuries in the future), the Greeks took much notice of Latin literature as a whole. Still, the Romans’ poetic innovations will certainly have had an effect across Italy, where it conveyed to their subjects the city’s advanced cultural capacities and ambitions. After all, as we have seen, the prestige of Greek civilisation was felt strongly across Italy, and Latin was hardly an unrecognised language. Doubtless the hegemonic aspect was an important incentive in the invention of a Helleno-Latin literature. But most of all the invention of Latin poetry and, especially, drama spoke to the Romans’ own cultural identity. Dramatic festivals were exuberant and appealing, and Andronicus’ drama exhibited Roman annexation not merely of Greek cities but of a central dimension of Greek civilisation. The Romans could create literature that was identifiable as literature because it was like Greek literature, but in Latin. We might say that Latin literature mattered because it helped the Romans talk about what it meant to be Roman.

Livius Andronicus

15

Livius Andronicus Our sources for the life of Lucius Livius Andronicus are fragmentary and contradictory. We do not know the year of his birth or death. His name, exhibiting the three parts reserved for Roman citizens (see Sidebar I), suggests that he was a Roman citizen of Greek origin, and indeed Suetonius describes him as ‘half-Greek’ (Suet. Gram. 1.2). The second century poet and scholar L. Accius reports that Andronicus was a native of Tarentum, a fact that is generally accepted although much of Accius’ biography of Andronicus was repudiated by later figures. Accius told how Andronicus had been enslaved after Tarentum was taken by the Romans in 209, at which time he became part of the household of M. Livius Salinator (cos. 219 and 207; see Sidebar V). Salinator, according to Accius, later freed Andronicus in appreciation for the education he had furnished the great man’s sons. Manumission in Rome entailed citizenship (see Sidebar IV), so it would have been as a citizen that Andronicus composed a ritual hymn, now lost, performed in honour of Juno Regina in 207, the year in which the consul Salinator celebrated a triumph and was made dictator. This is the first lyric hymn in Latin of which we have any knowledge. The immediate difficulty with Accius’ account is that it brings Livius Andronicus to Rome too late for him to have furnished Rome’s first drama in 240. It is more commonly concluded that Andronicus came to Rome as a prisoner of war following the defeat of Tarentum in 272. That he became a slave of an aristocratic Livius (perhaps even a Livius Salinator) and was subsequently set free is a natural inference. Nor is there any reason to dispute Accius’ assertion that Andronicus was a teacher – given the importance of Greek literature to Roman education, many Greeks of this time were – and Suetonius records that Andronicus gave instruction in both Latin and Greek (Suet. Gram. 1.2). We are informed that the versatile Andronicus, in addition to writing for the stage, performed as an actor in his own plays. And it is a regular feature of Latin literature, perhaps deriving from this fact (if it is a fact), that Roman authors are often conceived of as performing or reciting their own compositions. After receiving his freedom, Andronicus very likely remained a part of the Livian household, as many freed slaves did. A gifted man in the service of a distinguished family, he doubtless became known to others in Rome’s aristocracy through his teaching and writing, which would explain his commission in 240. Andronicus’ subsequent career was long, enabling him to compose a sacred hymn decades later, in 207, as a very old man. Livius Andronicus’ native language will have been Oscan or Greek, but presumably, like many, he was multilingual. In any case, his virtuosity in

16

Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature

the Latin language is conspicuous. So, too, are his intimacy with Roman culture and his patriotic sensibilities toward his new homeland. This is evidenced in part by his decision to translate the Odyssey and not the Iliad: Odysseus’ journey brought him to Sicily and Italy, the dominion of contemporary Rome. In Italy, according to some Greek legends, Odysseus was a founder of cities, sometimes including Rome itself. But the centrality of Rome in Andronicus’ poetry is more profound than that. This becomes apparent in an examination of the first line of his Odusia, which we are fortunate enough to possess and can compare with Homer’s: virum mihi, Camena, insece versutum

(Andronicus, Odusia, fr. 1)

tell me, Camena, of the turned man andra moi ennepe Mousa polytropon

(Homer, Odyssey 1.1)

tell me, Muse, of the man of many turns.

Homer implores the Muse to tell him – ennepe is the Greek word – the story of Odysseus. Andronicus deploys the similar-sounding insece, a word that even in his day was old-fashioned, recreating thereby something of the archaic feel of Homer’s poetry. Homer’s Odysseus is polytropos, a Greek adjective that literally means ‘of many turns’ and can indicate either ‘welltravelled’ or ‘shifty’, which is to say, cunning. Odysseus was both, and consequently Hellenistic critics argued over the correct meaning of this word in Homer. Andronicus gives his verdict when he translates polytropon with versutum, which means ‘wily’ or ‘tricky’. Versutum derives from vertere (‘to turn’), and so Andronicus’ choice is an apt one. Furthermore, vertere is the Latin word that indicates translation from one language into another. So Andronicus’ Ulysses (the Romans’ version of the name Odysseus) becomes the trickster of Homer’s epic and the translated man of the Odusia. And, just as in Homer, the reader is confronted by an adjective that can be taken, should be taken, in two different senses. These are meaningful and even striking points, but they only become apparent through a careful, bilingual, reading. More immediately noticeable is Andronicus’ substitution of Homer’s Muse with a Camena. An invocation of the Muses was, by Andronicus’ day, a familiar element of Greek epic, although there was in Rome not yet a native tradition for depicting epic inspiration. Instead of invoking a Muse, however, Andronicus assigns the role to a Camena, a divinity associated with a spring outside Rome’s city wall. For Andronicus, Camena probably suggested the Latin word carmina, ‘songs’ or ‘poems’ (originally, a formalised utterance, often rhythmical or

Andronicus’ Other Works

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metrical). In any case, by appealing to a Camena, Andronicus makes it clear that his Odusia is a Roman poem. While the Muses are Greek (usually located on Mount Helicon, near the Hippocrene spring), the source of Andronicus’ song lies in Rome, which becomes the new centre of the literary cosmos. This raises the question of how a reader should take ‘to me’ (moi in Greek; mihi in Latin) in this line. In the Odyssey, it refers to Homer. In the Odusia, however, it both is and is not Homer (who certainly never heard a Camena singing in Latin). But nor can it refer straightforwardly to Livius Andronicus. This is complicated stuff. It will be obvious that the Odusia is not simply a crib designed to help beginning Greek pupils. Naturally, Andronicus’ epic could be read and relished on its own by any Roman lacking Greek. Still, a Roman who knew nothing of Homer could only be perplexed by the appeal to a Camena for inspiration. Only a reader with some familiarity with the Odyssey could appreciate just how Roman Andronicus’ poem truly was. The Odusia’s ideal audience, then, was Roman readers with enough Greek to appreciate its bilingual and bicultural deftness, and its translation of Rome to the centre of its literary landscape.

Andronicus’ Other Works In addition to his epic and his hymn, Andronicus composed tragedies and comedies, all Greek in origin (see Chapter 2). We know the titles of eight tragedies, which refer to myths associated with the Trojan War (we have about forty lines); a few fragments of comic verse and the titles of two comedies are on record, and about forty lines of his Odusia remain. Of his ritual hymn, nothing survives. No chronology of his work is possible between the dramatic production in 240 and the hymn in 207, though, as we have noted, it is very likely that the Odusia was Andronicus’ first important composition. Andronicus was a distinguished author, as we can tell by his selection to compose, on behalf of the state, the sacred hymn in 207, during a moment of religious crisis and military desperation in the Punic wars. His poem, the Romans believed, was instrumental in their legions’ success at the battle of Metaurus against Hannibal’s brother later that year. Andronicus’ lofty reputation lasted until the late republic, by which time tastes had plainly changed. Cicero regarded the Odusia as interesting only for its antiquity, and Andronicus’ plays he deemed not worth a second reading (Cic. Brut. 71); his opinions were probably typical. Horace was obliged to study Andronicus during his school days and conceded that there were some good lines to be

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found in his work, but that in general his poetry was overrated. This in turn suggests that there were still readers who esteemed Andronicus, even if perhaps not all of them actually read him. Livy suggests as much: moderns, he insists, would be shocked at the hymn’s lack of refinement (Liv. 27.37.13). By the imperial period, Andronicus’ works had become no more than repositories of grammatical and lexical oddities to be mined by scholars. Only recently has Andronicus’ reputation risen again, for some of the reasons we have discussed.

Gnaeus Naevius Gnaeus Naevius was the author of Rome’s first national epic, the Bellum Punicum (‘Punic War’). He also wrote plays (see Chapter 2), but here we focus on him as the successor of Andronicus in the genre of epic. Naevius, unlike Andronicus, possessed an old Latin name and was almost certainly a Roman citizen by birth. The date of that birth is unknown, and he died at some point after 204. Aulus Gellius, writing in the second century ce, criticises Naevius for his Campanian arrogance (superbia Campana), which suggests that the poet was born there. Like many regions of central and southern Italy, Campania was a crossroads of cultures and languages, including Latin, Greek, and Oscan (all of which Naevius would have known). Campanians by Naevius’ day enjoyed a form of Roman citizenship, and relations between the Campanian gentry and the Roman governing class were close if not always cordial. Naevius campaigned for Rome during the First Punic War, very likely in the cavalry for which Campania was renowned. He deemed this service important enough to mention it in his Bellum Punicum (Gellius NA 17.21.45, who adduces Varro as a source). That Naevius was highly educated, and therefore from a prosperous family, is obvious from his literary career. By 235, if not before, Naevius had taken up residence in Rome, where he began to produce plays. Thus he was a rough contemporary of Andronicus and was apparently a quick student of Andronicus’ dramaturgical and metrical techniques. Why Naevius should have turned to literature is unclear. Perhaps he was supported by a patron or patrons, as seems to have been the case for many of our early authors. Perhaps literature, especially drama, offered Naevius the opportunity to attract publicity or contribute to Roman civic life. It is notable that the native Roman Naevius, unlike Andronicus or Plautus or other playwrights, did not act in his own dramas: performance on stage incurred a degree of social stigma (see Chapter 2), and it may be that Naevius was unwilling to lower himself.

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Naevius did not, however, shun controversy. He was remembered for a line of verse that attacked a noble and powerful family, the Caecilii Metelli (Pseudo-Asc. 215 Stangl): fato Metelli Romae fiunt consules it is owing to fate that the Metelli are made consuls at Rome.

Why this line was insulting requires explanation. According to one common view, Naevius is maintaining that the Metelli advanced to the consulship not because of merit but owing to destiny or perhaps simply luck. But for a public figure to enjoy the backing of good fortune, the gods or even fate was ordinarily regarded by Romans as a positive quality: Cornelius Sulla, Pompey the Great, and Julius Caesar would all later trumpet their role as destiny’s child. And yet it is clear from its context that Naevius’ reference to fatum counts against the Metelli. An attractive but often overlooked suggestion takes fatum here as signalling the forecast of omens, especially bad omens, so that the line means something like ‘it bodes ill when the Metelli are made consuls at Rome’, or ‘the Metelli are made consuls unfortunately for Rome’. ‘At Rome’ (Romae) also calls for comment: after all, elections always took place at Rome, so unless the word merely fills space, it too, should be negatively charged. A likely context is supplied by the consular elections for 206. The two consuls of 207, M. Livius Salinator and C. Claudius Nero, the victors at Metaurus, devoted themselves to securing the election of Q. Caecilius Metellus, who had not yet held the praetorship or distinguished himself in war (see Sidebar V on Roman political offices). At the time of this political campaign, Metellus was appointed master of the cavalry (magister equitum; this made him second in command) to Salinator, who, by way of an unusual arrangement, had been made dictator and was therefore responsible for conducting the elections. These circumstances, and Metellus’ unexpected distinction, can only have influenced voters, and he easily secured election to a consulship. It was only natural that many among Rome’s political class should have felt that the man enjoyed extraordinary, perhaps unfair, advantages. Hence the pungency of the claim that Metellus’ success was gained not through valour in the field but by way of political machinations at Rome – Romae. This assertion lends specificity to the general ‘bad sign’ (fato) in the opening of Naevius’ line. Invective like this, and worse, was characteristic of political contests in Rome, and this line, if it appeared during the actual canvassing for office, would have made an attractive slogan for Metellus’ competitors. Still, Naevius’ much-circulated line may have originated, not as

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propaganda, but as a joke. And, importantly, it sets a politically engaged tone which remains important for much of later Latin literature, both prose and poetry. In any case, the line gives a rich sense of Naevius’ political involvement. And the Metellus in question, once elected to the consulship, replied, in the style of a modern tweet, with a witty but menacing poetic line of his own: malum dabunt Metelli Naevio poetae

(Pseudo-Asc. 215 Stangl)

the Metelli will provide the poet Naevius with something bad

This was clever stuff. Malum, bad thing, evokes malum fatum, a terrible fate (note the implicit play on fato from Naevius), and this line decisively contrasts the consular Metelli with Naevius’ less-than-exalted status as a poet, reminding everyone of the very real clout enjoyed by Rome’s nobility. And by responding to Naevius through poetry, the man’s own medium, Metellus exhibited his own cultural credentials and therefore his comprehensive superiority to his opponent. Here again, we see the foreshadowing of an important function of literature throughout our period: it mattered, was relevant enough to provoke a response, even from those powerful in other realms. Presumably that was the end of it. But as Rome’s literary history was subsequently elaborated, this so-called quarrel between Naevius and the Metelli attracted colourful elaborations. Naevius, we read in some sources, was imprisoned and sentenced to hard labour, but he managed to regain his freedom by composing dramas that won him the support of the public. Eventually, it was believed, Naevius was driven into exile and the author of Rome’s epic about the First Punic War ended his days in, of all places, Carthage. These stories are suitably fanciful. Still, they demonstrate the view held by later generations that Naevius’ was an independent and strong-willed personality.

The Bellum Punicum and the First Punic War Naevius’ poem Bellum Punicum told the story of the First Punic War (264–241), a conflict whose significance we have encountered already. It is our first Latin account of history from a participant in the events. Indeed, it is our first historical work of any kind in Latin. It was the product of his mature years, if Cicero is correct that composing it was one of the pleasures of Naevius’ old age (Cic. Sen. 50). If so, it may well

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have been written during the Second Punic War, which for the Romans was an existential struggle attracting international attention, including many negative judgments of Rome and its policies (see further the discussion of Naevius’ contemporary Fabius Pictor in Chapter 6). Perhaps, then, it was in this moment of crisis that Rome’s first truly national epic was conceived and composed, by a poet who was an eyewitness to the war he recorded. Naevius’ epic appears to have been no more than five thousand lines, of which only about sixty short fragments survive. Originally the Bellum Punicum was a continuous work, but in the second century it was divided into seven books. Like Andronicus’ Odusia, Naevius’ poem is composed in the saturnian metre. This metrical imitation was hardly inevitable and at least one of its effects will have been to establish the beginnings of a Latin tradition of Roman epic. Like Andronicus, Naevius creates an epic atmosphere through archaisms. He also elevates his poetry by including Homeric-style compound words (e.g. Naev. fr. 18: silvicolae, ‘forestdwelling’; fr. 25: arquitenens, ‘bow-bearing’) along with mannerisms such as alliteration (e.g. fr. 33: vicissatim volvi victoriam, ‘victory rolls this way and that’) and assonance (e.g. frr. 34–35: verum praetor advenit, auspicat auspicium / properum, ‘but the praetor comes; he receives favourable auspices’), features which the Romans associated with sacred, solemn texts. Naevius adheres to the style pioneered by Andronicus’ in other ways. His epic opens with an appeal for divine inspiration, which he addresses to Jupiter’s daughters (fr. 1): novem Iovis concordes filiae sorores nine daughters of Jupiter, harmonious sisters.

These figures, although clearly very much like the Muses of Greek epic and although left anonymous in the surviving fragments of the Bellum Punicum, must be Andronicus’ Camenae. This is made certain by the flourish with which the Muses are later introduced in the epic poetry of Ennius (see this chapter, below). And in Naevius’ epitaph, which he is said to have composed for himself (see below), the poet is mourned not by Muses but by Camenae. The Bellum Punicum’s closeness to the Odusia emphasises continuity: Andronicus relocated epic inspiration to Rome in order to put into Latin a Homeric epic that was already important to cultural identities in Sicily and Italy; Naevius, in celebrating Rome’s military domination of these same regions, depicted his country’s victory as an achievement of legendary proportions. And the line is a neat one,

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with the sisters enclosing Jupiter and his daughters, thus emphasising their concord. The subject of Naevius’ epic went beyond the First Punic War. It also included an ample account of the fall of Troy and the flight to Italy of a Trojan band of refugees led by Anchises and Aeneas. This version of early Roman history becomes, in part because of Naevius, the standard story (see Sidebar XI and Chapter 8). Naevius’ Aeneas experienced a long and arduous journey, the telling of which almost certainly echoed the Odyssey and appropriated elements from Andronicus’ Odusia. Early in the poem, the Trojan hero’s mother, Venus, confronts Jupiter and, it appears, exacts a promise of Rome’s future greatness, a scene that Vergil later imitated (both poets reprise and combine the Iliad’s Thetis and the Odyssey’s Athena). Naevius also related the origins of Carthage, perhaps introducing the Carthaginian queen Dido who would play such a pivotal role in Vergil’s Aeneid (see Chapter 8). And in Italy, Aeneas’ grandson Romulus founds the city of Rome. Naevius, by incorporating into contemporary history the traditions associated with Rome’s origins, presents Aeneas and Romulus not as characters from a timeless mythical world, but divinely aided men of the past who were, like the men of Naevius’ own day, devoted to fulfilling Rome’s destiny. Naevius’ approach to his material was not, it appears, strictly chronological. He begins, like Homer and like Andronicus, in medias res, in his case in the middle of the First Punic War. Naevius transitions back and forth in time through various narrative devices, including digressions, origin-stories, and descriptions of works of art. The exploitation of these techniques was already a feature of Hellenistic epics concentrating on the history of Greek cities or myths regarding their foundation. Many of these works are lost, but in Apollonius’ third-century Argonautica one finds these same literary moves in an epic that includes a long and adventurous journey on the part of its heroes, violent confrontations with hostile natives and memorialising explanations of the origins of places and future events. It is obvious that Naevius’ epic represents a bold and sophisticated adaptation of this Greek literary tradition, putting it to use in the service of Roman imperial sensibilities. The Bellum Punicum was a celebrated work in its own day and thereafter. It stimulated a creative and complex reaction in Ennius, as we shall see. Cicero writes that, despite its age, the poem remained enjoyable (Cic. Brut. 75–76) and Horace, less impressed, concedes nonetheless that in his day Naevius’ epic was widely read (Hor. Epist. 2.1.53–54). Vergil’s enormous debt to Naevius is documented by imperial commentators (e.g. Serv. Auctus ad Aen. 1.198; Macrob. Sat. 6.2.31). Naevius’ plays, too, endured and were performed into the late republic (Cic. Fam. 7.1.2; see

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Chapter 2). Imperial writers, however, show little interest in Naevius’ poetry apart from matters of diction or its preservation of antiquarian curiosities. Still, Naevius was hardly forgotten. Gellius takes the trouble of preserving his epitaph, which consists of four saturnian lines marked by suitably solemn effects (Gell. NA 1.24.2). Its verdict on Naevius’ literary achievement Gellius describes as fair (iustum), even though, he complains, Naevius furnished it himself. Not all modern scholars believe Gellius’ attribution is correct, but, if it is, we find, for the first but not the last time in Latin poetry, a forceful assertion of personal, poetic greatness: Inmortalis mortalis si foret fas flere, flerent divae Camenae Naevium poetam. itaque postquam est Orci traditus thesauro, obliti sunt Romai loquier lingua Latina If divine law permitted immortals to mourn mortals, the divine Camenae would mourn the poet Naevius. Indeed, after he was deposited in Death’s treasury they forgot how to speak the Latin language in Rome.

The location of the epitaph on a tomb perhaps clarifies the conjunction of mortals and gods (in Latin, either noun could be the subject of to mourn here); noteworthy too are the alliteration and anadiplosis (repetition of flere/flerent over two lines). There is also chiasmus in the second line, which juxtaposes the Camenae with Naevius. And in the third line, Orcus (an Italic god) is placed near the Greek word thesauro to show the poet’s mastery over both cultures. Without Naevius, this epitaph asserts, an epoch in Latin poetry is ended: it is the Muses now, no longer the Camenae, who give voice to Latin verse. These lines furnish a fitting conclusion to the life of the author of the first history composed in Latin.

Ennius Quintus Ennius was surely the most accomplished of all the early Roman poets. Famous in his own lifetime, he continued to enjoy high literary esteem throughout the republic. The range of his achievement is striking: epic, drama, satire, epigram, and didactic verse elaborating a disparate variety of topics, including theology (the Euhemerus) and gastronomy (the Hedyphagetica). At least twenty-four plays survive in title only (see Chapter 2). Of his so-called minor works, about two hundred lines remain, most of them quoted as single lines, sometimes something even shorter – frequently in order to illustrate some point about diction or grammar or antiquarianism. His most important work, however, was the epic poem,

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Annales. Originally in fifteen books, later expanded to eighteen, Ennius’ epic told the story of Roman history from the fall of Troy to the poet’s own day. It became an instant classic and was highly influential, but only about six hundred lines remain, preserved in quotation, usually in small fragments, for their linguistic features (rare vocabulary, archaisms, etc.). Admired by Cicero, Lucretius, and Vergil, Ennius’ influence on Latin literature belies the few fragments we have of him. Ennius was born in 269 in Rudiae, a Messapian community in the south of Italy (near modern Lecce). The Messapians were an Italian people who, during the Pyrrhic War (280–275), joined forces with Pyrrhus, the dashing and formidable king of Epirus, the Alexander of his age, and with the city of Tarentum, the latter a traditional enemy, in opposition to Rome. After Pyrrhus’ departure the south lay open to the Romans, and in 266 both consuls of that year celebrated a triumph for victories over the Messapians. Thereafter Rudiae remained under Roman domination. Ennius received a Greek education in Tarentum. Along the way, he also learned Latin, later boasting that he possessed three hearts because he could speak Greek, Oscan, and Latin (Gell. NA 17.17.1 – not a word about the Messapian language, which apparently carried less cachet for Roman readers). During the Second Punic War between Rome and Carthage, and especially after Rome’s defeat at Cannae in 216, Rudiae, like other cities in southern Italy, was rocked by military and political disturbances caused by Hannibal’s presence there. Hannibal and his army remained in Italy until 203. In the midst of this conflict, in 204, we find Ennius in Sardinia, almost certainly serving as an officer in the Roman auxiliaries. He enjoyed sufficiently high status to win the friendship of Cato the Elder (cos. 195), who was quaestor under P. Cornelius Scipio (cos. 205, soon to be dignified with the honorific ‘Africanus’). Cato, passing through Sardinia, met Ennius, was apparently impressed by his culture (there is even a story that Ennius tutored Cato in Greek literature; see Chapter 3), and encouraged him to move to Rome. Which Ennius did.

Ennius’ Relationships in Rome At Rome, Ennius, like Livius Andronicus before him, established himself as an authority in Greek and Latin learning (Suet. Gram. 1.2). Drama, by the time Ennius arrived on the scene, was a flourishing enterprise, and Ennius quickly made a reputation as a writer of comic and, especially, of tragic works. Like Naevius, Ennius was never an actor. In addition to his dramatic compositions, Ennius’ poetry ranged widely, and won an

Ennius’ Relationships in Rome

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admiring audience. Even before he turned his hand to epic poetry, then, Ennius was a literary celebrity, with numerous friends in the Roman aristocracy. Although in his Satires he depicted himself as a man leading a modest lifestyle, he in fact lived in a mansion on the Aventine Hill with posh neighbours (see Chapter 4 for his satires). Ennius also enjoyed close relations with Scipio Africanus – at some point in his career, possibly after Africanus’ death, Ennius composed a work of praise entitled Scipio – and he was on friendly terms with Publius Scipio Nasica (cos. 191). Ennius’ most notable aristocratic connection, however, lay with M. Fulvius Nobilior (cos. 189). Fulvius was put in command of the Romans’ war against the Aetolians, and took Ennius with him – not, presumably, as an advisor on military affairs, but rather as a poet who might chronicle, or even embellish, Fulvius’ campaign. Fulvius’ action (not Ennius’ compliance with it) was denounced by Cato the Elder as shameless. Nevertheless, this was an arrangement that worked out well for both the consul and his literary companion: Ennius included Fulvius’ campaign in the fifteenth book of his Annales, which may have suggested, before Ennius’ later expansion of the epic by three books, that Fulvius’ achievement was, in some sense, the climax of Roman history to date. Ennius also composed a separate work, the Ambracia (the siege of Ambracia was the central operation of the Aetolian War), probably a historical drama (see Chapter 2). Despite some opposition, Fulvius celebrated a triumph in 187. In 184, Fulvius’ son, the consul Q. Fulvius Nobilior, enrolled Ennius as a citizen of Rome. When Ennius agreed to accompany Fulvius in the Aetolian War, what was at stake? Even if we agree that Ennius could have refused an offer from a Roman consul, what dynamics animated their relationship, and what role did their connection play in Ennius’ poetry and its reception once he said yes instead of no? These issues can hardly be decided from our distance, and the question of literary patronage (see Sidebar II) inevitably arises. Indeed, Ennius seems to address exactly this phenomenon, but in a way that does not clinch matters. In the Annales, Ennius furnishes a depiction of a trusted companion to a great man, in this case the noble Cn. Servilius Geminus, almost certainly the consul of 217. The detail quoted below from this rather long passage (by far our longest from the epic) is lavish, and in it, Servilius’ associate is painted as a discreet confidant, reliable and sound but also intelligent and delightful (8.280–282 Sk.): suavis homo, iucundus, suo contentus, beatus, scitus, secunda loquens in tempore, commodus, verbum paucum, multa tenens antiqua,

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Romanised Muses: The Birth of Latin Literature learned, trustworthy, a charming and pleasant man, blissful, content with his situation, smart, obliging, the kind of man who knows how to say the right thing at the right time, and who knows not to say too much, an observer of old traditions.

Later sources decided that Ennius was describing himself here, which says something about how they imagined his dealings with great men. The relationship Ennius portrays is described by (the much-later) Gellius, who preserves it, not as a manifestation of patronage but of the unequal friendship that obtains when one of two men is of a higher station than the other. Servilius’ friend, then, is an amicus inferior. But he is a friend for all that, and their association, as portrayed by Ennius, is an exemplary one – or so Gellius thought. Ennius’ description proves important for many later writers trying to clarify their own relationships with great men (see, e.g. Chapter 9). Still, the warmth and affection conjured by Ennius’ lines are rendered less straightforward when we recognise that the poet is alluding to Hellenistic writings about the deportment proper for a man designated a friend to a king, an official title in Hellenistic courts and one in which sentimentality was much attenuated. Royal friends serve at the bidding of their king, motivated to do so by patriotism and personal ambition. That was a distinguished relationship, but a utilitarian one. How, then, should we view Ennius according to Ennius? Two different issues emerge. The institution of patronage clearly constituted an important literary concern, as a prime Roman vehicle for examining human relationships – and because the topic can be traced to Ennius, it possessed for later poets a distinguished pedigree that rendered it worth returning to. Whether a poet’s references to patronage supply readers with information about his real-life circumstances, however, or whether a poet’s friendship with a great man indicates that he was somehow in the service of that great man, obliged to sing his praises or celebrate the themes he was instructed to versify, is less certain – and always a matter of opinion. Each poet’s career must be assessed individually, and we must neither discount nor overrate the degree of autonomy enjoyed by all Roman citizens wealthy enough not to require a patron in the literal sense of the word.

Ennius’ Annales Ennius, as is clear from a list of his wide-ranging works, was a pioneering poet, even if his literary sensibilities were rooted deeply in contemporary Greek poetics. Livius and Naevius had also been influenced by the

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operations of Hellenistic literature, but Ennius, in ways sometimes provocative, sometimes polemical, undertook to represent himself as a radical reformer of the Roman epic tradition. The Annales tell the tale of Rome from the fall of Troy until the poet’s own lifetime. The rudiments of this story were fairly fixed, but Ennius introduced novel features. He is, so far as we know, the first Roman poet to organise his poem by way of individual books, making each a discrete literary unit that also contributes to the larger structure. This was a common feature of Hellenistic poetry, but new to Rome. Ennius used books arranged in triads to impose a meaningful shape on the events making up Roman history. So the first phase in the story of Rome begins with the fall of Troy and ends with the establishment of the Roman republic, encompassing most of what will become the standard stories about this early period (Books 1–3). Roman conquest of Italy follows (Books 4–6), an extraordinary achievement punctuated by the placement of Rome’s near-death experience at the hands of the Gauls in 390 at the end of Book 4. The two Punic Wars come next (Books 7–9), then the conquest of Greece (Books 10–12). The wars in Asia and in Aetolia, climaxing in Fulvius’ victory at Ambracia in 189, completed the epic’s first edition (Books 13–15). Books 16–18, continuing the story, were added later, but survive in fragments too meagre for us to be certain of their contents. Like Naevius, Ennius blended contemporary Roman history with the city’s legendary past. For all the variety of the Annales’ episodes, throughout the work Ennius remains focused on Rome’s political institutions and the city’s great men – and on the moral values that animate them (Enn. Ann. 156Sk): moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque. The Roman state rests on the character and men of its past.

The meaning of this portentous line is clear, but its artistry deserves note. There is a chiasmus which emphasises two sources of Rome’s power (men and their characters, with viris perhaps alluding to the word virtus, virtue, a close cousin to moribus. See sidebar VII). And the first letters of the first four words spell out MARS, the god of war who was responsible for Rome and the source of its military glory. Ennius’ epic, like its Naevian antecedent, was predominantly historical, but on a far grander scale. And it is also unique in a Greek context: we know of no Greek poem that furnished a complete record of a city or nation. As the above outline of the work indicates, Ennius’ narrative

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structure was linear, but there were important gaps. His account of the First Punic War, for instance, deferred to Naevius’ Bellum Punicum. And it is probable that, like Homer, Livius Andronicus and Naevius before him, Ennius employed narrative devices like compression, flashbacks and prophecies to create complexities in his epic reconstruction of the past. Like Andronicus and Naevius, Ennius used linguistic elements from Oscan and Umbrian, archaic diction and alliteration to give his work a very particular feel. A remarkable example of the last is Enn. Ann. 109Sk., an address to Titus Tatius, Romulus’ partner in monarchy, whom the people of Lanuvium slew in retaliation for his despotic behaviour: O Tite, tute, Tati, tibi tanta, tyranne, tulisti O Titus Tatius, you tyrant, you have done these terrible things to yourself.

The alliteration has particular point, as the repeated t-sounds express derision. The Latin is deliberately, disdainfully, grotesque. The continuities between Ennius’ epic and those of Andronicus and Naevius are important. More striking, however, are his innovations, the most conspicuous of which is metrical. For the Annales is not composed in saturnians but in dactylic hexameter, the metre of Greek epic poetry. This was a drastic break from the expectations of Roman epic, and a potentially risky one. The use of saturnians by Andronicus and Naevius had set a tone for Roman epic that, notwithstanding its obvious indebtedness to Greek literature, was distinct, even native. In Ennius, saturnians are replaced by hexameters, Camenae by Muses. The first fragment of the Annales, presumably the first line of the poem, underlines Ennius’ remarkable break: Musae quae pedibus magnum pulsatis Olympum O Muses, who beat great Olympus with your feet.

The first word in the poet’s prayer for inspiration is ‘Musae’, and for his contemporaries it is an extraordinary one, because it is a transliteration. Pulsatis, beat, refers to dancing, but pedibus, feet, like its English equivalent, is also a metrical term and signals, as the ear could not miss, the new metre of Ennius’ epic (which was, of course, also the old metre of Homer). Suddenly Roman epic sounded different, less Italian and more Greek, one might say (and one might say that either in admiration or in objection). Negotiating the correct relationship with Greek culture was as lively a matter in Ennius’ day (see Chapters 3 and 5 on Cato the Elder) – as it was at any time in Roman history. So the move toward Greek might be seen as a step backward, or even an insult to his predecessors. Perhaps this is why,

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in Book 15, Ennius made explicit the equation between Muses and Camenae (Enn. Ann. 487Sk): Musas quas memorant nosce nos esse Camenas Learn that we, whom they memorialise as Muses, are the Camenae.

This fragment is a riddle, and it certainly suggests that Ennius knew what he was up to, and that he viewed his innovations as superior expressions of Roman cultural self-confidence to what had gone before. Indeed, the Annales, commencing with the Muses, was originally designed to conclude with the triumph in 187 of Ennius’ friend and patron, M. Fulvius Nobilior (cos. 189), who founded the temple of Hercules of the Muses, a sacred and political act which relocated the Muses from Greece to Rome (see below). This powerful figuration of the majesty of Roman epic looks back to Andronicus’ Camenae even as it supersedes them. It was a confident, even bold literary move, and one which a majority of Ennius’ contemporaries and many later Romans profoundly appreciated. At the time of their invention, however, the success of Ennius’ poetic innovations was hardly a certainty.

Epic Inspirations For Ennius, the Annales constituted a new beginning for Roman epic and for epic full stop, a claim he asserted explicitly in the openings of Book 1 and Book 7. By composing in dactylic hexameters an account of heroic deeds performed by great men, Ennius invited readers to compare his achievement not with Andronicus’ or Naevius’, but with Homer’s. And this move was more than simple emulation. In contemporary Greek critical circles, there was sharp debate over the desirability or even the possibility of matching the excellence of Homeric epic. Better, many thought, to write different hexameter verses altogether, looking to Hesiod for inspiration, either concentrating on didactic subjects (see Chapter 5) or other less elevated topics, such as mythology or personal poetry (see Chapter 4). Indeed, this is a major trend in Greek poetry of the third and second centuries. Ennius was not unaware of this literary point of view or its implications for his epic project, and he dealt with it, in the opening of the Annales, by transcending it. In the opening of his Theogony, Hesiod relates how he was given instruction and transformed into a poet by the Muses. The Alexandrian Callimachus, who took Hesiod instead of Homer as his model (e.g. Anth.

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Pal. 7.42), introduces his most famous work, the Aetia, by claiming intimacy with the Muses, who appeared to him in a dream and expressed their preference for delicate and refined poems (see Sidebar VI). Ennius, too, had a dream, modelled on Callimachus’, which he relates in the Annales. But in his dream, Ennius meets Homer, not the Muses. And from Homer he learns that he, Ennius, is the great poet’s reincarnation (‘alter Homerus’, a second Homer). This is elaborated by way of extensive Pythagorean philosophising (see Chapter 8 for Ovid’s take on this), but its literary point is clear: Ennius may ignore Callimachean strictures against imitating Homer because he is the man himself, reintroduced to the world to compose Roman epic. And so, he has the authority to re-orient Latin epic away from the Camenae, back to the Muses by offering an authentic and masterly vision of bicultural poetics. This is not to say that Ennius rejects the Hesiodic/ Callimachean model; given his opening gambit, we might say that he attempts to unify the two different Greek hexametric traditions. Ennius does not claim, exactly, to be the ancient genius who composed the Iliad and the Odyssey. His reincarnation is more complex, more suited to its times, than that. He is a Homer who, like Callimachus, is capable of creating highly refined and learned poetry. In the proem to Book 7, Ennius revisits the nature of his epic project. He explains to his reader that, in the Annales, an account of the First Punic War will largely be dispensed with because Naevius has already written one (Enn. Ann. 206–7Sk): scripsere alii rem versibus quos olim Faunei vatesque canebant Others have written of this in verses which, in days of yore, Fauns and prophets used to sing.

It is typical for Roman poets not to mention their predecessors by name. Here, however, this gesture toward Rome’s existing epic tradition immediately introduces a polemical assertion of Ennius’ literary superiority (Enn. Ann. 208–209 Sk.): [cum] neque Musarum scopulos [. . .] nec dicti studiosus [quisquam erat] ante hunc when no one had scaled the Muses’ cliff, nor was anyone scholar-poet before this man

These lines are mangled because they are preserved in piecemeal quotations by Cicero, who more or less agrees with Ennius’ estimation of his own genius. In these lines, Ennius appears to depict himself as the first initiate of the Muses.

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In Rome – or anywhere? He is, after all, an updated Homer. He is also dicti studiosus, a strange phrase which seems to mean something like ‘possessing a scholarly interest in language’. This is almost certainly Ennius’ translation of the Greek term philologos, the lover of language who was a model for Hellenistic scholars and poets. In this way Ennius makes it clear that as a poet and as a man of learning he excels his epic predecessors, and perhaps not only those in Rome. It is a defiant assertion of poetic ascendancy, following an implicit admission that he will not compete with Naevius.

Muses at/and Rome Ennius had assistance in bringing the Muses to Rome. After his victory in the Aetolian War, Fulvius Nobilior looted Ambracia, and these spoils allowed him to install in Rome, in the Campus Martius, a temple to Hercules of the Muses (aedes Herculis Musarum). This temple may have been dedicated as early as the year of Fulvius’ triumph in 186 or his celebratory games in the subsequent year, but it is more probable that the dedication took place in 179, when Fulvius was censor (see Sidebar V). The particulars of Fulvius’ edifice remain uncertain, but its symbolism is not. Fulvius placed in his temple statues of the nine Muses and one of Hercules playing the lyre. There was also a shrine to the Camenae, which suggests the success of the conflation between the two. Fulvius’ Hercules is a Roman representation of the Greek god Heracles Mousagetes, ‘leader of the Muses’, a divinity whose combination of brute masculinity with the appurtenances of high culture appealed to Rome’s aristocracy. And it was owing to Rome’s unequalled might that these Greek divinities were removed to Rome and appropriated for the city’s civic religion. This was also a site for literary recognition. Fulvius’ complex soon became the meeting place of Rome’s association of poets, the collegium poetarum, perhaps replacing the sessions conducted in the temple of Minerva in honour of Livius Andronicus. And it is plausible, though far from certain, that the dedication of this temple constituted the final action represented in the original fifteen-book edition of the Annales. In any case, the role of Ennius in making the Muses welcome in Rome, even (or perhaps especially) if in tandem with the violence of Roman conquest of their representations, is hard to discount. The relationship between the poet and his senatorial friend was clearly a cooperative one, the crossfertilisation of which altered Roman literature, the city’s landscape and its religion: owing to the literary skill and the cultural collaboration of Ennius, the Muses came to Rome in both song and in concrete reality.

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Ennius’ creative career was a long one. In the final year of his life, in 169, his tragedy Thyestes was composed and performed (see Chapter 2). Ennius’ heir was his nephew, the distinguished playwright Marcus Pacuvius (see Chapter 2). Ennius continued to be read, and his plays performed, through the late republic. His Annales remained enormously influential on later poets, even those, like Catullus (see Chapter 4) or Horace, who rejected key aspects of Ennian style. Indeed, the Annales remained the Latin masterpiece until it was superseded by Vergil’s Aeneid (see Chapter 8). In the empire, although Ennius’ poetry continued to be studied, the Aeneid and Ovid’s Metamorphoses began to be primary frames of reference, though it is obvious that Silius Italicus, who wrote a vast epic on the Second Punic War, had read Ennius closely. The emperor Hadrian (r. 117–138 ce) claimed to prefer Ennius to Virgil (SHA Hadr. 16.6), and Ennius remained very quotable in late antiquity, although by then, it seems clear, his poetry was no longer being read in its entirety.

The End of the Beginning The origin of literature at Rome is something we can date to 240, with – as we have noted – a specious degree of accuracy. From the beginning, Latin literature does not merely appropriate and redeploy Greek literature, it signals this relationship as one of its essential and defining qualities. And the Romans’ passion for parading the Hellenic nature of their literary achievements never really diminishes. On the contrary, the mightier Rome becomes, the more emphatically it draws attention to the bicultural character of its literary identity. Early Latin literature is never untethered from the cultural and political realities of its society, nor do Rome’s poets compose in splendid isolation. They compose plays for civic festivals; they write epics that give shape to Rome’s military and political past. Even when they declare themselves independent, they do so in contexts deeply implicated in civic life. That their works made a contemporary impact and represented a very real focus of concern for Rome’s senatorial elite is obvious even from our sparse evidence. These dynamics must help to explain the rapid pace of Rome’s literary development. In not quite a century, from 240 BC to the death of Ennius in 169, as the central Italian state became the Mediterranean world’s superpower, Rome simultaneously became the scene of a robust literary tradition, an environment thick with a wide range of genres animated by competing poetic ambitions.

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SIDEBARS

I Naming Names: Roman Nomenclature All Roman citizens who were men had at least two names: a praenomen and a nomen (a first name and what is often, unfortunately, translated as a ‘clan name’). Gaius Marius is an example. His first name was Gaius, his hereditary name Marius. In the matter of first names, the Romans exhibited little creativity, limiting themselves to a very few: Gaius, Gnaeus, Marcus, Lucius, and a handful of others. So unimaginative were the early Romans that they resorted to ordinals: Quintus (fifth), Sextus (sixth), and so forth. By the historical period, these names had lost their numerical significance and were simply names like any other: a Septimus (seventh) could be an eldest son. Because they were few in number, the praenomen was often abbreviated (C. = Gaius; Cn. = Gnaeus; M. = Marcus; and so forth). The nomen, by contrast, is usually spelled out. In addition to a praenomen and a nomen, many Romans had a third name, a cognomen or nickname. C. Iulius Caesar, for example, or M. Tullius Cicero. Some of these were flattering: Lepidus, for instance, means ‘charming’; Pulcher means ‘handsome’. Many, however, were uncomplimentary or drew attention to a deformity. Brutus, the cognomen of several dignified men, means ‘dummy’. Scaurus, a patrician cognomen, means ‘swollen-ankled’. One of Cicero’s ancestors had a growth on the tip of his nose that, to the unkind, resembled a chickpea, which in Latin is a cicer. And so, they dubbed him something like Chickpea Tullius, or Tullius Cicero. The name stuck, for generations (Plut. Cic. 1.3–4). So much for the men. What of Roman citizens who were women? Women had rights in ancient Rome, but it remained strongly patriarchal (see also Chapter 7). And nomenclature shows this. A woman’s name was the feminine form of her father’s nomen. Cicero’s daughter was Tullia, Caesar’s Julia. And that was that. If a man had more than one daughter, they might be distinguished, informally, by ordinals. A Claudius with three daughters might refer to them as Claudia, Claudia Secunda (the second Claudia), and Claudia Tertia (the third Claudia). When a woman married, she did not change her name but could nevertheless be referred to as so-and-so’s wife. Catullus’ Lesbia was Clodia Metelli, Metellus’ [wife] Clodia. This was not quite Mrs. Metellus, because it was purely conventional, but the effect was similar. If a person enslaved by the Romans was freed, she or he became a citizen and therefore needed suitable names. Ordinarily, freed slaves took the nomen and praenomen of their ex-master, and their previous name was

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preserved as a cognomen. When Cicero’s learned slave, Tiro, was freed, he became M. Tullius Tiro. The father of Latin literature, Andronicus, when he was freed, became L. Livius Andronicus. The treatment of women was similar. A slave named, say, Philomela, if she was freed by a Claudius, became Claudia Philomela (no praenomen for her). Likewise, when foreigners became naturalised Roman citizens, they ordinarily took the nomen of their sponsor. Given these practices, it is clear why ‘clan name’ is an uncomfortable fit for nomen. Individuals who share the same nomen were often entirely unrelated, socially distinct, and only tenuously connected. To take a notorious example, in 212 ce, when the emperor M. Aurelius Antoninus, known to us as Caracalla, granted citizenship to every free person in the empire, the nomen Aurelius became the most common clan name in the Roman world. It can hardly have evoked strong feelings of attachment. Most of the Romans we discuss, after their introduction, we refer to by their nomen or cognomen alone. This is the routine habit in English: we usually say or write Sallust, not Gaius Sallustius Crispus, or Cicero instead of Marcus Tullius Cicero (although ‘Tully’ was once the preferred designation for English speakers). In some cases, our conventional name for a famous Roman diverges from its Latin form: most of us use Horace, not Horatius, and Pompey the Great instead of Pompeius Magnus, or Mark Antony (or in some instances simply Antony) instead of M. Antonius. These conventions are followed in this volume: if uncertainty arises, clarity can be found in the glossary.

II Clientela and Literary Patronage Ennius’ ties to Rome’s nobility have attracted the attention of historians and literary critics alike. We have seen how Livius Andronicus retained his connection with the aristocratic Livii who granted him his freedom. As a freedman, he remained bound to the Livii by obligations both legal and moral. Ennius’ circumstances are clearly different and may be reminiscent of those of Naevius. An aristocrat of Rudiae, doubtless a man of independent means, Ennius could expect, not least because of his intelligence and erudition, to win the respect and perhaps the friendship of Roman nobles. And yet Ennius’ career and his relationships with leading senators are often viewed by modern scholars as an example of literary patronage, as if Ennius was paid for his literary exertions on behalf of eminent Romans and as if he was obliged to deliver poetry that amplified the accomplishments of the distinguished Romans with whom he consorted.

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The topic of literary patronage recurs across the centuries of Latin literature. Patronage itself, patrocinium or clientela, was a fundamental institution in Roman society. Powerful men accumulated dependents (clientes), who repaid their patron’s aid by placing themselves in his fides, his trust, that is, by making a formal gesture of confidence in their patron and by offering whatever modest tokens of gratitude they could manage, not least their loyalty (Gell. NA 5.13.2) and their votes for his favoured candidates for political office. So pervasive, and so socially significant, was clientela that the comic poet Plautus (see Chapter 2) could mock the zeal exhibited by undiscriminating patrons endeavouring to amass clients in bulk (Men. 572–575): atque uti quique sunt optumi maxume morem habent hunc! clientes sibi omnes uolunt esse multos: bonine an mali sint, id hau quaeritant. And the more elite men are, the more they have this preoccupation: they all crave clients in large numbers, and don’t even ask whether they’re good or bad.

Literary men, in a society sensitive to the cachet of high culture, were especially attractive acquisitions for patrons keen to enlarge their circle, and during the course of the republic, Roman nobles eagerly opened their households to Greek intellectuals in the hope of basking in the reflection of their glamour – and of being written into their compositions. Nonetheless, clients, even humble clients, remained their own people to a certain extent, and senatorial Romans were obliged to work hard to retain their clients’ loyalty, a reality that is sometimes forgotten in modern discussions of clientela. ‘Clients’ who were celebrities required earnest cultivation. During the late republic, for example, the Greek poet Archias celebrated, in Greek verse, the victories of Marius, L. Licinius Lucullus, and others, and with the aid of the Licinii, he received Roman citizenship. When enemies of Licinius Lucullus impeached the legitimacy of Archias’ citizenship, Cicero, who had been a pupil of Archias, defended him – in the explicit hope that Archias would compose a poem in his honour. Indeed, the very real cultural and political usefulness of writers like Archias forms an important part of Cicero’s defence in the Pro Archia. All of which makes clear how seriously Romans of the senatorial class took their own prestige. In the end, Cicero’s hope was disappointed: despite the successful defence speech, Archias seems never to have turned his hand to a literary work

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about the statesman. (Cicero wrote his own poem about his achievements; see Chapter 6.) No harm seems to have been done to their relationship, perhaps because it was a genuine friendship, based on more than simple utility (whatever Cicero claims in his speech). Indeed, patronage and friendship (amicitia) resemble one another very closely. In Rome, friendship, like clientela, depended on trust, gratitude, and reciprocity. But genuine comradeship also required affection, and an approximation of personal dignity: real friends in Rome must be equals, or near equals. But how near? What was the condition of an amicus inferior, a friend of discernibly lesser status? Because there was no definite answer to this question, Romans could, and did, mask relationships of patronage with the vocabulary of friendship, at least some of the time. Occasionally, they did the opposite. And though it is less well documented, it is clear enough that, in elite circles, the language of patronage could also demonstrate gratitude between friends. The complex world of patronage plays out across centuries of Latin literature, especially poetry. The works of Catullus and Lucretius, Vergil and Horace, men of equestrian rank whose friends included distinguished, politically powerful men, are often viewed by critics through the lens of literary patronage. And some poets, notably Catullus and Horace, interrogate in their works the correct dynamics of friendship between figures of divergent social status, sometimes by way of explicit references to patronage. This is an aspect of Latin poetry that will resurface in later chapters (see especially Chapters 4 and 9).

III

The Metres of Latin Poetry

Latin poetry is never free verse. Nor does it rhyme, except accidentally. Instead, every poem is metrical and its metre helps to establish each poem’s generic identity, often contributing in important ways to its meaning. From the time of Ennius onwards, for instance, epic poetry was invariably composed in dactylic hexameter. But the shapes and cadences of epic’s dactylic hexameters differ from those in (say) satire, although satire routinely employs the same metre. And it does so in ways which a Roman could not fail to recognise (people could usually hear the difference between a passage of satire and a passage of epic). Poets sometimes signal a relationship with a predecessor by way of metrical reminiscences. Ennius, to take a single example, exhibited a fondness for ending lines of his epic with a form of the monosyllabic word vis (‘force’ or ‘violence’). Later epic poets tended to avoid monosyllabic line endings, but both Vergil and

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Lucretius occasionally and for effect close one of their lines with a form of vis, which provides the line with an Ennian ring. There were also distinctive metrical styles: Cicero associated the neoteric poets with a particular technique, the use of a spondee instead of a dactyl in the fifth foot of a line of dactylic hexameter (Cic. Att. 7.2.1; see Chapter 4 and below). These are dimensions of Latin poetry which are difficult to render in an English translation. Nor are they often central to our discussions in this volume. Nevertheless, it is useful to have a basic familiarity with the metres of Latin poetry. A remarkable feature of Latin metre is that its rules and expression are mostly borrowed from Greek metrical practices (see Chapter 1). Even the saturnians favoured by Andronicus and Naevius, familiar in Italy before the invention of Latin literature, were influenced by Greek conventions. Latin, like English, is a language which uses stress accents. But Latin metres, unlike English ones, are not predicated on a sequence of stressed and unstressed syllables. Instead, Latin metres – like Greek ones – are measured out by a sequence of heavy and light (or, one may say, long or short) syllables. Much of the time (though not always), a heavy syllable is a syllable whose vowel is long; a light syllable is a syllable whose vowel is short (we represent a heavy syllable with the symbol ¯ and a light syllable with the symbol ˇ). Latin’s adaptation of Greek metrics is complex: Latin’s stress accent, to cite one of many complications, is not entirely ignored and plays a role in every poet’s shaping of every line. But here we concentrate on the basics. A dactyl is a foot consisting of one heavy syllable followed by two light ones: ¯ ˇ ˇ . A spondee consists of two heavy syllables: ¯ ¯ . A dactylic hexameter is made up of a sequence of five dactyls followed by a spondee: ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ ¯ (not a line comprising six dactyls, as its name might suggest). But matters are more complicated than that: any of the first five dactyls can be replaced by a spondee (although replacing the fifth dactyl with a spondee is rare: this is the feature which Cicero, as we saw above, connected with neoteric poets, although even they did it only occasionally). As an illustration of this metre in operation, here is the opening line of Vergil’s Aeneid: ārmǎ vı̌ rūmquě cǎ nō, Trōiaē quī prīmǔ s ǎ b ōrīs I sing of arms and a hero, who first from the shores of Troy

This line opens with two dactyls but includes spondees. The fifth foot, true to convention, is a dactyl. There is a pause in this line (a pause is not

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obligatory) which comes in the middle of a foot – sometimes denoted in modern editions with a punctuation mark. These are all fairly common features in dactylic hexameter verse. Elegiac couplets are preferred by Latin love poets and this metre is also very common in Latin epigram. It consists of a line of dactylic hexameter followed by a line known as a dactylic pentameter. A dactylic pentameter consists of two halves (penta-, five, signifies two sets of two-and-a-half dactylic lines), often with a pause between them, and each consisting of two dactyls followed by a heavy syllable: ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ || ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ ˇ ˇ ¯ .

Either of the first two dactyls can be replaced by a spondee, but this kind of replacement is avoided in the second half of the line. Ordinarily, and routinely after Catullus, each elegiac couplet is its own unit in terms of grammar and thought. Here is a sample from Ovid’s Amores (Am. 1.9.2–1): mīlı̌ tǎ t ōmnı̌ s ǎ mans, ět hǎ bēt sǔ ǎ cāstrǎ Cǔ pīdō; Āttı̌ cě, crēdě mı̌ hī, mīlı̌ tǎ t ōmnı̌ s ǎ māns. Every lover is a soldier, and Cupid has a camp of his own; Atticus, believe me, every lover is a soldier.

There are other metres in Latin poetry, some of them very complex. Complexity is a feature of most of the lyric metres which feature in tragedy and comedy (especially Plautine comedy) and in poets like Catullus and Horace. We need not map them out here. Their basic principles are the same as dactylic hexameter and elegiac couplets: they are measured out by heavy and light syllables, include permissible substitutions, and employ observable conventions regarding the organisation of words into attractively phrased images and ideas. These metres and the rules governing them presented poets with technical challenges, but good poets were never at the mercy of their metre. These structures enhanced rather than impeded expression, and they were basic to the sound of every line of every poem. Romans knew what poetry should sound like, were intrigued when their expectations were confounded, and were offended by bad versification. But their poetry was never frozen: the metrical conventions of Ovid’s day differed from those of Ennius’ – certain techniques and cadences began to sound not bad necessarily but certainly archaic – and later poets sometimes deployed metrical changes as proof of their superior refinement. But as Horace

Further Reading

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complains in his Ars Poetica, the oldies never went away. Roman literary sensibilities continued to like the sounds of poetry from a variety of historical periods.

Further Reading The texts of early Latin literature are fragmentary. Good scholarly editions are available, but we suggest the Loeb Classical Library to those interested in learning more: these furnish readers with a Latin text and a facing English translation. For early Rome, the Loebs to consult are: S. Goldberg and G. Manuwald, Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume I: Ennius, Testimonia. Epic Fragments (Cambridge MA 2018) volume 294 and R. Maltby and N. W. Slater, Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume VI: Livius Andronicus. Naevius. Caecilius (Cambridge MA 2022) volume 314. S. M. Goldberg, Epic in Republican Rome (Oxford 1995) is a sophisticated treatment of the surviving epic authors of this period, and a fresh orientation to this period is accessible by way of J. Elliott, Early Latin Poetry (Leiden 2022). Recent critical studies of Ennius include J. Elliott, Ennius and the Architecture of the Annales (Cambridge 2013) and C. Damon and J. Farrell (eds.), Ennius’ Annals: Poetry and History (Cambridge 2020). On Naevius, see T. Biggs, Poetics of the First Punic War (Michigan 2020). S. Hinds, Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry (Cambridge 1998) is important on the relationships of early Latin epicists. The interpretation of Naevius’ epigram about the Metelli comes from H. D. Jocelyn, ‘The Poet Cn. Naevius, P. Scipio Nasica and Q. Caecilius Metellus’, Antichthon 3 (1969): 32–47. On the multiculturalism of Rome, much has been written. Little of it, unfortunately, is at an introductory level. T. P. Wiseman, The Myths of Rome (Exeter 2004) gives an overview and E. S. Gruen, Studies in Greek Culture and Roman Policy (Leiden 1990) provides several classic case studies. On literacy, see W. V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge MA 1989). The centrality of Greek literature in the creation of Latin literature is the focus of D. Feeney, Beyond Greek: The Beginnings of Latin Literature (Harvard 2016), who emphasises the strangeness of Rome’s decision to rely upon Greek literature and to do so in so self-conscious a manner. T. Habinek, The World of Roman Song: From Ritualized Speech to Social Order (Baltimore 2005) discusses the pre-literate world of the Romans. As for the enduring importance of Hellenistic literature in Rome, an excellent introduction is R. Hunter, The Shadow of Callimachus: Studies in the Reception of Hellenistic Poetry at Rome (Cambridge 2006). For those with German, the standard scholarly discussion of early Latin literature is W. Suerbaum, Handbuch der lateinischen Literatur der Antike. Erster Band: Die archaische Literatur. Von den Anfängen bis zu Sullas Tod. Die vorliterarische Periode und die Zeit von 240 bis 78 v. Chr (Munich 2002). A very good orientation to this work is D. Feeney’s review (in English) in the Journal of Roman Studies 95 (2005): 226–40. Other helpful treatments of this period (outside scholarship in

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English) include: W. Suerbaum, Untersuchungen zur Selbstdarstellung älterer römischer Dichter: Livius Andronicus, Naevius, Ennius (Hildesheim 1968); A. Traina, Vortit barbare: Le traduzioni poetiche da Livio Andronico a Cicerone (Rome 1970); V. Fabrizi, Mores veteresque novosque: rappresentazioni del passato e del presente di Roma negli Annales di Ennio (Pisa 2013); A. Viredaz, Fragmenta Saturnia heroica: introduction, traduction et commentaire des fragments de l’Odyssée latine de Livius Andronicus et de la Guerre punique de Cn. Naevius (Basel 2020). On early Latin language, see A. Meillet, Introduction à l’étude comparative des langues indoeuropéenes (Paris 1937) and J. Dangel, Histoire de la langue latine (Paris 1995).

chapter 2

All the World’s a Stage: Roman Republican Drama and Theatrical Traditions

This chapter focuses on the earliest Roman theatrical tradition, which includes comedy and tragedy as well as other theatrical entertainments such as mime. Exceptionally for this early period of Latin literature, we have numerous complete works, all comedies based on Greek originals, mostly from a single author: twenty-one plays of Plautus, six of Terence. This cannot be entirely accidental: both authors were extremely popular, were taken up by schoolmasters and grammarians, and were influential on all European dramatic traditions. What we have lost, however, is much more significant: we have hundreds of titles and fragments from Plautus and other playwrights. Many of these fragments are only a word or a line and, as with all fragments, we don’t know how typical they are since they are often preserved in later authors as examples of the unusual. More importantly, since drama is written to be performed, we have lost the sheer spectacle of them. Like all early Roman literature, the primary context within with our dramatic authors are working is a Greco-Roman one; the earliest dramatists based their creations explicitly on Greek predecessors in tragedy and comedy, with a few interesting twists. This chapter concentrates primarily on Plautus and Terence, but it also provides a sense of the rich range of the lost dramatic works.

Going to a Show Plays were produced at Rome’s major festivals – the Roman Games, the Floralia, the Plebeian Games, the Games for Apollo, the Games for the Great Mother and the Games for Ceres – all events managed by magistrates (aediles, for most of our period; see Sidebar V). They took place at other events, too, such as funeral games in memory of a Roman nobleman, or celebrations of a triumph. Plays were not the only attraction: there could be gladiatorial contests or chariot races, or less grand but no less enticing entertainments like acrobats or trained bear shows. All such games were 41

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held in honour of the gods or in recognition of divine favour, and they were intended to entertain everyone. The composition of theatre audiences differs sharply from the modern experience. Plays were a public benefaction. There was no charge to get in, but seating was limited. The grand Theatre of Pompey (see below) probably held no more than 17,000 people; perhaps a token, furnished by the presiding magistrate or a citizen’s patron, was required for entry. Or perhaps the stands simply held as many bodies as they could (they did sometimes collapse). And Romans did not sit anywhere they liked: by the late republic, there were privileged seats reserved for senators and members of the equestrian order. Special places were also set aside for the Vestal Virgins. Other women were consigned to the back rows. Originally, it appears, men and women sat together, but by the late republic segregation had been introduced. (Women and men continued to sit together at chariot races, and at gladiatorial contests until the time of Augustus.) The situation of slaves is unclear: they were certainly present, but we don’t know whether they sat apart or perhaps stood. Under Augustus, the formal stratification of audiences became more detailed and was reinforced by law: married men were separated from unmarried men, for example, and freeborn boys were seated in special sections. Going to the theatre, then, made visible the social hierarchy in Rome, but all were welcome: when speaking of theatre audiences, Roman orators routinely described them as a representative slice of the populus Romanus, the Roman people (see, e.g., Cic. Sest. 120).

Greek Drama in a Roman Environment We have already mentioned some of the Italian relatives of early drama (Chapter 1). Their use of legend and folktale was very important for the early development of the genre and probably gave it much of its popular appeal. But Greek tragedy and comedy had been staged at Athens since the fifth century bce and are the ultimate source of their Roman counterparts. Athenian tragedies focused on mythic kings and heroes, stories familiar to their audiences, sometimes with a novel twist. Comedies, by contrast, at least in the early days (so-called ‘Old’ Comedy, represented for us mostly by the plays of Aristophanes), tended to be much more topical, featuring contemporaries as characters and discussing current events, sometimes but not always obliquely. These developed into plays that focused on home life, often preserving some interest in contemporary events; these latter plays (‘New’ Comedy, because they arose in Athens later, in the early Hellenistic

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period) provide the greatest influence on Roman comedy. The tradition of dramatic theatre spread quickly through the Greek world, including to Sicily and Italy, where the vases of its southern cities were routinely painted with scenes illustrating dramatic performances. We have seen (Chapter 1) how important Etruria was in bringing dramatic traditions to Rome. From every direction, it appears, Rome was exposed to the fashionable and highly popular medium of Greek theatre. The basic format of Roman drama is Greek, as we would expect. Consequently, it is perhaps unsurprising that much Roman drama portrays events from Greek mythology or, in the case of comedy, Greek family life. And yet, everyone speaks Latin and operates as a Roman, sometimes in accordance with Greek practices but sometimes not. It is, in short, a hybrid world, neither Greek nor Roman, but both. It is, therefore, unmistakably fictional even when depicting mundane activities. This is very different from Greek drama, which remains plausibly historical in a Greek context. And, for whatever reasons, Roman stagecraft permitted striking divergences from its Greek models. Greek drama, for instance, entailed a limited number of speaking actors, a chorus, and generic sets, along with a standard series of expectations about plots. These features appear in Roman drama as well. But plays in Rome were staged differently: Roman choruses were less central to the plot, and they shared the stage with the main actors (Greek choruses were located in the orchestra, a large, flat space for dancing, distinct from the area populated by actors). Indeed, the crowding of the stage this entailed might be one reason why choruses were increasingly de-emphasised in Roman drama and why they eventually disappeared. Both Greek and Roman drama were performed at religious festivals. Again, differences obtrude. Athenian dramatic festivals took place annually and were staged as quasi-religious contests between rival dramatists in honour of Dionysus. At Rome, by contrast, there was no ‘winner’ in this sense: magistrates selected which plays would be performed and which companies would stage them as part of preparations for the holiday. Over time, there were more and more occasions in Rome for festival games, often with a tangential connection to the sacred calendar. In this respect, the Romans were part of an international trend: other cities in Greece and Italy were adding dramatic festivals to their annual calendars, which attests to their popularity. Once we narrow our focus to comedies, there are a few further key points of comparison between Greek and Roman. We have observed that Old Comedies addressed contemporary events directly: they referred to

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famous people and sometimes even featured them as characters. New Comedy, by contrast, focused on family affairs and private situations. Roman comedies split this difference; they present themselves as ‘translations’ of Greek new comic plots, assuring their audiences that they are set in Athens or Thebes, but they also sometimes refer to contemporary Roman events or individuals, usually obliquely. Naevius (see Chapter 1), for example, in a now lost comedy, alluded to an alleged youthful indiscretion on the part of Scipio Africanus (Gell. NA 7.8.5): etiam qui res magnas manu saepe gessit gloriose, cuius facta viva nunc vigent, qui apud gentes solus praestat eum suus pater cum palliod unod ab amica abduxit Even he who often performed great deeds of derring-do, whose glorious exploits still live, who among the nations stands out alone, he, only scantily clad, his father once dragged home and away from his girlfriend.

Scipio did not find this joke amusing. He famously retorted, in a nice pun, quid hoc Naevio ignavius – what is nastier than this Naevius (Cic. De orat. 2.249)? We can perhaps gauge the Romans’ interest in combining politics and drama by considering the parallel habit of imputing topical allusions to any stage performance, however anachronistic. A single example will suffice: at the games for Apollo in 59, during the performance of an old tragedy, when an actor spoke the line, nostra miseria tu es magnus – ‘to our misery you are great’ – the audience applauded wildly, applying this sentiment to Pompey the Great (Pompeius Magnus), with whom the bulk of the public was, at the time, put out. The audience demanded a dozen encores and carried on booing and hissing other parts of the play, which they also took as references to Pompey (they were not; the play had been written before he was born). Still, as Cicero described the episode to his friend Atticus, ‘it was as if these lines had been written for the occasion by an enemy of Pompey’ (Cic. Att. 2.19.3). Romans, it is clear, were all too willing to misappropriate dramatic texts for political purposes, which in turn may have encouraged playwrights to issue political commentary. Roman drama was political in other ways. Rome’s annual festivals were sponsored by the personal generosity of the magistrates – the aediles and praetors – who produced them. Spectacular games were a crucial part of every ambitious politician’s resume: indeed, more than a few made it to the consulship owing to the popularity they amassed by giving noteworthy games. Theatre was a part of that, and the potential ‘spin’ of a play was a factor in its staging. A conspicuous instance of this took place in 44, in the

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aftermath of Caesar’s assassination. M. Brutus, one of the conspirators against Caesar, was city praetor, responsible for the games for Apollo. He intended to put on a historical drama by Accius, the Brutus, which celebrated the end of tyranny in Rome and the founding of the republic by a heroic figure Brutus claimed (falsely) as his ancestor: its message was obvious. Unfortunately for Brutus, however, he was unable to be in the city at the time of the festival and, although he paid the bill, the final arrangements were made by a different praetor, C. Antonius, the brother of Mark Antony. He replaced the Brutus with another play by Accius, Tereus, a mythological tragedy.

The Four Kinds of Roman Drama Roman literary history divides Latin drama into four varieties, two of which deliver Greek plots while the other two depict actions set in Rome. First is the fabula crepidata, perhaps also called fabula cothurnata (i.e. a play in which characters wore crepidae, Greek sandals, or cothurni, Greek buskins); these were tragedies focused on Greek mythology. Second, the fabula praetexta, drama dressed like a Roman (the toga praetexta was the Romans’ formal, iconic outfit); this was a play based on Roman history. Third, the fabula togata (this play is also dressed like a Roman, but less grandly than the fabula praetexta); these were comedies with Roman subject-matter. And, finally, the fabula palliata (named from the palla, a Greek-style cloak); these were plays which adapted the plots of Greek new comedy; the plays of Plautus and Terence fall into this latter category. This division is pleasingly symmetrical, but also clearly artificial. For one thing, we have practically no information about the fabulae praetextae. The limited evidence suggests that they were commissioned by patrons, to commemorate either their own deeds or those of their ancestors. Indeed, if there were many of them, regularly performed, these plays might have been a primary source for Romans of their legendary past. But there is little evidence for any of this, and we are left wondering why the Romans insisted upon such a neat schematisation. We have very few fragments of these historical dramas, nearly all of which are preserved because of an unusual form or word. Here is one, from Accius’ Aeneadae or Decius (fr. 4–5; a grammarian has preserved it because of the (unusually) neuter noun sanguen): vim Gallicam obduc contra in acie exercitum; lue patrum hostili fuso sanguen sanguine

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Neither the language nor the sentiment of this fragment seems much different from what we might find in the historians (see Chapter 6). In performance, however, through poetry and stagecraft, these dramas elevated episodes from Roman history, often recent Roman history, to an operatic scale. Fabulae crepidatae – Greek tragedies made Roman – yield more fragments. The majority of these are found in Cicero, who is especially keen on Ennius (see Chapter 1). The habit of quotation is especially frequent in Cicero’s philosophical writings (see Chapter 5), perhaps because his appropriation of Greek philosophy could implicitly be assimilated to this larger instance of Roman appropriation of Greek literature. Cicero’s philosophical works are, as later we shall see, mostly dialogues, where the participants’ literary quotation marks them out as urbane and sophisticated. Quotations also appear in Cicero’s letters. More remarkably, they play a part in his oratory (see Chapter 3), which suggests he could presume a broad appreciation of dramatic works. During the dictatorship of Sulla, while defending S. Roscius of Ameria on a charge of parricide, Cicero evokes the horrors of civil war by quoting from Ennius’ Achilles on the carnage of the Trojan War (Cic. Rosc. Am. 89). And quotations of this sort were by no means a Ciceronian idiosyncrasy. In his defence of Caelius Rufus (see Chapter 3), M. Crassus, complaining of the visit to Rome by Ptolemy XII of Egypt (Caelius was accused of political violence in aid of Ptolemy’s affairs in Rome), quoted from Ennius’ Medea (Cic. Cael. 18): utinam ne in nemore Pelio . . . Would that never in Pelion’s grove . . .

This quotation calls for a bit of work on the part of Crassus’ audience. The line opened the Medea and its complaint is that Jason has come to Colchis where Medea has fallen in love with him (hence the tragedy to follow). But, asserts the speaker in the Medea, if timber from Pelion’s grove had never been used in constructing the Argo in the first place, then Jason would not have made his journey, and all would be well. So, too, had Ptolemy never come to Rome, the situation would not have degenerated. This is a lot to process quickly. Plainly, then, everybody knew this play (or Euripides’ Medea, from which the lines derive) well, or so Crassus assumed, and found it unobjectionable to hear a ‘Greek’ tragedy put to work in making sense of Roman affairs.

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Reconstruction of these tragedies is near-impossible. Still, if Seneca’s imperial tragedies are any guide, they were less interested than their Greek counterparts in dialogue; instead, characters deliver speeches to one another, which tallies with the Roman passion for oratory (see Chapter 3). Perhaps, however, Roman tragedians aimed to wow their audiences. For example, in his Bacchae (Bacchanals) Accius turned to Euripides’ Bacchae. In an early scene in the Greek play, the aged Tiresias and Cadmus go forth to celebrate the new god. The prophet explains that the god expects all Thebans to dance in his honour (Eur. Bacc. 206–207). In Accius’ version Tiresias says that ‘neither elderliness nor death nor grand-agedness’ (neque vetustas neque mors neque grandaevitas) should prevent mortals from dancing. A late grammarian preserves the line on account of the peculiar word grandaevitas (grand-agedness). But what does one make of ‘death’? The word adds something in the way of forcefulness to the line. But it also renders it ridiculous, unless Accius furnished an explanation in the subsequent (lost) lines.

Atellan Farce and Mime Atellan farce (Atellana fabula), named for the town of Atella in Campania, possibly originated in Italy’s Oscan speaking community. Early on, however, these plays were performed in Rome, in Latin, employing the same metres as Roman tragedy and comedy. Atellan farce, so far as we can tell, was typically set in a small town, populated by low-life figures. Stock characters included Bucco (‘the fool’), Maccus (‘the clown’), Pappus (‘the old geezer’), and others, identifiable by the actor’s mask. These characters were often thrown into contrived comic situations, or so it appears from titles like Maccus the Soldier or Maccus the Girl. Sometimes, however, Atellan farce parodied tragedy. The language, again so far as we can tell, was vulgar and the humour unelevated. The antics of Atellan farce influenced both the development of mime (see below) and the style of comedy, especially Plautine comedy. Atellan farce continued to be performed in the imperial period. By the first century, Atellan farce was assuming literary dimensions, although it never really rated as literature. From Lucius Pomponius, an author from Bononia (modern Bologna) in Cisalpine Gaul, we have seventy titles and almost 200 lines of fabula Atellana. He also composed drama, so we are told, and perhaps satyrplays. Less survives of his contemporary, Novius. Cicero admired Novius’ wit and gives the impression that his humour was widely popular (Cic. De orat. 2.255; 279; 285). Other writers are mentioned, but for us they remain

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non-entities. For all its obvious popularity, and for all its influence on other genres, much about Atellan farce remains beyond our reach. Mime was even more popular than Atellan farce and is somewhat better known to us. This entertainment became increasingly sought after by Roman audiences: during the imperial period it was by far the people’s favourite kind of show. In Greece, mime was a sometimes ribald, loosely structured, stage production, more sketch than play, but artfully composed. By way of a process we can no longer recover, Greek mime combined with features of Italian theatrical traditions, including the jesting and buffoonery of street performers and Atellan farce, to yield Roman mime. No masks were worn, and female roles were played by women (unlike, we think, in comedy and tragedy). Mimes were farcical, sometimes sophisticated but more often low-brow, even crude: part of the fun was the juxtaposition of vulgarity and suavity. Singing and dancing were highlights. It appears that early mimes were mostly improvisational, and improvisation remained a feature of mime, but it soon came to rely on scripts, thereby becoming a literary genre. Mimes routinely distorted well-known dramatic plots and exaggerated comedy’s stock characters or spoofed tragic figures. They were sprinkled with clever one-liners. Cicero, who disliked mime but nevertheless appreciated its effect on the public, cites several bons mots in a discussion of wit in On the Orator; samples include: ‘what a dope! – he waited until he got rich, then he died’ and ‘as long as he stayed at a resort, he didn’t die – not even once’ (Cic. De orat. 2.274). At the same time, there was a moralising strain in mime: they included aphorisms such as, ‘it’s a bad plan which can’t be altered’; ‘he who gives to the worthy gains favour through his giving’; ‘frugality is wretchedness with a good reputation’ (Gell. NA 17.14.4, all from Publilius). Neat bromides of this kind, ethical or practical but never deep, were later excerpted by the Romans into supposedly morally improving handbooks. The best-known author of mimes during the republic was Decimus Laberius, a Roman of the equestrian order. Famous in his day – he was a rough contemporary of Cicero – we have only forty-four titles and nearly 100 fragments. This is enough to reveal the breadth of his range –travesties of myths as well as humorous sketches portraying sexual adventures – and to make it clear that he employed metres and diction not unlike those of Roman comedy. Laberius is sometimes described as acerbic, which must mean that his humour, however silly, also had a sharp edge to it. Laberius, according to later sources, was invited by Caesar, when he was dictator, to perform one of his mimes at a public festival in exchange for the

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astronomical fee of 500,000 sesterces. The playwright, we are told, perceiving that Caesar’s invitation was in fact a command, acquiesced, but in doing so delivered a prologue (preserved) in which he complained of the disgrace imposed on him by his appearance on the stage, not least because he was an old man ill-suited to dancing and playing his part; alas, however, he could not refuse a man to whom the gods themselves were incapable of refusing anything. This episode, if true, could only have been a public relations disaster for Caesar, and yet it leaves no trace in the litany of complaints rehearsed by contemporaries. For this reason, some have suggested that Caesar instead commissioned a Laberian mime, not a performance, and detect in the prologue a witty impersonation, not an angry protest, perhaps even an impersonation that went some way toward performing the reality of liberty even under the regime of a superhuman Caesar. At the same time, it has also been observed that the style of this prologue diverges sharply from the rest of the fragments of Laberius’ verse and, as a consequence, the authenticity of these lines has been doubted. Unfortunately, we cannot be certain about any aspect of this story, which in isolation is susceptible of more than one reading. If any part of it is true, however, it indicates Laberius’ celebrity as an author working in a highly popular comic medium. After all, Caesar hoped to curry the people’s favour by bringing Laberius, or one of his mimes, before a crowd. The other great mime-playwright of the republic was more or less contemporary with Laberius. He is known to us only as Publilius. His origins were very different: he was brought to Rome as a slave, where he was educated by a master who perceived his intelligence. His mimes were admired, as was his talent for improvisation. He is said (probably wrongly) to have bested Laberius in a contest. He was certainly a favourite of Caesar, and quotations from his mimes were still being cited by imperial writers. Apart from his apothegms, however, no significant fragments of his work survive. The popularity of mime is evident in the glamour enjoyed by some of its performers, including its actresses (in proper drama, by way of contrast, female roles were performed by men in costume). One sensational example will suffice. Volumnia Cytheris was the freedwoman of the wealthy freedman, P. Volumnius Eutrapelus, a friend of both Cicero and Mark Antony. She was a wildly popular mime-actress, a career which brought her the affections of more than one famous figure. She was a lover, so we are told, of C. Cornelius Gallus, the distinguished equestrian who was also a founding figure in Latin elegiac poet (see Chapter 7): she is said to have

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been the inspiration for Lycoris, the woman celebrated in his verses. M. Brutus, the noblest Roman of them all, was also allegedly one of Cytheris’ admirers. And her affair with Mark Antony was notorious. Even Cicero felt her charm: when he encountered her unexpectedly at a dinner party, he immediately drafted a letter to a friend in which he made it clear how exciting he found it to be in such an electric atmosphere. The orator kept his dignity of course (‘me, that sort of thing never appealed to me even when I was young, and certainly not now that I am old’: Cic. Fam. 9.26.2), but his delight is undisguised. Nor was Cytheris without political influence: Cicero and his wife, Terentia, sought her assistance in addressing legal liabilities incurred because Cicero fought on the losing side. Cytheris was helpful, but the aristocratic Cicero resented having to ask (Cic. Fam. 14.16). Naturally, not every mime actress was so successful. And all actors and actresses laboured under the stigma of infamia (see immediately below). Nonetheless, like Cytheris, many were, each at her own level, celebrities.

Actors and Acting We have mentioned that dramas were performed at Rome; they were probably performed elsewhere, perhaps by troupes circulating through theatres in towns up and down Italy. By the late republic, actors performed at civic festivals and in the homes or villas of Roman grandees, who presented scenes or whole plays as entertainment for their guests. Epigraphical evidence indicates that actors were all male and low in status, either freedmen or slaves. Hence recurring jokes observing the gap between an actor’s role and his real condition: an actor playing a king, for instance, must soon remove his costume and face the prospect of being beaten. Actors, along with other categories of entertainers (prostitutes, pimps, gladiators, and dancers) and occupations like executioners and undertakers, were legally marked by infamia (infamy or disgrace so great as to reduce one’s social, moral, and legal standing). This condition entailed very real liabilities: rights of inheritance, for instance, were restricted; nor could their testimony be accepted in court, which rendered them vulnerable before the law. Men and women marked with infamia had little recourse even when they were physically attacked. Actresses, too, performing in mime or pantomime, were mostly freed or enslaved and they also were stigmatised by infamia. Disgraced before the law, they and their families nevertheless found dignity in their profession: their funerary inscriptions advertise their profession and achievements. In one instance,

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an actress is remembered by her father as docta, erodiata omnes artes, virgo – ‘learned, skilled in all the arts, and a virgin’ (CIL 6.100916) – assertions of pride and dignity at a social level routinely disdained by our upper-class sources. Acting was not for the elite, it is clear, but a very few entertainers managed to claw their way into distinguished society. The best known such figure is Q. Roscius Gallus. A gifted actor specialising in comic roles, Roscius was enormously popular and became rich enough to be enrolled in the equestrian order. He was on close terms with figures like Cicero, whose defence of him in a private suit survives. Roscius’ phenomenal success, however, was by no means the norm. Some Roman aristocrats took pleasure in the company of actors – Sulla was one, Mark Antony another – but, tellingly, this habit is routinely held against them in political invective.

Early Names and Dates Roman literary history, as we have already noticed, likes a good story (Chapter 1): much of what we know about early dramatists consists of narratives which connect them to one another, as when we are told that two famous playwrights were roommates, or that in old age one was charmed by the first drama of another. Any of these stories might or might not be true. We also have critical lists ranking the top comic and tragic poets (e.g. Gell. NA 15.24 on the comedians, who considers Caecilius #1 and Plautus #2). But – while rating poets is a very Roman thing to do – we do not know whether the results we have are idiosyncratic, typical only of their time, or represent a canon with which everyone agreed. Then as now, the creation of a list provokes debate. Livius Andronicus (ca. 280–ca. 200), familiar to us as the author of the Odusia (Chapter 1), also wrote tragedies and comedies (about eight of the former and three of the latter are attested). His tragedies, like many of the early examples, focused on mythic themes surrounding the Trojan war and those who fought in it; he seems to have worked to make this material relevant to Roman audiences. Livy tells us that Livius Andronicus was chosen to write the first play with a plot (see Chapter 1). We know little about these plays, but it is clear that – even for later periods in which he was not much read – Andronicus’ principles and practices for writing drama established the rules of the game, including its basic metres and many of its linguistic features. Naevius (ca. 280–ca. 204; see Chapter 1), author of the Bellum Punicum, began to write historical dramas shortly after Andronicus’ successful

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performance (235 is the date given). This probably suggests a more robust dramatic tradition than the sources allow for, or at least interest an in developing one. Naevius is credited with inventing the praetexta, and we have information about two historical dramas, one on (the mythic) Romulus and one on Marcellus’ contemporary victory, in 222, over the Gallic Insubres at Clastidium. Romulus and Marcellus were Rome’s only generals who won the spolia opima, the privilege of dedicating the arms of an enemy leader after he was slain by the Romans’ commander. The glory of this deed was unexcelled, and each episode offered the dramatist an opportunity to stage a powerful, patriotic confrontation between a Roman hero and his foreign foe. We also have fragments from Greek-style tragedies, but he was most famous for his (Greek-style) comedies, of which we have thirty-five titles. One important way in which he built upon Andronicus’ achievement was in using the structures of Greek epic and drama in his own dramatic works, and in presenting elaborate double-plot structures. We mentioned in Chapter 1 that Naevius was seen as a political figure, and this may be apparent in his drama too, which included lines that could be taken as contemporary references (even when the plays themselves were not literally about recent events). The epic poet Ennius (269–169; Chapter 1) also wrote both tragedies and comedies; he was more famous as a tragedian. It is interesting to note that – in sharp distinction from Athenian drama – in Rome the same people wrote both comedies and tragedies in this early period, and even epics. This reality probably goes some way towards explaining why our early dramas and epics share linguistic features, including metrical effects, alliteration, and wordplay. We have titles of twenty-four dramatic works by Ennius: two of these are praetextae and two comedies. His fragments are more numerous, and longer, than those of his predecessors, so we can sketch outlines of the kinds of things he was interested in: virtue, communal behaviour and questions about human relations with the divine (i.e. topics we might think of as quintessentially ‘Roman’ – though they also appear in Greek tragedy). He also seems to have broadened the range of mythic subjects covered by Roman tragedies. Pacuvius, Ennius’ nephew (ca. 230–ca. 130) seems to represent a new kind of artist. For one thing, he wrote only tragedies; we are told that his plots were dark in nature, extremely complex and relied on elaborate stage effects. We have the titles of thirteen Greek-style tragedies, the fabula crepidata discussed above, and one play with a Roman subject, the Paulus (about Lucius Aemilius Paullus, seemingly focused on his victory at the battle of Pydna in 168, and possibly performed at his triumph or

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funeral). With Pacuvius we have the creation of a full-blooded Roman tragic language marked by a wide range of sophisticated kinds of wordplay and neologisms: Pacuvius’ artistry, it appears, was influential on subsequent Latin drama: Horace calls him learned on account of his style and the erudition of his plots (Hor. Epist. 2.1.55); he seems to have dug up obscure variants of mythic plots or stories tangentially connected to the famous ones. He was, we are told, also a painter, and Cicero likes him best of the tragedians. Accius (170–ca. 80), say our sources, was the son of a freedman who became a Roman citizen (comparisons are sometimes made between him and Horace; see Chapter 9); like Ennius he wrote comedies and tragedies but was more famous for his tragedies which – perhaps because he lived in troubled times – focused primarily on tyrants and on personal virtue. Indeed, one of the most famous stories about him is his refusal to stand in honour of another man, who outranked him in status but not (in his opinion) in composing tragedies. We are told that he read an early work to the elderly Pacuvius, who offered his approval. We have forty-six titles: two are praetextae (one the aforementioned Brutus, about the founder of the republic). Accius was also a scholar, and he composed works on the history of theatre (see Chapter 5). His language, from what the fragments allow us to see, was elaborate and rhetorical, with vivid descriptions (e.g. of a ship by a shepherd who has never seen one before). He is the last of the major tragic poets of the republic, and the sources suggest that after his death there was a falling-off of interest in the genre. Quintilian relates a story about Accius which focuses on the forcefulness (tanta vis) of his style, which was so impressive that he was asked why he did not become an orator. In drama, Accius replied, one can script both sides of a debate; in pleading a case, however, one’s opponents may say things one dislikes (Quint. 5.13.43). Caecilius Statius (d. 168) is the main successor of Plautus and predecessor to Terence, the two comic playwrights for whom we have complete plays. He began life as a slave and flourished as a freedman. Some ancient critics deemed him the best of comic writers, and Varro (see Chapter 5) admired him enormously. Cicero also deemed him the top comedian, although he found faults in his Latin. For Caecilius, we have titles of fortytwo comedies. Like Pacuvius, Caecilius was interested in stage effects and pathos, and like Pacuvius, his plots were elaborate and well-constructed; his plays also appear to have included metatheatrical moments (like Plautus, but unlike Terence; see below). The imperial writer Gellius composed a detailed comparison of Caecilius’ comedy, Plocium (The Necklace), with its Greek original by

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Menander (Gell. NA 2.23). Gellius’ goal is to demonstrate the superior charm of Menander and to point out Caecilius’ tendency to lower the tone by way of intruding mimica, features from mime. In one of the passages he adduces, the central figure in both plays – an old man married to an unattractive, bossy wife – complains of the sad fate of any man whose wife is richer than himself. Into Menander’s brisk but elegant soliloquy, Caecilius intrudes lines in which this husband parodies his wife with a few lines of quoted speech. The husband-pretending-he-is-his-wife brags to her friends (Gell. NA 2.23.10): Which one of you lot, even in the full bloom of youth, ever got from your husband what I, an old woman, got from mine? I just deprived him of his hot young concubine.

Doubtless any actor could make a meal of these lines, but the innovation attracted Gellius’ disapproval. These things are a matter of taste: a different Roman reader might appreciate the versatility and potential for humour in the passage. Caeclius’ popularity makes it clear that Romans of the late republic enjoyed his dramatic technique more than Gellius did. When we compare Caecilius’ Plocium with Menander’s original, we notice how extensively Caecilius has rewritten his model. New jokes, traditional Roman adages and different stylistic strategies are to the fore. Caecilius’ use of metre is also very different from Menander’s: in the passage a snippet of which is quoted above, Menander puts everything the old man says into the iambic trimeter he prefers for such soliloquies. Caecilius, however, makes it musical, ranging through a variety of complex metres. (This is a trend we see also in Plautus, whose metres evolve toward the elaborate and sung.) None of this interests Gellius, whose focus is on decorum. For us, however, it is evidence of the remarkably thorough nature of the Romans’ adaptation of their Greek models. Titinius was an author of fabulae togatae, comedies with Roman subject matter. About 190 lines from fifteen plays have been preserved. Most critics believe he was a contemporary of Plautus, though he may have come later. Like Plautus, his plays have numerous polymetric passages, suitable for singing, and Titinius appears to have been partial to colloquial expressions. Perhaps this was one reason he was esteemed by Varro, who admired his talent for delineating character. L. Afranius (mid-second century) is described by Quintilian as the greatest of the playwrights of fabulae togatae. We know little about him. It appears he was an orator (Cic. Brut. 167): if so, he was very likely an equestrian. Forty-two titles and more than four hundred lines of his work

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survive. Although he put Romans and Roman stories on the stage, Afranius was deeply engaged with the New Comedy of Menander and admired Terence. Nevertheless, his plays exhibited the kind of metrical versatility we associate with Plautus. Unusually for Roman comedy, his plots often included episodes of pederasty, which we know only because Quintilian complains about it (Quint. 10.1.100). Afranius’ literary reputation remained high: Cicero and Horace admired him, and in the imperial period he was a part of the dramatic canon. Turpilius (d. 103) is the last-known author of palliatae in the republic; we know even less about him than other dramatists, although we know he was a very old man when he died. We have thirteen titles of his plays, and the fragments suggest stock characters – old men, pimps, clever slaves – and plots like those found in Plautus, whom he resembles more than Terence. Like other Roman comedians, Turpilius was inventive in adaptation. In the one instance we can compare – the opening lines of his Epiclerus, a play based on Menander’s Epikleros – what was a monologue in the Greek original has become, in Turpilius’ version, a dialogue between a slave and his master. Turpilius’ plays seem to have displayed an interest in life outside Rome (e.g. they include sailors as characters, and scenes about the contrast between town and country). There is tantalising evidence to suggest that he may have written ‘mythic’ comedies (we have only one of these, Plautus’ tragicomedic Amphitryo).

Greek Comedies and Roman Originality Because the palliatae, the primary form of Roman drama we have, are explicitly based on Greek predecessors, it is worth pausing briefly to discuss how the Romans adapted or translated their Greek originals (see also Chapter 1). We have already noticed that Roman authors tend to frame themselves in reference to their Greek forebears, but these plays stake a rather different claim. Note the remarkable formulation in Plautus’ play, Rudens (The Rope, 1060): Diphilus scripsit, Maccus vortit barbare Diphilus wrote this play, Maccus barbarianised it.

For many years, scholars were dismissive of the abilities of Roman playwrights, believing that their lack of originality made them amateurish. In drawing this conclusion, modern critics enjoyed the support of ancient readers like Gellius, as we have seen. Still, as we have also seen, where we can compare, the originality of Roman playwrights is clear.

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An especially revealing experience in comparing Roman comedy with Greek became possible in 1968, when a fragment of just under one hundred lines of Menander’s Dis Exapaton (‘Double Swindle’) was found amid papyrological fragments preserved in Egypt. This play was the original on which Plautus’ Bacchides (The Two Bacchises) was based. The plays turn out to have nearly as many differences as they do similarities. The basic plot structure is the same, so far as we can tell, but Plautus seems to have altered the structure of individual scenes, adding and removing characters and changing words and emphasis. In view of these transformations, not many of Plautus’ lines can really be called translations of their Greek originals; they are more in the way of adaptation or even homage. Sometimes, however, the Romans do translate almost word for word. Here is a famous example, the sentiment of which was preserved by Plautus, perhaps because it is pithy and striking: quem di diligunt / adulescens moritur hon hoi theoi philousin apothnēskei neos

(Plaut. Bacch. 816–17) (Menander DE fr. 4)

he whom the gods love dies while still a youngster.

There is only a slight difference in word order (the Greek runs ‘dies a young man’, whereas the Latin runs ‘is a young man when he dies’); otherwise, this is a very close paraphrase. The fact that Plautus does not usually provide literal translations should not have been a surprise: despite explicitly averring that they are set in Greek locales, Roman comedies include numerous references to aspects of Roman every-day life that simply wouldn’t fit in a Greek play. So, too, the plays of Greek New Comedy contain details that might not have been understood by a Roman audience; these, from what we can tell, are simply excised. And the plays of Plautus in particular are so linguistically clever, involving puns and word-play, often delivered in complex metres, that it would be impossible to move in any simple way from one language to another. The connection between a Roman comedy and its Greek original is real, but translation is an insufficient description of what the playwrights have done. For instance, the ‘clever slave’ in Menander’s Dis Exapaton is named Syros, which means ‘Syrian’ (as such, it is a very frequent slave-name in literature and real life). While there are slaves in Roman comedy named Syros, the Plautine version of this slave in Bacchides is named Chrysalus, which means Goldman – but in Greek, not Latin. The name suits him since

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his main task is to obtain cash to buy the woman of his owner’s dreams, but it also sets him up for several typically Plautine puns. Some of these are Greek, for example, at line 240, opus est chryso Chrysalo (‘Goldman needs gold’). Others are bilingual; e.g. at line 362: facietque extemplo Crucisalum me ex Chrysalo (‘he will immediately turn me from Chrysalus to Crossalus’) – here Chrysalus refers to the punishment of crucifixion, a common motif in the discourse of comic slaves. So far as we can tell, such puns were not to the taste of Menander or other Greek playwrights. The Romans, by contrast, loved them. Even the structure of a Plautine comedy may deviate strikingly from its original. In the prologue to the Casina, we learn that its original is a play by Diphilus titled Clerumenoe (Those Drawing Lots). Plautus’ prologue offers a summary of a typical New Comic plot. What is not typical is that several of the central stock characters – the young man in love, Casina herself – never appear on stage. The prologue draws attention to these changes when it cautions the audience not to expect the young man (Plaut. Cas. 64–66): in hac comoedia in urbem non redibit. Plautus noluit, pontem interrupit qui erat ei in itinere. In this comedy he will not return to the city. Plautus preferred it otherwise: he broke down a bridge which the young man had to cross to get home.

The relationship of this Plautine play to its Greek original is clear and intimate – the plot is demonstrably the same in general terms – but it is also distant. We might compare modern English adaptations of ancient Greek tragedies, or fan fiction, or sampling in music. But one important difference in these comparisons is that these analogous responses reward audiences for seeing through them to their originals: the experience is richer when you have a fuller context. And we do not know whether Plautus usually, or ever, expected his audience to be thinking in detail about Greek plays as they watched his. That said, more than once, as in the prologue to the Menaechmi (see below) or the Casina (see above), he draws attention to his plays’ distinctive transformations of their original models.

Translation and Geography As noted above, Roman comedy (especially that of Plautus) draws attention to its simultaneous Greekness and Romanness. See, for example, early

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in the Menaechmi (The Menaechmus Brothers), we are told (Plaut. Men. 11–12): atque adeo hoc argumentum graecissat, tamen non atticissat, uerum sicilicissitat. Still – this prologue Greekifies, but it doesn’t Athenify; actually it Sicilifies.

The joke depends on the fact that comedies are often set in Athens, in Greece; this one, too, is set in the Greek world but in Sicily, an island decidedly Greek in culture. At the same time, the island, conquered by Rome during the First Punic War, was a Roman province. It had been the site of hard fighting during the Second Punic War, which was perhaps ongoing or only recently concluded when Plautus’ play appeared. This play, then, performed at Rome by characters speaking Latin, is indeed, in a sense, Sicilified. The comic stage, consequently, is an impossible place, but its features are each recognisable. And this weird hybridity, this focus on the move from Greek to Latin and from Greece to Rome, reflects the grim reality that, during the heyday of comedy, Rome was engaged in war in more than one place in the Mediterranean – and that migrations of people to and from Rome throughout this period were driven by defeat and enslavement or kidnapping or regular old piracy (see Sidebar IV). Owing to the sheer diversity of any Roman audience, the bi-location of plays (simultaneously Athens and not-Athens) was probably further complicated by the fact that ‘here’ – that is, Rome – will have been a different kind of place for different audience members, depending on their origins. The regular appearance of soldiers is another reminder of contemporary wars – and, for most of the course of the Second Punic War, things were not going well for Rome. The stock character of the boastful soldier (miles gloriosus) is adapted from Greek New Comedy, which emerged in a world teeming with mercenaries. These soldiers are nearly always rivals for the affection of a prostitute; they are uncouth, wealthy and unlikeable, and the tales of their exploits invariably involve exaggeration. Their significance for a Roman audience was meaningful in a different way. For a Roman audience, the braggart soldier was one of themselves, or one of the reasons they or their parents found themselves in Rome. And these boasting soldiers indulge in geographical fantasies as they juxtapose disparate parts of the Roman world, often for the sake of wordplay, activating bilingual puns or relying upon similarities of sound. And yet, their extravagant lists of place-names show the Romans’ understanding of the world and their

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place in it changing. The miles gloriosus, borrowed from Greek comedy and adapted for the Roman stage, gave shape to the Romans’ unsimple view of their own foreign adventuring.

Some Disturbing Aspects of Roman Comedy Roman comedy, like the Greek New Comedy on which it is based, is often animated by a fundamental plot design: boy meets girl; boy loses girl; boy gets girl – cue happy ending! For a modern reader, this appears familiar if not trite: much modern romantic comedy, whether dramatic or not, harks back to these Greco-Roman origins. But what was hilarious then is often less funny, even repugnant, now, and this must affect any contemporary encounter with Roman comedy. Let us begin with ‘boy loses girl’. The boy in question is typically a young man from a good family who is madly in love but kept from his heart’s desire by various individuals or circumstances (usually a repressive father and/or a shortage of ready money). Although he is depicted as essentially decent, this young man is impeded by various personal deficiencies: he is routinely inept, sometimes a simpleton. Naturally, this lovesick protagonist needs help, and the action of many comedies consists of the schemes and operations employed by the young man’s allies to surmount or subvert the obstacles. Resistance is always both intense and futile, and the friction it generates furnishes the play with its (often outrageous) humour, including angry, over-the-top outbursts and slapstick violence. Allies come in more than one shape: sympathetic friends and relations, for example. But the most common ally is a slave, who risks much in advancing the cause of his young master (see below). The problem, often, is that the young man is ‘in love’ with a sex worker, and that he cannot afford her services. Nor does he seek a permanent relationship: in a standard Plautine plot, the goal is to defeat rivals and secure parental approval for the affair (or enough money to render such approval unnecessary). Marriage does not play as important a role in Roman comedy as it had in Greek. It is usually assumed that the young man will eventually marry – but not that he will marry the sex worker. In Terence’s Adelphoe (Brothers), for example, young Ctesipho is enamoured of the courtesan Bacchis, a slave. With his brother’s help, he steals her from her owner. Later, Bacchis is purchased for Ctesipho by his uncle. At the end of the play, Ctesipho’s father grudgingly allows him to keep her, ‘so long as she is the last one!’ (Ad. 997: in istac finem faciat). And the sex workers are not a monolithic grouping. For instance, Plautus’ Cistellaria features two women who are, on the surface, in similar situations,

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both young women raised by prostitutes: Gymnasium, whose mother is a sex worker, has herself already begun to earn her keep, and Selenium, who has been abandoned and adopted, and has only ever had sex with one man to date. With him she is – regrettably enough, as Gymnasium and her mother make clear – in love. He had promised to marry her but is now being forced by his father into marrying the girl next door. But as the plot unfolds, we discover that nearly everything about Selenium and Gymnasium is different, the latter sassy and greedy, the former frightened and in love. Wives, too, can take centre stage. In the Casina, Cleostrata dominates her husband and is in many ways the mastermind of the play’s plot: this comedy concludes not with a wedding celebration between two young people but with an awkward reconciliation which preserves the strained union of an old man and his mature wife. The young man, however hapless and problematic, enjoys a high degree of personal agency. The situation of the young woman is rather different, at least on the surface. In some plays, she is primarily an object of affection or lust, without much character development. Sometimes she is a sex worker, operating under the aegis of older, more experienced women or a male pimp. But occasionally, as is the case of the Bacchis sisters in Plautus’ Bacchides or Phronesium in Plautus’ Truculentus, she is a fully developed character, able to manipulate her clients in order to extort the most from each, and in control of the plot. Such woman are wealthy in their own right, owning their own houses and slaves, and capable of footing the bill for a lavish banquet to end the play. In another favoured plotline, the young woman (usually in her early teens, so ‘girl’ is not inappropriate) is freeborn but cannot marry because her family is too poor to furnish a dowry, or a slave, but still a virgin (as is the case with Casina in Plautus’ play of the same name). Sometimes the young man has already seduced or even raped her; occasionally she is pregnant with his child. Her desperation and the desperation of her impoverished family are apparent, and their urgency drives the young man and his allies to win approval for a marriage despite her family’s poverty. This poor or enslaved young woman typically turns out to be a lost child, abandoned at birth, and is restored to her (wealthy) family only for long enough to plan a wedding. To illustrate one of these plotlines, let us return to Terence’s Adelphoe. Ctesipho’s brother, Aeschinus, has (before the play begins) raped Pamphila, the daughter of a poor widow who lives next door. Pamphila is now pregnant, and Aeschinus is solicitous of her welfare. But he lacks the courage to tell his father what he has done or ask permission to marry her without a dowry. We never see Pamphila: we only hear her anguished cries offstage as she gives birth. As for Aeschinus, more than once a character in

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the play refers to his violation of Pamphila as unfortunate but the kind of thing boys do (Ad. 470–471): persuasit nox amor vinum adulescentia: humanumst. The night, passion, wine, youth – all these are inducements: it’s human.

These are, for a modern audience, unexpected and disturbing sentiments. For the Romans, however, much of this can be papered over by marriage, and so Aeschinus and Pamphila wed.

Husbands and Wives We have already noticed that fathers are a standard stumbling-block to the love-plot, and that families are key, if sometimes implicit, features: who a son marries, and how he spends his money, can have an enormous impact on the household’s reputation and wealth. Greek new comedy had made this clear. In Roman comedy, however, especially Plautus, it is less so; the continuation of the family does not seem to have been a concern to Plautus. But married couples sometimes appear in comedy, usually as the parents of the young men or young women. Fathers – even when hostile to a particular affair – regularly make clear that they were no better in their own youth. Indeed, they sometimes compete with their sons for the same woman; in this case they are usually made to look ridiculous. Mothers (or wives) are perhaps even more interesting; nearly always, when an established marriage is discussed, the mention of a wife sets her up for a joke, usually one in which her husband wishes her dead. Occasionally, however, wives are more fully drawn: in Plautus’ Asinaria, Casina, Menaechmi, and Mercator, they do battle with their husbands, and win. In the first two plays, the husbands are portrayed as dirty old men, who fully deserve their humiliation – indeed, the young men in each play ‘get the girl’ with the help of their mothers. The wife in Terence’s Heauton Timorumenos is key in choosing her son’s bride. These wives, in a sense, take on the role of protecting their families, trying to prevent their husbands from wasting the household’s resources and destroying its reputation.

The Big Two: Plautus As is evident from the previous sections, the scholarly tradition which comes down to us about most of the early playwrights is patchy; this continues to be true for Plautus, but about Terence there is more

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information. Both authors were extraordinarily popular, though in his day Terence suffered more than one flop, and their popularity lasted much longer than their lives. Plautus (ca. 250–184) was prolific, and through a combination of chance, popularity, and early literary canonisation as a school text, we have twenty-one extant comedies; we also know that there was a cottage industry already in antiquity devoted to authenticating his plays, and that the scholar Varro (see Chapter 5), came up with a list of twenty-one genuine works. These may well be those we have, but they may not. Plautus is the first dramatist we know of to concentrate on only a single genre, that of palliatae. We have little information about his life, but his full name is significant: T. Maccius Plautus. The praenomen Titus demonstrates his bona fides as a Roman (just as the three names show that he was a citizen; see Sidebar I). ‘Maccius’, by contrast, is not a Roman name: it likely derives from Maccus, a stock character in Atellan farce, which featured a slapstick humour that Plautus adopted. Finally, ‘Plautus’ probably comes from an Umbrian word meaning ‘flatfoot’, which is likely to allude to his status as an actor, or perhaps suggests that he was a slave. Beyond his birth and death dates, we have evidence that dates two plays: the Stichus to 200, and the Pseudolus to the Megalesia in early April of 191.

Plautine Plots The sheer volume of Plautus’ extant output means that he dominates the field of Roman comedy. We think that Plautus’ plays were distinct from those of other playwrights (the claims of ancient scholars to be able to discern Plautine fakes suggest both that he had a recognisable style and that it was replicable); they are certainly different from those of Terence. The similarities (e.g. stock characters, private-life situations focusing on family relations) tend to be those we take as defining the genre. What makes Plautus different (from Terence, if not from others) are several features of plot, style and language: there is an exuberance of wordplay, puns and colloquial language, and Plautus is probably the best Latin lyricist for generations to come, as well as the most versatile: his language is made for musical comedy. (Indeed, Plautus is indubitably the father of modern musical theatre.) His plays are verbally inventive and metatheatrical – but they also contained much ‘stage business’ and slapstick that the bare words do not convey to us.

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Plautus seems to have been especially interested in plots revolving around a hapless young man in love (the boy, from above), often with a female prostitute (the girl) who is believed to be a slave but turns out to be freeborn. As we have noticed, the boy’s quest usually involves conflict with his father, and requires the help of others. This is because, in the world of these plays as in real life, a son remained under the legal authority, the patria potestas, of his father: a son could not own property of his own, and his father possessed the power of life and death over his son. Sons, in other words, although free, were not free in an unqualified (or modern) sense of that word. For these reasons, Plautine plots have two engaging features: one is a regular focus on the intergenerational relationship between fathers and sons, and the other, more important for the tradition of comedy, is the clever slave (servus callidus) who works in the interests of the boy. These slaves are normally verbally dexterous, which contributes to the use and misuse of language alluded to above. The plays of Plautus focus a lot of attention on slaves: not only the clever (male) slave, who works in the interests of the son, but other (male) slaves who identify with the father. (There are also any number of clever female slaves, such as Astaphium in the Truculentus.) So, while the plots focus on the desires of the free, slaves get a lot of stage time, and tend to be the de facto heroes. Female slaves tend to be household servants when they are not courtesans. All these slaves, especially the men, regularly comment upon their status, focusing particularly on the physical abuse to which they are subject. Many of them express a wish to be freed. There is, however, no suggestion of changing the system: slaves who want freedom want to own slaves (e.g. Gripus in the Rudens (390), who dreams of agrum atque aedis, mancipia ‘a farm, and a house, slaves . . . ’). The precarity of daily life depicted for Plautine slaves will have struck a chord among the unfree. But it is also likely to have resonated with the many free non-elite Romans, whose economic security was anything but predictable. This was an audience – whatever its legal status – the majority of whom were likely to know about the spells of bad and good, alike in kind if not in specificity to those punctuating every comedy. In this world, a happy ending could only be a transitory triumph, more a cause for relief than satisfaction. In a Roman comedy, traditional family values, which stand in for wider societal values, are affirmed. But this only occurs after a sequence of ludicrous, anxiety-ridden episodes which foreground how easily these values are imperilled and how much they rely on the hard work, and the personal risk (not to mention the luck, less common in real life

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than on stage), of vulnerable people. On the comic stage, it is obvious that Rome’s winners need Rome’s losers. Just why Plautus was so interested in slaves is a fascinating mystery. Some, plausibly enough, wonder if he might himself have been a slave. Some suggest that in his plays the slave is a metaphor, allowing (free) Romans to explore the ways in which they, too, are constrained. And there is the Roman Saturnalia, a festival celebrated during the winter solstice. It featured role-reversals, i.e. slaves were granted a degree of freedom of speech and were even waited on by their masters. Plautus’ plays may be a deliberate attempt to capture some of this Saturnalian spirit. And that suggests that these theories – slave as metaphor and slavery in a carnivalesque atmosphere – need not be mutually exclusive: Roman comedy may simultaneously transmit, with sympathy, points of view of various members of the Roman underclass (wives who get cheated on, slaves of various kinds, women forced into prostitution, and sons who are legally treated more or less like slaves) even as it is enjoyed by members of the upper classes. Perhaps some of the appeal of Plautine comedy lay in furnishing its elite audience with access to these other, vulnerable voices in Rome but in a fictionalised, and therefore safe, medium. For the rest, however, there must have been something powerful in the experience of watching Rome’s disadvantaged win – even if their victories were exclusively personal.

Plautus’ Epidicus: A Case Study Much of what matters in this play – which forms the bare bones of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum – takes place before the drama commences. Periphanes is an old man, a senex, and father to Stratippocles, the young man of the piece. Periphanes is a wealthy pillar of the establishment and obsessed with respectability and – especially – money. But as the play progresses, we learn that in the past he has played other roles. He was once a braggart soldier, and before that a dissolute young man, like his son, but perhaps even more outrageous. Indeed, in his youth – now to his regret and shame – he raped a young, freeborn woman named Philippa, whom he abandoned along with the daughter she bore him. This past is weaponised against him by his son and by Epidicus, the clever slave who is the central character of the play. The young Stratippocles, although not without virtue (he fights for his city as a soldier), is stupid, selfish, and constantly lovestruck. He has fallen for a courtesan named Acropolistis. When he left for the war against Thebes, he assigned Epidicus the chore of purchasing her,

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a feat Epidicus managed by persuading Periphanes that this woman was his long-lost daughter. Periphanes consequently purchased Acropolistis and took her into his home as a member of the family, where she will be waiting for Stratippocles upon his return. We learn about this trick in the opening scenes of the play. The play proper begins with the return of Stratippocles from Thebes. He was there when the Athenians took the city and, while there, fell in love with an enslaved captive, Telestis, whom he bought by borrowing money at an outrageous rate of interest. Now, in desperate need of funds, he turns to a rich friend (no use) and then to Epidicus, who, although irritated by Stratippocles’ change of heart, comes up with a trick to rescue his young master. Hijinks ensue as Epidicus again bamboozles Periphanes – this time by way of feigned deference to his master’s superior wisdom – and extracts from him money sufficient to cover Stratippocles’ debt. Then, a new complication: Philippa arrives, seeking her daughter, who has been captured by pirates. By chance, she and Periphanes meet – the recognition scene is drawn out – and reconcile. Periphanes ushers Philippa into his home to be reunited (he thinks) with her daughter Acropolistis. But that (as we know) was a lie told by Epidicus, and Philippa unmasks the deception. Periphanes is baffled, but matters become clearer when Telestis is revealed to be Philippa’s and Periphanes’ daughter, free born and still a virgin. Stratippocles’ tender feelings for Philippa are patent, and, not without some awkwardness, there is a family reunion. In the Greek original, it is likely that Stratippocles and Telestis were married – marriage between half-siblings was legal in Athens, but in Rome such a union constituted incest. Consequently, in Plautus’ play Stratippocles is left without the captive he lusted after, because now she is part of the family. Instead, he must make do with Acropolistis, who is again reduced to the condition of a slave. As for Epidicus, he is the hero of the piece. He receives his freedom and negotiates a stipend that sets him up for life. This play exhibits all the wit, humour, wordplay, and onstage antics of every Plautine comedy. The characters are stereotypical, but in the case of Periphanes there is a twist simply because he is a figure with a past, even if that past is defined by other stock roles. For Epidicus, there is a happy ending. Likewise for Periphanes, Philippa, and Telestis. But not for Acropolisitis or other ancillary figures. The environment of this play can only be described as ghastly, dominated by the horrors of enslavement, war, piracy and sexual injustice. For the Romans, these were features of real life. But comedy is not real life. Still, whether the brutal unfairness of things is momentarily subverted by the success of Epidicus remains

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unclear. Audiences found the Epidicus funny, and Plautus appears to have been proud of this play (Plaut. Bacch. 214) – but was that because it brought on stage a figure able to get his own back from those who enslaved him, or because audiences were insensitive to the grim realities of the slave existence? Doubtless more than one feeling animated Plautus’ audience.

The Big Two: Terence P. Terentius Afer, or Terence, wrote six comedies, performed in the years 166–160, which quickly became classics. An ancient biography of the playwright survives, but it is a confection of speculation and gossip. We do know that Terence died in 159 or 158 at the age of twenty-five or thirtyfive. Born in Carthage and brought to Rome as a slave, he was educated and manumitted by his senatorial master on account, we are told, of his intelligence and good looks. When he offered the aediles his first play, Andria (The Girl from Andros), they instructed him to read it to the distinguished but elderly Caecilius (see above), who liked it very much. The story is possible, even plausible, but it has the ring of fable, the senior poet handing over his mantle to a talented youth. Terence was wellconnected with the aristocracy: more than once he claimed (Ter. Heaut. 23–26; Ter. Ad. 15–25) to be on friendly terms with grandees like Scipio Aemilianus (cos. I 147) and Laelius Sapiens (cos. 140). This assertion stimulated rumours: according to some accounts, these nobles used Terence as a front for their own dramatic compositions (Terence refutes this in the prologue of his Adelphoe); according to others, they exploited Terence sexually. In the last year of his life, Terence travelled to Greece or to Asia – various motives for his trip are proposed – and he was never seen again. Perhaps, as we are told of Menander, he drowned, or perhaps he succumbed to illness. Terence’s plays, admired for their Latinity, soon became part of the canon: Cicero’s admiration for Terence is obvious, and in the imperial period, when it was de rigeur to prefer Greek to Latin comedy, Quintilian nonetheless conceded that Terence’s verses possessed supreme elegance (Quint. 10.1.99). Terence’s plays continued to be performed in the late republic, but even then, and certainly thereafter, Terence was more often encountered on the page than on the stage. Terence’s plays are markedly different from Plautus’. The plots are the same, but Terence’s comedies eschew more than one feature of the Plautine stage: there is next to nothing in the way of extravagant, metrically varied song-and-dance numbers, verbal pyrotechnics, or coarse innuendo. In Terence, the purely farcical element is less frequent than in Plautus: indeed,

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Terence makes fun of comedians who insist that the only way to get a laugh is by way of slapstick (Ter. Heaut. 30–33). Terence’s characters are more fully depicted – we learn more of their self-doubts and see their contradictions. And he aims at a diction which, although poetic and urbane, is nonetheless closer to natural speech than one finds in Plautus. But Terence, like Plautus, likes complications: his plays routinely involve subplots or even dual plots. In the Adelphoe (Brothers), for example, we watch two sets of brothers, an older pair and a younger pair, as they work out conventional New Comedy themes in parallel, related stories – which come together in a common resolution (see below). By comparison with Plautus and owing to his elegant Latin, Terence may be a refined taste. But none of his innovations makes Terence a highbrow author. The Adelphoe contains a long scene in which a pimp is robbed of a courtesan and brutalised, doubtless to the delight of the audience (evil pimps were popular figures of Roman comedy). This is a scene which Terence, in his prologue, claims he extracted from a play by Diphilus: Plautus, he points out, translated that play, but omitted this scene. In this way Terence made it clear that he was prepared to challenge Plautus even in the category of slapstick, physical comedy. At a level far grimmer, a character in the Eunuchus (The Eunuch), Chaerea, describes at length, and to an approving colleague, his tactics in raping a sleeping virgin (Ter. Eun. 549–606), an unappealing passage which is not redeemed for any modern audience by Chaerea’s marriage to her at the end of the play. Apparently, this kind of thing appealed to Roman audiences, and Terence, although his vocabulary remains prim, does not fail to give the crowd what they want. Scholars often suggest that Terence’s plays were unpopular. That claim is hard to sustain: year after year, they were produced at the games. Magistrates and sponsors did not go to the expense of furnishing spectacles which they suspected the audience would dislike. Still, one of Terence’s plays was a flop, or so it tells us. The Hecyra (The Mother-in-law) failed twice before it finally won over its audience. In the prologue to this play, Terence cites as precedent the occasional failure by Caecilius and claims that on the Hecyra’s first outing the audience were distracted by a report that there was boxing and tight-rope walking to be seen; on its second venture, it was unfortunately scheduled against a gladiatorial show. Perhaps this was true. In any case, it reminds us of the competing entertainments available at festivals. This time, the prologue insists, there are no conflicts: for the sake of the arts, Terence pleads (surely in jest), give the play a chance!

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Terence’s Prologues Terence’s prologues are remarkable specimens of literary self-fashioning. Again and again, the playwright represents himself as a young talent striving to fashion a superior brand of comedy in the teeth of fierce, fusty opposition, especially by a Spiteful Old Poet (maelvolus vetus poeta; see Ter. An. 6–7; Ter. Heaut. 22; Ter. Phorm. 1), usually understood to be Terence’s principal and senior rival, Luscius Lanuvius (he leaves behind two titles and two lines) and, in Terence’s telling, an over-the hill, behind-the-times fussbudget. Terence provides this crotchety figure with a litany of grievances. The first is that Terence too often extracts a scene from one Greek comedy and puts it to work in his adaptation of a different comedy. In so doing, the grump insists, Terence spoils two plays – and ‘it’s indecent to spoil plays’ (contaminari non decere fabulas: An. 16). Owing to this use of the word spoil (contaminari), modern critics speak of contaminatio, the combination in one Latin play of scenes or themes from multiple Greek originals. Scholars often treat contaminatio as if it were a serious literary-critical issue in Terence’s day. Perhaps it was. But it appears more likely that Terence adduces this complaint, perhaps invents it, to underline how traditional his techniques really are: for, as he observes, anyone who attacks him for this must also fault Naevius, Plautus, and Ennius (Ter. An. 18–19). Terence’s plays, the grump also objects, are lightweight: thin in style and weak in composition (Ter. Phorm 1–4). In response, Terence states his refusal to introduce nonsense and fantasy into his comedies. His rival, he claims, is all show with no substance. Still, there may have been something to this criticism. A poem by Caesar insists that, for all his merits, Terence’s style lacks vitality (Suet. Vit. Ter. 7). The grump’s final grumble is two-fold: Terence is a plagiarist – his plays are really written by his aristocratic friends – and he has an unfair advantage on account of his association with these members of the elite. Naturally, Terence dismisses any suggestion that his plays are composed by others. But he embraces the notion that he is on intimate terms with powerful Roman nobles. We cannot know whether this was a real complaint, but, clearly, Terence very much hoped his public would believe that he rubbed elbows with the most distinguished men of his day. Celebrity of this kind was a valuable commodity in Rome, and not only for a poet. In sum, then, Terence’s prologues, which posture as defences against envious enemies, hope to win over his audience’s favour by emphasising his loyalty to Roman literary tradition and his social acceptability as a friend of nobility.

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Terence’s Adelphoe as an Example In 160, L. Aemilius Paullus (cos. I 182), victor in the Third Macedonian War, died. His funeral games were presented by his surviving sons, Q. Fabius Maximus Aemilianus (cos. 145) and P. Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus. Each, as his name indicates (see Sidebar I), had been adopted into another family. At these games, Terence presented his Adelphoe, a play adapted from Menander, whose subjects are adoption and what makes a good father. Demea and Micio are brothers. Demea is a rustic and the father of two sons, Aeschinus and Ctesipho. Micio is an urbane bachelor. Before the play begins, Demea had allowed Micio to adopt his elder son, Aeschinus. The two young brothers each have a New Comedy plot to work out – one has seduced a free-born girl, the other is entangled with a courtesan (this is an example of the kind of dual-plot often seen as a hallmark of Terentian comedy, although these paired affairs were probably a feature of Menander’s Brothers). Demea is a rigid father, Micio a liberal one. Consequently, there is tension between them, not least because Demea believes his Ctesipho is a paragon of virtue but thinks Aeschinus a wastrel. As the play opens, Micio is upset because, he has heard, Aeschinus has violently abducted a courtesan from her pimp. Demea swoops in, angry at his brother’s poor parenting. Micio stands up to his brother, but privately frets about his son’s conduct. In reality, however, Aeschinus has seized the courtesan on behalf of his hapless brother/cousin, who is besotted with her. But Aeschinus has a crisis of his own: he has seduced Micio’s neighbour, the citizen daughter of a widow named Sostrata, and the woman is now pregnant with his child. Aeschinus wants to marry her, but her family is too poor to make a proper marriage and so he is afraid to put the proposal before Micio. Sostrata’s family condemns Aeschinus for his irresponsible behaviour. In the end, of course, Aeschinus is allowed by an understanding Micio to marry Sostrata’s daughter – and these events lead Demea to realise how unpopular his harsh manner and exacting moralism make him. He decides, by way of a soliloquy addressed to the audience, to change his ways, at least somewhat, but he also turns the table on his brother by persuading both boys to plead with Micio to join his house with Sostrata’s and to end his bachelor days by marrying her. Very much against his will, Micio yields, which allows Demea to point out that Micio often acts less from true liberality than from weakness of character. The play concludes with Demea observing the importance of knowing how to say no: a good parent, he declares, will combine Micio’s generous spirit with his own forbidding rectitude. And so, in the case of Ctesipho, Demea now finds a happy

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medium: the young man may keep his concubine – ‘so long as she is his last’ (Ter. Ad. 997). Micio is impressed: istuc recte, he concludes, ‘now you’ve got it right’.

Late Republican and Early Imperial Drama It was not until the late republic that the capital acquired a permanent theatre, the magnificent Theatre of Pompey. Before that, wooden stages and seating, often incorporating steps rising to the city’s temples, were constructed every year. These fixtures were often fabulously expensive, a civic contribution that redounded to the credit of the magistrate or sponsor of the games – a claim on the public’s gratitude which Pompey henceforth reserved for himself. Under Augustus, more theatres adorned Rome. And occasions for public games, and consequently for dramas, proliferated. Tragedy and comedy remained popular, and the public became enamoured of their eye-catching spectacle – a reality that offended Livy (7.2.13) and Horace (Epist. 2.1.189–207). Audiences preferred the old standards, especially in the case of comedy. Tragedy and comedy alike, however, had to compete with the rising appeal of mime. Tragedy continued to attract fine poets in the age of Augustus. The tragedies of Asinius Pollio, whom we will meet as a historian (Chapter 6), were highly esteemed by the literary set, though they may never actually have been staged. The Thyestes of L. Varius Rufus was performed to great acclaim at games celebrating Augustus’ victory at Actium. Ovid’s (see Chapter 5) tragedy, Medea, his only venture into drama, was admired by contemporaries and later critics. None of these works survive in more than shreds, and it is not until we reach the reign of Nero that we have complete dramatic works again: the tragedies by Seneca and the Octavia, a fabula praetexta by an unknown author deeply influenced by Seneca. But tragedy persisted well into the empire – although often as works to be read or recited rather than dramatically performed. If we can believe Tacitus, writing in the second century ce, senators insisted on composing tragedies even when doing so was likely to attract the displeasure of an emperor (Tac. Dial. 3–4). SIDEBARS

IV

Roman Slavery

Rome, as we have had occasion to notice, was a slave-owning society. Like the antebellum south in the USA, or nineteenth century Cuba and Brazil, slaves in Rome constituted something like a third of the total population.

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Consequently, the enslaved were everywhere, working in factories and businesses and on farms or as domestic servants in homes – and not only in the homes of the very wealthy. Slaves operated as personal assistants, scribes, financial agents, hairdressers, teachers, physicians, in-house scholars, and sex workers (though all slaves were vulnerable to sexual exploitation, by their masters and others). Relationships between slaves and masters were sometimes cordial, even close – Cicero’s friendship with his slave Tiro is a familiar example – and among the lower orders the social integration of free, freed, and enslaved is obvious to us. Still, in Rome an enslaved individual was entirely without rights, at the mercy of an owner. Roman intellectuals accepted Greek theorising about the proper functioning of a slave: Varro, in his De Agricultura (On Farming), insists that a slave is ideally an extension of the master’s will (literally an instrumentum vocale, a ‘speaking tool’). In the modern world we are most familiar with slavery as a form of oppression based on racism, but in the ancient world things were rather different: the Punic wars, roughly contemporary with Plautus, resulted in large-scale enslavements of various defeated peoples. Individuals could also fall into slavery owing to abduction by pirates, or to the legal consequences of bankruptcy. Roman imperialism, which required almost constant warfare, imposed slavery on captives from the east and west alike. Consequently, during the republic peoples from throughout the Mediterranean and even beyond were forcibly transferred to Italy as slaves. Which meant that the enslaved population in Rome included a broad range of races and ethnicities (including Italian), categories which their Roman masters sometimes ignored, sometimes exaggerated via stereotypes. We naturally have very limited access to the viewpoints of slaves. The funerary inscriptions of the freed reveal a complex combination of assimilation to Romanness and an assertion of one’s original identity. Some see in the plays of Plautus glimmers of the actual feelings of the enslaved, in the resistance and ultimate triumph of the ‘clever slave’, but also in Plautus’ depiction of the harsh realities of punishment. These threats mean little to the free characters in a play but can terrify the enslaved – and provoke laughter, be it nervous or smug, in Roman audiences. The random aspect of slavery is foregrounded in Plautus’ comedy Captivi (The Captives). In it, Philocrates and his slave, Tyndarus, are captured in war and consequently enslaved. Yet, although circumstances have changed, Tyndarus remains a loyal servant to Philocrates, even risking his life for the former master who is also his friend (and now his fellow slave). Each has been acquired by Hegio, a rich man who intends to trade

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them for his own son, Philopolemus, born free but now a slave on the other side. Tyndarus’ efforts on Philocrates’ behalf incur the wrath of Hegio, who very nearly sends him to his death in the mines. In the end, however, it is discovered that Tyndarus is also Hegio’s son – he was stolen as a child and sold into slavery – and Philocrates, Tyndarus, and Philopolemus are each set free. Hegio and his sons are blissfully reunited, although Hegio rues his prior mistreatment of Tyndarus – not because he abused a slave but because he was so harsh to his son. Throughout the play, the precarity of any real distinction between the free and the enslaved – characters are enslaved owing to the baleful effects of crime, violence, and misfortune – is repeatedly underlined. The impact of this feature of the drama on Plautus’ audience, however, doubtless varied depending on each viewer’s personal history. Romans enslaved others in bulk, but they also freed slaves in bulk. A freed slave became a Roman citizen: manumission is the legal process which transformed a servus, a slave, into a libertus, a freed slave. The regular and frequent possibility of transition from slave to free is unparalleled in other slave-holding societies. Even more curiously, the legal formula used to free a slave was nearly identical to that used for adoption (for the Romans adoption was more often done in adulthood than in childhood): both processes involved a fictive ‘sale’ of the subject to another person – in the case of manumission, it was to nobody. And once a slave was freed, she or he owed a permanent debt of gratitude to the former master and family, a relationship distinct from but similar to Roman patronage. Indeed, many freed slaves will have continued their lives fairly unchanged, perhaps remaining members of the same household, and likely pursuing the same careers in the same locales – a slave blacksmith does not easily transform himself into a free baker. By emphasising this, we do not mean to downplay the very real significance of the change in status, or the horrors of slavery as our sources depict them. Still freed slaves and their descendants had significantly higher potential social and economic mobility than the urban and rural poor freeborn populations, simply because they had patronage-like ties to members of the elite. A few restrictions were imposed on the citizenship of a freed slave, but the child of a freed slave was equal to a native-born Roman citizen, with unconfined legal rights. By the time of the late second century bce, and certainly by the first century, the vast majority of Roman citizens in the capital were descended from slaves brought to Italy from elsewhere, a reality occluded by the expression populus Romanus, the Roman people,

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which implies a high degree of homogenisation in what was in fact a variegated populace. Nor is it obvious that, after a few generations, free citizens exhibited any degree of affinity for slaves whose current predicament was the same as, say, their grandparents’. Indeed, slavery was everywhere in evidence in Rome and there was never any serious suggestion that the enslavement of others be abandoned.

Further Reading The Loeb Classical Library contains translations of the plays of Pacuvius and Accius and fragments of anonymous authors, again with the Latin, in E. H. Warmington, Remains of Old Latin: Livius Andronicus, Naevius, Pacuvius, Accius (Cambridge MA 1936), volume 314. Plautus and Terence both have good translations in the Loeb series, Plautus in W. de Melo, vols. 60, 61, 163, 260, and 328; Terence in J. Barsby, vols. 22 and 23. We recommend the following on Roman drama and its interactions with Roman society: M. Leigh, Comedy and the Rise of Rome (Oxford 2004) discusses some of the social aspects, and K. McCarthy, Slaves, Masters, and the Art of Authority in Plautine Comedy (Princeton 2000) is a good introduction to the complex issue of slavery in the plays. Also helpful is M. T. Dinter (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Roman Comedy (Cambridge 2019). The papers collected in K. Bosher, Theater Outside Athens: Drama in Greek Sicily and South Italy (Cambridge 2012), look at Greek drama as it flourished outside Athens. D. Dutsch, S. L. James, and D. Konstan (eds.), Women in Roman Republican Drama (Wisconsin 2015) offer very readable introductions to various aspects of the roles of women in the plays. The classic study of what is ‘originally’ Plautus, and what his sources, is E. Fraenkel, Plautine Elements in Plautus (Oxford 2007, a translation of Plautinisches im Plautus 1922). E. W. Handley, Menander and Plautus: A Study in Comparison (London 1968) treats the one sustained example we have of a Greek source and its Latin adaptation. There has been much recent work on the performance and language of comedies, focusing particularly on the composition of the audience. M. Fontaine, Funny Words in Roman Comedy (Oxford 2010) proposes bilingual and elite attendees, but A. Richlin, Slave Theatre in the Roman Republic: Plautus and Popular Comedy (Cambridge 2017) sees the plays as appealing to lower classes, foreigners and slaves. T. J. Moore, The Theater of Plautus: Playing to the Audience (Austin 1998) and C. W. Marshall, The Stagecraft and Performance of Roman Comedy (Cambridge 2006) discuss what it would have looked and sounded like to attend a play, while A. Sharrock, Reading Roman Comedy: Poetics and Playfulness in Plautus and Terence (Cambridge 2009) focuses on the plays as texts. Drama and its role in aristocratic society is examined by E. Csapo in Actors and Icons of the Ancient Theater (Malden 2010).

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There is much excellent work on drama outside scholarship in English. Fundamental studies include: O. Ribbeck, Die römische Tragödie im Zeitalter der Republik (Leipzig 1870, reprinted Hildesheim 1968); H. Marti, Untersuchungen zur dramatischen Technik bei Plautus und Terenz (Winterthur 1959); E. Lefèvre, Die Expositionstechnik in den Komödien des Terenz (Darmstadt 1969);G. Manuwald, Fabulae praetextae. Spuren einer literarischen Gattung der Römer (Munich 2001); C. Questa, La metrica di Plauto e di Terenzio (Urbino 2007).

chapter 3

A Good Man Skilled in Speaking: Oratory and Rhetoric in Rome

In Rome, eloquence was central to aristocratic identity, and the rhetoric that enabled it was essential to the functioning of government and the courts. And so persuasive speechmaking was a very popular performance art. Orators did not merely address an audience: they worked the crowd, delivering, in a majestic manner, finely wrought orations predicated on sophisticated theoretical principles which conformed to exacting expectations on the part of the public. Roman orators rarely talked down to their listeners: they preferred to engage them by challenging them. And, in doing so, they won them over. Political and (especially) judicial speeches attracted large crowds willing to stand for hours to hear gifted speakers. The education, culture, and even the character of public figures was judged by their skill as speakers. And so, speeches were published, circulated, studied, and criticised: in short, oratory was, like drama (Chapter 2), at once art and literature, and its most skilful practitioners were accomplished performers. Oratory in Rome was, then, rather different from its modern counterparts. For this reason, it is more difficult for us to grasp than ancient epic or lyric or drama. Oratory, for the Romans, was simultaneously a source of aesthetic pleasure and a practical necessity. Its allure and importance reached further into Roman society than any other genre of literature.

A Speaker of Words From the beginning of the Greek literary tradition, eloquence exists as a heroic virtue on a par with martial valour. The young Achilles, ignorant of both warfare and ‘assemblies in which men win pre-eminence’, was tutored by Phoenix so that he might become ‘a speaker of words and doer of deeds’ (Iliad 9.440–443) – an orator and a warrior. By the late republic, Cicero could assume a similar imperative for Rome’s aristocracy even in the distant past (Cic. Mur 24; Off. 2.48; 2.51). The nobility of fine speech in 75

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service to society is a theme attested as early as the time of the Second Punic War (218–201; see Sidebar VI). A Roman statesman, if made of the right stuff, earned glory both in battle and by persuading his fellow citizens to accept his counsel. It is no longer obvious to us how early in Rome’s history oratorical excellence gained such lustre. Cicero, in his Brutus, a dialogue discussing the advancement of eloquence in Roman society, infers from the operations of the early republic that persuasion on the part of the political class must always have been essential (Cic. Brut. 52–56). He cites, for instance, M. Valerius Maximus, dictator in 494: his eulogy records how he ‘triumphed over the Sabines and Medullini; led the plebs down from the Sacred Mont; reconciled them with the patricians’ (ILS 50), achievements duly elaborated by historians (Liv. 2.30.4–4.31.11; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 6.38–45). In resolving these complicated issues, Valerius must, Cicero concludes, have relied on oratory (Cic. Brut. 53). So, too, Ap. Claudius Caecus (cos. 307) convinced the senate to reject an unfavourable peace proffered by Pyrrhus of Epirus in 280 (ILS 54; Liv. Per. 13; Plut. Pyrrh. 18–19); Cicero’s inference: ‘we can safely conclude he was eloquent’ (Cic. Brut. 55). But in adducing this pivotal oratorical performance elsewhere, Cicero cannot quote Appius. He must rely on Ennius’ (later) epic version of his speech, a discourse deeply indebted to Homer (Cic. Sen. 16; Enn. Ann. 199 Sk). Ennius is also Cicero’s source for the figure he describes as the first Roman whose eloquence is reliably attested, M. Cornelius Cethegus (Enn. Ann. 304–308 Sk): additur orator Cornelius suaviloquenti ore Cethegus Marcus Tuditano collega Marci filius. is dictus ollis popularibus ollis qui tum vivebant homines atque aevom agitabant flos delibatus populi Suadaeque medulla. Marcus Cornelius Cethegus, son of Marcus, an orator endowed with sweetly eloquent speech, is elected as colleague to Tuditanus. He was called by his fellow citizens, the men who were alive and active in those days, the choice flower of the people and the marrow of Persuasion.

Cethegus (cos. 204), is depicted by Ennius as a conflation of Homer’s Nestor and the Athenian playwright Eupolis’ Pericles (Iliad 1.248; Cic. Brut. 59). For Cicero, Ennius had the virtue of being a rough contemporary of Cethegus and a sound judge of style. But on the matter of aristocratic eloquence, this was as far back as Cicero could confidently go, apart from

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reading a few preserved funeral orations (which did not impress him; Brut. 61). Cicero is frustrated by this absence of texts because, although oratory is very much a performance art, it is only by reading speeches that anyone can assess a past speaker’s learning and style, the dimensions of oratory that render it literature. A fundamental theme of the Brutus is the recent importation of Hellenic qualities into Roman rhetoric. Cicero recognises, as we have seen, that persuasive speaking was vital to previous generations. But he also knows that what he deemed oratory, predicated on the principles of Greek rhetoric, did not exist in Rome’s early days. For Cicero, Ser. Sulpicius Galba (cos. 144) was the first Roman to employ the proper strictures of rhetoric (Cic. Brut. 82) – and yet for all of Cicero’s compliments, neither of his interlocutors in the Brutus, M. Brutus and Atticus, holds Galba’s capacity in high esteem (Brut. 91; 295; see Chapter 5 for more on the dialogue form). We can only imagine, then, what persuasive speech was like in early Rome. In another and more ambitious dialogue, De oratore (On the Orator), Cicero more than once expresses his view that the rise of Rome did not involve oratory in his sense of the word. The city’s past teemed with talented generals and statesmen but was bereft of genuine eloquence (Cic. De orat. 1.8). Romulus directed affairs not by way of oratory but through his good counsel and wisdom (Cic. De orat. 1.37). Subsequent kings governed in the same way, and a preference for personal authority over eloquence persisted into the republic (Cic. De orat. 1.35–38). This was a Roman instinct that never entirely faded away. In 90, M. Aemilius Scaurus (cos. 115) was accused of treasonous activities related to the Social War by Q. Varius, a new man who was tribune of the plebs. Speaking in his own defence, Scaurus said only (Asc. 22): Q. Varius Hispanus M. Scaurum principem senatus socios in arma ait convocasse; M. Scaurus princeps senatus negat; testis nemo est: utri vos, Quirites, convenit credere? Q. Varius – a Spaniard – alleges that M. Scaurus, the leading man in the senate (princeps senatus), urged the allies to go to war. M. Scaurus, the leading man in the senate, denies it. There is no witness. Which of the two, citizens of Rome, is it fitting for you to believe?

This was enough to earn Scaurus an acquittal. His concise oration is by no means lacking in art, but its basic appeal is to traditional Roman views on character and the general assumption that its nobility excelled others in all ways. These same impulses allowed P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica, when

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consul in 138, to quell a public disturbance – the people of Rome were worried over the scarcity of grain – by way of a scolding (Val. Max. 3.7.3): tacete, quaeso, Quirites, inquit: plus ego enim quam vos quid rei publicae expediat intellego. ‘Silence, please, citizens’ he said, ‘Indeed, I understand better than you what is useful for the republic’.

In reaction, we are told, the public fell silent, deferring to Nasica’s authority. Communication and persuasion by way merely of a commanding presence remained an object of nostalgic admiration in Roman society. So strong and natural were the feelings associated with political action of this kind that Vergil, in his Aeneid (see Chapter 8), could put this scenario to work in the first simile of his epic. When Neptune commands the winds scattering the Trojan fleet to subside, he is like ‘a man notable for his civic virtue and meritorious deeds’ whose very presence can calm a rioting mob: again, as we saw in the case of Nasica above, the crowd becomes silent and listens to what a man like this has to say (Aen. 1.145–157). Whatever were the registers of speech, the mannerisms of delivery, and the patterns of appeal that characterised Roman speechifying in the city’s early days, these are all lost to us. Those early practices were doubtless handed down from generation to generation but were apparently never codified. And they were abandoned, even repudiated, once Romans turned to Greek rhetoric. Cicero dismisses his early forebears as ignorant and observes that it was ‘only later, when we had heard Greek orators, acquired a knowledge of Greek literature, studied with Greek teachers, that we Romans began to burn with a zeal for eloquence’ (Cic. De orat. 1.14). The rise of oratory as an art and a literary form, then, like the development of so many other branches of Latin literature, is a reflex of the Romans’ acquisition of empire.

Greek Rhetoric The science of rhetoric began as an examination of persuasive discourse: which aspects of an address were useful in winning over an audience, and which were not? The traditional founders of this discipline were Corax and Tisias, active in democratic Syracuse in the fifth century. But rhetorical studies soon spread, not least through the roving performances of the Sophists, for whom the study of language was a core intellectual concern.

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Athens was especially receptive to rhetoric. This city’s radical democracy and popular courts put a premium on convincing others, and the influence of rhetorical theory soon became apparent in public life, and in Athenian artforms like drama and historiography. Not every speech was written for delivery: purely literary orations were composed and circulated by figures such as Gorgias of Leontini and Antiphon, exhibitions of style and subtlety that won enthusiastic readership. In the fourth century, Isocrates crafted speeches, designed for reading, which captivated contemporary statesmen and intellectuals and remained highly influential among later orators and writers, including Romans. Rhetorical study developed and codified the principles of oratory, including classifications, structure, and stylistic features. The results of these investigations, along with the uses to which readers put them, stimulated philosophical debate: is rhetoric an art one can learn or a knack one is born with? What are the intellectual underpinnings of persuasion? The Athenians’ intense engagement with oratory and rhetorical theory became a conspicuous aspect of fifth- and especially fourthcentury public life. Speechmaking, and the rules on which it was based, were viewed as essential in democratic politics, in litigation, and in international diplomacy. Proficiency marked a man out as influential. It was during this period that the classic exemplars of Greek oratory emerged, figures such as Lysias, Demosthenes, Aeschines, Isocrates, and the others ultimately assembled under the rubric ‘Attic Orators’. The works of these paragons, subjected to critical analysis by teachers and theorists of rhetoric, attained the status of literary works the influence of which did much to define subsequent notions of good (Greek) style in any prose text. By the end of the fourth century, an elite Greek education entailed a close study of the orators and oratorical theory – even for men unlikely ever to deliver a speech. In the beginning, rhetorical study was designed to aid speakers in getting it right. The codification of these results, however, began to establish expectations for audiences too. In this way, rhetorical handbooks became, for all but the most gifted, prescriptive: conformity to the rules constituted eloquence; deviation marked a lapse in taste or education. So central did rhetoric become to the cultural sensibilities of the Greeks that, in the curriculum of educated men, even the study of grammar and literature became avenues for approaching oratory and rhetoric. This was true internationally, under every system of government, be it democratic, oligarchic or autocratic. In the Hellenistic period, even under monarchies, rhetorical study sustained its primacy: it remained essential in courtrooms, in deliberation, in diplomacy and in signalling

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one’s cultural pretensions. It is no surprise, then, that orators are strikingly well represented amid our surviving papyrological remains of Greek literature, scraps which reveal what everyone felt had to be read. A knowledge of oratory, like the study of drama or epic, was indispensable to the cultural capital that defined sophistication.

Greek Rhetoric at Rome By the end of the third century, Rome’s political eminence brought an increasing number of embassies from throughout the Mediterranean world. Foreign affairs were the responsibility of the senate, in which body Latin was the sole official language (speeches delivered in another language were translated). We know of only one exception: in the eighties, Apollonius Molon, the most famous Greek rhetorician of his day and a teacher of both Cicero and Caesar, spoke on behalf of his native city, Rhodes, without his Greek being turned into Latin. This habit was more an expression of Roman clout than a matter of practical necessity: Roman senators, being educated men, understood Greek speeches perfectly well. And they liked what they heard. This exposure to Greek oratorical performances inspired many in Rome to take up the study of Greek rhetoric. Our picture of the development of oratory in Rome derives almost entirely from the account crafted by Cicero, principally in his dialogue the Brutus. In it, Cicero catalogues the personalities of Roman oratory, always working along a trajectory which starts from speechifying marked only by a primitive sort of Hellenism but subsequently moves, little by little, in the direction of speakers who are thoroughly imbued with the highest form of Greek culture, including philosophical erudition as well as rhetorical theory and literary sophistication. In short, speakers like Cicero himself. Later writers, certainly writers like Quintilian who admired Cicero, tended to accept this version of the history of oratory in Rome, but, for obvious reasons, we must be wary: Cicero may have been the most successful orator of his day, but there must have been more than one view of what made a pleader successful. At the same time, there is no good reason to reject the importance of Greek oratory and Greek rhetorical theory in Rome, especially late republican Rome. This is made clear enough in Cicero’s speech, Against Quintus Caeclius Niger (In Caecilium), delivered in a formal proceeding at which he contended with Caecilius over which of them was to conduct the prosecution of Gaius Verres. A serious slice of this speech concentrates on Cicero’s superior education – and the formidable education of

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Hortensius Hortalus, Verres’ advocate. Cicero makes his point by adducing the techniques, based on oratorical theory, which he expects his audience to expect as part of the argumentation that is both essential and routine in forensic speaking, all of which, he claims and believes his judges will believe, rely on a superlative education in Greek and Latin (Cic. Caec. 30–51). Doubtless it was vanity which led Cicero to fashion himself in the Brutus as the historically determined paragon of Roman rhetoric. But that conceit does not entirely vitiate his account of how Roman oratory changed over time during the republic, or its ever more conspicuous debt to Greek training. Indeed, by the second century instruction in speechifying in the Hellenic style had become important for anyone aspiring to the highest levels of public speaking at Rome, but not without resistance or disapproval. A senatorial decree of 161 permitted the praetors to expel from Rome any Greek philosopher or rhetorician they deemed subversive to Roman character. A watershed moment came in 155, when Rome was visited by an embassy from Athens consisting of three philosophers, Carneades, Critolaus and Diogenes. In addition to addressing the senate, they delivered private lectures which, in their combination of dialectic and eloquence, profoundly influenced Roman sensibilities, outraging conservatives and thrilling the young. Instruction in rhetoric was thereafter pursued with enthusiasm. The censors of 92 issued an edict expressing disapproval, but they were on the wrong side of history: by then (Greek) rhetorical training was an essential part of what it meant to be an educated Roman. Roman civic society was receptive to the new rhetoric, in part because the political institutions of the republic offered more than one venue in which oratory aided good government. The Romans did not have political parties. Instead, senators were independent operators, affected by personal loyalties and often working with ad hoc allies in pursuit of a particular policy. This reality left them free to change their minds during debates if they believed they heard a better argument. And so, while speaking so as to convince was not the only source of authority in the senate, it was a central one. As for the citizenry, in Rome they and they alone ratified every law. They, too, were linked to political figures by personal and other connections and everyone had individual priorities, yet, on many issues, Romans showed themselves open to persuasion. The public were addressed at an assembly called a contio. This was a crucial focus of political competition. Sometimes, it is true, politicians tried to pack a contio with supporters or attempted to shout down rival views. In principle, however, the contio was

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an opportunity for the people to hear different views and come to their own conclusions. Naturally the public could be swayed by a leading figure’s social eminence or martial fame, but it is clear that eloquence often carried the day. The value of persuasive speech in the courts is obvious. In Rome, prosecutors were private volunteers – there was no state apparatus for bringing miscreants to justice – and advocacy was provided to defendants without a fee. In civil matters, too, there were no paid professionals. For these reasons, the justice system relied on volunteers from the elite classes. This provided an opportunity for conspicuous public display that could, if done properly, enhance one’s civic standing. Trials in Rome were open events – they took place in the forum and were attended by anyone (often by everyone, in the case of notable cases). So they too were environments in which an aristocrat could exhibit his erudition and industry. Because pleaders were allowed to say whatever they liked and were not hampered by strict standards of evidence, they often devoted more attention to dazzling their audiences than contesting specific or nuanced points of law. Consequently, trials were, for neutral observers, an entertaining spectacle. Romans were remarkably keen to watch and listen as orators performed in trials that mattered deeply to the parties involved. And they admired both the skill and the generosity of the orators they observed. Orators in the courts, then, had two audiences in mind: the jurors, fellow members of the elite, equipped with at least a rudimentary education in rhetoric; and public onlookers – the corona, as the Romans dubbed them – who could cheer or jeer, or just walk away. A good orator knew the success of his speech depended on winning over both groups. The fundamental criterion for assessing a speech was its persuasiveness, and so the quality of an orator’s art was primarily measured by his audience’s reaction to it. Even a speech composed and delivered in perfect conformity with the rules of rhetoric, if it flopped in performance, was a flawed oration. In explaining the mixed record of Licinius Calvus, a friend but also one of his most elegant rivals, Cicero observed that his speeches were too refined: ‘learned, careful listeners savoured their quality, but the crowd of common auditors in public venues, the group for whom eloquence was created, simply swallowed it without tasting it’ (Cic. Brut. 283). Orators of this kind, Cicero says, perhaps somewhat smugly, ‘are deserted, not only by the corona, which is a sad enough spectacle, but even by their fellow advocates’ (Cic. Brut. 289). Indeed, we know of one instance when a speaker who failed to engage his audience lost it in its entirety (Cic. Brut. 305). Among themselves the elite might circulate unsuccessful

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speeches which nonetheless demonstrated the author’s intelligence and sophistication (Caesar’s youthful prosecution of Cn. Cornelius Dolabella, cos. 81, was unsuccessful but through its publication he garnered credit for eloquence). But in the matter of oratory the real proof of a speaker’s sophistication and high culture lay in his capacity for winning over every audience, including the masses, who knew a good speech when they heard one. The importance of judicial work for members of the political class cannot be overestimated. Speaking in anyone’s defence, especially, was designed to stimulate gratitude or secure friendship. As early as Plautine comedy, a young man is urged to pursue honour by aiding his friends in just this way. Polybius, writing in the second century, observed the energy with which young aristocrats involved themselves in the courts, noting that Scipio Aemilianus (cos. 147), when he was not yet 20, fretted that he would be considered lazy because he had not yet pleaded any cases. Some ambitious Romans sought attention and hoped to earn a reputation for rectitude through prosecutions, even as teenagers (see Sidebar VIII). Oratory, it should be clear by now, genuinely mattered in civic life, both in carrying out its essential operations and in acquiring the individual prestige and influence that defined and preserved the status of the aristocracy. By the late republic, an oratorical education was essential equipment for members of the political class and for any man belonging to the highest levels of Roman society. As was the case in the Greek world, individuals who would never deliver a public speech nonetheless studied grammar and literature on their way to mastering the precepts of the rhetoricians. Eloquence, for the Romans, became intrinsic to aristocratic identity. And it was by way of public speaking that political figures demonstrated to the public that they possessed the high culture Rome demanded of its leaders.

The Art of Oratory A speaker’s job was to decide what things to say, in what order to say them, in what style, and with what delivery (Cic. Or. 43). But rhetorical theory, in furnishing guidance on these matters, introduced a high degree of complexity. In Greco-Roman thought, an activity was rendered an art (ars in Latin, techne in Greek) when it could be explained through division and definition (see also Chapter 5). It was by way of this dry means of analysis that rhetoricians endeavoured to understand and consequently teach persuasive speech. Most of what we know about Hellenistic rhetorical theory comes to us by way of late republican writers. Our earliest extant

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handbooks from Rome are the anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium (Art of Rhetoric Addressed to Herennius) and Cicero’s De Inventione (On Invention), composed by the orator when he was young, perhaps a teenager (Cic. De orat. 1.5). Cicero took theory seriously too, and over the course of his life wrote several treatises on the subject. The most important are: his dialogue, De oratore (On the Orator), which appeared in 55, an elegant work offering important insights into the practicalities of oratory and at the same time insisting that the best orator must possess a mastery of philosophy; Brutus, composed in 46, a history of the development of oratory in Rome; Orator, composed in the same year, rehearsing rhetorical theory, especially aspects of style and delivery, and peppered with criticisms of Cicero’s rivals. Cicero’s minor essays on rhetoric include a dialogue on the parts of an oration (Partitiones oratoriae), Topica (Topics, a study of Aristotle’s Topics), and De optimo genere oratorum (On the Best Kind of Orator), the preface to Cicero’s translations of speeches by Aeschines and Demosthenes. We know enough to know that among rhetoricians there were multiple and often conflicting approaches to the subject, nor was there consistency in terminology. Still, it was generally agreed that the aims of an orator were to teach his audience, to give them pleasure and to affect their emotions (docere, delectare, movere: e.g. Quint. 12.10.59). He did so in one of three kinds of speech: a judicial speech delivered in a court, a deliberative speech delivered in the senate or other public assembly or an epideictic speech the purpose of which was display, encomium or commemoration (including, importantly, funeral orations). Correct speech-making required method, and theorists divided the study of rhetoric into five parts: invention (inventio); arrangement (dispositio); style (elocutio); memory (memoria); delivery (actio or pronuntiatio). Invention entails sorting out arguments and proofs, true or plausible, which are likely to convince an audience. A speaker must also refute his opponent, either by demolishing his arguments or by discrediting him personally. Many of these techniques were commonplaces, listed in handbooks. For example, Rhetorica ad Herennium urges the orator to incite the audience’s envy and aversion against his adversary by alleging the man’s violent behaviour, or bullying, or partisanship, or excessive wealth, or immoderation, or arrogance, or the overwhelming number of his clients and foreign friends, or his transactional political alliances, or his marriage connections – and by implying that he gets ahead by exploiting his assets instead of through virtue; he should also allege incompetence, cowardice, laziness and extravagance (Rhet. Her. 1.9). The speeches we possess recycle

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these very elements whenever the speaker seeks to discredit an opponent whose actual arguments are hard to dismantle. As for arrangement, the standard disposition for any speech was: an introduction (exordium), designed to render an audience receptive, welldisposed and attentive; a narrative of events or statement of the facts (narratio); a division (divisio), which lays out points of agreement and disagreement between two sides of an issue and indicates how the remainder of the speech will play out; the proof (confirmatio), consisting of arguments that make the speaker’s case; the refutation (confutatio), arguments that demolish an opponent’s case; a peroration or conclusion (peroratio or conclusio), often aimed at stirring emotions. But a good orator should shape his arrangement according to the requirements of his speech. It was not always necessary to include every part, and each part might require a different style. Style was the dimension of a speech that received the most elaborate and contentious treatment by rhetoricians: ‘a very demanding matter, the most difficult aspect of the whole of oratory’, as Cicero put it (Cic. De orat. 3.209). Rhetoricians accumulated, examined and denominated every ornamentation of expression or thought. Emphasis was placed on clarity (but not simplicity), correctness and propriety (sloppy grammar and inappropriate diction were to be avoided), elegance and embellishment and a suitable register. Rhetoricians defined three levels of style: a grand style, a middle style and a plain style. Each was to be deployed appropriately (the grand style was often put to work in a peroration, whereas a simple or middle style lent plausibility to statements of fact). Speakers aspired to a style that was striking but not affected. An orator should not sound like an actor in a play, or a poet or a philosopher or a historian. By the first century, orators routinely employed long sentences – periods – when speaking in the middle or grand styles. A period, taking advantage of Latin’s flexible rules for word order, uses multiple subordinate clauses in advance of the main verb, which completes the sentence. The principal effect of this arrangement is suspense: because the final meaning of the sentence is postponed, listeners must follow closely, sometimes anticipating the orator’s conclusion, sometimes finding themselves surprised by it. This technique stimulated an audience’s attentiveness – auditors were anything but passive participants – and could also charm it. But if a period became cluttered or confusing, the audience was put off. Rhythm was a valuable aid in laying out a period, and oratorical speech was rhythmic in nature. Certain patterns, like the metres of poetry, were deemed attractive in different parts of a sentence and in different parts of

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a speech. This was especially true of rhythms bringing a sentence or period or passage to closure, which Romans called clausulae. One could almost say that oratory had to scan, but it should not sound like poetry unless the speaker had a strategic reason for it, nor should a speech’s rhythm become monotonous: variation was essential. We are only well-informed regarding Ciceronian practice: his range of cadences, although reasonably broad, exhibits a fondness for cretics (a cretic is a metrical foot consisting of one light syllable between two heavy syllables; i.e. ¯ ˇ ¯ ; an example is at Cic. Cael. 1, consuetūdı˘nīs nōstrāe, a cretic plus spondee, one of his favourite combinations) and an aversion to clausulae involving hexameters. And we have it on Cicero’s authority that audiences were remarkably sensitive to these prose rhythms (Cic. Or. 213–214). Memory was vital – speeches were almost never delivered from a script – so various mnemonic aids were recommended. Discussions of delivery, recognised as the sine qua non of oratorical success, insisted on correct pronunciation, an attractive and audible voice (without amplification, an orator had to be heard by a large audience, composed of interested parties, casual bystanders or simply fans of oratory, as he delivered a speech that could last hours), and elegant and dignified facial expressions and bodily gestures. There was, of course, more to successful speeches. An orator needed to deploy humour, become adept at invective and master techniques of judicial theatre, like weeping at the right time. There was much to learn, and little time. Boys were expected to learn grammar, absorb literary classics and master the techniques of oratory – in Greek as well as Latin – by the time they were young men. Among the elite, girls, too, often received an education in Greek and Latin literature. Roman women were expected to be adept in conversation, which at the higher levels of society required a high degree of literacy. Some young women also studied rhetoric. We learn from Valerius Maximus that a (very) few women argued cases in court. In general, he does not approve, but even he admires the eloquence of Hortensia, the daughter of Q. Hortensius (cos. 69; see below). During the triumviral period she delivered a powerful speech attacking Antony, Octavian, and Lepidus for imposing new taxes on women to fund their war against Caesar’s assassins. According to Appian, her speech was courageous. In it, she asks: ‘why should we pay taxes when we have no part in the honours, the commands, the statecraft for which you contend against each other with such harmful results?’ (App. B. Civ. 4.32). In the judgment of Valerius, ‘she revived her father’s eloquence’ (Val. Max. 8.3.3).

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The Elder Cato The career of the elder Cato was fundamental in the Roman transformation of oratory from mere political or judicial performance to the status of literature. Born in 234 to the local aristocracy of Tusculum, Cato’s conspicuous valour in combat and tireless devotion to Tusculan civic affairs caught the attention of Roman grandees (see also Chapters 5 and 6 for his didactic and historical works). With their aid and encouragement, he launched a political career in Rome – as a warrior, a statesman, and an orator – that elevated him to the consulship in 195 (see Sidebar V on Roman offices). In the next year he celebrated a triumph. And for the remainder of his long life (Cato died in 149), he remained active in the courts, in public affairs, even in military campaigns. In 184, he was elected censor: his tenure was remembered for its severity. Cato fervently cultivated an image of old-fashioned parsimony and rectitude. And part of this performance lay in launching fierce attacks on the morality of his senatorial colleagues, aggression which included prosecutions in the courts. Even in the final months of his life, Cato was giving speeches attacking others or in his own defence. Cato did not stint in self-praise, and he curated his image as an exemplar of sound Roman character by way of literature. This was an innovative and singular achievement. Cato, as we shall see in later chapters, furnished Rome with its first influential work of history in Latin, the Origines. He also published didactic treatises and public letters. He was the first Roman to publish his speeches, at least two of which, the Pro Rhodiensibus (On Behalf of the Rhodians) and Contra Ser. Galbam pro direptis Lusitanis (Against Servius Galba on Behalf of the Plundered Lusitanians), he also memorialised in his Origines. Cato’s writings, in their totality, were important in his own day and deeply influential thereafter: through them he imposed on contemporaries and posterity his stern and uncompromising view of what it meant to be an authentic Roman aristocrat. His contribution to Latin literature cannot be overestimated. We have seen already how from their very beginnings the Romans developed a robust if complicated relationship with Greek culture (see Chapter 1). This relationship, because it was profound, remained a site for conflict throughout the republic. It was not the adaption of elements of Hellenic civilisation per se that was ever controversial in Rome. Instead, Romans disagreed over which Greek practices should be embraced and naturalised, and the focus of these disagreements changed from one generation to the next. In his day, Cato’s was a principal voice in the

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debate. Cato’s recurring posture was, if not actually anti-Greek, then certainly suspicious of the potentially deleterious effects of Hellenic culture on Roman character. In a public letter to his son (Ad Marcum filium), Cato urges him to sample Greek learning but to avoid erudition owing to its corrupting effects (Plin. NH 29.7.14 = Ad Marcum filium fr. 1 J): dicam de istis Graecis suo loco, M. fili. quid Athenis exquisitum habeam et quod bonum sit illorum litteras inspicere, non perdiscere, vincam. nequissimum et indocile genus illorum, et hoc puta vatem dixisse: quandoque ista gens suas litteras dabit, omnia conrumpet. I shall discus Greek matters in its appropriate place, Marcus my son, and what I gathered from my enquiries at Athens. I shall convince you that it is a good thing to have a look at their literature but not to study it too thoroughly. Their kind are useless and unteachable. Here you must consider me a prophet. When that nationality gives us its literature, it will pervert everything.

This opinion was hardly unique to Cato. Cicero’s own grandfather was inclined to remind others that the better one’s knowledge of Greek, the more depraved one became (Cic. De orat. 2.265: ut quisque optime Graece sciret, ita esse nequissimum). The controversy over the right attitude toward Hellenic culture was always unfinished business: throughout Cicero’s De Oratore, a mid-first-century work of thoroughly bicultural pretensions, there reverberate tensions over what is authentically Roman, what is a suitable, even necessary, Roman annexation of Greek culture, and what is Hellenic frivolity of a deplorable ilk. Coming back to Cato, it is obvious that, as a writer, he was influenced by Greek literature in every genre he worked in. In the case of oratory, it was by way of rendering his speeches as literary texts, including turning them into episodes in Rome’s historiography, that Cato exhibited his most significant debt to the traditions of Greek literary history and rhetorical study. Inspired by Greek practice, Cato set himself up as the founder of Latin literary oratory.

Cato’s Speeches Cato was the earliest Latin orator whom Cicero could read. In the late republic, the texts of more than 150 of his speeches were in circulation, though by then, Cicero concedes, almost nobody read them. No speech by Cato survives intact. We possess numerous fragments, the most extensive of which belong to his speech On Behalf of the Rhodians (Pro Rhodiensibus). Their value for recovering Cato’s oratory, however, is limited. These

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excerpts (preserved at Gell. NA 6.3) were selected by Cicero’s learned freedman, Tiro, for inclusion in an essay written to underscore Cato’s inadequacies as an orator, particularly in terms of logic. So they are unlikely to be typical, and surely do not showcase his best work. Other ancient critics, from the first century on, also dwell on Cato’s failure to match the stylistic expectations of their own day. Cato’s defenders are equally anachronistic: they endeavour to rehabilitate his reputation by emphasising his undeniable fame as an orator and by isolating features of his speeches that indicate eloquence constructed along Greek lines. Cicero has it both ways. In his Brutus, he praises Cato as Attic in style and a Roman match for Lysias. Later in the same dialogue, however, Atticus dismisses this view as ludicrous (Cic. Brut. 293–294): risum vix tenebam cum Attico Lysiae Catonem nostrum comparabas. magnum mehercule hominem vel potius summum et singularem virum! nemo dicet secus. sed oratorem? . . . tu comparas hominem Tusculanum nondum suspicantem quale esset copiose et ornate dicere. I could scarcely restrain myself from laughing when you compared our Cato with the Athenian Lysias. A great man to be sure, a leader of the highest rank, perhaps the best. No one could say otherwise. But an orator? . . . You submit for comparison a man from Tusculum who had no conception of what it meant to speak with eloquence and in an embellished style.

Cato’s oratory, we are constantly told, was belligerent, marked by strong emotional appeals. At the same time, it did not lack wit. In 167, in the aftermath of the Third Macedonian War, the senate was inclined to declare war on Rhodes on account of its equivocal policies during the conflict with Perseus. Cato opposed this policy, and in the end Rome preferred less violent methods, such as economic penalties. His speech in the senate, On Behalf of the Rhodians, he both published and inserted into his Origines. As we have seen, Tiro had many negative things to say about its quality, especially its unrelenting sequence of logically unrelated arguments. One of these arguments, however, is diverting. Cato insists more than once that, even if the Rhodians wanted Perseus to win, they should not be punished for intentions they never acted on. He underlines the absurdity of punishing people for wanting things they cannot help wanting (Gell. NA 6.3.37): quid nunc? ecqua tandem lex est tam acerba, quae dicat ‘si quis illud facere voluerit, mille, minus dimidium familiae, multa esto; si quis plus quingenta iugera habere voluerit, tanta poena esto; si quis maiorem pecuum numerum habere voluerit, tantum damnas esto?’ atque nos omnia plura habere volumus et id nobis impune est.

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Tiro describes the technique employed here as a specimen of epagoge, a dialectic device Cicero calls inductio, the accumulation of numerous, easyto-grasp, sometimes misleading parallels. Tiro dislikes it because it is too patently sophistic and therefore unsuited to Cato’s persona in the rest of his speech. That, presumably, was the point: by combining an obvious Greek technique with examples from Roman law to make a straightforward point Cato introduces a light touch in what otherwise appears a very earnest speech. Perhaps there were diverting moments elsewhere in this speech. A similarly entertaining passage survives from another speech (which may suggest they were characteristic). Cato was once accused before the censors, remarkably in view of his reputation, of profligacy. In defending himself, he delivered an engaging account of Cato-the-orator at work, revising a speech he delivered in a previous case. Cato records how he ordered his slave to produce the tablets on which he had composed the first draft of his speech. The slave, Cato says, read out the obligatory bits rehearsing the deeds of Cato’s ancestors and the distinguished particulars of his public career. These stereotypical features of any defence, mentioned cursorily, receive no further elaboration than that. But when his slave comes to Cato’s illustrations of his probity, Cato decides revision is in order (Fronto Ad Ant. imp. 1.2.9): numquam ego pecuniam neque meant neque sociorum per ambitionem dilargitus sum. ‘attat! noli noli scribere’, inquam, ‘istud nolunt audire’. deinde recitavit: numquam ego praefectos per sociorum vestrorum oppida imposivi, qui eorum bona liberos diriperent. ‘istud quoque dele: nolunt audire. recita porro’. numquam ego praedam neque quod de hostibus captum esset neque manubias inter pauculos amicos meos divisi, ut illis eriperem qui cepissent. ‘istuc quoque dele: nihil eo minus volunt dici’. I have never been lavish with my or my partners’ money in trying to purchase political favour. ‘Ack! Do not, do not write that,’ I said, ‘they don’t want to hear that’. He then recited: never have I installed prefects in the towns of your allies in order to rob them of their property, their wives, their children. ‘Delete that too; they don’t want to hear it. Carry

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on reading’. Never have I divided the plunder and spoil taken from the enemy in such a way as to reward my close friends and rob those who had earned it. ‘That, too, delete. That is something they really don’t want to hear’.

And so it goes for several more lines, until Cato concludes: vides in quo loco respublica siet, ubi quod reipublicae bene fecissem, unde gratiam capiebam, nunc idem illud memorare non audeo ne invidiae siet. ita inductum est male facere impoene, bene facere non impoene licere. You see what state the republic has reached, when the good services I have done the republic, on account of which I was once thanked, now I dare not even mention if I hope to avoid being loathed. Thus we have become accustomed to allowing wrong to be done with impunity, yet for doing good there is no impunity.

Here Cato employs praeteritio, or more accurately paralepsis – a technique for giving emphasis to something by pretending to say little or nothing about it – to contrast his virtues with the decadence of his opponents and their supporters. He also puts dramatic characterisation to work in making this moment a captivating one. Here is Cato in private, exasperated and muttering. And by telling this story, he also draws attention to his selfconscious artistry when composing a speech. Cato’s speeches, then, were not entirely without style of a kind Cicero or his contemporaries would recognise as eloquent. We also find instances of alliteration, asyndeton, and antithesis. Cato deploys closely coupled words – ‘arrogance and ferocity’ – in making characterisations and organises his sentences by tricola (lists of three). He uses rhetorical questions and throws out striking expressions: Antiochus the Great of Syria ‘wages war with letters, does battle with stylus and pen’. But these moments may have been few and far between. Later critics observed his simple sentence structures, want of embellishment, indiscriminate (though not vulgar) vocabulary, and the absence of recognisable prose rhythm. We find in Cato the early stages of the Romans’ adaptation of Greek rhetorical principles. This is not to say Cato was a bad orator: as we have seen, the test of an orator was ultimately his success in winning over an audience, and Cato was often very persuasive. It is certainly the case that Cato was self-conscious about his role as Rome’s leading speaker. He defined an orator as vir bonus dicendi peritus, ‘a good man skilled in speaking’ (Ad Marcum filium fr. 14 J). This definition imposes an obvious moral claim on every orator. At the same time, it makes clear that speaking

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requires skill: for Cato, oratory is more than a knack. An enduring question is whether Cato believed that oratory required acquaintance with Greek rhetorical theory, or at the very least some familiarity with Greek orators. On our available evidence, it appears that, whatever he truly knew about Greek rhetoric, its influence on him, although real, was not extensive, an observation that fits with Cato’s well-known sceptical posture regarding Greek culture. In the matter of oratory, Cato insisted that a pleader’s attention must remain concentrated on the issue at hand and not on ornamentation: rem tene, verba squentur (‘stick to the point, the words will follow’: Ad Marcum filium fr. 15 J) was his famous dictum, and it implies, from the perspective of style, a limited notion of ‘skilled in speaking’. Finding a voice that was compelling and yet conspicuously distinct from the habits of Greek oratory was important to Cato’s fashioning of his public identity, and his contemporary eminence reveals that he understood his public well. Although Cato’s speeches were rarely read in Cicero’s day, his star rose again during the empire. Hadrian, who reigned from 117 to 138 ce, preferred Cato’s speeches to Cicero’s, and his rough-and-ready, old-fashioned style was admired by intellectuals like Aulus Gellius, Cornelius Fronto, Favorinus, and others. Marcus Aurelius, too, read him eagerly. All these figures were enthusiasts for archaic, old-fashioned Roman writers, so it is obvious why Cato held a prominent, indeed paradigmatic, place in their canon of classical authors.

The Second Century By reading Cicero’s Brutus one can acquire a sense of the state of Roman oratory in the generations after Cato. Unfortunately, only fragments of speeches survive for this period. One of the outstanding speakers of the second century was C. Sempronius Gracchus (tr. pl. 123). He and his older brother, Tiberius (tr. pl. 133), were each superbly educated and extraordinarily eloquent. Both men devoted their careers to social reform and, in so doing, provoked hostility from the senatorial establishment. In the end, each perished in a violent conflict instigated by his enemies. Tiberius was lynched, Gaius was struck down by enemies deploying a senatorial decree. Gaius’ speeches, however, were long remembered and admired, even by men like Cicero who objected to his political goals. Gaius’ delivery was forceful, even frenetic. He was also a master in oratorical composition. In one fragment, he implores the Roman people

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to remember the fate of his brother as they look upon his political difficulties (Cic. De orat. 3.214; Quint. 11.3.115): quo me miser conferam? quo vertam? in Capitoliumne? at fratris sanguine redundat, an domum? matremne ut miseram lamentantem videam et abiectam? Where can I in my wretchedness take myself? Where can I turn? To the Capitol? But it overflows with my brother’s blood. To my home? To see my wretched mother weeping and prostrate?

In this series of rhetorical questions – the technical term is dubitatio, affected doubt – Gaius expresses himself in language that is highly dramatic. Its forcefulness is scaffolded by prose rhythms that pace his appeal and render its urgency plain to his audience. No one, in Cicero’s view, possessed a greater aptitude for eloquence than Gaius Gracchus. He judged him an unexcelled model for aspiring orators (Cic. Brut. 125–126).

The Orators of Cicero’s Youth In the generation prior to Cicero’s, two orators were outstanding, M. Antonius (cos. 99), the grandfather of Mark Antony, and L. Licinius Crassus (cos. 96). The young Cicero was deeply influenced by both, and he memorialised them in his De oratore, in which fictional dialogue they are the principal interlocutors. In Cicero’s opinion, Antonius was admirable in nearly every aspect of oratory, especially in framing the issues of a case and in delivery, but was weakest in style. Antonius published no speeches – he worried that opponents might use them against him if he ever shifted his arguments – but composed a treatise on rhetoric (perhaps a volume of practical advice instead of a rehearsal of Greek theory) that was still consulted during the empire. For Cicero, Crassus was the complete orator. He was eloquent, learned in law, and conspicuously interested in philosophy. Between the death of Antonius in 87 (murdered when Marius seized power in Rome during that year) and Cicero’s rise to prominence, Rome’s leading orator was Q. Hortensius Hortalus (cos. 69). His style was florid, often charming, but his published speeches, Cicero reports, often fail to impress because they could not capture his delivery. In performance Hortensius was forceful, even flamboyant, and his enemies endeavoured to discredit him as effeminate. During the trial of P. Cornelius Sulla (cos.- elect 65) in 62, when Hortensius was speaking for the defence, the prosecutor, L. Manlius Torquatus (pr. 49), tried to discombobulate him by

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crying out that Hortensius was no more than an actor and a gesticulator: he went so far as to call him Dionysia, the name of a noted dancing-girl. Imperturbable, Hortensius adopted a soft, demure tone of voice and replied: ‘Dionysia? Yes, I should prefer being a Dionysia to being what you are, Torquatus’. He then switched to Greek, dubbing Torquatus ‘untouched by the Muses, untouched by Aphrodite, untouched by Dionysus (amousos, anaphroditos, aprosdionysos)’. This last word, in addition to meaning ‘untouched by Dionysus’, also meant ‘beside the point’ or ‘irrelevant’. Torquatus was crushed, and Hortenius’ riposte became celebrated (Gell. NA 1.5.3). In his maturity Hortensius was surpassed by Cicero, but the two men developed a deep friendship and often cooperated in pleading cases (they cooperated, for instance, in the trial of P. Sulla). Cicero grieves the loss of Hortensius in his Brutus.

Cicero Like Cato, Cicero (106–43 bce) was a new man (see Sidebar V). His rise in politics he owed almost entirely to his eloquence. He was in his early twenties when he began defending clients but impressed immediately not least owing to his consummate education: he accompanied Rome’s foremost pleaders and jurists, studied with leading grammarians, rhetoricians, and philosophers – spending time in Athens and Rhodes, as well as among Romans – and even consulted with actors to enhance his delivery. An outstanding advocate, Cicero defended clients, including individuals from modest circumstances, in a broad array of cases which showcased his versatility and learning. In doing so, he became a famous and popular figure. Romans of every class admired his industry in the courts, and no one doubted his honesty or civic virtue. In 70, conducting his first prosecution against the corrupt provincial governor C. Verres (pr. 74), Cicero scored a sensational win over Hortensius Hortalus. Thereafter Cicero was universally viewed as Rome’s leading speaker, a reputation he held for the remainder of his life and, in a very real sense, for centuries thereafter. Cicero’s fame as an orator and champion of good causes elevated him through every magistracy – quaestor, aedile, praetor, consul – at the earliest legal age and always at the top of the polls. As consul in 63, Cicero uncovered and foiled the conspiracy of L. Sergius Catilina (pr. 68), for which deed he was hailed parens patriae, father of his country. By publishing the speeches he delivered during this episode, his Catilinarians, Cicero memorialised his greatest political achievement – which he and others ranked as an achievement comparable to a military victory. Gloria

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dicendi – oratorical fame – was a traditional aristocratic virtue: Cicero’s Catilinarians gave literary substance to civic greatness of this kind (see also ch. 6 on Cicero’s poetry about this topic). Later, however, Cicero came into conflict with P. Clodius Pulcher, a noble whose cultivation of the lower orders made him into a formidable political force. In 58, during a tumultuous tribunate, Clodius drove Cicero into exile. The orator returned to Rome in the following year, owing to the exertions of Pompey the Great, after which he became a forceful ally of Pompey and, less willingly, of Pompey’s close associates Caesar and M. Crassus. These three figures formed a dominant political coalition and were keen to exploit Cicero’s influence in the senate and in the courts. During the civil war between Pompey and Caesar, Cicero took Pompey’s side. After Pompey’s defeat, he returned to Rome, was pardoned and honoured by Caesar, but withdrew from political affairs. After Caesar’s assassination, however, Cicero re-emerged. He championed the cause of Caesar’s assassins and opposed Mark Antony, whom he denounced in a series of searing orations collected under the title Philippics, after Demosthenes’ attacks on Philip II of Macedon. When Antony, the young Octavian, who was Caesar’s heir, and M. Aemilius Lepidus seized power by establishing what we call the Second Triumvirate, they undertook a purge of their political enemies, an action known as the proscriptions. Cicero was a prime target and their soldiers caught up with him on 7 December 43. The orator, we are told, faced his death without flinching (see also Chapter 6 on his death). Cicero was the greatest orator of the late republic, though he was not without critics; in the empire he was regarded by nearly everyone as the greatest Latin orator of all time. Cicero is the only Roman orator whose speeches survive in any kind of quantity. And this, combined with the fact that it is mostly his theoretical treatises that survive, means that he dominates our understanding of the subject. Owing to his enduring preeminence, we have fifty-eight of his speeches, in whole or in part. Publishing them was essential in the fashioning of his reputation. He promulgated orations that exhibited his talent, such as the In Defence of Cluentius (Pro Cluentio) in which, he later boasted, he ‘cast a cloud before the eyes of the jurors’ (Quint. 2.17.21), or his boldness, like his youthful In Defence of Quinctius (Pro Quinctio) and especially his In Defence of Roscius Amerinus (Pro Roscio Amerino), in which speeches he stood up to the intimidating Sulla. In the case of his prosecution of Verres and his triumph over Hortensius, Cicero published, in addition to the speech he delivered at the trial, an expanded version of the second speech he did not have an

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opportunity to give. The speeches against Catiline, as we have seen, he published as a collection intended to celebrate his consulship. Because they were readily available, Cicero’s speeches were widely read and assiduously studied. Many became model orations. Indeed, Cicero could confidently recommend his speeches as suitable specimens for imitation. And so they remained – through the empire and thereafter in any place at any time Latin oratory, or Latin prose, has been an object of study.

The Texts of Cicero’s Speeches By publishing his speeches, Cicero did much to curate his public image both as an orator and as a political figure. He published only a minority of the speeches he delivered. His selection, clearly, was strategic, designed to attract the right kind of publicity. The question naturally arises: how faithful are Cicero’s published works to his actual performances? The same question, of course, applies to all speeches circulated in Rome. But the possibility of revision is raised in antiquity only for Cicero (Quint. 12.10.54) and for modern readers matters most for Cicero because his works constitute the bulk of our extant speeches. Scholars remain divided. Some believe Cicero revised his speeches, sometimes radically, to reflect changing political realities. This, however, is a minority view. Most critics conclude that Cicero’s revisions were modest. Consequently, the texts of his speeches are generally considered accurate accounts of what he said on the day. It was Cicero’s habit to compose the beginnings and endings of his speeches in advance. As for his speeches’ bodies, these he sketched out with detailed notes. After delivery, he wrote up the whole of the speech, a feat less remarkable than it seems when one appreciates an ancient orator’s discipline in cultivating his memory (Cic. Brut. 164; Asc. 62C). It is clear to us from Cicero’s letters that he sometimes made additions – at least once he inserted a topographical digression – and, unsurprisingly, he corrected basic matters of fact, like dates (Cic. Att. 1.13.5). There were certainly omissions, mostly witness statements and technical material judged too boring (Cic. Mur. 57; Cic. Cael. 19). After his spectacular failure at the trial of T. Annius Milo in 52, Cicero composed an improved version of the defence speech he actually delivered and, for a time, both variants circulated. Our In Defence of Milo (Pro Milone) is Cicero’s better effort. But this sort of wholesale revision was singular. Cicero also circulated speeches which were never given. In his prosecution of Gaius Verres, the defence folded so abruptly that Cicero was able to deliver only his opening oration. In order to celebrate and commemorate

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his victory, however, he published, in the shape of a very long work, a batch of the kind of speechifying he had ready for Verres (these are Cic. Verr. 2.1– 2.5). A more sensational publication was Cicero’s Second Philippic. This speech pretends to be a senatorial oration delivered on 19 September 44. But that is a fiction: Cicero, intimidated by Mark Antony, did not attend the senate on that day. Instead, he began composing this lengthy invective against Antony, which he shared with friends but did not intend to circulate widely. As politics became more poisonous, however, Cicero promulgated the Second Philippic as a political pamphlet: it was out by the end of the year. The use of fictitious speeches and letters in political propaganda was not uncommon in late republican Rome. The Second Philippic is by far the most notorious specimen of it – and its publication played a part in Cicero’s death: in 43 he was proscribed by the triumvirs and executed on their orders; his head and hand – the hand which composed the blistering Second Philippic – were exhibited in the Forum.

Cicero’s Defence of Marcus Caelius Rufus (Pro Caelio): Background Criticism of any oration requires a close degree of historical contextualisation as well as rhetorical analysis. Here we can examine only one of Cicero’s speeches, his masterpiece Pro Caelio. In April 56, M. Caelius Rufus (pr. 48), a successful orator and a young man already noteworthy for political ambition, who was also a friend and sometime protégé of Cicero, came to trial for the crime of vis – that is, political violence. The case was complicated: the king of Egypt, Ptolemy Auletes, after being driven from his throne, had come to Rome to seek restoration from his allies in the aristocracy, including Caesar, M. Crassus, and Pompey the Great. Ptolemy also enjoyed strong support from Rome’s financial class, many of whom expected large profits from the king’s return to power. From Egypt, however, came a distinguished embassy to lobby against Ptolemy. This delegation, when it arrived in Italy, was violently attacked; its leading figure was later poisoned. Caelius, it was alleged, played a part in this political violence, and it is a near certainty that he was somehow involved. The charge against Caelius was so serious that his trial was conducted during the Megalesian Games, an occasion when most Romans were enjoying plays and other amusements (see Chapter 2). The case was also glamorous. Caelius was something of a roué, part of the same stylish circle in which Catullus moved (see Chapter 4; he is mentioned in Cat.77, possibly Cat. 69). It was widely believed, perhaps rightly, that he, like Catullus, had enjoyed a sexual relationship with Clodia Metelli, the

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talented, rich, and deeply influential patrician who inspired Catullus’ Lesbia. The rumour of an affair was at the very least in circulation, including a version in which Caelius ultimately spurned Clodia’s affections. This rumour added a sensational, lurid twist to the charges against Caelius. Public fascination was intensified by the prosecution’s assertion that Caelius borrowed from Clodia the gold which financed his hiring of thugs and purchasing of poison; to cover his tracks, it was further alleged, he had intended to murder her too (Cic. Cael. 30–31). Celebrity and dirty politics, then, combined to render Caelius’ trial sensational. The lead prosecutor was L. Sempronius Atratinus, destined for the consulship of 34 but only seventeen at the time of this trial. His colleagues were P. Clodius (not Clodius Pulcher, the infamous tribune) and L. Herennius Balbus; little is known about either man. M. Crassus spoke for the defence. Caelius, too, spoke on his own behalf, in a speech that continued to be studied in the empire. Cicero spoke last. As always, the case for the prosecution came first. In addition to elaborating the formal charges, prosecutors made heavy weather of Caelius’ dubious morality, the salient point being that an ambitious and dissolute young man was likely to involve himself in any sort of crime in order to advance his career. As for the defence, Crassus dealt with the mundane, serious facts of the case, and did so well enough to create an opening for anyone inclined to be persuaded of Caelius’ innocence. Caelius, so far as we can tell, devoted his speech to attacks on the prosecutors (he accused Atratinus of effeminacy and of hiring a speechwriter: Suet. Gramm. 26.2) and especially on the reputation of Clodia, whom he impugned as a sexual tease (in triclinio coam, in cubiculo nolam: ‘in the dining room she is all Coa’ (Coan fabric was thought too sheer for a respectable woman to wear) ‘in the bedroom she is all Nola’ (nolam is Latin for I don’t want to) – Quintilian disapproved of this wordplay but not its underlying sexism: Quint. 8.6.53).

Pro Caelio: Analysis Cicero’s speech, although he amplified Caelius’ misogynistic strategy, was more exquisite. He delivered a marvellously varied performance the central message of which was simple: this case is a triviality, elevated to the level of criminality by the vast influence of a fiercely passionate woman whose attempts at seduction the defendant had scorned. In doing so, Cicero manipulated the double standard of Roman sexism by way of critically unpicking and redeploying the various techniques employed by orators when denouncing immorality. He concluded his speech by insisting that

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any young man who was so able a speaker as Caelius must be made of the right stuff to serve the republic, an appeal to the comprehensive aristocratic excellence signalled by eloquence (see Sidebar VII). Waving away any incriminating evidence – he leaves all that to Crassus – Cicero makes oratory itself Caelius’ principal defence. It is worth observing the artistry with which Cicero shapes every sentence. His opening words, for instance, intrigue and charm his audience even as they prepare them for what will follow. Below, as an aid in perceiving its design, this sentence is divided into its component clauses; the Latin is supplied and cadences are marked in order to make clear the balance and rhythm of Cicero’s first words (Cic. Cael. 1): si quis, iudices, forte nunc ādsı˘t īgnārūs lēgūm If anyone, members of the jury, should happen now to be present, someone ignorant of our laws iudiciorum, consuetūdı˘nīs nōstraē of our courts, our conventions, miretur profecto quae sit tanta atrōcı˘tās hu˘iūscĕ caūsaē he would certainly wonder what ghastly enormity is involved in this case quod diebus festis ludīsquĕ pūblı˘cīs since on a day of festivities and public games omnibus forensibus negotiis īntērmīssīs at a time when all legal business is suspended, unum hoc iūdı˘cı˘(um) ēxērcĕ ātu˘r only this court is in session. nec dubitet quin tanti facı˘no˘rīs rĕ u˘s ārgu˘ātu˘r Nor could he doubt that the defendant is accused of a crime so dire ut eo neglecto civitas stārĕ nōn pōssı˘t. that, should his trial be set aside, this state could not possibly survive.

Cicero’s opening sentence is long and complex, yet easy to follow, not least owing to its neat, balanced clauses and the cadences (clausulae) employed in pacing and punctuating its meaning. Cicero’s opening words are

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carefully designed to introduce his strategy of trivialisation. On the surface, he suggests, the republic is faced with a dangerous figure. For anyone in the know, however, this is nonsense. Cicero will go on in the next few sentences to claim that in reality a powerful, hateful, and immoral woman is the hidden impetus driving this prosecution. Cicero does not yet name Clodia but pricks the jurors’ lurid curiosity by putting the whole case down to the machinations of a quasi-prostitute. But first, and at length, Cicero takes up the prosecution’s invective against Caelius. Naturally he rejects it, but he actually spends most of his time analysing it, as if he were a professor of rhetoric dealing with his pupils (Cic. Cael. 3–30). Cicero is unfailingly polite to his opposition as he dispassionately corrects the defects in their oratory. In the case of Atratinus, who is young enough to be a pupil, Cicero observes that, although his speech was well delivered, it could never succeed because he is too young to be convincing as a moralist. His older associates did not suffer from that liability, and their speeches were more effective – unless one recognised their highly conventional character: there was not enough in either speech, Cicero notes, specific to Caelius; too much was merely boilerplate invective, commonplaces learned in school. Cicero deflates the rhetoric of his opponents by analysing it as rhetoric, reminding the jurors of their own school days, and in the end gives the prosecution less than perfect marks. All of this is intended to underline the sheer artificiality of their case and constitutes an oblique, witty reproach of their competence. Turning to his own version of the facts, Cicero concedes that Caelius, like many young aristocrats, is not always an angel. But he deploys a crude boys-will-be-boys argument, itself a rhetorical commonplace (Cic. Inv. 2.37), as his means of reassuring his audience that there is nothing unusual or worrying about Caelius (Cic. Cael. 28; 30; 39–44; 47–48). Although Cicero, too, is using a standard rhetorical technique, his credibility in doing so has by now been enhanced by his masterly analysis of his opponents’ technical failures. Cicero deploys his authority as an expert in rhetorical theory as a means of asserting his moral authority as a leader in Roman civic affairs. Cicero then takes his turn at invective. His reproaches are reserved for Clodia Metelli. We have already seen that budding orators were taught how to subvert the eminence of their opponents by complaining of patrician arrogance or noble clout or some similarly unfair advantage (Cic. Inv. 1.22). Cicero activates this commonplace here – Clodia’s clout was undeniable – but he must fold it into the delicate task of publicly deprecating a woman. Even in a society as sexist as Rome, there were proprieties. Cicero points out, however, by way of praeteritio, that Clodia is sister to his bitterest enemy, Clodius

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Pulcher, the man who drove him into exile, and, furthermore, that Clodia had been nothing short of savage in her treatment of Cicero’s family during the orator’s exile: cruelty from an enemy was a standard basis for justifying invective (Rhet. Her. 3.11), and Cicero signals his motivation but does not overplay it since he wants his vituperation of Clodia to appear to come from a genuine source, rather than as the venting of personal animosity. As a formal gesture exhibiting his correct sensibility, Cicero briefly apologises for his attack, the responsibility for which he attributes to the prosecution’s strategy and the needs of his client (Cic. Cael. 31–32). More than once, he is coy about the true object of his abuse (Cic. Cael. 48: ‘I shall mention no woman by name’; Cic. Cael. 50: ‘Clodia . . . do not think what I said was directed at you . . . If a woman like the one I have been describing in fact existed, a woman quite unlike yourself, I hasten to add . . . ’). Nevertheless, Cicero is confident of his audience’s opinion of her, and soon his defamation of Clodia is explicit, full-throated, and uninhibited: he calls her a meretrix, a prostitute (Cic. Cael. 49–50; 57; cf. Cic. Cael. 1; 37), and insinuates that she murdered her husband, the consul of 60 (Cic. Cael. 59–60). In order to sustain his claim that the case against Caelius is trivial, Cicero scaffolds his speech with figures and tropes from the stage, all of which emphasise the unreality of the prosecution’s case. Caelius, too, tried this tack: at some point he described Clodia as quadrantaria Clytemnestra (‘a two-bit Clytemnestra’: Quint. 8.6.53), like Cicero alleging her responsibility in the death of her husband but depriving the crime of any operatic grandeur. Crassus introduced his speech with a quotation from Ennius’ Medea in Exile (utinam ne in nemore Pelio: ‘would that never in Pelion’s forest’: Cael. 18), although that allusion was intended to focus on Ptolemy’s culpability in the violence perpetrated against the Egyptian embassy (viz.: if only Ptolemy had not come to Rome; see Chapter 2). Cicero reprises Crassus’ invocation of Ennius but extends the quotation to direct the focus, unflatteringly, to Clodia: Medea animo aegro, amore saevia saucia (‘Medea, sick at heart, wounded by savage passion’). And he goes on to denominate Clodia as Palatina Medea (‘Medea of the Palatine’), a learned slur signalling her unbridled desire for vengeance against her ex-lover but also preparing his audience for a later insinuation that Clodia is a poisoner. It was not all tragedy, however: Cicero also introduces comedy. He faults the prosecution for playing the part of Grim Uncle or Stern Schoolmaster or Harsh Father, all stock figures from comedy, when instead they should have been performing as orators (Cic. Cael. 25; see also Chapter 2). He does not exclude himself: he insists on distinguishing his oratorical deployment of the boys-will-be-boys trope from the ridiculous

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tolerance characterising Micio in Terence’s Brothers (Cic. Cael. 39–43). In a lengthy and light-hearted section, Cicero refutes the prosecution’s claim that Clodia and her agents had tried to catch Caelius in the act of procuring poison. The scene is set in the Senian baths, and as Cicero tells the story it becomes a sequence of silly, bizarre moments: warriors led by a woman, hiding in a tub as if it were the Trojan horse. In the end, Cicero dismisses the whole episode as nothing more than a bad mime, the farcical quality of which he humorously reproduces for the jurors (Cic. Cael. 61–67). Cicero varies his tirade against Clodia by introducing, as unexpected allies, Clodia’s ancestor, Ap. Claudius Caecus, and her brother, Clodius Pulcher. He does so by way of the technique of prosopopoeia, a speech delivered by an orator in the character of someone else. For each of these figures, Cicero dramatically adapts his own bearing and delivery to a different, more or less appropriate manner of moving and speaking designed to evoke the ancient Caecus and the very modern Clodius. In the case of Caecus, he delivers a clunky, old-fashioned speech that underlines the gap between Clodia’s conduct and the exemplary attainments of her noble family (Cic. Cael. 34). At the same time, if only to show how clever he is, Cicero allows his Caecus to make an accidental allusion to contemporary society. Caecus, in reproaching Clodia, deploys a trio of rhetorical questions, the first of which adduces his famous speech about Pyrrhus (see above): ideone ego pacem Pyrrhi diremi ut tu amorum turpissimorum cotidie foedera ferires Did I demolish the peace treaty with Pyrrhus so that every day you could make covenants concerning disgraceful love affairs?

Here Caecus draws an unfavourable contrast between Clodia’s private affairs and his glorious public service and does so by denoting Clodia’s unsavoury personal ties with the word foedus (‘covenant’), which usually refers to formal agreements between states but can also be used of bargains between individuals. Caecus’ obvious reference is the loan of gold Clodia is alleged to have made to Caelius. But ‘Caecus’ inadvertently draws the attention of at least some jurors to Catullus’ recent and remarkable poems in which his adulterous affair with Lesbia is unexpectedly and singularly characterised by her with the word foedus (Cat. 76.3; 87.3; 109.6: ‘you promise . . . this love of ours shall be everlasting . . . an eternal covenant, foedus, of sacred friendship’; see Chapter 4). That was clearly not the old man’s intention; the allusion, however, reveals the degree to which his descendant is more degenerate than he could have imagined.

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All of this was intended to provoke amusement. When Cicero then took on the persona of his arch-enemy Clodius, the frisson must have been palpable. Nor did he disappoint in removing the rustic Caecus and ushering forward the smart, trendy Clodius: ‘He is exceedingly fond of you’, Cicero observed, reminding his audience of the rumours of incest between Clodia and her brother; he goes on to say that, because, when he was a boy, he was scared of the dark, Clodius adopted the habit of sleeping with his older sister. As for Cicero’s personification, ‘Clodius’ takes it for granted that his sister attempted to seduce Caelius and failed. His advice: move on to another young man (Cic. Cael. 36). Cicero, in this speech, delivers a star turn, exhibiting in the presence of the jury elements of tragedy, comedy, and mime. This was not mere virtuosity, but a performance designed to underline for his audience that, not far away, the rest of Rome was enjoying all these things at the city’s celebration of the Megalesia, Rome’s festival for the Great Mother. Indeed, Cicero commenced this speech by lamenting how unnecessarily hard the jurors were obliged to work – on a public holiday (Cic. Cael. 1) – a not very subtle means of winning their goodwill. But this speech is not all fun and games: the unmistakeable, if delightful, artificiality of Cicero’s personifications is employed to lend authority and authenticity to the censure of Clodia he offers in his own voice: ‘As for you, woman, for I am no longer adopting a stage character but am addressing you directly’ (Cic. Cael. 35). This deprecation, unlike the orator’s prosopopoeia and in stark contrast with the cut-and-paste attacks on Caelius made by the prosecutors, is designed by Cicero to come across to the audience as a sincere, righteous abomination of Clodia’s character and conduct. In this way, Cicero puts to work rhetorical theory and oratorical practice to lend weight to what is ultimately a very thin argument. When he comes to his peroration, Cicero abandons both invective and humour. He employs the grand style in an encomium of Caelius and his aristocratic virtues; emphasis is marked by rhyme and rhythm (Cic. Cael. 77): conservate igitur rei publicae, iudices, civem bonarum artium, bonarum partium, bonorum virorum. Therefore preserve for the republic, jurors, a citizen of high culture, of sound political principles, of the community of good men.

His proof of this, adduced more than once in this speech (Cic. Cael. 45–47), is Caelius’ success as an orator: his erudition demonstrates his fundamental goodness; it is a traditional view, closely associated with the Elder Cato,

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which he expects his audience to share – vir bonus dicendi peritus (‘a good man, experienced in speaking’). A peroration is also the appropriate site for appealing to the emotions: Cicero does not neglect to draw attention to Caelius’ loving father, and he makes a powerful appeal to the jury’s sympathy, summed up with the neat plea: ‘save the son for the father, the father for the son!’ (conservate parenti filium, parentem filio: Cael. 80). He concludes by drawing all parties together in their joint and hopeful expectations of Caelius’ personal excellence (Cic. Cael. 80): quem si nobis, si suis, si rei publicae conservatis, addictum, deditum, obstrictum vobis ac liberis vestris habebitis omniumque huius nervorum ac laborum vos potissimum, iudices, fructus uberes diuturnosque capietis. If you restore him to me, to his family, to the republic, you will have a man who is dedicated, devoted, bound to you and your children, and from his bold undertakings and labours you most of all, jurors, will reap the abundant and lasting fruits.

Atticism and Asianism Cicero’s eminence naturally provoked challenges and criticism from younger talents keen to distinguish themselves by way of stylistic dissimilarity. C. Licinius Calvus (82–ca. 47), an intimate of Catullus (Cat. 14; 50; 53; 96; see Chapter 4), excelled in poetry as well as oratory and soon emerged as a true rival to Cicero, with whom he clashed in court. He faulted Cicero’s style as ‘flabby and blobby’ (Tac. Dial. 18: solutum atque disiunctum). Cicero shot back that Calvus’ oratory was ‘anaemic and skinny’ (exsanguem et attritum). M. Brutus, also a critic, dismissed Ciceronian speechmaking as ‘feeble and lame’ (fractum atque elumbem). Cicero’s riposte disparaged Brutus’ Latin as ‘boring and blobby’ (otiosum atque disiunctum). Others, too, turned on Cicero: Q. Cornificius (pr. 45) and Asinius Pollio (cos. 40). Each, like Calvus, close to Catullus (Cat. 12; 38), repudiated the senior orator’s style. This was a controversy among friends and colleagues: in a letter to Cornificius, Cicero concedes that the two men disagree, but he foregrounds their friendship. Soon, however, this contest between generations was elaborated by all parties by evoking a distinction between fundamentally competing theories of good oratory: was one ‘Asian’ or ‘Attic’ in one’s tastes? Cicero’s detractors denominated themselves Atticists and claimed to model their speeches on fifth century Greek writers like Lysias or even Thucydides. Ciceronian style they repudiated as ‘Asian’, by which they clearly meant something decadent and

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therefore inferior. In reaction, Cicero, in his various rhetorical treatises, depicted himself as a pupil of Demosthenes, the greatest of Attic orators and, in Cicero’s representation of the man, a master, of stylistic variety – the quality, Cicero insists, his younger rivals lack. The use of ‘Asian’ to divide one oratorical generation from the next emerges first in Cicero’s Brutus, which furnishes our earliest extant example of this word as a stylistic term: it comes in a passage where Cicero is busy distinguishing himself from his great predecessor, Hortensius Hortalus (Cic. Brut. 325). There an ‘Asian’ style is described as fulsome, often epigrammatic but more often highly ornamental, and marked by a vigorous delivery. This assessment of Hortenisus, unfortunately, does little to illuminate the specifics of the differences that emerged between Cicero and the next generation of pleaders, nor is it entirely clear to us how much Cicero’s critics had in common in the matter of style apart from their deployment of the designation ‘Atticist’. There was much about Calvus’ style which Cicero admired, but he faulted its lack of variety and deemed it less than sufficiently robust. He had similar reservations about Brutus. Both men, however, were forceful in delivery. Brutus, we know, avoided Ciceronian clausulae (Quint. 9.4.76), and Pollio, who aimed at a harsh, middle-republican style, tended to avoid prose rhythm altogether. The Romans’ debate over Attic and Asian styles, although it influenced contemporary Greek rhetorical theory, was shortlived, more a matter of getting past the enormous influence of Cicero’s style than forging a new orthodoxy.

The Rise of Declamation Oratory and its importance survived the fall of the republic and Rome’s transformation into an autocracy. Judicial speeches continued to matter even in these changed circumstances. So, too, public addresses. And Romans continued to build political reputations through eloquence: Pliny the Younger and Tacitus are only two of many distinguished examples. Fame and influence were won by way of forensic oratory and in senatorial speechifying. Nevertheless, the traditional cut-and-thrust of political oratory in contests waged before the people no longer existed. It was under these circumstances that a politically neutered brand of performance art arose in popularity: declamation (declamatio), a Hellenistic practice which Romans began taking up during the late republic. Declamation was a part of every orator’s training. In one kind of exercise, called a suasoria, a pupil was inserted into a historical or mythological situation in which he delivered a deliberative speech advising a principal figure such as

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Alexander the Great or Hannibal. In a different exercise, known as a controversia, a pupil was assigned the role of prosecution or defence in a fictitious legal case. He then delivered a speech in which he displayed, for approval or correction, his rhetorical skill. For pedagogical reasons, teachers often set students unrealistic cases to argue or plunged their pupils into bizarre settings that twisted history or myth in unexpected ways. In this way, a student’s creativity and linguistic facility were put to an arduous test. During the Augustan Age, declamation, performed before a discriminating public, became an increasingly popular means of exhibiting eloquence. Soon it was a conspicuous, glamorous aspect of the art of oratory. Practised by adults, declamation attracted large audiences and, certainly within the confines of the elite classes, brought stardom to its most talented exponents. This kind of speechifying, oratorical competition freed from practical consequences, encouraged wit and elegance – and bold oratorical gambits. The style of declamation profoundly influenced other imperial genres, including history, epistolography, drama, and epic, all of which began, in a sense, a run toward rhetoric. We have notes about how these speeches worked from Seneca the Elder, including lines or even passages he found memorable, and we see it exemplified in many later authors. It is not a criticism of imperial literature to observe how frequently its characters speak in the manner of a declamation or how routinely its narratives aim at that kind of pointed style. This was instead a mark of the enduring significance of oratory in Roman society and Latin letters. SIDEBARS

V Senators and Equestrians: The Roman Aristocracy Because of the repetitiveness of Roman names, we regularly differentiate Roman men by their offices. There were many Scipios in Rome, so we identify the man who defeated Hannibal as P. Cornelius Scipio (cos. 205). The running for and holding of public office was a key activity of the Roman elite, and each year the Romans elected new magistrates – so every year was an election year. The most important of these magistracies were the consuls (=cos.), praetors (=pr.), aediles (=aed.), and quaestors (=q.). Romans also elected tribunes of the plebs (=tr. pl.), another consequential office. Romans also elected, every five years or so, two senior magistrates, usually ex-consuls, who conducted a census of the people, a process which included a supervision of the moral fitness of the elite: these magistrates were called censors. An important but unelected office was dictator: this was a temporary

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appointment for addressing an urgent matter, sometimes a true crisis. The dictator, while in office, held unequalled power. He was assisted by a cavalry commander called the master of the horse (magister equitum). These were exceptional magistracies and not a part of any aristocrat’s normal career. By custom and by law, there was an obligatory sequence of magistracies: in one’s late twenties, one held a quaestorship, followed (at a minimum age of thirty-nine) by a praetorship, culminating in a consulship (for which the minimum age was forty-two). The aedileship (usually held in one’s thirties) remained an optional extra, as did the tribunate (also usually held in one’s thirties). All these ex-magistrates became senators (see below). And this means that the government of Rome – both in its executive and its principal deliberative body – was carried out mostly by relatively young men, in their thirties and forties. This also means that the Roman senate was not an elected body of government, but elections decided who served in it. The Romans spoke of a senatorial class, and many senators were sons of senators, but in Rome the people, in a sense, selected its own aristocracy. And senators held office for life unless they were expunged for criminal or disgraceful or even exceptionable actions (one senator was excluded for passionately kissing his wife in broad daylight and in front of their daughter). Or for financial difficulties: Roman magistrates and senators were unpaid – it was public service, not a job – which meant that wealth was a prerequisite; only the rich could afford the time and costs of carrying out senatorial duties, and, in theory at least, this also rendered them immune to corruption. Romans expected their political class to be wealthy, well-connected, and deeply educated – in a word, superior. The people wanted leaders, not representatives. And so they tended to elect men from the same fairly small set of families, over generations, the senatorial class. So powerful was the Roman senate, which guided the affairs of the Mediterranean’s superpower, that the Greek historian Polybius deemed its membership a body of kings. Unlike kings – again – senators attained to their offices only by way of popular elections: elections, not birth, made a man a senator. All magistrates and ex-magistrates were important men, but praetors and consuls, because they possessed imperium, the authority to enforce justice and command armies, were the most distinguished. This was especially the case with the consulship, which was the supreme magistracy. Holding this office conferred what Cicero called summa laus, immeasurable glory, on its occupant. Ex-praetors were grandees. Ex-consuls, however, were the very cream of the senate and Roman high society. Descendants of consuls constituted Rome’s nobility, the nobiles, the republic’s most influential, and often most glamorous, families. Indeed, a typical way to describe a first-generation consul

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is to say that he ‘ennobled’ his descendants. This is a part of the complexity of the Roman aristocracy. Elections and the role of the people were vital. At the same time, an individual’s public standing was affected by his lineage: it was an asset to be descended from a senatorial family, especially a praetorian family or a consular one. Among the social and financial elite of Rome there were, alongside the senatorial class, members of the equestrian order. Socially they were nearly indistinguishable from senators, whom they sometimes excelled in riches, but unlike senators they did not devote their lives to public service. Which is not to say equestrians failed to do their duty as members of the elite. They took on military service when they were young, and many continued to pursue careers as officers or advisors to Roman commanders or provincial governors. Still, most equestrians devoted most of their energies to enhancing their wealth, in some cases by way of investing in commercial enterprises, in others by increasing their agricultural holdings. And the financial dealings of the equestrian order were vital to the management of the republic. Rome’s government outsourced many state operations – like provisioning the army or collecting taxes – to corporations consisting of equestrians who pooled their resources in order to take on these large-scale, often international works. These activities were publica, public works; the men who supplied them – and profited heavily from them – were called publicani, publicans, and they were the most formidable men of the equestrian order. The families of equestrians and senators shared the same rigorous, intensive education in Greek and Latin literature. Equestrians, like senators, also received the same training in oratory. Some equestrians, although they eschewed holding office, were active in the courts. In his Brutus, Cicero has high praise for his equestrian adversaries in the courts. And as declamation became increasingly popular, equestrian exponents were among the standouts in this medium. Nor should it go unobserved how many of the important poets we discuss – Lucilius, Catullus, Vergil, Horace, and Ovid, to name only a few – were men of the equestrian order. Indeed, the history of Latin literature depended heavily on the contributions of its equestrian authors. The gap between equestrians and senators was defined by honour and prestige. Important though equestrians were, they fell short of the dignity of senators, who were the grandest men in Rome owing to their (unpaid) public service. Increasingly, especially during the late republic, members of the equestrian order put themselves forward as candidates for high office; any who were successful entered the senate. Such a man was dubbed a New Man, a novus homo, an expression not intended as a compliment. Still, as

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time went on there were increasing numbers of new men in the senate. Some rose to the rank of praetor, but almost none attained the consulship. For that office, voters preferred figures from established senatorial families. When Cicero, a new man, was elected consul for 63, he was the first new man in twenty years to make it to the top. And yet, for all his political and literary successes, his rivals never let him forget his origins as a novus homo.

Further Reading The fragments of the Roman orators are accessible in three excellent Loeb volumes: G. Manuwald, Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume III: Oratory, Parts 1–3 (Cambridge MA 2019), volumes 540, 541, and 542. For the fragments of Cato, see G. Manuwald, Cato: Orations: Other Fragments (Cambridge MA 2023), Loeb volume 552. Cicero’s speeches have often been translated into English. Readable selections include: D. H. Berry, Cicero: Defence Speeches (Oxford 2000) and Cicero: Political Speeches (Oxford 2006). For the whole of Cicero, the Loeb editions, some of which are excellent, others of which only satisfactory, remain the most convenient resource: these are Loeb volumes 158, 189, 198, 221, 240, 252, 293, 309, 324, 447, and 507. Cicero’s rhetorical theory is also accessible in Loeb editions: see volumes 342, 348, 349, and 386. Alternatives to Cicero can be gained by way of H. Caplan, Cicero. Rhetorica ad Herennium (Cambridge MA 1954), volume 403, and D. A. Russell, Quintilian. The Orator’s Education, vols. 1–5 (Cambridge MA 2002), volumes 124, 125, 126, 127, and 494. Much has been written regarding Roman oratory and its place in Roman society. A still-useful starting point is G. Kennedy, The Art of Rhetoric in the Roman World (Princeton 1972). Other, and often more bracing, introductions include: W. Dominik and J. Hall (eds.), A Companion to Roman Rhetoric (Malden 2007); J. M. May (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Cicero: Oratory and Rhetoric (Leiden 2002); E. Gunderson (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rhetoric (Cambridge 2009); C. Steel (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Cicero (Cambridge 2013). Cicero’s forensic oratory is the focus of J. Powell and J. Paterson (eds.), Cicero the Advocate (Oxford 2004). As for oratory in political life, important and accessible recent studies include: H. van der Blom, Oratory and Political Career in the Late Republic (Oxford 2016); R. Morstein-Marx, Mass Oratory and Political Power in the Late Roman Republic (Cambridge 2004); C. Steel, Roman Oratory Cambridge 2006); C. Steel and H. van der Blom (eds.), Community and Communication: Oratory and Politics in Republican Rome (Oxford 2013). Fundamental approaches to Cicero’s techniques include: L. Laurand, Cicéron (Paris 1933); A. Haury, L’ironie et l’humour chez Cicéron (Leiden 1955); W. Stroh, Taxis und Taktik: Die advokatische Dispositionskunst in Ciceros Gerichtsreden (Stuttgart 1975); C. J. Classen, Recht, Rhetorik, Politik (Darmstadt 1985); E. Narducci, Cicerone e l’eloquenza romana: retorica e progetto culturale (Rome 1997); M. von Albrecht, Cicero’s Style: A Synopsis (Leiden 2003).

chapter 4

Song of Myself: The Personal Voice in Republican Literature

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo, Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi, qui me ex versiculis meis putastis, quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum. nam castum esse decet pium poetam ipsum, versiculos nihil necesse est, qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem, si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici et quod pruriat incitare possunt, non dico pueris, sed his pilosis, qui duros nequeunt movere lumbos. vos quod milia multa basiorum legistis, male me marem putatis? pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

(Cat. 16)

I will ass-rape you and mouth-rape you, passive Aurelius and Furius the faggot, you who think, because my little poems are effeminate, that I am not chaste enough. For it is proper for a pious poet to be chaste himself, but it is not at all necessary for his little poems to be. My little poems – to get to the point – have spice and charm, if they are effeminate and not-very-chaste, the sort to cause an itch and be able to arouse – I do not say boys – but this hairy duo who can’t shake their hard-ons. Because you have read about many thousands of kisses, do you think me less of a man? I will ass-rape you and mouth-rape you!

Coming after our previous discussions of Latin literature, this poem may come as a shock. (Indeed, it is likely to come as a shock regardless.) Written by Gaius Valerius Catullus, a poet of the late Roman republic, it has often been ignored in uncomfortable silence. We will return to Catullus later in this chapter, but for now he raises an important question about how to understand first person (‘I’) statements in poetry. Are they autobiographical, to be interpreted as factual, or are they fictional in the way we usually assume poetry to be? Catullus tells us that some people (Furius and Aurelius, possibly also us?) have read his kissing poems – on which more 110

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soon – and drawn from them inaccurate conclusions about his life. In fact he is as manly as anyone, which he demonstrates through a series of filthy insults. They, and we, are sorted out: you cannot read poetry as if it were biography. But wait: Catullus has schooled us about the fallacy of biographical reading of poetry in a poem: we are invited to make just the mistake we were warned against! Catullus is not the only Roman poet to raise these concerns, though he is certainly the most colourful. This chapter takes us through a series of authors who seem to offer us glimpses into their personal lives through prose and (especially) verse. But we can almost never answer the questions Catullus raises about how much of it is ‘true’, for him, or any other Latin author.

Personal Voices: Poetry Thus far we have treated genres of poetry (epic and drama) in which there is no obvious way for an author to intrude his or her personality. Occasionally an epic poet will tell us that he was present at a battle, or a dramatist will include information about a previous performance of a play, but there is a vast difference between this brief interruption and the kind of poetry which takes as its subject the experiences of one individual, who usually has the same name as the author. While we need not – in fact, we should not – understand such poems as autobiographical in any simple way, they nonetheless provide a rather different experience to readers. We have begun with Catullus because he is emblematic of the challenges and opportunities personal writing poses, and also because he is an extremely important poet for many of those who come after him, including some in our own day. Before we return to him, however, there is ground to cover: we fill in some context, discuss Lucilius and the invention of Roman satirical poetry, mention several other proponents of the personal voice, and finally, after our treatment of Catullus, move to Cicero as a prose author who gives us a new perspective on the issues we have raised for poetry. This chapter covers an unusually broad span of years, starting from the period of Ennius and moving right up to the end of the republic – that is, just about the two full centuries that this volume encompasses.

Satire The first of our topics, Roman satire, is a difficult genre of poetry to define. The origin of the word satura (or satira) is unclear, and was unclear even to the Romans. The grammarians provide several explanations

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(Diom. K 1.485), with some deriving it from satyr, an etymology prompted by satire’s robust and earthy humour, deemed evocative of Greek satyr plays. More commonly, however, satire was connected with some kind of a mixed casserole or a food stuffed to bursting with varied ingredients, along the lines of a sausage (cf. the English word ‘sated’). This origin is more plausible: the connections between food and satire are welldocumented, not least in one of satire’s main topics, how to behave, and how not to behave, especially at the table. So too, satire is unmistakably marked by its sheer variety, both in its eclectic selection of metres and its enormous range of topics. Readers familiar with English satire will identify it as moralising, poking fun at the foibles of others. Roman satire does this too. And when we discuss Roman (verse) satire we are simply extrapolating from the practices of four rather different authors: Lucilius, Horace, Persius, and Juvenal, the latter two of whom fall outside of our period. No ancient author defines satire for us. And in the beginning, satire is not particularly philosophical, although later it does become so. Satire, then, is a grab-bag, personal and moralising even when it is not highbrow. Ennius was the first Roman to write poetry he called satire. He may have been influenced by Greek antecedents, including perhaps a now-lost volume by the Hellenistic poet Posidippus entitled Soros, or The Heap of Winnowed Grain; there were also Greek collections of poems with names like Summeikta, or Miscellany. Works of this kind, however plausible they seem to us as antecedents, go unmentioned in ancient discussions of the origins of satire. Indeed, the Romans never reached total agreement on the matter of satire’s origins. Still, when they adduce inspirations for the genre, they turn elsewhere. The educator Quintilian, writing in the first century ce, furnished aspiring orators with a programme of required reading which naturally included copious quantities of ‘the classics’, both Greek and Latin. His procedure is to discuss the best Roman adaptations of the central Greek literary genres. When he turns to satire, however, he makes the remarkable assertion that satura quidem tota nostra est, ‘satire, at least, is entirely ours’ (Quint. 10.1.93). And the earliest satirist he names is Lucilius (who never refers to his own work as satire). Quintilian seems to seize upon satire with a certain relief (that ‘at least’ is telling): here, finally, is something the Greeks didn’t beat us to. And yet, his claim is at least slightly misleading: the Romans seem to have created satire by combining a variety of Greek forms of poetry, notably iambic, with non-literary forms like the scurrilous verses sung at

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weddings, and with several other things. In describing one of the early stages of Roman drama, Livy tells us, players influenced by Etruscan performances, ‘no longer, as previously, tossed crude and hastily improvised lines back and forth, like Fescennine verses, but instead performed satires filled with musical measures, all written out in advance and arranged to go with the flute-music and suitable gestures’ (Liv. 2.7.7; see Chapter 1 on Fescennines). Livy’s account of literary history may be confused, but it suggests the belief that satire originated under the influence of foreign dramatic arts rather than being a wholly internal product.

Lucilius and the History of Satire The Augustan poet Horace (see Chapters 5 and 9), like Quintilian, locates the genesis of Roman satire in the work of Lucilius (Hor. Sat. 2.62–63): cum est Lucilius ausus primus in hunc operis componere carmina morem when Lucilius became the first man to dare to compose poetry in this manner.

The designation primus, which Horace here pins on Lucilius, routinely signals the ‘originality’ exhibited by a Roman writer in introducing some element of Greek literature or thought into Latin. No surprise, then, that at Sat. 1.4.6–7 Horace, after observing similarities between Lucilius’ poetry and the Old Comedy of the Greeks Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, goes on to say: hinc omnis pendet Lucilius, hosce secutus mutatis tantum pedibus numerisque Lucilius derives entirely from this brand of poetry, following these, with only metres and rhythms changed.

Horace here connects Lucilian satire with the candid, critical, and iambic dynamics of Greek Old Comedy. According to Horace, Latin satire remains something novel: after all, its poetic expression is different from any of the dramatic forms that allegedly influenced it. A link to Greek literature is nevertheless asserted, and the connection is later reinforced by Horace when he claims that he, too, reads Old Comedy when preparing to compose satires (Hor. Sat. 2.3.12). Indeed, Horace’s ‘take’ on early satire has much to do with what he is trying to accomplish in his own poetry (see also Chapter 9). But later writers also saw in Lucilius the influence of Old Comedy and/or of Greek iambic poetry (Diom. K 1.485; Apul. Apol 10),

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and it has been suggested that this pedigree for satire was first elaborated by Varro (in a work now lost; see below and Chapter 5). Horace, however, muddies the waters. At Sat. 1.10.64–67, in a criticism of Lucilius’ style, he makes the concession that, for his time, Lucilius was better than one might expect: fuerit Lucilius, inquam, comis et urbanus, fuerit limatior idem quam rudis et Graecis intacti carminis auctor quamque poetarum seniorum turba

How best to understand these lines is not obvious. Let us compare two possible translations: (A) Granted that Lucilius was genial and sophisticated, as I say, he was more polished than the crude author of a kind of poetry untouched by Greeks and the mob of older poets. (B) Granted that Lucilius was genial and sophisticated, as I say, he was more polished than a crude author of a kind of poetry untouched by Greeks and [more polished than] the mob of older poets.

In version A, Horace appears to compare Lucilius with a less polished predecessor, who is the true inventor of Latin satire. This is presumably Ennius (the Latin rudis may evoke Ennius’ birthplace in Rudiae). In version B, Lucilius is the inventor of satire and his poetry is deemed more polished than one might have expected at the time, especially for a poet with no Greek model to guide him. Either construction is possible. But whether Horace here acknowledges or ignores Ennius, it is clear that, in this passage at least, he regards satire as purely Roman, ‘untouched by Greeks’. As we have seen, he contradicts this claim elsewhere. Apparently, there was more than one view on the topic and Horace was not obliged to be consistent. Perhaps Quintilian, too, was in this instance less interested in priority than in artistic excellence. In his brief survey of satire, he begins with Lucilius, neglecting Greek antecedents to be sure, but also saying nothing about the satires of Ennius or Pacuvius. Lucilius comes first because, according to Quintilian, ‘he was the first poet to win great renown in this genre’ (Quint. 10.1.93). The survey then turns then to Horace and Persius, who merit praise, as well as to contemporaries whom Quintilian does not name but who, he assures his reader, ‘will someday be famous’. Varro’s satires are also mentioned – ‘another and older type of satire’ – only to be dismissed as having little to offer the student of eloquence. Quintilian has in mind Varro’s Menippean Satires, works which advertise their Greek

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pedigree, as Quintilian knew (see below). It appears, then, that Quintilian, in discussing satire’s Romanness, is not supplying facts, but is instead asserting Rome’s domination of the genre. Antecedents that cannot match Lucilius or his successors simply do not rate inclusion. Greek origins and Greek sophistication were always welcome in Latin literature, and Roman writers routinely chart their genius via the degrees by which they excel their predecessors in Latin or Greek, or both. So it would be unsurprising if the Romans invented a Greek origin for satire even if one was lacking. In fact, it is striking that Romans focus on Roman satire. Alleged or possible Hellenic antecedents simply don’t interest them. Perhaps this is because, unlike drama, neither the settings nor the characters of satire suggested anything but the universe of Rome and Italy, notwithstanding the genre’s Greek metres or its moralising, reminiscent of iambic and comedic verse. If satire struck the Romans as somehow distinctly theirs, this reaction may derive from the very hybridity of the genre, which allowed them to show creativity through combination.

Ennius We have very little information about Ennius’ Satires. They were composed in various metres and he wrote either four or six books of them. They seem to have been a miscellany, mixing the lowbrow with more elevated topics. Even in their current fragmentary state we find depictions of a busybody (Enn. Sat. 4), a slanderer (Enn. Sat. 7), and a grasping parasite (Enn. Sat. 9) – all comic stereotypes that invite conventional moralising. The remains of dialogue, or perhaps simply conversation, are detectable, but so, too, are fables and passages of folksy advice. Ennius, as we have seen (Chapter 1), was not too shy to install an unmistakable authorial presence in his epic poetry: there he (1) informs his reader that he is Homer re-born, (2) calumniates his Roman predecessors, (3) declares himself a poeta and not a vates, and (4) designates himself Rome’s first philologist. In satire, too, Ennius was autobiographical. Unlike epic, his self-presentation here is more casual, less aggressive, even disarming. Although little is preserved, we are doubtless right in concluding that many Ennian anecdotes preserved by ancient authors – his strolls in the garden with Servius Galba (Cic. Acad. 2.51) or his maladroit attempt to avoid Scipio Nasica by having a servant say he was out when it was plain that he was not (Cic. De orat. 2.276) – originated in his Satires. In his humorous exchange with Nasica, it is clear from Cicero’s telling of it, Ennius found himself at the receiving end of Nasica’s superior wit. Indeed,

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that was the point of the story. And we spy a glimpse of this unexpectedly self-deprecating literary persona in the surviving fragments – if Ennius is the speaker who confesses (Enn. Sat. 13): numquam poetor nisi si podager. I am never poet-y except when I am gouty.

The poet loses his epic grandeur and becomes very human indeed. We might imagine that this line supplied part of a riposte to the over-the-top flattery addressed to our satirist by an unidentified admirer (Enn. Sat. 5): Enni poeta salve qui mortalibus versus propinas flammeos medullitus! Ennius the poet, greetings, you who drink from a cup of flaming verses drawn from the marrow of your bones and hand it on to mortals.

Alas, we can say nothing with certainty of this fragment’s context. But it is clear enough that the Ennius of satire possessed a sense of humour and portrayed himself very differently from the literary polemicist of the Annales. This raises the recurring and inevitable problem of what to make of autobiographical exposition in Latin poetry. While they do poke fun at others, nothing suggests that Ennius’ satires were political or even especially censorious. In one fragment someone says, ‘it is not my nature, as if a dog has bitten me . . . ’ [to bite back? To bark?] (Enn. Sat. 5). If that someone is Ennius, we should not expect that much which was sharp or provocative has been lost to us. Instead, as we have noted, it is moralism of a conventional sort that comes through. For instance, Ennius, or one of his speakers, denounces an unnamed decadent Roman with ‘let him carouse without limit, by Hercules – to his own great misfortune!’ (Enn. Sat. 1). This was a sentiment that could hardly provoke controversy. Indeed, it hardly even attracts attention. And this may have been true of much of his Satires. But they were read, and cited; his nephew Pacuvius also wrote satires (Schol. ad Hor. Sat. 1.10.46; Diom. K 1.485), but not a scrap has survived.

Lucilius – Biography We do not know in what year Gaius Lucilius was born; perhaps as early as 180. We do, however, know where: Suessa Aurunca, a Latin town on the border of Latium and Campania. It sometimes been suggested that Lucilius was not a Roman citizen but a prominent citizen of an Italian

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community who possessed privileges in Rome (which the Romans called Latin rights). Wealthy Roman citizens, however, possessed multiple properties throughout Italy, and Campania was especially attractive to rich men seeking investments in agriculture. It was also true that distinguished Latin families could and did acquire the franchise in Rome, so he is fairly likely to have been a citizen. Whatever his status, Lucilius made a place for himself amid the superior echelons of Roman society, and he appears to belong to an important family. A descendant of his, Lucilia, married Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo (cos. 89), and was the mother of Pompey the Great. So, following many (but not all) scholars, we consider Lucilius a Roman of equestrian status (see Sidebar V). Lucilius served as a cavalry officer under the command of Scipio Aemelianus in the Numantine campaign of 134, after which time he remained an intimate of the Roman nobleman. He eschewed a senatorial career, and on the evidence of his surviving verses preferred agricultural wealth to more profitable (and more energetic) activities (‘as for me, I couldn’t be persuaded to exchange my lands for the profits of the publicani [tax-collectors]’: Luc. Sat. 647; cf. 650–651). In Rome he possessed a glamorous mansion, which the republic had originally constructed for Antiochus IV when he was a royal hostage in Rome (Asc. 13), and he was on close terms with senators of consular standing. He died in 102, and was granted a public funeral, a fairly unusual event in those times.

Lucilian Satire Lucilius left thirty books of poetry, of which about 1,500 lines remain. Confusingly, the books numbered 26–30 represent his earliest works, composed between 132 and 129. Books 1–21 were composed later, over the course of Lucilius’ career. And Books 22–25 were not satires but epitaphs and other occasional poems, written in elegiac couplets (see Chapter 7). Most of the surviving fragments are unconnected verses, cited by later writers on account of some linguistic oddity. For this reason, we are well-informed as to Lucilius’ clever coinages, including such gems as conbibones (‘drinking buddies’, Luc. Sat. 658), deargentassere (‘to un-silver’, that is, to steal someone’s money, Luc. Sat. 640–641), monstrificabile (‘monster-making’, Luc. Sat. 726), and subpilo (‘under-plucker’, Luc. Sat. 993). In his early verses, Lucilius resorted to a variety of metres, but he soon settled on dactylic hexameter, a decision that later influenced Horace as well and which determined the metre of later Roman satire. Some books were a single extended poem; others included distinct pieces, sometimes

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connected by a theme or topic. Book 16, for instance, was eventually known as Collyra because its poems focused on Lucilius’ girlfriend of that name (Schol. ad Hor. Carm. 1.22.10). Lucilius’ poetry was very popular, both in his own day and subsequently. Cicero describes Lucilius as learned and sophisticated (Cic. De orat. 3.171: doctus et perurbanus) and Varro esteemed his poetry for its elegance (Gell. NA 6.14.6). Quintilian notes that ‘to this day Lucilius has devotees so in love with his work that they unhesitatingly prefer him not only to others writing satire but to all poets’ (Quint. 10.1.94). This is a judgement Quintilian does not share, though he concedes Lucilius’ learning (eruditio), freedom of speech (libertas), and copious wit (abunde salis). It is easy to overlook a poet whose work survives only in fragments, and yet in the first century ce there were Romans who esteemed Lucilius’ poetry above Catullus’ or Horace’s or Vergil’s. Our view of Lucilius, however, relies on reports and citations, and also on the literary sensibilities of later writers, and especially on the version of Lucilius confected by Horace in his own Satires (see Chapter 9). For Horace, as we have seen, Lucilius was, for all practical purposes, the inventor of Roman satire. He was also, therefore, Horace’s chief rival. Consequently, Horace again and again reverts to Lucilius, giving shape to his own satiric personality by way of the Lucilian personality he partly recovers but partly creates for his own purposes. This cannibalistic habit can be illustrated by any number of examples, but one concise specimen will suffice. At Sat. 2.1, Horace is sizing himself up against his poetic rival (Sat. 2.1.74–77): quidquid sum ego, quamvis infra Lucili censum ingeniumque, tamen me cum magnis vixisse invita fatebitur usque invidia, Such a figure I am, although I am Lucilius’ inferior in status and talent, still not even grudging Envy would refuse to admit that I have enjoyed the company of great men.

Horace, like Lucilius, is a friend of Roman grandees, a boast he introduces with a modest genuflection to his predecessor. But this very gesture, at least according to Horace, is a move taken from the literary polemic of Lucilius, who, when he ridicules the verses of Accius and Ennius, ‘with regard to himself does not say that he is greater than those he reprehends’ (Hor. Sat. 1.10.55). Even when he is marking himself off from Lucilius, Horace cannot help but reprise him – and the reader of Book 2 of Horace’s Satires who

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recalls that concluding poem of Book 1 will recognise that Horace’s reenactment of Lucilius’ modesty activates a literary polemic. The Lucilius of Horace, then, must always be examined cautiously. Still, Horace is surely reliable in characterising Lucilius’ poetry as personal, even ‘biographical’ (Hor. Sat. 2.1.30–34): ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim credebat libris neque, si male cesserat, usquam decurrens alio neque, si bene; quo fit ut omnis votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella vita senis. It was his habit in those days to entrust his secrets to his books as if they were trustworthy companions, nor did he ever stop or turn elsewhere, whether things went badly or well. For this reason, the whole life of this old man is revealed to us, as if it were painted on a votive tablet.

Here again, we need not conclude that Lucilius provides us with historical records; everything will have been fictionalised in order to fit better into the poetry.

Lucilian Themes and Style In a fragment, Lucilius emphasises that his poetry exposes his inner self: ‘when I bring forth any line of verse out of my innermost feelings’ (Luc. Sat. 670–671). That, at least, is the impression this fragment now makes. And, probably, that is the right impression. But it is almost always the case that when we read the fragmentary remains of Lucilius, we do not know who is speaking. Is it the poet’s rendition of himself? Or is it one of his many characters? That Lucilius writes autobiographically and with a persona, we can be sure. Matters become more complicated, however, when we attempt to draw specific conclusions. The sheer range of Lucilius’ interests impresses. He subjected the taste and style of his contemporaries to harsh if humorous scrutiny. Food, exotic or commonplace, is a recurring topic. So, too, dinner parties, some refined, others rustic. The conventional objects of Roman moralising also appear: gluttons (e.g. Luc. Sat. 67–9; 70; 198–9; 200–7) parasites (e.g. Luc. Sat. 165; 211–2; 761–2), adulterers (e.g. Luc. Sat. 251; 913–5) wanton women (e.g. Luc. Sat. 275–6; 290; 291; 927–8), effeminate men and their admirers (e.g. Luc. Sat. 166; 254–8; 324–5; 450–2; 959–60). Sex shows up – often graphically (e.g. Luc. Sat. 331–2; 333; 334; 335; 359–60; 361). Religion also comes in for Lucilian satire (e.g. Luc. Sat. 24–7; 524–9), as do high culture and its pretensions. Lucilius has

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fun with philosophy (e.g. Luc. Sat. 35; 676–7; 805–11; 820; 821; 822–3; 835), pillories bad style (e.g. Luc. Sat. 186–193 and what remains of Book 10) and bad oratorical delivery (e.g. Luc. Sat. 273–4), mocks inappropriate uses of Greek (e.g. Luc. Sat. 15–6; 84–6; 186–93), objects to blunders in scansion, spelling, and pronunciation (the fragments of Book 9), and takes on contemporary fashions in literary theory (e.g. Luc. Sat. 401–10). But by no means is everything in Lucilius critical or negative: he also admires friendship (e.g. Luc. Sat. 694; 695; 859–78; 957–8; 1187) and exhibits a traditional brand of patriotism (e.g. Luc. Sat. 708–9; 710–11). For Horace, Lucilius’ animadversions on contemporary society were the building-blocks of a wholesome project of making virtue the only measure of private and public life. For this reason, Lucilius did not shrink from denouncing the leading figures of the city, if their conduct called for it (Hor. Sat. 2.1.62–70): cum est Lucilius ausus primus in hunc operis componere carmina morem, detrahere et pellem, nitidus qua quisque per ora cederet, introrsum turpis, num Laelius et qui duxit ab oppressa meritum Karthagine nomen ingenio offensi aut laeso doluere Metello famosisque Lupo cooperto versibus? atque primores populi arripuit popolumque tributim, scilicet uni aequus virtuti atque eius amicis. When Lucilius became the first man to dare compose poetry in this manner, to tear off the foul skin used by some to mask their inner ugliness with a fine appearance, was Laelius offended by his wit, or the man who rightly took his name from the Carthaginian city he destroyed? Not even when he wounded Metellus or smothered Lupus in a shower of insulting verses, or when he castigated the leading public figures or even the public itself, tribe by tribe. He remained impartial only to Virtue and to Virtue’s friends.

Horace is not making this up. Lucilius furnished his readers with a lengthy definition of virtue (Luc. Sat. 1196–1208) and makes it clear that he objects to deviations from virtuous conduct on the part of anyone, grand or humble (Luc. Sat. 1145–1151): nunc vero a mani ad noctem festo atque profesto totus item pariterque die populusque patresque iactare indu foro se omnes, decedere nusquam; uni se atque eidem studio omnes dedere et arti – verba dare ut caute possint, pugnare dolose, blanditia certare, bonum simulare virum se,

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insidias facere ut si hostes sint omnibus omnes. Now really, from morning to night, holiday or workday, the whole of the people and senators alike hurl themselves into the forum and never leave it. They all devote themselves to the same passion and artifice – to make statements without consequence, to contend in deceitfulness, to compete in blandishments, to pretend to be a good man, to lay traps for another as if each was the enemy of everyone else.

This provokes the satirist’s strict, even aggressive policing of Roman behaviour. Satire is meant to be a tonic for the republic, and it is the poet’s central ambition to improve his neighbours: rem populi salutem factis versibus Lucilius quibus est inpertit, totumque hoc studiose et sedulo Lucilius imparts a healthy republic by the poems he is able to compose – and all this zealously and earnestly (Luc. Sat. 791–792).

The poet was anything but gentle in his treatment of others, especially in his deprecation of distinguished senators. This was Lucilius’ celebrated libertas, his freedom of speech, which for many later Romans represented the most conspicuous feature of his poetry (Cic. Fam. 12.16.3; Hor. Sat. 1.4.1–7; Pers. 1.114–115; Juv. 1.19–21; 1.165–166). It is clear enough from our fragments that Lucilian aggression was a real thing (e.g. Luc. Sat. 100–101; 1075): he said unfavourable things about important people. But Lucilius’ satire rose above mere vituperation. A recurring victim of Lucilian abuse was L. Cornelius Lentulus Lupus, cos. 156, censor in 147, and princeps senatus (leader of the senate) from 131. In Book 1 of his satires, Lucilius depicts a council of the gods, who deliberate on the immorality of the Roman people in general and on the vices of Lupus in particular. The man is there defamed in harsh and sometimes crude terms – but by the gods of Rome (not Lucilius himself) in a setting that wittily reprises a feature of epic poetry. Q. Metellus Macedonicus, another prominent figure who attained a consulship and a censorship, is also ridiculed by Lucilius. Macedonicus, when censor, delivered and published a speech, De prole augenda (‘On the necessity of having more children’), which urged Roman men to marry despite the fact, as he put it, that wives introduce annoyance, molestia, into their husbands’ lives. Lucilius rewrote this speech in a spoof in which it is not wives but marriage itself that brings molestia to men – indeed, nature is held to blame for imposing on mortals such a perverse necessity – lampooning the misogyny and the presumption of the Roman censor.

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Lucilius and Friends Here we must address and dismiss some old-fashioned but persistent notions regarding Lucilius. It is still frequently asserted that Lucilius’ outspokenness was a reflex of his intimacy with Scipio Aemilianus and that man’s formidable network of senatorial allies, such as Gaius Laelius (cos. 140). Lucilius, it is claimed, was not so much the friend as the client of Scipio and by way of his poetry served as a propagandist, smearing the reputations of Scipio’s rivals. One basis for this view is the passage from Horace cited above (Hor. Sat. 2.62–70) and a scholiast’s comment on it, in which it is alleged that ‘Lucilius attacked Metellus in order to win the approval of Scipio’ (Schol. ad Hor. Sat. 2.1.72). But Horace, in the relevant passage, actually insists on Lucilius’ independence, and even if Lucilius expected his parody of Metellus’ speech to gratify Scipio, that is no reason to conclude that it was written on Scipio’s behalf. That Lucilius and Scipio were intimate friends is clear enough from the fragments (Luc. Sat. 254; 412; 1135; 1005) and is reported by Horace (Hor. Sat. 2.1.74–5). But the satirist’s literary independence did not rely on senatorial protection, nor was Lucilius Scipio’s minion. He even teases the great man for an oddity in his pronunciation (Luc. Sat. 983–4). And a scholiast preserves the story that Laelius once happened upon the remarkable scene of Lucilius chasing Scipio round a dinner table waving a rolled-up napkin (Schol. ad Hor. Sat. 2.1.7). This vignette almost certainly originates in Lucilius’ satires, and it hardly suggests a dependent relationship. Another related matter is the so-called Scipionic Circle, the group of literary men thought by previous generations to have gathered around the great general Scipio Aemilianus. Figures such as Laelius and Lucilius are usually included, as are the Greek historian Polybius and the Greek philosopher Panaetius. The dramatist Terence is also often deemed a member of this circle, along with other learned Romans, including influential senators. According to the strong view of the Scipionic Circle it was a coherent political bloc aimed at social reform and advancing the cultural horizons of Roman society. Or, if it is not to be identified as a political union, it is represented as a centre of cultural sophistication that sought to raise the standard of Graco-Roman sensibilities at Rome. Each of these estimations is anachronistic and almost certainly goes too far, and both reflect Cicero’s idealising portrait of Scipio and his associates in essays such as On the Republic and On Friendship. For Cicero’s literary purposes in those dialogues, it was important that his speakers be erudite along the lines of contemporary expectations. And for his cultural purposes, it was important

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that his second-century heroes were figures who looked like him, political leaders who were also deeply sophisticated. That Scipio and his friends shared many interests, including intellectual and literary pursuits, cannot be doubted. But there is no good reason to conjure an enterprise like the Scipionic Circle in order to explain the artistic or cultural scene of late second-century Rome. This idea, like the notion that Scipio was in some sense the literary patron of Lucilius, is best laid aside.

Lucilius and the Nature of Satire Let us return to Lucilius and his fierceness. In his poems, he furnishes critics with opportunities to tender their objections to his aggressions. One of them addresses Lucilius directly (Luc. Sat. 1075): nunc, Gai, quoniam incilans nos laedis vicissim now, Gaius, since you wound us in turn by lashing out with words.

Another mentions the poet indirectly but disapprovingly (Luc. Sat. 929–930): amicos hodie cum inprobo illo audivimus Lucilio advocasse We hear that today he summoned his friends, including that shameless Lucilius.

It is a view Lucilius does not reject (Luc. Sat. 1077): omnes formonsi, fortes tibi, ego inprobus. esto. All your friends are good looking and brave. I am shameless. Agreed.

The poet, it appears, can dish it out as well as he can take it (Luc. Sat. 664): facile deridemur; scimus capital esse irascier. I don’t mind being laughed at. I know it’s a capital crime to lose my temper.

This is a facet of Lucilius’ autobiographical pose we must not overlook. The personality he fashions for himself is a forceful one: ‘remaining Lucilius is the one thing I am not exchanging for anything or for everything in the world’, he contends (Luc. Sat. 651). But it is not untouchable. We see this, too, in his construction of his ideal readers. I do not write for the most learned, nor the least learned. I do not want a Manius or a Persius to read these pieces. I want a Junius Congus (Luc. Sat. 591–593).

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Song of Myself: The Personal Voice in Republican Literature I don’t care if Persius reads me: I want Laelius Decumus (Luc. Sat. 594).

Lucilius, according to Cicero, says that he writes for readers in Tarentum, Consentia, and Sicily (Cic. Fin. 1.3.7) What exactly to make of these passages remains uncertain. We cannot identify Manius or Laelius Decumus. Persius is almost equally unknown, except that Cicero identifies him as ‘the most learned of our people’ (Cic. De orat. 2.25; Brut. 90). Junius Congus was a jurist and historian, so not a complete simpleton, even if not quite in Persius’ league. On the basis of the personalities he adduces, Lucilius appears to aim his literary efforts at middle-brow readers and therefore to strike a relatively modest pose with respect to the ambitions of his satires. And this is perhaps the correct posture for a genre that is routinely treated as less majestic than tragedy or epic. But what should we make of Lucilius’ preference for readers in Tarentum, Consentia, or Sicily? The first and last of these places were largely Greek-speaking, and Consentia, in Calabria, was very much an Oscan city where Greek, too, was commonly spoken. Perhaps it is a joke, a reference to the so-called semi-Greeks, like Livius Andronicus or Naevius, who furnished Rome with its ‘native’ literature (see Chapter 1). Or perhaps Lucilius has in mind the Romans who have taken up estates in Italy and even in the province of Sicily; Roman colonists were certainly located in these places by Lucilius’ day. Or perhaps he had in mind Rome’s Italian allies. After all, the poet was born in a Latin settlement, and elsewhere in his satires we spy indications of his interest in Italy (e.g. Luc. Sat. 951; 1055). The fragmentary condition of these lines renders any interpretation provisional. But however much irony one reads into them, these fragments clearly indicate that Lucilius was willing to play with the idea of an ideal reader and with the possibility of locating that ideal well outside of any self-proclaimed Roman elite. It is notable that Lucilius can suggest that he finds some of his readers critical, even intimidating, and can fashion satire as an enterprise that is by its very nature potentially antagonistic. Although we no longer grasp Lucilius’ point, we can nonetheless recognise his keen awareness of engaging an audience whose cultural situation and agency are important. A similar attitude, ostensibly modest but self-assertive nonetheless, is perceptible when Lucilius describes his own poems. The word satire does not occur in the fragments. Instead, he refers to his work as ‘playful conversations’ (Luc. Sat. 1039: ludus ac sermones) or improvisations (Luc. Sat. 1131: schedia). But this casual manner should not be misconstrued for

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humility. Lucilius makes it clear that he is proud of his poetry’s success (Luc. Sat. 1091): et sola ex multis nunc nostra poemata ferri. out of so many, my poems are now the only ones that circulate.

Scholars generally agree that Lucilius’ eventual selection of hexameter as the metre for satirical poetry reflects the challenge of adapting the heroic to the everyday. This may be an oversimplification, but insofar as it is correct, it fits in with this chapter’s argument about the creation of a personal voice in Roman poetry. What we look to have in Lucilius is a kind of personal poetry, but with a certain amount of authorial detachment from the poetic persona created.

Varro and the Menippean Satire Chapter 5 will treat the majority of the works of the polymath Varro (117– 27); here we mention his 150 books of Menippean satires, written over twenty years, which exist for us as titles (Jerome provides 90) and several hundred fragments, mostly short. These satires are unusual in being primarily prose, but also including verse portions, usually in the metres of drama; some of the fragments also suggest dialogue form. The origins of the name (‘Menippean’) come from a third-century Greek predecessor; Latin adaptations contained a similar mix of criticism, comedy, allegory, Cynic moralising, grotesquery, and parody of mythological stories. The form becomes important for the imperial author Seneca, in his Apocolocyntosis (‘Squashification of the Emperor Claudius’), and for the Greek Lucian, as well as for the Greek and Latin novel (and for that matter, the later European novel, including especially Rabelais). We know little about Varro’s satires, but some believe they were written primarily for performance. While some seem to have focused on literary criticism, the majority had a clear moral intent, at least if Cicero got it right (Acad. 1.8 says they contained intima philosophia serious philosophy, intermixed with humour). ‘Marcus’ (i.e. Varro himself) seems to have been a regular character in them, and there is a dialogue entitled Bimarci (‘two Marcuses’), where they seem to disagree with one another. So Varro was not above including himself in the subjects to be made fun of, at least if this fragment refers to himself (Nonius 268L): iurgare incipit dicens: quae scis atque in uulgum uulgas artemque expromis inertem . . .

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Song of Myself: The Personal Voice in Republican Literature Speaking, he started to attack: ‘What you know’, he said, ‘and publicise publicly, and the artless art you put out . . . ’.

And, from what we can tell, the contrast between the good old days and the degenerate present was a regular feature of his satires.

Catullus Gaius Valerius Catullus was born sometime in the eighties and died, probably, in the late fifties. He came from Verona, where his father was a distinguished figure – he acquired Roman citizenship and equestrian status – and was a friend of Caesar. Catullus went to Rome, perhaps to undertake a political career or to expand his family’s circle of connections. He joined the staff of Gaius Memmius (pr. 58), the addressee of Lucretius’ On the Nature of Things (see Chapter 5), who was governor of Bithynia in 57 and 56. Catullus later claimed that, although he had hoped to exploit this opportunity in order to enrich himself, he returned to Rome with very little to show for his efforts. As he put it (Cat. 28.9–10): o Memmi, bene me ac diu supinum tota ista trabe lentus irrumasti Memmius, you held me down on my back for a long time and took your time mouth-fucking me with that huge log of yours.

Thereafter he resided in Rome, for a time at least. In the end, he may have returned to Verona. But we know far less about the particulars of Catullus’ life than we usually assume. His poetry is sprinkled with names we know, and it often gives us the vivid sense of being right there with him. Indeed, Catullus marks a key point in the development of Roman poetry: he is among the most influential poets of the western canon. His language – sometimes colloquial, sometimes obscene, always sophisticated – and the brevity of many of his poems make him relatively easy and fun for beginning students of Latin to translate. Unfortunately, that often means he is viewed as simple, sincere, and anything but artificial. But there is nothing simple about Catullus.

Getting Started with Catullus cui dono lepidum novum libellum arido modo pumice expolitum? Corneli, tibi: namque tu solebas meas esse aliquid putare nugas, iam tum cum ausus es unus Italorum

Getting Started with Catullus omne aevum tribus explicare chartis doctis, Iuppiter, et laboriosis. quare habe tibi quicquid hoc libelli, qualecumque; quod, o patrona virgo, plus uno maneat perenne saeclo.

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(Cat. 1)

To whom am I dedicating this new, charming little book, all freshly polished by a dry pumice stone? To you, Cornelius – because you always reckoned my rubbish was really something. This was when you alone of the Italians made so bold as to unroll the whole of history in three volumes – volumes which are learned, by Jupiter, and the products of hard work. So do take this little book, such as it is, whatever its value. O patron virgin, please let it last for more than a single generation.

Catullus opens a collection of his poetry – what kind of collection is a matter of dispute, as we shall see – with a dedication to Cornelius Nepos, an equestrian figure well-known as an author of history and biography (see Chapter 6). Here Catullus deploys Nepos as an ideal reader of his carefully polished book of poems: Catullus calls his verses nugae, ‘rubbish’, but Nepos saw them for what they really were: something worth taking seriously. And Nepos should know: his recent volume, in three books, was the learned product of serious exertion. And these are qualities which Catullus, by extension, claims for his own poetry: Catullus is a poet in the Alexandrian style, an erudite craftsman – something he also makes clear in his opening line when he describes the outer covering of his volume as charming and polished. In Catullus’ case, you can tell a book by its cover. And he is hopeful of a lasting (if not an everlasting) legacy. Nepos is hardly Catullus’ patron. He is a friend, and friendly – and unfriendly – relations between writers are a recurring theme of Catullan verse. He compliments poems by friends like C. Helvius Cinna and C. Licinius Calvus (see below) but does not hesitate to despise others. A tidy example is Poem 95: Zmyrna mei Cinnae, nonam post denique messem quam coeptast nonamque edita post hiemem, milia cum interea quingenta Hortensius uno < ... > Zmyrna cavas Satrachi penitus mittetur ad undas, Zmyrnam cana diu saecula pervoluent. at Volusi annales Paduam morientur ad ipsam et laxas scombris saepe dabunt tunicas. parva mei mihi sint cordi monumenta , at populus tumido gaudeat Antimacho.

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Song of Myself: The Personal Voice in Republican Literature My friend Cinna’s Zmyrna is published at last, nine harvests and nine winters after it was begun. Meanwhile, Hortensius five hundred thousand verses in a single . The Zmyrna will be passed along as far as Satrachus’ deep streambeds and will long be read, even as the generations fly by. The Annales of Volusius, by contrast, will perish alongside the river of Padua and will furnish paper for wrapping fish. Let my friend’s small monument remain dear to me – but leave it to the multitude to rejoice in bloated Antimachus.

The transmission of this poem is problematic (a line is missing), but its sentiments are clear. Here we find again the literary values of Poem 1: poetry involves hard work and should be concise and concentrated, in contrast with the poems of bloviating writers like Hortensius and Volusius or Antimachus. Volusius we find elsewhere in these poems: he is the author of an epic Annales abominated by Catullus as ‘crappy chronicles’ (Cat. 36.1: Annales Volusi, cacata carta; cf. Chapter 6). It is tempting to identify him with the Volusius who served on Cicero’s staff in Cilicia (Cic. Att. 5.21.6). That Volusius was a rising man: he married a woman from the nobility and was destined for a praetorship; his son would attain a consulship. Far more distinguished is Hortensius, either the brilliant orator Q. Hortensius Hortalus (cos. 69; cf. Chapter 3) or his son: oddly, elsewhere in the collection Hortensius is a friend and admirer of Catullus and their shared Alexandrian tastes are underlined (Cat Poem 65): perhaps this is another textual problem and Catullus had in mind a different longwinded writer. As for Antimachus, he was a fifth century Greek poet much abused by the Alexandrian Callimachus (see Sidebar VI): reference to him makes clear the aesthetic programme advanced in this poem.

The Catullan Collection Poem 1 is a dedication. But what, exactly, is Catullus dedicating to Nepos? The poems as we have them divide into three distinct sections. Poems 1–60 are short poems in a wide range of lyric metres; 61–68 are long poems, including Catullus’ epyllion on the marriage of Peleus and Thetis (Cat. 64; see Chapter 8), composed in various metres; the rest are short poems in elegiac couplets. It is sometimes suggested that the emphasis on Nepos’ three books in Poem 1 refers to a Catullan collection in three parts. More often, Poem 1 is thought to be the first poem of a book of Catullus’ lyric poems. But it is hard to reach confident conclusions. Indeed, it is not certain that it was Catullus who assembled and arranged his poems in the order we have them, although most classicists incline to that view.

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Either way, a striking feature of the collection as it stands is its resistance to chronology. Some poems become clear to us only when we read later ones, and often it is difficult to find any beginning or end to a cycle of plainly related poems. Putting poems into unexpected, even conflicting, time relationships seems modern, perhaps anachronistic. But in Catullus it seems to mean something that his personal poetry moves back and forth in time. Perhaps, then, it is an experiment in literary arrangement which goes back to the poet himself. If so, it highlights the artificiality required to extract Catullus’ life from his art.

Catullan Themes Much goes on in Catullus’ world. Some of his acquaintances smell bad (Cat. 69), others mispronounce Latin (Cat. 84), and one of them swipes his napkins (Cat. 12). He envies the gleaming smile of a Spanish rival and so circulates a story that he brushes his teeth with urine (Cat. 39). But not everything is snark. Catullus celebrates the homecoming of a friend (Cat. 9) and composes lovely lines on his home in Sirmio (Cat. 31). Still, the poet is fond of bursting the pretensions of others – and himself. In Poem 10, for example, Catullus is introduced to a friend’s new lover. The three of them fall into conversation and the poet, asked about his time in Bithynia, complains about Memmius. But, says the friend’s mistress, you must have come back with something. Catullus, to save face, says he returned with some litter bearers. Great, says the girl pressing the poet further, let me borrow them. Well, says an irritated and embarrassed Catullus, they are not actually mine but belong to my friend Cinna: I treat them as my own. His fib uncovered, he concludes (Cat. 10.33–34): sed tu insulsa male ac molesta vivis per quam non licet esse neglegentem but you are unsophisticated and a pest, the kind of woman who won’t give a man any latitude with the truth.

The poem is suffused with performance anxiety and its studied awkwardness is unmissable. Seriousness is also a feature of Catullan verse. In Poem 101, he mourns the death of his brother. We learn elsewhere that Catullus’ brother perished and was entombed in vicinity of Troy, and in this poem, a funerary epigram, Catullus renders the geographical distance separating his brother’s tomb

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from his home in Verona as a grim feature of the metaphysical barrier which now divides them and will always divide them (Cat. 101): multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias, ut te postremo donarem munere mortis et mutam nequiquam alloquerer cinerem, quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum, heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi. nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias, accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu, atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale. I have journeyed through many peoples and over many seas. Now I arrive here, brother, the site of your sorrowful obsequies. I come to render you the final duty owed the dead and to address your silent ashes – in vain. For fortune has stolen you from me – alas, poor brother, cruelly torn from me. Nonetheless, receive now these offerings which, in accordance with ancestral custom, are presented to the dead, a grim duty. They are wet with your brother’s tears. And now, and forever, my brother, hail and farewell.

The long journey in the opening lines recalls the wanderings of Odysseus, who in his voyages encountered many peoples, and it suggests his famous visit to the Underworld, where he was able to encounter, but not embrace, his dead mother. Catullus, by contrast, makes his way entirely in vain. There is much in this poem that is conventional – sepulchral poetry was a subgenre of Hellenistic epigram – but the atmosphere and emotional intensity of this poem are nonetheless deeply affecting. Catullus addresses his brother, but it is we who hear him and share his loss.

Lesbia Many of Catullus’ poems furnish their reader with glimpses of his love affair with a woman he calls Lesbia, which means ‘Woman of Lesbos’, in homage to the poet Sappho (the name does not carry the implications of the modern term ‘lesbian’, although that word, too, looks back to Sappho). We are told by a later source, Apuleius, that the real woman behind the name Lesbia was Clodia, whose name is its metrical equivalent. There is still some disagreement over which Clodia Apuleius had in mind, but most critics accept that she was Clodia Metelli, the daughter of Appius Claudius Pulcher (cos. 79) and the wife of Quintus Metellus Celer (cos. 60). She was a woman conspicuous for her pedigree – her family, patrician nobles, had

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been powerful in Rome since the very early republic – and for her wealth, good looks, and personality. In Cicero’s speech, In Defence of Caelius (see Chapter 3), the orator denounces her morals, alleging numerous affairs especially with younger men. His attack, true or false, is a mark of her eminence: she was famous if not infamous. Later in his life, although he disliked Clodia, Cicero was obliged to respect the reality of her wealth and business acumen. In the world of Catullus, the poet and Lesbia have an adulterous affair – Lesbia is explicitly a married woman – and their relationship, even when it is happy, remains marred by her superior social status. Naturally in poetry like this, there are flirtations and longing moments before their passion is consummated, then a brief series of ecstatic episodes, all leading to the inevitable break-up, which constitutes most of what the poet shares with us. The break-up is bittersweet, occasionally comic, and, remarkable perhaps, often archly moralising. As we shall see, some of this poetry is fascinatingly experimental.

The Beginning Ille mi par esse deo videtur, ille, si fas est, superare divos, qui sedens adversus identidem te spectat et audit dulce ridentem, misero quod omnis eripit sensus mihi; nam simul te, Lesbia, aspexi, nihil est super mi

lingua sed torpet, tenuis sub artus flamma demanat, sonitu suopte tintinant aures, gemina teguntur lumina nocte. otium, Catulle, tibi molestumst: otio exultas nimiumque gestis. otium et reges prius et beatas perdidit urbes.

(Cat. 51)

That man seems to me an equal of the gods. That man, if it is righteous to say so, surpasses the gods. For he is sitting opposite you and again and again gazes on you and hears you laughing sweetly. As for lovesick me, this robs

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Song of Myself: The Personal Voice in Republican Literature me of all my senses. For the moment I see you, Lesbia, suddenly there’s no trace of a voice in my mouth. My tongue fails, a delicate fire infuses my limbs, my ears ring, my eyers are covered by a two-fold night. Leisure, Catullus, is harmful to you. In your leisure, you luxuriate extravagantly. Leisure in days past has destroyed kings and prosperous cities.

This poem is a translation, or rather an adaptation, of a poem by Sappho. Catullus preserves Sappho’s metre, a virtuoso achievement. Only one other Catullan poem, Poem 11, is composed in the same metre: in that poem, as we shall see, the poet ends his affair with Lesbia. The metrical identity between Poems 11 and 51 encourages us to see in this poem the beginning of their relationship. And, if it was Catullus who arranged his poems, it tells us much that he first shows us how things fell apart before divulging what was at stake. In Sappho’s poem, the poet describes her reaction as she gazes on a woman she loves talking to a man, probably her husband or her betrothed. This piece was famous in antiquity for its intense depiction of frustrated passion. Much could be said regarding the subtleties of Catullus’ rewriting of Sappho. Here we want to focus on Catullus’ adoption of Sappho’s role: Catullus is a man but portrays himself as a woman in love. This is a part the poet will play in other poems, as we shall see. For Sappho, marriage with her beloved was an impossibility. If Poem 51’s ‘enviable man’ is Lesbia’s husband, then Catullus’ situation is similar: no Claudian woman was ever going to divorce a Metellus to marry an equestrian from Verona, and the prospect of marriage to Lesbia is never raised in Catullus’ poems. In Poem 83 Catullus denounces Lesbia’s husband as a ‘stupid mule’ because he ignores his wife’s obvious feelings for the poet. Here the situation is very different: it is Catullus who is ignored, devastated by lovesickness. The conclusion to this poem remains a puzzle and no reading of it satisfies everyone. We know that Sappho, after describing her symptoms, went on to say something more, but the end of her poem is lost. The sole line which survives suggests that she spoke about endurance amid want. Catullus diverges, warning himself against the peril of otium, leisure. This is a word with more than one connotation. It is the opposite of negotium, business, and for that reason indicates a contrast with responsibility. Therefore, it sometimes introduces a whiff of decadence. Otium can (though it need not) carry an erotic charge. Elsewhere Catullus uses the word to describe the Trojan Paris’ selfish, indulgent sexual affair with Helen (Cat. 68.103–104). And perhaps that is what otium signals here. We learn in Poem 51 that otium has, in the past, destroyed kings and rich

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cities, a likely allusion to the fall of Troy (see Sidebar XI), especially if we see in otium a marker of adultery. It appears that, as he gazes on Lesbia and is tormented by passion, the poet begins to map the love triangle he is poised to set up – himself, Lesbia, her husband – onto a more famous literary love triangle – Paris, Helen, Menelaus. From its very start, then, or so the poet worries, his love affair is doomed – and destructive. A transitory happiness ensues, and Catullus shows us bits of it. But although Lesbia is central to the poet’s joy, she is also somehow always missing from his poems about her. Frequently the poet presents himself as wanting much more from her than she is willing to give. Take, for instance, one of Catullus’ most famous poems, Poem 7: quaeris, quot mihi basiationes tuae, Lesbia, sint satis superque. quam magnus numerus Libyssae harenae lasarpiciferis iacet Cyrenis, oraculum Iovis inter aestuosi et Batti veteris sacrum sepulcrum, aut quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox, furtivos hominum vident amores, tam te basia multa basiare vesano satis et super Catullost, quae nec pernumerare curiosi possint nec mala fascinare lingua. You ask, Lesbia, how many of your kissies are enough and more for me. As many as is the amount of Libyan sand that lies on silphium-producing Cyrene, between the oracle of steamy Jupiter and the sacred tomb of old Battus; or as many as the stars, when the night is silent, that see the secret loves of men: to kiss you with so many kissies would be enough and more for crazy Catullus, which neither the snoops could count up nor an evil tongue cast a spell on.

We would like to know whether Lesbia’s question was coquettish or exasperated: who could possibly get enough of me? or haven’t you had enough? But Catullus wants to talk about himself and his pleasure, which he expresses in a very long answer invoking exotic places in a stream of breathless adjectives and disconnected clauses. This poem is a kind of sequel to Poem 5, which celebrated the couple’s many thousands and hundreds of ‘kissies’ (the word basiationes is comical in Latin), so many that grumpy old men would not be able to count them. Even in that earlier poem, something is not quite right: Catullus’ infatuated notion that others are interested in the details of his love-life introduces a disturbing tone, one

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which pervades the remainder of the Lesbia-poems. And it is these poems about kissing which, as we have seen, Furius and Aurelius read so incorrectly (because they read them literally and biographically) that the poet threatened them. So Catullus opens the curtain on his affair with Lesbia, but there is a danger for the reader who fails to see things just the right way. Consequently, we stare even harder.

The Ending Things fall apart. Not because Lesbia is unwilling to see Catullus – she does not actually reject him – but rather because she refuses to confine her adultery to our overly possessive poet. This he regards as a betrayal. And he complains about her to his friends in graphic terms, for instance, the pithy Poem 58: Caeli, Lesbia nostra, Lesbia illa, illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes, nunc in quadriviis et angiportis glubit magnanimi Remi nepotes. O Caelius: my Lesbia, that Lesbia, the Lesbia whom alone of all women Catullus once loved more than himself and all his family and friends – she now, in the backstreets and alleys, shucks the descendants of noble Remus.

Catullus is talking to Caelius, a figure who appears more than once in the poems and may be Caelius Rufus, with whom Clodia also had an unfortunate affair (if we can believe the prosecution’s case as Cicero reports it in his Defence of Caelius Rufus). This is certainly guy-talk, perhaps part of a conversation between two disappointed lovers. What strikes the reader is the poem’s wild swing in tone. The juxtaposition between the first three lines and the final two is almost shocking. The elevated Lesbia of lines 1–3 is suddenly dropped into the seediest locales of the city, where she plays the part of a prostitute: the verb describing what Lesbia does, glubit, is found elsewhere only in agricultural writers and refers to trees shedding their bark. Here (most critics agree) it crudely if vividly describes a woman masturbating an uncircumcised man. Remus, too, plays a part: he was Romulus’ less-successful twin brother, killed, in most versions of the tale, for mocking the city walls of Rome. This is an angry poem, then, about unhappy families and individuals who are unnaturally divided, and it is provoked by a disappointing episode of adultery.

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Catullus’ behaviour after their break-up is sometimes disturbing or embarrassing. In Poem 37, the poet follows Lesbia to a cheap, disreputable tavern where, so he says, she sits with her hundreds of low-grade lovers. Appalled, Catullus insults them, threatens them with rape – but in the end, anticlimactically, merely scribbles obscenities on the tavern’s exterior. Catullus is not quite a stalker in this poem, but he exhibits a cowardly viciousness and impotent anger. Lesbia, he laments, degrades herself and, in so doing, takes Catullus down with her. Catullus’ reaction to the break-up is not limited to rage. He sometimes strikes a loftier tone. In more than one poem, he wants to make it clear to Lesbia – and to us – that his feelings for her were not exclusively sexual. Poem 51 notwithstanding, their relationship, the poet insists, was not simply physical. This was not an easy sentiment to convey in Latin. Marriage in Rome was not exclusively sexual either: a Roman man saw (or could see) in his wife a partner, a friend, even an individual he could admire. But Lesbia was not and was never intended to be Catullus’ wife. She was his lover, his amica, a word which means girlfriend but never a friend who happens to be female. So Catullus struggles to find language appropriate to a woman who is not his wife but for whom he has an affection which combines passion and respect. A fascinating specimen of this is Poem 72: Dicebas quondam solum te nosse Catullum, Lesbia, nec prae me velle tenere Iovem. dilexi tum te non tantum ut vulgus amicam, sed pater ut gnatos diligit et generos. nunc te cognovi: quare etsi impensius uror, multo mi tamen es vilior et levior. qui potis est? inquis. quod amantem iniuria talis cogit amare magis, sed bene velle minus. You used to say, once upon a time, that you knew only Catullus, and that you would not prefer Jupiter to me. I loved you then not the way the crowd loves its girlfriend, but as a father loves his sons and sons-in-law. But now I know you; wherefore even though I burn more fervently, you are nonetheless cheaper and lighter to me. How can that be, you ask? Because a wound of this kind forces a lover to love more, but to feel less generous.

Catullus’ point may not be immediately clear until we recognise that in Roman society no relationship did more to signal friendship than the connection between a father-in-law and his son-in-law. This sentiment animated the Romans’ arranged marriages, especially political ones. When Pompey the Great married Caesar’s daughter, that was a public

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demonstration of their intimacy. When Catullus says to Lesbia, I loved you like that, the expression leaves us cold or at least perplexed. Nor is it obvious that the Romans warmed to this image or to Catullus’ complication of the relationship between a man and his lover: it is not an aspect of Catullan verse that found Roman imitators. Nevertheless, the attempt to say something new in Rome about feelings between men and women, even if it ultimately fell flat, is intriguing. More accessible, and better received in antiquity, is another poem’s concentrated assertion that a wounded lover may continue to experience passion even if he is appalled by his lover. Catullus comes back to this paradox more than once, most concisely in a still-current poem (Cat. 85): Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. I hate and I love. Maybe you want to know why I do it? I don’t know – but I feel it happening and I am miserable.

Here there are no crude recriminations, no comedy or irony. This short poignant poem, the phrases of which are carefully, exquisitely arranged, captures something which, if it is not actually universal, is a powerful feeling that has been shared by many.

Saying Goodbye Furi et Aureli, comites Catulli, sive in extremos penetrabit Indos, litus ut longe resonante Eoa tunditur unda, sive in Hyrcanos Arabasve molles, seu Sagas sagittiferosque Parthos, sive quae septemgeminus colorat aequora Nilus, sive trans altas gradietur Alpes, Caesaris visens monimenta magni, Gallicum Rhenum, †horribilesque† ultimosque Britannos, omnia haec, quaecumque feret voluntas caelitum, temptare simul parati pauca nuntiate meae puellae non bona dicta.

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cum suis vivat valeatque moechis, quos simul complexa tenet trecentos, nullum amans vere, sed identidem omnium ilia rumpens: nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem, qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati ultimi flos, praeter eunte postquam tactus aratrost.

(Cat. 11)

Furius and Aurelius, Catullus’ comrades, whether he makes his way into farthest India, where the shore is beaten by a far-resounding eastern wave, or to the Hyrcanians, or to the effeminate Arabs, or to the Sythians and the Parthians with quivers, or the flat delta which the sevenfold Nile colours, or even should he tramp across the steep Alps, viewing the monuments of great Caesar, the Gallic Rhine, or the uncultured Britons, most distant of men – ready as you are to join me in all these things, whatever the will of the heavenly race may bring, take this short message, extremely unkind words, to my girl. Tell her to live and be well with her adulterous lovers, whom she embraces three hundred at a time, loving none of them truly, but again and again busting the groins of them all. Tell her not to look for my love, as before, which through her fault lies fallen like a flower at a field’s edge when it has been nicked by a passing plough.

This poem throws up many difficulties, not least its opening line, addressed to two figures who, as we have seen from Poem 16, are inept readers of Catullan verse. The poem begins in epic diction with a survey of Rome’s imperial scope, an expansive and dangerous terrain through which Furius and Aurelius are ready to accompany Catullus anywhere. But his request belongs to a different world: he asks them to deliver a harsh message to Lesbia. The register of the poem shifts from epic to iambic, and Lesbia is abused as a cold creature of enormous sexual appetites. Then it changes again, shifting to a lyric strain. In a now-famous simile, the flower of Catullus’ love, carelessly and impersonally nicked by a passing plough, droops and dies. The fault, he insists, is Lesbia’s, whether she knows it or not. In the end as in the beginning, Catullus is ignored by the woman he loves. The pathetic image with which Catullus concludes his affair with Lesbia is almost certainly borrowed from Sappho. In a fragment from one of her poems, we find this simile (Sapph. fr. 105c Campbell): like the hyacinth in the mountains which the shepherds tread underfoot, on the ground the purple flower

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It has been suggested that these lines derive from a marriage hymn and refer to a bride’s loss of her virginity. That is not impossible but it remains far from certain. What is clear, however, is that Catullus has once again altered the gender roles in this crucial moment in his poem. Ploughing in ancient literature is a stock image for men making love to women: in Poem 11, that part is played by Lesbia. In Sappho’s simile, it is men who crush the hyacinth, which, whatever its context, was surely something beautiful and feminine which the shepherds destroy without thinking about it. Catullus, who substituted for Sappho herself in Poem 51, is again cast in a feminine role and left in a setting that is anything but epic. We cannot leave Catullus’ affair with Lesbia without pointing out a few of the complications that attend his version of the story. Lesbia, he complains, rejects him – although he is steadfast in his unique brand of love for her. This version of events is rendered less straightforward when the poet tells us about his crude, sexual come-on to a certain Ipsitilla (Cat. 32: owing to textual corruption, the name is uncertain) or his irritation with Aufillena, a courtesan who took his money but did not satisfy his urges (Cat. 110). And there is another love story in Catullus, a cycle which is briefer but passionate, sometimes depicted in the same terms as his affair with Lesbia (Cat. 48): Mellitos oculos tuos, Iuventi, siquis me sinat usque basiare, usque ad milia basiem trecenta, nec mi umquam videar satur futurus, non si densior aridis aristis sit nostrae seges osculationis. Your honey-sweet eyes, Juventius, if anyone let me keep kissing you continuously, I would kiss them three hundred thousand times, and I would not feel like I could ever get enough, not even if the harvest of kisses were thicker than dried grain.

Catullus recurs to his passion for the young Juventius more than once (Poems 15, 24, 81, and 99). Here his romantic feelings are figured by way of abundant kisses, the same image, as we have seen, Catullus used in portraying his ecstasy with Lesbia, and the very image which led Furius and Aurelius astray.

Catullus and Caesar Politics in the fifties were turbulent. Julius Caesar (see Chapter 5), Pompey the Great, and Marcus Crassus formed an alliance (sometimes called the First Triumvirate by modern historians) which clashed with its rivals,

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a contest which led frequently to riots in the streets and sometimes shut down the government or even prevented elections from taking place. This was an environment rife with political invective, which in Rome was often savage and obscene. Catullus was a participant. His poems attack or ridicule a range of political figures, but he concentrates his vituperation on Pompey and especially on Caesar. In Caesar’s case, Catullus dwells on his unnatural partnership with a man named Mamurra (we do not know his full name), a rich equestrian from Formiae whose service under Pompey and Caesar left him fabulously wealthy. Catullus frequently dubs him Mentula, a crude word which means cock. Catullus’ political invective is unrestrained and its abuse tends to be comprehensive. Here is a sample (Cat. 57): pulcre convenit improbis cinaedis, Mamurrae pathicoque Caesarique. nec mirum: maculae pares utrisque, urbana altera et illa Formiana impressae resident nec eluentur: morbosi pariter, gemelli utrique, uno in lecticulo erudituli ambo, non hic quam ille magis vorax adulter, rivales socii puellularum. pulcre convenit improbis cinaedis. It works out beautifully for those disgusting perverts, Mamurra the pansy and Caesar. And no surprise: they are similarly stained, one from the city and the other from Formiae, stains which are deeply pressed-in and can’t be scrubbed out – equally diseased, those twins, scholarly little men both, in one bed – and the one is no greedier an adulterer than the other, those friendly rivals for the ladies. Indeed, it works out beautifully for those disgusting perverts.

Here Caesar and Mamurra are perverted, avaricious, adulterous – and poorly educated too. Catullus returns to this abuse, often focusing his revulsion on Mamurra. In another poem, after cataloguing the man’s vices, Catullus turns to Pompey and Caesar, asking (Cat. 29.23–24): eone nomine, urbis o piissimi, socer generque, perdisitis omnia? Was it for this, o paragons of Roman piety, father-in-law and son-in-law, that you have wasted everything?

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According to Suetonius, Catullus’ poems hit their target (Suet. Iul. 73): Caesar never disguised the fact that Catullus’ poems about Mamurra inflicted a permanent stain on his reputation. But when Catullus apologised, Caesar invited him to dinner on the same day. And he continued without interruption his friendly relationship with Catullus’ father.

We should very much like to know how the poet and the politician were reconciled. Whether it resulted in lasting comity is far from clear, not least because of this brief expression of Catullan indifference (Cat. 93): nil nimium studio, Caesar, tibi velle placere, nec scire utrum sis albus an ater homo. I’m far from keen to please you, Caesar, or even to know whether you are a white man or a black man.

Catullus and the Neoterics Cicero more than once refers to a young group of poets whose compositions, he believes, exhibit distinctive mannerisms (Att. 7.2.1; Tusc. 3.45; Orat. 161). He denominates them variously – neoterics (in Greek) or new poets – and the question arises: who is it Cicero has in mind and were they actually a group? The poets Cicero describes have clear metrical preferences and an inclination toward Alexandrian aesthetics. So our attention is naturally drawn to Catullus and his friends. C. Helvius Cinna we encountered above. Other literary companions of Catullus include Q. Cornificius (Poem 38) and C. Licinius Calvus (Poems 11, 49, 53, and 96), each of whom is discussed elsewhere for his career as an orator (Chapter 3). Like Cinna, Cornificius entered politics and won prominence: he rose to a praetorship in 45 and was made an augur; he perished in 42 leading an army in the civil strife that followed Caesar’s assassination. Calvus was the son of the politician and historian C. Licinius Macer. A brilliant orator and poet, he did not pursue high office and was dead, it appears, by 47. There is also a Caecilius, otherwise unknown, whom Catullus admires in Poem 35. These poets subsist only as fragments or passing mentions by others. But we know that, like Catullus, they composed epigrams and polymetrics and each turned his hand to writing a miniature epic like Poem 64 (see Chapter 8). A glimpse of the enthusiasm which animated their poetic community is furnished by Poem 50. There Catullus reminisces about a day spent with Calvus, each scribbling poems in reaction to the other, deftly moving from

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metre to metre in a contest of wit and charm. Catullus gives their composition an erotic glow, figuring their relationship less in terms of real competition than homosocial fellow feeling. How much mutual literary influence obtained among this literary circle we can no longer say. But Catullus here gives the impression of energetic collaboration. Is this evidence for a distinct circle of neoterics? Perhaps there is no need to decide whether these poets constitute a movement or a school. It is clear enough that their literary community was robust, assertive, and edgy – and that it viewed other approaches to poetry as wanting in taste and sophistication. Of this group, Catullus alone survives (more or less) intact.

Catullus’ Influence Catullus’ poems, in all their variety, were celebrated in his lifetime – Caesar’s anxieties show how widely read they were – and throughout antiquity they found an audience. Horace and Vergil studied them closely, and the love elegists continued to look back to Catullus. During the empire, Catullus was routinely cited and imitated. The Middle Ages, it appears, nearly forgot him, but after his rediscovery in the Italian Renaissance, Catullus again began to influence European poetry – reaching into the twentieth century. He was a favourite of the modernists – ‘Catullus has the intensity’, as Ezra Pound put it – and more than one twenty-first century poet develops ideas and conceits extracted from Catullus’ poems.

Cicero’s Letters, Personal and Political Roman aristocrats wrote letters – lots of them. Without modern telecommunications but involved in complex networks of business, politics, and personal relationships, they used letters to maintain the operations of society and to secure their places in it. A Roman like Cicero wrote and received dozens of letters in a day. But his letters were quite unlike most modern correspondence (still less emails). A Roman letter was a work of art: there were high expectations of diction and phrasing; letters frequently teem with literary quotations and allusions to art, history, and philosophy. At the same time, they include gossip, colloquialisms, Greek slang, and, sometimes, choppy syntax. The letters we possess eschew obscenities, but otherwise they display a variety of registers and styles, carefully attuned to their audiences, which reminds one of the mannerisms of Catullan verse. The writer expected her (aristocratic women were important correspondents) or his letter to be read more than once and closely scrutinised, for

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which reason the sentiments of a letter were often implicit rather than obvious. In principle, letters constituted honest communications between friends. At the same time, however, a letter was an urbane performance for a very small audience, usually an audience of one, which demonstrated both the writer’s and the reader’s education and sophistication. Respect of that kind was fundamental to aristocratic friendship. As early as the fifth century, epistolography was a recognised literary genre among the Greeks. In addition to their practical uses, letters made significant appearances in histories and drama and soon became a vehicle for the public expression of philosophical, literary, or political theories: these were letters which, although ostensibly directed at an individual, were meant for a wider public. Public letters like these became important in teaching all kinds of subjects and we encounter several in our chapter on didactic literature (see Chapter 5). Naturally, Greeks composed handbooks on epistolography – what features and style suit what kind of letter – and these works were read by Romans and applied even to private correspondence. Much was at stake in every letter: a poorly chosen word, a clumsy clause, or an inapt quotation could bring disgrace, or provoke offence. This was not an abstract matter: Augustus once dismissed a high-ranking official for being ‘ignorant and uneducated’ because he misspelled a single word (Suet. Aug. 86). This is some of why the letter, seemingly both personal and non-literary, is in reality neither. The role of the letter in demonstrating one’s culture and therefore one’s quality comes to the fore in Cicero’s fretting about his son, Marcus, when the young man was studying in Athens. The orator had heard that Marcus was more interested in the university experience than in the mundane chores of attending lectures and learning things. Consequently, he was seriously considering cutting off his son’s very generous allowance and had instructed his friend Atticus, who was administering the fund, to hold back its next payment. Cicero’s son was a clever fellow: when he heard about the decision, he wrote very much the right kind of letter to his father. Marcus’ letter to Cicero no longer survives, but we possess Cicero’s reaction (Cic. Att. 14.7.2): a Cicerone mihi litterae sane pepinoménai et bene longae. cetera autem vel fingi possunt, pínos litterarurm significat doctiorem. nunc magno opere a te peto, de quo sum nuper tecum locutus, ut videas ne quid ei desit. I have received a letter from Cicero, deeply classical in its diction and not too short to make a good impression. Other things can of course be feigned, but the style of this letter is proof of his advancement in learning. Now I earnestly ask that you do what we were recently discussing: see that he wants for nothing.

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Cicero was impressed and chose, as Romans normally did, to perceive in his son’s letter the proof of his culture. It is perhaps worth observing that, in his letter to Atticus, Cicero employs two Greek technical terms for stylistic analysis (they are marked in bold above): they are there to remind Atticus that each of them knows what he is talking about when the two of them talk about epistolography. The pressure to perform never stops. Letters were intended for small audiences, but their authors had to remember that a larger readership was always possible, a condition which ordinarily tempered one’s candour and encouraged conventionality. Still, even the best could get this wrong. When Mark Antony was consul in 44, he wrote to Cicero seeking his compliance in restoring from exile a man who had once been Cicero’s personal enemy. Antony’s letter is polite, but makes it obvious (without actually saying so) that he will bring the man back anyway: his lengthy letter is a mere courtesy. Cicero was apoplectic. But he gave his consent in a letter which is a striking specimen of over-thetop saccharine sweetness. He was pleased with himself because he knew Antony would perceive his passive-aggressiveness but could do nothing about it: a gentleman is obliged to take at face value another gentleman’s letter unless he can find a slip in it (and of course Cicero did not make slips of that kind). The letter is long, but one gets a sense of it from its opening lines (Cic. Att. 14.13b.1–3): Ciero Antonio Cos. S. D. Quod mecum per litteras agis unam ob causam mallem coram egisses; non enim solum ex oratione, sed etiam ex vultu et oculis et fronte, ut aiunt, meum erga te amorem perspicere potuisses Cicero to the consul Antony, greetings: The matter which you raise with me in your letter I wish instead you had raised with me in person and for one reason: then you could have recognised my love for you not only in my words but also in my expression and, as they say, all over my face.

And so it goes for another thirty lines. Cicero was so delighted with this letter that he sent Atticus a copy. Antony kept it. And later in the year, when the two men fell out and Cicero attacked Antony in a speech in the senate, Antony melodramatically played the part of an abused friend. Cicero’s letter was his principal prop. He read it aloud in the senate, knowing that its emphatic expression of affection proved either that Cicero had unkindly abandoned their friendship or had been a hypocrite in asserting it. Cicero was outraged – and humiliated.

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Publishing Cicero’s Letters Sometime after Cicero’s death, many of his letters were collected, edited, and published. Who did this is unknown: perhaps it was Tiro, Cicero’s learned freedman. We do know that Cicero, in the last year of his life, was considering publishing a small collection of his correspondence (Att. 16.5.5); he may have assigned the work to Tiro (Fam. 16.17.1). We possess sixteen books of Letters to Atticus (Ad Atticum), a collection which also includes a few letters written by figures including Caesar and Antony (which Cicero forwarded to Atticus). We also have sixteen books of letters written to or received from relations and friends, Letters to Friends (Ad Familiares). A smaller selection of letters exchanged between Cicero and his brother Quintus (Ad Quintum Fratrem: Letters to Brother Quintus) also survives, as well as a small collection of correspondence, of uncertain authenticity, between Cicero and Marcus Brutus (Ad Marcum Brutum: Letters to Marcus Brutus). There were other volumes, now lost, correspondence with Caesar, for example, and with Cornelius Nepos. We do not know when Cicero’s letters appeared or in what order various volumes appeared. But it is obvious that they were popular with the reading public, both for their style and their often fascinating, behind-closed-doors content. In his Life of Atticus (Att. 16.3–4), Nepos praises Cicero’s letters for the revelations they supply and for their author’s acumen. Letter collections of other leading figures soon followed and were read widely during the imperial period. The personal letters of Mark Antony, for example, circulated long after his death. Still, the reputation of Cicero’s letters remained unsurpassed. In the second century ce, Pliny the Younger endeavoured to fashion himself a second Cicero. Like his famous predecessor, Pliny excelled in oratory and attained the rank of a consul. And like Cicero he wrote letters. But Pliny curated his own legacy by publishing selections of his private correspondence during his lifetime, an ingenious alternative to writing memoirs or an autobiography. In this, his creative emulation of Cicero is obvious. SIDEBARS

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Callimachus of Alexandria and the Aetia

We have seen the outsize influence of Homer in the self-fashioning of early Latin poets; he and Hesiod (see Chapter 5) serve as models throughout our period. But another key Greek influence is also important, Callimachus.

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This Greek scholar and poet, who lived in Alexandria, Egypt during the Hellenistic period (ca. 310–240), was enormously influential on a plurality of Latin poets, both in terms of providing them with an aesthetic vocabulary and in many specific details. He was an early caretaker of the library of Alexandria, designed to serve as a repository for all of classical knowledge. And in that role, he wrote the Pinakes (‘Tablets’), which are the first library catalogue we know of, in order to keep track of the library’s enormous holdings. The Hellenistic period was marked by a tradition of literary scholarship: librarians and scholars read literature, sometimes critically, and developed their own ideas about what was worthy of emulation. We know little about Callimachus’ life and, as it happens, we have remarkably little of the 800 texts he purportedly wrote in both prose and poetry. From that enormous number, we have a dozen or so poems of varying length and a number of fragments. It may therefore seem peculiar to say that he is among the most influential of Greek poets for the Romans, but this is no exaggeration. His Aetia (Causes) was the most significant work, a four-book poem in elegiac couplets which seems to have begun in a narrative style and which told mythic stories of the origins of things and places (like Ovid’s Metamorphoses or Fasti; see Chapters 8 and 5). It included tales about the foundations of cities and also religious festivals, and it was a kind of poetry that had not before been seen in the Greek world, combining a distinct authorial persona with disparate information. The Aetia is a confusing text, not only because we have so little of it. Its prologue contains a scene in which Apollo, god of poetry among other things, appears to the poet and gives him advice about what to write (Call. Aet. fr. 1, selections): When for the first time I put a writing-tablet on my knees, Lycian Apollo said to me: my good poet, feed my [sacrificial] beast to become as fat as possible, but keep your Muse slender. This, too, I order you: tread the way that wagons do not trample. Do not drive in the same tracks as others or on a wide road but on an untrodden path, even if yours is narrower.

And, as if Apollo were not authoritative enough, Callimachus then describes a dream in which the Muses appear and present to him the refined pieces that make up the Aetia. This disjunction between fat and thin, between wellworn and untrodden, proves very important to Latin poets, from Catullus (the first we know of who translated a poem of Callimachus, Cat. 66; see Chapter 4) right through to the end of our period and beyond. Ennius (see Chapter 1), Vergil (see Chapter 5), Horace, Ovid (see Chapters 7 and 8), Propertius and others all reuse this motif of poetic

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inspiration in various ways, and all assure us that they too have been divinely instructed to blaze their own paths. Notions of fineness and slenderness, even purity and clarity (from a later Callimachean passage about a spring that is not for everyone) are prevalent in late republican and Augustan poetry. And – implicit in all of this elitism, but never really stated – the Aetia also does its homework in tracking down recondite versions of well-known myths: the ‘untrodden path’ extends also to the details of particular stories. All of which is fine, but what does Callimachus actually mean? Despite what scholars often suggest, it is less than clear. Callimachus, they say, is railing against heroic epic, the big, bloated hexameter poems his contemporaries wrote. Another of his famous lines, often misquoted, is ‘a big book is equivalent to a big evil’ (fr. 465 Pf. = Athen. Deipn. 3.72a), and indeed, he is saying something of the same sort in his Aetia. But it is, at least at first glance, hard to characterise a four-book narrative poem – even if it is written in the ‘lighter’ metre of elegiac couplets – as slim. We come to a similar problem when we reach Vergil’s Aeneid, which positions itself as a well-worked Callimachean gem whilst also being a twelve-book hexameter poem. Some of this, of course, is stylistic – criticism of the poetry of Homer was common in the Hellenistic period, focusing on the moments where he ‘nodded’ (as when a dead minor warrior turns up to fight again) or uses language awkwardly. But Callimachus seems to suggest, and Vergil and others seem to believe him, that there is a way to write even a big book with the kind of care one might lavish on a ten-line jewel of a poem. (See Chapter 8 on the slowness with which Vergil is said to have composed the Aeneid as one manifestation of this.) There is also subject-matter: while the Iliad and the epics of Callimachus’ contemporaries were about grand topics, such as war, battle, and kings, much of his own poetry treated smaller, more domestic subjects. Take, for instance, his Hecale, which tells part of the story of the Athenian hero Theseus (see Chapter 8), but not the heroic part. Again, this is well and good, as far as it goes, but Homer’s Odyssey also includes unmajestic domestic scenes. Even Apollonius’ Argonautica, a poem written by a contemporary of Callimachus about the voyage of the Argo and the adventures of Jason and Medea, is not heroic in the traditional Homeric model. We can conclude that the Callimachean aesthetic was enormously appealing to Latin poets of all kinds: nobody – not even Ennius (see Chapter 1) – ever again says they want to write a big clunky epic in preference to a well-crafted poem. But ‘Callimacheanism’ is patently a flexible enough concept to incorporate the choices of a wide variety of poets.

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Further Reading Ennius and Lucilius can be found in Loeb editions: E. H. Warmington, Remains of Old Latin Poetry, Volume I: Ennius, Caecilius (Cambridge MA 1956), vol. 294; S. Goldberg and G. Manuwald, Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume II: Ennius, Dramatic Fragments. Minor Works (Cambridge MA 2018), vol. 537; Lucilius in E. H. Warmington, Remains of Old Latin, Volume III: Lucilius. The Twelve Tables (Cambridge MA 1938) vol. 329. F. Muecke’s article in the Cambridge Companion to Roman Satire (ed. K. Freudenberg, Cambridge 2005, pp. 33–47) is a helpful introduction to the satires of Ennius and Lucilius, and the volume edited by B. Breed, E. Keitel, and R. Wallace, Lucilius and Satire in Second-Century BC Rome (Cambridge 2018) is the first collection of essays on Lucilius’ poetry. For Catullus, options abound. The Loeb version, a translation by F. W. Cornish revised by G. P. Goold, can be found in Catullus, Tibullus, Pervigilium Veneris (Cambridge, MA 1988). The translation by P. Green, The Poems of Catullus (Berkeley 2005), is bracing and philologically well-informed. A. J. Woodman and I. Du Quesnay’s Cambridge Companion to Catullus (Cambridge 2021) is an excellent introduction to many of the major questions and problems. So, too, M. B. Skinner, A Companion to Catullus (Malden 2007). Important critical essays from the past fifty years are assembled in J. H. Gaisser, Oxford Readings in Classical Studies: Catullus (Oxford 2007). D. Wray, Catullus and the Poetics of Roman Manhood (Cambridge 2001) discusses many of the gender-related issues alluded to in this chapter. Catullus’ strategies for self-presentation are discussed in their own terms and with reference to Augustan poets by K. McCarthy, I, the Poet: First-Person Form in Horace, Catullus, and Propertius (Ithaca 2019). The quotation from Ezra Pound is taken from E. Pound, The Selected Letters of Ezra Pound, 1907–1941 (New York 1950): 87. For Cicero’s letters, G. O. Hutchinson, Cicero’s Correspondence: A Literary Study (Oxford 1998) furnishes a range of insightful, close readings of selected letters. J. Hall, Politeness and Politics in Cicero Letters (Oxford 2009) unpacks the social dynamics of aristocratic correspondence and their implications for epistolary style. P. White, Cicero in Letters: Epistolary Relations of the Late Republic (Oxford 2010) investigates correspondence as a practical and literary phenomenon. K. Volk’s The Roman Republic of Letters (Princeton 2022) provides a useful survey of the role of letters in the intellectual life of Cicero’s time. There is much of value in work outside English. Key studies include: M. Puelma Piwonka, Lucilius und Kallimachos (Frankfurt 1949); I. Mariotti, Studi Luciliani (Florence 1961); J. Granarolo, D’Ennius à Catulle: Recherches sur les antécédents romains de la poésie nouvelle (Paris 1971); H. P. Syndikus, Catull: eine Interpretation, 3 vols. (Darmstadt 1984, 1987, 1990); N. Holzberg, Catull: der Dichter und sein erotisches Werk (Munich 2005); J.-E. Bernard, La sociabilité épistolaire chez Cicéron (Paris 2013).

chapter 5

To Educate and to Entertain: Didactic and the Arrangement of Knowledge

We have thus far skated around the question of what exactly literature is. This chapter brings us back squarely to face it, since some of the works we will be discussing push the boundaries of literature. The dramatic increase in writing and in written material during our period has several effects. One of the most important is that things written down can normally be accessed by anyone who can read. So, for instance, early in the fifth century the XII Tables, the earliest written Roman law code, were published in public places; this automatically meant that a larger number of people than before could know what the laws actually said. Still, written commentary came much later: Aelius Paetus, cos. 198, was the first, in his Tripertia (Treatise in Three Parts), a work which included an interpretative commentary on the XII Tables. By his day, presumably, the language had become unclear, or legal interpretations had changed, or both. Nor were Romans any longer content to rely on oral tradition or piecemeal writing. Thus Paetus initiates a long and distinguished tradition of Roman jurists writing learned treatises about the law. As with many other texts of this kind, which exist for us only as titles, we cannot say anything at all about the Tripertia. Law was not the only technical subject Romans wrote about, just the first. This chapter focuses on the wide variety of prose and poetic texts that attempted to codify knowledge and disseminate it to others. In nearly every field – religion, language, culture, philosophy, medicine, farming, politics, literature – Romans of the second and first centuries wrote texts designed to entertain as they educated. Indeed, we might conceptually put the Roman interest in history (Chapter 6) into this category, although it was always a distinct genre. Philosophical writing, too, is often discussed separately from other didactic texts. And it is true that in philosophical works literariness can sometimes be subordinated to the comprehensive technical exposition of its subject in a way that differs from, say, a selective, highly artistic didactic poem. In this chapter, however, we are trying to 148

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highlight how the Romans turned to a broad range of literary forms – such as epistles and verse and dialogues – in order to give shape to erudition of all kinds, ranging from practical matters to exotic topics to eternal verities, like religion or moral truths. Some of this scholarly activity is perhaps the inevitable result of the Romans’ acquisition of an empire: they were regularly discovering new peoples who did things differently, and it is only natural to expect that among some Romans this would raise questions about how things ought to be done. Other impulses seem to have been at work, too: we can discern a keen interest in organising and collecting and categorising knowledge about Roman society, both past and present. Greek interests, by contrast, lay largely in past traditions or, if contemporary, in philosophy (which included science). Romans turned frequently to Greek sources, but were especially intrigued by their own Romanness. Romans were also exceptionally good at cataloguing and packaging their own – and the Greeks’ – past. Their motives for writing didactic texts naturally varied: sometimes they aimed simply to bring Greek knowledge to a Roman audience; sometimes, however, they made original contributions – especially about Roman traditions and Roman exceptionalism. In composing these treatises, Romans, like Greeks before them, aimed at increasingly high degrees of literariness. And, again like Greeks before them, they composed didactic literature in poetry as well as prose.

‘Practical’ Writing, Greek and Roman Before the Romans had literature, they had writing, which they used for a range of utilitarian purposes (see Chapter 1). Among these were personal memoranda, reminders for oneself or others: business agents, say, or priests or magistrates, who might need direction on legal or religious matters. Sub-literary collections of information like these the Romans called commentarii, ‘commentaries’, which were constantly revised and expanded. Although oral instruction always remained central to Roman education, the Romans also appear to have been keen to get certain things in writing. As Vitruvius, the first century author of De architectura (On Architecture; see below), an important treatise on the topic, put it (De arch. 7 pf. 1): Our ancestors acted with wisdom as well as practicality when they established the custom of transmitting their ideas to later generations by means of commentaries (commentarii). This way their ideas, which had been

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To Educate and to Entertain published in volumes, did not perish but instead were expanded on and gradually, over the ages, reached the most advanced level of learning.

Early commentaries no longer exist, but their subjects included Roman law, religious ritual, and constitutional conventions. The Romans cared about getting things right and consequently were avid consumers of any kind of helpful knowledge. And in seeking it, they were not afraid of looking to outsiders. After the Third Punic War, by order of the senate, a twenty-eightvolume agricultural treatise, De agricultura, by a Carthaginian named Mago, was translated into Latin and later into Greek. Thereafter it was frequently consulted and is often cited by Roman authors. And the Etruscan people were internationally recognized as experts in matters of religion, so some of their texts on technical aspects of divination were also translated. The second of these has a clear practical purpose, the first less so: Romans had been farming their own land for centuries, and the geography of Carthage is distinct enough from that of Italy that many practical details would surely have been inappropriate in their new context.

Didactic Treatises as Literature Writing of a technical kind was clearly important. But was it literature? Was there an art to the expression of instructions that rendered it something more profound than, say, a recipe? Could this kind of writing become akin to the genres of literature we have already encountered? For Roman writers, the answers to all these questions had been furnished by the Greeks: yes. Instructive prose works were also features of Greek society, expressed in a highly literary form. Plato’s dialogues, for instance, combine didactic intentions with exceptional literary achievement. So, too, Xenophon’s essays on state finances, household economy, horsemanship, and hunting. Isocrates promulgated his advice on style and statecraft by way of public letters, a practice that became widespread in the Hellenistic world. And so it goes. Epicurus’ letters on philosophy, for example, were widely read even by readers uninterested in Epicureanism, and other writers communicated technical matters in didactic epistles with a high degree of literariness. Archimedes even promulgated mathematical proofs in letter form. The spectrum of Greek subjects was broad: moral and natural philosophy (i.e. science), statecraft, military affairs, antiquarianism, oratory, grammar, literary history, mythology, ethnography, geography – it was a rare topic that failed to attract literary treatment, whether in dialogues, treatises, or epistles.

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The artistry of Greek didactic prose was not lost on the Romans. They too aimed for it – even in arenas which, for us, remain subliterary. We would, for instance, be surprised to find a beautifully written chemistry textbook. This is, in part, why we read them solely to learn chemistry. By contrast, didactic texts in Rome – even those on technical subjects – were appreciated as specimens of literature, and were read by individuals with no practical need to learn about, say, farming or ethnography. They could be relished for their style, their arrangement, and their displays of erudition. It is impossible to overlook the sheer quantity of Roman didactic literature. This is a phenomenon which well illustrates the Roman desire for mastery: the encyclopaedic categorising of the world is a quintessentially Roman response to the discovery of it. This is not to say they were interested in everything. Music and mathematics, subjects of many Greek treatises, conjured little excitement, and some topics were dangerous: we know, for instance, of more than one occasion when the senate voted to expel the philosophers (all of whom were Greek) from Rome, notably in 155 bce. Subjects relating to Roman civic life clearly fascinated. Hence the tradition of jurisprudence we have already noted; by the first century there was a move to codify, broaden, and illuminate it, for reasons both intellectual and practical. That century and the one before it had brought enormous changes to Roman society, and many, in seeking to understand those changes, published their thoughts, simultaneously performing a civic service and advertising their own abilities. It would oversimplify to say that all the writing included in this chapter is about what Romans thought of themselves. But there is some truth in the view that, when the Romans turned to didactic, they did so via Romanness. It was clearly the Roman perspective that united didactic enquiry: from etymologies (origins of words) to scientific achievements, to geography, to maps, to ethnography, and so on, Roman interest in didactic literature suggests a belief that learning mattered profoundly and that all topics were related through the centrality of Rome. Erudition of this kind demanded monumentality: the creation of public libraries toward the end of the first century (one by Asinius Pollio in 37 bce and one by Augustus, the Palatine Library, in 28 bce) signalled a public commitment to learning and literature.

Prose and Poetry Poetry was also a vehicle for instruction in Greece and Rome, a tradition which went back to the origins of literature and inspired the works of Hesiod. We juxtapose prose and poetry in this chapter because we believe

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that prose texts benefit from the kinds of literary analysis usually accorded to poetry and that the genre of didactic poetry fits well into the cultural context of educational or technical texts. But doing so requires clearing some ground: most moderns believe that non-fiction is meant primarily for educational purposes, poetry for entertainment. In our opinion, this mindset short-changes both sets of texts. A more useful distinction can perhaps be drawn between earlier and later didactic texts, whereby the earlier ones often do focus on information and the later aim at more artistic purposes. But we often cannot say why some authors wrote poetry and others prose. In any case, most of the texts we discuss here were written in such a way as to suggest literary pretensions, even if not all succeed.

Definitions This chapter’s main topic is didactic literature, texts which have the expressed aim of teaching somebody something. As we have mentioned, some of these are technical works written to explain various aspects of Roman language or culture, while others are more elaborate texts written in poetic metres. The former often include more practical information than the latter, but exceptions are notable: the poetry of Lucretius, for instance, is often densely technical (see below). And Cicero’s philosophical dialogues and essays, even when they treat recondite matters, were admired by his contemporaries largely on stylistic grounds. Didactic prose came to Rome before didactic poetry, so we treat it first. But before we begin, a few defining features: Latin didactic and educational texts in both prose and poetry can often be identified by their titles, which tend to be descriptive but plain (e.g. De Agricultura, ‘On Farming’; De Legibus, ‘On Laws’). Introductions normally lay out the procedure the work will follow or the range of subjects to be treated, in the manner of a table of contents (which did not exist in the ancient world). Usually, the beginnings of such texts aim to impress by way of a sophisticated, often complicated, literary style. That style is not always sustained throughout the work. Aside from these features, however, they vary: prose exemplars typically inform the reader how they came to be composed: often they announce the fulfilment of some expressed need (e.g. Varro’s wife has just bought a farm and he wants to teach her about the running of it) or they present themselves as being the record of a specific conversation (i.e. they are, formally speaking, dialogues); some are both, containing a dialogue reported to a specific audience for a specific purpose. These prose dialogues draw upon a long and distinguished tradition of Greek philosophical

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dialogue, which means that, even when their topics are pedestrian (e.g. Quintus Cicero’s The Brief Handbook on Canvassing for Office), their pedigree lends them sophistication.

First Steps: Cato the Elder The Elder Cato, an innovator in Roman oratory and history (see Chapters 3 and 6), was also a central figure in the development of Latin didactic prose. Sorting out Cato’s writings is hampered by the imprecision of ancient citations and by Cato’s habit of stuffing diffuse material into a single text. We have mentions of On Military Discipline (De disciplina militari), a Poem on Character (Carmen de moribus), and Apophthegms (Apophthegmata), but none of these is necessarily an independent composition; they may all in fact derive from Cato’s To My Son (Ad filium), a wide-ranging collection of works it is useful to think of as pamphlets. This latter work appears to have been issued in multiple volumes, including a book of historical stories, ‘written in big letters’ for his son, which provides one of the world’s earliest specimens of children’s literature. But the rest of the text discusses topics like medicine, law, and oratory. And at least one of Cato’s works seemingly took the shape of a didactic epistle, standard in Greek but an innovation in Latin prose. Indeed, Cato’s extant writings provide evidence for the importation of Hellenic culture into the Roman world, and his name becomes a byword for the tensions caused by that importation (see Chapter 3). Cato manages to simultaneously occupy a place as insider and outsider: his rabid xenophobia seems more rhetorical than genuine, and he used it to create a durable identity for Roman manhood: not too intellectual, not too impressed by foreign things, shrewd in politics and business. At the same time, he used his knowledge of Greek culture to his strategic advantage. Cato’s style is marked by parataxis, lexical parallelism, repetition, chiasmus, and unemphatic sentence-endings; these contrast with later Latin prose styles, which tend to be more ornate. Moralism is to the fore, and Cato, in celebrating the honour and integrity of traditional Roman pastimes, observes how farming yields the most valorous men and the mightiest soldiers (viri fortissimi et milites strenuissimi). Agriculture is an occupation for the righteous: when men are busy farming, Cato claims, they are unlikely to think bad thoughts (minimeque male cogitantes sunt). His introduction completed, Cato abruptly changes style. Simple sentences predominate, interrupted by sententious aphorisms. He addresses his reader in the singular and in the imperative, like a recipe. But here again, pretensions at simplicity mask a hybrid Greco-Roman sophistication.

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Cato’s de Agricultura No Roman before Cato had composed an essay on agriculture, and this is our earliest extant Latin prose. It is regularly assumed that Cato wrote in reaction to something in Greek, and his handbook is suffused with Greek loan words. But no obvious Greek model presents itself. This text seems to envision itself as being read out loud and possibly even discussed with slaves; the homey tone, archaisms, and pithy sayings contribute to its impression of informality. But being conversational does not mean that the text is unsophisticated. Given the rapid expansion of Rome’s empire and the interactions with others that inevitably entailed, we might envision Cato as writing the De Agricultura to help outsiders, or to remind Romans who they are (the relationship between Romans and Italians, as we shall see in Chapter 6, was central to Cato’s thinking as a historian). The virtues of the farming life are a topic for romantic reverie in many cultures, but the development of Roman agriculture suggests a different reality: smallholders who worked their own land were increasingly being displaced by giant farms, latifundia, run by enslaved overseers and worked by hundreds of enslaved people. This rapid expansion of the unfree labour pool meant diverse new inhabitants of Italy, and so it might have seemed like an important time to reaffirm what it meant to be Roman. This new type of farm-owner would still think of himself as the paterfamilias (‘father of the household’), but it is not likely that he would live on this farm – he might not even visit it often. He would, however, count on its profits to maintain his lifestyle at Rome. And Cato’s text is concerned above all with maximising income. An ugly example is his recommendation to treat slaves like equipment: when they become old or feeble, he advises, sell them off cheaply (Cato Agr. 2). This sentiment shocked later Roman readers, even though they too owned other humans. The treatise covers the buying and running of a farm, including what should be planted when, how many workers are needed, and the rudiments of harvesting and processing primary cash crops. It also contains, among other things, instructions for grafting different trees and vines, medicines for sick cattle, recipes, instructions for a variety of rural religious ceremonies, pest control, and the basics of animal husbandry. This list is less random than it seems, given that the farm may be fairly isolated and thus required to attend to its own needs. The text is certainly organised, but toward the end things become jumbled together (including a lengthy discourse about the medicinal and other virtues of cabbages).

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So the De Agricultura contains practical information, and a clear addressee. What remains opaque is whether any Roman newly in possession of a farm would think to turn to any book, or would find this one useful if he or she read it. When it comes to crop selection, for instance, it seems likelier that a new farmer would plant more or less what his or her neighbours planted, in keeping with the dictates of climate and soil. The preface of the work asserts Roman values, but in fact much of its specific information comes from earlier Greek sources; this is a surprise given Cato’s professed disdain for Greek knowledge. In his On Agriculture, it appears, Cato gives expression to a brand of Roman cultural imperialism: Greek learning can be profitable, if assimilated to Roman needs. Cato’s On Agriculture was in many respects pathbreaking. It introduced to Latin prose a new kind of technical literature, one that boldly asserted its moralising purpose: farming is good for Rome and for Roman armies, and knowledge of it gives power. Owing to Cato’s political and cultural authority, this treatise remained influential as a literary model – although by the late republic it was perhaps more frequently alluded to than read. Its inadequacies as a practical handbook were obvious and did not go overlooked even by readers who venerated Cato as the father of Latin didactic prose.

The Beginnings of a Genre Cato’s prose writings, including his didactic works, were later criticised for their clunky style and haphazard organisation. And by the time we come to the late republic, Romans writing treatises are conspicuously adept at varying tone and register, and their compositions exhibit careful, finely wrought structures. This was a development Latin didactic prose owed to its increasingly close relationship with Greek techniques and models. Attention is routinely and properly lavished on the contribution made by the grammarian Crates of Mallos. A distinguished intellectual, he visited Rome, as part of an official embassy, in 169 or 168. There he fell into a sewer and broke his leg. He spent his convalescence teaching enthusiastic young aristocrats the Greek sciences of grammar and composition (Suet. Gramm. 2.2). His lessons stuck. The first important Roman grammarian was L. Aelius Stilo, an equestrian who was born around 150. His output was enormous, including commentaries and philological essays, and his prestige was indisputable. Varro (see below) calls Stilo his teacher, and Cicero’s admiration for him is plain. The composition of learned works rapidly became a source of

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cultural capital for Roman aristocrats, and they began to embrace Greek approaches to them. Among the early Greek sophists, and conspicuously in the writings of Plato and Aristotle, the view obtained that, for any skill or activity to be legitimate, it must be an art, a technē in Greek (in Latin, ars). Rendering a habit into an art required systematic, intellectual organisation based on unambiguous definitions and classifications, meant to lend clarity and comprehension to a topic (see too Chapter 3 on oratory). This way of writing pervaded Hellenistic Greek prose, and so persuaded were Romans of the merits of it that classification per se became the indispensable expression of serious thinking (see, for instance, Cic. De orat. 1.187–118, who praises this formalism as ‘rendering coherent what was unordered and unorganised’). The serious author, therefore, defines a topic, divides it into parts, divides those parts into sub-parts, and so on. The contrast with Cato is obvious. Varro’s late first century De re rustica (On Agricultural Affairs, discussed below), insists that agriculture is an art, which he defines in terms of its nature, its elements, and its pleasures. He then splits agriculture into four parts, which are themselves sliced up further – Varro identifies ninetynine classes of soil – in an attempt to impose order on the messy stuff of farming. Varro’s dense system of classifications may strike a reader as daunting (or dull), but it is certainly not disorganised. Latin didactic prose between Cato and the first century is preserved only by way of fragments, brief citations, or titles. Still, the move toward literariness is clear enough. An influential example is M. Iunius Brutus (pr. around 140), who completed a dialogue in three books on Roman law (De iure civili libri tres). Each book was a conversation between himself and his son – a reflection, perhaps, of Cato’s works for his son – and each book was set in a different country home. Brutus’ design – dialogue form and attention to venue – would influence later didactic writers, including Varro and Cicero. By the first century, it seems nearly everyone in the senatorial and equestrian orders was composing didactic prose. Treatises appeared on oratory and philosophy, essays on religion and law, textbooks on antiquarianism and linguistics – and more. Educated freedmen, too, promulgated works that were taken seriously by Rome’s intellectual public (in his On Grammarians, Suetonius discusses several of them). Everyone dabbled, but some were devoted intellectuals. P. Nigidius Figulus (pr. 58), for instance, composed numerous works, some recondite but all with lasting influence: he encompassed grammar, natural philosophy, and religion. Others, although not noted for their intellectual pursuits, nonetheless felt it

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a social duty to write a book: Ap. Claudius Pulcher (cos. 54), rich, arrogant, and unprincipled, wrote a volume on augural law which he dedicated to Cicero. For most aristocrats, however, didactic composition coincided comfortably with traditional responsibilities. Cicero’s brother Quintus drafted a didactic epistle (addressed to Cicero), The Brief Handbook on Canvassing for Office (Commentariolum Petitionis), which endeavoured to transform electioneering into an art by dissecting it into parts and subcategories. Even Caesar, while waging war in Gaul, paused from his lethal day job in order to write a two-volume treatise on linguistics, the De Analogia, and a De Ratione Latine Loquendi (A Plan for Speaking Latin). These, too, were dedicated to Cicero (see Sidebar VII), and may have served the practical function of allowing outsiders to attain to the highest levels of Roman culture without lengthy personal apprenticeship. This list could go on: by the end of our period, Roman society teemed with didactic productions.

Cicero’s Dialogues Cicero’s preferred medium for technical writing – especially in the case of philosophy – was the dialogue. By the first century, this genre had a long pedigree. Although its invention eludes us, there is no missing the primacy of Plato as its foremost practitioner. His dialogues render the expression of philosophical thinking as a kind of dramatic performance – scenes are set, characters are vividly drawn – in which varying points of view contend with one another in settings which remind readers that philosophy is a part of the real world and not something utterly abstracted from it. Other Greek writers aimed at achieving the same combination of artistry and instruction, composing dialogues on a variety of topics. Dialogues, owing to their vivacity, are entertaining but also demanding: the motives and mindsets of the participants matter to what they say, which means that readers cannot be passive: they must discern the strengths, weakness, and varying purposes of each argument as speakers talk to or sometimes past one another. The issues raised in a dialogue are not always resolved (or resolved satisfactorily), a development which shifts the issue to the reader as an object of contemplation. In dialogues, then, interpretation is anything but an easy or straightforward matter. Consequently, readers are drawn in and become, in a sense, silent participants. Dialogues arrived early in Rome. The first one we can spy was composed in the second century by Marcus Junius Brutus (see above), a dialogue on

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law between the author and his son. Already one can detect the influence of Plato. The first book of Brutus’ dialogue, it appears, opened with the line, ‘by chance it happened that we were in the district of Privernum’ (Cic. Clu. 141; Cic. De orat. 224), setting the scene of the dialogue as a stroke of serendipity. This kind of opening is a recurring feature of Platonic dialogues: participants meet unexpectedly and seize the moment, wherever they are, to pursue a topic of interest. Brutus’ dialogue was hardly unique, and, by Cicero’s day, the conventions of the genre were so familiar that he could write, in a letter to Varro, ‘you know how a dialogue behaves’ (Cic. Fam. 9.8.2). Cicero’s dialogues often reprise themes and features from Plato’s dialogues, as we shall see below. They also self-consciously allude to their Platonic antecedents: in the Brutus, that dialogue’s participants seat themselves round a statue of Plato (Cic. Brut. 24); in On the Orator, a character suggests that they imitate Socrates in Plato’s Phaedrus (Cic. De orat. 1.28); Atticus, a speaker in Cicero’s On Laws, evokes Plato as a model for their dialogue (Cic. Leg. 1.15). Cicero can even joke about the conventions of the dialogue form. Looking once more at On Laws, Cicero (a character in the dialogue) says to his brother Quintus (another character), when he resists accepting Cicero’s point of view on a contentious issue, ‘you are well aware, brother, that in a dialogue of this kind it is customary to say “quite so” or “that is certainly the case” so that the conversation can move on’, to which Quintus responds, ‘I certainly do not agree with you; nevertheless I should like you to move on to another topic’ (Cic. Leg. 3.26).

Cicero’s Technical Style Cicero’s essays and dialogue were much admired by contemporaries, and were enormously influential through late antiquity, the Middle Ages, and well into the Enlightenment. St Augustine tells us he was turned towards God by reading Cicero’s (now lost) work, Hortensius, an admonition to philosophical enquiry. And the American founding fathers, in their constitutional deliberations, turned more than once to Cicero’s De re publica (On the Republic). As for style, even humanists like Erasmus, who urged writers to unshackle themselves from Cicero, could not fail to view him as the prevailing standard for learned expression in Latin. We have encountered Cicero’s treaties on rhetoric in Chapter 3. Their approach to the topic, we now see, employs the techniques of definition and division characteristic of all didactic prose. An important exception is Cicero’s dialogue, De oratore (On the Orator), begun in 55 and completed

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the next year. It is rich in allusions to Plato, especially to the Gorgias and Phaedrus, dialogues which take up the nature of rhetoric and its relationship to philosophy. Cicero’s interlocutors complain about the pedestrian recipes for eloquence found in Greek rhetorical writers: still, they rehearse them critically, displaying the active, independent spirit with which didactic literature should be read. De oratore is set in 91, amid a political crisis but during a festival which allows leisure to ponder the nature of the best orator (compare the similar settings of Plato’s dialogues, usually at a time and in a place marked as separate from the everyday). The dialogue takes place over three successive days (one book per day) and unpacks a wide range of oratorical techniques, including humour. The whole of the work emphasises the complexity of speechifying, the unpredictability of any rhetorical occasion, and the consequent necessity for a good orator to master philosophy. Cicero is the obvious, if unspoken, model. The dialogue’s style is elegant –registers of conversation and exposition do not vary so starkly as is often the case in such works – and Cicero fashions each of his speakers into a suitably dignified character. The precariousness of politics, even for an oratorical expert, is grimly underlined: in the introduction to Book 3, Cicero observes how, within four years of this dialogue’s (fictional) delivery, all but one of its interlocutors was dead, some slaughtered in civil strife. Cicero continued to write about oratory for the rest of his life. In the 50s, however, he turned to political and philosophical composition as well. With Plato in mind, he crafted a dialogue, De re publica (On the Republic), in six books. It appeared in 51. In this work, in which Scipio Aemilianus (cos. 147) is the principal speaker, Cicero explores the nature of the ideal constitution. His reading on the topic, which included the historian Polybius, was extensive, so the dialogue is solidly grounded in classical and Hellenistic Greek political theory. In the end, however, not unexpectedly, the Roman model best fits the bill as a practical, realistic instantiation of a balanced constitution. On the Republic comes down to us in fragments, but we do have a section of Book 6, the report by Aemilianus of a dream in which his adoptive grandfather, Scipio Africanus, revealed the workings of the heavens and assured him that a loyal citizen may look forward to a celestial blessing. This is Cicero’s adaptation of Plato’s Myth of Er, the concluding image of The Republic. Cicero’s version emphasises the cosmic importance of the good man and citizen, a leader of his city. This passage was excerpted in late antiquity and interpreted as a Neo-Platonic allegory for the journey of the soul into the next world: known as ‘Scipio’s Dream’, this part of On the Republic became very popular during the Middle Ages.

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Although Plato was Cicero’s inspiration, the execution and the argument of On the Republic are his own. The same is true of De legibus (On Laws), begun at around this time and never finished. Looking back at Plato’s Laws, this dialogue drafts an ideal legal code: once again, the result is more or less Rome, or a slightly improved version of it (Plato’s ideal laws did not exist anywhere). Greek political theory, then, is employed by Cicero in order to celebrate the Romans’ historical achievement in making the impossible possible. Although devoted to philosophy from his earliest days, Cicero did not write original philosophical works until 46, during the dictatorship of Caesar. From then until his death in 43, however, Cicero’s output was prodigious. As a philosopher, Cicero inclined to an Academic perspective, which is to say he believed that, owing to the sheer difficulty of ascertaining absolute truth, one should employ a pragmatic scepticism, judging propositions individually. This orientation encouraged Cicero to read widely and in practice resulted in an eclectic and independent approach to philosophy. We glimpse Cicero’s method when, in 45, he composed a didactic epistle, addressed to Caesar, on the good ruler: he read models by Aristotle and Theophrastus, but struggled to adapt them; he sent Atticus a copy (which is how we know about it) and handed it on to a few of Caesar’s friends, but the letter was never promulgated. Cicero, like Lucretius (see below), confronted the very real difficulties imposed by the absence of existing philosophical discourse in Latin. When earlier Romans talked about philosophy, they did so in Greek. Both writers were trailblazers in shaping the language of Roman philosophy. Cicero’s prose was ultimately more influential than Lucretius’ poetry, and his corpus supplied the essential vocabulary and formulations for subsequent Latin philosophising. The creation of a Latin philosophical vocabulary was no small matter, and Cicero draws attention to it in his Academica: although he is content to employ Greek words naturalised in Latin, like ‘philosophy’ or ‘physics’, he will sometimes be obliged to coin new Latin words in order to render Greek technical terms. One example of difficult Greek jargon was poiotētes (‘what-sort-of-ness’), invented by Plato to indicate an essential aspect of a thing. Cicero translated this term by coining the word qualitas; the English ‘quality’ remains a technical term in modern philosophy. Cicero’s philosophical interests were broad. Not all his works survive, but they include essays and dialogues on epistemology – Academica (Principles of the Academy), theology – De natura deorum (On the Nature of the Gods); De divinatione (On Divination), death – Tusculanae

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disputationes (Tusculan Disputations), old age (De senectute), and friendship (De amicitia). His two most important philosophical works are De finibus bonorum et malorum (On the Moral Ends of Good and Evil) and De officiis (On Duties). De finibus, five books which appeared in 45, was dedicated to Marcus Brutus and, as its title suggests, is a work on ethics. De officiis, in three books, was begun after Caesar’s assassination. It is a didactic epistle addressed to Cicero’s son. Its subjects are duty and propriety in all aspects of life, especially public life. Caesar recurs more than once, always as a negative example. The view was long held that, as a philosopher, Cicero was essentially a plagiarist. His works were appreciated for their elegance, but critics studied them largely in the hope of recovering Cicero’s Greek sources. That Cicero relied heavily on the works of classical and especially Hellenistic philosophers is unquestionable. His originality, however, is difficult to gauge: Cicero is often our only source for the philosophers he consulted. For that reason, it is hard to tell how he altered or adapted them. Current opinion believes Cicero to have been an active reader and refiner of philosophical argument. Cicero never denies that Greece is the font of philosophy, but by folding Greek philosophy into Roman aristocratic society, he appropriates it as an urgent concern of Roman statesmen. Indeed, it is no accident that it was amid a political crisis that Cicero became a prolific philosophical writer. And, like the characters in his On Oratory, he was presently to be slaughtered in civil strife, during the proscriptions of 43 (see Chapter 6).

Varro Marcus Terentius Varro (116–27) was, like Cicero, a new man (see sidebar V) of equestrian origins, born in Reate (modern Rieti). Unlike Cicero, however, he pursued military service, joining Pompey the Great in his various campaigns. For his accomplishments as a naval commander, he was awarded a corona rostrata (a beaked crown), a rare honour. His service, in combination with Pompey’s support, elevated him to a praetorship, the date of which we do not know. Like Cicero, Varro joined Pompey’s side in the civil war. Like Cicero, he eventually capitulated to Caesar and, like Cicero, was pardoned. Both men retired to literary pursuits. After Caesar’s assassination, when Antony, Octavian, and Lepidus formed the Second Triumvirate, Varro, like Cicero, was proscribed. But Varro survived, was again pardoned, and devoted the remainder of his long life to literature. He was, in his lifetime, a towering figure. In the public library established by

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Asinius Pollio in Rome, Varro was the only living author honoured with a bust. Quintilian, writing during the empire, notwithstanding his admiration for Cicero, described Varro as ‘the most learned of the Romans’ (Quint. 10.1.95: vir Romanorum eruditissimus). Even Cicero might not have demurred. Varro’s industry was enormous and his range astonishing. He composed works – more than 600 – on philosophy, rhetoric, law, linguistics, literary history, philology, literary criticism, geography, religion, and antiquarianism: his literary output can only be described as prodigious. Only two items from this cornucopia remain: ‘On the Latin Language’ (De lingua latina), in twenty-five books of which six survive (in a highly damaged condition), and ‘On agriculture’ (De re rustica), a dialogue in three books. De lingua Latina was completed a few months before Cicero’s death in 43. Books 5–7, probably all of 5–25, were dedicated to the learned orator. De re rustica Varro finished in 33, with the first book dedicated to his wife. As for the rest of his compositions, we know them only by way of quotations and discussions in other writers. The loss of Varro’s extensive output is regrettable: we might think of him as an amateur in the best sense, a man interested in and conversant with the full span of knowledge in his time. Varro’s masterpiece was his voluminous Antiquitates rerum humanarum et rerum divinarum (‘Studies on ancient aspects of mortal and divine affairs’). Its first section, on ‘mortal affairs’, took up twenty-five books; its second, on ‘divine affairs’, 16. This work, written over eight years and completed in 47, was dedicated to Caesar (soon after Varro’s pardon) in his role as pontifex maximus, head of Rome’s civic religion. The Antiquitates, in typical didactic style, was articulated through lists, definitions, and subclassifications. Its goal was nothing less than recovering the civilisation of early Rome. Varro dealt with ancient customs, the language and literature of the past, early chronology (Varro settled on the year 754 as the date of Rome’s founding, which became canonical), the Roman calendar, and so forth; divine matters included archaic ceremonies, lists of forgotten divinities, and a philosophical discussion of the nature of the gods in poetry, in cult, and in reality. The erudition and brilliance of the Antiquitates was instantly celebrated. Cicero’s praise of the work is nothing short of exuberant (Cic. Acad 1.3.9): We were wandering about in our city as if we were foreigners, when your books escorted us, one could say, back to our own homes, and enabled us at last to recognise who we really are and where it is we actually dwell.

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Thereafter, the Antiquitates was a must-read. Vergil was deeply influenced by it, and he was not alone. The Church Fathers regarded it as the standard work on paganism, and much of what we know about it comes from their polemics against it, especially the animadversions of St. Augustine in his City of God (De civitate dei). Before they were friends, Caesar characterised Varro as a timeserver (Caes. B. Civ. 2.17–20). Harsh, perhaps, but it is clear to us that Varro did sometimes put his talents to work in gratifying the grandees on whom his career depended. For instance, when Pompey was elected to his first consulship in 70, he was, unprecedentedly, an equestrian who had never held a prior magistracy and so had never set foot in the senate (see Sidebar V). In order to provide Pompey with a crash course in senatorial decorum, Varro composed the Eisagogikos (Greek for Introductory Textbook), possibly in letter form, which explained senatorial traditions, customs, and procedures to the consul who was a stranger to them. Varro thus honoured his great friend’s singular achievement and memorialised their close relationship (but also, provided a real service). Once Octavian was master of Rome, Varro revised this work into a didactic epistle entitled Letter to Oppianicus, claiming the Eisagogikos was no longer accessible (Gell. NA 14.7). This new version must have codified and consequently furnished legitimacy to the senatorial reforms introduced by Octavian, thereby replacing, or updating, Varro’s old friendship with the exceptional Pompey (‘that was then’) with his new attachment to Caesar’s heir (‘this is now’).

Varro’s Extant Writings: De Re Rustica About the De lingua latina little can be said here owing to its tattered condition, although this work has been the subject of much (and very good) technical philological study. The De re rustica, by contrast, repays examination. This is the first Latin dialogue devoted to the topic of agriculture. Its three books, published in 37, depict conversations at different times and in different venues: Varro’s presence is the connecting feature. Here Varro competes not only with Cato’s De agricultura (which it mostly ignores) but also with the innovative dialogue on law by Brutus, cited above, and with the dialogues of Cicero. The style of Varro’s exposition is technical, marked by predictable didactic techniques like definition and classification. The author even admits that he cannot, like Homer or Ennius, evoke the Muses as his inspiration. Instead, he looks toward other gods, and supplies a didactic catalogue of them beginning with Jupiter and Tellus, goddess of the earth, and stretching so far as Robigus, the divinity

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who protects crops from mildew. He then rehearses, in another list, his sources: all are Greek (even the Carthaginian Mago he cites in a Greek translation). Thus, like many literary Romans, Varro foregrounds his innovation. Much of Varro’s instruction is monotonous. But he dispels tedium by way of elegant framing devices: these open and close each book and often articulate changes in topic or speaker within books. Varro furnishes his reader with animated, amicable dialogue between his speakers, who are arrestingly depicted, often through punning names. In Book 1, for instance, we meet C. Agrius and P. Agrasius, men whose names evoke farming and the countryside, but each of whom is clueless on the topic: indeed, Agrasius is a financier. A topic of the third book is beekeeping, and one of the speakers is Appius Claudius Pulcher (cos. 54), whose first name is made into a pun on apis, bee. In this book, Varro and his friends find Claudius awaiting the results of an ongoing election while sitting amid a flock of friends, each of whom has a birdy name: Cornelius Merula (blackbird), Fircellius Pavo (peacock), Minucius Pica (magpie), and M. Petronius Passer (sparrow). Claudius is asked, ‘will you admit us into your aviary, where you sit amidst your birds’? (Rust. 3.2.3). Charm and gentle humour of this kind are to the fore. Not all, however, is fun and games. As was the case for Cato, profitability is Varro’s primary goal. At the same time, his dialogue is suffused by nostalgia for simpler times and punctuated by trenchant criticisms of contemporary luxury. The dark sides of modern urban life are also underlined. De re rustica is set in the late republic, and the dialogue of Book 3 takes place during the elections of 50, the year before civil war broke out between Caesar and Pompey. In this book, the speakers are interrupted by news that someone has been arrested for tampering with the ballot box, and soon Claudius is called away to help to settle another electoral controversy. This is all remote from the farming life, or it should be. Book 1 ends even more grimly. Its characters have been awaiting the arrival of the priest of Tellus in her temple. At the conclusion of their conversation, they learn that he has been murdered in a case of mistaken identity. De re rustica appeared in the late thirties, in the aftermath of Rome’s bloody proscriptions and the government’s devastating confiscations of farmland up and down Italy – and amid preparations for yet another civil war between Octavian and Antony (see Sidebar IX). The traditional values of agriculture and aristocratic charm are thus juxtaposed against an ugly, frightening reality. Beyond these threats of civil war, other unpleasant aspects of Roman character emerge: the third book focuses most of its attention on luxury

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items such as fish and birds, which fetch a high price among upper-class Romans but are not in the least necessary for the unpretentious farming life extolled in the work’s opening lines. And several of the characters display a keen interest in making the greatest possible profit from their farms. We are a far cry from simple Roman virtues here, and there is debate about what these inconsistencies mean. Varro’s is a different kind of text from Cato’s: it is richly sprinkled with literary quotations and citations of farming authorities of the past. Still, it shares with its predecessor the belief that Italy is uniquely blessed in terms of fertility, and that country life is always – at least in principle– better than city life. One promising vein of interpretation sees the dialogue as satirical or perhaps philosophical in nature, an investigation of the proposition that Roman material success may harm or even destroy traditional virtues. In other words, perhaps the subject of the dialogue is less farming per se than the Roman way of life, and perhaps this is not the same kind of didactic treatise as Cato’s. The nominal setting of the dialogue – in a time of civil unrest – makes itself felt only at the beginnings and ends of the books but may pervade the rest in a less obvious way: the very act of farming presumes a sufficiently stable future.

Vitruvius Vitruvius is the author of De architectura (On Architecture), a work in ten books dedicated to Octavian, whom Vitruvius addresses as imperator (‘conquering general’) but never as Augustus. The date of this work’s appearance remains controversial, although it is probably in the twenties. It is not the kind of work to be cited by poets or historians, and we know little of its later readership: the Elder Pliny admired it (but he read everything), and Frontinus mentions it. During the Italian Renaissance, by contrast, Vitruvius was intensively studied and deeply revered. De architectura is wide-ranging and highly technical – it originally included diagrams, now lost – and, although rarely admired for its style, it remains important for modern readers, both as a sourcebook for ancient science and technology and as an essay on the cultural meaning of architecture for the Romans. As for its author, we know only that he was named Vitruvius, although the cognomen Pollio seems likely enough. Vitruvius clearly came from a prosperous Italian family, likely of equestrian rank, and enjoyed a superb education. As an officer under Caesar, he indicates, he was both engineer and architect. The years after the Ides of March, however, were difficult for

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him, as they were for others, and, like Horace (see Chapter 8), Vitruvius found an employment as a scribe, in his case as a scriba armamentarius, in charge of public machinery and armaments. His work attracted the favour of Octavian’s sister – it has been suggested that Vitruvius played a role in the development of the Portico of Octavia – and, on her recommendation, he secured a position in Octavian’s equestrian civil service, an appointment, perhaps largely a sinecure, that banished his financial anxieties. Although he is cagey with particulars, Vitruvius, in his autobiographical moments, describes himself as deeply educated (thanks to his parents), possessed of exquisite taste, intellectually but not politically ambitious, profoundly attached to Italy, old-fashioned in his moral makeup, and an expert in all things technical. He is also a loyal citizen of the new order, a quality demonstrated through his constancy toward Caesar and Caesar’s heir. His self-presentation reminds many readers of Horace, who was his contemporary and, who like Vitruvius, prospered in Augustan Rome by way of talent and shrewdly directed devotion. A cultured figure, then, prosperous in a world populated by equestrians and successful freedmen. The suggestion has been made that Vitruvius was also notorious. An Italian inscription mentions a certain M. Vitruvius Mamurra (CIL 8.18913), and it has been proposed that this is our Vitruvius, who is then identified with the Mamurra who was Caesar’s flamboyant attaché. If so, he is the man whom Catullus pilloried as a wastrel, an adulterer, perversely intimate with Caesar, and a bad poet (see Chapter 4). This suggestion is too delicious for some to resist, but it is unlikely. On architecture is remarkably wide-ranging, addressing matters huge and tiny. It deals with temples; public buildings like theatres, baths, and harbours; the purpose and best design for Roman mansions; town planning; roads; aqueducts and hydraulic engineering. In addition, it discusses decorations and appointments like mosaic floors, wall paintings, and similar features. Vitruvius is also an expert on astronomy, which he discusses at length before turning to sundials, and he furnishes instruction on machines for construction, for producing the Roman games, and for waging war. Like other didactic writers, Vitruvius delivers his instructions in dry, carefully organised sections. Each book, however, is prefaced with an introduction addressing higher issues relating to the discipline of architecture and, sometimes, details of Vitruvius’ personal history. These introductions are composed in an ornate, literary style which contrasts sharply with the technical instructions that follow them. Vitruvius begins with a lengthy discussion of the intellectual and moral qualities an architect must possess. Here he reprises some of the

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requirements imposed by Cicero on the ideal orator, and readers are meant to notice Vitruvius’ appropriation. Indeed, one of his purposes in writing De architectura was to elevate the intellectual and cultural status of the architect in Roman society. He therefore requires the ideal architect to acquire a philosophical education as well as engineering expertise. Vitruvius’ text parades its ambitions and consequently demands much from a reader: it is rich in citations of Greek natural scientists and mathematicians. And although Vitruvius has much to say about his own practical experiences, his treatise is oriented toward Hellenistic learning. On architecture depicts itself almost teleologically as the right result of Roman didactic literature. Here, as elsewhere in didactic literature, a technical discourse devoted to a practical, valuable, and wholesome undertaking becomes a medium for the inscription of morals.

Didactic Poems: Introduction Latin didactic poems, which are written in the same metre as epic poetry and satire (dactylic hexameter) are among the easier works of poetry to mistake for prose, especially if you are not reading them in Latin. The borrowing of metre means, as so often with Roman poetry, that didactic poems can ‘play’ with the genres that share its metre; we see this especially in a poem like Lucretius’ De rerum natura, which contains scenes you might find in an epic poem, such as a descent into the Underworld. Still, didactic poems routinely carry ‘prosaic’ titles and tend to include lots of technical vocabulary. Some, it is clear, are intended to furnish lessons. Others, however, are harder to understand as pedagogical: some of them teach things that are probably unteachable, and some convey information that is just plain wrong. To take an example of the latter case, when Vergil tells us in the Georgics how to graft a slip of wood from one species of tree onto another, and that the result will be a tree which bears both kinds of fruit, the ignorant reader may believe him. But this is not how it works: Vergil is wrong, and he very likely knew it. So too, a no-longer extant poem about dice-games (Ov. Tr. 2. 471–6): clearly it is a topic of potential interest, but – given that games are played in groups – it is likelier that most would learn by watching or doing than by reading. (We know nothing further about this poem: it may have included some hints on strategy that would be useful to have in writing.) Or Ovid’s Ars amatoria (Art of Love) – many people would be happy to learn from such a book (or so the continuously-expanding self-help literature about human relationships

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suggests), but a lot of the advice given in it is deeply problematic: not wrong in quite the same way as expecting pears to grow from an apple tree, but not ultimately very helpful. It is puzzling that Greeks and Romans thought of poetry as an appropriate medium for conveying technical information. Or perhaps it is puzzling that later civilisations came to think of it as inappropriate. Standard definitions of didactic poetry used to attempt to sort out what was ‘really’ didactic from what was not, or was covertly conveying another (often moralising) message. On the surface, this schema makes sense: some emphasise the necessity of learning, returning again and again to review ‘main points’. Others, by contrast, are filled with digressions, or are so technical (or in some cases, so inaccurate), that it is a stretch to think of them as educative. But – despite its attractions – we do not believe this distinction between genuinely and falsely pedagogical poems is a useful one. Perhaps more helpful is to think about the wide variety of subjects these didactic poems cover. We have Latin poems or portions of poems about physics, astronomy, bee-keeping, raising cattle, agriculture, hunting, fishing, falling in love, and cosmetics, and mentions of poems about games, sports, etiquette, and storage vessels (Ovid furnishes a list in Tristia 2.471– 96). Greek didactic poems cover physics, the farming life, cures for bites and stings, and tales of people who were turned into birds, to name just a few. Some of these poems certainly do give the impression that they are trying to teach, others less so. All share common features. Didactic poems usually have addressees and invoke those addressees throughout the text. Some do so more aggressively than others – it is impossible to read the earliest Greek exemplar, Hesiod’s Works and Days, without gaining a vivid (if one-sided) picture of Hesiod’s brother Perses. This strategy can help to draw the reader in, and it can be satisfying – especially when we are presented with a particularly obtuse addressee like Perses – to compare our own progress with that of the learner in the poem. Another feature that didactic poems tend to share is a presumption of contemporaneousness, which is often combined with a fiction of oral performance. That is, the poems create a world in which we are being addressed, along with the named addressee of the poem: we are urged to pay attention, to do this now and that later, to think or stop thinking a particular way. So didactic poems often share a bossy, haranguing feel. Some didactic narrators are more intrusive than others; some offer anecdotes from their own experience, and some cite their sources. Some, finally, are more persuasive than others.

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Greek Lessons in Poetry For Greeks and Romans, all poetry was, in a sense, didactic. Literary pleasure, as always, was vital, but so, too, instruction, not least moral instruction. This was true, in the first instance, of Homer’s epics, which promulgated heroic ideals but also, it was widely accepted, gave important facts about the world and its history. This notion was not without controversy. As early as the sixth century the philosopher and poet Xenophanes of Colophon complained about Homer’s undue influence. In his dialogue, Ion, Plato was critical of claims about Homeric wisdom. But the educational importance of Homer and other poets was usually unchallenged, and never lapsed in antiquity. In the reign of Trajan in the second century ce, the Greek biographer and philosopher Plutarch composed an essay, How the Young Should Study Poetry, in which he offered advice on the best means of progressing through the crucial experience of poetry, which combines truth with fiction, into the study of philosophy. All poetry, then, could be deemed instructive. Some poems, however, go so far in foregrounding their pedagogic pose that they become differently and distinctively didactic. Our earliest specimen is Hesiod’s Works and Days. Composed in dactylic hexameter, like Homer’s epics, this poem begins by evoking the Muses (as does Homer) and heralding the might and justice of Zeus, another Homeric theme. But Hesiod’s purpose is not Homer’s. He does not sing of the wrath of Achilles or the adventures of Odysseus. Instead, he sets himself up as an educator, and Perses, his brother, is his pupil (Hes. Op. 10). What follows is a diverse curriculum, from lessons in morality and the nature of justice to agriculture to personal dress to the hazards of sea-faring – all expressed by way of myth, fable, folktale, parables, and proverbs, as well as explicit directions deploying, like a modern manual, the imperative mood. Blunt admonitions are needed, since Perses, the reader learns, is recalcitrant, even stupid: Hesiod addresses him as ‘a great fool’. Hesiod’s subject matter includes topics of cosmic importance, but also utilitarian advice on, for example, purchasing slaves, the best kinds of woods for various uses, and how to maximise profits in shipping. There is even strangely specific instruction on how and when it is best to urinate (Hes. Op. 724–736). Everything is animated by an unmistakably moralising urgency: following Hesiod’s instructions is, in more ways than one, presented as the right thing to do. The basic situation of Works and Days, unlike that of epic or lyric or drama, is defined by a teacher–pupil relationship. The pupil may or may not grasp the lessons imparted, but the reader can do better. In some didactic poems, as we

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shall see, the voice of the teacher addresses readers directly, eliminating the middleman and turning them into pupils who may or may not succeed in getting their lessons right. At the same time, Hesiod is always an artist, something he makes clear not merely by way of metre, imagery, or myth but explicitly, by describing himself as an award-winning poet (Hes. Op. 654– 659). In subsequent didactic poetry, this emphasis on poetic skill abides. Hesiod was always recognised as the first didactic poet in what became a very long tradition. So, for instance, Empedocles and Parmenides (two key Greek philosophers before Plato) each wrote a hexameter poem entitled Peri phuseos (On Nature). These poems attempted to explain the nature of reality (‘natural philosophy’ in ancient terms, physics in ours). Empedocles’ poem explicated a theory that our world is composed of four essential elements (fire, water, air, and earth), out of which all other things are formed in combination. He also claimed that the primary forces in the world are Love and Strife, one working to bring things together, the other to drive them apart. In addition to these principles, the poem covered cosmogony, physiology, fallacies in human perception, and reincarnation. Parmenides’ poem is more difficult to summarise. It incorporates much from Hesiod – a goddess instructs the poet – but the lessons conclude that the universe is strongly at odds with our perceptions of it. Parmenides then goes on to furnish instruction on the world as mortals (wrongly) believe it to be. In Hesiod’s Theogony, another didactic epic in which he unpacks the history and purpose of the cosmos and the gods, the poet is instructed by the Muses, who tell him they know how to proclaim things that are true and things that are false but appear to be true (Hes. Theog. 27–28). Parmenides’ reprise of this Hesiodic distinction is obvious. Sound instruction, the lesson is clear, entails the communication of profound, necessary truths which remain inaccessible without it. At the same time, didactic literature can mislead: for Parmenides, Empedocles’ exposition of reality, however attractive, only appears to be true. Empedocles and Parmenides were widely read well into Hellenistic times, admired for their ideas and literary quality alike. Not everybody was a fan, however. Aristotle, for instance, refused to recognise Empedocles as a true poet on account of his topic (Arist. Poet. 1447b19–20). But he remained an outlier.

Hellenistic Didactic In the Hellenistic period, didactic poetry was wildly popular, and the influence of Hesiod, Empedocles, and even Parmenides abided. The late fourth/early third-century poet Aratus provides a glamorous and

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influential example of Hellenistic didactic poetry. He wrote a Phainomena (Appearances), which seems to have been divided into astronomy (mostly about constellations and their significance) and the weather. We are told that the effort was a versification of two technical treatises previously published in prose. Aratus, however, was less interested in getting his facts right than in their exquisite formulation. As a consequence, his poem, admired by Greeks and Romans alike, was celebrated for its literary qualities rather than its accuracy. Although Aratus, as we have seen, draws on scientific texts as his sources, he, like Hesiod, commences with Zeus and the Muses. The Phainomena was translated by Cicero, as well as by Augustus’ relative Germanicus and by Ovid. Then there is Apollodorus’ chronology of important Greek events from the fall of Troy to the present (written in the middle of the second century). This presumably technical work was written not in prose but in iambic trimeter, the metre of Greek comedy. Why, we cannot even guess. Many other didactic poems populated Hellenistic literature: Archestratus wrote a poem about where good food could be found across the Mediterranean; Boios wrote about mythic transformations; Nicander wrote about wild animals and about poisons and their antidotes. A fondness for didactic poetry and a profound admiration for Hesiod are conspicuous features of Hellenistic Greek literature. Part of this appeal doubtless lay in the technical challenge of formulating unwieldy information into exquisite verses. The Theriaca (Venomous Animals) of Nicander of Colophon, for example, describes snakes, spiders, scorpions, and other poisonous creatures and the harm they can do. The same poet’s Alexipharmaca (Antidotes) is a poetic treatment of poisons and their cures. Nicander identifies his pupils by name, but, unlike Hesiod, never mentions the Muses: his inspiration lies in careful scholarship. These poems, like all Hellenistic literature, are highly allusive and demand more from their readers than did Hesiod from his. Still, although derivative and often faulty, Nicander aims to teach, at least ostensibly, and throughout antiquity each of these works was consulted as an authority on its topic. Other Hellenistic poets, although eschewing an openly pedagogical posture, exhibited unmistakably didactic moves. Callimachus’ Aetia (Origins) perhaps his most influential poem, devoted four books to antiquarian explanations of the origins of cults, festivals, cities, and so forth (see Sidebar VI). The Aetia is composed in elegiac couplets, not hexameters. Still, erudition is constantly to the fore, and the poem has much to teach, but not in the manner of a traditional didactic poem: its learned,

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sometimes difficult style demands readers who are extraordinarily sophisticated. Along with aetiological material, Callimachus’ Aetia addresses the nature of the best kind of poetry, interrogates some poets by way of intertextualities, attacks others, and incorporates extended, elegant encomia of the Ptolemaic queen Berenice, a feature which folds the Aetia into the political world of the Alexandrian court. This is an ambitious work, and the Aetia is not a didactic poem in the way the works of Aratus or Nicander are. At the same time, by adapting features of didactic discourse, including a sometimes dry, pedantic exposition, Callimachus is able to assume the authority, at once literary and moral, of a teacher like Hesiod.

Greek Didactic Poetry at Rome Over the years, Roman contact with the Greek world, outlined in previous chapters, only increased, as did engagement with Greek literature. This process took more than one shape: adoption and adaptation of Greek genres and forms, as we have seen, but also commentaries on Roman poems (following the Greek Hellenistic tradition, which saw the first commentaries on works of Homer). Roman expansion into the Hellenistic east brought with it economic advantages and furthered the growth of a leisured elite: it is possible to understand each of these developments as contributions to an increasing Roman self-confidence, as we have already seen. Despite a focus on Greek models that lasts for centuries, Romans nevertheless begin to believe that they can compete with the Greeks on literary grounds just as they had already done on military grounds. In his Tusculan Disputations, Cicero adduces, as evidence for erudition in the early republic, a poem by Ap. Claudius Caecus (cos. 307) involving Pythagorean themes (Cic. Tusc. 4.4). Three fragments are reported, each of which expresses a sentiment paralleled in Greek writers. One of them tells us, in a neat line, that ‘each man is the builder of his own fortune’ (fr. 3: suas quisque faber fortunas). This sentiment is by no means original: we find it in Plautus (Plaut. Trin. 363: ‘a man makes his own fortune’: ipsus fingit fortunam sibi), and he borrowed from the Greek playwright Philemon. But Claudius’ adaptation is early and, if authentic, important. Still, what to make of these lines is unclear. It is far from certain that they are genuine, and, even if they are, it is uncertain they are part of an early Roman didactic poem. Moralising sentiments, as we have seen are not the same thing as didactic literature.

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As far as we can tell, Ennius (see Chapter 1) introduced the Romans to didactic poetry with his Hedyphagetica (Eating Well), an adaptation of the Greek Hedypatheia (Living Well, if that is its correct name) of Archestratus of Gela. Few fragments of Ennius’ work survive, but enough to show that, like Archestratus, he concentrated on stylistic virtuosity, employing, for instance, exaggerated Homeric language in describing foods and other things usually beneath the level of epic. The Hedyphagetia is in dactylic hexameter, and this soon becomes the traditional metre for Roman didactic poetry, in a reflection of its Greek models. But Ennius innovates as well: in his Epicharmus, the poet, in a dream state, visits the Underworld. There he encounters the title figure, a famous fifth-century comic writer to whom the ancients also attributed a body of philosophical work dealing with topics like cosmology. Epicharmus expounds his theories in trochaic septenarii, a dramatic metre suitable to his literary career. Other Ennian titles suggest, at the very least, didactic gestures, the Praecepta (Rules), for instance, and the Protrepticus (Guide). And Ennius’ Euhemerus drew on a philosophising work by Euhemerus of Messene which maintained that gods like Zeus were originally mortal kings who won the adoration of their peoples: it is unclear, however, whether this work was poetry or prose. Ennius’ stature was sufficient to establish didactic poetry as separate kind of Latin poetry, and from the beginning it was marked by its inventiveness, Hellenism, and a marked concentration on stylistic accomplishment.

Mid- and Late-Republican Didactic Poetry Rome can hardly be said to have exploded with didactic verses in the aftermath of Ennius. Still, the distinguished and prolific tragedian, Accius (see Chapter 2), took up didactic. His experimental Didascalica (Stage Records), combining poetry and prose, rehearsed the history of Greek and Roman theatre, and addressed various literary matters like spelling reforms. His other didactic poems include Pragmatica (Practical Principles), again on questions of literature, and a Parerga (Subsidiary Works), which appears to have concerned agriculture, perhaps with reference to Hesiod (the ‘Works’ of Hesiod’s Works and Days is ‘erga’). Accius’ Praxidica (Practical Matters) is only mentioned, never quoted, but it may have dealt with farming. Farming was big business in Rome, as we have seen, and the topic was congenial. Accius may have been a pathbreaker in Latin, but agriculture soon became a recurring subject in didactic poetry and, especially, prose (see above). Although the literary qualities of Accius’ didactic works are beyond retrieval, it is clear, not least because his titles are in

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Greek, that Accius too took Hellenistic didactic literature as his model. Lucilius (Chapter 4) abused these poems and their content, inadvertently paying homage to their importance. Thereafter didactic poetry is hard to trace until the first century. Near the end of the second century, Porcius Licinus, an author of erotic epigram, composed another literary history of Rome in trochaic septenarii. Its title is unknown, but its existence is proof enough that Accius’ metre at least had stimulated interest. This was perhaps to be expected: just as the Romans sought a history of their city, they also wanted a history of their literature. In the first century, Volcacius Sedigitus (so named because he had six fingers on each hand, says Plin. HN 11.244), took up literary history in his poem, De poetis (On Poets). It is remembered now for its surviving fragment which ranks the quality of Rome’s top ten writers of comedy (Caecilius is number one; Plautus is number two; Ennius last). Q. Valerius of Sora was a Roman senator who wrote about antiquarianism, grammar, religion, and philosophy in prose and poetry. His poem, about which we know next to nothing, was written in hexameters, reprising, perhaps, Hesiod or Ennius, or both. This man is hard to identify but he is perhaps the tribune of the plebs who allegedly perished because he revealed the secret name of Rome. The story is certainly an appropriate one for a writer of his interests.

Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura: Introduction We now turn to one of the greatest poems in the Latin language, and one of the most puzzling. Lucretius’ masterpiece De rerum natura (On the Nature of Things) is an explication of the thought of the Hellenistic philosopher Epicurus (from whom we get the adjective ‘epicurean’ – though it did not quite mean to the ancients what it does to us). The poem is based on Epicurus’ (prose) Peri phuseos, ‘On Nature’; how closely based is a matter for debate since that treatise is mostly lost to us. Epicurus’ thought covered science as well as ethics: he outlined a theory, atomism, which claims that all matter is built from basic elements (atoms, which means indivisible things) that combine and recombine in different ways. Each and every one of these building blocks possesses corporeal substance and the space between them is a void, sheer nothingness. Everything is material, including the soul: it consists of fine-grained atoms suffused through the body and, when we die, the soul and body dissolve into their component pieces. And that is the end. A number of things follow from this, the most famous being the notion that we are nothing before we are born and become nothing again when we die, for which reason, Epicurus insists, there is no

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reason to fear death. Our energies, according to Epicurus and therefore Lucretius, should be devoted to sustaining a condition of happiness, a state fostered by good health (ancient epicureans avoid excesses), friendship, and serene encounter with the cosmos. Epicurean philosophy, it is obvious, ranges widely. So, too, Lucretius’ poem. And his treatment of physical phenomena is often detailed and striking. His account of how sight and sound work, for instance, is rich in scientific descriptions that are also arresting. To take a single example, in his explication of how we see things because they exude ‘qualities’ (such as colour), he adduces the example of a brightly-coloured awning stretched over a theatre which makes the people below look as though they are shades of the same colour (Lucr. 4.75–85). Lucretius also discusses the gods: they exist but they are too refined and blessed to be bothered with human affairs; religion, as a consequence, is a waste of time. Lucretius’ language is also noteworthy, not least for his use of Greek and technical terminology. Like his contemporary Cicero, Lucretius was faced with the challenge of turning Greek jargon into literary Latin. It is an issue he foregrounds from the start (Lucr. 1.136–139): nec me animi fallit Graiorum obscura reperta difficile inlustrare Latinis versibus esse, multa novis verbis praesertim cum sit agendum propter egestatem linguae et rerum novitatem. It does not escape me that it is a difficult thing to elucidate the dark discoveries of the Greek by means of Latin poetry, especially because it is often a business of inventing new words owing to the poverty of our language and the novelty of the subject matter.

Sometimes, Lucretius concedes, the task is beyond him: ‘Let us scrutinise Anaxagoras’ term homoeomeria, a Greek expression which the poverty of my native speech prevents my translating into our language.’ The poet could have translated homoeomeria (‘things with like parts’) had he wanted to: Cicero translates this same word into Latin quite satisfactorily as ‘tiny particles identical to one another’ (particulas, similes inter se, minutas: Acad. 2.118). Lucretius’ point, in part, is that universal truth can nonetheless seem alien. Elements of Lucretian Style Lucretius’ didactic epic routinely takes on features of martial epic. He often employs archaic Latin, evoking Ennius and early Latin epic, and his imagery frequently turns to depictions of combat. For instance, the bits

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and pieces of matter, drifting in the void like motes in the air sometimes encounter one another, violently, ‘as if they were waging an eternal war with one another, struggling, fighting, battling in the ranks without cessation, clashing and withdrawing (Lucr. 2.118–120). And thinkers, in Lucretius’ poem, are the epic heroes. The early Greek philosopher Heraclitus, for example, is ‘is the first general to join battle, he who is famous for his obscure language’ (Lucr. 1.638–639). As for Epicurus, he is like a figure out of the epic episode of the Gigantomachy, the cosmic battle between the gods and the giants in which Zeus triumphed by way of his thunderbolts. Lucretius, however, inverts the moral of the story. In his poem, the universe is crushed by Religion (religio), but (Lucr. 1.66–69): a man of Greece was the first who dared lift up his mortal eyes against Religion, was the first to fight against it, for neither myths about the gods nor lightening nor heaven with its threatening thunder could hold him down.

Then, like a world-conquering general (think Alexander the Great), Lucretius’ Epicurus, through the robust power of his mind (vivida vis animi) conquered (pervicit) the world (Lucr. 1.72–79): He marched beyond the burning walls of the world by way of his brave intellect, and, victorious, brought home his prize, knowledge of what can come into being and what cannot . . . Therefore Religion is now cast down underfoot, while we, through his victory, are exalted into the heavens.

This is didactic verse of a very different kind, one which unites Homer and Hesiod, conflating generic expectations in order to dazzle and delight the student it endeavours to enlighten. Lucretius’ combination of didactic and martial epic and his robust, imaginative style introduce complexities to his lessons in Epicureanism. His poem begins, not with an appeal to the Muses, but with an invocation of Venus (Lucr. 1.1–5, 20–27): Aeneadum genetrix, hominum divumque voluptas, alma Venus, caeli subter labentia signa quae mare navigerum, quae terras frugiferentis concelebras, per te quoniam genus omne animantum concipitur visitque exortum lumina solis ... quae quoniam rerum naturam sola gubernas, nec sine te quicquam dias in luminis oras

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exoritur neque fit laetum neque amabile quicquam, te sociam studio scribendis versibus esse quos ego de rerum natura panagere conor Memmiadae nostro, quem tu, dea, tempore in omni omnibus ornatum voluisti excellere rebus quo magis aeternum da dictis, diva, leporem Mother of the children of Aeneas, the pleasure of men and gods, nurturing Venus who, under the gliding stars of heaven honour by your presence the ship-bearing sea and the crop-bearing lands, and since through you every species of living things is conceived and, after it is born, looks upon the light of the sun . . . Since, therefore, you alone regulate the nature of things, and without you nothing comes forth into the bright borders of light, nor, without you, does anything become joyous or attractive, it is you I desire as my partner in writing these verses on the nature of things which I am trying to fashion for my friend Memmius, a man, goddess, endowed with every gift, whom you desire always to be best. For that reason, goddess, bestow on my diction an everlasting charm.

Here we encounter Lucretius’ pupil, C. Memmius (pr. 58), a wealthy and energetic politician lampooned by Catullus (Cat. 28) whose career came to an end when he was convicted of election-rigging in 52 (he withdrew to Athens and came into possession of what had once been the home of Epicurus). But the goddess Venus dominates this introduction – something surprising coming from a writer who, as we have seen, celebrates Epicurus’ heroism in liberating the world from the baleful influence of religion. Lucretius’ Venus is simultaneously a metaphor and not-a-metaphor: she is the generative force responsible for all life on earth but also the Roman divinity who is mother of Aeneas. Mars too appears early on in this poem, and he acts as a force for chaos and death, restrained only by his desire for Venus. These two gods were connected in an illicit sexual affair as early as Homer – no Roman reader could fail to recall that – but they are also Lucretius’ version of Empedocles’ Love and Strife, which for him are the principal dynamic forces animating the world: Lucretius more than once refers admiringly to Empedocles (e.g. 1.729–33, on Empedocles’ godlike mind and marvellous poetry). So perhaps a reader is meant to concentrate on the Empedoclean, philosophical quality of this imagery – although, given the description of her, that requires more work than taking Venus straightforwardly as an instance of the divine equipment of epic and a reference to traditional Roman religion. Venus, in Lucretius’ prayer, is asked to intervene in mortal affairs, to bring enlightenment to Memmius and to render the poet’s style seductive.

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This conceit is a clever one, but it rubs against Epicurus’ admonishment that anyone writing about philosophy must avoid poetry and myth, because they can impede the apprehension of truth. In his Letter to Herodotus, Epicurus advises that ‘we must accept without explanation the first mental image brought up by each word if we are to have a standard to which to refer a particular inquiry, problem, or opinion’ (Epic. Ep. Hdt. 38). This is advice Lucretius patently rejects. For him, literariness is essential to getting his message across (Lucr. 4.8–9): quod obscura de re tam lucida pango carmina, musaeo contingens cuncta lepore. I am fashioning very clear verses about subject matter which is obscure, applying the Muses’ charm to everything.

He does this for practical, pedagogical purposes: philosophy is hard, but poetry is wonderful – it is the spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine go down, or, as Lucretius puts it (Lucr. 4.11–15): nam veluti pueris absinthia taetra medentes cum dare conantur, prius oras pocula circum contingunt mellis dulci flavoque liquore, ut puerorum aetas improvida ludificetur laborum tenus, interea perpotet amarum absinthi laticem . . . For, just as healers, when they are striving to give disgusting wormwood to children, first touch all around the lip of the cup with the sweet gold nectar of honey, so that the ignorant age of children is tricked until it passes their lips, and in the meantime they will drink the bitter liquid of wormwood.

Lucretius sums up by formulating his strategy openly and poetically (Lucr. 4.20–22): volgus abhorret ab hac, volui tibi suaviloquenti carmine Pierio rationem exponere nostrum et quasi musaeo dulci contingere melle Because ordinary people shrink back from this [Epicurean philosophy], I desire to set out my doctrine by way of a candy-tongued Pierean song and to apply, so to speak, the Muses’ sweet honey.

In all didactic poetry the tension between technical instruction and literary ambition is a conspicuous dynamic. In Lucretius, however, this tension is made central, and the effect is either wonderful or disturbing. The chronicler Jerome believed that Lucretius was driven mad by a love-potion and

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wrote this poem during intervals of sanity. This anecdote is surely fiction, but it paints a vivid picture of how confusing later readers sometimes found the poet and his poem.

The End of the Poem and Its Reception The poem ends abruptly, with a description of a plague at Athens and the piling of dead bodies on funeral pyres. Lucretius’ description owes much to the Greek historian Thucydides’ narrative of this crisis in his history of the Peloponnesian War. But, despite this precedent, it is a strange ending. The historian’s account of the plague and its dire social consequences is suffused by Lucretius with pathos and moralism. The final scene has the living fighting savagely over what to do with the dead. It is often believed that this abruptness means the poem is unfinished. A more interesting explanation is that the poem’s sudden conclusion encapsulates the randomness of human life which Lucretius has been arguing for throughout. So, too, one scholar suggests that, since the poem presents itself as a course in knowing how to live (which, for the Romans, always entailed knowing how to die), we ought to understand the ending as a kind of ‘final exam’. If one can read about this disaster untroubled, one has learned the right lessons. We know next to nothing about Lucretius the man. Cicero and his brother read and admired the poem, but otherwise he goes unmentioned in contemporary sources. It is a remarkable fact of literary history that Lucretius and Catullus (Chapter 4) were almost exact contemporaries – although they exemplify very different kinds of poetry and diverge in many particulars. The language of Lucretius looks back – admiringly – to Ennius, whereas Catullus’ edgy style tends to reject old-fashioned techniques. And, while there is no evidence that either man knew the other’s work, in Book 4 Lucretius offers a blistering critique of the kind of love (Venus again) portrayed by Catullus and later by the elegists (see Chapter 7 for further discussion). While Catullus may have been unimpressed by Lucretius, the same cannot be said of Vergil. His Georgics rely on a close reading of Lucretius (see below). So, too, the imagery of the Aeneid (see Chapter 8). And Lucretian allusions recur frequently in imperial literature. Lucretius continued to be admired for his style and his learning. Statius, the leading poet of the late first century ce, concisely captured the essence of the De Rerum Natura in his Silvae with the expression docti furor arduus Lucreti – ‘the towering/difficult frenzy of erudite Lucretius’ (Stat. Silv. 2.7.76).

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Cicero’s Translation of Aratus Cicero, owing to his translation of Aratus’ Phainomena, also counts as a didactic poet. Modern readers often forget that in his day Cicero was deemed a significant poet. None of his poetic works survives intact, nor was Cicero without his critics. His political rivals, not least Mark Antony (Cic. Phil. 2.10–20) mocked his verses, but that was a typical move in Roman invective. Nevertheless, by the imperial period Cicero’s poetry was considered inferior to his oratory and soon it was regarded as inferior full stop. That, however, came later. Cicero began writing poetry as a young man and continued throughout his life. Although Cicero’s best-known poems are his historical epics, Marius, On his Consulship, and On Events in his Life (see Chapter 6), his translation of the Phainomena also made an impression. Its fragments exhibit Cicero’s creativity and especially his metrical virtuosity in turning the Greek poem into Latin. Cicero’s poem attracted gifted admirers. Lucretius frequently appropriated phrasing and rhythm from Cicero. So, too, did Vergil (who also borrowed heavily from Cicero’s On his Consulship). It was doubtless owing to the stature of Cicero’s adaptation of Aratus that both Germanicus and Ovid each produced his own version of the Phainomena.

Vergil’s Georgics Vergil is widely considered the very best of the Latin poets and we shall have much more to say about him in Chapters 8 and 9. The second of his three major poems is the Georgics, a didactic poem about managing different aspects of one’s farm (the Greek word georgika means ‘agricultural stuff’). On its surface, the poem praises the rewards of a simple life in the country. But it can also be understood as didactic in a sense far grander than lessons in agricultural affairs: the Georgics talk about what it means to be human and especially about the moral value of work. The Georgics are highly sophisticated poems – indeed, many critics deem the Georgics Vergil’s most complex work – and this poem is regularly compared to a musical symphony in which themes and motifs recur throughout, furnishing remarkable depth of nuance. As is usual for Vergil, there is a very clear sense of place, and the idea or the ideal of the Italian countryside is an important focus of the poem. So, too, the cyclical reliability of the agricultural calendar – a pattern of life which, when properly observed, brings nature and culture together.

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The Georgics is arranged in four books, each of which runs between five and six hundred lines and each of which corresponds to a specific agricultural topic: planting crops; cultivating trees and vines; rearing cattle; and keeping bees. This ostensibly practical, almost prosaic, organisation leaves a lot out. Pigs, for instance, which contributed a significant part of the Italian diet, go unmentioned. And, while honey is nice, beekeeping was hardly a central preoccupation of farmers. By now we know that the purpose of any didactic work, especially in poetry, often diverges from mere utility. So, too, it is clear, Vergil’s Georgics, which combines traditional know-how with technical expertise, not in order to supply comprehensive instruction but to engage the reader in thinking seriously about literature and life. The sheer erudition of the Georgics is remarkable. As we have noted, treatises which purport to be about farming date back to at least Hesiod’s Works and Days. Vergil appears to have read them all, including Nicander’s Georgika, which took farming as its subject, and Aratus’ Phainomena (see above), from which he adopted much. Vergil also studied prose treatises, including Cato’s. The Georgics looks back creatively to all these works and also to Lucretius, an important stylistic influence and a repository of learning about the nature of nature. But there is nothing cut-and-paste about Vergil’s allusiveness: every reference is focused on farming, its cosmic and moral symbolism, and its centrality to the society of Roman Italy (see Sidebar IX). A clear illustration of the unsimple relationship between Vergil and Lucretius comes in Book 2, where Vergil honours but also moves on from his great predecessor (Verg. G. 2.490–496): felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, atque metus omnis et inexorabile fatum subiecit pedibus strepitumque Acherontis avari. fortunatus et ille, deos qui novit agrestis Panaque Silvanumque senem Nymphasque sorores non populi fasces, non purpura regum flexit et infidos agitans discordia fratres. Fortunate is he who is able to understand the causes of things and cast beneath his feet all fear, inexorable fate and the roar of insatiable Acheron. But happy, too, is he who knows the gods of the countryside, Pan and old Silvanus and the sisterhood of Nymphs. This is a man who is not influenced by the magistracies offered him by the people, nor the purple worn by kings, nor the strife which induces brothers to betray one another.

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The passage is reminiscent of Lucretius’ treatment of the great Epicurus but makes it more general. The science of agriculture, as expounded in Vergil’s Georgics, furnishes a potent tonic for Roman life which complements and sometimes rubs up against Lucretius’ philosophical poem.

Outline and Themes of the Georgics The first book commences with an address to Maecenas, the friend of Octavian, the future Augustus, who is named in every book of the poem (see Sidebar VII and Chapter 8). Vergil then furnishes a catalogue of divinities associated with agriculture, concluding with Octavian – ‘most of all’ (Verg. G. 1.25) – who may remain a blessing amongst mortals or become a beneficent god: it is he to whom Vergil offers prayers for peace. Though devoted to farming in the Italian countryside, the Georgics are also implicated in the baleful realities of Roman civil war and deeply concerned with the hoped-for restoration of peace and stability in the aftermath of the battle of Actium (see Sidebar IX). Indeed, Vergil concludes his poem by setting its composition during the war against Antony and Cleopatra in the east (Verg. G. 4.559–562). Consequently, the poem’s tone is cautious, and sometimes pessimistic. Books 1 and 3 end on a dark note, and the conclusion of the fourth book is hopeful rather than confident. Threats of civil war and chaos are never far from the surface. Indeed, while the farmer is encouraged to see himself as a bulwark against the vagaries of nature, his chances of success are underwhelming. Toil is a recurring theme: labor omnia vicit,/ improbus et duris urgens in rebus egestas (‘wretched work conquered all, and poverty which pushes us on amid difficult circumstances’, Verg. G. 1.145–146). The forces of chaos appear early on in Book 1 in the shape of birds, bad light, noxious plants, snakes, bad weather, wolves, mice, moles, toads, plagues, weevils, ants, and so forth. These recurring conflicts are akin to a warfare in which there is no permanent peace. But out of these conflicts human invention has discovered scientific truths about nature and techniques for putting them to use. Here Vergil, influenced by Aratus, introduces constellations, but this train of thought leads him to the assassination of Julius Caesar, an abomination which forced ‘an impious generation to fear perpetual night’ (Verg. G. 1.678) and sparked omens everywhere, including at Philippi, the site of Rome’s deadliest battle in the civil wars, where thousands of Romans fell on each side. The book closes with a prayer to the gods of Italy to preserve the young Caesar, Octavian, Rome’s only hope in a world in which ‘there

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are so many faces of evil, no honour or dignity exists for the plough, our fields, robbed of their tillers, lie squalid’ (Verg. G. 1.506–507). The second Georgic, on trees, is more positive, at least at its start: the first thing we learn is that some trees propagate themselves (and so require less human effort). But labor quickly reappears and remains central to the life of the farmer. Still, all is not misery. In the so-called laudes Italiae, the praises of Italy (Verg. G. 2.136–176), Vergil celebrates the wonders of the Italian countryside. And it is for Italy’s wellbeing that the poet has mastered the art of didactic poetry (Verg. G. 2.174–176): It is on your behalf that I approach a subject and an art of ancient glory, for you that I have dared to open sacred springs, for you that through Roman towns I sing a song of Ascra.

The ‘song of Ascra’ is Hesiod’s Works and Days, a tradition now fully appropriated for Rome. It is in this book that Vergil matches his contribution to the wellbeing of humankind with Lucretius’ (see above). The Georgics, it is clear, are a much-needed tonic, not least because they summon Romans back to their better instincts. The book closes by evoking the simpler times of Romulus and Remus – but even in those days, as the shorthand implies, Rome was afflicted by violence. Book 3 is devoted to livestock and breeding. But before turning to technicalities, Vergil introduces himself as a literary trailblazer who incorporates the genius of Lucretius and Ennius – and their Greek models (Verg. G. 3.8–11): temptanda via est, qua me quoque possim tollere humo victorque virum volitare per ora. primus ego in patriam mecum, modo vita supersit, Aonio rediens deducam vertice Musas. I must try a path by way of which I, too, may prove able to rise from the earth and fly as a victor on the lips of men. If only I live long enough, I shall be the first to bring the Muses down from their Aonian mountain and lead them home in triumph.

These few lines exhibit Vergil’s dense style. He aims at becoming another Ennius, an ambition he makes clear by reprising his predecessor’s famous boast: volito vivus per ora virum (‘I fly – alive – on the lips of men’: Enn. Epig. 2). Vergil aims to fly but at the same time portrays himself as breaking new ground: the conceit of literary trailblazing appealed to Roman writers. The notion goes back to Callimachus’ Aetia (see Sidebar VI) and Vergil found it also in Lucretius (Lucr. 1.117–119): the gesture, then, although

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widespread, possessed a didactic pedigree. So, too, the assertion of priority. Roman writers regularly assert their originality in introducing some element of Greek literature to Rome, and it was also a didactic move: in his Aetia, Callimachus portrays the poet Simonides as ‘the first to invent a system of memnotechnics’ (Call. Aet. 64.10 Harder). When Vergil promises to lead the Muses in triumph to Rome, he activates another image – this one, as we have seen, predicated on the historical reality that the Romans actually carried home the Muses in the triumph of M. Fulvius Nobilior (Chapter 1). But by the time Vergil was writing the Georgics, this idea, too, belonged in didactic verse. Lucretius, in discussing the possibility of the transmigration of souls, adduces Ennius (Lucr. 1.117–119): Ennius ut noster cecinit, qui primus amoeno detulit ex Helicone perenni fronde coronam per gentis Italas hominum quae clara clueret So sang our Ennius, who was the first to bring down from pleasant Helicon a wreath of evergreen foliage and win glorious fame through the nations of the peoples of Italy.

In Lucretius, the characterisation of Ennius overlaps with portrayal of Epicurus – the first mortal to look up and challenge religion, who elevated humankind to the skies and triumphantly introduced the truth of his philosophy (see above); this passage is another aspect of Lucretius’ inventive conflation of martial and didactic epic. Here Vergil evokes this Lucretian habit by way of a preface to lines 12 through 48, his description of a temple he will construct in honour of Octavian and his victories, a metaphorical blueprint for an epic poem. Didactic poetry and martial epic come together, perhaps awkwardly but apparently necessarily. In Book 1 Octavian rules a world in which the Georgics are possible. In Book 3, the reader is reminded of the civil wars which he ended, bringing peace. The elaboration of the temple, Vergil makes clear, is a distraction: he will sing of Octavian’s [=Caesar’s] victories – but not now (Verg. G. 3.46–48): mox tamen ardentis accingar dicere pugnas Caesaris et nomen fama tot ferre per annos Tithoni prima quota abest ab origine Caesar. I shall soon, however, gird myself for recounting Caesar’s fierce battles and bearing his name through so many years as those separating Caesar from the ancient birth of Tithonus.

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This hopeful if stark introduction turns immediately to livestock and how best to breed and look after them. Well over a third of this book, however, centres on diseases, primarily description of a plague in Noricum (modern Bavaria). And Vergil models his account of this plague on Lucretius’ version of Thucydides’ plague (see above). Misery and suffering and despair are to the fore. In the end, this disease afflicts human beings. The book ends with an abrupt finish, contrasting markedly with the celebration with which it opened.

The Fourth Georgic The final book of the Georgics focuses on bees. This is surprising, since the production of honey is a minor part of any farm. This attention is explained in part by the fact that for the poet bees are, at first implicitly and later explicitly, analogous to human beings (Verg. G. 4.3–5): admiranda tibi levium spectacula rerum magnanimos duces totiusque ordine gentis mores et studia et populos et proelia dicam, the amazing spectacle of little things, great-hearted leaders and characters and pursuits and people and battles – I will tell you in order.

Bees resemble humans in the kinds of things they like (gardens) and dislike (bad smells), in their capacity for hard work, in their obedience to the rule of law, in their lack of individuality, and in their loyalty to their homelands. One of the most important of bees’ similarities to people, at least judging from the amount of space given to it, is their tendency toward civil war, which occurs whenever two kings appear. (Vergil, like all ancients, did not know some basic things about bees, including that they have queens and not kings.) The commoners are also prone to erupt into chaos when their king dies. Even in the best of societies, civil strife is not far. The solution here is for the farmer to pour dust on the hive to calm the bees down, and then kill the less-attractive bee-king. The implications of this advice for recent Roman history are obvious if unappealing. Bees sometimes become ill and the careful farmer must try to nurse them back to health. Sometimes, however, the hive dies. The poet, however, provides the reader with a method for regenerating it, known as bugonia (Verg. G. 4.281–558): build a shack and beat a bull to death; then cover his body with pleasant smelling herbs; soon bees will come out of the carcass to replenish the hive. This method, the poem continues, originated with the

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mythic character Aristaeus, who lost his bees and asked his mother, the seanymph Cyrene, for help. She sent him on a heroic quest, and he eventually learned that he had angered Orpheus by chasing Orpheus’ wife, Eurydice; in her flight she was fatally bitten by a snake. Orpheus, a legendary poetsinger, persuaded the gods of the Underworld to free his wife, with the condition that he avoid looking at her until they reach the surface. Unfortunately, he did look, which meant he lost her again. In unbearable grief he lamented until the maenads killed him, but even then, his head kept singing (see also Chapter 8). Cyrene appears to Aristaeus and tells him to offer sacrifice of four bulls and four heifers, plus a ewe, which generates new bees. (This is not the procedure just described by the poet, which makes its lengthy build-up all the stranger.) This is the conclusion of the work. Its emphasis is on renewal, to be sure, but the prescribed method for renewing a diseased hive is violent, not to mention ridiculously expensive. Nor is the cure permanent, since the book teaches us that hives routinely turn to fighting and often succumb to disease. The improbus labor which runs throughout the work never stops, no matter how well the lessons of the Georgics are learned. The poem’s final lines recall Caesar, who as victor in the civil wars imposed his laws on peoples who were glad to receive them (Verg. G. 4.560–561) and portray Vergil as the poet of the Eclogues: ‘in those days, in the studies permitted by a leisure which does not know glory’ (Verg. G. 4.564). That leisure, for the reader of the Georgics, and its attendant serenity, are now things of the past.

Horace: Ars Poetica Horace’s Ars Poetica is a didactic poem about how poetry – especially dramatic poetry – should be written (see Chapter 9 for more on Horace). It comes in the shape of a didactic epistle addressed to two brothers named Piso (from the name, aristocrats, but we cannot identify them). While it purports to teach them how to write poetry, it is really a lesson in how to appreciate poetry, Horace’s not least of all. Its initial comparison, of a poem to a painting, is not strikingly original, but Horace makes helpful points about the importance of simplicity in either medium. This is Horace’s longest poem by far, coming in at just under five hundred lines, and it is far more often talked about than read. Like the Epistle to Augustus (Hor. Ep. 2.1; see Chapter 9), the Ars poetica concentrates on drama and its history. But here it is dramaturgy which is to the fore. Horace, it is clear, has immersed himself in Hellenistic literary theory – exact sources are difficult to isolate but there is no missing the

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influence of Aristotle. Roman would-be writers must know the Greek canon intimately, must be assiduous in editing, and must be (very) patient: Horace notoriously recommends holding back a composition for nine years before releasing it to the public (Hor. Ars P. 389). Much of what Horace has to say is practical if unsurprising. He insists on Aristotelian unity and consistency. Following classical models, he recommends keeping the grotesque or violent off the stage, relying instead on narrative speeches. He also expands on decorum, appropriate diction, and the selection of a metre suitable to the topic at hand. For most of these things, Homer is the paradigm. Horace has much to say on the combination of tradition and invention in drama. Classical tragedies, although they recycled well-known figures and plots, often added a surprising twist along the way. Horace encourages the brothers Piso to employ this kind of innovation tastefully. In recounting these principles and rules, Horace describes what it means to be a poet: one must be learned in literature and criticism and literary history, one must be a master in the sheer craft of writing, and one must possess both discrimination and discipline. (This is just the kind of ambitious programme of study set out by Cicero for orators, and by Vitruvius for architects.) This guide to the art of poetry – relatively concise as handbooks go and elegantly written by an acknowledged genius – naturally attracted attention in later European critical writing. For us, it remains a crucial repository of the views which were debated and elaborated in Hellenistic and Roman literary scholarship. A significant portion of the poem focuses on drama, which leads some to conclude that one or both of the Piso brothers must have been contemplating writing a play. In some eras, Horace’s strictures were carefully followed: he demands, for one thing, Aristotelian unity and consistency of subject and treatment, and also the appropriateness of the words and metre to the topic, recommending Homer as an exemplar. His advice to ‘write what you know’ is apt, and also his thoughts on the combination of tradition and invention in devising a plot: classical tragedies covered subject-matter well-known to their audiences, but often added a surprising twist, a new character, or even an alternative resolution. These additions, while welcome, must fit plausibility. And Horace’s instruction to leave the grotesque off stage, narrating instead of depicting, was followed in drama for centuries. Horace provides a bit of theatre history, and his final, lengthy section outlines the qualities of the good poet: wisdom, a desire to benefit the audience, practice, and lots of criticism, from oneself and others. This poem, like others, is interested in the poet’s self-presentation, asking what

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it means to be a poet and to write poetry, and also, seemingly, what classes of people should write poetry (the Piso family was one of the noblest in Rome). And, as with other didactic authors, Horace emphasises the importance of combining the useful with the pleasurable; presumably he intends the Ars to be an example of this combination.

Ovid’s Didactic Poetry: The Ars amatoria As will become apparent in later chapters, Ovid pushes the boundaries of any genre he works in (see Chapters 7 and 8). On the surface, his three-book Ars amatoria (Art of Love) shares many features with traditional didactic poetry, but it undermines them: there is no named addressee, but it does present itself as a contemporaneous, quasi-oral work, in which ‘we’ receive instruction directly from the teacher. And that teacher, as is usual for didactic poetry, has a clearly defined persona, telling us stories about his experiences which simultaneously serve to authenticate his expertise. By we, however, Ovid does not intend everyone. Ovid’s pupils are young men, elegiac lovers (see Chapter 7), and the objects of their passionate affections are women whom they try to persuade to have sex with them. Consequently, this handbook is replete with crass sexism, objectionable by modern standards. This becomes clear even in the situations Ovid’s didactic instructor puts before his pupils. Like other teachers, he uses examples from the natural world, but his examples are of a different kind from what one reads in Lucretius or Vergil: he warns his pupils to avoid any occasion on which the puella – the girlfriend – might want or expect a gift (Ov. Ars am. 1.399–436), he rehearses the hazards of overgrooming oneself (Ov. Ars am. 1.505–524), and admonishes against failing to finish an attempted rape (Ov. Ars am. 1.665–678). The Ovidian teacher, however, sometimes undermines his own authority, as when he claims that he cannot follow his own advice: once he lost his temper and attacked his girlfriend (Ov. Ars am. 2.169–172). This is an event also detailed in Amores 1.7, where ‘we’ are encouraged to minimise the damage so as to avoid having to pay for new clothes or hairdressing. Indeed, the Ovidian didactic persona is unusual in a number of ways beyond its unreliability as a narrator. This may well be, as many suspect, because love is a subject which cannot be taught in a traditional format. Or perhaps because it does not need to be taught at all. But there is much else that makes Ovid’s poem unusual. For instance, it turns the reader of elegiac poetry into a participant: never before had elegiac poets suggested that this was a lifestyle available to others. Indeed, for most modern readers, the format of that relationship seems so artificial that it is a jolt to realise that

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the Ars amatoria suggests it as a paradigm: by turning the misery of elegiac love into a topic for educational poetry, Ovid wittily and outrageously supposes that anyone would be interested in having this kind of relationship for himself. And the word ‘himself’ in the previous sentence is used advisedly. For perhaps the single most intriguing aspect of the poem is the fact that the third book of the Ars amatoria presents itself as an add-on. In Book 1 the poet focused on how to get the girl and in Book 2 on how to keep her (by way of tactics fairly similar to the ones used in Book 1). Book 3, abruptly, shifts both addressee and focus, for in it the praeceptor amoris (‘teacher of love’) turns his attention to women and explains to them how they can enter into the elegiac game. Their role is different from that of men, which explains why they need special instruction. A reasonable, and unanswerable, question is to what extent Ovid’s poetry had a female readership (both for this book and the rest of it). Several of the elegiac poets (see Chapter 7) suggest that women might read their works while they are waiting for a lover, but it is only here that a female audience is explicitly considered. We should pay attention to how Ovid addresses these female readers: does he actually mean for women to read this poetry, or does he continue to presume that his audience consists of male readers, even as he addresses women? In the first case, we have an early example of market segmentation, and in the latter, a potentially titillating look – for men – at what Ovid thinks women are up to when the men are not around. The specifics of Book 3 do not help to resolve this question, and they are probably not intended to: Ovid’s readership tends to be as large as he can possibly imagine. Much of what the women of Book 3 are told to do is more or less the same as Ovid’s previous instructions for men. But differences emerge, not least in that much of Book 3 focuses on how to make oneself attractive to men. What is truly to the fore is the poet’s attempt to ‘sell’ the elegiac lifestyle to women, which suggests that he knows the kind of love he is peddling is even less desirable for women than for men. Success in Book 3 would create an ideal elegiac mistress whose purpose is to cause pain to her lover, a reality outlined in the first two books. The lessons in love, then, because they are lessons in elegiac love, are destined to result in misery.

Ovid’s Remedia amoris But the poet claims to have a cure for that misery. As if the three books of the Ars amatoria were not puzzling enough, Ovid moved on to the Remedia amoris (Cures for love), which is also a sequel. It begins by

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pointing out the obvious, namely that being in an elegiac relationship is mostly wretched. And it points out that misery can be dangerous, that many (mostly women) have actually died from elegiac love. But the praeceptor does not suggest that this misery results from getting the elegiac life wrong; even when done right, some people can bear less pain than others. So, he says, since he got readers into this mess, it is up to him to get them out of it. Here again we see the characteristically Ovidian stance that poetry has real effects in the world, that it matters a great deal. And so the Remedia amoris, as one might expect, work their way through the lessons of elegiac love backwards, undoing instruction in the Ars amatoria and helping lovers to get out of the mess that handbook got them into. Despite his assertions that elegy is especially deadly for women, Ovid returns to an exclusively, or at least presumptively, male audience; the details all feature a male lover trying to escape from his puella. And yet, most of the suggestions the instructor offers, such as taking on a second puella to distract you from the first one, or having so much sex you grow sick of it, seem designed to lure the lover into a different relationship, not to help him heal from his love-sickness. So we might see the kind of love promoted by elegiac poetry as both dangerous and inescapable: the Remedia are more an inducement to begin reading the Ars again from the beginning than a true escape from elegy.

Ovid’s Fasti The Fasti remains Ovid’s least appreciated work. It is also, probably, his most inventive, which makes it difficult to assign it a genre. It takes the form of the Roman calendar, in which the poet guides the reader through key events in Rome’s history and religion, in a fashion familiar from Callimachus’ Aetia (see Sidebar VI). We might also think of it as akin to Varro’s Antiquitates. In many ways its subject makes it like Ovid’s betterknown narrative poem, the Metamorphoses (see Chapter 8), although that poem seems to be moving toward a specific ending (i.e. it is teleological), whereas the Fasti’s date-focused approach tends to suggest something ultimately cyclical. And these two features – what looks like a lack of structure and a focus on the historical rather than the mythic – have tended to mean that the Fasti is mined as a treasure-trove for students of Roman religion rather than treated as a work of literature. Still, the work belongs recognisably within the genre of didactic poetry, and it has a pedigree: we know of a Fasti which is an astronomical work by C. Sulpicius Gallus (cos. 166).

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The use to which Ovid’s Fasti is often put – that of mythology textbook – is unfortunate. First, the stories told are anything but standard: even in areas of Roman history or religion where we are well-informed, Ovid’s take is often different, focusing our attention elsewhere or providing details not found in other sources. Then there is the apparent randomness, which a closer look suggests is instead deliberate. Much of this will not be obvious to the casual reader, who may not know that Ovid has chosen to tell an unusual story on a particular date. But those with even limited knowledge of Roman history may notice that on the Ides of March, the day on which Julius Caesar was assassinated, Ovid does not tell that story but instead narrates the tale of the festival of Anna Perenna, a jovial old woman whose worship involves heavy drinking. Indeed, in case the reader has not noticed, Ovid draws attention to the omission, concluding that tale by announcing that he was not planning to talk about Caesar’s assassination (Ov. Fast. 3.697). He is interrupted by Vesta, who asserts that she carried Caesar into the heavens. There are many other such awkward juxtapositions between tales, but few which leave as much unsaid as this one. That Ovid himself is a character in this poem, as in his love poetry but not in the Metamorphoses, also allows us to treat this poem as didactic. For Ovid is the primary narrator of the Fasti, presenting himself as an amateur antiquarian, asking questions about what puzzles him. And his queries are answered, by a variety of persons, great and small, knowledgeable and ignorant. Callimachus’ Aetia, many of whose stories were linked through a dialogue between the poet and various Muses, provides a key model for this structure. Indeed, Ovid’s poem features any number of divine interlocutors, starting, in January, with the god Janus (for whom the month is named). We will in Chapter 7 say more about Ovid’s habit of beginning poems with a god – Cupid at the start of the Amores, an unnamed group of gods at the start of the Metamorphoses – and here, Janus, who does not change the form of the poem, but whose narrative of how he came to gain power over the beginning of the year is at best misleading, since later in the poem we discover that he has raped the goddess who used to be in charge and usurped her functions. The poem, here and elsewhere, raises such questions but does not answer them. Despite their divinity, then – or perhaps because of it – the various gods do not give entirely satisfactory answers. Our confusion and that of the narrator increase throughout the poem, culminating in the month of June, when no fewer than three goddesses lay claim to the month as their own. The narrator (placed into the same position as the mortal Paris before

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the start of the Trojan war, forced to discriminate among his superiors, see Sidebar XI) wisely backs out, but this means that the question is never answered. Narrative confusion occurs on the small-scale as well: Ovid regularly offers one or even two patently ridiculous options amid the plausible ones, then professes himself unable to judge among them. Ovidian narrators are usually unreliable, as we have seen with the voice of the Ars amatoria, but the one in this poem seems incapable even of retaining minimal control over his poem. For previous generations, this was perceived as a flaw of the Fasti; its multivariant viewpoints can make it look scattered. But most contemporary readers see a point to this proliferation of viewpoints, namely that they lay bare some of the key fault-lines that were occurring in Ovid’s Rome. For the events of even the distant past were being re-evaluated and reprioritised amid the dynamic reinvention of tradition that was a hallmark of the Augustan age, and one of the functions of the Fasti is to draw attention to this process. We have suggested throughout this chapter that one of the primary impulses behind the writing of technical or didactic literature is that of control; here Ovid shows a world in which meanings – even sacred truths – proliferate beyond controlling. Finally, in addition to everything else that makes the Fasti such a strange and intriguing poem, it does not, in fact, finish up the calendar year. The poem we have ends with the month of June, despite the fact that Ovid later (in a different work) suggests that there are twelve books, sex . . . totidemque, ‘six and as many again’, (Ov. Tr. 2.549). We do not know whether Ovid wrote another six books which were later lost, or whether he never finished them. What we do know about the Fasti is that Ovid revised it while he was in exile from Rome (see Chapter 9). As different members of Augustus’ family looked likely to be in the line of succession, he rewrote parts of Books 1 and 4. And in other exilic poems, Ovid seems to suggest that the Fasti is a patriotic effort that should be rewarded, or at least recognised, by the emperor. Indeed, some even suggest that Ovid chose not to release the final six books in the hopes that he could hold them hostage for a recall to Rome.

Conclusions Many of the genres popular in the republic and the Augustan periods ceased to function thereafter, some for a short time and some for longer. Didactic is not one of them. There were numerous imperial writers of didactic prose and poetic texts; the encyclopaedia tradition of Pliny,

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medical texts of Celsus, even the cookbooks of Apicius each owe something to their republican predecessors. Each of them models itself, sometimes explicitly, on the notion that all knowledge is connected, and therefore that his own area of expertise has broader significance. Many of these later texts, like the ones we have been discussing here, focus stylistic energy on a rhetorical introduction, and then lapse into more mundane and/or technical language. So here, at least, there is a clear thread connecting earlier and later texts. SIDEBARS

VII

Men of Dedication: Cicero and Varro

Caesar dedicated his De analogia (On Analogy) to Cicero, addressing his treatise on language and style to Rome’s principal authority on eloquence. This dedication was testimony to the two men’s literary friendship, a relationship that, because, it was reciprocal, joined Caesar and Cicero in the same intellectual circle. Caesar honoured Cicero, clearly, and in honouring him appropriated something of the orator’s unexcelled literary stature for his work. Cicero relished the esteem. And it was no small thing, even for an ex-consul, to enjoy the respect of so predominant a politician as Caesar. Literary friendship, however, could be complicated, and there was often a backstory. Cicero, during the long period in which he was the senate’s leading literary figure, was besieged by colleagues pressing to be the dedicatee of one his dialogues, or at least a character (see Chapter 5). Marcus Caelius asked. Cicero’s son-in-law, Dolabella, asked; so did Trebonius, an ex-consul and one of the Liberators. Cicero himself could be equally importunate with others. In a long and now famous letter (Fam. 5.12), Cicero entreats the historian L. Lucceius (pr. 67) to write a monograph about Cicero’s consulship, his exile, and his triumphant return. In July 54, Cicero learned that Varro wanted to be included in one of his dialogues. Varro tactfully communicated his request by way of Cicero’s lifelong friend and adviser Atticus, to whom Cicero responded that, although the idea appealed, no suitable role for Varro had yet come along. Perhaps, however, he could address him in the preface of some book of one of his dialogues whose contents were pertinent to Varro’s character. He promised to keep Varro’s request in mind (Att. 4.16.2). But in fact, he shrugged it off. Nor was his explanation an entirely candid one.

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We learn from another letter to Atticus, written much later, that Cicero’s prefaces were prefabricated (Att. 16.6.4). He kept them in a file and pulled one out whenever he wanted to honour a friend, without worrying much over its suitability. Nearly ten years later, in June 45, Atticus once again puts Varro’s appeal before Cicero, and we learn that Varro had also approached Cicero directly. He had promised to dedicate something to the orator. That, Cicero emphasises, was two years ago, and so far, nothing. Cicero scarcely conceals his annoyance. Nevertheless, he is now prepared to satisfy the man. He decides to revise his Academica, slicing its two long books into four shorter ones. Book 3 of this new addition, he informs Atticus, will become a dialogue between Varro, Cicero, and Atticus: Varro gets the leading role (Att. 13.2.3). Throughout this month, Cicero recurs to this topic several times (Att. 13.13.1; 13.14.1; 13.16.1–2; 13.18; 13.19.2–5; 13.25.3), and we learn that Varro is griping about his place in the queue. We also learn that Cicero is anxious: he fears Varro may dislike the dynamics of the dialogue, or be offended if he believes Cicero’s character comes off better than his own. In one letter, Cicero describes Varro by quoting the Iliad: like Achilles sulking in his tent, Varro is ‘a terrible man, quick to blame even the blameless’ (Il. 11.654). Small wonder that Cicero tried to put him off in the fifties: it must have seemed like too much trouble. After so much worry, Cicero sent Varro his dialogue in July. It was prefaced by a finely wrought, excessively polite letter in which the orator delicately but unmistakably insisted that he had been so slow in furnishing his piece for Varro because he was waiting for the piece Varro had promised him. (Fam. 9.8.1) For Cicero, even the writing of this letter was a strain. He tells Atticus that never in his life did he exercise such pains in composing anything. And he hoped never to do so again. In the end, however, and for all his fretting over Varro’s prickliness, Cicero actually did very little: the dialogue into which Varro was written was a revision of something he had already composed. Its opening passage, moreover, although laudatory in its treatment of Varro, nonetheless emphasises his eagerness to complete and dedicate his On the Latin Language to Cicero. One feels this was the very least Cicero could do for Varro, aside from doing nothing. Varro, in return, when he brought out On the Latin Language, dedicated several volumes of it to Cicero – each an original composition. Doubtless he hoped to make a point. It is obvious that Varro was not Cicero’s literary patron, nor Cicero Varro’s. They were peers and (after a fashion) friends; amicitia not clientela is the operative institution. This is something rather different from the relationship we observed in the case of Ennius and others and more like the

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posture of Lucilius or Catullus in his dedication to Cornelius Nepos (see Chapter 4). This distinction, real even if it may be obscured in overlapping expressions of devotion and esteem, matters, and it adds complexity to our understanding of the relationships we find in other poets, Vergil’s gestures of respect to Pollio or Augustus, for instance, or Horace’s to Maecenas and Augustus.

Further Reading For reading Cato and Varro, the Loeb editions are convenient and dependable: W. D. Hooper and H. B. Boyd Ash, Cato, Varro: On Agriculture (Cambridge MA 1934) volume 283; R.G. Kent, Varro: On the Latin Language, 2 vols. (Cambridge MA 1958) volumes 333 and 334. For Cicero’s rhetorical works, see Chapter 3. His philosophical and legal writings are available by way of the Loeb series: see volumes 30, 40. 141, 154, 213, and 268. More readable and, often, more accurate translations of specific works include: J. Higginbotham, Cicero on Moral Obligation (London 1967); J. G. F. Powell, Cicero: On Friendship and the Dream of Scipio (Oxford 1990); J. E. G. Zetzel, Cicero: On the Commonwealth and On the Laws (Cambridge 1999); J. Annas and R. Woolf, Cicero: On Moral Ends (Cambridge 2001); T. Habinek, Cicero on Living and Dying Well (London 2012). The Loeb edition of Vitruvius is readable and reliable: F. Granger, Vitruvius: On Architecture, vol. 1: Books 1–5 (Cambridge MA 1931) volume 281; Vitruvius: On Architecture, vol. 2: Books 6–10 (Cambridge MA 1934) volume 281. I. D. Rowland and T. N. Howe, Vitruvius: Ten Books on Architecture (Cambridge 1999) is also very much worth consulting. The Loeb translation of Lucretius is not lovely, but it is accurate and helpfully annotated: W. H. D. Rouse and M. F. Smith, Lucretius: On the Nature of Things (Cambridge MA 1982) volume 181. Of the many translations of the Georgics, we like D. Ferry, The Georgics of Virgil (New York 2006) – a bilingual edition – and C. Day Lewis and R. O. A. M. Lyne, Virgil: The Eclogues and Georgics (Oxford 2009); the Loeb is also worthwhile: H. R. Fairclough and G. P. Goold, Virgil: Eclogues. Georgics. Aeneid: Books 1–6 (Cambridge MA 1999) volume 63. Good translations of Horace include J. Davie and R. Cowan, Horace: Satires and Epistles (Oxford 2011). Ovid’s Ars amatoria is frequently translated; a lively bilingual edition is: J. Michie and D. Malouf, The Art of Love by Ovid (New York 2002). The Remedia amoris can be read in the Loeb series: J. H. Mozley and G. P. Goold, Ovid: Art of Love. Cosmetics. Remedies for Love. Ibis. Walnut-tree. Sea Fishing. Consolation (Cambridge MA 1979) volume 232. For the Fasti, we recommend A. Wiseman and P. Wiseman, Ovid: Fasti (Oxford 2013). The study of didactic literature brings together multiple aspects of Roman society. E. Rawson, Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic (Baltimore 1985) and C. Moatti, The Birth of Critical Thinking in Republican Rome (Cambridge 2015) investigate the rise and development of technical literature in Rome. The political and cultural implications of technical writing are usefully discussed by

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E. S. Gruen, Culture and National Identity in Republican Rome (Cornell 1992), T. N. Habinek, The Politics of Latin Literature: Writing, Identity and Empire in Ancient Rome (Princeton 1998), and A. Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge 2008). An excellent place to start with Cato is E. Sciarrino, Cato the Censor and the Beginnings of Latin Prose (Columbus 2011). Introductions to Varro are rare, but welcoming approaches are furnished by G. A. Nelsestuen, Varro the Agronomist: Political Philosophy, Satire, and Agriculture in the Late Republic (Columbus 2015) and D. Spencer, Language and Authority in De Lingua Latina: Varro’s Guide to Being Roman (Madison 2019) as well as two recent collections of essays: D. J. Butterfield (ed.), Varro Varius: The Polymath of the Roman World (Cambridge 2015) and V. Arena and F. Mac Góráin (eds.), Varronian Moments (London 2017). Much has been written about Cicero. Excellent starting points include the essays in J. G. F. Powell (ed.), Cicero the Philosopher (Oxford 1995) and the relevant chapters in C. Steel (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Cicero (Cambridge 2013). Cicero’s compositions are put into their intellectual and political context by M. Schofield, Cicero: Political Philosophy (Oxford 2021), R. Brouwer, Law and Philosophy in the Late Roman Republic (Cambridge 2021), and J. E. G. Zetzel, The Lost Republic: Cicero’s De oratore and De re publica (Oxford 2022). Vitruvius is somewhat understudied as a literary figure, but there is much to be learned from J. Oksanish, Vitruvian Man: Rome under Construction (Oxford 2019). On the poetic side, K. Volk, The Poetics of Latin Didactic (Oxford 2002) provides a good introduction to the genre. M. Gale, Myth and Poetry in Lucretius (Cambridge 1994) covers much of the same ground as we do here for Lucretius, and S. Gillespie and P. Hardie (eds.), Cambridge Companion to Lucretius (Cambridge 2007) and M. R. Gale (ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies: Lucretius (Oxford 2007) each provide a wide context for understanding Lucretius’ poetry. The notion of the end of the poem as a final exam comes from D. Kennedy, Rethinking Reality: Lucretius and the Textualization of Nature (Michigan 2002). M. Putnam, Vergil’s Poem of the Earth (Princeton 1979) is a sensitive introduction to the Georgics, ably amplified by K. Volk, Oxford Readings in Classical Studies: Vergil’s Georgics (Oxford 2008) and the essays in B. Xinyue and N. Freer (eds.), Reflections and New Perspectives on Virgil’s Georgics (London 2019). There is much good Ovidian criticism. A sensible start on the Art of Love can be made in A. Sharrock, Seduction and Repetition in Ovid’s Ars Amatoria 2 (Oxford 1994), J. D. Hejduk,The Offense of Love: Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris and Tristia 2 (Madison 2015), and the essays collected in S. Green, A. Sharrock, and R. Gibson (eds.), The Art of Love: Bimillennial Essays on Ovid’s Ars Amatoria and Remedia Amoris (Oxford 2007). As for the Fasti, M. Pasco-Pranger, Founding the Year: Ovid’s Fasti and the Poetics of the Roman Calendar (Leiden 2006) is useful; A. Barchiesi, The Poet and the Prince: Ovid and Augustan Discourse (Berkeley 1997) is sometimes difficult but always superb.

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L. Kronenberg, Allegories of Farming from Greece and Rome: Philosophical Satire in Xenophon, Varro and Vergil (Cambridge 2009) is very helpful in its synoptic treatment of Greek and Latin, prose and poetry. There is an abundance of important treatments of philosophical and technical literature in languages outside English. Any sample must include: R. Hirzel, Der Dialog (Leipzig 1895, repr. Hildesheim 1963); R. Till, Die Sprache Catos (Leipzig 1936); A. Michel Rhétorique et philosophie chez Cicéron (Paris 1960); P. Boyancé, Lucrèce et l’Epicurisme (Paris 1963); P. H. Schrijvers, Horror ac Divina Voluptas: Études sur la poétique et la poésie de Lucrèce (Amsterdam 1970); C. Nicolet (ed.), Les littératures techniques dans l’Antiquité romaine (Geneva 1996); M. Horster and C. Reitz, (eds.), Antike Fachschriftsteller: Literarischer Diskurs und sozialer Kontext (Stuttgart 2003).

chapter 6

What’s Past Is Prologue: History and Biography

It is only when we come to Caesar, Cornelius Nepos, and Sallust that we possess complete works of history by Roman writers. For everything prior to that, we have only fragments. This is partially due to the vagaries of transmission, but also because many of these works were eclipsed by Livy (59 bce – ce 17), the great historian of the Augustan Age. Nevertheless – as with oratory (Chapter 3) – our surviving fragments reveal the variety and creativity of the genre. Roman historians, like their Greek predecessors, regarded history as a fundamentally literary enterprise, serving to inform, edify, and gratify. Accuracy mattered, but art mattered more. And history’s importance was profound. ‘To be ignorant of what took place before you were born is always to remain a child’, Cicero observed, ‘For where is the meaning of one’s own life unless it is woven into the lives of our ancestors through records of the past?’ (Cic. Or. 120). Ancient historians operate differently from modern ones: they favour narrative over explicit analysis, and when they record speeches and letters, these are original compositions, even if based on an actual occasion and an actual argument. There are few citations and no footnotes. The authority of the author, central to the success of any account, is established principally by way of his skill as a writer. This approach to history is fundamentally Greek.

History in Rome and Roman History At some point during the Second Punic War – when precisely we do not know – the Romans were seized by a need to possess a history of their own. Their past, they firmly believed, was no less remarkable than their present. And they knew something about Rome’s early days: documents and archives existed; there were priestly records, like the Annales maximi, which recorded events, routine and notable alike, every year; legends and oral traditions abounded, some preserved by noble families, others associated with the city’s famous sites or its venerable physical monuments. At festivals, Romans 198

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sometimes watched historical dramas, fabulae praetextae (see Chapter 2), which brought before their eyes the excitement and grandeur of the deeds of their forebears. Romans also made appearances in the writings of Greek historians, who took an interest in their neighbour to the west as early as the fifth century. From its beginnings, Greek historiography included investigations of peripheral peoples, promulgating theories of their origins, descriptions of their habits, even notices of their achievements and failures. Such accounts, unsurprisingly, translated these alien societies into comprehensible Greek terms and were intended to locate the foreign peoples of the world on a Hellenocentric map of what mattered. So the Romans did not pass unnoticed, especially by historians of Sicily and Magna Graecia (the Italian peninsula, some of it colonised by Greeks). Native memories and Greek scholarship supplied the need, up to a point, but then no longer sufficed to help the Romans understand their past. And so, the Romans turned to the discipline of Greek history, which by the third century had established itself throughout the Mediterranean world. Everyone who knew something of Greek literature was familiar with Herodotus’ account of the Persian wars, Thucydides’ depiction of the Peloponnesian War, its continuation by Xenophon, and others. Western Greece did not fail to attract interest either: Romans were keenly aware of Timaeus’ Sicilian history and his account of Pyrrhus’ war against Rome. Nor was the focus of Hellenistic history always on Greeks or Greekspeaking peoples. Berossus, a Babylonian, composed a history of his city in Greek which employed the techniques of a Greek historian, and the Egyptian Manetho furnished the Ptolemies with a Greek history of ancient Egypt. For the Greeks, history was a species of literature. Which is not to say accuracy was unimportant. Herodotus and Thucydides confronted the difficulties inherent in recovering the truth of the past, and later historians routinely attacked their rivals’ veracity or attention to detail. But the principal concern of the Greek historian lay in preserving the fame of cities, kingdoms, and individuals, a preoccupation borrowed from the agendas of epic and tragedy and reflected in their obsession with politics and warfare. Homeric heroes battled one another in quest of kleos aphthiton, ‘imperishable glory’. So when Herodotus commenced his account of the Persian Wars, he promised readers that his history would ensure that the great and marvellous deeds in this struggle between east and west would not ‘become aklea’, that is, would not lack glory (kleos; Hdt. 1.1). For his part, Thucydides felt obliged to explain to his readers why the Peloponnesian War was a topic greater even than the Trojan War. To be

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sure, Greek historians were interested in the implications of geography, wealth, and political systems for the dynamics of the past. Nevertheless, in their analysis of events and causes they more frequently emphasised individual character, talent, intelligence, and agency. And they elaborated these qualities and their consequences by composing vivid narratives and orations, representations like the purple passages of epic or drama. Greek history came in prose, but the spirit animating this genre was unquestionably poetic.

Roman History in Greek: Quintus Fabius Pictor Rome’s first Roman historian was Q. Fabius Pictor, a senator, almost certainly an ex-praetor, and definitely a man of affairs. He was born around 270, was sent by the senate to consult the oracle at Delphi in 216, and died at some point thereafter. We don’t know when he composed his history: was it the work of his old age, or did the project engage him throughout his career? We do not even know the work’s title. Pictor began with the founding of Rome and continued through the events of the First Punic War (264–241) down to his own day: the latest event we know he recorded took place in 217, and he may not have proceeded much later than that. But he reached the early, desperate years of the Second Punic War (218–202). For the events of his lifetime, Pictor enjoyed the authority of a senator derived from a splendid family, and he doubtless exploited his access to the records and memories of his peers and their households. Resources of this kind were also put to work in recovering Rome’s earlier history: it is noteworthy that the deeds of the Fabii (his ancestors) occur so frequently even in our meagre fragments of his history. But Pictor’s research was by no means parochial. When he turned to the origins of Rome, he was confronted by multiple and conflicting accounts. We can get a sense of this variety by looking at Plutarch’s Life of Romulus, in which the biographer parades fourteen diverging tales of the event, not all of which involve Romulus or Aeneas (Plut. Rom. 1–3). Pictor favoured the story of Rome’s foundation by the twins, Romulus and Remus. Remarkably, he predicated his preference for this version of events on the conclusions of Greek scholarship: Pictor’s authority in this vital controversy was not Roman legend, but Diocles of Peparethos. Pictor even dated Rome’s founding by way of Olympiads (‘in the first year of the eighth Olympiad’: fr. 1, FRHist), again conceding the precedence of Greek historical investigation. This first history of Rome was written in Greek (unlike Rome’s first poetry which, as we have seen in Chapter 1, was written in Latin). The

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practice caught on, and rival histories in Greek were composed by other men of senatorial rank, like L. Cincius Alimentus, P. Cornelius Scipio (son of the great Africanus), A. Postumius Albinus, C. Acilius, and C. Aufidius. The obvious question is: why? A variety of answers have been proposed, the simplest of which notes that in the third century history was Greek literature and so Greek was the obvious vehicle for composing it. This was apparently the view of writers like Berossus and Manetho. These two eastern writers, however, composed their histories in reaction to Macedonian political domination in the eastern Mediterranean. They were translating their local histories, supported by existing, advanced systems for recording the past, into a language and style their new masters – Alexander the Great in the case of Berossus; Ptolemy I in the case of Manetho – could understand and appreciate. Pictor’s history, by contrast, was pioneering. By applying Greek patterns of historical narrative to his variegated and randomly preserved sources, he formulated his city’s history in a way recognisable as history by Romans and Greeks alike. This was not the work of a writer accommodating Greek expectations so much as appropriating them for his own purposes. During and after the First Punic war, Roman foreign policy attracted criticism abroad. It is often suggested that answering these complaints was one purpose of Pictor’s history: hence (once more) his use of Greek. This is probably true but it should not be overemphasised. Pictor was more ambitious than that: he furnished readers with an account of the Mediterranean’s new superpower that situated it within the structures of Greek literature and scholarship but also, in recounting Rome’s rise to master Italy and defeat Carthage, marked it out as history’s new centre. In his dialogue with Greek historiography Pictor inaugurated a view of the Mediterranean world in which the Romans replaced the Greeks’ Hellenocentric mattering map with one of their own.

Roman History in Latin Poetry: Naevius and Ennius Pictor’s history was translated into Latin, when and by whom we do not know. If the translator was Pictor himself, or if a Latin version was completed during his lifetime, this will be the earliest Roman history in Latin. Oddly, perhaps, the Romans never identify the earliest specimen of Latin historiography. If it was not an early translation of Pictor, it was probably Naevius’ Bellum Punicum, a poem encountered earlier (Chapter 1). Naevius’ subject was the First Punic war, but his epic included accounts of the fall of Troy (see Sidebar XI) and the foundation of Rome

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and Carthage. Mythological scenes and extended ekphrases also appeared. In view of these additions and the modest scale of the epic, it is hard to imagine a closely detailed or comprehensive treatment of the war. It is obvious how, in Naevius’ elaboration, the Roman conflict with Carthage became a heroic struggle comparable with the Trojan war as recounted by Homer and Andronicus. At the same time, in the best Hellenic historical tradition, Naevius underscored his personal participation in the war, and so, as an eyewitness of events, presented himself as a suitable authority for what he reports. Naevius wrote Rome’s first historical epic, but hardly its last. The most important historical epic of the republic was Ennius’ Annales (Chapter 1). In composing this work, as we have seen elsewhere, Ennius claimed the poetic authority of Homer. He built authority by employing a chronological structure evoking the venerable Annales maximi (see above). Although Ennius, like Naevius, begins with the city’s foundation, his epic unrolls the events of Rome’s past in annual slices, thereby becoming the earliest ‘annalistic’ history in Latin. In eighteen books, Ennius extended his history through the Aetolian War (191–189) down to the 170s. An epic poem in a majestic, pioneering style, Ennius’ Annales nevertheless remained attentive to the vital banalities of public affairs: Ennius dutifully records the results of elections (‘Quintus senior was made consul for the fourth time’, Enn. Ann. fr. 290 Sk; ‘Marcus Cornelius Cethegus, son of Marcus, an orator sweet in speech, was elected as colleague to Tuditanus’, Enn. Ann. fr. 304–308 Sk) and the allocation of provinces (‘Greece was assigned by lot to Sulpicius, Gaul to Cotta’, Enn. Ann. fr. 324 Sk). Statesmanship and especially valour, however, attract boldly wrought, strikingly literary treatments. In 178, during the Istrian War, a brave tribune of the soldiers, with only a few soldiers, struggled to defend the Roman camp from enemy attack. In the end, they succumbed, and the tribune perished. Ennius depicts this tribune’s travails at some length (Enn. Ann. fr. 391–398 Sk): the man’s helmet clangs as it is struck by ceaseless missiles, which he cannot escape; ‘sweat covers his entire body, he strains every nerve, he has no chance to draw a breath’. This is exciting stuff, for the expression of which Ennius has turned to a climactic moment in Homer: in the Iliad, mighty Ajax, struggle though he might to ward off the Trojans from the Greeks’ fleet, is forced to retreat by Zeus and by the Trojans’ javelins; his helmet clangs, sweat pours over his every limb, he cannot draw breath (Hom. Il. 16.102–111). Unlike our tribune, Ajax survives his ordeal. Still, the Roman, in the Homeric situation in which Ennius has set him, does not fall short in courage.

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Ennius’ Annales became central to all subsequent Latin epic, including later historical epics, and resonated in the works of many prose historians: L. Coelius Antipater, to take a single example, studied and emulated Ennius with great care, or so we are told by Fronto (Antipater, T1 FRHist). Cicero, who regarded Ennius as the voice of the nation, quotes the Annales frequently: if Cicero is any guide, it appears Ennius was read mostly for his accounts of early Rome and for the events of the Second Punic War. A well-known epitaph characterising the poet’s achievement, appended to his statue, declares: ‘this man recorded in verse the greatest deeds of your fathers’ (Cic. Tusc. 1.34: hic vestrum panxit maxuma facta patrum). Ennius’ importance as a fundamental fixture in Roman historiography is underlined in the opening words of the preface to Livy’s history. The great annalist begins, ‘whether I shall accomplish anything worthwhile’ (facturusne operae pretium sim), a dactylic half-line that immediately foregrounds the poetic, epic, origins of Greco-Roman historiography. Furthermore, this striking verse fragment alludes to well-known lines in Ennius: ‘it is worthwhile to listen (audire est operae pretium), you who desire the Roman state and Latium to prosper’ (Enn. Ann. 494–495 Sk). Here Ennius is respectfully inscribed by Livy, at the very start of his work, as his principal forebear.

Historical Epic in the Later Republic Naevius and Ennius mark the beginning of a persistent tradition in Latin literature. The dramatist and critic L. Accius (170–ca. 86) composed an Annales in hexameters. Its sole substantial fragment is an aetiological account of the Saturnalian festival, but that is no argument against its being a history. A Bellum Histricum, presumably a history of the triumphs of C. Sempronius Tuditianus (cos. 129), was the work of a poet named Hostius. Our fragments reveal allusions to Homer, Naevius, and Ennius in the poem, and it made an impression on Vergil. Q. Lutatius Catulus (cos. 102) dedicated a prose account of his consulship to A. Furius, who cast it in epic form. P. Terentius Varro of Atax (b. 82) was a versatile poet whose works included a Bellum Sequanicum on Caesar’s campaign against Ariovistus in 58. Even in its meagre remains, Ennian influence is obvious. M. Furius Bibaculus was a rough contemporary of Catullus (see Chapter 4), and he, too, composed an epic on the Gallic Wars, perhaps entitled Annales Belli Gallici, and, like its predecessors, influenced by Ennius. Horace ridiculed it (Hor. Sat. 1.10.36–37), but Vergil turned to it appreciatively more than once. Q. Cicero, younger brother of the famous

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orator, composed an Annales: this was a historical epic, but we know nothing of its contents. And of the unfortunate annalistic poet Volusius we know nothing except that Catullus vituperated his poem as ‘crappy chronicles’ (Cat. 36.1: Annales Volusi, cacata carta). Cicero, too, composed historical epic (see Chapters 3 and 5). Only a few lines survive of his Marius, in which he celebrated the career of C. Marius (cos. I 107), hero of the Jugurthine (112–105) and Cimbrian (113–101) Wars. Marius, like Cicero, was a new man (novus homo) from Arpinum (Arpino) in Latium. He garnered multiple consulships, was honoured as a saviour of Rome, and his memory remained popular with the Roman people. Cicero probably composed this poem before he, in his turn, arrived at the consulship. Indeed, the orator may have hoped to bask in the reflected glory of his hero, a fellow townsman and, by marriage, a distant relative. We know more about Cicero’s autobiographical epics. Soon after his consulship, he became keen for an epic memorialising his glorious suppression of the Catilinarian conspiracy and his rescue of the republic, for which achievement he was hailed parens patriae, father of his country. His original preference was for a work in Greek, which he hoped Archias, a distinguished poet whom he had once defended in court, would compose. (Archias had already celebrated the achievements of Marius and Licinius Lucullus.) That poem, however, never materialised. Consequently, Cicero composed his own epic account – in Latin – of the events of 63, the De Consulatu Suo (On his consulship). Remarkably, he is at once poet and subject, a conflation that provoked close scrutiny from his contemporary audience and later readers. It did not surprise readers that the poet engaged in self-praise – Roman aristocrats were keenly interested in fame, and self-serving autobiography, as we shall see, was commonplace. Rather, it was the choice of epic verse that became, for those who disliked Cicero, a provocation. In this environment, it appears, Cicero could not easily take refuge in the literary-critical distinctions that usually lie between a flesh-and-blood author and his composition (see Chapter 4). Cicero completed his epic in 60. Its fragments reveal the conventional accoutrements of epic: signs and portents, a divine patron (Minerva), moral instruction from the muse Calliope, and a council of the gods, at which Cicero was present. What was missing, of course, was battles, the heroic action natural to an epic adventure, a vacancy emphasised by the poem’s notorious line: cedant arma togae, concedat laurea laudi (‘let arms give way to the toga, let military glory give way to civic’ Cic. Pis. 72–5; Cic. Phil. 2.20). Cicero’s epic was technically handsome and exhibited admirable qualities: both Horace and Vergil appropriated elements they liked.

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And yet, the divine machinery of the work, although generically suitable, appeared clunky to some (Cic. Dom. 92). And the author’s apparent repudiation of military glory gave offence in some quarters, where it was felt that he was disparaging figures like Pompey the Great. Indeed, Cicero was obliged to address this issue in the senate, and he did not satisfy every detractor. None of this, of course, marks the poem out as a failure. The epic continued to be quoted and contested throughout the remainder of Cicero’s life, clear evidence of its vitality, and debate over its merits outlived its author. By late 56 Cicero had begun a second epic, De Temporibus Suis (On his vicissitudes), an account of his exile and restoration. This work appeared in three books in 54. It again included conventional features of epic – another council of the gods – and again politics mattered more than martial valour, although the rioting in Rome may have added some zest. Unlike its predecessor, this epic appears to have been generous in sharing praise: Cicero’s friends and benefactors were celebrated. His enemies, by contrast and unsurprisingly, were ill-treated. We know that Cicero showed a draft of Book 1 to Caesar: parts of it he praised, parts of it he judged a bit flat. Just as the De Temporibus Suis was being unleashed upon the world, Quintus was urging his brother to write an epic on Caesar’s campaign in Britain. Caesar, too, it appears, was attracted by the idea. So, Cicero applied himself to the assignment, corresponding diligently with his brother, who furnished the poet with careful accounts of Britain’s natural phenomena. Cicero soon tired of the chore. Still, he duly completed it and sent the epic to Caesar. We hear nothing more about it. Too little of historical epic survives for us to discern its precise admixture of fiction and truth. Yet this was the kind of inquiry Romans posed of any work of historical poetry, as we learn in reading Cicero’s On Laws: ‘people ask about many things, are they true or are they false’ (Cic. Leg. 1.4). Such readers, in Cicero’s view, ‘reveal their lack of sophistication in demanding from a poet the kind of truth they expect from a witness in court’ (Cic. Leg. 1.4). He preferred a different, if less common, approach. In history, he insisted, ‘everything must be judged in reference to truth, whereas in poetry the greatest part must be judged in reference to pleasure’ (Cic. Leg. 1.5). A century later, Eumolpus, a character in Petronius’ Satyrica, elaborating on Cicero’s opinion, insists that ‘the actual deeds of the past should not be recorded in verse, because historians do it so much better. An unrestrained genius should plunge headlong into metaphors, interventions by the gods, the agony in the meaning of legends; the impression should be that of prophetic frenzy, not a solemn declaration recited before witnesses’ (Petr. Satyr. 118). This distinction, however, was anything but universal.

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Historical epic remained robust in the empire: Petronius’ Eumolpus, who furnishes readers of the Satyrica with a long sample of historical verse, demonstrates that. So do poets like Lucan and Silius Italicus, and of course, Vergil (Chapter 8). In Roman historical epic, technical accuracy is never so important as literary virtuosity, expressions of passion or patriotism, the depiction of character, and the preservation of glory. How different were historians writing in Latin prose?

Cato the Elder’s Origines The Elder Cato, whose importance in the early development of Latin oratory and didactic prose we have already observed (Chapters 3 and 5), was also a foundational figure in the establishment of Latin historiography. Even if we cannot be certain that Cato was the first to compose history in Latin prose, his Origines (Origins) was viewed by later Romans as a pivotal work. The seven books of the Origines were probably written in the 150s – they were the work of Cato’s old age – and the conclusion of the final book was interrupted by the author’s death in 149. Cato’s motivations for turning to history will have been several, but at least one was a reaction against the Roman habit of composing Roman history in Greek. His ridicule of the preface of Postumius Albinus’ history and its deferential posture in the matter of his own Greek style is attested more than once (Polyb. 39.1; Plut. Cat. Mai. 12.6; Gell. NA 11.8): if your Greek isn’t good enough, Cato suggested, write Latin instead! And it seems reasonable to view Cato’s preference for a Roman history in Latin as a further instantiation of his complicated but routinely condescending attitude toward Greek pretensions to cultural superiority. In history as in politics or oratory, Cato’s forceful personality and conspicuous conceit left an enduring mark. ‘By no means grudging in praising his own achievements’ was Livy’s verdict (34.15.9: haud sane detractor laudum suarum), an opinion repeated in antiquity more than once. Even amid our exiguous fragments, Livy’s accuracy is clear. Cato included a boastful account of his campaign in Spain (195), during which he claimed to have captured more cities than he spent days there (Plut. Cat. Mai. 10.3–5). In the war against Antiochus the Great (192–88), Cato played a courageous role in the Romans’ victory at the battle of Thermopylae: the version furnished by Plutarch, doubtless derived from the Origines, does not stint in glorifying Cato’s bravery (Plut. Cat. Mai. 13–14; cf. 14.2: ‘those who saw him . . . felt that Rome owed more to Cato than he to the city’). Cato also plugged in, on occasion, full texts of his speeches (see below).

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Which is not to say the Origines was purely a vanity project – far from it – but in this work, both as subject and as author, Cato’s presence and agency are frequently foregrounded. In this, too, Cato was an influential pioneer. In seven books, the Origines reached from the foundation of Rome through Cato’s lifetime. The latest datable episode includes misconduct committed by Ser. Sulpicius Galba (pr. 151; cos. 144) while waging war in Spain in 150. Upon his return the following year, he was prosecuted by a tribune of the plebs who was vigorously supported by Cato. Cato delivered a fiery denunciation of Galba, the text of which he inserted into the Origines shortly before his death in the following year. We possess a summary of the work’s contents by Cornelius Nepos (Nep. Cato 3.1–4): Book 1 covered Rome’s founding and the regal period; Books 2 and 3 surveyed the states of Italy, rehearsing the geography, origins, traditions, customs, laws, and constitutions of each; the fourth book recorded the First Punic War; the fifth the Second Punic War; thereafter, in Books 6 and 7, the rest of Rome’s wars down to Galba’s Spanish campaign. Seven books is too few for much detail on so extended a period, even if we concede that brevity was one of the Origines’ stylistic virtues (Cic. de Orat. 2.53). It must largely have been the case, as Nepos says, that the work summarised. It is obvious from our surviving fragments that the structure described by Nepos is inexact (aspects of the Second Punic War, for instance, occur in Book 4). Still, it is noteworthy that Nepos says nothing about the early republic. Perhaps it was omitted by Cato or highly abbreviated, or perhaps important episodes were embedded in Cato’s account of the Italian states, each of which was ultimately dominated by Rome. So much for the shape. What was the design of the Origines? The title evokes Hellenistic foundation literature – ktiseis – works combining legend with antiquarianism, sometimes written in verse. But material of this kind, although it is important in the Origines, hardly dominates, and it puzzled some ancient readers that a work with this title devoted the bulk of its pages to narrative history (Nep. Cato 3.3; Festus 216 L). Next to nothing of the preface subsists besides the opening line ‘if there are men whom it delights to record the achievements of the Roman people’ (fr. 1, FRHist). It went on to declare that ‘great and famous men’ (fr. 2, FRHist) should be held responsible for how they spend their leisure time, the point being that composing history was a contribution to civic life as well as a personal pleasure. Cato was confident he recorded the important events: indeed, he states that he has no interest in writing about the kinds of information, trivial in his view, tabulated in the Annales Maximi, like ‘how often grain

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was expensive’ or ‘how often the light of the sun or moon was obscured’ (fr. 80, FRHist.). Cato appears to have believed that a knowledge of its own past was crucial to the identity of any people: of the Ligurians, he writes, ‘because they have lost the memory of their origins, they are illiterate and liars and incapable of recalling the truth’ (fr. 34, FRHist.). We know little else. A few scholars have detected a disjunction between Books 1–3 and the remainder of the work, perhaps reflecting different stages in composition or even two originally distinct works. This is not impossible, and the later books, in which Cato continued to record current events and deposited copies of his own speeches, do not suggest the organic arrangement reflected in the first three books. Still, it is more likely that Cato intended the developments studiously elaborated in the first three books to establish and explain the foundations of Rome’s rapid, forceful expansion beyond Italy. Because the Origines arrives so early in our surviving specimens of Latin prose, it is not easy to identify its distinctive stylistic features. Horace would later claim that Cato was notable for neologisms (Hor. Ars P. 46– 59), and modern critics have detected vocabulary which, by Cato’s own day, was probably obsolete and therefore lent his work an oldfashioned flavour. Although noted for his brevity, Cato exhibits a fondness for paired synonyms and occasional redundancies. His sentences are short and uncomplicated. As we have seen, Cato introduces his own speeches and personal deeds into his history, but we do not know how, exactly, he formulated references to himself. A startling facet of the Origines, observed by more than one ancient reader, is Cato’s avoidance of personal names: he prefers titles and offices (consul, military tribune, etc.). This is unlikely to mean that he never identified protagonists, but rather that, most of the time, he preferred to underline their status as Roman magistrates, perhaps to emphasise their role as agents of Rome over their distinctiveness as individuals. This is in striking contrast to Greek historiography. And yet, as we have seen, a hallmark of Cato’s history was its laudatory treatment of its author –Cato certainly did not obscure his own identity – and his speech attacking Galba can hardly have omitted the man’s name. Whatever ideological point Cato hoped to make by way of this innovative feature, it was lost on later readers, who deemed it curious. In the longest fragment remaining from the Origines, Cato furnishes an account of the valour of a military tribune who, during the First Punic War, volunteers to sacrifice himself and his men to rescue a consular army trapped by the enemy. Dialogue between tribune and consul is delivered in direct speech; the actions of the tribune and his doomed soldiers are

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reported concisely; so, too, the army’s escape. Cato dilates on the episode’s happy ending: the tribune’s virtue is rewarded by the gods, and he alone of his detachment survives (Cato is not bothered by the fates of ordinary soldiers). This tribune later, we are told, rendered the republic further exemplary service. At this point, notably, the author intrudes, observing how Leonidas, leader of the Three Hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, performed a similar deed. He then complains that in the whole of Greece Leonidas’ fame is celebrated to the skies, whereas the Roman tribune’s repute falls short of his heroism. It is obvious that Cato had no need to adduce Leonidas in order to commemorate the bravery of his tribune. Nor is the comparison obvious or even very apt. At Thermopylae, according to Herodotus and historiographical tradition, the Spartans died to preserve the freedom of the Greeks from the existential threat of Persia. Although Cato says his tribune has ‘done the same thing and preserved the state’ (fr. 76, FRHist.: qui idem fecerat atque rem servaverat), he hasn’t. Instead, he rescues an army fighting in a foreign land as part of a struggle waged between two superpowers over the possession of Sicily. A bold action, yes, and salutary for the endangered army. But by no means a close parallel. Leonidas, however, does not appear only as a fancy embellishment, nor is Thermopylae mentioned only to reprise a reader’s memory of Cato’s own brilliance in Rome’s victory over Antiochus on that site (see above). In part, Leonidas underlines a discrepancy between the extravagance of Greek praise and the Romans’ matter-of-fact familiarity with courage in the face of death. But Leonidas has more work to do than that: it is by way of this strained equivalence that Cato endeavours to elevate both the reputation of his tribune and the importance of his own account. Leonidas’ fame, however overblown, enhances the tribune’s, now that the two have been put in parallel. And Cato, by folding into his personal judgement this reference to an enduring achievement of Greek historiography, enacts his own authority in the Origines as a reliable, sober, and sound guide to the past. Cato’s diligence in research was much remarked on in antiquity. His style, by contrast, did not widely appeal: the Origines soon attained the status of a fusty but venerable classic. Cicero did not find Cato’s history as quotable as Ennius’ Annales. In his Brutus, he says nice things about its style, but concedes that ‘the work lacks admirers’ (Cic. Brut. 65). Indeed, in that work Cicero’s Atticus makes very clear his low opinion of the Origines’ readability (see Chapter 3). For Nepos, too, notwithstanding its obvious diligence, the Origines lacks doctrina, sophistication (Nep. Cato 3.4). Sallust,

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by contrast, found much to appreciate, so much that he was derided by his detractors as a thief of Cato’s vocabulary or, less hostilely, a faithful follower. During the empire, especially during the second century ce, Cato’s popularity amongst nostalgic intellectuals was immense: Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius read him with care, as did the age’s litterateurs.

After Cato After Cato, Romans write history in Latin. Senators continue to predominate in this genre but soon history becomes an occupation open to equestrians. Any selection of leading republican historians will include L. Calpurnius Piso Frugi (cos. 133), Cn. Gellius (second century), L. Coelius Antipater (b. c. 170), Q. Claudius Quadrigarius (first century), Valerius Antias (first century), and L. Cornelius Sisenna (pr. 78) – all known only through fragments and later references. We cannot be certain that any of them were not senators. Piso may have been the first to compose an annalistic history in Latin prose: he, like Ennius, provided a year-byyear account. This approach became very popular, although it was never universal. Coelius Antipater, for instance, wrote a history fully focused on the Second Punic War. Annalistic history was explicitly criticised by Sempronius Asellio (b. c. 160), who, in the opening of his own work, dismissed annalistic accounts as little better than lists of events, failing to explain the hows and whys (fr. 2, FRHist.). Annalistic history (annales libri), he insisted, ‘is telling stories to children, not writing history (historia)’ (fr. 2, FRHist.). The distinction drawn by Asellio is interesting if enigmatic: in practice, nearly all Roman historians, whatever format they preferred, endeavoured to explain the hows and whys. They certainly attributed personal motives and calculations to the agents who populated their works. They did so by building these features of historical explanation into their narratives as straightforward assertions of fact. Roman historians did not ordinarily qualify their reconstructions or conclusions by way of signposts like ‘certainly or even ‘possibly’. And ancient scrolls did not accommodate the modern feature of a footnote. In terms of presentation, then, a historian’s personal commentary on and his recovery of past events are indistinguishable from the contents he deemed to be factual. One effect of this habit is that it remains a matter of modern debate whether distinctions of this kind even mattered in ancient historiography. A good deal of Roman history, especially of the early periods, consisted of imaginative if informed reconstruction, elaborated with an eye to plots

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from epic or from Greek historians. For instance, Rome’s conquest of the neighbouring town of Veii in the fourth century became a Homeric-style ten-year siege. Other events conform to patterns borrowed from Herodotus or Thucydides. These techniques elevated the grandeur of Roman history. As for filling in the historical gaps, Romans resorted to aetiological tales, stereotypes, and the deployment of current political or military matters to re-imagine the past. In this way, the Romans created extended historical accounts out of next-to-nothing, certainly nothing a modern historian would consider good evidence, instead basing their versions on probability. And it was owing to techniques like these that the sheer bulk of Roman history became ever greater; the ‘facts’ did not change, but varying explanations proliferated over time. Cato made his way from the founding of Rome to his own day in seven books. Piso perhaps took only a little longer. By the time we come to Livy, however, Rome does not arrive at the death of Cato until Book 39. It is rarely the case that we can see for ourselves (rather than simply infer) how one historian puts his predecessor to work. Sometimes, there may be different evidence. But more often, a historian offers new interpretation, built into the narrative itself. And each revision presents an opportunity for one historian to excel another in literary achievement. One famous comparandum exists: the duel between Manlius Torquatus and a Gaul is recorded by Claudius Quadrigarius (fr. 6, FRHist.) and subsequently by Livy (7.9.8–10.11). Their competing versions of this David-and-Goliath tale are illustrative of the methodologies and artistic ambitions that animate Roman historical texts. The patrician Manlii Torquati believed their unusual cognomen, Torquatus (‘with a torque’, that is, with a distinctive neck ornament), was acquired when a famous ancestor, Manlius, slew a Gaul in battle and seized the fallen man’s necklace as a prize for valour. This legend may not have been entirely untrue, but it was certainly embellished by family traditions, nor was it the sole badge of honour added to Torquatus’ glory by the Manlii: over time dictatorships and consulships were attributed to this man, not all of them historical. Torquatus’ deed was ultimately taken up by Roman historians. The first time we find the episode is in the history of Claudius Quadrigarius, where it is set in 361. A gigantic Gaul challenges any Roman soldier to meet him in single combat. None is willing, which prompts the Gaul to stick out his tongue at the timid Romans, until young Manlius, a military tribune, comes forward. His pride, we are told, is offended by the Gaul’s defiance and the Romans’ shameful response. In defence of his noble virtue, then, he arms himself for a duel. His

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equipment, described by Quadrigarius, is largely anachronistic: he deploys, for instance, a gladius, a Spanish sword, long before the Romans used them. The contest is an uneven one. The Gaul is bigger and highly skilled, but Manlius, relying on his native courage and pride (animus), is victorious. He lops off the Gaul’s head and sets the bloody torque round his neck. Livy, relying almost entirely on Quadrigarius’ well-known version, tells the same story at greater length (352 words instead of 219) and with far more complicated syntax. His Gaul gets a speech in direct discourse in which he frames his challenge as a contest between two cultures to demonstrate which is better in war. Manlius, too, speaks directly to his general: he asks to be allowed to leave his position in order to fight. Livy had a reason for this augmentation. This same Manlius Torquatus, we learn elsewhere, as consul in 340, put his own son to death for leaving the ranks without permission. And so, Livy obviously concluded, he would hardly have flouted his own stern principle about breaking rank: hence his speech. This is just the kind of addition ancient historians make, one which fits in with their sense of how it must have been. Manlius enters battle, again anachronistically equipped, but the Gaul he fights, unlike Quadrigarius’, is undisciplined, thereby conforming to Roman prejudices about Gallic character, a Livian ‘correction’. It is owing to his stupidity, in Livy’s version, that the Gaul sticks out his tongue at the Romans, an undignified detail Livy cannot omit because ‘it was deemed worthy of memorialisation by the ancients’ (7.10.5: memoria dignum antiquis visum est). Manlius, by contrast, is superbly trained and exhibits fighting techniques that will not exist until the legions of Livy’s day. Consequently, his victory over the Gaul is not simply an expression of individual aristocratic excellence, as it is in Quadrigarius, but proof of the superiority of Roman civilisation. Livy’s Manlius is disciplined even in victory. He does not mutilate the corpse. He simply removes the torque, bloodstained by the battle, and places it on his neck. Livy, it is clear, read and respected Quadrigarius’ account of this episode. Nor was he troubled about checking its details, which he simply adopted – including those he found distasteful. Nonetheless, he found Quadrigarius’ version lacking in important elements, like a speech; more crucially, he rejected Quadrigarius’ ideological take. And so he rewrote it – extensively and in an entirely different literary style. This is revisionist history, but Livy’s disagreements with Quadrigarius are never explicit: instead, they are folded into his narrative as matters of fact. As we have seen, style was a crucial matter for Roman historians. For obvious reasons, however, it is difficult, if not impossible, to recover the

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style of lost or fragmentary writers. Quotations from the early historians are frequently stimulated by linguistic oddity and therefore do not necessarily reveal an author’s normal habits. Such evidence as we possess suggests that, until Cicero’s day, historians usually preferred a clear, paratactic style. At the same time, fragments of notable syntactical complexity occur, so perhaps there was more variety than we can recognise. Historians took pains over their diction, aiming always at a suitably dignified register, but this mannerism did not prohibit innovation. Prose rhythm was a feature of many histories, sometimes in lines that suggested epic verse or exhibited heroic clausulae, sometimes in cadences familiar from Cicero (Chapter 3). Obscured though our view of these writers remains, their stylistic ambitions are nonetheless obvious. Cicero, however, was unimpressed. He discusses historiography more than once (esp. De orat. 2.51–64; Leg. 1.5–10), routinely making the very unCatonian claim that Latin historians remain inferior to their Greek predecessors. Cicero deemed historical composition to be difficult and demanding (Cic. Leg. 1.10) and believed that it ought to exhibit eloquence but must not merely reproduce the features of forensic oratory (Cic. De Orat. 2.64). The beauty and sophistication he associated with the best of Latin rhetoric Cicero prescribed for historiography as well. Unfortunately, he complained, early historians lacked skill. As he put it, ‘what could be plainer that all that lot’ (Cic. Leg. 1.6: quid tam exile quam isti omnes)? Coelius Antipater he liked: he was brilliant – at least by the standards of his day (Cic. Brut. 102), and Sisenna was the best of them all. Even he, however, was far from perfect (Cic. Brut. 228). How widely views like Cicero’s circulated in late republican Rome we do not know. His opinions, however, cannot have been unique.

Biography and Autobiography: Early Efforts Biography and autobiography also offered vehicles for understanding the past by way of praise and blame. Autobiography came first, perhaps unsurprisingly in view of the Roman aristocracy’s inclination toward selfcelebration. Native resources for life-writing abounded in family archives, epitaphs, and texts of encomiastic funeral orations (laudationes funebres). Nevertheless, to give a satisfactory shape to these materials, the Romans once again looked to Greek precedents. But it is far from clear when the Greeks began composing biographies of great generals or statesmen. Their biographies tended to focus on men illustrious for learning or art: famous philosophers, poets, and the like. Prose encomia of great men were written, to be sure, and Xenophon’s encomiastic Agesilaus looks very much like later

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biography. So, too, his didactic and at least ostensibly biographical piece, the Cyropaideia (The Education of Cyrus). Hellenistic historical narratives often centred round the career of a single individual, recording the story of an era by concentrating on the life of a leading figure. Still, although ‘pure’ biographies of eminent military or political figures doubtless existed, we do not easily detect them. Greek autobiography, by contrast, memoirs of kings or outstanding individuals, was anything but rare, and Roman aristocrats did not overlook them. One form of regal expression – public, autobiographical letters – was taken up in Rome early on. In a letter (in Greek) addressed to Philip V of Macedon, Scipio Africanus, the conqueror of Hannibal, recounted (at the very least) his capture of New Carthage. The date of this letter is uncertain, but it can plausibly be set in the consulship of Scipio’s brother (191) when both men were active in Greece and preparing to wage war against Antiochus the Great. The implications of a Roman nobleman appropriating an autobiographical medium employed by kings – in addressing a king who had recently been defeated by Rome – were hardly obscure to Philip, to the Greek east generally, or to Scipio’s readers in the capital. Africanus’ son-in-law, P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica Corculum (cos. 162), composed a similar letter (also in Greek) to an unidentified king in which he rehearsed his personal bravery at the battle of Pydna in 168. It was perhaps with these works in mind that Q. Lutatius Catulus (cos. 102) furnished Rome with an account of his achievements as consul in a letter – in Latin – addressed to the poet A. Furius. Public letters in Latin soon became commonplace vehicles for aristocratic self-expression, including justifications for one’s career or attacks on one’s political enemies; they were sometimes even read in the Senate. Autobiography, however, took on different forms. In a work that was, so far as we can tell, innovative in Rome, M. Aemilius Scaurus (cos. 115) wrote the story of his life, possibly culminating in his triumph during the year of his consulship. He entitled his autobiography De vita sua (On his Life). Scaurus was a cunning politician who became the leading senator of his day. He came from a patrician family that had fallen into obscurity, and in his autobiography he took credit for restoring his family’s fortunes. He presented himself to his readers in the first person. P. Rutilius Rufus (cos. 105), a scrupulous figure and a deep thinker, was unjustly driven into exile by his enemies. He, too, composed a De vita sua, in this instance a polemical defence of his blighted career. Autobiographies like these, Tacitus later observed (Tac. Agr. 1.3), were testaments to their authors’ confidence in the rectitude of their lives: readers, he reports,

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judged them reliable. But as early as Cicero’s day, the autobiographies of Scaurus and Catulus were hardly consulted by anyone – and Cicero, although he has much to say about Rutilius’ oratory, never mentions his memoir. These Roman memoirs recall their Hellenistic predecessors, autobiographies sometimes designated ephemerides (diaries or journals) or, more often, hypomnemata (memoranda), although these terms also appear as synonyms. The fundamental conceit of these works is that they are not finished literary accounts but unvarnished raw material – just the facts – assembled for later refinement by an actual historian. Hellenistic kings were drawn to this approach. So, too, Aratus of Sicyon (271–213), a leading figure in the Achaean League. His hypomnemata extended beyond thirty books and had a casual, unpretentious style, as if hastily composed amid political and military struggles, or so Plutarch tells us (Plut. Arat. 3.3). Aratus’ memoirs certainly included exciting tales of derring-do charged with dramatic suspense, as well as conventional accounts of battles and debates. Throughout, the author inserted apologetics aimed at his detractors. Aratus may have been read in Rome as early as Polybius’ confinement there (c. 168), and his reputation remained high. Cicero praises him as a great man worthy to have been born a Roman (Cic. Off. 2.83). Autobiographical writing of this kind appears to have influenced Scaurus and his successors, even if none of them could match Aratus’ gripping prose. The autobiography of P. Cornelius Sulla, by contrast, was much read by contemporaries and later generations (see Sidebar IX). A hero of the Social War, Sulla was elected consul for 88. In that year, owing to political strife and Sulla’s steely ambitions, he became the first man in history to lead a Roman army in an attack on Rome. After eliminating his enemies, he turned east to wage the First Mithridatic War. He returned to Italy in 83 and again captured Rome. Assuming the role of dictator, he purged the capital of his enemies through officially sanctioned murders undertaken on a grand scale (see Sidebar IX). He celebrated a triumph and revised the Roman constitution, after which he abdicated the dictatorship, was elected consul a second time, for 80, and thereafter retired from public life. In retirement, he composed his memoirs. Their subject matter, even the repulsive bits, could hardly fail to captivate. Sulla extended himself to twenty-two books, still writing only two days before his death in 78. Like Greek writers before him – Sulla was highly literate – he cast his autobiography as raw material, dedicating it to L. Licinius Lucullus (cos. 74) ‘on the grounds that he was better equipped

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than himself to compose and arrange a proper history’ (Plut. Luc. 1.4). We do not know what he titled his work, but Plutarch, who relied on it when composing his Life of Sulla, denotes it hypomnemata. As for its content, Sulla concentrated on his military greatness. At the same time, he often celebrated the heroism of his soldiers. He justified his unorthodox career by claiming the mantle of heaven: he was divinely chosen to restore freedom to the republic; indeed, in a dream, one of multiple portents, the goddess Bellona placed a thunderbolt in his hand for use in vanquishing his foes. Consequently, all who resisted him were enemies of Rome and the gods. Thus the dictator hoped to ensure his legacy. And, although within a generation, Sulla had become a by-word for tyranny, his memoirs continued to attract readers and to influence, often dominate, later narratives.

Biography and Autobiography: Caesar With Julius Caesar we arrive at autobiographical writing we can read in its entirety. From 58 until his invasion of Italy in 49, Caesar waged war in Gaul. His conquest extended west to Roman Spain, north to Britain, and east as far as the Rhine. His Bellum Gallicum (Gallic War), in seven books, is an account of this campaign from 58 through 52, when, by defeating Vercingetorix at Alesia, Caesar finally prevailed. Caesar allocates roughly one year per book. The opening two books constitute a discernible pairing: they open with justifications for Caesar’s involvement in Gaul and conclude with his success against the fierce Nervii, at which point he is celebrated in Rome with a public thanksgiving that is ‘a greater honour than had previously been granted to anyone’ (Caes. B. Gall. 2.34.4). The struggle continues, however, until the surrender of Vercingetorix, the occasion for an even greater thanksgiving in Rome. There the seventh book closes (Caes. B. Gall. 7.90). An eighth book was later added, after Caesar’s assassination, by A. Hirtius (cos. 43). This book takes Caesar from his final victory (Caes. B. Gall. 8.1: ‘all Gaul was now conquered’) down to the outbreak of the civil war (the text of Book 8 breaks off in 50). Caesar’s Gallic War was described by contemporaries as commentarii, commentaries (Cic. Brut. 262; Hirt. ap. Caes. B. Gall. 8 pr. 2). The designation intrigues. Early kinds of commentaries appear to include functional instruction for magistrates and priests, technical works on law, religion, or the constitution, or records stored in the archives of aristocratic families – all highly traditional and thoroughly Roman preoccupations (see Chapter 5). Perhaps, under the influence of Greek

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hypomnemata (see above), personal memoirs were also termed commentaries before this date, but we cannot be sure. Cicero composed a Greek account of his consulship that in Latin he refers to as a commentarius (Cic. Att. 2.1.1). This was in the sixties– well before Caesar commenced his Gallic War. By then, commentarius or commentarii was as good a Latin translation as any for hypomnemata or ephemerides – with the bonus that it evoked Romans’ native past. And a commentary, like hypomnemata, struck a provocative pose: its ostensibly provisional character invited continuation. A work calling itself commentarii, then, marked itself out as the essential, traditional basis for future Roman history. This was how readers viewed Caesar’s Gallic War. But it was too good to work with. In his dialogue, Brutus, Cicero invents this exchange on the topic of Caesar (Cic. Brut. 262): At this point Brutus said, ‘His orations strike me as entirely admirable. I have read many of them as well as his commentaries, which he wrote about his own achievements’. ‘Truly admirable’, I said, ‘they are bare, upright, and charming. All the ornamentation of style has been removed, as if it were a garment. Although he intended to furnish others with material they might use should they wish to compose a history, he can, in this regard, only have gratified incompetent writers, the kind who might want to take hot curling tongs to his version of events. Men of sound judgement he has deterred from writing. For in any history there could be nothing more pleasing than his brevity, which is pure and clear’.

Cicero’s ostentatious praise is arresting. And its wording is finely wrought: ‘upright and charming’ (recti et venusti) can suggest more than one thing, but here, as often, rectus (upright) indicates language that is correct, and venustus, charming, is an adjective that incorporates Venus, the goddess from whom the Julians claimed descent. These are fulsome compliments, delivered in 46 when Caesar, as dictator, held absolute power in Rome. Even without Cicero’s flattery, we know that correct Latin was an important aim of Caesar’s Gallic War. During his campaign, Caesar also composed a linguistic treatise, De analogia (On the Theory of Analogy) in which he insisted on purity in Latin diction, something attainable through the avoidance of obscure expressions (see Chapter 5). Caesar practised what he preached: in his commentaries, he eschews synonyms and unvaried phrases recur. Caesar’s syntax is paratactic and uncomplicated, lending his narrative an impression of sober, factual straightforwardness. These same qualities mark the work’s speeches, most of which come in indirect discourse. And Caesar’s frequent battle scenes are often vivid and fastmoving. It is always easy for the reader to share the author’s focus. Cicero

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and Hirtius draw attention to Caesar’s elegantia, his lucid elegance (Cic. Brut. 252; Hirt. ap. Caes. B. Gall. 8. pr. 2), and this, clearly, was a literary imperative in the Gallic War. A conspicuous feature of Caesar’s style is his avoidance of the first person: he rarely refers to himself as I. Instead, Caesar appears as one of many protagonists in his story – even if in every instance he is the best of them all. In the Gallic War, when Caesar says our he is usually referring to our side, that is, the Romans. This third-person mannerism has been variously explained, and it can be traced back to the fifth-century Athenian Xenophon, an author much read by late republican Romans. One of the effects of Caesar’s habit may be to enhance the objectivity of his narrative. But the move is so obvious that it could never have been intended to deceive. Instead, it provokes each reader into thinking carefully about the relationship between Caesar the Author and Caesar the Great Man. Gauls represented something profound to Roman sensibilities. Every year Romans observed the dark day in 390 when their legions were defeated by Gallic invaders, who went on to sack the city itself. Warfare in northern Italy was thereafter routine, and Marius, the great general who was seven times consul – and was married to Caesar’s aunt – made his reputation by saving Rome from a later Gallic menace. Caesar’s Gallic War portrays its author as the final solution to this threat. For modern readers, his account is deeply disturbing. Caesar foregrounds the sheer bloodiness of his campaign, and more than once he concedes the point that the Gauls fought ferociously because they were fighting for their liberty (Caes. B. Gall. 3.10). The Gallic War, however, is an unabashed tale of ruthless imperialism and Caesar’s eager part in it. Although it includes geographical digressions and fascinating ethnographic accounts of Gallic and German customs, the subjugation of Gaul and its peoples constitutes the central subject. The narrative does not, for instance, discuss politics in Rome or Caesar’s administration of Cisapline Gaul or Illyricum, or any aspect of his personal life, and Caesar remains the central actor in the narrative: he rarely strays elsewhere except to make himself look good. Which is not to say the Gallic War lacks nuance. One of Caesar’s chief opponents was the Gallic leader Ambiorix. In an episode in Book 5 (set in 54), this man tricks two of Caesar’s officers into leaving the camp in which they are wintering (Caes. B. Gall. 5.26–37). In a parley with the Romans, Ambiorix delineates the difficulties of his situation: in view of past benefactions, he owes Caesar his personal loyalty, but as a Gaul he must play his part in fighting for freedom (he appears to know that Romans know about

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the challenges of divided loyalties); he concedes that no Gallic tribe on its own can hope to stop Rome, which is why all tribes must unite. Through his bellicosity (he has only recently attacked this Roman camp) he has, he insists, paid his debt to his people; now he desires to pay his debt to Caesar. German soldiers are coming, but he will allow the Romans in the camp to pass through his territory unmolested, thereby fulfilling his moral obligation to Caesar and ridding his own domain of its immediate Roman occupation. His proposal is practical, and he offers to take an oath to confirm his honesty. Roman prejudices tended to render Gauls stupid and fierce, but hardly cunning. Ambiorix’s well-composed, morally attractive argument, however, delivered in indirect discourse, is designed to dupe any Roman who makes the mistake of believing that Gauls hold to the same principles as Romans, or that they are unsubtle. After lengthy consideration, and amid much disagreement, Caesar’s officers decide to take Ambiorix at his word: when they leave the security of their camp, he falls on them and, notwithstanding the Roman’s valour, wins a devastating victory. Caesar, of course, is the true author of Ambiorix’s speech, and by subverting some aspects of the Roman stereotypes about the Gauls, he confirms others – Ambiorix is anything but stupid, but he is treacherous – and he hints at how challenging any campaign against actual Gauls must have been. In any case he makes it plain how a superior Gaul like Ambiorix, although he might bamboozle any number of Roman officers, could never deceive the always-perceptive Caesar. In his Bellum civile (Civil War), which in three books covers events in 49 and 48, we find the same style put to a different purpose. Here Caesar furnishes a narrative that is nothing short of propaganda. But it is clever propaganda that respects its reader. Caesar does not often falsify events (though he sometimes does); more often he relates them in language that implies bad motives on the part of his enemies. The Civil War, in important ways, continues the Gallic War. Actions and deliberations on the part of Caesar’s opponents in this account reprise similar episodes set in Gaul; all reflect badly on anyone taking up arms against the author. The basic message is subtle but unmistakable: in fighting for freedom against Cato, Pompey, and the residue of his opposition, Caesar is continuing the campaign for Rome he carried out against tricksy Germans and Gauls. Consequently, our in this text refers to Caesar’s side in the civil war and excludes his opponents from the community of Rome. Figures like Cato and Pompey are reduced to a dangerous, unlawful faction and are routinely rendered with less nuance than, say, Ambiorix. Again and again, Caesar’s enemies are at best inept or craven; more often they are appalling, and

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Caesar underlines his case against them by depicting them in language that had earlier been applied to Gauls or Germans. As for Caesar, his superhuman leadership is so constantly emphasised as to become monotonous. C. Asinius Pollio (cos. 40), one of Caesar’s lieutenants, later an important historian of the civil war, held this work in low esteem. In his judgement, it was ‘composed with too little industry and too little regard for the truth, because Caesar was often too ready to believe what others told him and, either by design or owing to forgetfulness, misrepresented his own deeds’. In the case of the Civil War, Pollio at least pretended to believe, Caesar really did intend it as material to be written up properly later. That time never came. The Civil War was never completed, although it was extended by later writers – we do not know their identities – who composed the Bellum Alexandrinum (Alexandrian War), Bellum Africum (African War), and Bellum Hispaniense (Spanish War). These works have not impressed every reader, but their very existence is ample testimony to the lingering attraction of Caesar’s accounts of his martial career. During the empire, the Civil War continued to intrigue, and it was a principal source of inspiration for Lucan’s epic masterpiece, the Bellum civile.

Biography and Autobiography: Cornelius Nepos Biography emerges in Rome only in the first century bce. Prior to that, one assumes, family legends circulated among aristocratic households, sometimes by way of texts, and funeral orations of prominent men were preserved in domestic archives. Greek biographical writing offered Romans a range of models: encomia, dialogues, series of lives devoted to persons sharing a common distinction, like poets or philosophers. Intrinsic to all these types of biography was an exploration of a subject’s reputation and personal character. Biography satisfied curiosity, to be sure, not least in reporting oddities or foibles, but life writing was always devoted to an ethical, even moralising, mission. By convention, biography deferred to history (Nep. pr. 1; Plut. Alex.1.1–3), a gesture that allowed it to include topics other than war and statesmanship and permitted writing in a less majestic style. Nonetheless, biography, like history, was an exploration of the past (sometimes the very recent past) which remained predominantly literary. The identity of Rome’s earliest biographer eludes us. Manius Otacilius Pitholaus was a freedman who became an eminent grammarian, a poet, an adept in political invective, and the author of works on Cn. Pompeius Strabo (cos. 89) and his son, Pompey the Great. Whether these were

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biographies is unclear. Nepos referred to them with the word historia, but Suetonius indicates their contents with the expression res gestae, achievements, which can suggest either history or encomia (Suet. Gram. 27). Even in his brief notice, Suetonius makes it clear that Strabo and Pompey were the focus of Otacilius’ works. If he was writing history, it was a brand of history that came very close to being biography. We are on surer ground in the case of Santra, a tragic poet and a scholar who composed biographies of literary figures. Likewise, C. Iulius Hyginus, a freedman of Augustus who, like Otacilius, became a distinguished scholar: amongst his writings were biographies of famous men. More eminent that any of these was M. Terentius Varro (116–27; see further Chapter 5), a military man, a friend of Pompey, and a prolific writer (he composed more than 600 books). Varro’s expansive learning was much admired by Cicero, and his antiquarian research was nothing short of pathbreaking. He composed two autobiographies and an immense volume of biography. This latter work, Hebdomades vel de imaginibus (Sevens, or Images) in fifteen books, was a collection of 700 portraits of famous Greeks and Romans in which each image was accompanied by a biographical epigram. Atticus may have written something similar in imitation of Varro. And the late republic sees a profusion of biography. Cicero’s erudite freedman, Tiro, wrote an encomiastic life story of the orator, and biographies, often politically tendentious, were written about men like Cato and Brutus. But the earliest Latin biographer whose work survives in any quantity is Cornelius Nepos (ca. 110–after 27). He was born in Transpadane Gaul, possibly in Ticinum (modern Pavia), and acquired Roman citizenship prior to 65, when he moved to the city. There he became an intimate of Atticus and cultivated a friendship, cordial if not close, with Cicero. He composed love poetry, still read during the empire, and wrote various prose works, mostly history and biography. A collection of his correspondence with Cicero also circulated. Catullus, also from the Transpadane, dedicated a collection of his poems to Nepos (Cat. 1), complimenting his fellow Italian as a sympathetic reader (Chapter 4). He also praised his Chronica (‘Chronicles’), a succinct summary of Greco-Roman history in three books. Nepos’ inspiration was the Chronicles of Apollodorus of Athens (ca. 180–after 120), a specimen of history in verse. Like Apollodorus, Nepos included mythological and cultural matters alongside more conventional historical episodes and, again like Apollodorus, he concentrated on chronology. But Nepos’ history was bicultural, and his synchronisms frequently matched episodes in Rome’s past with contemporary events in Greek history. Catullus described this work as daring, and judged it an

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erudite product of extraordinary industry. Although it survives only in fragments, this was an influential work. Influential, too, was Nepos’ Exempla, in at least five books. Here Nepos recorded exemplary deeds performed by men of the past, a catalogue of obvious utility for orators in search of precedents but also helpful to anyone interested in moral improvement. That said, Nepos’ real importance lies in his achievement as a biographer. He composed a large-scale biography of Cicero in at least two books. He also wrote a fulsome life of the Elder Cato. These works do not survive. Instead, we possess a series of biographies of non-Roman generals, which is only a single book from Nepos’ De viris illustribus (On Famous Men), together with this work’s preface and two individual lives – one of the Elder Cato (a composition different from the lost and much longer biography) and one of Atticus – which are all that remain of On Famous Men’s sequence of Roman historians. On Famous Men was divided into no fewer than sixteen books. Like Varro’s Hebdomades, it dealt with Greeks as well as Romans. Nepos sorted his subjects into the fields for which they were indeed famous – generals, kings, historians, and the like – and he devoted two books to each field, one populated by foreigners, one by Romans. The purpose of this arrangement was to facilitate comparison, ‘to render it easier to decide, by way of collating their deeds, which men should be put first’ (Nep. Hann. 13.4). This exercise, in Nepos’ view, should not be governed by feelings of national pride or parochial prejudice: in his preface, he urges his readers not to be offended by Greek practices that violate Roman proprieties (Nep. pr. 1–7). That On Famous Men was moralistic is obvious, and that must have been part of its attraction. It was often consulted, and the influence of Nepos’ approach reached into Greek literature: Plutarch’s Parallel Lives clearly look back to Nepos. Modern classicists have not been impressed by Nepos’ style. Still, there can be no doubt of his literariness. He aims at a smooth style yet deploys alliterations and archaisms in the attempt to achieve an old-fashioned tenor. He introduces antitheses to add an engaging pointedness to his prose, but also nods to the genre’s accessibility by employing colloquialisms. This eclecticism may rankle with modern tastes more than it did ancient ones – Nepos was clearly much-read – but it is difficult to deny that, as a writer, he is on a different level from Cicero or Caesar. His biographies also display blunders (factual errors – not distortions introduced to make a point), which at the very least indicates carelessness. At the same time, Nepos’ innovative approach to Greco-Roman history and biography is a significant achievement. Interesting, too, is the

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moralising agenda that animates his life writing, an ethical sensibility that finds in the deeds even of men from the Greek past raw materials for a scathing critique of contemporary Rome. The Rome of Nepos’ day had experienced multiple civil wars – from Sulla in the eighties down to the unstable government of the Second Triumvirate – and throughout his biographies of foreign generals Nepos again and again points to a better way. Central themes in his biographies of foreign generals are freedom (libertas) and discipline. Nepos addresses the discipline of ordinary soldiers (Nep. Eum. 8.2–3) but remains more concerned with the self-discipline of their commanders: are they obedient to the laws of their country? This is a species of good citizenship Nepos classifies as loyalty, or pietas. His exposition is hardly subtle. In one instance, writing about the Spartan king Agesilaus, Nepos expatiates on the moment when the king, poised to lead an invasion of Persia, was called upon to return by the government at home. Agesilaus promptly obeyed (Nep. Ages. 4.2–3): in hoc non minus eius pietas suspicienda est quam virtus bellica; qui cum victori praeesset exercitui maximamque haberet fiduciam regni Persarum potiundi, tanta modestia dicto audiens fuit iussis absentium magistratuum, ut si privatus in comitio esset Spartae. Cuius exemplum utinam imperatores nostri sequi voluissent! In this matter his loyalty (pietas) is no less admirable than his valour in war. For although he commanded a victorious army and was confident in his capacity to conquer the kingdom of Persia, he acted with restraint, obeying the dictates of distant magistrates just as if he were a private citizen in the Spartan assembly. If only our generals had followed his example!

Throughout this book, Nepos examines the relationship between military success and political order. On the one hand, he applies a central controversy of his own age to his analysis of earlier times – in a genre centred round the actions of individual figures. On the other, he deploys famous foreigners in underscoring the undeniable failure of Rome’s military leadership. Nepos also has something to say to Romans who do not command armies or manage public affairs. In his Atticus, he writes the life of an equestrian who, although wealthy and well-connected, was neither a statesman nor a general. Atticus accepts civic responsibilities suitable to his rank and refuses to do harm, even to Rome’s provincial subjects (who, for many Romans, exist only to be exploited). He cultivates deep, personal friendships without regard to political partisanship. In this biography, Atticus is the embodiment of prudence, and, as a consequence, he not

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only survives the civil wars but positively thrives. Atticus here offers proof that a virtuous life is possible even amid political turbulence – if one prefers quiet cooperation to contentiousness and strife. The moral must have been a reassuring one to men who, like Atticus and Nepos, belonged to the prosperous classes outside the senatorial order (see Sidebar V).

History: Sallust’s Two Monographs Cicero, as we have seen, deprecated the literary quality of Latin historiography. He had in mind something better, something more like himself. The genius who furnished Rome with its first truly brilliant work of history, however, was a stylist who, quite deliberately, was nothing like Cicero. In Sallust Roman readers confronted an author who deployed familiar features of historical writing in novel, even startling, ways. His works – two short monographs and an unfinished annalistic history – became, perhaps unexpectedly, instant and influential classics. C. Sallustius Crispus derived from the municipal aristocracy. Tribune of the plebs in 52, he joined others in delivering attacks on the murderer of P. Clodius Pulcher, an event which ignited perturbation and destruction in the city. Sallust also joined his fellow tribunes in carrying legislation in favour of Caesar’s political designs. During the harsh census of 50, however, Sallust was expelled from the senate on moral grounds: ancient invective adduces adultery (Inv. in Sall. 16–17). During the civil war he took Caesar’s side, distinguishing himself in the African campaign. Praetor in 46, he became in the following year the governor of Africa Nova, where he made himself very rich. Caesar’s influence spared him prosecution upon his return to Rome, after which he retired from politics, living in luxury in his grand residence, the Horti Sallustiani, the Gardens of Sallust. In retirement, Sallust turned to history. He began by composing monographs which investigated the social and political failures underlying key crises in recent history. His first work, Bellum Catilinae (War with Catiline, or, more often, Catiline), which appeared in the late forties, treats the conspiracy of Catiline. This was promptly followed by Bellum Iugurthinum (Jugurthine War), a rehearsal of Rome’s conflict with Jugurtha, king of Numidia (112–106). This war, marked by senatorial incompetence and corruption, was significant for launching the career of Marius. Sallust’s last work, which he did not complete, the Historiae (Histories), was an annalistic account of Roman history from 78, the death of Sulla. It certainly reached the year 67, the end of Pompey’s war against the pirates, but its intended termination is uncertain. This work survives only in

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fragments, some extensive: four speeches and two letters were excerpted and circulated independently. In none of these works does Sallust impress by the quality of his research. That he makes many mistakes is widely recognised, often on topics, like the geography of Africa, which he might be expected to know. But Sallust was not trying to memorialise understudied episodes or bring new facts to light. His purpose was to reveal, in familiar events from the recent past, an undetected moral, and therefore political, significance. Sallust’s pose as a historian is unrelentingly cynical and pessimistic. Central themes in all his works include the moral decline of Rome, its dissolute aristocracy, and the intolerable corruption of contemporary life. These motifs are sometimes subtly woven into Sallust’s narrative, but they are also frequently thrown up in stark, scathing language. Sallust bemoans the vices he encountered during his political career: ‘shamelessness, corruption, greed prevailed’ (Sall. Cat. 3). He denounces the Rome of the Triumvirs (Sall. Iug. 3.2–3, 4.9): All public offices appear utterly undesirable, since magistracies are not acquired by virtue and men who gain them fraudulently are not brought to justice. To rule one’s country and subject it to violence – although one is able to correct abuses and although one actually does correct abuses – is something grim nonetheless, especially since every change can mean slaughter, exile, other horrors. . . . [It is madness] to sacrifice one’s dignity and freedom to the domination of an oligarchy. . . . But I have gone too far in expressing my loathing and disgust for the moral condition of my city.

This is bold stuff. The Triumvirs were ready to liquidate their political opponents, and not even affiliation with Caesar offered protection. Whatever else he was, Sallust was no coward. The central figure of Catiline is the conspirator, a patrician of ample abilities but perverted character. His depiction is nuanced – a cardboard villain could hardly prove a real threat – and, at the end of the work, when he is in open rebellion, Catiline exhibits courage, falling bravely at the edge of battle. This disturbing combination of virtue with vice recurs, as with the noble woman, Sempronia, who excels in intelligence and sophistication, but is undone by her profligacy. She, like Catiline, is dangerous because she is superior. Cicero is treated respectfully – he is ‘an outstanding man’ (Sall. Cat. 6: egregius homo) – but he remains mostly peripheral to the story. Sallust knew that his readers were well-informed on the topic of Cicero’s consulship and offering a different take may have been part of his motivation. Instead, he lavishes attention on Cato the Younger and Caesar,

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who, in a senatorial debate over the fate of the arrested conspirators, spoke on opposite sides. Sallust furnishes each with a long speech. After Cato wins the argument, Sallust again surveys the decline of Rome, complaining how few of its leaders nowadays exhibit true excellence. Cato and Caesar, however, although very different men – and Sallust’s readers knew they were bitter enemies – were each outstanding exemplars of nobility. This was a strikingly different attitude toward these two figures than the one Romans were accustomed to: Cicero, Brutus, and others composed eulogistic accounts of Cato’s life, while Caesar penned an acid Anticato. Sallust, however, proceeds to line the two men up against one another, by way of a rhetorical technique called comparatio (comparison), and, unexpectedly from a past Caesarian officer, Cato appears to have the edge. The comparatio concludes that Cato ‘preferred to be rather than seem a good man; consequently, the less he sought glory, the more it pursued him’ (Sall. Cat. 44.6). The protagonist of the Catiline dies at the end of the work. Breathing his last, he displays the same ferocious spirit that animated him in life. His followers, too, fought to the end. The victorious army, as it surveyed the fallen, recognised friends and kinsmen. Sallust ends his history by underlining how joy in their triumph was tempered by grief and sorrow at its cost. The Jugurthine War is a longer and more ambitious work. It is set in Rome and in North Africa, a region known to Sallust from his tenure as governor of Africa Nova. This conflict attracted Sallust’s interest for various reasons, not least because it was (Sall. Iug. 5.1–2): the first time when the arrogance of the nobility was confronted; this struggle threw everything, human and divine, into chaos and reached such a state of passion that it ended in civil strife and the devastation of Italy.

For Sallust, the civil wars between Marius and Sulla, between Sulla and the senate, between Caesar and Pompey, between the Liberators and the Triumvirs, all start here. Jugurtha was an outsider to the Numidian royal family whose mixture of merit and wickedness sparked civil war within the kingdom and made him its master. When Rome sought to remedy Numidian affairs, Jugurtha stymied them by exploiting the venality of its governing class. After war broke out, Jugurtha continued to benefit from the incompetence and improbity of the senatorial order. Matters begin to come right for Rome only when the war is entrusted to the noble Q. Caecilius Metellus (cos. 109). He is a truly great man, prudent, principled, and brave (Sall. Iug. 43.1–5). Under his command, the Romans gain the upper hand.

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During this phase of the war, Sallust introduces Gaius Marius, Metellus’ leading officer. Marius is a talented new man who desires the consulship, for which office he enjoys every qualification except nobility. Sallust expatiates on the nobility’s obsession with preserving its predominance. No new man, Sallust complains, was ever distinguished or accomplished enough to be deemed worthy of the consulship. In the aristocracy’s view, the office was polluted when it was occupied by a new man. Metellus shares this perspective, and when Marius seeks his permission to return to Rome to stand for the consulship, he is humiliated by his commander (Sall. Iug. 63.7). But Marius wins the consulship of 107 by exploiting, not always scrupulously, popular discontent with the establishment. He supersedes Metellus in Numidia and his victory over Jugurtha impresses the public: at last, they find a leader unhampered by the foibles of the nobility. At just this moment, Sallust reports the dreadful outcome of the battle of Arausio, when northern tribes wiped out two consular armies: all Italy panicked in fear of invasion. In consequence of this disaster, Marius is elected consul for 104 in his absence and earlier than he was legally permitted. Sallust reports this without commentary. He knows his readers know that Marius will be elected to multiple consulships (Marius was reelected consul in 103, 102, 101, and 100), all by way of constitutional anomaly. He concludes the work by reporting, concisely, that Marius returned to Rome, took up his second consulship, and celebrated a magnificent triumph. ‘At that moment’, he continues, ‘the hope and fortune of the state were reposed in that man’ (Sall. Iug. 104.4). So ends the Jugurthine War, but Sallust’s readers cannot fail to perceive the irony in this closing line: the historian has reminded them earlier that civil strife and the devastation of Italy must follow, and before that, in his preface, he denounced the moral condition of contemporary life, in which the new men, like everybody else, have abandoned virtue for dishonesty (Sall. Iug. 4.7). The struggle between Marius and the nobility will give way to the bloodier conflict between Marius and Sulla, itself a prologue for the civil wars of the next generation (see Sidebar IX). For Sallust, the dire world of the Triumvirate has its origins in the failure of the nobility.

Sallust: Histories Far less can be said regarding the Histories, Sallust’s magnum opus. By resorting to annalistic history, Sallust was able to infuse a conservative, traditional format with his distinctive, highly innovative prose style (see below). It is clear to us that Sulla and Pompey came in for criticism. So,

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too, we can be sure, did their rivals. By contrast, the rebel Q. Sertorius (pr. 85 or 84), a former officer of Marius who fled Sulla and fought for freedom in Spain, receives a favourable treatment. The speeches and letters excerpted from this work evince cynicism on a par with the earlier monographs. Although the scale of coverage was very much expanded in his Histories, Sallust’s fundamental attitude toward the late republic appears unaltered. A distinctive feature of all Sallust’s works is their prologues, which strike many as disproportionately long. They include predictable references to the author’s purpose and authority in writing, but mostly they expatiate on Rome’s moral decline. Sallust delivers these observations by way of untechnical, quite readable, philosophical commentary on the nature of humankind or the evolution of societies. These discussions exhibit a distinguished intellectual pedigree, rehearsing ideas that can be traced to classical Athens. But their exposition lacks rigour and, sometimes, coherence. Still, they suffuse the opening of each work with an atmosphere of learning and deep reflection that shows their author as an authority on human nature. Quintilian disliked them (Quint. 3.8.9). Modern scholars continue to explore their larger importance for understanding Sallust’s historiographical judgements. Easier to grasp are the passages within the prologues in which Sallust justifies the writing of history. The practice, he avers, is a traditional, salutary employment of one’s talents and energies. Composing history, Sallust insists, is a service to the republic – perhaps, amid such baleful times, a higher calling than holding high office. The most remarkable aspect of Sallust’s works, and the hardest to convey, is their style. It is not entirely inaccurate to describe it as antiCiceronian. It is certainly the style of a literary maverick. Already in antiquity there was comment on Sallust’s selective but determined use of archaisms, his conspicuous brevity, and his abrupt transitions. Periodic sentences are eschewed. So, too, are the prose rhythms preferred by Cicero. Sallust’s eclecticism evokes but does not reproduce the historiographical writing of his predecessors. His brevity and unharmoniousness (inconcinnitas in Latin) suggest, but do not imitate, Thucydides’ Greek. Individual facets of Sallust’s style, to be sure, are familiar enough, but in their totality, they confront readers with something very new. Not everyone liked it, but most did: few Latin writers were cited or quoted so often as Sallust. Quintilian insists he is a better writer of history than Livy. But he deems him challenging, suitable only for more advanced students (Quint. 2.5.19). Difficult he may have been, but this did not impair his popularity. His achievement even captured the imagination of Rome’s greatest historian,

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Tacitus, whose debt to Sallust is an obvious one. Interest in Sallust did not wane: he attracted readers in the age of the Antonines and was a favourite even of Christian writers.

Asinius Pollio C. Asinius Pollio (76 bce–4 ce), a new man from a municipal family, attracted the admiration of Catullus (Cat. 12.6–9). That his popularity was anything but universal, however, soon became clear, and during the civil war he sided with Caesar, he says in a letter to Cicero, because in him he found a refuge from his powerful enemies (Cic. Fam. 10.31.2). After Caesar’s death, Pollio promised Cicero that he would defend the republic (Cic. Fam. 10.31.3), but promptly subverted it by siding with Antony, whom he served loyally as a commander and talented diplomat. Pollio befriended Vergil and was perhaps his earliest literary patron (Verg. Ecl. 3; Ecl. 4; Ecl. 8). He later became close to Horace (Hor. Sat. 1.10.42; Hor. Carm. 2.1). Under Antony’s auspices he celebrated a triumph over the inconsequential Parathini, a Balkan tribe, and with the profits from his eastern service he rebuilt Rome’s Atrium libertatis (‘hall of freedom’), in which he installed the city’s first public library. Thereafter he withdrew from public affairs. On the eve of Actium Octavian attempted to re-engage him. Pollio, however, insisted that he would remain in Rome as the victor’s prize (Vell. 2.86.3) and thereafter cultivated a reputation for political independence. But he was no neutral: he penned a vituperative attack on his former friend and benefactor, Against Antony’s Abuse (Contra Antonii maledicta), allegedly because Antony struck first – or perhaps by way of countering Antony’s propaganda against Octavian. Pollio was versatile in invective: he said bad things about Caesar’s Commentaries (Suet. Iul. 56.4: either dishonest, or poorly put together, or both), severely criticised Cicero, both as a human being and an orator (Sen. Suas. 6.24; Quint. 12.1.22; Gell. NA 17.1.1), faulted Sallust’s style (Suet. Gram. 10), and, by mocking Livy’s Patavinitas (Livy was born in Patavium, modern Padua), ridiculed the historian for his provincialism (or diction or pronunciation – even Livy remained uncertain of the exact target: Quint. 1.5.56; 8.1.3). Little wonder that his name became a byword for asperity (Sen. Contr. 4 praef 11). However acid, Pollio was a man of many gifts. His poetry was esteemed by discriminating contemporaries (Chapter 4), although rarely mentioned thereafter. His oratory was admired and studied during the empire (Sen. Ep. 100.7–9; Quint. 10.1.113). In retirement, Pollio organised public

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recitations of his speeches, a trendsetting innovation (Sen. Contr. 4 praef. 2). It was as a historian, however, that Pollio made his most enduring literary mark. We know far less about Pollio’s Historiae (Histories) than we would like. Few certain fragments survive, nor are we confident about its scope. Possibly, the work consisted of seventeen books. Possibly, Pollio wrote as a continuator of Sallust, whose Histories ended in 67. And historiographers have argued that Pollio lies behind much of treatment of the civil wars in the Greek biographer Plutarch (c. 50 ce–c. 120 ce) and especially the Greek historian Appian (fl. second century ce), including, in the view of some, Appian’s treatment of the background from the second century bc. Pollio’s influence on historians of the civil war between Pompey and Caesar is undeniable, and he is probably responsible for much of what Appian says about the early contest between Octavian and Antony. But it is hard to be sure. A longstanding technique for detecting the presence of Pollio in these authors relies on tracing back to him passages that exhibit goodwill toward Antony or refrain from explicit prejudice against any of the major players, the argument being that, because Pollio was an independent thinker (many modern scholars have bought into Pollio’s selffashioning), his Histories were free of political bias. Nowadays, however, confidence in this methodology is less secure. Plutarch and Appian, too, are increasingly recognised as capable of avoiding partisanship, which means even-handedness is by no means a sure marker of Pollio. Either way, Pollio was too central to these events for any conscientious historian to fail to read him, so he certainly influenced Plutarch and Appian. How and how much are not clear – it is one thing to observe influence and quite another to posit Pollio’s account as the basis for any specific episode. Horace’s ode to Pollio (Hor. Carm. 2.1; see Chapter 9) is a valuable, if complicated, resource. There Horace appears to report that Pollio commenced his history with the year 60 (Hor. Carm. 2.1.1: motum ex Metello consule civicum: ‘civil convulsion commencing when Metellus was consul’), the year in which Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus formed the so-called First Triumvirate, a political alliance that animated the politics of the fifties and was a crucial antecedent to the outbreak of civil war between Pompey and Caesar in 49 and, consequently, to the contest between the triumvirs – Antony, Octavian, and Lepidus – which marked the years 43–31. If so, Pollio’s insight has proved enduring: ancient historians and nearly all modern ones agree with him on this starting date. Presumably Pollio, like Sallust or Livy, introduced his work with a preamble. That is lost, but it may have registered some of the work’s principal concentrations.

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Horace suggests that Pollio’s themes included vice and the workings of fortune, unsurprisingly in any Roman historian, but also, and more perceptively, the consequences arising from grievous friendships arranged among powerful men (Hor. Carm. 2.1.3–4: gravesque / principum amicitias). Horace is not alone in observing that Pollio emphasised the importance of powerful individuals and their strong personalities in understanding the destructive events he recorded. The poet dilates on Pollio’s treatment of Caesar’s campaigns in Africa, in which Pollio was a participant (Carm. 2.1.25–28). Central to Horace’s characterisation of Pollio’s history is its grim, sanguinary quality: there was glory, yes, but glory amid oppression and (too much) Roman bloodshed (Hor. Carm. 2.1.21–23; 2.1.29–36). Everything here evokes pessimism, like the histories of Sallust or, later, Tacitus. Pollio certainly covered Caesar’s civil war and the triumvirs’ war against the Liberators (Pollio treated all parties, including Cato and Caesar’s assassins, as honourable men). We cannot recover his work’s termination point. Perhaps he concluded with his own consulship in 40, the year of the pact of Brundisium, which temporarily settled hostilities between Antony and Octavian and in which Pollio played a leading role (Vergil’s fourth Eclogue celebrates Pollio’s consulship as a watershed moment; see Chapter 9). Or perhaps it was the following year, the year of the pact of Misenum, in which Antony and Octavian came to terms with Sextus Pompey, ushering in an all-too-brief moment of concord before the resumption of civil war in the west: if so, he gave himself the opportunity of closing his narrative with an account of his triumph. Some historiographers, however, maintain that he took his history down to the final battle at Actium, in 31. That, too, is possible. Pollio’s history was anything but terse. It indulged in digressions and vivid scenes of high drama. Famous is his account of Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon, the moment when he left his province, invaded Italy, and commenced the hostilities of the civil war. In his Bellum Civile, Caesar omits the episode. But later sources, clearly relying on Pollio (his text is lost to us) dilate on Caesar’s hesitation and sorrowful grasp of the historical implications of his decision. In Plutarch (he cites Pollio as eyewitness) and Appian (whose account is similar, though not identical), Caesar pauses, contemplates with deep concern the great ills his advance must bring upon the world, and then, filled with passion, cries out ‘the die is cast’ (Plut. Caes. 32.4–8; Plut. Pomp. 60.4; App. B. Civ. 2.35). Horace, taking this up, describes Pollio’s Histories as ‘a work replete with the perilous fall of the dice’ (Hor. Carm. 2.1.6: periculosae plenum opus aleae). World history is transformed by the decision of a single man, in whom reason and emotion

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contend. An excellent proposal credits Pollio with an allusion to Thucydides at the very moment when the Peloponnesian war became unavoidable, when a Spartan emissary, to whom the Athenians refused even to listen, declared: ‘This day will be the beginning of great ills for the Greeks’ (Thuc. 2.12.4). In Thucydides, owing to fear and rivalry, the baleful clash between great states was inevitable. In Pollio, great men must fight amongst themselves, with dire implications for the whole world. But did this event actually take place, or does it represent the historian’s artistry, marking the moment as profoundly consequential? If we knew the answer to that question, we would possess a better grasp of Pollio’s Histories. According to the elder Seneca, no passage in Pollio’s Histories was more eloquently composed than his obituary of Cicero, and he quotes it in full (Sen. Suas. 6.24–25). The exits of leading figures furnished suitable moments for appraising them and permitted the historian opportunities for moralising. In the case of Cicero, his death was somehow paired with that of C. Verres, the man whose prosecution promoted Cicero to the foremost rank among Roman orators (see Chapter 3). Was this kind of arrangement a habit in Pollio? The imperial historian Tacitus, much influenced by Pollio, routinely pairs obituaries; perhaps it was. Both Verres and Cicero were proscribed by the triumvirs. The former, in exile, met his death bravely. Cicero, however, when meeting his end, at least in Pollio’s telling (other ancient sources tell it differently), lacked fortitude. The juxtaposition is patently unkind. So, too, is Pollio’s final verdict on the man. He concedes Cicero’s talent and industry (ingenium and industria, virtues which were the hallmark of a successful new man), includes a notice of his political talents and successes, and acknowledges that his literary works will enjoy eternal fame. But it is on Cicero’s inconsistencies that Pollio concentrates by contrasting the gleam of his superficial qualities with an interior character lacking substance. Fortune favoured Cicero with good looks and robust health, which never faded. But he lacked animus, spirit and courage, which is why he failed against his rivals and found a wretched death. But there is more to this obituary than insult. Although Pollio’s Latin tended toward a plain, unadorned style, here, paying homage by way of discourse, Pollio reprises Ciceronian themes, language, even prose rhythms. The passage is elevated through its employment of metaphor and poetic expressions. And, like Sallust or Livy, Pollio, too, signals regret over the end of the republic (which, early on, was equated with the death of Cicero). Here Pollio, criticising Cicero for his lack of political balance – he

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hated too much, and he failed to recognise the transitory quality of good fortune – renders a judgement on the failure of the republic’s entire governing class. At the same time, Pollio envies Cicero his moment in history: it was an age of peace (pax), and Cicero, Pollio underlines, was expert in the arts of peace. But that was before things fell apart. Cicero and the republic he stood for were not perfect. Each was eradicated by the triumvirate that followed Caesar’s dictatorship. Pollio’s obituary of Cicero, although it eschews nostalgia, clearly registers a profound sense of loss. Pollio’s Historiae was a major achievement. It is clear enough that it combined intelligent historical analysis with elaborate, finely wrought artistry. Its topic, always crucial for the history of Rome, never ceased to fascinate, and its author’s stature and proximity to events rendered the work a must-read for anyone writing about the civil wars or the triumviral period. Livy reacted to it (this is clear in his obituary of Cicero; see below). Velleius Paterculus was influenced by it. So, too, later imperial writers like the elder Seneca, Suetonius, and Tacitus. Lucan, it appears, made use of Pollio. Strabo read him with care, as did Plutarch and Appian. There is evidence that Pollio’s history was popular enough to be translated into Greek. Its importance is patent: not even Livy’s monumental history could occlude Pollio’s masterpiece.

Livy T. Livius – Livy – was born in Patavium, modern Padua, probably in 64 bce and died, probably, in 12 (or possibly 17) ce. Little is recorded of his life. An equestrian by birth, he eschewed a senatorial career, nor is he known to have played a part in Rome’s military affairs or political machinations. He spent time in Rome. How much we cannot say but it was enough to become involved in the fashionable circles of Roman declamation and, more significantly, to become a friend of Augustus and mentor to the future emperor Claudius, whom he encouraged to write history. Like the Elder Cato, Livy wrote a didactic epistle to his son, and he composed philosophical essays. History, however, was his principal preoccupation. And his success as a historian was unparalleled in Rome. In his lifetime he became internationally famous, and his history, Ab urbe condita libri (‘History of Rome from the foundation of the city’) largely eclipsed all previous narratives and exercised a powerful influence on subsequent Roman historiography. The history extends from the sack of Troy (see Sidebar XI) to the year 9 bce, a period it covers in 142 books, of which Books 1–10 and 21–45 are

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extant. Livy began writing in the thirties and continued for the rest of his life. His account of the monarchy, in Book 1, is shaped by the reigns of Rome’s kings. Thereafter, his history is annalistic, unrolling the Roman past year by year (with flexibility, however, when the narrative requires it). The architecture of the whole is based on units of five books, although again Livy refuses to be constrained by this. It appears that, even from the start, Livy intended his work to reach his own time (as most annalists did). The precise end, however, we do not know. Some scholars believe he planned to end his history in Book 120 with the highly symbolic death of Cicero in 43. If so, he changed his mind. In writing the history of Rome after Cicero’s death, and certainly for any account that went beyond Actium in 31, it was necessary to address the dynamics of Octavian’s career and, from 27, the arrival of the Age of Augustus. Was Augustus a factor in Livy’s continuation? And, if so, did Livy celebrate or critique the new regime? Almost certainly it was a bit of both. We are told that Livy treated Pompey the Great so favourably that Octavian dubbed him a Pompeian – but it ‘did not affect their friendship’ (Tac. Ann. 4.34.4). Perhaps, however, we err in seeking a designated terminus for Livy’s history. After all, history does not stop. Articulation into epochs can be misleading, and Livy obviously relished writing: in a preface to one of the now-lost books, the historian, we are informed, wrote that ‘he had acquired enough fame and so could now bring his task to a close were it not that his restless spirit found nourishment in this work’ (Plin. HN praef. 16). Much of Livy’s appeal resided in his style. Cicero, as we have seen, deprecated the efforts of earlier historians, but Livy won fame for his eloquence. So, too, did Sallust, but Sallust’s idiosyncratic style did not appeal to Livy (Sen. Contr. 9.1.14; 9.1.26). He admired Cicero (Quint. 10.1.39). But he was by no means Ciceronian in any slavish or derivative sense. Throughout his history, Livy exhibits variety and versatility: he employs a wide vocabulary and expresses himself by way of syntax sometimes simple, sometimes strikingly complex, structured in long sentences marked by carefully crafted subordination – what Quintilian later described as Livy’s ‘creamy richness’ (lactea ubertas: Quint. 10.1.32). This, perhaps, was what Cicero had in mind in his desired historian. Livy’s speeches were much admired in antiquity: Quintilian says they are eloquent beyond description (Quint. 10.1.101). Quintilian, indeed, held Livy’s style in high esteem: he describes it as pleasing, charming and admirably clear, both when narrating events and portraying private feelings (Quint. 10.1.101).

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Livy commences his work with a dense, challenging preface. Here the author’s posture is simultaneously modest and masterly: he is daunted by his task, certain of its importance, and, his already-mature style makes clear, demonstrably well-equipped for writing history. As we have seen, Livy begins by evoking Ennius, subtly reminding his readers how those who wish Rome to thrive must remain willing to learn. The preface closes with another reference to epic poetry and that genre’s reliance upon divine favour. The majesty of Roman history, then, is underlined throughout, but this grandeur is also contrasted with the city’s contemporary decay, ‘when we can endure neither our vices nor their cures’ (praef. 9). Like Sallust, Livy disapprobates the present: Rome suffers when discipline and custom relax and collapse, and when avarice and luxury predominate – all Sallustian themes reprised here in Sallustian language (praef. 9 and 11). Like Sallust, Livy turns to history, but unlike his predecessor he will not (yet) write contemporary history, although he concedes its attraction for readers (praef. 4: they are busy ‘hastening in the direction of new things’ – festinatibus ad haec nova – an uncomplimentary expression). Livy will begin at the beginning. It is an oft-told tale, he knows, told only by those who believe they can do it better. And Livy does believe he can do it better. Livy drew his material from existing literary sources, Greek and Roman alike, assessed and analysed according to his own preferences. Nothing indicates that he undertook independent research. Instead, he concentrated on literary artistry and the moral elevation viewed as central to the historian’s enterprise. Livy offers his reader his history because history pleases and because it is salutary. Attentive readers will learn ‘what kind of customs there were, through what kind of men and what kind of arts’ (praef. 9: qui mores fuerint, per quos viros quibusque artibus) Rome prospered at home and abroad. Again, Livy reworks Ennius: ‘the Roman state relies on its ancient customs and its men’ (Enn. Ann. 156 Sk: moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque). Livy is unapologetically patriotic, but never an uncritical champion of any individual Roman: it is, as in Cato, the Roman people, Roman civilisation, and its traditional values that he celebrates. We have seen this impulse at work in his rewriting of Claudius Quadrigarius’ account of Manlius Torquatus’ duel with a Gaul (see above). But getting history right is not easy and the reader must work at it too. Addressing his audience individually, Livy reminds them that reading history is not passive: out of this account of the past ‘you must select – for yourself and your republic (tibi tuaeque rei publicae) – what is to be imitated, what . . . rejected’ (praef. 10). For Livy, early Rome was no

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golden age. It was roiled by class struggle, political contentiousness, personal rivalries, even conspiracies – all occurring amid incessant warfare against Rome’s foreign enemies. And yet this republic did not disintegrate or succumb to autocracy: constitutional compromises and emergency institutions, like the office of dictator, preserved liberty and the social order. Livy’s history, then, when properly understood, is realistic and practical. Artistry combines with civic instruction from the start. Livy’s first pentad (five books) begins with the sack of Troy and the founding of Rome. But Rome’s monarchy, although it began well, degenerated into tyranny and was overthrown: out of this revolution came the republic. ‘The Roman people, now free’, is the first phrase of Book 2 and remains Livy’s central theme thereafter. But the Romans’ freedom was threatened by constitutional crises and war, especially the war against Veii, an opulent city defeated only after a ten-year siege, the account of which is replete with epic echoes. The victor at Veii and a leading proponent of compromise at home was Camillus. Owing to sharp practice, this hero was driven into exile. When Italy was then invaded by Gauls, who defeated the Romans and sacked their city, only Camillus, a patriot even in exile, could liberate his homeland, for which deed he was hailed a second founder of Rome. And yet even then Rome’s existence was in peril, for domestic reasons: there was pressure to abandon the ruined city and migrate to Veii – a potential replay of the Trojan experience in Book 1, but a move that would nullify Roman identity. In the end, the Romans’ pious observance of their religious traditions kept them from deserting the city. Through its artistic unity, this pentad transforms centuries of early Roman legend and history into a concise, five book counter-narrative of the turbulent events defining the lives of Livy’s contemporaries. Still, at the end of Book 5 a reader may wonder whether Camillus, great man that he is, has become a figure too big for a free republic, and at the beginning of Book 6, which receives its own preface, Livy asserts, ominously, that Rome had become too reliant on its first citizen. Soon, however, a new generation of leaders arises and the republic, though never at rest and never at peace, continues to thrive.

Livy’s Style and Themes in Contemporary History Let us turn to Livy the contemporary historian. His description of Cicero’s death in Book 120, quoted by the elder Seneca (Sen. Suas. 6.17), is brief but evocative, perhaps even melodramatic. Cicero, likened here to Brutus and

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Cassius as a man doomed by the triumvirate, endeavours to flee Italy by sea. Winds prevent his escape. He then resolves to meet his death bravely – and does so, without flinching. His body is mutilated, his head and hands fixed by Antony to the rostra. This is a sight the Roman people, tears in their eyes, cannot bear to gaze upon. Cicero’s last words are very few: ‘I shall die’, he said, ‘in the fatherland I have so often saved’ (moriar, inquit, in patria saepe servata). This is Livy’s confection, and it is inventive. More than once, including in his notorious Second Philippic, Cicero insisted, in just these terms, that he had preserved his country (e.g. Dom. 76: a me patriam servatam; Phil. 2.60: eam [i.e. patriam] a me servatam). The second part of this sentence, then, is authentic Cicero. As for its opening – I shall die, he said – that was a highly dramatic formulation employed for emotional effect by experts in declamation. Here Livy fuses Ciceronian oratory with declamatory theatrics to provoke the passions of a contemporary reader. That Cicero’s death scene contradicts Pollio’s obituary is obvious. So, too, Livy’s necrology (Sen. Suas. 6.22). His verdict on Cicero, although admiring, is anything but one-sided. Like Pollio, Livy praises Cicero’s talent (ingenium), his literary works, and his good fortune. Unlike Pollio, he catalogues Cicero’s misfortunes, public and private, including the death of his daughter. Amid these crises, Livy avers, Cicero’s conduct was unmanly. When faced with death, however, his bearing was impeccable. Then, remarkably, Livy points out that any fair-minded observer must recognise that Cicero suffered exactly the fate he intended for Antony, if his good luck had lasted. Nevertheless, on any calculation, Livy concludes, Cicero was a great man who merited his place in history (vir magnus ac memorabilis). Only a Cicero, Livy asserts, could possess eloquence sufficient for praising this man. Here Livy furnishes a detailed repudiation of Pollio’s verdict, the force of which is enhanced by its honesty. And its modesty: in his closing words, Livy makes clear Cicero’s literary superiority to everyone, including himself. Still, Livy was a star, with tremendous influence. The younger Pliny tells us that a man from Cadiz travelled to Rome just to lay eyes on the historian (Plin. Ep. 2.3.8). Having done so, he returned to Spain; nothing else in the capital piqued his interest. Later writers, like Florus, imitated his style and relied on his content. Livy also inspired independent talents like Tacitus, who opened his Annals with a sentence in dactylic hexameter, thereby paying homage to his distinguished antecedent. Poets, too, certainly Lucan and Silius Italicus, reacted to Livy. He was consulted by Greek writers such as Plutarch and Dio. And so it went in antiquity and late antiquity.

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The problem with Livy, of course, is his bulk: the poet Martial complains that a full set would not fit on his shelves (14.190). For this reason, summaries were made, presumably for teaching purposes (and attesting to Livy’s authority). Alas, the existence of these summaries has meant that much of Livy is now lost to us. Although his reputation ebbed during the Middle Ages, Livy was a darling of the Renaissance. Long before then, however, Livy’s history, owing to its massively popular reception, had rendered most republican historians irrelevant – a reality that did not change for long even after the taste of the Antonine Age took its retro turn. SIDEBARS

VIII

The Right Stuff: Manliness, High Culture, and War

Much of Latin literature concentrates on war. In addition to historical narratives of armies and their conflicts, images of combat and battle suffuse oratory and poetry, epic of course but also love poetry: ‘every lover is a soldier’, says the poet Ovid, ‘and Cupid has his own camp’ (Am. 1.9.1). Warfare and the imperialism that animated it were central to Roman identity, a grim reality reflected in the very texture of their literature. For all Romans, the fundamental stuff of excellence was virtus, a word which fundamentally means manliness. Although the word came to signal nearly every facet of excellence, in patriarchal Rome it never lost this basic sense. Virtus was enacted in many ways, but domination – including success in warfare – remained the essence of glory and was always vital to Roman ideas of greatness. Every social order in Rome admired martial valour. And so, the aristocracy, Rome’s leaders, were consequently obliged to exhibit it. A classic statement of the values and ambitions animating a Roman aristocrat was the panegyric delivered by the noble Q. Metellus (cos. 206) at the funeral of his father, L. Metellus (cos. 251). The senior Metellus, we learn, achieved ‘the ten greatest distinctions in pursuit of which men with sound judgement devote their lives’. He made it his aim to be ‘the best of warriors, the finest orator, the bravest general, the magistrate under whose auspices the greatest deeds are accomplished, a holder of the republic’s highest magistracy, to be supremely intelligent, to be recognised as the most distinguished senator, to obtain great wealth by honourable means, to leave behind many sons, and to be the most famous citizen in Rome’ (Plin. NH 7.139). High culture and eloquence, yes, but civic fame and courage in battle were also necessary attributes for a leader in Rome (and were listed early on).

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First, high culture. Children of the elite classes, boys and girls alike, became fluent in Greek as well as Latin and by the time they were teenagers were deeply familiar with the poetry of both languages. An education in prose works followed, at least for many. All of this was preparation for training in rhetoric – eloquence, again in both languages, was an essential tool in public life but also a quality which marked out a cultivated man (see Chapter 3). Some women, too, acquired skill in speaking, or at the very least studied the principles of rhetoric. More than a few aristocrats began to study philosophy in their teens. An advanced education was indispensable for aristocrats, and they worked very hard in acquiring it. And showing it off. While campaigning in Gaul, Caesar thought it important to compose, in addition to his account of the Gallic War, a treatise on linguistic theory. Amid this same conflict, Cicero’s brother, one of Caesar’s officers, strained himself in poetic composition. Neither was unique. On the eve of the battle of Philippi, even the reality of the next day’s existential combat could not keep Brutus from literary industry: he was composing a Latin epitome of Polybius’ Greek history. At the same time, boys were obliged to take part in military exercises which prepared them for service in the legions. Nor were the banal practicalities of civilian life ignored. A rudimentary knowledge of Roman law was essential, and young men spent time in the Forum attending distinguished jurists, pleaders, and politicians, activities which forged valuable personal connections but also exposed them to real-life applications of the abstractions cultivated in the classroom. The ambitious made an early start and, by the time he was twenty, a young man was expected to be a familiar figure in the Forum. And some aristocrats were prodigies: at the age of seventeen, L. Sempronius Atratinus (cos. 34) led the prosecution of M. Caelius Rufus: his opponents were three of Rome’s most capable orators, one of them Cicero (see Chapter 3). The young men of Rome often distinguished themselves in battle. The future consul of 187, M. Aemilius Lepidus, slew an enemy soldier and saved the life of a fellow citizen at the tender age of fifteen. Cicero’s son was a few years older than Lepidus when, serving as a cavalry officer during the civil war, he impressed Pompey with his bravery and horsemanship. Caesar, at about the age of twenty, was decorated for his valour when the Romans stormed the city of Mytilene. The Roman people expected bravery from their leaders and often rewarded it with high office. Spectacular victories by senior commanders could be honoured with the celebration of a triumph – a sacred parade, voted by the senate and people, in which a conquering general was cheered by the public and aligned with Jupiter Best and

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Greatest. These regular features of life in republican Rome recognised military prowess, of course, but they were also in part political. In this warlike society, the violence, ferocity, and savagery of war were viewed in a way which diverges sharply from our own. This is not to say the Romans were unaware or even insensitive to the cruelties of war. Because warfare was so pervasive and so immediate, Romans knew the horrors of war all too well, and in principle they preferred peace. This preference, however, did not stop them from invading fresh territories, sacking cities, massacring the defeated, or enslaving the conquered. Indeed, the Roman empire expanded quickly. By the middle of the third century Rome dominated the peoples of Italy; victories in the first two Punic Wars (264–241 and 218–201) made Rome master of much of the western Mediterranean; and in 167 Rome conquered Macedon, a turning-point which rendered Rome the sole Mediterranean superpower. Nor did Romans refrain from writing about conquest, routinely viewing warfare from a perspective in which Roman victory, however bloody, is often put forward as a thing good in itself. This is a mentality conspicuous in the historians, the orators, and in epic. Not even comedy can evade it. In this social and literary atmosphere, the protests of a poet like Propertius (see Chapter 7) become truly extraordinary (Prop. 2.8.13–14): unde mihi patriis natos praebere triumphis? nullus de nostro sanguine miles erit. From what source should I furnish sons for the triumphs of the fatherland? No soldier will ever be born of my blood.

IX

Things Fall Apart: Social War and Civil War in the Late Republic

As the Romans conquered the cities and peoples of Italy, they only rarely annexed or assimilated them. Instead, in a manner reminiscent of the Hellenistic world, the vanquished were made into allies – socii – of the republic. Each allied city surrendered its foreign policy to Rome and supplied the Roman army with military manpower. Otherwise, its domestic policy and local culture remained its own, with only occasional interference by Rome. For the allies, especially the prosperous classes in allied states, this arrangement brought advantages: an allied city’s security was guaranteed by Rome, so it spent less on defence, and its economy benefitted from Italy’s stability. Wealthy allies acquired close relationships with

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Rome’s political class and often exploited Rome’s clout in advancing their business interests internationally. Rome’s system of alliances was put to the test when Italy was invaded by Hannibal in 218. He incited the allies to rise up against the republic, but only a very few seized the opportunity: most socii remained loyal to Rome, often at a cost to themselves. This robust system was the Italy celebrated by the elder Cato in his Origines. By the first century bce, however, matters were different. The relationship between Rome and her allies became increasingly tense, owing largely to the republic’s increasingly heavyhanded domination. As a solution, it was proposed that Roman citizenship be extended to the allies. This idea, however, was unpopular in Rome. Its rejection led a coalition of allies to renounce their alliance and form a new and independent coalition, Italia. War with Rome, known as the Social War (91–87), followed immediately. The conflict was brutal and bloody, and Rome only gained the upper hand when it capitulated to the original demand for citizenship, offered to city-states which deserted Italia to (re-) join Rome. In the end, by way of this violent and truly radical transformation, nearly the whole of the peninsula was populated by Roman citizens. This change was anything but welcome in the capital. Politicians stirred up xenophobic anxieties, especially on the part of the lower orders, in order to rally them to their side. The baleful result was not merely disruption but civil war. Two principal figures in this conflict were Gaius Marius, a famous general whose victories over Gallic tribes won him multiple consulships and a reputation as Rome’s saviour, and L. Cornelius Sulla, Rome’s leading commander in the Social War. In 88, Sulla, for the first time in Roman history, led a Roman army into the city, where he executed or drove out his opponents before departing to the east to take charge of a war against Mithridates of Pontus. In his absence, Marius, who had fled to Africa, returned, marching into the capital at the head of his own forces: he seized a consulship, butchered his enemies, and collapsed in 86, succumbing to illness. Sulla returned to Italy in 83, again marched on Rome, and this time made himself dictator (this was an emergency office in Rome – distinguished, powerful, but intended only for a brief tenure). In order to eliminate anyone he deemed a danger to Rome, he introduced proscription lists: anyone whose name appeared on these publicly-posted lists was condemned to death; so, too, anyone who abetted his escape: a proscribed man could be killed by anyone and the killer was rewarded for doing so. All of Rome was terrorised by the proscriptions, and large numbers of senators and equestrians were cut down.

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Amid so much horror, however, Sulla restored the constitution and abdicated the dictatorship. In 79, he returned to private life (he died in the same year). Civil war and Sulla’s autocracy constituted the formative background of the men of Cicero’s generation, which managed to sustain a tenuous political stability in Rome until the fifties, when disruptions again flared up. In 49 there was a fresh outbreak of civil war, this time between Caesar and Pompey the Great. This conflict was international in its scope, fought in the eastern Mediterranean, in Spain, and in Africa. In the end, Caesar became, like Sulla before him, dictator. Unlike Sulla, he refused to resign and on the Ides of March (=15 March) in 44 was assassinated. Again, war followed. The triumvirs M. Antony, Octavian, and M. Lepidus, after taking power in Rome, contended with the tyrannicides, M. Brutus and G. Cassius Longinus. Antony’s victory over Brutus and Cassius at the battle of Philippi in 42 ushered in a period of uneasy peace we describe as the triumviral period. The triumvirs’ regime was marred by the reintroduction of proscriptions, the dispossession of Italian farmers, and recurrent warfare (see too Chapter 9). Octavian and Lepidus also waged a fierce war against Pompey’s son, S. Pompey, who held control of Sicily and deployed his navy to choke off provisions from reaching Rome. In the end, the triumvirate broke down. There was a final civil war: it was settled by Octavian’s victory over Antony and Cleopatra in the battle of Actium in 31 and his conquest of Egypt in 30. The horrors of civil war are easy to tabulate but difficult to grasp. Even in privileged Italy, cities were plundered, civilians were deprived of property, and the operations of justice were suspended. Scarcity and uncertainty prevailed. Terror was recurrent. Anxiety was intense and a constant feature of daily life for everyone in Rome. The brutality of the Social War was long remembered – even in the Augustan age there remained tensions between the cities of Italy and the capital – nor had the scars of Sulla’s regime truly healed before the eruption of civil war between Caesar and Pompey. From 49 until 30, nearly twenty years, conditions in Rome remained unsettled. It is owing to these circumstances that the autocracy of Augustus was so welcome to many in Rome. Something was undoubtedly lost when the republic was replaced by a new regime, but what was gained, especially by ordinary Romans who longed for stability and peace, was substantial. Both the precarity of the triumviral period and its autocratic solution under Augustus are reflected and refracted in the Latin literature of these periods – both by way of apprehension and relief which are comprehensible only when viewed in their historical situation.

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Further Reading For the fragmentary historians, texts, translations, and commentary are furnished by T. J. Cornell (ed.), The Fragments of the Roman Historians (Oxford 2013). The remains of epic history are supplied by S. Goldberg and G. Manuwald, Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume I: Ennius, Testimonia. Epic Fragments (Harvard, 2018) volume 294 and R. Maltby and N. W. Slater, Fragmentary Republican Latin, Volume VI: Livius Andronicus. Naevius. Caecilius (Cambridge MA 2022), volume 314. There are several good translations of Caesar available: we recommend K. A. Raaflaub (ed.), The Landmark Julius Caesar (New York 2017), which supplies readers with a broad range of aids. There is an adequate translation of Nepos in the Loeb series: J. C. Rolfe, Cornelius Nepos. On Great Generals. On Historians (Cambridge MA 1929) volume 467. The Loeb edition of Sallust is excellent: J. T. Ramsey and J. C. Rolfe, Sallust. The War with Catiline. The War with Jugurtha (Cambridge MA 2013). Compete translations of Livy are hard to find. The Loeb editions are in need of revision but remain satisfactory: vols. 38, 114, 133, 172, 191, 233, 295, 301, 313, 332, 355, 367, 396. Ancient views on ancient historiography are accessible in very good translations by J. Marincola, On Writing History from Herodotus to Herodian (New York 2017). Modern criticism on the matter is extensive. Good places to start include: B. Mineo (ed.), A Companion to Livy (Chichester 2014); A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge 2009); A. Feldherr, After the Past: Sallust on History and Writing History (Hoboken 2021); L. Grillo and C. B. Krebs (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Writings of Julius Caesar (Cambridge 2018); C. S. Kraus and A.J. Woodman, Latin Historians (Cambridge 1997); G. Marasco (ed.), Political Autobiographies and Memoirs in Antiquity: A Brill Companion (Leiden 2011); L. Pitcher, Writing Ancient History: An Introduction to Classical Historiography (London 2009); R. Stem, The Political Biographies of Cornelius Nepos (Ann Arbor 2012). Research on ancient historiography goes beyond English scholarship. Important contributions include: E. Burck Die Erzählungskunst des T. Livius (Berlin 1934); W. Steidle, Sallusts historische Monographien (Wiesbaden 1958); M. Rambaud, L’Art de la deformation historique dans le Commentaires de César, 2nd ed. (Paris 1966); K. Büchner, Sallust (Heidelberg 1960); A. La Penna, Sallustio e la rivoluzione romana, 3rd ed. (Rome 1973); A. Klotz, Livius und seine Vorgänger (Amsterdam 1964); E. Burck, Das Geschichtswerk des Titus Livius (Heidelberg 1992).

chapter 7

Moments of Glad Grace: Augustan Love Poetry

We enter again the world of personal poetry, specifically that written in the final years of the last century bce, most of it during the period of the reign of Augustus. Chapter 4 focused attention, among other things, on the poet Catullus and his narrative voice which – at least on the surface – appeared to be deeply personal. There we noted some complicating factors in this portrait, such as whether and how much we ought to believe in the sincerity of that narrative persona, particularly when it offers internally contradictory viewpoints. These factors play an even more significant role in the poetry under discussion here. In fact, one of the major questions about this poetry – because it focuses on individual romantic relationships and is written in the first person – is whether we can trust its narrators or not, whether and to what extent their love stories are autobiographical. As usual in Latin poetry, function follows form: we will be concerned in this chapter primarily with poetry written in elegiac couplets (similar to but distinct from dactylic hexameter; see Sidebar III); there is also love poetry – like Catullus’ – written in lyric metres, a group of Greek verse forms with a distinguished pedigree. Elegiacs are also Greek but in Latin they develop their own style such that ‘Latin elegiac poetry’ can more or less be treated as a genre in its own right.

The Major Players Catullus, writing in the generation prior to the Augustan period, wrote in many different lyric metres including elegiac couplets. This chapter focuses also on the love poetry of the lyric poet Horace (see Chapters 5 and 9 for discussion of his other poetry), and especially on the poems of the three primary Augustan poets who wrote elegiac poetry, Propertius, Tibullus, and Ovid (see also Chapters 5 and 8 for more on Ovid). The Table provides their dates and also the name of their primary love-object(s). Each of these poets wrote poetry about topics other than love but we concentrate in 244

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particular on their love poetry and we emphasise common features of their poetry rather than what distinguishes them. Poet: metre

Dates

Output

Puella

Catullus: lyric and elegy Gallus: elegy Horace: lyric, hexameter Tibullus: elegy Propertius: elegy Ovid: elegy, hexameter

84−54

116 poems, perhaps divided Four books of (?)Amores Vast, including Odes (see Chapter 9) Two books, possibly a third Four books, possibly once five Amores, Heroides, Fasti, Tristia, Epistulae Ex Ponto (see further Chapters 5, 8, and 9)

Lesbia, Juventius, others Lycoris Too numerous to list

70−26 65−8 ?55−19 ?50−15 43 bce−17 ce

Delia, Marathus, Nemesis Cynthia; others esp. in Book 4 Corinna, others, his wife

In general we know of these authors primarily from their poetry which, as is perhaps obvious, is not necessarily the most objective source. They are all, so far as we can tell, of the equestrian class (see Sidebar V). This means that the ‘patrons’ they mention (Maecenas in the case of Propertius, on whom see Chapter 9, and Messalla in the case of Tibullus and Ovid) are likely to provide access to audiences and encouragement rather than money (see Sidebar II). Given the military origins of the equestrian class, however (they would traditionally have provided the cavalry for Rome’s wars), their status is interesting in a different way. We have seen that the Roman image of masculinity focuses almost entirely on military accomplishments (Sidebar VIII), and secondarily, on success in political life. The elegists, at least as far as their poetry allows us to judge, have no interest in either. Regularly they characterise themselves as mollis, ‘soft’, even ‘effeminate’ instead of durus, hard. Tib. 1.10 is a make-love-not-war poem, expressing a wish to die at home of old age. Indeed, even to write about Rome’s military might is more than the elegists can manage; each elegiac poet writes at least one recusatio (a graceful poetic refusal, usually of epic poetry, on the grounds of not being skilled enough; see also Chapter 8), in which he says he is incapable of chronicling the glories of Rome’s conquests. A cynical reader might suspect that they are simply uninterested. So too, the elegists often present themselves as in an inferior position to the woman they love, subservient to her whims in a way that most Romans would find disgraceful. There is also a homosocial bond between the poets and their

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readers, usually presumed to be male. The very act of discussing one’s romantic relationships can easily tend toward locker-room talk, and several poems suggest that these bonds between men are more important than those between them and women.

Greek Lyric Latin lyric poetry, of whom Catullus and Horace are the main Latin examples (see Chapters 4 and 9), is poetry written in many different metres, originally to be sung to the accompaniment of the lyre (something like a harp), whence the name. There were many famous Greek lyric poets, writing from the seventh to the fifth centuries, and they composed poetry on a variety of topics, including love and love-affairs. Lyric poetry usually locates itself in a specific context, or marks a specific event or occasion, sometimes of public significance and sometimes of private. Many Greek lyric poets wrote love poetry, and the two most famous are probably Anacreon of Teos and Sappho of Lesbos. They differ in many ways, including that he was a man and she a woman. But both present themselves as regularly falling in love with and pursuing one person after another, often unsuccessfully. Sappho, indeed, in one of her most famous fragmentary poems (fr. 1), beseeches Aphrodite, goddess of love and desire, to come to her aid ‘again’ and to help persuade the object of her desire, as she has done many times before. The poem is often read as humorous, since it suggests an image of Aphrodite as spending most of her time hustling on behalf of the mortal Sappho. Anacreon’s poetry often has a similarly light touch, although this is sometimes undermined by suggestions of mastery and domination. The repetitiveness of love and the potential for humour and violence in Greek lyric both make their way into Latin elegiac poetry.

Greek Elegy Before there were Latin elegiac poems, there were – as usual – Greek ones. In the archaic and Classical periods, Greek elegy was a medium for history, mythological narrative, philosophy, moralism, and celebrations of heroic valour. The range of suitable topics for elegy was so broad that Mimnermus could sing of his love for the courtesan Nanno or regret how swiftly the beauty of youth fades, while Solon put the same metre to work in haranguing his Athenian countrymen and unpacking his political principles.

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Such diversity in subject matter was bundled together by way of metre: the elegiac couplet, which consists of one line in dactylic hexameter followed by a line in dactylic pentameter (see Sidebar III). The relationship of this metre to the dactylic hexameter of epic is obvious, a kinship which Simonides exploited in recounting the battle of Plataea, as did martial elegists like Callinus or Tyrtaeus when they wrote elegies glorifying victory and death in combat. Mimnermus, in his reflections on the unhappiness of old age, took a line from Homer as his starting point. And Archilochus, in the notorious poem in which he shamelessly threw away his shield in battle, relied on elegy’s capacity to echo epic verse to underscore the subversive nature of his unheroic posture. Of the several effects this change of feet and metre have, the two most important are a difference in the length of sense-unit and a recognition that elegiac poetry is awfully close to epic but isn’t quite there. Elegiac poetry tends to contain pauses every two lines rather than, as is more usual for epic, over a larger number of lines and/or in the middle of lines. Both of these mean that elegy is conscious of its status as a smaller and less ambitious genre than epic poetry; indeed, elegiac poets sometimes explicitly ‘worry’ about the inferiority of their chosen metre. There are many subtle allusions to this issue, but Ovid’s Amores begin with a very unsubtle one (Ov. Am. 1.1.1–4): Arma gravi numero violentaque bella parabam edere, materia conveniente modis. par erat inferior versus – risisse Cupido dicitur atque unum surripuisse pedem. I was getting ready to put forth arma, and violent wars, in a heavy strain, since the material should suit the metre. The second verse was equal to the first – but Cupid is said to have laughed, and to have nabbed one foot.

The second line of the poetic collection, which is the place where the differences between hexameter and elegiac couplets become apparent, is where Ovid reminds us that you can’t write epic in an elegiac metre. And – in a conceit typical of elegists, especially Ovid, the stealing of a foot (making eleven over two lines instead of epic’s twelve) makes his poetry offbalance, not stable enough for the weighty subject matter of traditional material of epic (kings and battles). At the same time, the elegists embrace the smallness and un-epic nature of their chosen form, inspired by the poetics of narrowness and delicacy espoused by the Hellenistic Greek poet Callimachus (see Sidebar VI).

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The word elegy is, perhaps fancifully, usually derived from the Greek phrase e legein, ‘to say woe’, which probably explains how it came to be associated with funerary epitaphs. Either later Greek (i.e. Hellenistic) or Roman poets – there is heated debate about this, since we do not have enough Hellenistic fragments to judge – seem to have narrowed down the relatively large Greek subject matter into (unhappy) love and death, the latter less prominent but often connected to the former. However this happened, it is clear that by the end of the millennium, it was natural to the Romans to understand elegy, narrowly, as the metre suitable to love poetry.

Elegy and Epigram in Greece and Rome A distinction must be drawn between elegy and epigram, two species of poetry that overlap in important ways. The origins of elegy reside in the performance of Greek song. Greek epigram, by contrast, originally indicated a brief poem inscribed on stone or etched into metal or somehow written down on any physical object (epigrammata in Greek means inscription, ‘written-on’). Epigrams were employed in a broad range of contexts and for varying purposes, including religious dedications and tombstones. They were composed in several metres, but elegiac couplets came to predominate. Inscribed verses continued to be written throughout antiquity. But during the fourth century there was an important and influential innovation. Poets began to compose epigrams of a purely literary character, intended for public attention but not for carving into stone. These poems, though released from the practical restraints of an actual inscription, nevertheless remained short, rarely more than fourteen lines, and were typically concentrated on a single subject or idea. The epigram’s small scale remained essential to the genre, permitting, for instance, changes in register that were unmistakable owing to each poem’s brevity. Funerary themes persisted and often maintained the form’s traditional seriousness, as did epigrams celebrating athletic victory. But epitaphs were also composed for whimsical objects, like insects, and many epigrams are marked by playful, wry irony. Dialogues, often humorous, between objects dedicated to gods and those reading about them were also popular. The range of topics for epigrams expanded widely. Most pertinent for our purposes here, what was originally a brand of poetry concerned with the formulation and presentation of public, sometimes official, sentiments, turned, perhaps under the influence of symposiastic poetry, into a vehicle for expressing ostensibly private feelings about very personal matters,

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especially love. Indeed, amatory epigram became a highly popular form of Hellenistic poetry. Elegiac couplets were introduced to Rome by Ennius (see Chapter 1). Unfortunately, our scanty remains of early republican poetry provide very few samples until we come to the second half of the second century. By then, it is obvious, amatory epigram had made a deep impression on the Roman aristocracy. No less grand a figure than Q. Lutatius Catulus (cos. 102), was the author of more than one poem of this kind. In one of them he adapts an epigram by Callimachus (Anth. Pal. 12.73): aufugit mi animus: credo, ut solet, ad Theotimum devenit. sic est, perfugium illud habet. quid, si non interdixem, ne illunc fugitivum mitteret ad se intro, sed magis eiceret? ibimus quaesitum. verum, ne ipsi teneamur formido. quid ago? da, Venus, consilium. My soul has run away: I believe it has made its way to Theotimus, as it has done before. Yes, that is it. It takes him for its asylum. What if I had not made an injunction against his allowing this fugitive to enter there, requiring him to evict it instead? I shall go and investigate, but I fear that I, too, may be held fast and mastered. What am I to do? Venus, give me advice.

In Callimachus’ poem, half the speaker’s soul has gone in search of a handsome boy, an action the speaker himself has forbidden. This division of the speaker’s soul into its rational and appetitive parts reprises a fundamental principle of Platonic psychology (see, e.g. Pl. Phdr. 253– 254), thereby exhibiting Callimachus’ learned and playful wit. The missing half of Callimachus’ soul is depicted as a runaway slave, a natural figuration for carnal appetites. The same metaphor operates in Catulus’ epigram, but here the soul that has fled is a singularity. Not for the first time, Catulus’ soul has taken refuge with Theotimus, probably a Greek male slave. What can be left of Catulus after his soul has departed besides his body? And now this subset of the man is pondering whether it ought to risk getting too close to Theotimus, whose very touch might capture the Roman (or what is left of him). When the poet turns to Venus for guidance, the reader discerns his likely next step. By employing Roman legal language instead of alluding to Greek philosophy – interdicere was routinely used of injunctions issued by the praetor – the speaker fashions himself as very much an authoritative Roman, in this instance a slave-owner, a dominus, and this status underscores the enormous social gap between himself and the Greek

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boy who has captured his heart. Here we see Greek epigram in a solidly Roman shape. Erotic epigram is clearly love poetry, and already in Hellenistic erotic epigram one finds depictions of love – frequently anxious or frustrated – directed toward courtesans or virgins or boys, sometimes by way of adaptations of mythological episodes, sometimes through replaying scenes from New Comedy. Epigrams are sometimes expressed in the third person, but often in the first person. And, as we have seen, they are often composed in elegiac couplets. For this reason, epigrams can look very much like love elegies. And, when we turn to the epigrams of the poet Valerius Catullus, whose love affair with Lesbia we encountered in Chapter 4, it is obvious how poems of this kind could convey intense passion elaborated in highly personal, indeed biographical ways – employing elegiac couplets. We discussed in Chapter 4 how Catullus could employ epigram in conjunction with lyric as his means of fashioning, complicating, and interrogating his fascinating but disturbing love affair with Lesbia. Still, even if at times it appears an expert’s call, there are stylistic features, in Greek as well as Latin epigram, that distinguish this genre from elegy: length is only the most obvious difference. And it will become obvious how Catullus’ epigrams influenced Augustan love elegy in ways other than their metre, even if Catullus remained mostly outside the canon of Roman elegists.

Further Influences on Elegy The origins of Latin elegy, and the question of its originality, was for a long time a controversial matter. It was not that anyone ever doubted the fact that Latin elegy is deeply indebted to Greek elegy. But the evidence suggested that, in Greek elegiac poetry, archaic or Hellenistic, poets ordinarily expressed their erotic sentiments, whatever their intensity, in third-person narrations, whereas Latin elegists, by speaking from the heart in first-person pronouncements, foregrounded the personal, individual nature of their passions. Or, as this distinction was usually formulated, Greek elegy was objective, Latin elegy subjective. But recent papyrological discoveries have made it clear that there were Greek elegists who wrote in the subjective style. That style may not have predominated in Greek elegy as it plainly does in Latin elegy, nor perhaps did it match the markedly biographical stain that animates Roman elegy. Nonetheless, there is at the very least a significant degree of continuity between amatory elegy in Greece and Rome – notwithstanding the Romans’ many innovations.

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In addition to these Greek models, however, Roman elegiac poetry is also heavily influenced by Roman comedy for its enabling context (see Chapter 2): that genre too features hapless young men in love with unavailable women. In comedy, the women are usually poor but respectable, but they are often also prostitutes. This raises questions for many readers about the legal status of the women of elegy (see below). One particularly interesting feature of the connections between the two literatures is that elegy presents itself as autobiographical, whereas comedy is explicitly fictional. We have already discussed (Chapter 4) the fact that poetry using first-person ‘I’ statements need not be taken as literally true, and it is important to keep this in mind as we examine elegy, a genre even more likely to attract autobiographical readings.

Catullus and Horace as Love Poets We have already focused attention on Catullus’ unsatisfactory relationship with Lesbia, the main woman he writes love poetry about (Chapter 4); we also noted that she was not the only one. And that is a key feature of Latin lyric poetry about love: like its Greek predecessors, it tends to see love as transitory and variable. The four books of Horace’s lyrics (the Odes; see further Chapter 9), cover a plethora of subjects, just as Catullus’ poetry does. Among those subjects is, again, love. For both Greek lyric poets and Latin ones, love is one of many worthwhile topics, and for these authors, love-objects are mostly interchangeable: we discover not the narrative of an ongoing relationship, but a series of relationships, some brief and some lengthier. Some poets desire men, some women, some both; we find this in Catullus and Horace too. But lyric in general takes the attitude that love comes and goes: when you like someone who likes you back, so much the better. When you like someone who doesn’t like you back, you write a poem about it and drink yourself into oblivion, hoping that your next encounter will end more positively. This attitude is well-encapsulated by Horace’s Odes 1.5.1–13: quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa perfusus liquidis urget odoribus grato, Pyrrha, sub antro? cui flavam religas comam, simplex munditiis? heu quotiens fidem mutatosque deos flebit et aspera nigris aequora ventis emirabitur insolens,

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Moments of Glad Grace: Augustan Love Poetry qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea, qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem sperat, nescius aurae fallacis! miseri, quibus intemptata nites. Pyrrha, which delicate boy is pressing you amid the roses in a pleasant grotto, drenched with liquid perfume? For whom do you tie up your blonde hair, simple but elegant? Alas, how often that boy will weep at your trustworthiness and the changed gods, and, shocked, will marvel at the sea, harsh with black winds – he, who now, believing you golden, enjoys your company, who expects you always to be available, always willing to be loved, and ignorant of the treacherous wind. I pity those for whom you, stilluntried, shine.

Horace is making the point that when we are ‘in love’, we always think it will last forever, and also that we are usually wrong. (The end of the poem, not printed above, makes clear that Horace himself knows by experience what he is talking about: he too was once ‘shipwrecked’ by Pyrrha’s beauty.) This pose of distance is typical for Horace: he often talks about other people’s love-affairs and the complicated shapes they take, but even when he focuses on his own, he is always at least in part an observer of his own behaviour. So, for instance, Horace’s Odes 4.1, written later than the other three books, draws attention to his unsuitability for love now that he has reached the ripe old age of fifty; he suggests that Venus instead bother someone more suitable, his young friend Paulus Maximus.

Lucretius on Love We have already treated the didactic poet Lucretius (see Chapter 5). His poem on the nature of things touches upon love as well, and does so in a way that provides a useful counterpoint to elegy’s perspective. In Book 4, Lucretius discourses on sex and love. While the former Lucretius finds natural and uninteresting, the latter – sentimental attachments to particular persons – receives his scorn. His image of lovers as clawing at one another as if they are trying to rub their bodies into each other’s is a vivid and disturbing one (Lucr. 4.1110–1114). Interestingly, he portrays love as a disease that takes over the soul and is never cured, leading to ruin. His description of what lovers are like could have been lifted out of the story of Catullus and Lesbia or the poems of the love elegists, as we shall see: needless expenditure, jealousy, self-deception, deceit, and ultimately,

The Elegiac Perspective

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misery. For Lucretius, however, this is a state to be avoided rather than sought. Lucretius, as we have noted, is a contemporary of Catullus; neither poet mentions the other but if we can assume that they knew each other’s work, we might assume that Lucretius was reacting to the excesses of Catullus’ poetry, excesses which are only increased in the later works of the elegists.

The Elegiac Perspective We might sum up the lyric point of view about love by saying that it is, in general, in favour of love but does not take anything about it terribly seriously: there will, Horace seems to suggest, always be another opportunity, and even growing old need not mean an end to amatory pursuits. Elegy, by contrast, focuses its attention obsessively (but not exclusively) on one particular object of affection, and on the ups and downs of one particular relationship with a ‘girl’ (puella), as seen from the perspective of the poet. And – because Horace was a contemporary of at least some of the Augustan elegists, and knew them, these two points of view about love (one seeing it as all there is, the other as one poetic subject among many) are sometimes explicitly juxtaposed in his poetry. He writes Odes 1.33 to an Albius who is usually agreed to be the elegist Albius Tibullus. Albi, ne doleas plus nimio memor inmitis Glycerae neu miserabilis decantes elegos, cur tibi iunior laesa praeniteat fide. Insignem tenui fronte Lycorida Cyri torret amor, Cyrus in asperam declinat Pholoen: sed prius Apulis iungentur capreae lupis, quam turpi Pholoe peccet adultero. Sic uisum Veneri, cui placet imparis formas atque animos sub iuga aenea saeuo mittere cum ioco.

5

10

Albius, don’t be too sorry, remembering the cruel Glycera, and please don’t sing forth your wretched elegies, wondering why a younger man outshines you in her broken faith. Love of Cyrus burns Lycoris, distinguished for her delicate brow, and Cyrus inclines toward harsh Pholoe – but she-goats will sooner be joined with Apulian wolves than Pholoe will do the nasty with

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Moments of Glad Grace: Augustan Love Poetry such a grotesque adulterer. That’s how Venus likes it, she who takes joy in sending incompatible bodies and minds under the same bronze yoke, a cruel joke. Even I, when a superior love sought me, was detained by the pleasing freedwoman Myrtale, who was nonetheless more bitter than the Adriatic squalls hollowing out the bays of Calabria.

The poem offers comfort to Tibullus, who has just been dumped by Glycera for another man. It points out that this is how love works: it is often one-sided. In words it is not hard to see as humorous, Horace begs Tibullus to stop writing his depressing poetry. He softens the potential insult by drawing attention to his own mistakes and pain. And – in a move regular among Latin poets – he conflates Tibullus’ poetry with his life: bad love makes bad poetry. Horace’s implicit criticism of the singular focus of love elegy is, in part, answered by a pair of Propertius’ poems (another contemporary, whom Horace also knew). The first, Ode 1.7, addressed to Ponticus, says that it is well and good for Ponticus to write epic poetry, but that his choice is no choice at all: it only means that he has not yet fallen in love. If and when he does, he will have no choice but to write elegy. Propertius 1.9 is an I-toldyou-so: Ponticus, now in love, is urged to begin writing elegy, as it is the only way to please his mistress. There is, then, an implicit tension between these two kinds of love poetry, as well as the tendency we have seen in several poets to talk about their works metaphorically, such that writing elegy = being in an elegiac relationship. (Propertius returns to this theme in 2.34, where he rails against another poet-friend for making a move on Cynthia, then welcomes him to the genre.)

Love Elegy The kind of elegiac poetry we are focusing on here is the subset that is about love. It is first-person, (mostly) narrative poetry about a girl, the puella. One of the questions that often comes up, and which has implications for the poetry as a whole, is the status of the puella (vague as the poetry is, she seems to be similar across our authors): she seems sometimes to have a regular male companion (called vir, the Latin word for husband but also for man), such that her relationship with the poet is an illicit one (see below). Beyond this, though, elegiac love poetry involves a fundamental struggle between the two parties, and this struggle, it has been observed, is at its base an economic one: the poet wants to spend time/have sex with the puella and not pay for it, and she needs money. While it is focused on sex,

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however, elegiac poetry is rarely explicit. We know enough about each of the elegists’ biographies to know that they are men of property. This means that they are not as impoverished as they claim to be. (It could be that we are meant to envision them as too young to have control over their resources, like the young men who populate Roman comedy, but this does not fit in with the chronologies of their work and lives as they are generally understood.) They are not unable to pay to support their girlfriends, then, but unwilling. So this is not quite the same as other kinds of poetry, even other love poetry. Indeed, neither of the two parties seems to be particularly satisfied with the relationship, and it is not always clear, especially in Ovid’s version of elegy, whether we should even be thinking about them as ‘in love’ – they are rather deeply enmeshed in a relationship that tortures both (or at least him). The other key point about this relationship is that the poet, because his position conflicts with that of the puella, tends to depict her as greedy and cruel. Elegy is poetry designed to make him look good and her bad. As a result it is profoundly misogynistic. At the same time, we can sometimes see cracks in the façade created by the poet: his self-righteousness can be off-putting, and on occasion it is difficult not to sympathise with the puella. So, for instance, Propertius’ second poem assures his puella that she need not waste the resources of the world to obtain wigs and makeup for her toilet. On the surface, this is a lovely sentiment, as here (Prop. 1.2.5–6): crede mihi, non ulla tuaest medicina figurae: nudus Amor formam non amat artificem. Believe me, there is no need for a cure for your appearance: Love is naked and does not like fake beauty.

At the same time, however, once we read other Propertian poems, we wonder if it is not jealousy that motivates the poet, or other considerations: an unadorned puella attracts less male attention and also costs less to maintain.

The First Roman Elegist: Gallus Cornelius Gallus, who was also a political figure of some note, comes at the top of our list of elegiac poets (ca. ever doubted the fact that Latin elegy 70–26). He served as a military commander over the strategic province of Egypt; this means that he must have been close to Octavian-Augustus (see

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below). While in Egypt, Gallus subdued a revolt and had a statue erected of himself, which made Octavian angry enough to recall him. The situation was surely more complicated than our evidence allows us to discern, but we are told that Octavian ‘withdrew his friendship’ from Gallus, who then committed suicide. As a result, he is often alluded to by later authors as an early victim of the intrusion of politics into the literary sphere that marked certain periods of the Roman empire. Much more is mysterious about Gallus than the end of his life, though. He was probably the first one to have established the parameters of elegy, writing four books of elegiac poems, probably called Amores (‘Loves’, or perhaps ‘Love-stories’) about his mistress Lycoris who was probably the real person Cytheris, a mime-actress who shared her favours both with Marcus Brutus, the noblest Roman of them all, and with Mark Antony (see Chapter 3). Later poets refer to Gallus in a way that suggests his enormous influence. Indeed, Vergil’s tenth Eclogue is dedicated to him, and tells the story of his love and loss (see Chapter 9). But of his poetry itself there is practically nothing left to us: for a long time, only a single half-line existed, which is not much, even for scholars of classical literature accustomed to fragments. In 1978, a papyrus was found in the Egyptian desert containing a further eight lines soon identified as Gallus’. Four of them are about Julius Caesar and the certain success of his next campaign. Two of the other four are as follows: tandem fecerunt carmina Musae quae possim domina deicere digna mea. Finally the Muses have made poems which I could put forth as worthy of my mistress.

In this brief compass, Gallus covers a number of the key elements of the genre as others receive it from him, so they serve as an excellent introduction to the topic. First: elegy is focused around a woman, and it is about love. There are certainly elegiac poems that are not love poems, and we will treat some of them later in this chapter (see too Chapters 5 and 9 on Ovid’s further expansions of the elegiac metre). Later elegists use the word puella, girl, to describe their love-objects more often than Gallus’ domina (‘mistress’; see below), along with a few other terms. But the basic situation is here established. The mention of the Muses is another noteworthy feature of these two lines. As they allegedly do with other poets (see Chapter 1 and Sidebar VI), the Muses sometimes appear to the elegists to give them hints about subject

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matter: most often, they discourage the poets from writing epic and encourage a focus on elegy. But the elegists also claim with some regularity that they do not need divine inspiration, and/or that their puella fills the role of the Muses (see, e.g. Prop. 2.1.13–14, which speaks of Cynthia’s dress torn off, leading to longas . . . Iliadas, ‘the writing of long Iliads’; here again epic battles are cut down to human size to suit elegy’s smaller scope and metre). Another key term mentioned by Gallus is the word carmina, which means ‘poem’, but also ‘magical spell’ – and this expectation that poetry can have a supernatural power also recurs in later elegists. So too, Gallus seems to have referred to mythology, which is an important referent for his followers. But perhaps the most important feature of these lines is that they are written in the first person, and that they emphasise both the loving and the writing sides of the poet/lover. We cannot say much more about Gallus, aside from noticing a few stylistic elements: his sentence structure is complicated and uses both Greek words and constructions, and evennumbered line-ends contain words of more syllables than is usual for most Latin poetry. Each of these traits, we surmise, becomes something of a Gallan ‘flourish’ when used by a later author.

Other Features of Elegy: Love and War To many, elegiac poems seem repetitive: mostly things do not go well, for a set series of reasons. Occasionally they go a little better, and then the poet crows about his success. But (if we are to read them in the order they are presented, which is perhaps only natural), things change again, leaving the poet miserable. Some readers find elegy simply uninteresting, or sub-par, because of its small scope. But the repetitiveness must be part of the point: the poets are suggesting that the relationship is a stifling one. Indeed, in their own ways, each of our three major elegiac poets expresses frustration with the genre and makes attempts to move away from it (see below). One facet of the poetry’s repetitive nature is its recycling of key metaphors. Love is regularly compared to slavery, illness, war, or hunting: the poet is enslaved to his mistress, who mistreats him, or he is dying of love for her, or he is campaigning against her or setting snares to entrap her. These metaphors would be readily available to men of the elegists’ class: they are traditionally warriors, and hunting was an elite pastime in republican Rome. Because these metaphors appear so regularly, they are often implicit. But sometimes, particularly in Ovid, the similarities between love and other things are exhaustively catalogued. Take, for instance, Ovid’s Amores

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1.9, an extensive comparison of the lover and the soldier (the first twenty lines quoted here): militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido; Attice, crede mihi, militat omnis amans. quae bello est habilis, Veneri quoque convenit aetas. turpe senex miles, turpe senilis amor. quos petiere duces animos in milite forti, hos petit in socio bella puella viro. pervigilant ambo; terra requiescit uterque— ille fores dominae servat, at ille ducis. militis officium longa est via; mitte puellam, strenuus exempto fine sequetur amans. ibit in adversos montes duplicataque nimbo flumina, congestas exteret ille nives, nec freta pressurus tumidos causabitur Euros aptave verrendis sidera quaeret aquis. quis nisi vel miles vel amans et frigora noctis et denso mixtas perferet imbre nives? mittitur infestos alter speculator in hostes; in rivale oculos alter, ut hoste, tenet. ille graves urbes, hic durae limen amicae obsidet; hic portas frangit, at ille fores. Every lover is a soldier, and Cupid has his own camps. Believe me, Atticus: every lover is a soldier. The era suited for war is also appropriate to Venus. It is disgraceful to see an old soldier or an old lover. The spirits their leaders seek in a strong soldier are the same ones a pretty girl wants in her male companion. Both stay awake all night; each camps out on the ground – this one guarding the doors of his mistress, the other of his general. The duty of a soldier is a long journey: put the puella in front of him and the painstaking lover will also pursue without end. He will scale opposing mountains and rivers duplicated by a rainstorm, he will exhaust the piled-high snows, nor will he complain about dangerous east winds when he is about to test the sea, nor seek out favourable heavens before plying his oar. Who but a soldier or a lover would endure the cold of night and the snows mixed with thick rain? One is sent to spy out the hostile enemy; the other keeps his eye on his rival, as on an enemy. This one besieges fierce towns, the other the doorstep of his harsh girlfriend; one breaks down doors, the other city gates.

Elegiac soldiers, however, are more than metaphor: they are potential rivals for the favors of the puella. And so the elegist often compares himself to this upstart: how could the puella stand to be with a killer, whose livelihood is steeped with blood? The elegist, so he says, is a lover not a fighter. At the same time, however, the elegist has regular recourse to violence himself,

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even if it is often only in his head. In addition to physical threats against their enemies (see below), elegiac poets sometimes threaten and sometimes actually harm the puella. Even when the violence is implicit, however, it is visible under the surface. And elegists seem to relish violence as providing evidence of passion (his and hers). So, for instance, Propertius 3.8 begins by rehearsing an evening of violence (or passion) and then continues (Prop. 3.8.9–10): nimirum veri dantur mihi signa caloris: nam sine amore gravi femina nulla dolet. To be sure, signs of true passion are given to me: for no woman is in pain without a serious love.

We might surmise that the physical results of such beatings (whichever direction they are administered) are valuable because they provide corporeal evidence of the relationship, which otherwise runs the risk of seeming to exist only in the poet’s head. As we have noted, elegiac poetry is predicated upon the existence of rivals, real or imagined (it is not always clear which). The poet is consistently anxious about other men, whom he thinks of as wealthier than he – though perhaps they are simply more willing to spend their money. At the same time, the poet also seems to take any opportunity he can to enjoy the company of other women (see below on Propertius’ fourth book). The elegist occasionally refers to a lena, a woman who acts as madam, making (usually) younger and more attractive women than herself available for sex in return for money. This character, as we might expect, provokes the anger of the poet, which often expresses itself in the form of violent curses (Tib. 1.5.47–56): quod adest nunc dives amator, venit in exitium callida lena meum. sanguineas edat illa dapes atque ore cruento tristia cum multo pocula felle bibat; hanc volitent animae circum sua fata querentes semper, et e tectis strix violenta canat; ipsa fame stimulante furens herbasque sepulcris quaerat et a saevis ossa relicta lupis; currat et inguinibus nudis ululetque per urbem, post agat e triviis aspera turba canum. The tricksy madam has brought about my doom: now a rich lover is here. May that witch eat bloody feasts from her dripping mouth, and may she drink cups bitter with gobs of poison; may ghosts lamenting their deaths fly

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Tibullus’ rage is all the more colourful, perhaps, for being without an outlet in the real world. Like other elegists, he is constantly tortured by the infidelities of the puella, who is aided by rivals and by the lena, who actively works against him (presumably, as we have noted, because he seeks to pay for sex with poetry instead of cash).

Other Metaphors for Elegiac Love The notion of love as a form of war is an old one (indeed, it goes back to Sappho); one particularly elegiac take on it is when the elegists present themselves as slaves, activating the metaphor inherent in the word domina (mistress, in the usual English meaning but also in the technical sense of a woman who exerts her authority over slaves). And indeed, they figuratively imagine themselves performing servile tasks and even being beaten. Tibullus 2.4 provides one such surrender. It begins: hic mihi servitium video dominamque paratam: iam mihi, libertas illa paterna, vale. Here I see slavery and a mistress ready for me; now, farewell freedom of my ancestors.

And it continues with the invocation of chains and the threat of torture. The elegists, as upper-class Romans, would have been very familiar with the realities of slave-owning (see Sidebar IV). Yet such self-demeaning language is striking. The metaphor of slavery may have a particular point in this erotic context, in that some slaves at least will have had the closest possible access to an owner’s person: puzzlingly, the slave-fantasy may be the elegist’s way of expressing a desire for intimacy otherwise hard to get at (see too Chapter 4 on Catullus’ struggles in this area). In addition to these metaphors, love elegy often presents itself as a kind of magical spell (the word carmen, used of verse, is also the word for incantations): the poet can – or more often, cannot – use his words to make the puella do as he wishes. So too, elegists and their puellae sometimes resort to actual magic in the hope of bringing about their desired outcomes.

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Features of Elegy Another key element of love elegy is its regular employment of mythic tales. Right in the middle of detailing his agonising feelings, the poet often interrupts himself to compare them to those of some semi-literary character, often in an allusive manner, or by referring to some little-known variant of a better-known story; he also often compares the puella to one or another famous heroine. This is usually to observe that the puella is more beautiful or more brave or more something than her counterpart, but Prop 2.9 makes for a nice contrast when it compares Cynthia’s faithlessness to the faithfulness of Penelope and other Greek heroines. To those not intimately familiar with Greco-Roman mythology, these insertions are distracting. But even to those who are familiar, they give pause: just as we think we are hearing genuine emotion, the poet pulls back, breaking the frame to remind us that his poem is just as literary as the stories to which he refers. We have noted above the economic tension that elegy lays bare. Given the plot of elegy, there is also a more basic tension: the poet writes only in order to win the favours of the puella, which are constantly in doubt. So if their relationship were to become stable, he would no longer be unsatisfied, and there would no longer be any need to write poetry. And writing, of course, is what poets do: their fame depends upon it. So the poet does not necessarily want the thing he asks for – and this is clear in any number of passages in which the elegists assure us that they would rather die than not love (differtur, numquam tollitus ullus amor, ‘Love can be postponed but is never removed’, Prop. 2.3.8). The puella and the poet are, therefore, forever trapped in an unhappy cycle. Speaking of writing, there is a further aspect of this poetry that makes it unusual, and that is the regular equation of poetry and mistress. This is as obvious as the fact that the elegists’ poetry books are named after their puellae (so, for instance, ‘Cynthia’ is both person and text, since she is the first word in Propertius’ poetry, and ancient poetry books were often titled by first words), but also much more deeply rooted: some of the amatory struggles the poets depict may also usefully be understood as referring to their relationship to writing– and this is made even clearer when we remember that for Greek and Roman poets ‘the Muse’ was a much more vivid metaphor than it is for us: the puella is what inspires the poet to write (see above, Prop. 2.1.13–14, for the comparison). This metaphor, if that is what this is, is often strained to its utmost, in particular by Ovid.

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The poetry of elegy is also urban, focused very closely on the world of Rome: everything happens there, and departure causes anxiety. In part, this is because the poet does not trust the puella: once she is out of his sight, anything could happen, particularly if she is headed to Baiae (a resort town near modern-day Naples). Here, as often, Tibullus is an exception: his very first poem is an extended reverie about leaving Rome for the farming life. Yet he too recognises, before the end of the poem, that this is mere fantasy. In addition to an urban setting, elegy has a peculiar relationship to time, regularly urging the puella to make herself available, always, before she ages and loses her attractiveness. See, for example (Prop. 3.25.11–12): at te celatis aetas gravis urgeat annis, et veniat formae ruga sinistra tuae! May age press upon you with the burden of your lied-about years, and may a disfiguring wrinkle come upon your beauty.

The lyric casualness is nowhere present. On the other hand, the repetitiveness of the elegiac situations gives the poetry a kind of timeless quality: there is nothing before the puella, and – however much he is disappointed in her – it is difficult for the poet to imagine life after her.

Escape from Elegy And yet. We have noted that Tibullus from the start finds elegy a bit too constraining, both in its urban setting and in its number of love objects. Propertius too bends what we might call ‘the rules’ of elegy. Cynthia features throughout all four books of his poetry (which were probably actually five: the unusually long Book 2 seems to have originally been two books, combined at some later stage). Other women occasionally appear, and some poems do not name Cynthia, which makes it possible that they are about a different woman. But, although Propertius’ name is inextricably linked with hers his fourth book begins by suggesting an entirely different kind of poetry: elegy, yes, but an elegy that is historical in nature. Halfway through the poem, however, he is interrupted by the astrologer Horus, who urges him to stick to what he knows. And the fourth and final book is an interesting mix of things elevated and humble: its poems are significantly longer than those of the previous books, and they engage much more with subjects that are not especially amatory in nature. Not only this. The first four poems focus on, respectively, Propertius’ plans to write Roman historical poetry (interrupted), the story of

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a transvestite god with historical elements, a love-letter from a fictionalised Roman woman to her husband away at war and the tale of the semihistorical Tarpeia, who attempted to betray the Roman citadel to the Gauls. The seventh poem features Cynthia returned from the dead as a ghost; she describes her funeral, expresses jealousy of other women, and ends with the memorable promise, or threat, that Propertius will return to her in death. The poem is grotesque; more so is the fact that in 4.8 she is alive again, returning home unexpectedly to catch Propertius with not one but two other women. It is perhaps not too fanciful to see these poems as a statement about the difficulties of extricating oneself from the elegiac lifestyle. However much Propertius and the others announce that they might or could write other, more socially important kinds of poetry, or indeed, that they have already tried and failed in such attempts, it is a curious fact that the only poetry we have from them is in elegiac couplets. (Ovid, as so often, proves an exception; see Chapter 8). Let us take Tibullus as a further example of the difficulties of escaping from elegy. His work comprises two books of poetry, the first of ten poems and the second of six. (It is often believed that death interrupted him in the midst of this book.) Delia is Tibullus’ puella in Book 1. In Book 2, Delia has disappeared without a trace, to be replaced by (the even crueler!) Nemesis. The fact of two puellae is unusual (other elegiac poets stick to one), but the situation is even more peculiar than that. Of the poems of Book 1, Delia features in only five (1, 2, 3, 5, 6). What’s more, the ‘cycle’ of poetry about her is interrupted halfway through, with a poem about a boy, Marathus (1.4; the word puer is used for children, young men, and slaves) – and he returns to poems about Marathus in poems 8 and 9 of that book. So from the start Tibullus seems to find the formal aspects of elegiac poetry constraining enough to want to do different things with the genre.

Ovidian Experiments in Elegy: Amores and Heroides Elegy is in many ways a self-imposed cage, and we have seen that the elegists find it confining. Ovid’s Amores, as we have already noticed, make this clear from their beginning. Although clearly elegiac poems, they begin not with a mistress – the key enabling fiction of elegy – but with Ovid himself, sitting down to write an epic, and with the god Cupid changing the poem after it has begun. Ovid displays none of the anxieties of his predecessors: he does not ask for poetic inspiration. Indeed, he seems to resent divine interference, which disrupts his own plans. Further, while the elegists typically assure their audiences that their talent is too small to write

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grandiose poems, Ovid – in his very first poem (probably written in his late teens) – suggests that he has been working on a martial epic, the grandest of grand themes. That first poem is a kind of parody of the usual relationship between poet and god, and the tone Ovid sets in this poem resounds throughout his work. The reader gets the sense that he is enjoying himself much more than poets are supposed to do. Ovid’s elegiac love poetry incorporates all of the usual elements but does so in a surprising way. Corinna, for instance, the elegiac puella, does not make an appearance until the fifth poem of the book, after Ovid has already fallen in love (but does not yet know with whom) and declared himself a slave to love, captured and displayed like a war trophy. Corinna remains a shadowy character, and not only because her physical description is vague. Another unique feature of Ovid’s elegy is its uncharacteristic focus on the real-life and embodied elements of elegy: the ageing of the mistress had always played a role, but Ovid also treats Corinna’s hair falling out because she has over-dyed it, and touches upon her unintended pregnancy. Ovid’s Heroides too are a startling twist on elegy, not least because they are letters purporting to be written by famous women of mythology: Dido, Medea, Penelope, and a host of others finally have ‘their’ say. Among the most Ovidian elements of these poems are the original blend of fact and fiction: elegy had always trodden the line between reality and fantasy, putting a character with the same name as the poet into fictionalised situations, but here, we have much more background information from the mythic tradition. Propertius probably anticipated Ovid in the voicing of an elegiac letter by a woman, but the choice of mythic characters means that Ovid can draw upon rich veins of irony, wherein the women are ignorant of parts of their story that the reader knows, and misinterpret events based on their limited perspective. These poems are, in fact, not dissimilar to the prosopopoeia known to us from rhetorical practice (see Chapter 3), opportunities for the aspiring orator to imaginatively recreate arguments from important historical moments. The letters are sometimes heart-breaking, sometimes funny, sometimes both simultaneously. Although they were long faulted for being unoriginal and repetitive, Ovid in fact creates a clear personality for each woman. For instance, Homer’s long-suffering Penelope is transformed into an elegiac heroine, complaining that her bed is empty (Ov. Her. 1.7–10). And the tragic but grand Phaedra becomes a dirty old woman, trying to seduce her stepson (rather than, as in Euripides, fighting nobly against her baser instincts). Not all of the women are deflated, however: his Canace, seduced

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and left pregnant by her brother, is among the most touching characters in all of Ovid. Ovid seems to have returned to the Heroides during his exile (see Chapter 9); we have no dates, but technical aspects of his style suggest a later period. This time, instead of women who had been abandoned, Ovid focuses on the more optimistic beginnings of relationships. These ‘double Heroides’ are three pairs of twinned letters, each of them a coaxing letter from a male to a female along with her response. Here again, the reader with a context has a richer experience. For instance, the best-known of these paired letters is that exchanged between Paris and Helen (see Sidebar XI). But if we thought we would finally learn how he managed to win her away from her husband, we will be disappointed. Paris’ letter is seductive and persuasive, but Helen’s response makes clear that she finds him attractive and that he need not have bothered with a letter. Among the most Ovidian elements of the Heroides are their original blend of fact and fiction. The single and double Heroides make famous characters behave like people we know – petulant, lonely, amorous, and the like. As often in Ovid’s poetry, different readers have different understandings of why Ovid chose to focus so much attention on women, who had been objects rather than subjects in much male-authored poetry to date. This focus only continues in Ovid’s later poetry, including both the third book of the Ars amatoria (see Chapter 5) and the Metamorphoses (see Chapter 8).

Other Experiments in Elegy In addition to the ways Ovid rethought elegy, we have a series of poems attached to the manuscripts of Tibullus, but usually not believed to be written by him. These include a couple of anonymous poems and an epic poem in praise of the patron Messalla. They also contain a cycle of poems written by a man who calls himself Lygdamus, who takes elegy’s metaphors even further. And, most famously, they also contain a series of poems by or about a woman named Sulpicia. Some of these poems present themselves in the first person, others describe her in the third person. There is controversy over which, if any, of these poems were written by a woman. Either way, they up-end the genre, turning on their heads most of its enabling metaphors: Sulpicia simultaneously presents herself as a (quasimale) elegist, speaking her desire, and as the powerless object of another’s will.

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There is no reason these poems could not have been written by a woman, but the frankness with which they express themselves has led many to wonder what kind of woman. Her name, and hints in her poetry, suggest that she was the ward of Messalla, which would make her a member of the very highest class. And this suggests to at least some scholars that she ought not to be writing about her own feelings quite so openly. On the other hand, her poetry is anything but explicit. A single example stands for the whole ([Tib.] 3.13.1–2 and 7–10): Tandem venit amor, qualem texisse pudori quam nudasse alicui sit mihi fama magis ... Non ego signatis quicquam mandare tabellis, ne legat id nemo quam meus ante, velim, sed peccasse iuvat, vultus componere famae taedet: cum digno digna fuisse ferar. Finally love has come, and it is the kind of love which would render any rumour that I had covered it up more shameful to me than if I actually bared it before someone . . . I would not want to entrust my words to a sealed tablet so that nobody could read them before my own man. In fact, it brings pleasure to do wrong, and it is wearisome to put on a face in front of rumour. Let me, a worthy woman, be said to have been with a worthy man.

These brief lines accomplish an astonishing amount: Sulpicia proclaims her love and also manages to keep it hidden. She hints at the shocking nature of her disclosure, using vivid language (nudasse really does mean what it looks like it does), and then, in the tortured lines 7–8, she says that she leaves her private messages unsealed (so that we may all read about them). Finally, she glories in her wantonness, wishing she did not have to dissemble. The final line contains a colloquialism similar to the English ‘to be with’, referring to sexual intercourse. Much more could be said about this collection of poetry; let us summarise by noting that it is simultaneously similar to the elegies we have been examining and also very different from them. We see a similar move in the exile poetry of Ovid, some of which is not about love at all, and some of which addresses itself to his wife. This ‘marital elegy’ undermines elegy’s regular contention that real love is always illicit. There are a few precedents in Greek and perhaps also in Latin, but as a general rule, one did not write love poetry to a spouse. These experiments are matched by those within the canonical elegists, poems that do not focus on love. Tibullus 1.7, for instance, offers praise of

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Messalla, celebrating both his birthday and his recent triumph for the conquering of Aquitania (in southwest France) in 27, and Tib. 2.2 is about the celebration of Cornutus’ birthday (both of these owe something to the Greek epigrammatic tradition, though they are much longer than epigrams tend to be).

Augustus and the Elegists Elegy offers a particular take on the contemporary world, with a grudging acceptance of the new order: the poets, for the most part, express themselves as only marginally interested in the wider world. And that world was changing under them: the very late republic is marked by upheavals in nearly every aspect of life. And the new world order introduced by Octavian (later known as Augustus) after he ended Rome’s civil wars (see Sidebar IX), although moulded on republican precedents, felt distinctly different to many. The magistracies and operations of the old republican government persisted, and so did most social aspects of republican society. But the undeniable supervision of an autocrat obliged all Romans to rethink their place in the scheme of things. In at least one feature of everyday life, the Augustan age brought radical and unwelcome change. During the late republic, Romans were convinced that it was owing to a moral decline that they experienced civic strife and civil war. Blurring the public and the private, they often located this immorality in the home, and intellectuals bemoaned the failings of the Roman family. Augustus took it upon himself to fix this fault in Roman society by way of a wide-reaching legislative programme which focused on what we might call family values. For Augustus, this was a point of personal pride of which he boasts in the monumental epitaph he composes for himself, The Achievements of the Divine Augustus (Res gestae divi Augusti 8.5): legibus novis me auctore latis multa exempla maiorum exolescentia iam ex nostro saeculo reduxi Through new laws passed on my authority I restored many exemplary practices of our ancestors which were vanishing in our generation.

This moral legislation consisted of two laws (one of which was later revised). The Julian Law on Marriage of 18 bce regulated who could marry whom (a senator, for instance, could not marry a freedwoman or an actress) and obliged all men aged twenty-five to sixty and all women aged twenty to fifty to marry. There were penalties for failing to comply. In

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addition, childless couples suffered financial penalties, whereas men with children enjoyed preference in political contests and other appointments. Three children was ideal: parents of three were rewarded with privileges, including tax relief. This law was unpopular, but Augustus did not abandon it: instead, he agreed to modify some of its stiffer stipulations when his law was superseded in 9 ce by the Papio-Pappaean Law on Marriage. The Julian Law on Adultery was probably also carried in 18 bce. This law made adultery a crime which, in a sense, only a woman could commit. If discovered, her husband was obliged to divorce her or face prosecution for abetting his wife’s crime. He could also prosecute her. If he refused, another citizen could take his place. If convicted, an adulteress lost half her dowry, a third of her property, and she was relegated to an island. Her sexual partner, if convicted, lost half his property and was relegated to an island (not the same one). These laws were revolutionary in Rome. For the first time, the state regulated marriage and divorce and for the first time it imposed by law (rather than by way of custom and societal expectation) a moral code which demanded that everyone participate in a single form of family life. In principle, Romans believed in the family values animating these laws, and it is unsurprising that poets like Horace celebrated them. But most Romans (it seems) hated this unprecedented intrusion by the state into their private lives, and many resisted conforming to them. Even Horace remained unmarried and childless (Ovid, by contrast, was a family man). These laws and Augustus’ agenda are a crucial context for elegiac love poetry, which necessarily negotiated with and sometimes contested the values of the new age. The elegists, it is obvious, did not fit neatly into Augustus’ plan for rehabilitating Roman morality, and they must have been aware of the disjunction between his worldview and theirs. The women of elegy occupy a space somewhere in between Augustus’ two neat categories: they are certainly not married to the poets, but they do, at least on occasion, appear to have regular quasi-marital relationships with other men. Even if, as has long been thought, they fall into the category of ‘freedwomen’ (about whose personal lives there was, officially, no Augustan interest), the very blurring of the categories so carefully established is noteworthy. The elegists’ avoidance of specificity in these matters may be subversive; at the least, it recalls the traditional divide between the public and the personal which Augustus’ moral legislation ruptured. The Augustan legislation is not of only accidental interest: given the context, in which the status of women is being thought through, the authors of elegy must have understood that they would be seen through

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a political lens (even if ‘everybody’ ‘knows’ that their women are entirely fictional). They could have made the status of the elegiac woman clearer, and they didn’t. It is all to the good that scholars have mostly abandoned the question of whether the elegists are ‘pro’- or ‘anti’-Augustan, but one can certainly see why they asked it. And then there is the fact, already noted, that the women of elegy look quite a bit like the women of Roman comedy, who are themselves adapted Greek courtesans. Life does probably imitate art about as often as art imitates life, but these literary parallels make it harder to make the case that the elegists are working strictly from their own autobiographies. Nonetheless, in a way we can no longer unpick, Ovid’s falling foul of Augustus at least allegedly involved his poetry, the Art of Love (see Chapters 5 and 9).

The Women of Elegy: Fact or Fiction? And this sets us squarely into the middle of one of the most controversial questions about Roman elegy: what is the relationship between these poems and real life? For some, the emotions portrayed are so genuine, the scenes so realistic, that it is peculiar not to think of them as more or less reflecting lived experience. For others, the scenes are so artificial, the poetic stances so literary, that it is naïve to assume they have anything but the most tenuous relationship to real life. Careful readers will notice that we have already tried to have it both ways several times in the preceding discussion. The problem is a serious one: can we, as many historians would like to do, use elegies as evidence for certain practices or habits, or are they instead a hermetically sealed, wholly artificial set of rhetorical exercises? Presumably the answer is somewhere in between, as even the strongest advocates for one position or another usually recognise. To further complicate the question of how ‘real’ the mistresses of elegy are, a later author, Apuleius, tells us that the names used by the elegists are pseudonyms, and he gives us the women’s real names (Apul. Apol. 10): eadem igitur opera accusent C. Catullum, quod Lesbiam pro Clodia nominarit, et Ticidam similiter, quod quae Metella erat Perillam scripserit, et Propertium, qui Cynthiam dicat, Hostiam dissimulet, et Tibullum, quod ei sit Plania in animo, Delia in versu. [Those who accuse me of making up a name for my love-object] should also accuse Catullus on the same grounds, who used the name ‘Lesbia’ instead of ‘Clodia’, and . . . Propertius, who said ‘Cynthia’ and hid ‘Hostia’, and Tibullus, who has ‘Plania’ in his heart but ‘Delia’ in his poems.

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On the one hand, this seems to be helpful information: Apuleius knows, and expects his audience to believe, that the women of elegy are fictionalised representations of actual women, and that the poets’ biographies are relevant in understanding their poetry. On the other hand, he does not really answer the question of how fictionalised these women are: he may only be telling us that Propertius had an affair with a woman named Hostia, rather than giving us any poetic insight. Both ancient and modern readers would certainly have been interested in what is often called biographical criticism without Apuleius’ statement, but it is probable that he has added unnecessary complications. Note too that Ovid (and Corinna) are not mentioned. This is no accident: it is in Ovid’s poetry that many of the tenuous links between poetry and life come apart. Corinna is usually agreed to be the least well-developed of the female characters of elegy, a fact which Ovid acknowledges by suggesting that he knows a woman who claims to be Corinna. This suggests that his reading public does not know who she ‘really’ is; it may even lead us to surmise that that there was no other woman who could contradict her. The difficulties in separating fact from fiction are compounded further by the elegists’ habit of alluding to predecessors. So, for instance, our first four lines of Propertius (1.1.1–4) could not appear more autobiographical: Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepit ocellis, contactum nullis ante cupidinibus. tum mihi constantis deiecit lumina fastus et caput impositis pressit Amor pedibus. Cynthia first captured poor me with her eyes, who had been previously touched by no desire. It was then that Love cast down my eyes with their stubborn pride and pressed my head under his feet.

We are given the beginning of the story, and it seems deeply personal. But we have the fragment of the Hellenistic poet (Meleager) from whom Propertius has taken the lines, and it is more or less a precise translation. We might decide that falling in love tends to happen in a fairly limited number of ways, and that visual contact is one of the more popular among them, as well as a feeling of victimisation, but it is nonetheless striking that Propertius has adapted a literary model to convey ‘his’ feelings. The literary nature of elegy is omnipresent, in the regular references to mythology and in any number of other high-brow touches.

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The End of Elegy Elegiac poetry was enormously popular in Augustan Rome. This genre exhibited remarkable variation. Its topics ranged from eulogy to aetiological excurses on temples or rituals, to declarations and reflections of a strikingly political quality. But Augustan elegiac poetry remained mostly about love: its passions, frustrations, humiliations, and – very occasionally – its ecstasies. As often, we have the opinion of a later Roman about elegy (Quint. 10.1.93): elegia quoque Graecos provocamus, cuius mihi tersus atque elegans maxime videtur auctor Tibullus. Sunt qui Propertium malint. Ovidius utroque lascivior, sicut durior Gallus. We also rival the Greeks in elegy, whose most contained and elegant author seems to me to be Tibullus. There are those who prefer Propertius. Ovid is naughtier than either, and Gallus harsher.

In most periods for which this information is available to us, Propertius has been preferred. Even more interestingly, this is a genre that lasts barely longer than a generation: we do occasionally hear of imperial writers of elegy, but none of them seems to have attracted much attention. SIDEBARS

X Roman Women The Romans often seem ‘like us’ – and they are, in important ways. But they are also profoundly alien. A Roman woman, unlike a Roman man, tends to have a name which is simply the feminine form of her father’s family name, and that is a useful shorthand for understanding the place of women in Roman society. For the most part, they belong in the private realm rather than the public. They were not citizens in the fullest sense of the word; they could not hold public office or vote. We tend to know about them, therefore, in a limited set of circumstances. Grave inscriptions provide some of our best evidence for qualities praised in women; this excerpt from the very-long Laudatio Turiae (‘Praise of Turia’) gives a sense of the genre: Why should I mention your domestic virtues: loyalty, deference, pleasantness, reasonableness, industry in working wool, rational religious belief, modesty of dress and appearance? Why dwell on your love for your relations, your devotion to family?

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But the inscription also makes clear that Turia was forced to act in the public sphere, fighting for her inheritance, avenging the murder of her parents, and interceding for her husband’s life (all of the details remain obscure). Indeed, given the realities of Roman warfare, womanliness must not infrequently have entailed running a large household or a small business. Scholars differ in what they think the lives of Roman women were actually like. Some see women as genuinely playing no role even in family affairs. Others, more realistically, point to the many anecdotes we have of Roman wives hearing about important political events and influencing, or trying to influence, their husbands. On some occasions, we are told, the women banded together, as when they sold their jewellery to aid in the war efforts or, in the reverse situation, when Hortensia, a woman, persuaded the triumvirs to partially repeal a tax on wealthy woman (see Chapter 3). We do know some things about individual Roman women, nearly all of them elite. But it is often hard to know what to do with the information we have. Catullus’ Lesbia, for instance, whether she is Clodia Metelli or not (see Chapters 3 and 4): did she really behave so outrageously? The poet Sulpicia, discussed in Chapter 7, is another interesting case: she tells us that she is a member of the elite as she simultaneously describes, in some detail, an illicit love-affair. Sometimes we hear about exemplary women too, like Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi (interestingly, she is known by the names of her sons, rather than her father or husband; this later occurs with the mothers of emperors). She was the daughter of Scipio Africanus and a mother of twelve children (a high number, but not preposterously so; three survived to adulthood). When her husband died, she remained unmarried (univira, ‘one-husbanded’, always considered virtuous) and devoted herself to her children. We are told that she was unusually well-read, in part to ensure that her children were properly educated. Anecdotes about her abound, including one from Valerius Maximus in which, bored by a visitor bragging about her jewels, she summons her two sons (the populist Gracchi; see Chapter 3) and says ‘here are my jewels’. It is difficult, but tempting, to fill in the gaps. Inscriptions make it clear that, in the lower orders, wives were viewed as their husbands’ partners even in business matters. And at elite levels of society, because women owned and managed their own property (women had legal guardians but by the late republic this was mostly a legal fiction), they possessed economic importance. So too, women of this rank had dependents, ex-slaves, and clients: these were men among the poor and middling classes who were obliged to defer to them. But glimpsing women at this social level is rarely easy. And there are dangers in generalising from individual episodes.

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For instance, in the aftermath of Caesar’s assassination in 44, Cassius and Brutus, the leading tyrannicides, were faced with a senatorial decree which assigned them unwelcome provincial assignments: Mark Antony and others sought to reduce their influence in the capital by getting them out of it. Brutus’ mother Servilia called a family council, at which Cicero was present as an advisor. However, as the orator went on and on dispensing his advice, Servilia, who was chairing this meeting, cut him off. Cicero was irritated but held his tongue. The gathering decided the decree must be rescinded. Servilia made it clear she would see to that. And Cicero took it for granted that she could and would (Cic. Att. 15.11.1–2). In the end, however, she was unable to persuade the senate to alter its decree. Still, even influential people sometimes fail to get their way. What one wonders, of course, is how typical Servilia was amid Rome’s aristocracy. We rarely get to see powerful women in Rome exercising their authority. As in most societies, the lives of individual women will have varied considerably based upon class and family. Like most men, many will have been desperately impoverished and worked long hours at menial tasks to make ends meet. Among the elite, too, situations would vary.

Further Reading There are good translations of all the elegists: for Tibullus and the poems attached to his work, R. Dennis and M. C. J. Putnam, The Complete Poems of Tibullus (California 2012); for Propertius Guy Lee’s Propertius: The Poems (Oxford 1994); for Ovid, A. S. Kline’s The Love Poems (Poetry in Translation 2001). P. Veyne, Roman Erotic Elegy: Love, Poetry, and the West (Chicago 1988, trans. David Pellauer) offers a lucid introduction to the genre of elegy and its rules. S. L. James, Learned Girls and Male Persuasion: Gender and Reading in Roman Love Elegy (Berkeley 2003) discusses the economic aspects of elegy’s premises. D. F. Kennedy, The Arts of Love: Five Studies in the Discourse of Roman Love Elegy (Cambridge 1992) examines the genre’s narrative structure, as does, M. Wyke, ‘Written Women: Propertius’ Scripta Puella’, in the Journal of Roman Studies 77 (1987): 47–61. A. Keith, Propertius: A Poet of Love and Leisure (London 2008) is a good general introduction to that poet, as E. Oliensis, Loving Writing/ Ovid’s Amores (Cambridge 2019) is to that collection. K. Milnor, ‘Sulpicia’s (Corpo) Reality: Elegy, Authorship, and the Body in {Tibullus} 3.13’, in Classical Antiquity 21.2 (2002): 259–82 introduces the complexities of Sulpicia’s poetry. For those with German, W. Stroh, Die römische Liebeselegie als werbende Dichtung (Amsterdam 1971) is a foundational resource. See too L. Nicastri, Cornelio Gallo e l’elegia ellenistica-romana (Naples 1984), J.-P. Boucher, Études sur Properce (Paris 1965), and M. Labate, L’arte di farsi amare: Modelli culturali e progetto didascalico nell’elegia ovidiana (Pisa 1984).

chapter 8

Gods, Monsters, and Heroes: Augustan Epic

Homer and the Greek Epic Tradition We have had many occasions to refer to Homer, who stands at the very start of the Greco-Roman literary tradition. While there may well have been a man named Homer who created the Iliad and the Odyssey, any information about him is lost to us. What we have are those two poems, centred round the saga of the Trojan War (see sidebar XI), and a variety of fragments from later, similar works. We know that they were composed orally, for recitation in gatherings of various kinds, and also that our written texts are only one of the many versions of these mythic sets of tales that survive. The basic elements of the story would have been the same, but a skilful poet would have varied details and emphasis to suit the occasion. There was probably a long tradition of epic poetry before Homer, and there was assuredly one after him; both of these exist for us merely as shadows. Despite its obscurity, the Homeric tradition is of enormous importance to all poets who come after, not merely in the sense that they tell some of the same stories about the Trojan War, but because the two epics determine for Greeks, and therefore for Romans, how stories are told. They are panoramic, focused on deeds that win kleos (Greek for ‘honour’), and memorialising those deeds for the future. They also feature gods as characters. These gods behave very much like humans, with our emotions and foibles, but with much more power. Even the genre of historiography takes its starting-point from Homer (see Chapter 6): the gods are usually not characters there, but the sweep of action and many of the narrative features derive from these two epic poems.

Latin Epic after Ennius We have already treated early Latin epic in Chapter 1. The century or so between Ennius and Vergil is more or less a blank to us in terms of epic poetry. We have a series of names: Accius wrote an epic Annales, Hostius 274

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wrote a Bellum Histricum probably about the events of 129, Furius of Antium wrote an epic poem, and Varro of Atax and Furius Bibaculus each wrote epics about Caesar (see Chapter 6). We also know of a couple of translations of the Iliad, and Cicero made liberal use of the Homeric poems in his prose writing, often translating whole passages. The fact that we know so little about these authors may suggest that their poems were not successful. Some of the reason for this can probably be found in the fact that Romans began thinking of prose history as an appropriate way of treating the same material. The two epics written about Caesar may also serve as evidence that epic had become a mode of panegyric rather than history, covering contemporary events rather than those from the distant past. And Cicero himself wrote more than one historical epic (see again Chapter 6). So a genuine question exists: why would Vergil, our next major practitioner of the genre, choose to revive a form (mythological epic, we might call it) that had fallen into disfavour in the recent past?

Epyllion The tradition of the epyllion provides some of the answer, probably. In Greek literature, by the fourth century, size mattered. Scholars debated suitable scales for various kinds of poems and length itself became an object of critical controversy. Callimachus’ take was the most influential, rejecting writing long poems in favour of ‘the slender Muse’ (see Sidebar VI). But this aesthetic principle was by no means unique to Callimachus: Hellenistic literature exhibits a fascination with concise, concentrated poetry. One reflex of this disposition was the miniature epic, often denominated by modern critics as the epyllion (not without controversy since the word was not used to denote a genre in antiquity). Still, the term is useful: a miniature epic is a distinctive type of poem, even if we sometimes disagree over its boundaries. The typical miniature epic is in hexameters and is no longer than a single book in length (under about 800 lines). It rehearses a tale from myth, often a marginal myth or a marginal moment within a familiar myth. There is an obvious fondness for erotic episodes, and several epyllia result in aetiologies. Complications arise when the poet includes in his single poem multiple and sometimes contradictory versions of the same myth. And many miniature epics are shaped in such a way that, within the telling of one myth, the story of another, perhaps related myth also appears. Throughout, an epyllion is allusive and learned, so much so that these

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poems are commonly abstruse and were deemed difficult even by contemporaries. An influential Greek example is the fragmentary Hecale by Callimachus, in which the hero Theseus tames the dreaded Bull of Marathon. But this martial exploit is not the focus of the piece. En route to his adventure, Theseus is driven by a storm to take refuge with a very old and poor widow, Hecale, who receives him generously and graciously. She likes and admires her guest and vows an offering to Zeus upon Theseus’ successful return. When he comes back to Hecale’s home, however, Theseus finds her dead. Consequently, he establishes in her honour a sanctuary of Zeus Hecaleus. But this is not the only myth Callimachus recounts: embedded within this tale is the story, recounted by crows, of Athens’ early king Erichthonius. We do not have enough of the poem to be sure, but most scholars believe that it avoided all of the heroic elements of the tale, concentrating instead on the meagre food and hospitality rather than the noble deeds of the hero. Callimachus’ poem is aetiological – we learn the origin of Zeus’s sanctuary – and deeply learned. A single example will suffice. The opening line of the Hecale alludes to the only mention of Theseus in Homer, at Odyssey 11.323. There Odysseus is in the Underworld, where he has just seen three unhappy women, Phaedra, Procris, and Ariadne. The latter, Homer tells us, Theseus attempted to remove from Crete to Attica but before he could arrive there Artemis slew her. This was not by Callimachus’ day the prevalent version of the myth of Ariadne, but it is pertinent to his story, as is the atmosphere of death conjured by the poem’s reference to the Underworld. The allusion is also playful: Phaedra was Theseus’ wife who ruinously fell in love with her stepson; Ariadne’s passion for Theseus involved a betrayal of her father. And so perhaps we are prompted to look forward to wayward eroticism in this poem. But tease though it may, the poem disappoints on that score. Instead, Theseus finds in Hecale a welcoming figure, who looks upon the hero as a kind of son. By the first century, the epyllion was well established in Latin literature especially (but not exclusively) among the so-called neoteric poets (see Chapter 4). C. Helvius Cinna composed a miniature epic entitled Zmyrna (or Smyrna). His poem, of which little remains, was admired by Catullus (Cat. 95) and influenced later writers: it told the story of Myrrha’s incestuous passion for her father, Cinyras. We have also met Catullus’ friend, C. Licinius Calvus (see Chapter 4): he, too, wrote an epyllion, the Io, which recounted the sufferings of the mortal Io, Jupiter’s lover, at the hands of Juno: almost certainly this poem included a tale within a tale, and because Io ended her wanderings in Egypt, there were opportunities for more than

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one aetiology. The composition of miniature epic was by no means confined to the circle of neoteric poets. Rather, it appealed to many writers with Alexandrian tastes. Cicero, it appears, composed several: Alcyones (Halcyons), the story of Ceyx and Alcyone and their transformation into birds; Glaucius pontius, a tale about the sea god Glaucon; and Thalia maesta (Thalia in mourning), which is little more than a title. And the genre continued to appeal: the Ciris, by an unknown author (see Chapter 9), is a miniature epic, and long passages which recall the design and manner of an epyllion can be found in other works: an example is the story of Aristaeus in Vergil’s fourth Georgic (see Chapter 5). Catullus 64 is a miniature epic 408 lines long. It begins with the launching of the Argo, an epic event which brings together the mortal Peleus and the goddess Thetis, parents of Achilles. The poet briefly celebrates the heroic age (Cat. 64.22–23): o nimis optato saeclorum tempore nati o men born in the most enviable temple of all the ages, heroes, salvete deum genus! heroes, hail to you, scions of the gods!

He especially praises Peleus, to whom Jupiter himself betroths Thetis. As we shall see, the opening of Catullus’ poem contrasts starkly with its conclusion. The poem passes on to their wedding, cataloguing its multitude of guests and their lavish gifts. Amid this account, we are given a long, elaborate depiction of the coverlet decorating the couple’s marriage bed. This sustained description, the technical term for which is ecphrasis, is a set-piece poem within a poem. On the coverlet is portrayed, principally from the reader’s perspective, Ariadne abandoned by Theseus. That is where the poet concentrates our attention, although much, perhaps most, of this tapestry is devoted to Theseus’ brave decision to face the Minotaur and his adventure on Crete. In this way, Catullus underlines his redefinition of what is central and what marginal. From lines 131 through 237, Catullus furnishes, in direct discourse, Ariadne’s lament, something no visual art could communicate: it concludes with her curse on Theseus, which we know was efficacious because the coverlet also depicts the death of Theseus’ father upon the hero’s return. That is not all: on another part of this bedspread one finds portrayed Dionysus’ passion for Ariadne. That, too, is off to one side in Catullus’ representation of the tapestry. The poem returns to the wedding. The mortal guests depart; the gods take their place. The Fates sing a song foretelling the birth of Achilles and

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his warlike career, all of which is a source of joy to Peleus (Cat. 64.382: felicia Pelei). The wedding is now concluded, but the poem is not. In a coda, the poet deplores the moral decline which now divides men from gods, a contrast to the enviable age of heroes. Contemporary society, he bemoans, is afflicted by murderous families and unnatural passions, all leading to strife so abominable that the gods no longer condescend to join the company of mortals nor even allow themselves to be viewed in the light of day (Cat. 64.407–408). The exquisite design of this poem and the complications it throws up arrest the reader. For example, it is easy to see in the balance between the ecphrasis and its setting the contrast between a happy and an unhappy relationship. But in many versions of their myth, the marriage of Peleus and Thetis was not a happy one, and Catullus wants the reader to remember this alternative. For he opens his poem by alluding to Apollonius’ Argonautica. Peleus and Thetis are also in that poem, but, unlike Cat. 64, not falling in love. By then – and contrary to Catullus’ chronology – Thetis has angrily abandoned her husband. This version of their story, activated by way of intertextuality, reminds the reader of what must come after this poem, notwithstanding Catullus’ altered timetable. Nor is obvious that Ariadne’s fate is unhappy: deserted by Theseus, in more than one account she becomes the divine wife of Dionysus (hinted at by the coverlet). At the same time, we have seen above how, in Homer, Ariadne was slain by Artemis: according to Homer, she did so because Dionysus found fault with her (Hom. Od. 11.325): should we remember this when we view the tapestry? Complications of this kind suffuse the poem. Less lively is the pessimistic, disturbing coda of Cat. 64. Romans, like others then and now, routinely complained of contemporary decadence and lamented the passing of a more righteous past. When Catullus composed his epyllion, however, the issue of morality, both civic and private, was felt to be urgent. The Social War and the civil war between Marius and Sulla (see Sidebar IX) were part of the recent past, and the memory of these traumatic events was sharpened in the fifties by a resurgence of fierce political strife, including riots which more than once left the republic without a properly elected government. Whenever the Romans analysed the failures of their political system, they did so in strongly moral terms – including, very often, an indictment of perceived failings in family life (see Chapter 7). We have seen how Catullus takes this tack in his political poems (see Chapter 4). He was not alone: not too long after this poem appeared, for example, both Sallust and Livy elected to view Roman history by way of the Romans’ moral decline (see Chapter 6). Catullus’ miniature epic does many things. It is a beautiful poem which is a virtuoso specimen

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of creative allusion. It is also a mythological epic which foregrounds perils confronting contemporary Roman society – a powerful gesture which Vergil did not fail to appreciate. Vergil’s Aeneid, as we shall see, also conflates the relationship between Rome’s mythical origins, its historical past, and its present. This is true even in the poem’s design. Roman epics, apart from the first one, were historical, with moments of myth embedded in the Romans’ bellicose reality. Naevius, as we saw in Chapter 1, included councils of the gods and Aeneas’ adventures in his account of the First Punic War, a literary move connecting that present-day conflict with the divine favour inherent in Rome’s origins. Vergil reverses this arrangement. His epic is a mythological one, like Andronicus’ or Homer’s, but its glimpses of the future – in the Underworld in Book 6 and on Aeneas’ divinely wrought shield in Book 8 – reveal Rome’s history, the meaning of which is animated by Augustus’ triumph over Antony and Cleopatra. In the Aeneid, mythology unites with history. There had been other tales of city-founding, of course, but Rome – and so, its story – was different.

The Centrality of Vergil to the Poetic Tradition Vergil looms large in the history of Latin literature or, indeed, in any history of European literature. He is the key exemplar for later poets to measure themselves against, most particularly his Aeneid. So we begin with its reception. During certain periods, Vergil was not popular, primarily because he was seen as a poor imitator of Homer. But for much of literary history, Vergil has occupied the central role. To give just one example, the sortes vergilianae was a process whereby the text of Vergil was used for divinatory purposes: the seeker would select a passage of Vergil at random and apply it to his own life. Several of these occasions are recorded, some featuring Roman emperors, but the procedure seems to have existed through the medieval period and well into the Renaissance. Here as often in the western literary tradition, Vergil plays a key ‘middle’ role – this practice both anticipated the use of the Bible for this purpose and was preceded by Homeric text-based divination. Another manifestation of the central role of Vergil is the plethora of manuscripts. In contrast to our usual lament about the state of ancient texts, we have hundreds of manuscripts of Vergil and, thus, an extremely reliable manuscript tradition. We can tell from graffiti and scrawled artwork in places such as Pompeii that the Aeneid was a poem which everyone with pretensions to erudition was familiar with (even if they had not read it). More formally, Vergil’s

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poetry seems to have become so important to the Romans that it was adopted as a text for schoolboys. So too, in late antiquity and beyond, several authors composed poems based entirely on lines and half-lines from Vergil’s poetry: this unusual activity both demonstrated one’s literary acumen and paid homage to the master, and it shows us, again, how central a figure Vergil was to the intellectual life of Romans for many centuries. It is impossible to summarise the importance of Vergil in a few words: for many, he is simply ‘the poet’. Studies of later English poets in particular (e.g. Milton, Jonson, Spenser) suggest that they saw not just Vergil’s poetry but Vergil’s career as something to imitate, insofar as his poetry instantiates a poetic ‘ascent of genres’ from the low (the pastoral Eclogues; Chapter 9) through the middle (the didactic Georgics; Chapter 5) to the high (the epic Aeneid ). It is not clear whether this was deliberate on Vergil’s part, but it became a canonical feature of how his poetry was understood. We can see his poetic output encapsulated in the four-line ‘preface’ attached to Aeneid (Suet. Vita Verg. 42): Ille ego qui quondam gracili modulatus avena carmina et egressus silvis vicina coegi, ut quamvis avido parerent arva colono, gratum opus agricolis, at nunc horrentia Martis (arma virumque cano) I am he who once put forth songs on a slender reed, and, moving on from the woods, I forced the nearby lands to obey their masters, however greedy they were, a work pleasing to farmers; but now Mars’ terrifying (arms and the man I sing).

This is about as clear a summary as one could hope for, covering the tenpoem Eclogues and the four-book Georgics, and prefacing the Aeneid. But we have no idea whether Vergil wrote it himself (Suetonius says he did, and that Varius removed it; see below).

Vergil’s Biography Let us begin with the story of Vergil’s life. We have fuller information about Vergil than about most figures from the ancient world, partly because of his importance and partly also because of the dearth of firstperson statements in his own poetry: there has been much eagerness to fill the vacuum (see too Chapter 9 on the Appendix Vergiliana). He was born in 70 near Mantua in northern Italy, and, Suetonius tells us, miraculous portents surrounded his birth, presaging greatness (these are a standard

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feature of ancient biographies). He was known for his modesty and temperance and was interested in medicine and maths. His voice was too weak for him to become an orator, and he only rarely performed his own poetry. We have no evidence of marriage or children. Suetonius says that Vergil’s plan toward the end of his life was to finish the Aeneid and then to devote his life to Epicurean philosophy. Death, however, intervened, in 19 bce. The Eclogues were released to the public in 37 bce; the Georgics in 29 bce, and the ‘unfinished’ Aeneid upon Vergil’s death. This suggests that Vergil was a very slow worker and, indeed, Suetonius describes his process: he spent his mornings writing lines and his afternoons ‘licking’ them into shape as a mother bear does her cubs (Suet. Vita Verg. 22–23, on the Georgics; for the Aeneid he first wrote prose outlines, then worked them, not in order, into poetry, 23–24). The works grow in length and in complexity, and it is generally agreed that the Georgics is Vergil’s most formally polished work. The Eclogues seem to have given him instant fame, and Suetonius’ biography makes clear the anticipation with which the Aeneid was awaited. Suetonius also tells us that he asked Varius, a friend who was also a poet, to burn the Aeneid, should he die before finishing it (Suet. Vita Verg. 39). And then, Suetonius goes on to tell us, he asked for it on his deathbed so he could burn it, but nobody gave it to him. Instead, ‘by order of Augustus’, Varius revised the poem (emendaverunt, Suet. Vita Verg. 38; summatim emendata 41). Suetonius suggests that Varius made only minimal alterations, and that we have a more or less complete work. Interestingly, however, there are just over fifty incomplete lines in the poem, scattered throughout. The idea that the poem may not have received its author’s final edits is an intriguing one, and it has often led scholars to pay closer attention to various parts of the text than they otherwise would. For instance, the end of the Aeneid is unsatisfying to many, in part because of its abruptness (see below); some suggest that the poet would have changed it. But there is no evidence for this. And indeed, the Aeneid, and the rest of Vergil’s poetry, is complicated and ambiguous enough without this additional speculation.

Servius One of the more interesting features of Vergil’s career is that he became wildly famous within his own lifetime. As we shall see, his poetry is comprehensible to any reader who knows Latin, but Vergil’s painstaking habit of piecing together allusions to previous works of literature adds

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layers of meaning and drew the attention of ancient scholars. One of those scholars, a fourth–fifth century ce grammarian named Servius, wrote a short commentary on the Aeneid to which was added a lot of other material in antiquity. This commentary often provides us with valuable historical and literary information (from it come many of the fragments of other Latin epic poets quoted throughout this book). It also makes implicitly clear the status of the text: the Aeneid was immediately recognised to be a work of genius that encapsulated something central about what it meant to be Roman. But what, and how?

Vergil’s Aeneid: A Brief Summary In all of Vergil’s works, we notice an interest in Roman politics and history, especially in terms of the consistent presence of civil war that lurks in the background of both the Eclogues (Chapter 9) and the Georgics (Chapter 5). In the Aeneid, Vergil treats history directly, although different readers have seen him as arguing for radically different viewpoints, from an antimonarchical stance to praise of the new Augustan regime. Determining Vergil’s own views is complicated, and it is not entirely clear what would be gained if we could, given that his work permits such a range of positions. On the one hand, the Aeneid covers a broad span of Roman history, possibly showing its inevitability and certainly connecting it to Trojan mythology. (It seems to be Vergil who focused Augustus’ attention on Aeneas as a founding figure, with the result that he appeared in many Augustan public monuments.) On the other hand, all of Vergil’s work is keenly sensitive to the loss of human life that sometimes occurs during times of great change, such that the inevitability of events may not prove much of a comfort to those living through them. In his commentary on the Aeneid, Servius tells us that the poem was written ‘to imitate Homer and to praise Augustus through his ancestors’ (Homerum imitari et Augustum laudere a parentibus). We shall spend much time unpacking the first of these statements, but, on the surface, the second is the more interesting. It is, for several reasons, plausible to think of Augustus as the patron of Vergil’s greatest work. One of those reasons is that, according to Suetonius, Vergil had several books of the poem read aloud to Augustus and his family; another, already mentioned, is that after Vergil’s death Augustus felt himself responsible for the poem. The Aeneid is a poem tracing the early history of Rome from the end of the Trojan War and the destruction of Troy (on Turkey’s Aegean coast).

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One man, Aeneas, a Trojan hero from the Iliad, makes his way to Italy, a land that is fated to become the Trojans’ new homeland. Aeneas brings with him some of his men, his father, his son, and the household gods of the Romans (see Sidebar XI). He does not bring his wife: although he intends to, he loses her along the way. Aeneas is no ordinary man: he is the son of Venus, who in her Greek guise as Aphrodite plays a significant role in the Iliad, as when she creates a protective cloud over her son to save his life in battle. But – as is the case with the returning triumphant Greek heroes, told in the Odyssey and in numerous other now-lost Greek epic poems – Aeneas’ relationship to the gods does not mean that he is guaranteed safe passage. In fact, much of the poem (like the Odyssey) is about the places he goes while he is attempting to found a new city. There are also a series of prophecies, dream visions, and oracles which help to guide, but sometimes also mislead, Aeneas. The poem begins, aptly enough, arma virumque cano, ‘Arms and the man I sing’. The first two words are an encapsulation and a translation of the plots of the Iliad (weapons and war) and the Odyssey (a man and his journey; that poem begins with the Greek word andra, which also means man). Much has been said about the opening of the poem. For us, perhaps the most important thing is that Vergil has given us the words backwards: the Aeneid is a poem first about the travels of a man, and then about the battles he must fight. And ‘man’ is misleading: one noteworthy feature of Odysseus’ ill-fated journey is that he alone of his men was able to return. Aeneas, by contrast, is to be a city-founder, so he must bring his men with him. This difference points to another: unlike Odysseus, Aeneas has the weight of destiny upon him: despite obstacles, we know that he must succeed. But it is often unclear how. And this weight is deeply felt: Aeneas is above all things pius (‘pious’ is not right, though he is certainly that; ‘dutiful’ is better), trying to do the right thing in a world that does not make much sense to him. The historical resonances of his every action are deep – although he does not know this – and he has a sense of himself as uniquely chosen to fulfil a particular mission. Because he does not know exactly what it is, and because he does not necessarily want to fulfil it, Aeneas could reasonably be considered the first conflicted western hero. So too, the poem is in some ways surprisingly modern, but it is also archaic. And this is not only because we move between the worlds of Homeric mythology and ‘history’.

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Aeneid 1–6: The Odyssey Half The first six books detail Aeneas’ journey towards Italy. Much of this story is related by Aeneas himself told in Books 2 and 3 in retrospect (just as Odysseus’ travels in the Odyssey are more often than not narrated by him instead of by the poet). Aeneas’ journey has taken so much time because of the anger of Juno, who puts obstacles in the way, including storms. Indeed, the anger of Juno is a main plot-point until the near-final scene of the poem in which she formally gives it up. The first question of the poem, tantaene animis caelestibus irae? (Verg. Aen. 1.11, ‘are there such angers in heavenly spirits?’), turns out to be important for the whole poem, not least because its final scene features an angry and quasi-divine Aeneas. Aeneas lands in Carthage, a city-in-progress in northern Africa. Like Odysseus, Aeneas is presented with the opportunity, or the temptation, to curtail his journey. The queen of Carthage, Dido, invites him to stay, join his people with hers, and share her rule. She does this because of divine interference: Venus sends Cupid, disguised as Aeneas’ son Ascanius, to bewitch her into falling in love with Aeneas. Though, to be fair, Dido had made her generous offer even before this. This ‘double motivation’, both divine and human, is typical also of Homeric epics. During their conversation, we hear about the fall of Troy (told from the Hellenic perspective in any number of now-lost poems, but here, uniquely, from the viewpoint of the defeated). In Book 3, Aeneas encounters the Hector’s widow Andromache, who offers him an alternate ‘little Troy’, based in reverence for the past; that model is swiftly rejected. Book 4 returns to the main narrative: Aeneas and Dido begin a romantic relationship, thanks to Venus and to Juno, who wants to keep him from reaching Italy. Things go well in Carthage: Aeneas and his men help Dido to build her city. Aeneas has been told that it is his destiny to found a city, and he may or may not believe that this is it. We don’t get the chance to find out, though, because of another divine intervention: Jupiter, provoked by a prayer from one of Dido’s disappointed suitors, sends Mercury down to bring the message that it is time for Aeneas to move along. He does so, neglecting to tell Dido, who confronts him. After an ugly scene, he departs, and unbeknownst to him, she commits suicide, cursing him and his people forever through a complex magical ritual. (This curse provides a ‘historical’ reason for the enmity of Rome and Carthage, eventually resolved by the destruction of Carthage in 146.) The failure of this relationship had been foreshadowed in numerous ways, not least by the fact that Aeneas’ first deed upon landing in Africa is to kill several deer, and that Dido is herself

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compared to a wounded deer, struck not by a hunter but accidentally, by a passing shepherd (Verg. Aen. 4.70–73). The story of Aeneas and Dido is, for many readers, a high emotional point of the poem, and it is one about which readers have very different opinions: even if we recognise that Aeneas has little choice about whether to leave Dido, are we meant to condemn how he does it? What do their conversations, in which he insists that they were never actually married, tell us about him? (He is technically correct, but for many, his behaviour is nonetheless displeasing.) This key moment in the poem paves the way for its end, when Aeneas will be responsible for another death. Even if we find him guiltless in both instances, we cannot avoid noticing how Vergil suggests that the fulfilment of duty can bring destruction in its wake. Eventually, Aeneas and his men land in Italy, after further losses of life. Following divine instructions, he procures the golden bough which he had been told would allow him access to the Underworld, where he is going to locate his father, now deceased. After several encounters with dead heroes (loosely based on a similar scene in the Odyssey) and with Dido, who rejects him, he sees his father, who shows him a parade of souls waiting to be born into Roman heroes (Aeneas’ future, our past) and explains the concept of rebirth. Here, for the first time in the epic, Aeneas is given a clear sense of his destiny. Among the most important lines of this book, and of the poem, are Anchises’ words (Verg. Aen. 6.851–853): tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento (hae tibi erunt artes), pacique imponere morem, parcere subiectis et debellare superbos. You, Roman [he is speaking generically], remember – these are your gifts – to impose a civilised order on peace, to spare the defeated, and to war down the proud.

The statement is subject to interpretation: we shall return to it. The last of the heroes about-to-be-born is Augustus’ sister Octavia’s son Marcellus (who had recently died, tragically young; Suetonius comments that Octavia fainted when she heard this part of the poem read aloud, Verg. 33). There is one final puzzle in Book 6: after an elaborate preamble, Vergil tells us that there are two exits from the Underworld, one for true dreams and one for false, Aeneas leaves through the false gate. The effect of this on what has gone before is unclear.

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Aeneid 7–12: The Iliadic Half The second half of the poem begins with another proem, and the promise of a second Trojan War; the poet calls it a maius opus (Verg. Aen. 7.45, ‘bigger work’, corresponding to the greater stature in which the Iliad was held in antiquity, and also to the seriousness of the topic; Propertius makes a similar claim that the Aeneid is greater than the Iliad ). There are indeed many parallels between the two situations, though they are never exact, and it is certainly simplistic to suggest (as his enemies do) that Aeneas is merely another wife-stealing visitor like Paris (see Sidebar XI). We are introduced to Turnus, Italy’s defending ‘Hector’, and to the royal family: Latinus the king, Amata the queen, and Lavinia the princess, unmarried due to an oracle which stated that she could only be married to a foreigner. Unfortunately for all, Latinus has let himself be convinced that Turnus – from elsewhere in Italy – is foreign enough, so the young people are engaged. In another instance of divine intervention, Juno sends Allecto, a raging demon, to madden Amata and Turnus, such that both are hungry for war. Meanwhile, Aeneas gathers his allies, travelling to the future site of Rome. Evander, an Arcadian who now rules this region of Italy, welcomes Aeneas and tells him about their worship of Hercules. We are meant to notice the similarities between these two divine sons, both of whom make the world better and safer. Primitive Rome is a simple place, bearing few resemblances to its later exemplar. Evander gives Aeneas troops and puts his son Pallas in charge of them, who serves in the poem as a surrogate son to Aeneas. The relationship between these two men in part mirrors that between Achilles and Patroclus, so important to the plot of the Iliad, but the parallel is imperfect: Aeneas’ relationship with Pallas lacks the depth or duration of Achilles’ with Patroclus. Aeneas also sees his mother, who gives him divine armour. This is parallel to the armour Thetis gives her son Achilles in the Iliad, but – aside from the fact that Aeneas does not need armour and Achilles does – there are significant differences. Achilles’ shield depicts two cities, one at war and one at peace. On Aeneas’ shield there is only one city, Rome. The shield spans the earliest Roman history to events nearly contemporary, focusing mostly on wars: Romulus and Remus’ miraculous succour by the she-wolf, the capture of the Sabine women, the death of Mettius Fufetius, Porsenna’s siege of Rome, the Gauls’ attack on Rome, the Battle of Actium, and finally, Augustus in triumph in the centre of the shield. In Aeneas’ absence, Turnus, commander of the Latin forces, tries to get the

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Trojans to fight him, but mostly fails. Nisus and Euryalus, two young Trojans, engage in illicit slaughter of their enemies in a scene that is both reminiscent of and different from its model in Iliad 10; both are killed. Aeneas is a reluctant warrior. His stance in part complicates the Iliad’s view of the necessity of war, or perhaps expands upon it: the Iliad begins with Achilles refusing to fight, and there is a council of the Greeks early on in which they debate whether they should just go home. Aeneid 10 begins with a divine council, in which Jupiter forbids the gods to intervene. Thereafter, the poem focuses on the fighting, featuring several great individual battles, including one against the Italian hero Mezentius, whom Aeneas kills; his son Lausus then attacks Aeneas, who is forced to kill him as well. This is in counterpoint to the battle between Turnus and Pallas, in which Turnus pitilessly strips the young hero of his sword-belt. These Homeric-style battles simultaneously foreshadow and postpone the final duel that must occur between Aeneas and Turnus in order for the war to end. There is a brief respite in the fighting, and a brief truce, disrupted by Turnus’ semi-divine sister Juturna. She succeeds in drawing her brother away from the battlefield, successfully for a time, but the two men eventually fight. The ending of the poem is one of the most notorious passages in Latin literature. Aeneas disarms Turnus, and the latter begs for his life before his defeated people. Aeneas hesitates as he considers whether to let Turnus live. Unfortunately, during this pause, Aeneas catches sight of the sword-belt of Pallas, which Turnus is wearing. And so, for whatever combination of reasons (rage, the political necessity of avenging a fallen comrade, his own personal shortcomings, lack of empathy, and an incomplete transition into a post-Homeric ‘civilised’ world have all been suggested), Aeneas kills Turnus. The poem ends abruptly, with Turnus’ resentful ghost leaving his body, in a way reminiscent of Dido’s death.

The End of the Aeneid As many have noticed, there is a problem here, and it is a deliberate one. Vergil could have avoided the controversy that has boiled for thousands of years by not adding a pause: rare indeed is the Homeric hero who hesitates before finishing off his enemy. But Aeneas is a rather different kind of hero, and his hesitation draws attention to the differences. Should Aeneas have let Turnus live? Probably not. But are we meant to pay more attention to the hesitation, or to its ultimate result? In that moment, Vergil shows us the gulf that exists between his own world and that of Homer. The events

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of the Aeneid are in large part motivated by the anger and jealousy of Juno, but even she relents in the final book, agreeing to leave the Trojans alone so long as they disappear from history (they are subsumed into the Romans). So too, we are reminded of Anchises’ words in Book 6: is Turnus one of the proud, who needs to be ‘warred down’, or is he one of the defeated, who should be spared? If that had earlier seemed a simple instruction, it proves to be more complicated in the execution.

Literary Precedents The plot of the Aeneid is complicated, to be sure, but it is linguistically that the poem really stands out. Our summary has drawn attention to some major points of parallel with Homer, and there are dozens more. Vergil has also duplicated Homeric metre, Homeric language (including the epithet), and Homeric simile. Vergil puts similes to work as a means of showing character, but often, by making use of the literary history of his similes, he introduces complications. For instance, in the land of the Phaeacians in Book 6 of the Odyssey, Odysseus spies Nausicaa, the princess, playing games with her friends. Nausicaa plays an important role in rescuing Odysseus, like Circe and Calypso before her. But although Odysseus had a sexual relationship with each of these women, he never touches Nausicaa; she is therefore addressed by Odysseus by way of a simile in which she is likened to the (virgin) goddess Artemis. So we know he has no predatory intent. When Aeneas washes up in Africa and makes his way to Carthage, he spies Dido leading her warriors to the temple of Juno. We see her through his eyes, and through a comparison to Diana (Artemis’ Roman equivalent). Like Nausicaa, Dido is a rescuing, friendly figure, but she is a widow, not a virgin, and she and Aeneas have a sexual relationship. When we think about Dido’s character, how much of Nausicaa should we read into it? Why does Aeneas use this (inappropriate) simile; is his duplicity deliberate? Even this single example becomes more complicated when seen through the lens of Apollonius’ Argonautica. When the hero Jason arrives in the kingdom of Aeetes, he is saved from destruction by the magic of the princess Medea, who falls in love with him at first sight. She is also a powerful magician, known especially for (later) murdering her own children to wreak revenge upon Jason. But here, in the moment she makes up her mind to give herself to Jason and to betray her father, she, too, is compared to Artemis in an extended simile that also derives from the Homeric passage.

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All of this gives Dido a literary history that furnishes her with a highly unsimple nature: is she a virgin or a monster or both or neither? Will Dido destroy Aeneas or save him? No two readers are likely to weigh the relative importance of her Nausicaa and Medea elements identically. As if that were not enough, Vergil uses another simile to make the reader’s job even more complicated. When Aeneas appears in Book 4, ready to join Dido in a hunt that will lead to their first sexual encounter, he advances ‘like Apollo’. When Apollonius’ Jason strides toward the Argo to take up his great adventure, we are told: ‘As Apollo . . ., so Jason’. How much of the faintly unheroic Jason should we impute to Aeneas in Book 4? Homer, then, is an obvious source for the Aeneid, in many ways. But so too are a broad range of other texts: scholars find allusions to nearly every poet we have so far mentioned in this volume, including Naevius, Ennius, Lucretius, Catullus, Greek and Roman tragedy, Apollonius of Rhodes, and Callimachus. It is a matter of debate whether Vergil’s dense web of allusions differs in kind or merely in number from his predecessors: Greek and Latin poets had always referred to prior poems as a way of establishing their place in the tradition (as we have just seen with Apollonius). But in Vergil the habit is pervasive, occurring in nearly every line, such that mapping it out fully would make the text indecipherable. To illustrate with another of the many available examples: Vergil alludes to any number of Greek and Roman tragedies in the Aeneid. Beyond this, however, he uses tragic plots (especially in the case of Dido), a tragic outlook, and, in Book 4 especially, in the ‘tragic’ threepart structure of the book, with each section marked by a repetitive at regina (‘but the queen . . . ’). These elements suggest that the subplot of Aeneas and Dido both is and is not a tragedy; they are caught up in a larger narrative over which neither has much control. And, Vergil perhaps suggests, thinking of their story as a tragedy may help us to sympathise with both characters.

Vergilian Technique: An Example The Aeneid, the point must be made, is a difficult read. Not superficially, of course. The story is easy to follow, even when it drags us into the mythological and philosophical complexities of its Underworld. But ‘getting’ everything that Vergil puts into his poetry takes a lot of erudition and work: this was as true for Roman readers as it is for us. And it is not always obvious what we gain from every close reading, beyond an appreciation for the sheer amount of effort required. Here is an example. In one of many

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battle scenes, Homer introduces an image in which battle, with all its spears, bristles like field of grain. And battle, which brings death to mortals, bristled with spears (Hom. Iliad 13.339) efrixen de machē phthismbrotos engcheiēsoi it-bristled battle which-brings-death-to-mortals with-spears

Ennius was attracted to this metaphor and put it to work in his Annals, where, less boldly, it is the army, not the abstract battle, which bristles: on both sides the savage army bristled with spears (Enn. Ann fr. 385 Sk.) horrescit telis exercitus asper utrimque it-bristled with-spears the-army savage-on-both-sides

Vergil assimilates them both: he gives his reader the bold image of an iron plain which bristles with spears: then the iron plain bristled with spears (Verg. Aen. 11.601–602) . . . tum ferreus hastis horret ager . . . . . . then iron with-spears it-bristled the-plain

To signal his double debt, Vergil preserves Ennius’ verb and its place in the line and preserves Homer’s spears and their place in the line, employing two lines to do so. This is clever, and it exhibits Vergil’s combination of erudition with literary sensitivity, telling us much about the care with which Vergil read poetry. The reader who works all this out can only be gratified. At the same time, it is not obvious what else these technical, stylistic allusions might mean.

Historical Influences and Goals On top of this extremely thick layer of Greek and Latin literature is overlaid Roman history, both ancient and contemporary. The history of Rome’s founding cannot but be a political matter in the Augustan context in which the poem was written, with the promise of a new era dawning after generations of civil war. And the Aeneid is full of Roman history, some of it told in sophisticated narrative flash-forwards (prophecy, allusion) some of it depicted on physical monuments. Further, the history in the Aeneid is not only distant: many readers see African Dido as a version of the recently defeated Egyptian queen Cleopatra. So too, many of the locations

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of the poem are key Roman sites of memorialisation, and many of the events are, or become, Roman rituals (like the lusus Troiae, recently refounded by Augustus). The Trojans’ struggles against the peoples of Italy also carried a distinctly contemporary resonance: the Romans of Vergil’s day had had just come out of a long era of brutal strife. First, Italy was rocked by the Social War, then Rome and the whole of its domains by a sequence of civil wars (see Sidebar IX). Many of the names of Aeneas’ enemies, and the towns from which they come, therefore, will have deep significance to Vergil’s readers. And those wounds had not yet healed. For many, the stability introduced by Augustus probably represented Rome’s best hope for the future. Informed by this historical background, we return to Augustus. Some generations have read the Aeneid as a simple praise of Augustus and the world he created. But it is anything but a univocal text; the very fact that multiple scholarly positions can be mounted and defended about Vergil’s view of empire or of the (soon-to-be) emperor suggests its complexity. Indeed, some readers see this duality already in the Eclogues and the Georgics, each of which portrayed at least two versions of Rome, one with a god who helps farmers enjoy the fruits of their labours, and another with inexplicable cruelty and pointless toil. It is perhaps safer to say that Vergil raises important questions about the relationship of liberty and empire, about freedom and order, about the necessity of war, and about the role of individuals in a community, rather than answering them.

Philosophical Influences Finally, as if the weight of history and literature were not enough for one poem to bear, many readers of the Aeneid see it as running along a moral track, perhaps even encapsulating particular philosophical views. We are told that the young Vergil was very influenced by two schools of GrecoRoman philosophy, Epicureanism and Stoicism (see Chapter 9 on the pseudo-Vergilian Ciris), and there are episodes and events in the Aeneid that make best sense through one of another of those lenses, most substantial among them the end of the poem, as we have already discussed. But rather than seeing the poem as a work of philosophy, it is better to think of Vergil as a thoughtful person, in tune with the intellectual debates of his day, including questions of ethics, what happens after death, and science, and reflecting a variety of different viewpoints.

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Some Stylistic Features We have already seen the ways Vergil pulls apart and rearranges the basic Homeric template, keeping many Homeric features such as narrative structure and temporal variation through flashbacks, prophecies, and descriptions of works of art that are historical for Vergil, but prospective for Aeneas. In addition to the Homeric simile, discussed above, Vergil makes use of other Homeric features of style, such as the use of heroic epithets (pius Aeneas) and sound effects. In addition to this, Vergil adds literary features, such as ambiguous uses of language and poetic word choices. Individual books are composed carefully in themselves, and they tend to alternate in intensity in the manner of a symphony, with oddnumbered books providing a relief from the emotionally charged evennumbered ones. Vergil is also extraordinarily gifted at using recurring imagery. In Aeneid 2, Aeneas recounts to Dido the tale of the fall of Troy. Throughout that book, the attacking Greeks are compared to snakes and flames (and sometimes, as with a ‘tongue of flame’, both). Greek treachery, violence, and destruction are thereby highlighted. But, in typical Vergilian fashion, the imagery becomes more ambiguous as the poem progresses: fire is sometimes cleansing, and the serpent has a habit of shedding its old skin as a way of growing. Each metaphor encapsulates a larger truth, one which Aeneas himself may not know. It was fated for Troy to be destroyed, and for the defeated Trojans to join with the native Italians to form a superior race. It is this kind of complexity which makes the Aeneid a difficult poem to read, and an even more difficult poem to understand.

Memorable Characters Our final way of examining the multiple strands of this poem will be to focus on a few of the characters. We have already seen the many roles Dido plays: she is simultaneously a queen from Greek tragedy, a wicked sorceress, Cleopatra, an archetypal warrior-goddess, the reason that Carthage and Rome are forever enemies, a foil depicted in misogynistic terms, and an example of a life destroyed by passion. Modern readers often believe that Aeneas doesn’t treat Dido terribly well (or, for that matter, any of the women of the poem, including his forgotten wife and his future bride Lavinia). This could be anachronistic on our part, except for the fact that Ovid makes a similar point in his Heroides 7 (see Chapter 7), a fictional letter from Dido to Aeneas that focuses on his cowardice in not speaking to

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her honestly. Aeneid 11 features the warrior maiden Camilla, the ‘Dido’ of the second half of the poem, who is reminiscent of a similar figure from the Trojan War tradition, but who is also a representative of a simple Italian life that Aeneas, however unwittingly, has come to destroy. And Camilla herself prefigures the death of Turnus that forms the climax of the poem. Many other characters have a similar complexity, including Pallas, the quasi-son of Aeneas who takes the place of his own son as he reminds us of the importance of intergenerational relationships (and also, perhaps, of the dearth of sons in Augustus’ own family). Turnus, the final ‘villain’ Aeneas kills, is also worth attention. He is in some ways comparable to the Homeric Menelaus (whose wife is stolen by Paris) but, because he is the most powerful fighter on the side that is being besieged, and which will ultimately lose the war, he is also similar to Hector. We have already noted the ambiguity in the final scene of the poem, which treats his death. For some readers, Turnus – who is the most Homeric of Vergil’s heroes– must die in order for events to move beyond that archaic time.

The Aeneid: Some Conclusions Vergil’s Aeneid, as we have noted, is a difficult poem, one that helps to define what it means to be Roman for at least a full generation. Aeneas’ piety becomes refined into a larger Roman belief in their own grand destiny. At the same time, the poem is not jingoistic: Vergil lays out all sides of the story, including especially the individual sacrifices that must be made to achieve great historical feats. Again and again, Vergil throws up complications which impede a simple judgement of any specific episode, and he never fails to underline the pain, suffering, and loss involved in Aeneas’ imperfect journey from the fall of Troy to the death of Turnus. The world of the Aeneid is a demanding one for its characters – and its readers. Critics are appropriately generous when trying to elaborate Vergil’s achievement. Here it will suffice to point out how readers and poets of the Augustan age found in the Aeneid an epic which excelled Ennius’ Annals and claimed a central place in Roman culture: subsequent generations agreed.

Ovid: Introduction Vergil has long been recognised as one of the greatest poets ever; Horace, discussed in Chapters 5, 7, and 9 has too. Ovid, a full generation younger than these two greats, had his day in the medieval period (especially the

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twelfth and thirteenth centuries), then fell out of favour, relatively speaking, for centuries. In the post-war and post-modern era, however, his poetry has become extraordinarily popular again, perhaps owing to its frequently edgy manner. Importantly for us in this volume, his life spanned what is perhaps the most significant change in Roman politics, the transition from a republic to an empire. This change was a complicated and lengthy one, and it brought innovations in nearly every aspect of Roman life. And Ovid is a keen observer and chronicler of many of these changes. So the life and work of Ovid are a useful way to summarise, through contrast and emphasis, the period that goes before (see Chapter 9 for more on his life). Ovid’s importance as a poet cannot be overestimated; the Metamorphoses provides inspiration for more works of art than anything else in the European tradition except the Bible. Almost every one of the genres Ovid attempted, he mastered, and took in a new direction. In several cases, this mastery also intimidated would-be competitors, as least as far as we can tell: nobody seems to have written elegiac (Chapter 7) or didactic (Chapter 5) poetry for generations after Ovid. His effect on epic poetry was precisely the opposite: his alterations to it inspired many imitations and, while some of them clearly style themselves as successors to Vergil rather than Ovid, the latter’s influence can be felt even in them.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses: A Brief Summary Ovid, more than other ancient poets, seems to have worked on multiple poems at once. The Metamorphoses, his masterpiece, were more or less finished at the time of his exile in 8 CE. So were the Fasti, although we have only six of a projected twelve books (see Chapter 5). The Metamorphoses is a treasure-trove of Greek and Latin mythology, focused through the lens of metamorphosis, or change of bodily form. The poem is in part a response to Vergil’s Aeneid, its recent epic predecessor. It tells the story of everything, in fifteen books: from the creation of the world, through the genealogies of the gods, right up to Ovid’s own time (the last official metamorphosis of the poem is when Julius Caesar becomes a god – but at the very end of the poem, Ovid predicts his own poetic immortality, itself a kind of metamorphosis). The majority of the stories are mythical rather than historical. The poem is full of inset stories, many familiar to the reader (both the Roman reader and the modern reader who knows Greek mythology), although they are usually altered, in the manner of the epyllion (see above).

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Many of the canonical works of early European literature, such as Boccaccio’s Decameron and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, are heavily dependent upon the Metamorphoses, not least its discursive structure. The poem is formally an epic, insofar as it is written in dactylic hexameter. But it does not have a hero, or a single unifying event. Its theme is rather metamorphosis, beings changed into other beings. How the metamorphosis happens varies from story to story: sometimes it is a punishment (explicitly or implicitly), sometimes it seems to be a reward, or a salvation from a worse fate, and sometimes it just happens, with no clear message. In many but not all cases people change into something that bears an affinity with their initial personality, so we might think of it as a clarification. So, for instance, in the first human metamorphosis of the poem, the cunning and deceptive Lycaon is changed into a wolf. His name contains the Greek word for wolf; such bilingual translations often give the Greek-speaking reader a hint of what is coming. But sometimes the metamorphosis is random, either in motivation or in form.

Metamorphosis and Variation As we have said, the unifying element of this wildly inventive poem is change itself, however much that element is suppressed in favour of narrative byways. The exuberance with which the narrator tells these stories is exhausting. And the poem incorporates elements of many other genres: love stories, pastoral poetry, didactic, satire, drama, and others. Yet it also preserves elements of epic, including battle scenes, prophecies, and time distortions. And the gods, as is typical for epic, are amoral, though Ovid takes this tendency even further, sometimes even portraying them as immoral. There are roughly 250 metamorphoses in the poem: in some instances it is not quite clear what actually happens, and some metamorphoses involve more than one individual. And – as you might expect – Ovid tells his tale in many different ways: in the ‘standard’ description, a transformation is unfolded gradually, with a focus on a telling detail: for example, when a person turns into a tree, the arms become hard and the fingers sprout leaves, or a human face is elongated into the muzzle of some animal. There is often the assertion that some key element remains (the complexion of a beautiful woman, or – in the case of the wolf-man Lycaon – fierceness and savagery). But, in keeping with the principle of variation, some changes receive very little attention, occurring within a single line. The story of Ceyx and Alcyone takes over three hundred lines to unfold: Ceyx sails away to war and is killed; his body washes up on the shore and his wife

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Alcyone jumps off a cliff, whereupon she is changed into a bird. She kisses his dead body and over a line-break ambo/ alite mutantur, ‘they both become birds’ (Ov. Met. 11.741–742). Then the poem moves on. In some stories, the metamorphosis is displaced. For instance, the tale of Phaethon, the son of the Sun, goes on for over 400 lines, and only at the end of it do we hear that his sisters, the Heliades, weep so much that they become trees secreting amber (Ov. Met. 2.340–366). Or perhaps we might persuade ourselves that the earth, scorched by the unwitting Phaethon’s driving of his father’s chariot too close, has undergone its own metamorphosis. Either way, the poem seems to be stretching its boundaries. This principle of variation runs throughout the Metamorphoses, and indeed, we could think of it as a key element of Ovidian poetics as a whole. The Metamorphoses (like the Fasti, Ovid’s other extended narrative) weaves variation into the very fabric of the poem. Tales are embedded within tales, and nearly every occasion for telling a story is encompassed within the poem: internal narrators tell stories to seduce, or to keep from being seduced, or to entertain, or to show their power, or teach a lesson, or to persuade, or to while away a sleepless night, or for dozens of other reasons. Their effects are as varied as their motivations: some storytellers are deceitful and shown to be so, some are implausible but insist on their truthfulness, and some present themselves as giving the ‘straight truth’. This variety encourages us to ask such questions of each voice in the poem, and of the poem itself.

Poetic Allusion Mixed in among the variation is a profound engagement with earlier poetry that comes before. We have seen the ways in which Latin literature presents itself as concerned with its predecessors from the very start, and this feature (for some, showing that Latin poetry is sophisticated, and for others, that it is derivative) is nowhere more present than in Ovid. We have already noticed this for the Heroides (Chapter 7), which could not exist in the absence of specific literary treatments of its mythic characters. And it is equally true for the Metamorphoses, although they are sometimes playing with multiple versions of a myth rather than one. Ovid rarely tells a myth ‘straight’: sometimes he alters a key feature, and other times he switches emphasis or – intriguingly – focus, such that what used to be one story becomes a different one. He follows his Hellenistic predecessors in presenting the most obscure version of a myth, and, indeed, the most obscure myths themselves (see too his elegiac Ibis, discussed in Chapter 9).

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It is difficult to talk about poetic allusion without excessive detail and without presuming a specialist’s knowledge of Latin literature. But we can approach Ovidian allusion generally, since he seems to behave in slightly different ways from earlier poets. One of the key tactics he employs is to presume a reader’s knowledge of a particular text, which then allows him to compress it down into a single line or two. In a related vein, he also sometimes expands the treatment of a specific incident that took a line or so in a predecessor into the main story. Ovid does this especially in the Metamorphoses, and most of all with Vergil, his main competitor: events that received a lot of attention in Vergil receive very little in Ovid, and vice versa. So Ovid weaves his own narrative in amongst the Aeneid, picking up on tiny cues. Perhaps the single best example of this is where he takes a magical incident in the Aeneid, the moment at which Turnus sets fire to the Trojan ships. Vergil introduces the scene by having a flashback to the moment the Phrygian goddess Cybele offers her sacred trees to Aeneas as ships for his journey; at that moment she had asked Jupiter to return the trees once they were no longer needed. We then return to the ships, now set free by being newly turned into sea-nymphs (Verg. Aen. 9.80–122). The story is a good one, and Ovid manages, in retelling it and focusing attention on the metamorphosis itself, to make it look as though Vergil has omitted something (Ov. Met. 14.532–565). In Ovid, the moment is infinitely more dramatic: Cybele comes herself to effect the transformation. The nymphs rejoice in no longer having to fear the sea, and they help the enemies of the Greeks whenever they can. The tale is interesting not only in its own right but also because by this point in Ovid’s poem we have perhaps come to think of being a tree as an end-state; as he rivals Vergil’s narrative, Ovid also reminds us that even an ‘ending’ can be a transition to some other state of being. So too, perhaps, we are encouraged to see Vergilian epic not as an end-point but as a fruitful basis for other kinds of epic.

Ovid’s Literary Influences As was true for Vergil, Ovid’s literary influences are numerous. In addition to nearly all the Greek and Roman authors we have thus far discussed in this book, a number of poems so far unmentioned form the background for the Metamorphoses. Hesiod wrote a Catalogue of Women that detailed the stories of mythic heroines, and this is the ultimate source of all forms of poetry of this kind. Among Hellenistic authors, there are also important precedents: besides Callimachus’ Aetia, which may have provided a general

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outline and basic structure (see Sidebar VI), Nicander’s Heteroioumena (Things Changed) will have given Ovid some of his source-material, as will Boios’ Ornithogonia (Origins of Birds); we know about each of these authors primarily from their citations in Antonius Liberalis, from the second century ce, who tells forty-one stories of metamorphosis in prose. There are also a good number of foundation narratives, usually in prose, that talk about the mythic beginnings of great cities, and collections of catasterisms (‘turnings-into-stars’) of mythic heroes; Ovid drew from all of these and more. And, from the generation of Vergil, the Greek poet Parthenius wrote thirty-six prose summaries of unhappy love stories which, he says, can be used to write learned poetry. Ovid also draws from the tradition of the epyllion: indeed, the Metamorphoses could itself be seen as a massive epyllion, with digression after dizzying digression. The poem, as we have suggested, partakes in many genres, even more than the Aeneid. We suggested above that Aeneid 4 takes the broad shape of a Greek tragedy, incorporating many tragic elements. The books of the Metamorphoses can be pinned down in no such way, but – as a counterpoint to Vergil’s use of tragedy – we note that many of Ovid’s heroines engage in a ‘tragic monologue’, a one-sided debate about the action she will undertake, which will usually lead to her doom. These monologues are a regular feature of Euripidean tragedy (especially), and Ovid adopts and adapts the form to his own purposes, as when Byblis in Book 9 convinces herself that her incestuous feelings for her brother are natural and to-be-acted-upon.

Philosophy and Natural Science in the Metamorphoses And finally, Ovid is influenced by various philosophical viewpoints at different points of the poem. This appears in his sometimes near-clinical depictions of metamorphosis (for the ancients what we think of science was part of natural philosophy), and in some of the characters who attempt to draw moral lessons for others. The way the world is created at the start of the poem bears distinct affinities to Empedoclean philosophy, as does the discussion of Pythagoras in Book 15. Ovid is in some ways the culmination of a growing Latin tradition that undermines the Greek distinction between heroic and scientific epic; in Chapter 5 we looked at Lucretius as an exemplar of the latter kind of epic, and we have also suggested that Vergil begins the joining of these kinds of poetry. In Ovid, the two are fully integrated, and the heroic is present in but subsumed by the marvellous tales told, one after another.

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There are any number of philosophical influences in the poem, but the most obvious (if not always the clearest) philosophical opinion is put into the mouth of Pythagoras in Book 15 (this is the Pythagoras of the theorem). Ovid’s Pythagoras is introduced in a manner similar to that which Lucretius uses for Epicurus (Chapter 5), and he similarly explains the ‘causes of things’. These are divine and meteorological, but move quickly to a discussion of vegetarianism, the feature of his philosophy most often found peculiar by contemporaries and later audiences. Keeping to standard Pythagorean beliefs, the philosopher explains that eating meat is contrary to human nature, since there are many other things to eat, that the killing of animals leads people to become more bestial, and that eating them is impious because the souls of human beings sometimes transmigrate into animals. Animals are thus our close relations. He describes one of his previous lives, as a Trojan hero killed by Menelaus. Thereafter follows a pseudoscientific explanation of universe, which is always in flux (days, seasons, human bodies, bodies of water and land, the ‘creation’ of bees from the carcass of a bull (see Chapter 5 on bugonia), the phoenix, the rise and fall of empires, etc.). Because the world was originally formed from a discrete number of elements, we ought not to be surprised that things that seem distinct to us are actually interchangeable; what had seemed miraculous tales of transformation are, he suggests, just examples of how the world fundamentally is. Pythagoras mainly concentrates on natural phenomena rather than metamorphosis, but some readers see him as offering a theoretical underpinning for the poem. A more careful reading, however, suggests that he simply offers a different version of events. And this should not surprise us: Ovid is interested in multiple modes of explaining the world, in undermining simple and all-reaching explanations. Ovid’s eclectic stance vis à vis philosophy is not unusual: we have already seen that Vergil was interested in any number of different schools of philosophy, and Chapter 9 will show us a Horace who was too.

Structure of the Poem The Metamorphoses differs from most epics in having a non-linear structure. The poem is basically chronological, beginning with the creation of the world and ending with the poet’s own time, but many of the early events of the poem are mythical (so their chronological order is unclear), and the poet often undermines linear chronology, telling stories out of order (e.g. the death of Hercules is narrated before his birth). One helpful way to think of the poem is as a mosaic, in which individual segments gain

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meaning primarily by comparison to other segments. That said, it is not entirely clear that the larger view reveals a single pattern; there are rather several structures underlying the poem. Books of an epic are typically written in multiples of three, and the Metamorphoses is no exception. It differs, however, in having an odd number of books; the middle of Book 8 is in fact the middle of the poem itself and, not coincidentally, that part of the narrative is about a labyrinth; Ovid alludes to the fact that we have managed to get ourselves this far in the poem, perhaps without quite noticing how, and that the path out is unknown. The poem is also structured in five-book units (like Ennius’ Annales): the first focuses on the gods and their actions; the second on human and semi-human heroes; the final on recorded history. While each individual book has its own structure, these are anything but mechanical. Indeed, Ovid often carries a particular story across the border between books (one example is at the end of Book 2, where Europa, riding on the back of Zeus-turned-bull, swims across the sea and into Book 3). A portion of Book 10, one of the most technically complex, will serve as an example of how individual units within the poem work. The book begins with the wedding of Orpheus, legendary poet and son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope (who – in a typical parallelism – had told stories for much of Book 5). After an ill-omened wedding and the three-line disposal of the bride (detailed by Vergil in Georgic 4; see Chapter 5), Orpheus goes to the Underworld to win her back. Vergil had wisely left to the reader’s imagination the contents of Orpheus’ plea, for it is quite a challenge to recreate a song that moves the dead. But Ovid gives us those words. They have an effect – various denizens of the Underworld stop in their tracks and weep, and Orpheus is given his wife back. The myth demands that he lose her, by breaking his promise not to turn around until they have finished their journey. She disappears and, twice widowed by the same woman, Orpheus mourns in silence for three years. Many women wooed him, says Ovid, but he rejected them all, preferring young men. Finally, Orpheus sings again. By all rights, he ought to be in a grove (shade is where pastoral poets do their best work). But there are no trees. No problem: as soon as Orpheus begins, the trees come to him, literally. This gives Ovid the chance to provide a list of trees, some of whose transformations he had already narrated; he then tells at some length the story of Cyparissus loved by Apollo and, mourning the death of a pet deer, weeping until he turned into a cypress tree. Orpheus begins singing, tales of ‘boys loved by the gods and girls struck by unnatural desires who deserved their punishments’ (Ov. Met. 10.152–154). Jupiter and Ganymede get a bare seven lines and are

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followed by the story of Apollo’s love for Hyacinthus, whom he accidentally kills with a discus. Apollo is the god of healing but to no avail in this case; the boy turns into a hyacinth (on the way, Orpheus, or Ovid, throws in a simile in which a young man dies and is compared to a dying flower, with its head broken off, reminiscent of battle-deaths in Homer and Vergil, and of Catullus’ flower in poem 11 (see Chapter 4)). Then come the women: after the Cerastae, who killed their guests, come the Propoetides, prostitutes who gradually turned to stone. Pygmalion is disgusted by these women but instead of turning to young men (as Orpheus did), he sculpts himself an ivory woman, and promptly falls in love with her. He becomes, in essence, an elegiac lover (see Chapter 7), bringing gifts to the unresponsive maiden. Finally, after a prayer to Venus, she comes to life. They live happily after ever, with a daughter named Paphos who in her turn has a son named Cinyras, who has a daughter, Myrrha. At this point Orpheus warns us, telling us that his story cannot possibly be true, or that if we insist on believing it, we must also believe in the punishment. For Myrrha finds herself in love with her father. She delivers herself of a tragic-style monologue, and then attempts to kill herself, but is discovered by her nurse. (The nurse is a standard feature of Greek tragedy, usually making things worse while attempting to help.) Horrified but trying to save Myrrha’s life, the nurse seduces Cinyras on behalf of his daughter; Cinyras and Myrrha spend several nights together in the pitch dark until Myrrha, now pregnant, is recognised by her father and runs away. She prays to be punished for her misdeeds in a way that does not pollute either the living or the dead and is turned into a (myrrh-)tree. And that gets us only two-thirds of the way through this book, which continues with Myrrha’s son and his courtship by Venus, who tells additional stories designed to persuade him that being with her is safer than hunting (he is killed by a boar at the end of the book and turned into a flower). A few points to summarise: first, Orpheus tells stories that are both of interest to himself (praising young men and blaming young women) and to his audience (mostly trees, who might be assumed to like stories about people turning into trees). Second, it is often difficult to prise apart the narrative levels: Orpheus’ poetry is not very different from Ovid’s own. And third, the several themes of the book intertwine in an extraordinarily complex way. The poem’s ending does not help to reinforce any of the structures we might have seen. It finishes with the death and subsequent deification of Julius Caesar. And then it finishes again, with a coda in which Ovid claims immortality (Ov. Met. 15.877–879):

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Gods, Monsters, and Heroes: Augustan Epic Quaque patet domitis Romana potentia terris ore legar populi, perque omnia saecula fama. siquid habent veri vatum praesagia, vivam Wherever Roman power lays over conquered lands, I will be spoken in the mouths of people, and through every age, if the prophecies of poets have any truth to them, I will live in fame.

This bold claim is not wholly different from those found in other poets (see Chapter 9 for a similar statement by Horace; both derive from Ennius). What perhaps makes it more than this is the fact that the rest of the poem has hammered home the point that nothing lasts forever. This might be one of the messages of the Aeneid but if so, it is much more subtle there. And, indeed, Ovid does not claim permanence even for himself, only fame for as long as Rome holds its empire.

Themes and Tone As we have noted, the poem is roughly chronological and focuses on variety and change themselves. But many themes recur, particularly in individual sections: as we have seen in Book 10, the narrator often relates similar stories together, leaving the reader to puzzle out the significance – if there is any – between their differences. Ovid’s mode of depiction throughout the poem might be called cinematic; he begins with a broad description, then narrows down to a particularly telling detail, and often moves the focus to another key point. We see this both in metamorphosis and in the setting of a scene, and we shall see one graphic example of the visualisation of violence just below. We have also seen Ovid’s attention to the natural world. Sometimes, as in Book 10, the landscape itself is a character: the animals, trees, flowers, and even rivers and rocks that form the ‘background’ are foregrounded. In this and other ways, Ovid’s visual imagination makes itself felt. He is also often interested in visual and verbal artists. We mentioned Pygmalion above, the artist who falls in love with his own creation. There is also Arachne, the gifted weaver who in Book 6 challenges the goddess Minerva (Athena in Greek literature) to a contest. Each woman creates a tapestry: Minerva’s is about her defeat of Neptune and the subsequent naming of Athens for her; the corners show the punishments of four mortals who challenge gods, and the whole is bordered with an olive-branch motif. Arachne’s work, by contrast, depicts about a dozen scenes in which gods rape mortal women, finishing out a major theme of Books 1–5; some of

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them have already appeared and some have not. Everything about the two compositions is different – one orderly in depiction, the other wild – and each is painstakingly described. For Ovid is telling a story about weaving but also exposing two different world-views, one in which the gods are tough but fair, punishing those who deserve it, the other in which they are immoral and unruly, exercising their power without restraint. Minerva’s composition is described in a way that allows us to draw it, while Arachne’s – (like Ovid’s own) – is difficult to map out. It is not much of a stretch to see Ovid in Arachne and other artists of the poem, not least when Arachne’s work is judged to be a success (Non illud Pallas, non illud carpere Livor/ possit opus; ‘Minerva could not, nor could Envy find a flaw in the work’, 6.129–130). Arachne is nonetheless punished; Minerva shreds the tapestry and beats Arachne, who attempts to hang herself and is thereupon turned into a spider (whose biological class is arachn-id). It is not clear whether this is a punishment or a relief from punishment, or whether we should consider Arachne as winning or losing the contest. Many readers look to Ovid’s own later life and his exile by the emperor Augustus (see Chapter 9) as informing this and similar scenes in the poem, but it is not clear how this helps answer the questions raised.

Violence in the Poem No reader of the Metamorphoses can forget the litany of divine rapes that begin in the first book and run through to Book 5, popping up again here and there in later books. Ovid’s approach to these incidents is often disturbingly light-hearted; readers are put in the position of identifying with the lustful god rather than the terrified woman. As for violence, Ovid sometimes depicts it in such gory detail that one wonders what effect he was intending. We have implicitly noted the cruelty of Minerva toward Arachne in Book 6; that book features many other angry gods punishing mortals. One story, told briefly, features the satyr Marsyas, who lost a poetry/singing contest to the god Apollo and was punished by being flayed alive; here is the end of his story (brace yourself: the Latin and its translation are very vivid; Met. 6.387–391): clamanti cutis est summos direpta per artus, nec quicquam nisi vulnus erat; cruor undique manat, detectique patent nervi, trepidaeque sine ulla pelle micant venae; salientia viscera possis et perlucentes numerare in pectore fibras

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Gods, Monsters, and Heroes: Augustan Epic His skin is stripped from him limb by limb as he screams, and there is no part of him that is not an open sore; gore drips from everywhere, and his exposed sinews lie open to view, and his throbbing veins glisten without any skin on them. You could count the quivering innards and shiny entrails in his chest.

Features like these make the Metamorphoses upsetting: we are told that Marsyas is mourned, and his blood eventually becomes a river. But the poem’s relentless push ahead to the next story pulls our attention away. Ovid’s tone changes from episode to episode, mirroring the changes in subject matter and generic influences. Realistic treatments become suddenly fantastic; serious internal narrators are undercut by humorous ones. The poem itself is a riot of changes, and this is reflected in the way it is told. So it is difficult to reach any overall conclusions about Ovid’s tone: for some, there is a deeply serious message behind the witty surface, while others see Ovid as concerned only with surface. Indeed, Marsyas’ death is preceded by his speech, which contains an offputting wordplay (Ov. Met. 6.385–386): ’quid me mihi detrahis?’ inquit; ‘a! piget, a! non est’ clamabat ‘tibia tanti.’ ‘Why are you tearing me from myself’, he said; ‘aah; I am sorry! Aah; a flute is not worth this price!’.

It is unlikely that someone in this situation would be so articulate or would participate in the regular Ovidian debate about what defines identity, so the moment is jarring. And its immediate aftermath, the grotesque description of Marsyas’ flaying, leaves the reader further unsettled. Most of the violence in this poem, however, is perpetrated against women. Fifty rapes, more or less, occur during the course of the Metamorphoses, and they are usually treated by the narrator with a light touch, passed over with little detail beyond their outcome (the birth of a hero). Their sheer number is intimidating, and depressing, and Ovid has often been taken to task for his misogyny. Some readers, however, see the poet as taking a more sympathetic approach: in his focus on male violence and female fear, Ovid sometimes undermines what the narrator is actually saying, allowing space for emotion. This is especially true in the other most-violent scene in the poem, in Book 6 where Tereus rapes his sister-in-law Philomela and, when she threatens to denounce him, cuts out her tongue and rapes her again.

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Wit in the Poem Despite the numerous disturbing incidents in the poem, most readers also find it to be witty, and Ovid’s humour, as we have already seen, pervades even the more sombre episodes. For one, jokes about metre persist throughout Ovid’s works. Later, in the Fasti, Ovid notes an anxiety about whether the heavy subject matter of his poem will overpower or unbalance the delicate structure of the couplet. And the Metamorphoses begins with a comment about metre – this one rather unexpected (Ov. Met. 1.1–4): In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas corpora: di, coeptis (nam vos mutastis et illas) Adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi Ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen! My mind inclines to tell of bodies changed into new forms. Gods – for you have changed them – inspire my beginnings and lead this endless song from the first origin of the world down to my own time.

Our translation attempts to thread the needle of a textual problem in the end of the second line: if the correct reading of the line is illas (printed above), then it refers back to formas and it is bodies which are changed into new forms; if it is illa, then the reference is to corpora and Ovid is writing about forms changed into new bodies. This difference, which hangs on a single, uncertain letter, is important to our interpretation of this introduction. For Ovid is either saying that the gods have changed the forms he is about to discuss, or making the claim that they have changed his ‘beginnings’ – that is, (once again, see Chapter 7) there is divine interference in his metre, which is now not elegiac couplets but, for the first and only time, dactylic hexameter. This metrical change is first seen in the parenthetical comment in line two, and specifically in the word vos, ‘you’, which is the point at which the line would have had to be different for the poem to be in elegiac couplets. Given that the poem itself is about changes, this word is the perfect moment for Ovid to change metre and also to draw attention to that change. But these first lines do much more: the verb deducere, which we have translated as ‘lead’, also means to reduce, deduce, or spin (as in weaving); the image is Callimachean (see Sidebar VI) and suggests an extraordinary attention to craftsmanship. On the other hand, the perpetuum carmen, the ‘endless song’ is almost an anti-Callimachean statement, rejecting the small and finely-wrought for the big and messy. Ovid, like Vergil before him,

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manages to have it both ways, and he here warns us of his intent to surprise. So too, there is a nice juxtaposition in the first two lines between animus (soul) and corpora (bodies), which draws our attention to a main subject of the poem, the changes of outer bodily forms, often to make them match inner realities. Ovid’s poem includes many of the traditional elements of epic poetry, usually parodically. For instance, his battle scenes become ridiculous, as we can see in the case of Perseus. Perseus is the son of Jupiter and Danae who in Book 4 had obtained the head of the Medusa, which turns into stone those who look it in the face. He has rescued the heroine Andromeda, chained to a rock and about to be devoured by a monster, in exchange for her hand in marriage. In Book 5, her fiancé, Phineus, claims Andromeda in a prefiguration of the Turnus–Lavinia theme from the Aeneid that Ovid will skip over later. There are a few epic scenes between Perseus’ men and Phineus’, but the narrative soon degenerates into a free-for-all: two wouldbe soldiers slip and fall in the blood coating the palace floor; Perseus throws drinking vessels instead of weapons; and, finally, vastly outnumbered, Perseus shows the Medusa-head to his opponents, all of whom immediately become stone statues of themselves. Phineus begs for his life, and Perseus petrifies him, saying mansura dabo monimenta per aevum, ‘I will turn you into a monument which will last for all time’ (Ov. Met. 5.227; compare the gist of Met. 15.877–879, quoted above, and the language of Hor. Od. 3.30.1–6 in Chapter 9). Thus concludes one of the two major ‘battle-scenes’ of the poem. As with epic, so the gods of epic: Ovid’s gods are not wildly different from the gods of Homer or Vergil, in the sense that they are all-powerful and quarrel with one another about matters that affect humans. But Ovid’s gods are deflated, not more-than-human but somehow less-than: they behave like children, but with none of their charm. We have already noticed the frequency with which male gods are rapists and the fact that Minerva and Apollo lose their tempers and traumatise their rivals. They are not alone in this characteristic. Ovid’s gods regularly act from the very worst motives and are often shown in the least flattering light. It is difficult to know what to make of this Ovidian habit. Some see it as a deliberate rejection of traditional morality, others as simply light-hearted or amusing. Despite its often-harrowing subject matter, the Metamorphoses is also, in places, a very funny poem. This is accomplished through a variety of means, including puns and wordplay and the juxtaposition of incongruous elements. We have seen some of these already. Here is another: in Book 13, we are given a series of love-triangles, one of them involving the (one-eyed)

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shepherd and cyclops Polyphemus (see also Chapter 9 for Vergil’s treatment of him). Polyphemus features in the Odyssey, where he eats some of Odysseus’ men. In Ovid’s poem, however, he is an elegiac lover (see Chapter 7), pursuing the beautiful Galatea. The incongruity here is already pointed – a hideous giant trying his hand at love – but when we are given the description of his preparations, Ovid tips his hand, for Polyphemus combs his hair with a rake. In this brief visual image, we see the full incongruity of his behaviour: elegy is a small and delicate genre, and this oafish giant could not be more unsuited to it.

Psychology in the Poem The Metamorphoses is not, however, only frivolous or upsetting. It also contains profound insights. Of many characters who enhance our understanding of what it means to be human, we select one. The tale of Narcissus and Echo is related at Book 3.399–510: Narcissus is a boy, born extraordinarily attractive and growing more so each day. It is prophesied that he will survive as long as he never knows himself. He is sought by many but remains uninterested. One day, however, he happens upon his reflection in a pond and is so struck by his own beauty that he cannot leave his own side, and he wastes away, turning into the flower narcissus and giving rise to the psychological concept of narcissism. This is the story that Ovid inherits, but he adds a distinctive element. He joins to this story the tale of a nymph named Echo, who has had her voice removed from her by Juno because she used to delay that goddess while her husband Jupiter was having sex with various nymphs. Her punishment was to be able only to repeat what was said to her, never to initiate conversations. Ovid intertwines the two as follows: Echo sees Narcissus and, like everyone else, falls in love with him. She cannot speak to him, of course, but once he speaks, looking for his friends, she responds (Ov. Met. 3.379–392): forte puer comitum seductus ab agmine fido dixerat ‘ecquis adest’ et ‘adest’ responderat Echo. hic stupet, utque aciem partes dimittit in omnes, voce ‘veni!’ magna clamat; vocat illa vocantem. respicit et rursus nullo veniente ‘quid’ inquit ‘me fugis?’ et totidem, quot dixit, verba recepit. perstat et alternae deceptus imagine vocis ‘huc coeamus’ ait, nullique libentius umquam responsura sono ‘coeamus’ rettulit Echo et verbis favet ipsa suis egressaque silva

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The language contains several double-entendres, but it is also a moving account in its own right. Echo eventually wastes away too, and Narcissus’ arrogant behaviour leads one of his spurned lovers to pray that he will suffer a similar fate. The connection of the two stories shows Ovid’s keen understanding of human nature.

Style As we have already hinted, a key characteristic of Ovid’s poetry is its malleability: it can often be taken in several different ways, depending upon the reader’s own outlook. We have seen this kind of ambiguity before, of course, but it is so consistent a feature of Ovid’s poetry that we might well call it the defining trait. The narrator in the Metamorphoses, as in Ovid’s other poetry, is unreliable and intrusive; right in the middle of an emotional scene he inserts a gratuitous comment or joke, as we have seen with the flaying of Marsyas. The reader of the poem who can set aside its sometimes-disturbing subject matter will find the Metamorphoses a quick read – it is long, but every effort is made to pull the reader through, from short and uncomplicated syntax, to metrical effects, to ending sentences at the end of a line rather than (as Vergil often does) in the middle of one. In fact, Ovid’s metrical and stylistic choices tend to be precisely the opposite of Vergil’s. The poem is also quite repetitive, deliberately so. For instance, in the second book Ovid joins the stories of the crow and the raven into

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a single narrative; both are formerly white birds who became black, and the reader is surely meant to compare and contrast. This is also the case with the early rape stories in the poem; the tale of Apollo and Daphne is told at some length and followed by Jupiter’s rape of Io. A near-twin of the first rape, the tale of Pan and Syrinx, follows that story. It is told by an internal narrator to an audience of one, who falls asleep and is immediately killed. Ovid seems thereby to warn his own audience to pay attention: even when we think we are hearing the same story again, the ending may be different. And indeed, the story of Apollo and Daphne is worth connecting to two more aspects of Ovid’s poetry. This violent pursuit provides the first ‘amatory’ narrative in the poem, and it is not unlike the oppositional world we find in Roman elegy (see Chapter 7). The final love story of the poem, the tale of Vertumnus and Pomona in Book 14, provides a pleasing contrast: the god is a shape-shifter, and he enters the nymph’s presence disguised as an old woman. Earlier in the poem, this would have led immediately to rape, but here the old woman extols the virtues of Vertumnus. Pomona is convinced, and the two begin a consensual relationship. The other episode worth considering in relation to the story of Apollo and Daphne is outside of the Metamorphoses: we are told that the only reason Apollo falls in love with Daphne is that Cupid has hit him with an arrow that causes love; Daphne in her turn has been hit with one that repels it. The introduction of Cupid reminds us of his previous interference in Ovid’s poetry (see Chapter 7): Ovid had been planning to write an epic, but the mischievous god ‘stole a foot’ and so Amores 1.1, and the rest of that book, wind up being elegiac. Ovid’s transitions are as varied as his subject matter; sometimes he works hard to connect a story and at other times he does so in what seems like a casual manner, as, for instance, when he tells us that everyone was at a particular event except one person. This seemingly tenuous connection, however, often misleads about the importance of the juxtaposition of the two stories.

The Ovidian Narrator It is worth saying something about the narrator of the poem; in many ways he is the main thing holding the poem together, and, although he never announces himself, he nonetheless regularly comments upon individual stories. The humour, the aside, the other incongruous elements we have discussed combine to prevent us from forgetting his presence, and he is anything but unbiased. We have already noticed his habit of focusing on

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the least creditable actions of his characters (especially gods), and his sly way of putting them down. In addition to undermining others, the narrator sometimes undermines himself, as when he tells us that a particular story is probably not true, or that it should not be believed; we have already seen the internal narrator Orpheus doing this in Book 10. In the Tristia, Ovid refers to the Metamorphoses, explaining that it is about in non credendos corpora versa modos, ‘bodies changed in unbelievable ways’ (Ov. Tr. 2.64). The grammatical construction here, however, really means ‘in ways that cannot be believed’; Ovid encourages a degree of distance from his poem within it and upon later reflection.

Roman History in the Poem As we have noted, the Romans thought of the Trojan cycle as a part of their history (see Sidebar XI). Books 11–15 cover this historical period, taking events to Ovid’s own time. Ovid’s treatment of this part of the poem is naturally dependent on Vergil’s from the previous generation, and Books 13 and 14 go over much of the same ground as the Aeneid. Ovid’s strategy for handling this looming competitor is to weave in and out of that poem, collapsing important moments in the Aeneid into half a line and expanding upon vignettes or inserting stories that did not appear in his predecessor; one of the things that we ‘discover’ through this treatment is that Odysseus and Aeneas were in some of the same places at the same times. In Book 14 the Odyssean castaway Achaemenides, picked up by Aeneas, runs into his old companion Macareus and they catch up on what has happened to each of them. This is not only a clever way for Ovid to fit more stories in, concentrating on those that feature a metamorphosis or where one could be added; it also destabilises the Vergilian and the Homeric versions of these events, suggesting that his great predecessors did not give us the full story. Book 14 also contains the death of Aeneas and his successors, told with much less detail than the tale of the nymph Pomona and her transvestite suitor Vertumnus. Romulus, the founder of Rome, is portrayed only in battle with the Sabines and when his father Mars invokes a promise made to him by his father Jupiter that he would save Romulus from death (the line itself is a quotation from Ennius). The book ends with the deification of his wife Hersilia as well, and we stand poised, in the fifteenth and final book, for Roman history to begin. In typical Ovidian fashion, however, things do not happen as we expect. Instead of Roman history, or even Vergilian quasi-history, a speech from the

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Greek philosopher Pythagoras takes up roughly the first half of the book. We have already discussed his speech (above), but it is worth mentioning that it includes a prophecy about the eventual greatness of Julius Caesar, immediately before assuring us that no great empire remains for long. So this is history, of a kind: perhaps in Pythagoras’ view no traditional form of history is worth relating, given that everything is temporary. The book’s other incidents are similarly un-historical: the (Greek) tragic Hippolytus, now a Roman demi-god, tells his story; a hero named Cipus grows horns and exiles himself to avoid becoming a king; the Roman god of medicine, Asclepius, arrives in snake form to cure a plague. This final story leads into the death and deification of Julius Caesar, who becomes a star. His deeds are briefly rehearsed, the most notable of which, the narrator tells us, is becoming the (adoptive) father of Augustus. The story of his assassination is also told, in parallel. Jupiter promises Venus that Augustus will, as a mortal god, control the world. The narrator prays to various Roman divinities and finishes with the epilogue we have already discussed (see above). The fact that nearly all of Roman history is skipped, and historical figures’ stories are treated with the same kind of breathless wonder as the patently ridiculous tales of the earlier books, leads to a re-mythologising of Rome, wherein even the recent past becomes subsumed under a haze of implausibility. Then again, the deification of a dead dictator might, in Ovid’s view, require just this kind of treatment. It is obvious how Ovid’s history of Rome looks back to Vergil. In so doing, it elevates that poet’s brand of historicising epic over its predecessors, and at least nods toward universal prose histories. Early historians, as everyone in Rome knew, inserted fantastic stories into their narratives, and although later historians were more austere, even they could not resist elaborating local traditions or including fabulous tales or portents which marked significant historical moments. Usually, these statements are framed by a narratorial statement that discounts them, not unlike some of Ovid’s. And even Ovid’s brevity has its parallel among historians: it was an age of epitomists and some universal historians were remarkably concise: recall Catullus’ praise of Cornelius Nepos for recording the whole of history within three learned volumes (Cat. 1; see Chapters 4 and 6).

Vergil and Ovid These two great near-contemporary epic poets, we have seen, have much in common. At the same time, their poems could not be more different. Where Vergil focuses on the overwhelming weight of Roman history on

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contemporary Rome, Ovid presents a breezy, context-less world in which actions are often disconnected from consequences and the powerful rarely see any consequences at all. Some of this must lie in undiscoverable features of individual personality. But some of it also surely comes from the fact that they are not quite contemporaries: Vergil lived through all the complexities of a generation of civil warfare, while Ovid was born into a world in which one man had emerged victorious from those wars. Ovid, too, reacts to Vergil (and Horace, and others) by pushing the boundaries of genres to their extremes. And by doing this he made himself a valuable resource for many later writers. Vergil’s Aeneid was an instant classic, and all later epic poets in Rome were obliged to orient their work toward or away from his master text. They did so in innovative ways, often reworking and reimagining themes and dynamics they found in Vergil, but, for all their creativity and liveliness in looking back at the Aeneid, these successors tended to cast themselves in a posture of conspicuous belatedness. Ovid, especially his Metamorphoses, offered an alternative. His diction, for the most part, becomes the poetic diction of the next generations. His sheer variability demonstrated the multiple possibilities available to the emulating poet who was good at writing, not least at the practical level. His narrative techniques, including his fascination with the grotesque and depictions by way of extreme imagery, his metrical versatility, and his deft deployment of declamatory speeches punctuated by pointed, memorable expressions – all became essential to the literary equipment of imperial poets as varied as Seneca, Lucan, Martial, or Statius. Ovid, like Vergil but along different lines, became a central, canonical figure. SIDEBARS

XI The Trojan War and its Significance The basic details of the Trojan war cycle, parts of which are told in the Iliad and the Odyssey, as well as other epics and tragedies, are as follows. The Trojan prince Paris/Alexander, while visiting the Greek king Menelaus, absconded with his wife Helen. He had gone there specifically for her, since she had been promised to him by Aphrodite. This was the result of a beauty contest of three goddesses (Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite): each woman offered Paris something to sweeten the pot, and he accepted Aphrodite’s bribe of the most beautiful mortal woman in the world. But when it was time for Helen to marry, her father had made all of her suitors swear to

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defend his decision. And so, the Greeks sailed to Troy (on the Aegean coast of Turkey) to fight for her return. The strongest warrior on the Greek side was the demi-god Achilles, who spends the majority of the Iliad (set in the ninth year of the ten-year war) not fighting because of a disagreement with the commander-in-chief, Agamemnon (Menelaus’ brother). Agamemnon had been forced to give back one of the women he won in battle, and so took one of Achilles’ in her place. Outraged, Achilles goes on strike. But it is clear that he is needed to win the war. Other important heroes include Odysseus (whose ten-year journey home is recounted in the Odyssey), Diomedes, Ajax, and Patroclus, who is Achilles’ particular friend. Ancients had different understandings of this relationship; for some it included sex, and for some, it didn’t. Paris’ father, the Trojan king Priam, is an old man, and so his son Hector commands the Trojan forces. Also on the Trojan side is the demi-god Aeneas, son of Aphrodite. The importance of these poems to Greek culture cannot be overestimated; they were history as well as mythology. And the tradition of Greek heroes making their way home after the war’s end provided an opportunity to connect modern peoples with ancient: many city-states traced their origins back to these heroes, who ended up or stopped by various locales in the west. (Heracles, an inveterate traveller, was also a favourite.) These wandering heroes allegedly founded numerous cities in Sicily or Italy – or fathered sons who founded cities: Odysseus and Circe, sometimes Telemachus and Circe, were remarkably productive along these lines, but they were hardly alone. Diomedes and Philoctetes also created new settlements. Aeneas and the Trojan remnant, like the victorious Achaeans, established new cities in the west. The popularity of these tales was not limited to the Greek world. It is obvious to us from surviving material evidence that Aeneas was a familiar figure in local Italian cultures as early as the sixth century. There existed traditions in Rome which attributed the city’s foundation to offspring of Hercules, Odysseus, and others. Aeneas, too, in more than one version, played the part. These were originally Greek accounts, to be sure, but by the third century they were accepted, even embraced, by Romans. Aeneas was ultimately preferred to Hercules or Odysseus, but his story had to compete with the robust legend of Romulus and Remus. A common solution cast Aeneas, the son of Venus (the Roman version of Aphrodite), as the founder of Italian cities like Lanuvium and Alba Longa and left the creation of Rome to Romulus and Remus, his descendants by way of the kings of Alba Longa, the first of whom was Aeneas’ son Ascanius, sometimes also called Iulus. The Romans, then, saw themselves,

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in a very real sense sense, as modern Trojans. This is interesting for any number of reasons. One of them is that ancient peoples looking for ancestors typically chose winners rather than losers. The Trojans, however, although they were both defeated and classically ‘other’ (being Asian), proved the most compelling model for Romans, perhaps because they provided an ancient pedigree that was simultaneously Greek and foreign, allowing the Romans to belong while emphasising their distinctness. In Greek legends of the Trojan War, Trojans operate within the confines of Greek religion and custom, yet remain outsiders. How far outside was debatable. In classical Athens, Trojans were regarded as barbarians and often equated with Persians. But that was by no means the only view available. By the first century a writer like Dionysius of Halicarnassus could argue that the Trojans were in fact Greeks: this was a necessary part of his larger argument that the Romans were Greeks too. As Rome became increasingly powerful – extending its authority over Greeks in Sicily and Italy – the Trojan element in Roman culture became useful in other ways. For Greeks and Romans alike, although often in different ways, Troy became a vehicle for asserting kinship or, if not kinship, a kind of common culture. Romans were not Greeks (unless you were Dionysius of Halicarnassus), but nor were Romans and Greeks entirely alien to one another. This attitude had realworld implications: in the second century, for instance, eastern Greek cities like Lampsacus and Ilion, each of which could claim Trojan connections, appealed to Rome for military aid on the basis of a shared kinship. Rome accepted, even appreciated, its Trojan heritage. Nor, apparently, were they troubled by a mythical past in which they were once defeated by Greeks. Aeneas and the Trojans appear in Rome’s early historians and occupy the opening passages of Livy. So well-established became the tale that Lucretius could begin his On the Nature of Things by invoking Venus as Aeneadum genetrix, the mother of Aeneas and his descendants (see Chapter 5). The Julians traced their origins to Venus by way of Aeneas, specifically through Aeneas’ son Iulus. Caesar made much of the connection – his forum was dominated by a temple to Venus Genetrix – and his emphasis stimulated others to do likewise. Some Greek-inhabited cities in Asia, for example, officially recognised Caesar as the offspring of Ares and Aphrodite (Greek equivalents of Mars and Venus): the notion at work here was that Caesar descended from Ares/Mars by way of Romulus, from Aphrodite/ Venus by way of Aeneas. Augustus made more of Aeneas than anyone, making him central to imperial ideology. Aeneas and his Julian descendants are conspicuous in the Forum of Augustus and on the Altar of Augustan Peace. Caesar had invented or revived the Romans’ Troy Game (lusus

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Troiae), equestrian exercises performed by young aristocrats: Augustus made it an annual event. And, of course, in the Aeneid the crucial connection between Rome’s Trojan past and its Augustan present is figured principally by way of Aeneas and his adventures. But nothing is ever simple in Roman culture or Latin literature, and Troy was susceptible to more than one brand of meaning. In his Roman Odes, Horace furnishes Juno with a speech in which she promises Rome eternal glory and power – on one condition: they must not rebuild the ancient city of Troy (Odes 3.3.57– 60). What does Troy stand for here? Eastern luxury? Sexual decadence (Troy was the city of wife-stealing Paris after all)? Faithlessness (Laomedon, the founder of Troy, tried to cheat the gods)? There is no obvious answer – and this is doubtless part of the poem’s point – but this ode, in a way unlike Vergil’s epic, underlines the complexities entailed by Rome’s acceptance of the Trojan War as the catalyst for its own establishment.

Further Reading Reliable translations of Cat. 64 can be found in the Loeb edition by G. P. Goold, Catullus, Tibullus, Pervigilium Veneris (Cambridge MA 1988) vol. 6 and P. Green, The Poems of Catullus (Berkeley and Los Angeles 2005). Vergil’s Aeneid is difficult to translate. Some readers may prefer to begin with D. West, Virgil: The Aeneid: A New Prose Translation (London 1990). Very much worth reading are R. Fagles, The Aeneid (London 2008) and S. Bartsch, Vergil, The Aeneid (New York 2021). Few texts have been translated more often than Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Recent, readable translations include: A. Mandelbaum, The Metamorphoses of Ovid (Boston 1995), C. Martin, Ovid: Metamorphoses, A New Translation (New York 2005), and S. McCarter Ovid: Metamorphoses (New York 2022). A good introduction to miniature epic is M. Baumbauch and S. Bär (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Greek and Latin epyllion and its reception (Leiden 2012). As for Vergil and Ovid, their epics have received more study than any other in Latin literature. W. S. Anderson, The Art of the Aeneid (Bristol 1989) provides a lucid introduction to some of the main features of the Aeneid. Another good starting point is C. Perkell (ed.), Reading Vergil’s Aeneid: An Interpretive Guide (Norman 1999). Also helpful is C. Martindale (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Virgil (Cambridge 1997). A. Barchiesi, Homeric Effects in Vergil’s Narrative (Princeton 2015, trans. I. Marchesi and M. Fox) thoroughly treats the poet’s reenvisioning of Homeric narrative. B. M. W. Knox, “The Serpent and Flame: The Imagery of the Second Book of the Aeneid,” American Journal of Philology 71 (1950): 379–400, not an easy read, is a probing case-study of how Vergil uses symbols in conveying meaning throughout his epic. Some of the complications lurking in Vergil’s choice of words are uncovered in R. O. A. M. Lyne, Further Voices in Vergil’s Aeneid (Oxford 1987). An examination of Vergil’s discourse on

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power which goes beyond the Augustan versus anti-Augustan binary is P. Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid: Cosmos and Imperium (Oxford 1986). For Ovid’s Metamorphoses, G. K. Galinsky, Ovid’s Metamorphoses: An Introduction to its Basic Aspects (Oxford 1975) is just that. S. Hinds, The Metamorphosis of Persephone: Ovid and the Self-Conscious Muse (Cambridge 1987) discusses Ovid’s incorporation of literary predecessors, and also his treatment of episodes across poetic works. A. Feldherr, Playing Gods: Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Politics of Fiction (Princeton: 2010) explores the political elements of the poem. M. Kahn, ‘“Why Are We Reading a Handbook on Rape?” Young Women Transform a Classic’, Pedagogy 4.3 (2004): 438–59 is an excellent treatment of some of the disturbing elements of the poem. And L. Fulkerson and T. Stover (eds.), Repeat Performances: Ovidian Repetition and the Metamorphoses (Madison 2016) looks at the ways Ovid creatively refashions poetic material. R. Heinze, Virgils Epische Technik 1903, (translated by H. and D. Harvey and F. Robertson as Virgil’s Epic Technique, Bristol 1994) and V. Pöschl, Die Dichtkunst Virgils: Bild und Symbol in der Aeneis (Berlin 1977) are fundamental to serious study of the Aeneid. G. N. Knauer Die Aeneis und Homer (Göttingen 1964) and A. Barchiesi, La traccia del modello. Effetti omerici nella narrazione virgiliana (Pisa 1985) both focus on the relationship between Homer and Vergil; for the former, the extraordinarily useful indices do not require German. For the Metamorphoses, important non-English language resources include F. Bömer’s multi-volume commentaries (Heidelberg, 1957 and later), G. Rosati, Narcisso e Pygmalion: Illusione e spettacolo nelle Metamorfosi di Ovidio (Florence 1983), now translated as Narcissus and Pygmalion: Illusion and Spectacle in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Oxford 2022) and S. Viarre, L’Image et la pensée dans les Métamorphoses d’Ovide (Paris 1964).

chapter 9

Further Voices: Augustan Personal Poetry

We explored in Chapter 4 the origins of the personal voice in Roman poetry. This chapter continues from there, treating the Augustan poetry that is neither epic (Chapter 8) nor love-poetry (Chapter 7). The distinction we draw between personal and love poetry is, of course, artificial: some of Horace’s Odes are about love, and some of Vergil’s and Ovid’s poems covered in this chapter contain love-stories. Still, some of the most important poetry of this era is distinctly non-epic and non-erotic. Indeed, this chapter features some of the highlights of Latin poetry from the Eclogues of Vergil to the Odes of Horace to the exile poetry of Ovid.

Vergil’s Eclogues: Relationship to Pastoral and to Rome Vergil’s Eclogues (Selected Poems), ten poems of highly refined Alexandrian artistry, quickly became an object of literary admiration, not least for their structure. (They are the first Latin poetic collection that we know was arranged by its author.) The genre of the Eclogues is pastoral – these are songs set in an imaginary countryside – but they are very much engaged with the real world of Vergil’s Rome. Pastoral poetry is the invention of Theocritus of Syracuse, a third century Alexandrian poet and scholar. Theocritus’ pastoral Idylls are inhabited by shepherds, minor divinities, and even the occasional monster – all of whom sing in lines notable for their elegance and erudition. This countryside, imagined as someplace in Sicily, is uncomplicated and beautiful, an urbanite’s unrealistic vision of the joys of country life. This is not to say Theocritus’ world is untroubled: personal antagonisms arise, and unrequited love afflicts more than one denizen, but these are trifles in an otherwise happy landscape. Part of the appeal of Theocritean pastoral lies in its striking contrast between the apparent naivete of its singers and the erudite scholarship conspicuous in their verses. Wit is to the fore, sometimes without sympathy. In Idyll 11, for instance, a love-sick farming cyclops (a one-eyed giant usually conceived of 317

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as a monster) pines away for Galatea, a beautiful sea nymph (see too Chapter 8 for Ovid’s treatment of this character). His song is learned and exquisite, something wildly unexpected in a figure who routinely symbolises barbarism. And there is cruel humour in his concession that his looks are less than glamourous. Still, he protests, he has many sheep and lots of cheeses stored away. His suit is unsuccessful, and, in the end, he pulls himself together and returns to his chores, confident that he will soon find more a receptive object for his affections. Before Vergil, Theocritus is not an obvious influence on Latin poetry. By the mid-first century, Artemidorus of Tarsus had published a collection of pastoral poetry, including ten idylls attributed to Theocritus, and Artemidorus was very likely an important stimulus for Vergil’s engagement with Theocritean pastoral. Vergil’s Eclogues (like the Theocritean canon of Artemidorus) consists of ten poems, composed, it appears, between 42 and 35 and soon thereafter assembled, perhaps with some revision, into a single poetry book. Vergil’s pastoral setting is not Sicily but the Italian countryside, especially around Vergil’s native Mantua. This world is less stable than Theocritus’: sometimes it is mythologised into an idyllic vision; sometimes it is the real, desolate Italian countryside of the late forties. Not every poem is pastoral – Ecl. 4 begins, as we shall see, by making it clear how different it is from other poems in the collection – and the city of Rome looms large in the world of Vergil’s rustics. So, too, Roman friends: Asinius Pollio, Octavian, Cornelius Gallus, and Varius Rufus all make important appearances.

Vergil’s Poetic Voice in the Eclogues Vergil’s Eclogues may seem an odd fit in a chapter focusing on personal poetry. Amid the dramatic exchanges and rustic voices of this book, however, the poet also speaks. Indeed, more than once he foregrounds the very issue of his own voice. Naturally everything is mannered, and Vergil reminds his audience that he knows them to be readers (Verg. Ecl. 3.85), learned ones at that. In Ecl. 6, the poet addresses Varus, for whom he will be unable to compose an epic poem. When he set out to do so, Apollo pulled him aside, observing, ‘A shepherd, Tityrus/ ought to feed up his sheep to be fat, but sing a delicate song’ (Verg. Ecl. 6.4–5). Consequently, Vergil, like the Tityrus of Ecl. 1, ‘will practise the art of a rustic Muse by means of a slender reed’ (Verg. Ecl. 6.8; cf. Ecl. 1.1–2). Here the familiar conceit of the recusatio – a gracious refusal, usually justified by a poet’s generic situation, to furnish a requested composition

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(see Chapter 7) – is put to work releasing Vergil from the obligation to compose epic through adaptation of Callimachus’ Aetia prologue (see Sidebar VI). This conspicuous intertext allows Vergil to display his Alexandrian credentials and underlines that it is this poet who is drafting the following lines, verses which record a bucolic episode in which two shepherds and a Naiad capture Silenus, an elderly, drunken divinity devoted to the rites of Bacchus – and a figure entirely alien to Theocritean pastoral. They demand a song, and Silenus delivers one, the opening lines of which he filches, unexpectedly, from epic poetry: the song of Orpheus in Apollonius’ Argonautica (1.496–504). But Silenus’ song knows no bounds, topical, or temporal. He only stops when night falls. The highlight of Silenus’ song is the poetic initiation of Cornelius Gallus, the elegiac poet who was also Vergil’s friend (see Chapter 7). Gallus, following in the footsteps of Callimachus and Ennius (see Chapter 1 and Sidebar VI), is graced by the Muses with the gift of Hesiod’s pipes, a gesture employed to signal his literary succession. But lest the reader forget the immediate source of this poem, Vergil breaks in with a reference to himself: quid loquar? – why should I go on? (Verg. Ecl. 6.74). And at that point, he abandons direct discourse: Silenus is silenced, but Vergil offers an abbreviated catalogue of the remainder of Silenus’ topics. This poem, like every Eclogue, is complex, but there is no missing Vergil’s elegant figuring of his own poetic identity, an identity that is also marked by the poet’s personal ties to contemporary artists. This is not the only moment in the Eclogues when the poet draws attention to himself. In Ecl. 8, addressing either Octavian or Pollio (critics disagree), Vergil again underscores his personal voice – ‘I shall sing (dicemus: Ecl. 8.5)’ – as the author of the pastoral contest which follows. The issue of detecting the poet’s voice amid the songs of his characters is foregrounded in Ecl. 5, an exchange between the gracious shepherds Mopsus and Menalcas. At the end of this poem, the two exchange gifts. Menalcas presents Mopsus with the delicate reed on which he composed two songs clearly identified as Ecl. 2 and Ecl. 3 (Verg. Ecl. 5.85–90). More remarkable is Vergil’s treatment of the personal voice in Ecl. 10. He begins by identifying it as his last eclogue (Verg. Ecl. 10.1–2: ‘grant me, Arethusa, this last labour’). The poem is about Gallus (see Chapter 7), the love-sick elegiac poet who now sings of his passion within the conventions of pastoral. That most ostensibly personal of all genres, Latin love poetry, Vergil draws into his Eclogues, where the voice of Gallus (his song teems with allusions to actual Gallic elegy) is now, in a sense, the voice of Vergil. But Gallus and his genre are hard to hold: at the end of his song, Gallus

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declares: ‘love conquers everything, so let us give in to love’ (Verg. Ecl. 10.69: omnia vincit Amor: et nos cedamus Amori). ‘Amor’, of course, is both love and love poetry, and Vergil’s Gallus resists being confined to a pastoral setting. After that, Vergil can delay no longer. The poem must end (Verg. Ecl. 10.70: ‘this will be enough’). So, too, the poetry book, and perhaps the fantasy of the pastoral life.

Historical Context of the Eclogues This historical situation of the Eclogues is crucial to any understanding of their inspiration and immediate reception (see too Sidebar XI). After the battle of Philippi in 42, the triumvirs, Antony, Octavian, and Lepidus, were committed to furnishing farmlands, in Italy, to their veterans, who demanded rewards. This was a major undertaking, involving as many as 50,000 men. But the new regime had no money to defray the costs of so massive a programme. Consequently, the triumvirs, relying on their absolute authority, confiscated private property on an unprecedented scale. Throughout Italy, small farmers were removed from their land and deprived of much of their other property, without mercy or compensation. Appian describes the expulsion of these citizens as being ‘as if their cities had been captured by the spear’ (App. B. Civ. 4). Dispossession entailed calamity: many families were reduced to tenancy, labouring on lands they had once owned. But these were the lucky few; more became refugees within their own country. Cast out and left to fend for themselves, many made their way to Rome, where even the urban poor pitied them. More than a few turned to banditry. Blame for this massive suffering fell on the triumvirs, especially Octavian. In Italy’s municipalities he was abominated, hostility that led to a fresh outbreak of civil war waged by Lucius Antonius, Antony’s brother, and Fulvia, Antony’s wife: their battle cry was libertas, freedom (Dio 48.13.6). This conflict led to the sacking of more than one Italian city and was settled only in 40, when Lucius, besieged in the city of Perusia, surrendered to Octavian, who immediately pardoned him. Not long after this, Fulvia fell victim to a serious illness and perished. Thereafter our sources have less to say about the wretched men and women who were dispossessed to supply lands for the soldiers. A few ameliorating policies were introduced, but the misfortunes of these ejected Italian peasants persisted long after the violence of the Perusine War: during the thirties, bands of homeless farmers continued to menace rustic Italy.

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These horrors are central to Vergil’s Eclogues. The opening poem is a dialogue between two figures, Meliboeus and Tityrus. The later lives the blessed life of a bucolic singer. The former is a refugee: ‘I leave my homeland as an exile’ (Verg. Ecl. 1.4: nos patriam fugimus), Meliboeus cries, and offers a pathetic account of his miseries. But he is curious: how is it that Tityrus remains unmolested? Salvation, comes the reply, was found in the city of Rome, where he went in search of libertas (Verg. Ecl. 1.27–35). In the countryside, there was no hope (Verg. Ecl. 1.40–41), but in the capital a divine young man (Octavian), granted him – and others – the possession of their own properties. No such luck for Meliboeus: an unholy soldier (impius . . . miles: Ecl. 1.70), indeed, a complete outsider (barbarus: Ecl.1.71) has seized his lands. This, he laments, is the wretchedness civil war inflicts on citizens (Verg. Ecl. 1.71–2: en quo discordia civis / produxit miseros). This poem, it is obvious, rewrites history in important ways. But it does not occlude the miseries imposed on Italy by its rulers. Vergil’s poem concludes with an act of kindness: Tityrus invites Meliboeus to spend the night. But this is hardly a permanent solution: Meliboeus remains homeless. The reader can only be unsettled: happy for Tityrus, one cannot avoid pitying Meliboeus. The injustice is real, but sympathy, not anger, animates the poem. Vergil returns to dispossession in Ecl. 9. There Lycidas and Moeris bewail the desolation of the countryside. Moeris remains on his lands, a tenant farmer serving the soldier from whom he now rents (Verg. Ecl. 9.1–6). In the beginning, he, like others, was ordered off his farm: ‘old farmers out!’ (Verg. Ecl. 9.3: veteres migrate coloni) is the brusque command. The man is lucky to be alive: he nearly perished in the violence (Verg. Ecl. 9.11–16). This unfortunate slice of countryside is none other than Mantua, Vergil’s home (Verg. Ecl. 9.26–29), and the residue of the poem is an unhappy meditation on the powerlessness of poetry in a confrontation with the violence that mars the countryside. It is easy for modern readers to overlook Vergil’s shift of scene from the fantastic Sicily of Theocritus to a landscape blighted by the desolation of contemporary Italy. But Vergil’s countryside, for all its imaginative elements and for all its robust reworking of Theocritean pastoral, is by no means escapist fantasy. Italy’s pain was too real and too recent to remain unfelt by Vergil’s contemporaries. In this bucolic world, moments of bliss are lovingly elaborated, but hardly routine: they are, in a countryside scarred by crisis, nothing short of precious. And they are unavoidably regulated by the politics of the city. In the Eclogues, salvation or despair depends upon decisions made in Rome. This anxiety is underlined even in the conclusion

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of Vergil’s book. There, at evening, the poet drives home his goats, drawing attention to the potential danger posed by gloomy shadows – umbra, shadow, is repeated three times in two lines (Verg. Ecl. 10.75–6). This emphasis reprises the melancholy conclusion of Ecl. 1, when long shadows settle over Tityrus and Meliboeus (Verg. Ecl.1.78).

The Fourth Eclogue Vergil’s Fourth Eclogue is distinctive. There is nothing pastoral about it, and Vergil’s opening makes it clear that its aims are far grander than its fellows (Verg. Ecl. 4.1–3): Sicelides Musae, paulo maiora canamus non omnis arbusta iuvant humilesque myricae; si canimus silvas, silvae sint consule dignae. Muses of Sicily, let us sing of things somewhat greater; orchards and lowly tamarisks do not please everyone. If we sing of woodlands, let the woodlands be worthy of a consul.

In this poem, Vergil reacts hopefully to the Pact of Brundisium (40), an agreement between Antony and Octavian which evaded another civil war in the aftermath of the Perusine crisis. Harmony was restored between the two triumvirs, marked by a marriage between Antony and Octavia, Octavian’s sister. The year of this event was also the year of Asinius Pollio’s consulship (see also Chapter 6), and Vergil celebrates his friend’s high office by making it the moment at which a reprise of the Golden Age will dawn. The advent of this welcome transformation is elaborated in language at once highly allusive and prophetic. And the central symbol for ushering in this new heaven on earth is the birth of a boy, a puer, who, as he becomes a man, will bring perfection. This child, however, symbolic though he is, was also viewed by contemporaries as the hoped-for son of Antony and Octavia, who could in himself and his progeny combine the triumvirs’ families in permanent affinity. Octavia’s children by Antony, however, were girls, a fact which allowed Pollio’s son, Asinius Gallus, to claim himself as the child. This man, however, although talented and much favoured, failed to inaugurate an age of gold. (He fell from grace during the reign of Tiberius and perished a prisoner.) Ecl. 4 is a marvellous poem, and there is much more to it than the problem of the mysterious puer. Nonetheless, much of its lasting fame resides in the subsequent deliberations over the puer’s correct identification. Later Christian readers saw in Vergil’s prophecy the vision of an enlightened pagan, and more than

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one interpreter identified the child with Christ. For this reason, the Messianic Eclogue, as Ecl. 4 is sometimes known, did much to elevate Vergil’s reputation in Christian Europe and played its part in rendering Vergil Dante’s guide in the Inferno.

The Appendix Vergiliana The Appendix Vergiliana is a series of poems that became attached to Vergil’s name at various points during their history (Suetonius names most but not all of them). Most scholars do not believe Vergil wrote any of them, but there is room for debate. What these texts do, in the main, is to try to fill in pieces of the early life of Vergil: the formal perfection of the Eclogues (and their publication in the author’s thirties) makes it natural to imagine that he wrote other, less-polished, poems before them. One of them, an epyllion (see Chapter 8) entitled Ciris paints the picture of a young Vergil interested in philosophy, but trying out poetry. The Aetna offers a Lucretius-like description of the famous Sicilian volcano. Two (Lydia, Culex) offer light takes on pastoral and country themes that might be warm-ups for the Eclogues; and two (Catalepton, Elegiae in Maecenatem) provide up-close glimpses of Vergil’s relationships with contemporaries and friends. Most of them are consciously Vergilian in tone and language, and some contain lines or phrases found elsewhere in the Vergilian corpus; these either provide evidence for authenticity or for imitation, depending on your point of view. Interestingly, however, aside from the Appendix, which most scholars think of as a form of ‘fan fiction’, there were few imitators of Vergil for several generations. (Ovid’s Ars amatoria and Metamorphoses provide interesting – and rare – exceptions; see Chapter 5 and 8). Some of this probably has to do with how quickly Vergil became seen as a canonical author.

Horace: Introduction We know quite a lot about the poet Horace, primarily because – unlike, say, Vergil – he writes in genres that provide first-person information. From his poetry we learn that Q. Horatius Flaccus was born in Venusia, in Apulia, in southern Italy, in 65, the son of a freedman (see Sidebar IV). He was, unusually, educated at Rome, and served as a military tribune (a fairly high rank). In the civil wars between Octavian and Antony (see Sidebar IX), he found himself fighting on the wrong side. In particular, he was at the decisive battle of Philippi, in 42, under the leadership of Brutus. His

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lands, like those of many others in this situation, were confiscated and redistributed to veterans (see above for the Eclogues’ take on this). So, he turned to writing to make a living, purchasing a position as a scriba quaestoris, a governmental secretary’s job which normally led to lucrative commissions. Thereafter, he managed to insinuate himself with Octavian’s friend Maecenas (his biographer Suetonius uses the participle insinuatus at Vita Hor. 1.2, which is hard to take neutrally), and then with Octavian himself. He was given at least one and possibly several pieces of real estate by Maecenas, which meant he no longer had to ‘work’ (though he continued to write poetry). He eventually became the equivalent of a poet laureate with the writing of the Carmen Saeculare, an officially commissioned poem, in 17. He never married, and he died in 8.

Horace’s Biography In its basic outlines, this biography is likely to be accurate, but we must always be careful when evaluating first-person statements in the poets. (And, as we have already seen, the works of later biographers, influenced by those statements, are not necessarily more reliable.) Let us take the first item, Horace’s status as the son of a freedman. If this is true (some prefer to see it as a metaphor, adapted from the Greek poet Bion), it is far likelier that Horace’s father was an elite provincial enslaved in the capture of Venusia toward the end of the Social Wars, in 88, than that he was born a slave. For one thing, the family’s name does not suggest servile origins. If we opt for metaphor, we are sent to the world of Roman comedy, and specifically to Terence’s Brothers, which features two different inept fathers (see Chapter 2): scholars suggest that Horace’s language mirrors that play closely. The trajectory of Horace’s life tends to suggest early idealism and eventual accommodation to reality. This is one among many reasons why Horace is a poet who usually appeals to middle-aged readers rather than the young. Horace, in the words of Ronald Syme, chose the expedient course and became a ‘safe and subsidised’ poet. This too might be true. But it is also possible that Horace’s republican leanings stemmed from the opportunities for rapid social and financial advancement offered by that side rather than from deeply held beliefs in old-fashioned values. So too, his conversion to the side of Octavian may have been based on a genuine belief that it was the best path forward. We only have Horace’s writings about the losing side in retrospect, and it is difficult to extrapolate backwards. So too, the focus on Horace’s change of heart oversimplifies matters: the

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differences between the two sides were more about power than ideology. Most Romans will have had very close friends and family members on both sides and may well have struggled to know which was right, or which would win. We have already seen how Cicero, who usually presented himself as a defender of the republic, could manage not only to articulate arguments in favour of both Caesar and Pompey, but recognised that his ultimate choice was more personal than political. But Horace is not merely any former republican: he is one who, at least on a surface reading of his poetry, comes to support the regime wholeheartedly. For – as he tells us – he is befriended by Maecenas (and later by Augustus himself). We have treated the subject of literary patronage (see Sidebar II); in the case of Horace things become especially confusing, not least because it is in Horace’s interest to confuse us. Horace’s assertion that he had to earn his keep is probably true enough, but we should think of him rather as a well-placed aristocrat fallen on hard times than as a friendless young man climbing the social ladder. So too, it is probably true that Maecenas provided him with significant financial resources. But Horace – for all his apparent frankness on the matter – leaves us in the dark about details. He seems to have become an equestrian in rank (see Sidebar V) but when he refers to his little Sabine farm (unicis Sabinis, literally ‘few Sabines’, Odes 2.8.14 and see Epist. 1.16 for a description), modern readers are likelier to think of a cottage with a small garden than of an estate supporting – or rather, supported by – five individual tenant-farming families, from whose labour Horace derived his income. Horace’s claims to live and eat simply may be comparatively true (Hor. Sat. 2.6, undermined in Sat. 2.7), but we are nonetheless talking about a scale significantly grander than his words imply.

Horace and His Patron(s) Such questions about ideological leanings and material realities do not arise nearly as frequently in the reading of other Latin poets, because they do not bring them up. Horace, by contrast, returns obsessively to questions about patronage and freedom. His focus on the economics of poetry probably does reflect reality: his situation seems to differ from that of most other Augustan poets (see Sidebar II), for whom ‘patronage’ is metaphorical, involving hostings of public readings and expressions of support rather than material gifts. We are therefore led to suspect that Horace inserts these details because they mattered, because until he had a Sabine farm, he did not have much stability at all.

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There is also the role of the biographer Suetonius. As we have noted above, Suetonius tells us that Horace ‘insinuated’ himself into the friendship of Maecenas. And Suetonius’ further claims are even more damning: he also says that Horace wrote his fourth book of Odes at the command of Augustus (see below). On the other hand, Suetonius also tells us that Horace turned down the offer to become Augustus’ own personal secretary (a position Suetonius himself held under a later emperor, with access to imperial records and correspondence, and so may suggest that he knows what he is talking about). For Suetonius, it is obvious that Horace would want to make friends with a powerful man, and noteworthy that he refuses any request from that man. But Suetonius lives in a much later time, in which relationships between emperors and their hangers-on had become significantly more stratified. These quasi-political questions lead us inevitably to the crux of thinking about Horace: it is easy to read him as an opportunist (to put it neutrally). When young, he stood up for what he believed, but he suffered, and soon, in his late twenties, he became more realistic and ‘sold out’ to the ruling power (to phrase it the way many critics do). For this he was richly rewarded. Later in this chapter we shall suggest a contrast between Horace and Ovid, the latter of whom we might read as a poet who did not compromise or change his beliefs, and who was thoroughly punished for it. But this contrast, while real, is probably an oversimplification of both men’s careers. For this reason, too, patronage is an awkward topic: it is not merely that Horace may have actually required the financial support of Maecenas and then Augustus, but that he may (therefore) have felt a greater obligation than his contemporaries to write the kind of poetry they wanted. His poetry is rich with characters who are ungrateful to their benefactors, who do not understand polite society, and who are shameless social climbers. Most of the time the contrast between these characters and Horace himself is clear, but there are moments when they come uncomfortably close to expressing views Horace elsewhere claims for himself, or that uncharitable contemporaries might see as Horatian. We have mentioned the recusatio (see Chapter 7 and above), a poem whereby the poet, usually on the grounds of having the wrong kind of poetic gift, offers a justification for not writing a different kind of poem (usually figured as an epic about Augustus; see Chapter 8 on the Aeneid as, in part, fulfilling that wish). Horace writes a few poems that fall into this category (see below on Odes 1.6), but also, more interestingly, claims that he has already fulfilled all claims on him, in a poem which puts him in the

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position of a retired gladiator asked to re-enter the fray (Hor. Epist. 1.1). These tensions and others manifest themselves throughout Horace’s poetry. One interesting example, to expand upon the poem just mentioned, is Horace’s regular claim that he does not require wealth to be happy. In Epistle 1.7, which responds to the (probably fictional) demand of Maecenas that he return to Rome, the poet explains his stance via the fable of the fox in the granary. This fox eats so much that his belly swells and he cannot leave through the door by which he entered. Horace contrasts himself with the fox: inspice si possum donata reponere laetus (‘See whether I can happily give back all of the gifts’: Epist. 1.7.39). We are meant to appreciate the great-heartedness of the reply, if not its logic – for without a country estate, Horace would likely be forced to live in Rome full-time, which is just what Maecenas had wanted.

Overview of Horace’s Poetic Output In his earliest writings, Horace adopts the form of the satire (see Chapter 4), which allows him to be angry. His first book of Satires was published in 35, and Book 2 followed in 30 or 29. So too the Epodes (published in 30), which reimagine in a different metre and for a Roman audience the aggressive potential of Greek iambic attack-poetry. And yet, the majority of the Satires and Epodes dance around anger rather than embracing it. Horace, who denotes himself by his cognomen Flaccus (flaccid, ‘Mr Softie’), regularly threatens but never actually employs a violent masculinity of the kind we find in, say, Catullus (see Chapter 4). So even in his earliest published work Horace suggests that a careful control has been imposed. As early as the Epodes, Horace is at pains to present himself as a lowly friend of the great (Hor. Epod. 1 tells us that Maecenas ‘befriended’ him). And this attitude – grateful, apolitical – persists throughout the Epodes, despite their significantly more aggressive tone toward those who are lower on the social scale than the poet. Only with the Odes (the first three books of which were published in 23), when there is a clear victor in the power struggles between Antony and Augustus does he come out firmly in favour of the Augustan order. Odes 1.37, for instance, celebrates the death of the Egyptian queen Cleopatra, avoiding all mention of Antony and thus of civil war, but it gives the queen dignity in defeat. And in this poem, Horace also manages to feature Cleopatra in his ‘triumph’, which Augustus had notoriously failed to do (she killed herself to avoid captivity). Epode 9, on the same general topic but several years earlier, has a different tone: it uncomplicatedly calls Maecenas to celebration and looks forward to the glorious triumph that will follow.

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The Odes are Horace’s masterpiece, an interpretation and translation of Greek lyric poetry, focusing on the major themes of that genre: friendship, love, politics, good behaviour, life lessons. Their genius was immediately recognised, and the Odes cemented his reputation as a great poet within his own lifetime. They are a reimagining of the entire canon of the Greek lyric poets, and a refashioning of that genre into a Roman context, but they are much more. Horace then moved to a new form, that of the verse letter. Epistles 1 was published in 20, and it was written in hexameter form (like the Satires, but these poems are stylistically different). These, as their title suggests, are letters, addressed to well-known individuals. The Carmen Saeculare is perhaps the most distinctive of Horace’s poems, since it was commissioned by the emperor to be performed publicly at the Saecular Games of 17 by a chorus of boys and girls. The event, ten years after the Augustan settlement of 27, was meant to herald a new era of peace and prosperity; it is comparable to the public hymn written by Livius Andronicus in 240 under similar circumstances (see Chapter 1). A second book of Epistles followed, in 17 or 12; these letters are similar to the previous, but significantly longer, and Augustus is the addressee of one of them. Finally, Horace wrote a fourth book of Odes in ca. 13, in which he returned to some earlier themes, but with the attitudes of a much older man. Horace’s final poem is the Ars Poetica, published ca. 10 and addressed to two sons of a Piso. It purports to offer them instruction on the writing of poetry. While it has been influential on many generations of poets, it is really more a work of literary criticism – expressing Horace’s own views of poetry – than of instruction proper (see Chapter 5).

Horace’s Satires: Politics and Society Horace’s Satires focus on politics and friendship and how to live a good life. We have already noticed that Horace is unusually forthcoming about the details of his life, and we have observed that it is unclear whether he is entirely truthful in those details. These poems are characteristic of his work in their apparent frankness, and in their interest in time and change. Horace’s first published poetry, Book 1 of the Satires, contains ten poems, which seem to be organised with the same care as Vergil’s Eclogues, published shortly before. (Indeed, many readers see in them a similar structure, with the first and ninth poem of each collection sharing important themes, and the second and the eighth too.) Lucretius’ De rerum natura is also patently an important model, both in the nods here and there to Epicurean philosophy, and in the close and careful observation of human foibles.

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But it is Lucilius (see Chapter 4) who is Horace’s main model, if a negative one. Horace stresses Lucilius’ freedom of speech: because of his equestrian status, the earlier poet did not need to fear the consequences of his honesty. This kind of freedom, says Horace, is simply impossible for him. What we are to conclude about the changes in political life since the time of Lucilius, or about Horace’s own bravery or foresight, is unclear. But we can see that Horace is most comfortable when he has a foil: he will perform much the same manoeuvre in his Epodes, which assimilate only to reject the archaic Greek lyric of Archilochus, and later in his Odes, which tackle the entire canon of Greek lyric poets. Horace’s treatment of Lucilius is interesting: he draws attention to his most significant predecessor only in the fourth poem, and only to deemphasise his importance. In Satire 1.4 Lucilius spews forth unedited verses. And in the tenth and final satire, Horace claims that Lucilius’ verse was so ample that it could not all be good (he cites Homer as a precedent). He also suggests that times have changed: Lucilius himself would have had to edit more effectively were he to live among Horace’s (hypercritical?) contemporaries. In the process, Horace fashions Lucilius as his (clumsy, inferior) predecessor, although the sets of poems are rather different. In effect, Horace satirises Lucilius, which gives us a sense of how important an influence Lucilius must have been for him. Satire is a regular vehicle for criticising the faults of others, often in a quasi-philosophical vein. Satires Book 1 begins with three traditional subjects of diatribe: the first is about being content with one’s lot, whatever it may be. The second advocates a similar moderation in sex, warning readers away from adultery (especially with upper-class women), and the third focuses on our tendency to deceive ourselves about our own flaws as we concentrate on those of others. In each, however, Horace refrains from the kind of biting anger typical of satire; some critics suggest that there is political intent in their very lack of politics, and that they are designed to show us Horace and his powerful friends as regular, decent people. Whether we are to draw conclusions about Horace alone, or about his allies, the Satires demonstrate Horace’s virtue, unassumingness, and suitability to be a friend of the great. They also show him as interested in the improvement of the self. Or perhaps not: some read them as parodying the Epicurean viewpoint rather than expressing it sincerely. Critics also see Horace as adopting a Cynic or Stoic viewpoint in these poems, and his blasé, seen-it-all stance is in tension with his actual youth. Satire 1.5 serves as an explicit demonstration of the virtues alluded to in the first three poems. It references a Lucilian poem about a trip to Sicily.

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Horace recounts a journey with his famous friends that ends up at Brundisium (modern Brindisi). He does not mention, but chronology suggests, that this was the delicate diplomatic mission either of 40, in which Maecenas was sent to secure Antony’s support in an impending battle with Sextus Pompey, or of 37, when, once again, Octavian was obliged to negotiate with Antony about waging a campaign against Sextus Pompey. The poem itself concentrates on food and drink, Horace’s sexual frustration, the entertainment, the lodging, and (especially) his tummy and eye troubles. Horace is just the right sort of company for such a journey; the literal bleariness of his vision also metaphorically means that he will not see anything you don’t want him to. (He is also, if only temporarily, blind – like the great Homer.) And if he does write a poem about sensitive matters, Horace will misdirect attention so thoroughly that readers may not even know it was that trip (see also Sat. 2.6, in which Horace again disavows insider knowledge). This first group of poems gives a very clear sense of Horace’s self-positioning: unlike many later satirists, Horace is a quiet observer, amused but not splenetic. Satire 1.9 is an excellent example of the darker side of friendship with great men. In it, Horace is accosted by someone he knows, a man eager to insinuate himself into Horace’s circle. His boorish behaviour has amused generations of readers, and this amusement allows the poem to do its work surreptitiously: what Horace has really accomplished is to delineate insiders from outsiders. ‘The pest’, as he is usually called, is the antiHorace, making unwarranted assumptions and behaving in a manner so uncouth as to make clear that he does not belong (Hor. Sat. 1.9.43–48): ‘Maecenas quomodo tecum?’ hinc repetit: ‘paucorum hominum et mentis bene sanae. nemo dexterous fortuna est usus. Haberes magnum adiutorem, posset qui ferre secundas, hunc hominem velles si trader: dispeream, ni summosses omnis.’ ‘How goes it with you and Maecenas’, he begins again, ‘a man of few friends and good sense? Nobody has ever been cleverer with his luck. You could have a real helper, who would be your number two, if you were willing to hand that guy over. I’ll be damned if you wouldn’t dislodge all the rest!’

This is among the crasser statements we find in Latin, suggesting as it does that Horace and the pest are both hustlers, divvying up the booty. And the pest’s earlier claim that he can crank out poetry faster than most is another telling signal of his unsuitability, as it was just this that Horace criticised

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Lucilius for in Sat. 1.4. Horace the poet, who has got where he is through his facility with words and his polite demeanour, is left stunned and speechless. In this poem, Horace draws a clear distinction between himself and those who might want to be in his shoes, and shows readers that we are insiders too, if only because we are in the silent-and-horrified position along with him. And yet, the poem also allows us to wonder whether this creature is not so very different from Horace himself, at least in his earlier struggling-poet days. Might he not have behaved in just the same way to persuade an acquaintance to introduce him to a potential patron (remember again Suetonius’ description)? Horace’s description of that meeting is rather different (Hor. Sat. 1.6.55–64): nulla etenim mihi te fors obtulit; optimus olim Vergilius, post hunc Varius, dixere quid essem. ut veni coram, singultim pauca locutus, infans namque pudor prohibebat plura profari, non ego me claro natum patre, non ego circum me Satureiano vectari rura caballo, sed quod eram narro. respondes, ut tuus est mos, pauca: abeo, et revocas nono post mense iubesque esse in amicorum numero. magnum hoc ego duco, quod placui tibi, qui turpi secernis honestum non patre praeclaro, sed vita et pectore puro. It was not luck that put you in my path, but excellent Vergil, some time ago, and after him Varius; they told you what I was. When I saw you face-to-face, I said a few halting words, for silent modesty kept me from saying more. I did not have the boast of being born from a famous father, nor that I was carried about my lands on a Satureian steed, but I said what I was. You answered, as is your way, briefly; I went away, and you called me back nine months later, and you ordered that I be counted in the number of your friends. I think of it as a great thing that I found favour with you, you who separate the decent from the indecent not by their grand parentage, but by their lives and their purity of heart.

Then again, Horace would hardly present himself as an oafish toady. The second book of Satires is on the surface similar to the first: Horace continues to advocate for the simple life, and 2.6 features a whole series of would-be hangers on similar to the pest of 1.9. But some critics suggest that in the second book, a more confident Horace works to distance himself from the Horace of the first book. The tone is more elevated, the poems are longer, and it is clearer than ever that Horace is an insider; the collection

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begins with Horace saying that some criticise his poetry as too savage, others as too tame; what is he to do? His friend Trebatius advises him not to write any more, and Horace retorts that he needs something to do when he cannot sleep. So the light touch of the first book remains. But there are again disquieting undertones. In Sat. 2.3, for instance, Damasippus chastises Horace for laziness, and then offers him a potted version of Stoic philosophy, which he says he picked up from the slave of a neighbour; some of it sounds suspiciously like Horace’s own words in the first book. More memorably, Davus, Horace’s own slave, gets a voice in Sat. 2.7, and he accuses Horace of hypocrisy: the poet praises simplicity (even as recently as Sat. 2.2), but leaves his dinner-salad the instant Maecenas calls him to a grander meal, even abandoning his own guests. He claims contentment but cannot settle himself either at Rome or in the countryside, rushing back and forth between them because of a Fear of Missing Out. Even his much-vaunted simplicity of taste in women is revealed as a lie by Davus: Horace himself commits adultery with highborn women and is terrified of being caught. The Horace of the poem has no rebuttal, instead threatening violence to the over-talkative slave (as Plautine masters do; see Chapter 2). Sat. 2.7 is a peculiar poem, given that in it, Horace seems to undermine his self-portrait elsewhere. And the final poem of the collection, Sat. 2.8, is little help: a friend gives Horace a blow-by-blow description of the pretentious dinner held by a social climber. How different, exactly, is Horace from the butt of the joke? In the Satires, Horace competes with Lucilius. He is also (like Lucilius) making a larger point about his friends by contrasting them with their unmannerly opponents. The case is made on poetic grounds and on moral ones: boorish poets are likely to be untrustworthy across the board. Horace’s blend of comedy and philosophy offers a sophisticated reimagining of what satire could be and shows his attempt to have it both ways. Post-Lucilian satire is typically a genre for those outside, a place from which to cast blame upon those with power. But for Horace, satire becomes a more delicate instrument: he simultaneously points to the distinction between himself and others and elides it, acknowledges that he may not seem to belong among the elite but assures us that he actually does. We have already drawn attention to Horace’s potential motivations for thinking about power differentials; this collection demonstrates how thoroughly it permeates his language and thought. The Satires, then, are a deft blend of deference to a higher authority and a defiant assertion of Horace’s own. If the results are schizophrenic, they are no less compelling.

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The Epodes: A Different Kind of Blame Poetry The Epodes come next, and they seem to have been written at about the same time as the second book of the Satires. The generic form of an epode is rather different from that of satire, but the two can reasonably be taken together in terms of subject matter and stylistic register (both are more colloquial in language than the rest of Horace’s poetry). In the Epodes, whose ancient publication title seems to have been Iambi, Horace adopts and adapts a Greek iambic mode and metre (the iambic trimeter); Greek iambic had been characterised by vengefulness and aggression. As in the Satires, Horace modulates this aggressive tendency, regularly refusing violence while nonetheless hinting at it. This may be a feature of the time in which they were written, the triumviral period, during which, perhaps, violence became real enough not to need to be expressed in poetry. But there are important differences between the two collections. The Epodes are significantly more obscene than the Satires, and modern readers are likely to find several of them repugnant in their attitudes toward women and/or their focus on undignified aspects of the human body; two poems have as their subject the poet’s inability to perform sexually because of the undesirability of his female partner. Two other poems are also about sex. But some are not: friends and enemies also play an important role. Indeed, while women appear regularly in Horace’s poetry, they are rarely fully drawn characters, falling mostly into types (the ageing beauty, the ingénue . . .). Horace is much more interested in the homosocial relationships between men. Curiously, however, the seventeenth and last poem gives the final word to Canidia, a witch we had been introduced to in Epode 5, as she prepared to murder a child for a magic ritual. That poem contains the boy’s prayers for safety and ends with him swearing to wreak vengeance from beyond the grave. Epode 17 begins with a plea by the poet to Canidia to release him from her spell and ends with her reply refusing mercy. For Horace, the Epodes seem to be about drawing attention to boundaries in order to integrate them. This interest in assimilation holds true for his models as well: it is not only the archaic lyric poets Archilochus and Hipponax on whom Horace bases his Epodes, but the Hellenistic poet and scholar Callimachus (see Sidebar VI). For one thing, Callimachus wrote a seventeen-poem book of Iambi. (Horace’s own effort seems to have come out in two parts, first Epodes 1–13 followed, somewhat later, by Epodes 14–17). As he does elsewhere, Horace engages with his predecessors

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primarily in order to downplay their influence. Epist. 1.19, a reflection by Horace about his previous poetry, claims that the Epodes imported the ‘metres and spirit of Archilochus, but not his ‘themes and words’ (numeros animosque secutus, Archilochi, non res et agentia verba Lycamben: Epist. 1.19.24–25). Epode 1 begins with an invocation to Maecenas, assuring him that Horace will follow wherever he leads (and letting us know that Maecenas is in his turn devoted to his friend Octavian). It expresses Horace’s gratitude for gifts received and contains assurances that he is not greedy. As a first poem – especially in a collection that we might expect to contain invective poetry given Horace’s previous poems – it is peculiarly flat, perhaps deliberately so. Epode 2 similarly underwhelms, singing the praises of self-sufficiency and country life. It is only with Epode 3 that the heat is turned up, literally: Horace writes a mock-invective against Maecenas, who has (perhaps as a joke, perhaps accidentally) served Horace a dish with too much garlic in it. Horace’s accusation of poison provokes wild mythical analogues, and he concludes by cursing Maecenas to a night alone – but only if he eats the garlicky food. Epodes 15 and 17 both describe an elegiac kind of love (see Chapter 7). In the first of them, flaccid Horatius Flaccus bemoans the unfaithfulness of his mistress Neaera and curses a rival. Canidia recurs in the second: Horace attempts to apologise for his earlier words against her. It is only in this poem, reminiscent of certain of Catullus’ poems to Lesbia and others, that we discover Canidia to have been not just any witch, but – at least potentially – Horace’s love-interest. She speaks the final thirty lines of the poem, and of the collection, delivering a furious curse. If Horace had needed to modulate his emotions, she feels no such compulsion. There are many anti-closural elements in this last poem and Canidia’s speech negates, or at least provides an alternative to, Horace’s own more benevolent poetic stance. Readers are left wondering how to choose. And when we consider that the collection was written in the midst of a civil war, we might conclude that this ambivalence is deliberate. Like most of Horace’s poetry, the Epodes regularly treat topics of politics and friendship, the former from oblique angles. One of the standard ways of understanding Horace, as we have noted, is to see him as developing from a youthful hothead to a middle-aged accommodator. This is a plausible enough scenario. But if there were to be evidence for his earlier, lost, idealism, it would have to be found in the Satires and/or the Epodes. And as we have noted, both collections are explicit about why they cannot be explicit. Horace also adopts two different political stances in the two

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early collections: in the Satires he is a detached and slightly ironic observer of other people’s foibles, whereas the poet of the Epodes is angry and engaged (many compare the Epodes to the poetry of Catullus). In fact, some scholars see the Satires as tracing a path of increased activism in a way which culminates in the Epodes. A biographical reading of Horace would suggest that, with the publication and success of the Satires, Horace feels more comfortably an insider, and so the boundary-policing of the Epodes is a natural development from this more-secure stance.

Horace’s Odes 1–3: Overview Horace’s Odes (especially the first three books, published together) are generally agreed to be his masterpiece, so important for later readers that they determine many of the ways Latin literary criticism works, not to mention poetry in the western tradition. They have nearly always been popular (as opposed to a number of other classical works, which periodically fall out of fashion), and they have been especially popular for the last half-millennium or so. The poems themselves are intricately structured, often transitioning from one subject to another to return to a similar-butdifferent place by the end. Critics have found many complementary structuring principles governing the placement of poems within a book (so, for instance, Odes 2.7–13 are structured as a ring-composition, in which successive poems return to themes previously treated). And there is a clear interest in variety: sometimes several poems in a row treat a similar theme (e.g. Odes 1.23–25 address the passage of time from different perspectives), and sometimes the subject matter varies widely from poem to poem. Perhaps the most important organisational principle, however, is its dynamism: readers are expected to proceed through the book incorporating what they have already digested. The Odes are a collection of poetry and an act of literary criticism. For one thing, although we regularly say that Latin literature features adaptations of Greek predecessors, Horace has incorporated a full genre, Greek lyric poetry, into the Latin language. The translation into Latin of Greek models and metres is an astounding accomplishment: as we have noted, the Latin language is not very well suited to Greek metre. And Horace is by no means bashful about his accomplishment: in addition to what he says there and later about his own fame (see below, on Odes 3.30), other features of the Odes draw attention to themselves. In a particularly showy move, the first nine Odes of Book 1 are in each of the nine major Greek lyric metres and treat a breathtakingly wide range of topics.

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Odes 1–3, to a contemporary reader of the irritable and finger-pointing Horace of the Satires and Epodes, must have come as a tremendous surprise. This new attitude is evident from the very first poem, which praises Maecenas without any of the punch-pulling of previous collections. If Epode 1 had been underwhelming, this first poem pulls out all of the stops, discusses a variety of life-choices, none appealing to Horace, who prefers the simple poetic life, so long as his work is appreciated by his great patron. In addition to metre, Greek lyric subject matter and treatment are key to Horace’s lyric project. Pindar is probably the most important of his predecessors, but Alcaeus and Sappho also feature regularly. This is, however, not all Horace is up to: in the centuries between the canonical Greek lyric poets and his own time a great array of scholarship had grown up, and any number of Greek poets had further developed archaic lyric models, or, as critics, had attempted to open a path to other kinds of poetry. Callimachus is but the most famous of these predecessors, and – like that of his Augustan contemporaries – Horace’s poetry is suffused throughout with reference to Callimachean terms of art (see Sidebar VI). The one key difference between Horace’s lyric and archaic Greek lyric is that the latter was – if not a wholly oral form – written to be performed in front of a particular audience. Horace attempts to capture an archaic feel through addressing specific named individuals and through evoking a sense of occasion (often in a context like the Greek symposium, where people would gather for conversation and wine). Our Greek models make clear that such occasions are by no means only social: much as people today conduct business on golf courses or in other nominally social contexts, political negotiations in the ancient world normally took place in the home. So our disjunction between public and private misses something important about the Roman world. Still, for some critics, the Odes must always be a failure in comparison to their Greek models, because Horace’s Rome did not have a public role for poets. But in fact, one of Horace’s accomplishments in the Odes is to revamp the distinction between public and private along just the same lines as Augustus is doing at about the same time (see Chapter 7); we see this resolution in Odes 1.37 and 1.38, which finish the first book by focusing on Greek sympotic themes (the first on the death of Cleopatra, the other a private occasion), and we see it revived in his Carmen Saeculare, which was performed publicly. Indeed, two of Horace’s main models, Alcaeus and Sappho, were known for their focus on the public and the private

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respectively; we might see him as bringing the two together in homage and in competition. As we noted in Chapter 7, while the Odes share some of the subject matter of elegy, they treat it in an entirely different manner. The elegists swear to love only one mistress until they die – and sometimes beyond – and they seek to exist in a timeless present. Horace, by contrast, offers a ‘lyric’ detachment from the objects of his desire, and a recognition of the passage of time. His poems suggest a cyclical view of love, which automatically makes any individual liaison less fraught; if there is only one elegiac mistress (though hints there suggest otherwise) it is vital to keep trying, to get it right. Horace’s portrayal of love is significantly less constrained: he envisions numerous partners, such that any single one, however desirable, will assuredly be replaced. So too, his attitude is that love cannot last, and only a fool expects it to (the famous saying carpe diem, usually translated ‘seize the day’, is Horace’s, and it occurs in the context of urging a young woman to stop being so serious, and to enjoy the party). For the elegists and Horace both, old age is something to be feared and ridiculed (especially the old age of women), but Horace’s odes also present a less negative, seasonal view of the passage of time, in which spring inevitably follows winter and vice versa. For these reasons, the disjunction between a ‘political’ and a ‘personal’ Horace is not as helpful as it might be. So too, part of the point of the Odes must be that it is only in times of relative peace that one can focus on the personal. Horace mentions his contemporaries regularly, as in Carm. 1.3, a poem dedicated to Vergil, who is setting out on a long sea voyage. Critics usually see this poem as metapoetic: writing an epic poem is regularly compared to going on a journey, and the Aeneid was certainly uncharted territory. But as he had in the Satires, Horace avoids politics. Even such apparently biographical themes as Horace’s ‘near-death experience’, alluded to in Odes 1.22 (he was wandering in the woods and a wolf fled from him because of his blameless life), are derived from Greek lyric. While the first book of Odes had offered a dazzling display of metres and topics, and the second continue that trend, Odes 3 begins with six poems in the same metre (Alcaic); these poems are usually called the ‘Roman Odes’. This cycle begins in the grand style – Horace announces himself to be the ‘priest’ of the Muses (Musarum sacerdos: Carm. 3.1.3; this seems to have been the first time the phrase appears in Latin). These six Odes certainly praise Augustus and draw attention to some of the difficulties and perhaps even the impieties of the Roman people, but they are not simply Augustan propaganda. Perhaps the overtones of tragedy are meant to suggest the

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necessity of Augustus, or someone like him, but the whole is artfully done. This group includes the now-famous line dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, ‘it is sweet and appropriate to die for one’s country’ (Hor. Carm. 3.2.13), as well as the claim that Horace was saved from death in the battle of Philippi by the Muses (Hor. Carm. 3.4), and vignettes from across Roman history and mythology. But these are still not exactly political poems, and some of Horace’s reluctance to treat the subject may derive from the fact that lyric poetry is not epic. Odes 1.6, for instance, is a recusatio-poem, in which the poet expresses his inability to write an epic poem about Agrippa’s martial exploits. And yet, in doing so, he writes a lyric poem about them. Horace negotiates the relationship between these two genres expertly as he sets the Augustan victory into its larger (peaceable) context: now that the war is over, Romans can get back to the business of life. And the world of the Odes is decidedly better than those of the civil war poems that preceded it. It seems likely that Horace intended the Odes to create a new kind of poetry. But his achievement proved to be inimitable, and there are suggestions in Epistle 1.19 that Horace was not entirely pleased with the popular reception of this masterpiece.

Discussion of Some Odes The choice of Odes to discuss is difficult, as every reader has particular favourites. We offer summary of a very few selected for their range of subjects and discuss two passages at greater length (see also Chapter 7 for its treatment of Carm. 1.5 and 1.33). Odes 1.14 is a re-envisioning of the famous Alcaeus poem about the ‘ship of state’ (326); Horace’s version is a ship in danger. Carm. 2.5 is a Horatian take on a poem of Anacreon (fr. 417): the Greek version is an allegory of a ‘Thracian filly’ (a young female horse) which is assured by the poet that he can bridle, tame, and ride her. Horace’s somewhat less-distasteful version puts this into the third person, telling his addressee to be patient until his ‘heifer’ has grown up a bit, whereupon she will surely reciprocate his interest. Carm. 2.10 urges adherence to the ‘golden mean’ rather than any extreme position; this is a regular exhortation of Horace’s. And Carm. 2.18 returns to a common Horatian theme, the importance of being content with little. Odes 2.7 is addressed to a Pompeius, and it provides an example of how Horace tackles political themes obliquely. Pompeius, about whom we know nothing outside this poem, was a companion of Horace’s at the battle of Philippi in 42 (both on the losing side).

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Most of the losers stayed away from Rome, and some were explicitly forbidden to return by the victorious Octavian. But many were eventually pardoned, Pompeius among them, and this poem celebrates his return to Rome. It also provides Horace’s ‘take’ on the battle (Hor. Carm. 2.7.9–16): Tecum Philippos et celerem fugam sensi relicta non bene parmula cum fracta virtus, et minaces turpe solum tetigere mento. Sed me per hostis Mercurius celer denso paventem sustulit aere; te rursus in bellum resorbens unda fretis tulit aestuosis With you at Philippi and its headlong flight, I left behind my little shield – badly – when military might was shattered and menacing men shamefully hit the earth with their chins. As for me, swift Mercury bore me away, terrified, through the enemy, covered with a dense cloud. And you, the sea absorbed back into war with its fervid waves.

Although Horace might in reality have lost his shield in battle, this is a topos used by the Greek lyric poet Archilochus. The intervention of a god (Mercury was inventor of the lyre, and so is naturally Horace’s saviour) suggests that we are not reading autobiography. Two Horatian themes recur: in the first, the poet reminds us that he may be present for key historical moments, but that he is not an actor in them. And in the second, he claims a special status as a poet, beloved of the gods. The passage is deft in its emphasis but also elision of Pompeius: the two men are on the same side (tecum, with you); it is certainly the losing side (celerem fugam, headlong flight), and perhaps even justifiably so (minaces, menacing men, and turpe, shamefully). Horace himself has done nothing noble for his doomed cause; what about Pompeius? Horace doesn’t know, or doesn’t tell us: it was a crowded battleground and his attentions were elsewhere. So, while the poem expresses gratitude for the pardon of a friend (we have other such documents of this kind, in prose) it also makes clear that Horace has no interest in judging Octavian’s actions, in or out of battle. Our second poem is Odes 3.30, the final poem of the collection: Exegi monumentum aere perennius regalique situ pyramidum altius, quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens possit diruere aut innumerabilis

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Further Voices: Augustan Personal Poetry annorum series et fuga temporum. non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei vitabit Libitinam: usque ego posters crescam laude recens, dum Capitolium scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex. dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium regnavit populorum, ex humili potens princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos deduxisse modos. sume superbiam quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam. I have completed a monument more permanent than bronze, higher than the royal location of the pyramids, which neither biting rain nor the uncontrollable North Wind will be able to destroy, nor the innumerable counting of years nor the passage of time. I will not die entirely, and the greater part of me will evade the goddess of death: I will grow on, fresh with the praise of the ages, for as long as the priest ascends the Capitol with the mute [Vestal] virgin. I will be talked about where the raging Aufidus rushes and where Daunus, lacking in water, ruled over his rural people, as a man who, after becoming powerful from a lowly place, was the first to lead down Aeolian [=Greek lyric] song into Italian metres. Enjoy your well-deserved boasting, Melpomene, and crown my hair with a laurel wreath.

We see here Horace’s recognition of his own achievement: so long, he believes, as Rome exists, his Odes will be read (see Chapter 8 for Ovid’s broader, but similar, claim; both derive from Ennius). The Muse of lyric, Melpomene, has inspired Horace so effectively that she herself can feel proud of his accomplishment. It is fitting that the book, and the collection, end with Horace (Maecenas gets his due in the poem just before this one). This final poem matches the theme and metre of the first one (Hor. Carm. 1.1), but in it Horace is noticeably more assertive. Indeed, his mention of pyramids implicitly equates him not merely with Roman leaders, but with Egyptian monarchs.

Epistles: Philosophy and Friendship In his Epistles (‘Letters’), Horace is away from Rome. Indeed, Book 1 begins by tackling this change head-on: Maecenas asks him to return and Horace refuses (see above), preferring to dedicate his time to the serious study of philosophy. We see here a very different poet from the obsequious hangeron of the Satires. And critics point out that, in contrast to his earlier poetic

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collections, the first proper name that appears in the Epistles is the Camenae, the Muses: Maecenas has been displaced in favour of Horace’s own poetic self-confidence. In this first poem of the collection, Horace implicitly equates his retired life in the country with the pursuit of virtue; Rome (it is left more-or-less unsaid) is where vice is. Horace, as we have already noticed, looks to be on shaky ground here: as a beneficiary of the generosity of Maecenas, it behoves him to keep his patron happy. This potential tension between the two men recurs throughout the first book of Epistles, but we should not over-emphasise it: Horace is never in real opposition to Maecenas (even in Epist. 1.7, discussed above). The tone is jocular, as Horace sets up contrasts between the worldly, urbane Maecenas and his own rural homebody self. These two poles are present throughout Horace’s poetry, in different ways. But they have particular importance in the Epistles, which focus attention on the simultaneous and contradictory impulses that pull one to Rome and away from it. One famous example is Horace’s tale of the country mouse and the city mouse, told in Epist. 1: the country mouse is deeply impressed by the city, but also terrified, and happily returns home after an exhausting day. And this juxtaposition takes other forms: Epist. 1.2 focuses on politics, especially the aspirations of the young and ambitious Lollius, and contrasts these endeavours with Horace’s own quiet perusal of the classics (=Homer), while Epist. 1.3 begins with Julius Florus’ military ambitions, but quickly switches over to the various literary pursuits of the entourage of which he is a part. Epist. 1.11 contrasts the wanderlust of the addressee with Horace’s own eagerness for peace and quiet. Epist. 1.5 invites a guest to a simple rustic dinner, in implicit contrast to the Roman banquet, which ran to many courses and great expense. Epist. 1.10 praises the country life, and Epist. 1.14 contrasts Horace, stuck in Rome but eager to be in the country, with his bailiff, bored in the country and eager for city life (fornix tibi et uncta popina, ‘for you, the brothel and the greasy spoon’, Epist. 1.14.21). We might plot Horace’s geographic trajectory over time, with the Satires and Epodes as urban, the Odes mostly in Rome but with short idyllic escapes from it, and the Epistles as a more definitive rejection of Rome and its values. But the collection, despite his assertions to the contrary, makes clear that Horace is not yet fully committed to the quiet life. Horace displaces onto Rome the negative effects of his own fame: he wants a quiet place to get away from it all because, one assumes, the pests and hangers-on have only grown more numerous. (The addressees of these poems are significantly less distinguished than those of, say, Odes 1, which may also suggest that Horace feels he has done his duty by the famous.)

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One of the questions Horace poses is how much freedom is permissible or perhaps even desirable. Suetonius tells us that Augustus asked Horace to be his letter-writer, and that the offer was refused (see above). Then, perhaps ironically, Horace turned to . . . writing his own letters. It is not only Maecenas who wants a piece of Horace; indeed, perhaps the great patron stands in for the unnamed emperor. Either way, Horace poses two writerly extremes, the entirely unencumbered Lucilius fashioned by his Satires and the potentially servile position as Augustus’ secretary. We have already seen that the first is impossible. So, too, is the second. Unlike the Satires, the Epistles adopt a deliberately philosophical stance: apart from Epicurus’, most previous letters, even in poetry, focused on day-to-day matters rather than greater truths. We see too, in Horace’s focus on his addressees, a nod to the Epicurean notion that community makes philosophical study possible. (Scholars suggest that Horace began as a Stoic and evolved into an Epicurean.) The whole book is a process of moving on without knowing quite where; Epist. 1.6 begins with the admonition nil admirari, marvel at nothing. By this Horace means that we should both avoid being impressed by the exotic and fretting about the unlikely. Yet readers of the book often come away with the sense that Horace is working to convince himself as much as others. Epist. 1.8, for instance, presents a grumpy Horace, Romae Tibur amem ventosus, Tibure Romam, ‘changeable as the wind, loving Tibur when at Rome and Rome when at Tibur (Hor. Epist. 1.8.12). Epist. 1.15, seeking advice about deluxe vacation spots, similarly shows Horace poking fun at himself for his contradictory impulses. Part of Horace’s quest for ‘freedom’ is about artistic expression; he is keenly interested in determining what creative pursuits are available. He is also interested, as he often is, in finding a safe middle ground between extremes: indeed, our phrase ‘the golden mean’ is Horatian in its origin (aurea mediocritas, Odes 2.10.5–6). During Epistles 1, Horace takes up some of the criticisms of the alternative voices of Satires 2 in his own voice, and with a more sustained focus. Eventually, he seems to find a mean, one which involves him in mutual dependencies upon others that do not feel oppressive.

Horace and Augustus The question of artistic freedom comes to the fore, if only obliquely, in Epist. 13, a letter to Vinnius about his conveyance of a manuscript (usually agreed to be Odes 1–3) to Augustus. Here for the first time we see that

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Horace has moved up in the world, but he lets us know in a way that is more deprecating than boastful: the anxious poet urges his messenger to wait for the proper time, not to harass the recipient when he is not in a good mood; to carry the rolls carefully and not lodged in his (possibly foul-smelling) armpit; and to be in a hurry but not too much of one. While readers usually enjoy the contrast between the seemingly unsophisticated Vinnius on the one hand, and the urbane and witty Horace (and Augustus) on the other, Vinnius is also a shadow-figure of the earlier Horace, awkward around his betters. Indeed, Epist. 1.17 and 1.18 revert to the Satires’ theme of how to behave in public. The first is addressed to a (fictitious?) Scaeva (‘Mr Clumsy’), reminding him that one must sacrifice much – but not all – to befriend the great, and the second, to Lollius, points out potential pitfalls in the life of a protégé. The tone of these poems is not precisely defensive, but we may sense in them residues of the earlier sensitivity about how far Horace has come. Still, the advice to Lollius to comport himself in accord with his patron’s wishes, and to good-naturedly go along with his patron’s plans, however tongue-in-cheek, suggests that Horace no longer envisions himself as in that role with Maecenas. Indeed, critics often suggest that the poet and the emperor Augustus developed a close personal relationship. Evidence from Suetonius tends in this direction, and there is also the report that Maecenas’ will contained an exhortation to Augustus to remember Horace as he would Maecenas himself; surely this attests to his recognition of a friendship between the two. By this time, Horace is exceedingly famous (see, e.g. Epist. 1.20–17–18 on his poetry as learned by schoolchildren and perhaps Odes 4.3.16 on the envy of others). It is highly plausible that the most famous poet and the most powerful man in Rome found much to enjoy in each other’s company. The passages Suetonius gives us from Augustus’ correspondence to Maecenas about Horace, and to Horace himself, suggest an easy and close relationship.

Final Works Horace’s Carmen Saeculare, a poem performed by a chorus of boys and girls as part of the saecular games in 17, is often ignored. But it is an important poem, not least because it offers Horace the opportunity to be Pindar, finally giving his poetry an audience and an occasion (two key features of Greek lyric). The poem, written in a simple lyric metre (probably to aid in memorisation), takes full advantage of its situation, revelling in assonance

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and alliteration and using verbal repetition to focus attention on key points. One of these is the heralding of a new golden age. Hymns – both Greek and Latin – traditionally strike a balance between celebration and the currying of favour, but in this one the poet knows that the gods are on the side of Rome. This is seen from the very start, which focuses on Apollo and Diana in all of their splendour (more usually, the dark underworld gods would have been invoked). Even here, though, Horace is not heavyhanded: Augustus does not feature in the poem. There are precedents for this poem: Livius Andronicus’ archaic hymn may have been important, but so too was Catullus 34, a hymn to Apollo and Diana, and portions of the Aeneid treat the destiny of Rome in similar ways. Yet the poem itself – despite incorporating some traditional features – is more like a Horatian ode than it is any other hymn we know of. Book 4 of the Odes was released at some time after the performance of the Carmen Saeculare, and it positions Rome in a post-epic world: the struggles of recent history are in the past, and life can settle down again. This can be seen in the very first poem, in which Horace complains that Venus calls him again to love-battles, although he has given up fighting (this scene is reminiscent of his self-fashioning in Epistles 1.1 as a gladiator released from duty and now forced to fight again). In most ways this book is more sombre than the previous three books of Odes (it is also much less well-liked, in part because of its panegyrical nature). Suetonius tells us that Augustus ‘compelled’ this book of poems (coegerit). Here again, we should probably read with a grain of salt: this language is standard in the writings of poets. Interestingly, however, this is seemingly the first time a Latin poet actually does what a patron wants him to do (at least, according to the poets). Odes 4.5 and 4.16, for instance, talk about the peace that Augustus has brought with him, and 4.14 celebrates the military accomplishments of Augustus’ family. These need not be anything other than sincere: Horace and his contemporaries lived through a long and extremely bloody generation of unrest and war. And it is curious that the Augustan poet who does what is expected is probably the only one famous enough to get away with not doing so. As is usual when we find something in the ancient world confusing, we are probably missing some significant part of the story. In this case, we simply do not know what that is. Odes 4 offers us a reinvented, more mature Horace, and an unusual view of Augustus. Still, he maintains that his gifts are not in epic, and that his work is small rather than grand (parvus: Carm. 4.2.31). Horace then wrote, according to traditional chronology, a second book of Epistles, and also the Ars Poetica, a didactic poem on the writing of poetry (see Chapter 5). These

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are a peculiar set of poems, not least because critics often struggle to find unity in them. Epistles 2.1 is addressed to Augustus and is about the state of poetry at Rome. Suetonius tells us that this too was a command performance: Augustus complained because none of the previous epistles had been addressed to him and forced Horace to write a letter to him as well. Note the change in Horace’s status that is implied in this exchange: he moves in Epist. 1.13 from anxieties about how his work will be read to being compelled (Suetonius’ verb is expressit, ‘squeezed’) to grant the favour of mention to a fan. And Horace is here at his most magisterial: this polemical work offers a history of Latin poetry and suggests that Roman literary taste was old-fashioned and lowbrow. Horace, it need not be said, was neither of these. But Epist. 2.1 is more interesting as a reflection of the relationship between the two men than as literary history. Both had grown to greatness in their different spheres and both, increasingly, found themselves isolated from others by their pre-eminence. The first part of the poem goes out of its way to draw attention to Augustus’ singularity. And then, much more subtly, it points to Horace’s own. The poem itself is a fascinating blend of philosophy, autobiography, and literary criticism. Epistle 2.2 is addressed to Florus, who stands in for others who might feel that Horace owes them a mention. The difficulty, Horace says, is that poverty no longer compels him to write: only a fool would work if he need not. And writing poetry, at least the way Horace does it, is difficult and thankless. So he has turned to philosophy. This poem, seemingly written to a younger man, focuses more on the trials of age and the lessons Horace has learned. But it also displays an interest in the next generation of poets: who, if anyone, will take his place? These two poems and the Ars Poetica, taken together, show Horace’s concern with how he is read and understood. Having lived longer than many great writers of his day, and also in a time of relative peace, when people had the leisure to devote themselves to reading great literature, Horace’s later life is an interesting study of the demands of fame.

Horatian Style As we might expect, Horace’s style differs across poetic collections. The Odes are his most sophisticated and most distinct work stylistically, and they have been described as having a mosaic feel, wherein each word is carefully placed within its line. Plotting out the poems suggests a meandering, whereby the poem ends up somewhere different from where you expected it to. In some time periods, this meant that Horace

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was criticised for writing ‘non-linear’ poetry; others have viewed it as the pinnacle of sophistication. The Satires and Epistles share this habit of an unexpected twist, albeit in a more essayistic format. In general, Horace’s stylistic approach is subtle, playing with notions of opposites; sometimes this is two words that are usually antonyms, juxtaposed (e.g. simplex munditiis, ‘simply elegant’: Carm. 1.5.5; splendide mendax, ‘noble in deceit’: Carm. 3.11.35). Often one of the juxtaposed words is an adjective, and Horace is more intricate in his word order than many Latin poets, which makes him very challenging for beginning readers of Latin. He regularly uses an adjective + infinitive construction, which is also unusual. Finally, Horace extends metaphors beyond their normal use, sometimes even fitting a metaphor into a single word or two, as with one of his most famous poems, which contains the phrase carpe diem, ‘pluck the day’ (Hor. Carm. 1.11.15) or the ventosus, ‘windy’ [=changeable as the wind] of Epist. 1.8.12. Horace favours the middle path in several stylistic ways, usually suggesting that he understands both sides of a question and that the truth lies somewhere in between. And this in turn typically leads a Horatian poem to feel detached, either in the sense that Horace’s own persona is on the sidelines observing other characters, or when we notice a difference between what the persona says in one place and in another. Finally, Horace is not above the use of sound effects, as for instance, the first line of Sat. 1.2, which evokes the decadent world of Greece with its polysyllabic words: Ambubaiarum collegia, pharmacopolae, ‘guild of flute girls, peddlers of quack remedies’. But he is rarely visual in his imagery, and does not much mention artworks (this is surprising, as most of his contemporaries do).

Horace: Conclusion Horace is a difficult poet for the beginning student of Latin, also for the accomplished one. He is also, however, one of the most vivid personalities from antiquity, perhaps second only to Cicero. And he provides a fascinating window into the lives of some of the greatest statesmen of all time, living in one of the more interesting periods of recorded history. Having made the transition from son of a freedman (however we understand the phrase) to the most famous poet in Rome through mastery of nearly every genre that existed, we can understand why he and Augustus might have become friends. Both men lived a long time (never a guarantee in Ancient Rome), long enough to see their wildest dreams come true and then beyond.

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Horace’s influence is still very much felt in the present day, even by those who have never heard of him. His poetic style suffused the western tradition and provided it with some of its most vivid metaphors and tropes. Vergil and Horace were the first living Roman authors to be incorporated into the elementary education of children, and they remained more or less synonymous with Latin poetry.

Further Experiments in Elegy: Ovid’s Exile For reasons that remain obscure, the poet Ovid was exiled by the emperor Augustus in 8 ce to the Black Sea region. If that was an attempt to stop him from writing, it failed miserably. For he not only continued working on the Metamorphoses (see Chapter 8) and the Fasti (see Chapter 5), he also wrote several other elegiac collections, prominently the Tristia in five books and the Epistulae ex Ponto in four (see Chapter 7 for more on the ‘double’ Heroides, also usually dated to this period). The fact that Ovid was exiled (technically, relegated, a decree which assigned him to a specific locale rather than simply banning him from Rome) may change how we read Ovid’s other work: sections of the Metamorphoses that focus on artists punished for speaking truth to power, for instance, look in retrospect rather more meaningful, and the Fasti’s engagement with monuments and dates of Augustan history may also become more fraught. Ovid tells us that Tomis (modern Constanţa in Romania), the site of his relegation, was a barren and frigid hinterland, devoid of all culture, and beset with barbarians. Modern readers are suspicious, not least because the modern town is a beach resort: its ruins contain mosaics and other evidence of high culture. Ovid has much at stake in convincing his audience that his situation is intolerable, since his stated goal in this poetry is to receive permission to return to Rome, or at least to move somewhere closer. But there is no official response: so far as we know, Ovid died on the Black Sea. Ovid tells us a lot about the circumstances of his relegation (interestingly, we have no other source for it, which leads some to believe that the exile itself is a fictive exercise). He even tells us what caused it, sort of: carmen et error, a poem and a mistake, forced him to leave Rome (Ov. Tr. 2.207). The poem, almost certainly, was the Ars amatoria, a text which might well be read as undermining the moral reforms of Augustus. Ovid also writes a great deal about the error, without ever disclosing what it actually was. Indeed, his repetitive circling around the topic might be a further provocation, since the offense seems to have involved either Augustus or perhaps

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one of the women of his family. In his most direct reference, he suggests that he saw something he should not have seen (cur aliquid vidi? cur noxia lumina feci?/ cur imprudenti cognita culpa mihi? : Why did I see anything? Why did I make my eyes guilty? Why was I fool enough to know about a fault?’ Trist. 2.103–104) – the passage then goes on to talk about Actaeon, the mythical character who accidentally saw Diana naked, and was subsequently turned into a stag (and killed by his own hunting dogs). Speculation, often focusing on some kind of sexual indiscretion, has been rife for the twenty centuries since – and this may well have been part of Ovid’s goal in mentioning the incident. Ovid’s exile poetry has suffered from a certain lack of charity on the part of readers and interpreters, though some of this is the poet’s own fault. Specifically, he regularly tells readers that his poetic gifts have suffered from the change of climate. He even suggests in later exile that he is forgetting how to speak and write Latin. Many readers have taken him at his word: the poems are repetitive and do not treat topics nearly as interesting as they used to. The point Ovid is making is a subtle one. He is stranded on the edge of the world, and he is not only unhappy but in grave danger from the barbarians. Ovid is, as often, playing with the identity between poet and poem that Latin regularly invokes only to deny. And he is also implicitly suggesting a reason for his contemporary audience to help him: if you don’t like this kind of poetry, get Ovid home so that he can write more of the kind you do like. Indeed, while Ovid addresses many of his readers directly (anonymously in the Tristia, by name in the Epistulae Ex Ponto), he also seeks to reach as large an audience as he can imagine, both here and elsewhere in his poetry. We return to the question of repetitiveness, so often levelled against the exile poetry: Ovid’s love poetry (and the genre of amatory elegy as a whole) are also repetitive, complaining about the same things over and over again. Indeed, scholars have begun to see many overlaps between the two sets of poems. Both are laments about the world, and both suggest that the power to improve the situation lies elsewhere, in the hands of one particular, powerful individual. And this implicit comparison of Augustus to an elegiac puella recurs throughout the exile poetry: Ovid focuses his attention on Augustus’ ira, anger, and details his own attempts to ingratiate himself in ways reminiscent of those the elegiac lover tries to soothe his irate (and irrational) girl. This unexpected insight leads to others: the standard view of the world, held by many of Ovid’s contemporaries, was that it had been pacified under Augustus. Ovid’s new perspective suggests otherwise: while Rome

Ovid’s Tristia: Sad Songs

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itself may be peaceful, the precariousness of Ovid’s daily existence undermines any view of the world as safe. And his usually effusive praise of the emperor and the imperial family seems insincere at best. Among other things that make it an interesting group of poems, Ovid’s exile poetry is among the first Latin literature we have to wrestle with the question of how to praise absolute rulers. Ovid goes much further than Vergil or Horace’s decorous praise and refers to Augustus and his entire family as living gods. This is, at the very least, highly unusual, although it does reflect the situation in at least some Roman provinces. In the end, Ovid did not return to Rome. We do not know when he died, but his last datable poems suggest that it was in or shortly after 18 ce. (This assumes that he continued to write until his death, which – given his continuous output – is reasonable but by no means assured.)

Ovid’s Tristia: Sad Songs There are five books of Tristia, varying in length and tone. The first concentrates on his departure from Rome (Ov.Tr. 1.3) the storms he encountered (Ov. Tr. 1.2), his journey (Ov. Tr. 1.4, 1.10), and several friends, loyal (Ov. Tr. 1.5, 1.9) and otherwise (Ov. Tr. 1.8), as well as his wife (Ov. Tr. 1.6) and the unfinished Metamorphoses (Ov. Tr. 1.7). The concentration on connections to Rome, pleasant as well as unpleasant, remains a focus throughout this collection; Ovid devotes less attention to his poetic output as the poems progress, but his return to Rome, and those he imagines as working for and against it, occupy ever more. As the book continues, he begs various friends to intercede on his behalf; these friends are left anonymous, allegedly because Ovid does not want to get them in trouble, but perhaps also because this way more than one reader can find a personal plea in them. There is also the fact that the more Ovid worries about the power of Augustus out loud, the more readers may come to find the emperor unjust and arbitrary. The second book of Tristia is deserving of particular attention because it is a single poem, a letter addressed to Augustus himself. In it, Ovid assumes a didactic role again (see Chapter 5), this time about didactic poems themselves. During the course of Tristia 2, Ovid introduces the dual causes of his exile, a poem and an error (see above). The poem, we have seen, is almost certainly the Ars amatoria, a work which purports to teach the mechanics of seducing a woman who is not your wife. Even if Augustus were not a prude – and we have plenty of ancient evidence suggesting that he was not – his moral legislation was aimed at encouraging family values,

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so it is not surprising that Ovid got into some form of trouble for it (see Chapter 7). Tristia 2 explains, to Augustus and others, that poetry is not real life, and that is it a mistake to confuse them: with such a stance, one could be led astray by nearly any poem. For instance, poems about dice games might encourage the vice of gambling (we hear from other sources that this was one of Augustus’ favourite hobbies). Even non-didactic poems can prove dangerous to the unwary: most of the classics – which Ovid goes on to summarise in a provocative fashion – could be taken as encouraging immoral behaviour. Greek tragedy: full of incest and adultery. Homeric epic: starts with the adultery of Paris and Helen. Roman literature is not much better: Rome was founded because of the rape of Ilia. Ovid points to Ennius’ Annales, where the reader can discover ‘how Ilia became a mother’ (facta sit unde parens Ilia: Tr. 2.260). Even Augustus’ beloved poet Vergil wrote the Aeneid which, in Ovid’s summary, narrows down to its fourth book, about the adulterous relationship between Aeneas and Dido (see Chapter 8). This false dichotomy leaves Augustus (and us) with two choices. Either the emperor has not read the poetry he has condemned, or he has not been sophisticated enough to understand it. So Augustus is an idiot, or worse. Unless, of course, the poetry is really an excuse for something else, the mysterious error. What that something else might be Ovid never says, though he does hint broadly and regularly enough that readers over thousands of years have wanted to guess (often adultery with some member of the imperial family, possibly combined with political intrigue). As the books of Tristia continue, Ovid does not suggest that he is at home in Tomis, but he pays more attention to his surroundings, and even tells some local stories. For instance, Medea (Ov. Tr. 3.9), whose cutting up of her brother into little pieces gives the region its name (Tomis from the Greek word for slicing, temno), and Iphigeneia’s sojourn among the barbarians (Ov. Tr. 4.4). These had always been set in the Black Sea region, but it is typical of Ovid to focus on such bloodthirsty events as a way to emphasise how uncongenial his situation is. Another recurring theme is the insalubriousness of the climate: in this frozen wasteland, Ovid claims to be constantly ill. Even his wine must be defrosted. We might note in passing that the language he uses to describe his illness is not terribly different from how elegists describe their metaphorical love-sickness; Ovid, we might say, presents himself as literally home-sick. Among other highlights of the Tristia are 4.10, Ovid’s autobiography, which should be taken with several tablespoons of salt. Ovid tells us that he was born to the equestrian class, and that he and his brother underwent the

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typical Roman education. But Ovid found that everything he wrote came out in verse, and so he gave up a promising administrative career to write poetry. He also mentions being married three times, having a brother, and that his family came from Sulmo (now Sulmona) in the south of Italy.

Epistulae Ex Ponto: Letters from Pontus In the Tristia there is no evidence that Ovid has learned any genuinely local stories (his mythology is solidly Greco-Roman). But in the Epistulae ex Ponto Ovid claims that he has begun to learn the local language, and even that he has started writing poetry in it. This claim has several implications: as has been pointed out, Ovid’s ‘pose of exilic decline’ – though believed by many readers – is in fact only a pose. But along with the degradation he claims in his ability to write Latin, and his concomitant ability to write in a barbarian language, his second exilic collection includes the most panegyric of Ovid’s works. Should we conclude that he is drawing a connection between his barbarianised self and his willingness to write toadying poetry? The Epistulae ex Ponto continue with many of the themes of the previous collection, although here Ovid names names: this four-book collection is full of letters addressed to specific individuals. In addition to complaints about his situation and pleas to be relocated to a more congenial place, these poems devote attention to issues of friendship and poetry. Ovid’s addressees fall into categories: there are those who have been loyal, those who have been remiss, and those who have turned against him. He regularly encourages these friends, and also his wife, who plays a major role in the poetry, to approach the emperor through any means at their disposal. The Epistulae Ex Ponto were written in the final years of Ovid’s life, after several years of exile. Ovid never stops asking to be allowed home, but this collection does seem to show a sense of resignation. It is interesting that Ovid reverted to the letter form so often throughout his career, in a variety of ways. The two sets of Heroides (see Chapter 7) suggest slightly different takes on Roman mythology but remain firmly within the world of fiction. Once he is in exile Ovid writes his own letters, which combine real events and poetic themes: as several ancient letterwriters note, letters are the closest thing to a conversation that two people can have when they are at a distance from one another. In several of the exilic letters, Ovid even compares himself and his relationship with his wife to various of the heroines’ tales he has told. Penelope, who remained faithful to her husband over twenty years of separation, proves a favourite choice. It is hard to know what to make of this blurring of

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fact and fiction: are we meant to think that Ovid is so isolated he conceives of the characters of myth as people, or that he intends us to think of his own situation as impossible to comprehend within the bounds of real life, or something else?

Ovid’s Ibis: The Turn to Invective At some point during his exile, Ovid also wrote a lengthy invective poem, the Ibis, which details all of the miserable ways in which he hopes a particular, unnamed enemy comes to his death. This is perhaps the most difficult poem written in classical Latin, as many of the deaths and punishments, piled on top of one another, are so allusive as to be opaque to us. The poem itself is a tour-de-force, ending, after nearly 650 lines, with the assertion that if his enemy does not reform himself, Ovid will really get angry. Scholars wonder who this unnamed enemy might be. He might stand for everyone who has neglected Ovid since his relegation, or, according to some, this might be a poem also directed to Augustus, who was, after all, the responsible party.

Exilic Themes As we have noted, Ovid’s exile poetry focuses primarily on the poet’s wish to return to Rome, and on the fragility of his connections to his loved ones there. It also contains new takes on mythology and ethnographic details that mirror those found in contemporary historians. And, like Horace, Ovid talks explicitly about the role of the poet in Roman society, which both men figure as being akin to that of a prophet (vates). But, perhaps most significantly, Ovid also initiates the panegyric tradition in imperial Latin poetry. (He is, almost uniquely, a writer whose works span both the republic and the empire.) What – we should probably assume – was in Ovid deliberately over-the-top, outrageous flattery becomes, for later generations, a model for how to praise emperors and members of the imperial family. While parts of the Greek-speaking world, especially that previously ruled by kings, had long been accustomed to speak of important Roman figures as quasi-divine, Ovid goes farther than any previous author in Latin (Ov. Pont. 4.9.105–8): nec pietas ignota mea est: videt hospita terra in nostra sacrum Caesaris esse domo. stant pariter natusque pius coniunxque sacerdos numina iam facto non leviora deo.

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And my piety is well-known: the land in which I am a guest sees an altar for Caesar in my house. Next to him, equally, stand his pious son and his wife the priestess, themselves more significant since he has become a god.

The passage, written after the death of Augustus (14 ce), goes on to say that Ovid worships statuettes of the entire imperial family with incense and prayers each day. While Augustus may indeed have been declared a god after his death, this form of worship is unusual, to say the least.

Conclusions This chapter has covered a lot of ground, focusing on the personal poetry written by three poets of the Augustan period, Vergil, Horace, and Ovid. It has also hinted at some of the ways in which each poet was engaged in the political events of his time. For each man, Augustus was an important figure, and for Horace and Ovid, he was a life-changing one. We see again the ways in which patronage is a key issue for those writing literature (see also Sidebar II). For Horace, at one extreme, a patron may have meant the difference between writing poetry and not writing poetry. For Ovid, who had no pecuniary need of a patron, the relationships he develops with important Romans serve as a source of community in exile and offer him the opportunity to try to mitigate the anger of Augustus. So too, the withdrawal of the emperor’s patronage, however informally, proves to be a disaster for Ovid. The differences between how the two men ended their lives prove instructive for authors who come later.

Further Reading M. C. J. Putnam, Virgil’s Pastoral Art: Studies in the Eclogues (Princeton 1970) remains a good introduction to that poem, and the articles collected by K. Volk in Vergil’s Eclogues: Oxford Readings in Classical Studies (Oxford 2008) cover many of the issues we treat here. One place to begin with Horace’s Satires is K. Freudenberg, The Walking Muse: Horace on the Theory of Satire (Princeton 1993). W. Fitzgerald, ‘Power and Impotence in Horace’s Epodes’. Ramus 1 (1988): 176–91 provides useful entry into that collection. E. Fraenkel, Horace (Oxford 1957) is an overview of the entirety of the poet’s work, and E. Oliensis, Horace and the Rhetoric of Authority, (Cambridge 1998) examines how his authorial persona develops throughout. S. J. Harrison’s Cambridge Companion to Horace (Cambridge 2007) gives an overview of major issues and reception. The characterisation of Horace as ‘safe and subsidised’ comes from R. Syme, The Roman Revolution (Oxford 1938): 299.

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The most important commentary on Horace is that of A. Kiessling and R. Heinze, Q. Horatius Flaccus (Berlin 1901). On Ovid’s exile poetry, see G. D. Williams, Banished Voices: Readings in Ovid’s Exile Poetry (Cambridge 1994). J Fairweather, ‘Ovid’s Autobiographical Poem, Tristia 4.10’ in Classical Quarterly, Vol. 37.1 (1987): 181–96, is a useful treatment of how Ovid frames himself in relation to the emperor. S. Casali, Quaerenti Plura Legendum: On the Necessity of ‘Reading More’ in Ovid’s Exile Poetry, Ramus 26.1 (1997): 80–112 is fundamental on the games Ovid plays in exile. For translations, we recommend B. Hughes Fowler for the Eclogues (Chapel Hill 2000) and P. Green for Ovid’s exile poetry (California 2005). Horace’s Odes and Epodes are well translated by David West (Oxford 2008), the Satires and Epistles by John Davie (Oxford 2011).

Coda

It is all too easy to view the achievements of the late republic and Augustan Age as pinnacles of Latin literature, and indeed many critics have done so. We are all entitled to our own tastes, but it is reductive if not actually misleading to think of Latin literature as something which evolves in ever more elevated stages from Livius Andronicus, Naevius, and Ennius to Vergil, Horace, and Ovid – or from the elder Cato to Cicero, Sallust, and Livy. Indeed, this was by no means the opinion of every Augustan reader, as we can see in Epistle 2.1, a poetic letter from Horace to Augustus. There the poet complains that the public prefers the classics of the second century to contemporary writing and urges Augustus to do something about this resistance to modern literature. But the Romans’ fondness for older works did not go away. Quintilian, writing in the first century ce, observed how many readers preferred Lucilius to anybody else, and in the second century ce there was an absolute craze for archaic literature: everybody was again reading Cato and Plautus. This does not mean Horace got it wrong on the topic of his own or his contemporaries’ merits. Indeed, there is no denying the enduring popularity and influence of the leading authors of the first century bce, who became, for later Romans, the centre of the classical canon. Imperial orators and historians looked back, sometimes provocatively, to Cicero, Sallust, and Livy, and poets of the empire tended to react less to Ennius and more to Horace, Vergil, and, especially, Ovid. This was not because imperial literature declined into something inferior, a Silver Age lapsing from a prior Golden Age. From our temporal vantagepoint, we can see as much continuity as change in the aftermath of Vergil or Cicero. Oratory, for instance, continued to dominate political life and remained the centre of aristocratic education. And Romans continued to compose epic and drama, essays and epistles, and elegies and epigrams. But not without significant innovation in every genre. Declamation, already important, was elevated into high performance art and elaborated into 355

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complex literary compositions. In tandem with this development, literary prose became punctuated by striking, memorable, often provocative formulations scaffolded by a syntax which was less periodic and more pointed than, say, Cicero’s or Livy’s. Tacitus, a famous example, elected to write annalistic history, like Livy, but in a style derived from the idiosyncratic, archaising Sallust. During the empire, literature was no less experimental or controversial than before. The younger Seneca developed a punchy, relaxed prose voice which was enormously popular. Quintilian complained that he was almost the only author young people actually read (Quint. 10.1.126) when, in Quintilian’s view, they should instead be poring over Cicero. For his part, Seneca defended his style as ‘unlaboured and natural’ (Sen. Ep. 75.1). Not everyone was convinced: Caligula derided Seneca’s prose as ‘sand without lime’ (Suet. Calig. 53.2), that is, a confection which never solidifies, but this a quotation Suetonius records as proof of that emperor’s own inability to appreciate writing which was ‘restrained and polished’. Contentiousness like this reflects the empire’s lively literary scene. In this later period, rhetoric, certainly declamation, mattered very much to poetry. A striking feature of epic and tragedy was the recurrence of spectacular speeches alive with bold, vivid imagery, bizarre formulations, paradoxes, and breath-taking hyperbole. Senecan tragedy teems with virtuoso passages of this kind, which go well beyond the bold expression found in Accius’ tragedies. In epic, too, characters declaim at one another, and to the reader, in affecting operatic verses which reflect a declamatory sensibility. Here one can look back at Ovid, or even Vergil, but the scale and intensity of imperial rhetoricity is a novel, distinctive development in Latin literature. And there are works of this order which can only be described as sheer genius: Lucan’s epic on the civil war between Caesar and Pompey (the Bellum Civile) is declamatory, vivid, and grotesque in a style and diction which starkly contrast with any predecessor. Amid so much that is experimental in imperial literature, however, one frequently finds an unmistakeable pose of belatedness. Few are more ostensibly straightforward than what we find at the conclusion of Statius’ epic, the Thebaid, composed in the first century ce under the reign of the Flavians. The poet offers his poem to the world by way of a final envoi (Theb. 12.816–819): vive, precor; nec tu divinam Aendeida tempta, sed longe sequere et vestigia adora mox, tibi si quis adhuc praetendit nublia livor,

Coda

357

occident, et meriti post me referentur honores. Live, I pray! But you must not challenge the divine Aeneid: instead follow it at a distance and adore its footsteps. Thereafter, should any envy cast clouds before you, it shall perish and, after I am gone, deserved honours shall be paid.

So explicit an assertion of inferiority naturally incites scrutiny and therefore nuanced interpretation. When poets foreground their belatedness, it is often a feint, indeed, a dissimulation, not least because it underlines a sound reverence for the classics intended to draw attention to authentic literary achievement. This was not exactly how the brash Lucilius treated his predecessors, for instance, nor Horace Lucilius, as we have seen. There is something palpably different about the closure Statius brings to his epic. His very personal coda, because it clashes with what we expect of an epic voice, introduces an earnest effect which is deeply felt – even as these lines also commemorate Statius’ expectation that he, too, will become a classic (as he did). Statius was not alone, and gestures of this kind become something of a convention in imperial literature – so much so that one can make jokes about it. In his epigrams, Martial, a contemporary of Statius, returns (in a humorous vein) to the same idea but with a sly wink. Why, he asks, are there no more Vergils? The answer he supplies is simple supply-anddemand: it’s because there are no more Maecenases, no more patrons of good taste and great wealth to foster contemporary talents (see Sidebar II). Give me a Maecenas, Martial declares, and although I can’t give you a Vergil, I can offer you a Domitius Marsus (a friend of Vergil known for his epigrams; Mart. 8.55). The conceit of belatedness was a lively one in imperial literature, amply elaborated in Tacitus’ Dialogus de oratoribus (Dialogue on Orators), a work which looks back to Cicero’s De oratore, kinship marked by Tacitus’ deployment in this dialogue of a highly Ciceronian prose style. The central controversy of the piece centres on contemporary oratory: is it as good as the classics, by which the interlocutors mean Cicero and his rivals? One speaker insists that modern oratory actually excels its republican models, but others concede that republican oratory evinced an elevated eloquence which no longer exists. Not, it is maintained, because the talent is lacking. But rather, the circumstances are different: the stability of the imperial system renders impossible the excessive liberty of the republic. Because the emperor liberates Roman society from the precariousness which defined the age of Cicero, the claim is made, Ciceronian eloquence, in an imperial

358

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context, is out of its time. As Tacitus put it in his Annals, in the imperial age ‘the circumstances of the state were altered utterly’ (Ann. 1.4.1). Whether this was for the better or for the worse – in literature as well as political life – remained subject to debate. The canons, expressions, and concerns of imperial literature, when viewed over against the republican and Augustan literature which came before, are distinctive in fascinating ways. This is hardly unnatural. Latin literature, as we have seen, exploded on the scene amid the Punic Wars, conflicts during which the Roman republic expanded beyond Italy and became a Mediterranean superpower. Its creation of a new and experimental literature, self-consciously Greek in its design but at the same time thoroughly Roman and conspicuously oriented toward the republican capital, defined a crucial, even astonishing, aspect of the new superpower’s cultural as well as political ambitions. Cosmopolitan Greek genres shaped by Alexandrian techniques were suffused with Roman sentiments and values, and these values were often challenged or contested, sometimes subverted, in a literary history marked by its frequently quite forceful competitiveness. Tradition refigured by originality is a constant feature of Latin literature, and this remains the case beyond the age of Augustus. Still, the death of Augustus marks a moment which in important respects divides the history of the Roman republic from the history of the Roman empire – and consequently furnishes a not entirely arbitrary division in the history of Latin literature. The Augustan period is a time in which many things that eventually became normal in the empire had their beginnings; we can often see by contemporary reactions that they were startlingly innovative. But even by the time of the ascension of Tiberius, Rome was a very different place from what it was when Ennius was writing – or when Catullus was writing. After the brutal civil wars of the forties and thirties, although Rome continued to call itself a republic, it became, under Augustus, a novel form of autocracy. As Tacitus put it, ‘little by little he appropriated the responsibilities of the senate, the magistrates, the constitution’ (Ann. 1.2.1). It is no accident that, during the imperial period, the figure of the emperor is so often central to Roman writing, from biography and history and oratory (Tacitus’ histories, for example, concentrate more on the careers of emperors than the institutions of the republic) to verse (Nero and Domitian, like Augustus before them, loom large in the poetry of their reigns). This political and social transformation had implications for the arts, not immediately but gradually, and consequently Latin literature, during the imperial period, was changed in important ways. The rich story of imperial Latin deserves its own telling.

Glossary of Names and Terms

Anacreon A sixth century bce Greek lyric poet whose verses often concentrate on youthful sensuality; he influenced both Hellenistic poets and Latin love poets. Appian A second century ce Alexandrian who became a Roman official; his Roman History (in Greek) extended from Rome’s origins to Appian’s own day. Apollonius of Rhodes A major third century bce Greek poet whose epic, the Argonautica, was influential in Rome, not least with Catullus and Vergil. Apuleius A second century ce Latin orator and writer best known for his novel, Metamorphoses (or The Golden Ass); his oration, the Apologia, includes ostensibly biographical material about the love interests of several Latin poets. Aristophanes A fifth century bce Greek comic poet, our most important representative of Attic Old Comedy. Asconius A first century ce Latin writer whose partially preserved commentary on Cicero’s speeches remains an important source for republican history and oratory. Crates of Mallos A second century bce Greek grammarian and critic; his visit to Rome in 159 bce marked a turning point in the Romans’ interest in scholarship. Dio Cassius Dio was a second century ce senator and military commander who was twice consul; his History of Rome (in Greek), much of which survives, extended from the origins of Rome to 229 ce. Dionysius of Halicarnassus A Greek critic and historian who lived in Rome during the Augustan Age; his Roman Antiquities extended to the First Punic War; the first eleven books (which reach 441 bce) survive. Diphilus A fourth century bce New Comedy poet whose plays were adapted by both Plautus and Terence. Empedocles A fifth century bce Greek philosopher and poet from Acragas in Sicily; his poem On Nature profoundly influenced Lucretius. Epicurus A major Greek philosopher who lived 341–270 bce, famous for his atomist view of the universe and his moral emphasis on happiness and 359

360

Glossary of Names and Terms

contentment, which are achieved by finding freedom from disturbance; Lucretius’ On the Nature of Things expounds Epicurus’ physical and moral theories. Euripides A fifth century bce Attic tragedian, still a major literary figure; his tragedies, not least his Medea, were influential in Hellenistic and Roman literature. Favorinus A second century ce philosopher, orator, and scholar, famous in his own day, whose tastes in Greek and Latin literature influenced (among others) Aulus Gellius. Festus A second century ce scholar who composed an epitome of On the Meaning of Words by the first century ce scholar M. Verrius Flaccus; because Verrius Flaccus’ lost work was a learned study of Latin vocabulary, Festus’ epitome is important for understanding republican society and literature. Fronto A second century ce orator and consul, tutor to Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus and best known for his letters to and from both men; his literary tastes favoured early writers like Ennius, Cato, and Plautus. Gellius A second century Roman writer whose Attic Nights include a wide variety of history, antiquarianism, and literary criticism. Herodotus A fifth century bce Greek historian whose History of the Persian Wars was deemed by Greeks and Romans alike to be the first serious specimen of historiography and remains an important historical and literary text. Hesiod A Greek poet of the late eighth or early seventh century bce whose Works and Days and Theogony were deeply influential for Hellenistic and Roman poetry, especially didactic poetry. Hirtius Aulus Hirtius was consul in 43 bce; he added an eighth book to Caesar’s Gallic War. Homer The early Greek poet to whom the Iliad and Odyssey were attributed in antiquity, for which reason he was viewed as the virtual origin of Greek and subsequently Latin literature. Juvenal A second century ce Latin satirist; although his poems were important and he is addressed in contemporary literature, little is known of his life. Menander The leading writer of Attic New Comedy and possibly the most popular author during the Hellenistic period; he lived ca. 344–292 bce; his plays were adapted by Plautus and, especially, Terence. Parmenides A major fifth century bce philosopher who expressed his views in a didactic poem which subsequently made an impression on Hellenistic and Roman writers. Persius A satirist during the reign of Nero (first century ce).

Glossary of Names and Terms

361

Petronius Author of the Latin novel, the Satyrica; probably identical with the Petronius who was a senator, consul, and courtier of Nero; forced to commit suicide in 66 ce. Pliny the Younger Orator, senator, and consul who lived ca. 61–ca. 112 ce; best known for his Letters, which were modelled on Cicero’s correspondence. Pliny the Elder A prominent equestrian and the uncle of Pliny the Younger; engaged in public service, he was also a prolific writer; his Natural History, a monumental Roman encyclopaedia, survives. Plutarch A Greek philosopher and biographer active in the late first century and early second century bce; his Parallel Lives of Eminent Greeks and Romans remains a crucial source for Greek and Roman history. Polybius A Greek statesman who lived ca. 200–ca. 118 bce; subjected by the Romans to dignified detainment in the capital, he composed his Histories (much of which survives), the most important history of Rome’s rise to its predominant status in the Mediterranean. Pyrrhus of Epirus King who lived 319–272 bce; his invasion of Italy in 280 bce brought him into conflict with Rome, a war which brought the Romans to international attention. Quintilian The most important authority on Latin rhetoric during the first century ce; his The Orator’s Education remains our most comprehensive account of education and rhetorical theory in Rome. Sappho Seventh century bce Greek lyric poet from the island of Lesbos; profoundly admired in antiquity, her poems subsist only in fragments; her influence on Latin poetry was significant, especially in the case of Catullus. Seneca the Elder A Roman equestrian who lived ca. 50 bce–ca. 40 ce; he composed a history and other works, now lost; his works on Roman declamation survive and remain an important source for this brand of oratory. Seneca the Younger Son of Seneca the Elder; a philosopher and a versatile, important writer whose plays include the bulk of our extant Latin tragedies; tutor and advisor to Nero, who ordered Seneca to commit suicide in 65 ce. Scholia notes, often anonymous, on any ancient text; sometimes full commentaries, sometimes marginal notes; scholia are collected in modern critical editions and consulted for the useful, sometimes unique, information they convey (not all of it reliable). Silius Italicus Appointed consul for 68 ce by Nero, he survived the civil wars following Nero’s fall and remained an important political figure; an epic poet and an admirer of Vergil, he composed the Punica, an account of the Second Punic War; he lived until 102 ce.

362

Glossary of Names and Terms

Suetonius An equestrian who lived ca. 70–130 ce; held an important position in the courts of Trajan and Hadrian, although he was ultimately dismissed by Hadrian; a scholar whose output in Greek and Latin was prolific; he is best known as a biographer, both for his extant biographies of grammarians and poets and for his Caesars, a sequence of imperial biographies ranging from Caesar to Domitian. Thucydides A fifth century Attic politician and historian whose account of the Peloponnesian War remains a model of historical and literary excellence; Sallust imitated Thucydides’ style and endeavoured to recreate his cynicism. Tiberius Augustus’ successor, Tiberius lived 42 bce–6 ce; he, like Augustus, refused to pardon Ovid and allow him to return to Rome. Tiro M. Tullius Tiro, Cicero’s freedman who was his literary advisor; after Cicero’s death, Tiro curated Cicero’s legacy by editing speeches and letters and by writing a biography of Cicero; he also composed several scholarly works; he is said to have died in 4 bce at the age of one hundred. Valerius Maximus A Roman writer during the reign of Tiberius (14–37 ce), his Memorable Doings and Sayings assemble a hodgepodge of anecdotes, historical episodes, and literary observations. Velleius Paterculus A Roman senator during the reign of Tiberius (14–37 ce) whose Roman History begins in the mythical past and reaches 29 ce. Xenophon An Athenian soldier, philosopher, and historian who lived ca. 430–353 bce; his works, many of which survive, were popular in the Hellenistic period and admired by the Romans.

Index Locorum

Accius Decius fr. 4–5, 45 Alcaeus 326, 338 Anacreon fr. 417, 338 Andronicus Odysia fr. 1, 16 Antipater T1 FRHist, 203 Apollonius 1.496–504, 319 Appian Bellum Civile 2.35, 231 4, 320 4.32, 86 Appius Claudius Caecus fr.3, 172 Apuleius Apologia 10, 113, 269 Aristotle Poetics 1447b.19-20, 170 Asconius 13 C, 117 22 C, 77 62 C, 96 Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 3.72a, 146 Caesar Bellum Civile 2.17–20, 163 Bellum Gallicum 2.34.4, 216 3.10, 218

5.26–37, 218 7.90, 216 8.pr2, 216, 218 8.1, 216 Callimachus Aetia 64.10, 184 fr. 1, 145 Cato Ad Marcum Filium fr. 1, 88 fr. 14, 91 fr. 15, 92 De Agricultura 2, 154 FRHist Origines, fr.1 FRHist, 207 Origines, fr.2 FRHist, 207 Origines, fr.34 FRHist, 208 Origines, fr.76 FRHist, 209 Origines, fr.80 FRHist, 208 Origines, fr. 113 FRHist, 11 Catullus 1, 127, 221, 311 7, 133 9, 129 10.33–34, 129 11, 132, 137, 138, 140, 301 12, 104, 129 12.6–9, 229 14, 104 15, 138 16, 110, 137 24, 138 28, 177 28.9–10, 126 29.23–24, 139 31, 129 32, 138 34, 344 35, 140

363

364 Catullus (cont.) 36.1, 128, 204 37, 135 38, 104, 140 39, 129 48, 138 49, 140 50, 104, 140 51, 131, 132, 135, 138 53, 104, 140 57, 139 58, 134 64, 140 64.22–23, 277 64.382, 277 64.407–408, 278 65, 128 66, 145 68.103–104, 132 69, 97, 129 72, 135 76.3, 102 77, 97 81, 138 83, 132 84, 129 85, 136 87.3, 102 93, 140 95, 127, 276 96, 104, 140 99, 138 101, 130 109.6, 102 110, 138 Cicero Ad Atticum, 190 1.13.5, 96 2.1.1, 217 2.19.3, 44 4.16.2, 193 7.2.1, 37, 140 13.2.3, 194 13.13.1, 194 13.14.1, 194 13.16.1–2, 194 13.18, 194 13.19.2–5, 194 13.25.3, 194 14.7.2, 142 14.13b.1–3, 143 15.11.1–2, 273 16.5.5, 144 16.6.4, 194

Index Locorum Ad Familiares 7.1.2, 22 9.26.2, 50 9.8.1, 194 9.8.2, 158 10.31.2, 229 10.31.3, 229 12.16.3, 121 14.16, 50 16.17.1, 144 Brutus 24, 158 52–6, 76 53, 76 55, 76 59, 76 61, 77 65, 209 71, 17 75–6, 22 82, 77 90, 124 91, 77 102, 213 125–126, 93 164, 96 167, 54 228, 213 252, 218 262, 216, 217 283, 82 289, 82 293–4, 89 295, 77 305, 82 325, 105 De Academica 1.3.9, 162 1.8, 125 2.51, 115 2.118, 175 De Domo Sua 76, 237 92, 205 De Finibus 1.3.7, 124 De Inventione 1.22, 100 2.37, 100 De Legibus 1.4, 205 1.5, 205 1.5–10, 213 1. 6, 213

Index Locorum 1. 10, 213 1.15, 158 3.26, 158 De Officiis 2.48, 75 2.51, 75 2.83, 215 Oratore 1.5, 84 1.8, 77 1.14, 78 1.35–8, 77 1.37, 77 1.128, 158 1.187–8, 156 2.25, 124 2.51–64, 213 2.53, 207 2. 64, 213 2.224, 158 2.249, 44 2.255, 47 2.265, 88 2.274, 48 2.276, 115 2.279, 47 2.285, 47 3.171, 118 3.209, 85 3.214, 93 De Senectute 16, 76 50, 20 In Caecilium 30–51, 81 In Pisonem 72–75, 204 Orator 43, 83 120, 198 161, 140 213–214, 86 Philippics 2.10–20, 180 2.20, 204 2.60, 237 Pro Caelio 1, 86, 99, 101, 103 3–30, 100 18, 46, 101 19, 96 25, 101 28, 100 30, 100 30–31, 98

31–32, 101 34, 102 35, 103 36, 103 37, 101 39–43, 102 39–44, 100 45–47, 103 47–48, 100 48, 101 49–50, 101 50, 101 57, 101 59–60, 101 61–67, 102 77, 103 80, 104 Pro Cluentio 141, 158 Pro Murena 24, 75 57, 96 Pro Roscio Amerio 89, 46 Pro Sestio 120, 42 Tusc. 1.34, 203 3.45, 140 4.4, 172 Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 6.100916, 51 8.18913, 166 Claudius Quadrigarius fr.6 FRHist, 211 Dio 48.13.6, 320 Diomedes K1.485, 113, 116 Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates Romanae 6.38–45, 76 Ennius Annales fr. 1 Sk., 28 8.280–2 Sk, 25–6 fr. 109 Sk., 28 fr. 156 Sk., 27, 235 fr. 199 Sk., 76 fr. 206 Sk., 30 fr. 206–9 Sk., 2 fr. 208–9 Sk., 30 fr. 290 Sk., 202

365

366 Ennius (cont.) fr. 304–8 Sk., 76, 202 fr. 324 Sk., 202 fr. 385 Sk., 290 fr. 391–8 Sk., 202 fr. 487 Sk., 29 fr. 494–5 Sk., 203 Epig. 2, 183 Satires 1, 116 13, 116 5 W, 116 Epicurus Epist. Herodotum 38, 178 Euripides Bacchae 206–7, 47 Fabius Pictor fr. 1 FRHist, 200 Festus 216 L, 207 Fronto Ad Antonium Imperatorem 1.2.9, 90 Gallus fr.1–2, 256 Gellius Noctes Atticae 1.24.2, 23 1.5.3, 94 2.23, 54 2.23.10, 54 5.13.2, 35 6.14.6, 118 6.3, 89 6.3.37, 89 7.8.5, 44 11.8, 206 15.24, 51 17.1.1, 229 17.14.4, 48 17.17.1, 24 17.21.45, 18 Herodotus 1.1, 199 Hesiod Theogony 27–8, 170 Works and Days 10, 169

Index Locorum 654–9, 170 724–36, 169 Homer Iliad 1.248, 76 9.440–43, 75 11.654, 194 13.339, 290 16.102–11, 202 Odyssey 1.1, 16 11.323, 276 11.325, 278 Horace Ars Poetica 389, 187 46–59, 208 Epistles 1.1, 327, 341, 344 1.2, 341 1.3, 341 1.5, 341 1.6.1, 342 1.7, 341 1.7.39, 327 1.8.12, 342 1.10, 341 1.11, 341 1.13, 342, 345 1.14.21, 341 1.15, 342 1.16, 325 1.17, 343 1.18, 343 1.19, 338 1.19.24–5, 334 1.20.17–18, 343 2.1, 345 2.1.53–4, 22 2.1.55, 53 2.1.62, 6 2.1.189–207, 70 2.2, 345 Epodes 1, 327, 336 2, 334 3, 334 5, 333 9, 327 15, 334 17, 333, 334 Odes 1.1, 336, 340 1.3, 337 1.5.1–13, 251

Index Locorum 1.5.5, 346 1.6, 326, 338 1.8.12, 346 1.11.15, 346 1.14, 338 1.22, 337 Scholiast 1.22.10, 118 1.33, 253 1.37, 327, 336 1.38, 336 2.1, 229 2.1.1, 230 2.1.3–4, 231 2.1.6, 231 2.1.21–3, 231 2.1.25–8, 231 2.1.29–36, 231 2.5, 338 2.7.9–16, 339 2.8.14, 325 2.10, 338 2.10.5–6, 342 2.18, 338 3.1.3, 337 3.2.13, 338 3.3.57–60, 315 3.4, 338 3.11.35, 346 3.30, 339 3.30.1–6, 306 4.1, 252 4.2.31, 344 4.3.16, 343 4.5, 344 4.14, 344 4.16, 344 Satires 1.2, 346 1.3.1–7, 121 1.4, 329, 331 1.4.6–7, 113 1.5, 329 1.6.55–64, 331 1.9, 331 1.9.43–8, 330 1.10.36–7, 203 1.10.42, 229 Scholiast 1.10.46, 116 1.10.55, 118 1.10.64–7, 114 1.10.68–9, 2 Scholiast 2.1.7, 122

2.1.30–4, 119 2.1.62–70, 120 Scholiast 2.1.72, 122 2.1.74–5, 122 2.1.74–7, 118 2.2, 332 2.3, 332 2.3.12, 113 2.6, 325, 330, 331 2.6.2–3, 113 2.62–70, 122 2.7, 325, 332 2.8, 332 Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae 50, 76 54, 76 Invectio contra Senecam 16–17, 224 Juvenal 1.19–21, 121 1.165–6, 121 Laudatio Turiae 30–32, 271 Livy pr.4, 235 pr.9, 235 pr.10, 235 pr.11, 235 1, 10 2.7.7, 113 2.30.4–4.31.11, 76 7.2.4–13, 10 7.2.13, 70 7.9.8–10.11, 211 7.10.5, 212 per.13, 76 27.37.13, 18 34.15.9, 206 Lucilius 15–16, 120 24–7, 119 35, 120 67–9, 119 70, 119 84–6, 120 100–1, 121 165, 119 166, 119 186–93, 120 198–9, 119

367

368 Lucilius (cont.) 200–7, 119 211–12, 119 251, 119 254, 122 254–8, 119 273–4, 120 275–6, 119 290, 119 291, 119 324–5, 119 331–2, 119 333, 119 334, 119 335, 119 359–60, 119 361, 119 401–10, 120 412, 122 450–2, 119 524–9, 119 591–3, 123 594, 124 640–1, 117 647, 117 650–1, 117 651, 123 658, 117 664, 123 670–1, 119 676–7, 120 694, 120 695, 120 708–9, 120 710–11, 120 726, 117 761–2, 119 791–2, 121 805–11, 120 820, 120 821, 120 822–3, 120 835, 120 859–78, 120 913–15, 119 927–8, 119 929–30, 123 951, 124 957–8, 120 959–60, 119 983–4, 122 993, 117 1005, 122 1039, 124 1055, 124 1075, 121, 123 1077, 123

Index Locorum 1091, 125 1131, 124 1135, 122 1145–51, 120 1187, 120 1196–1208, 120 Lucretius 1.1, 314 1.1–5, 176 1.20–7, 176 1.66–9, 176 1.72–85, 176 1.117–19, 183, 184 1.136–9, 175 1.638–9, 176 1.729–33, 177 2.118–20, 176 4.8–9, 178 4.11–15, 178 4.20–2, 178 4.75–85, 175 4.1110–14, 252 Macrobius Saturnalia 6.2.31, 22 Martial 8.55, 357 14.190, 238 Menander Dis Exapaton fr. 4, 56 Naevius Bellum Punicum 25, 21 fr. 1, 21 fr. 18, 21 fr. 33, 21 fr. 34–5, 21 Nepos Agesilaus 4.2–3, 223 Atticus 16.3–4, 144 Cato 3.1–4, 207 3.3, 207 3.4, 209 Eumenes 8.2–3, 223 Hannibal pr.1, 220 pr.23.4, 222 13.4, 222 Nonius 268 L, 125

Index Locorum Ovid Amores 1.1, 309 1.1.1–4, 247 1.7, 188 1.9.1, 238 1.9.1–2, 38 1.9.1–20, 258 Ars amatoria 1.399–436, 188 1.505–24, 188 1.665–78, 188 2.169–72, 188 Ex Ponto 4.9.105–8, 352 Fasti 3.697, 191 Heroides 1.7–10, 264 Metamorphoses 1.1–4, 305 2.340–66, 296 3.379–92, 307 3.399–510, 307 5.227, 306 6.129–30, 303 6.385–6, 304 6.387–91, 303 10.152–4, 300 11.741–2, 296 14.532–65, 297 15.877–9, 301, 306 Tristia 1.2, 349 1.3, 349 1.4, 349 1.5, 349 1.6, 349 1.8, 349 1.9, 349 1.10, 349 2.64, 310 2.103–4, 348 2.207, 347 2.260, 350 2.471–6, 167 2.471.96, 168 2.549, 192 3.9, 350 4.4, 350 4.10, 350 Palatine Anthology 7.42, 30 12.73, 249 Persius 1.114–15, 121

Petronius Satyricon 118, 205 Plato Phaedrus 253–4, 249 Plautus Bacchides 214, 66 240, 57 362, 57 816–17, 56 Casina 64–6, 57 Menaechmi 11–12, 58 572–5, 35 Rudens 930, 63 1060, 55 Trinummus 363, 172 Pliny the Elder Naturalis historia pr.16, 234 7.139, 238 11.244, 174 29.7.14, 88 Pliny the Younger Epistles 2.3.8, 237 Plutarch Alexander 1.1–3, 220 Aratus 3.3, 215 Caesar 32.4–8, 231 Cato Maior 10.3–5, 206 12.6, 206 13–14, 206 Cicero 1.3–4, 33 Lucullus 1.4, 216 Pompeius 60.4, 231 Pyrrhus 18–19, 76 Romulus 1–3, 200 Polybius 39.1, 206 Propertius 1.1.1–4, 270 1.2.5–6, 255

369

370 Propertius (cont.) 1.7, 254 1.9, 254 2.1.3–14, 261 2.1.13–14, 257 2.3.8, 261 2.8.13–14, 240 2.9, 261 2.34, 254 3.8.9–10, 259 3.25.11–12, 262 4.8, 263 Pseudo-Asconius 215 Stangl, 19, 20 Quintilian Institutes 1.3.115, 93 1.5.56, 229 2.5.19, 228 2.17.21, 95 3.8.9, 228 5.13.43, 53 8.1.3, 229 8.6.53, 98, 101 9.4.76, 105 10.1.32, 234 10.1.39, 234 10.1.93, 112, 114, 271 10.1.94, 118 10.1.99, 66 10.1.100, 55 10.1.101, 234 10.1.113, 229 10.1.126, 356 10.1.195, 162 12.1.22, 229 12.10.54, 96 12.10.59, 84 Res Gestae 8.5, 267 Rhetorica ad Herennium 1.9, 84 3.11, 101 Sallust Bellum Catilinum 3, 225 6, 225 44.6, 226 Bellum Jugurthinum 3.2–3, 225 4.7, 227 4.9, 225

Index Locorum 5.1–2, 226 43.1–5, 226 63.7, 227 104.4, 227 Sappho fr. 1, 246 fr. 105, 137 Scriptores Historiae Augustae Hadrian 16.6, 32 Sempronius Asellio fr.2 FRHist, 210 Seneca the Elder Controversiae 4.pr.2, 230 4.pr.11, 229 9.1.14, 234 Suasoriae 6.17, 236 6.22, 237 6.24, 229 6.24–5, 232 Seneca the Younger Epistulae 75.1, 356 100.7–9, 229 Servius Auctus ad Aen 1.198, 22 Statius Silvae 2.7.76, 179 Thebaid 12.816–19, 356 Suetonius Gramm. 1.2, 15, 24 2.2, 155 10, 229 26.2, 98 27, 221 Augustus. 86, 142 Caligula 53.2, 356 Horatius 1.2, 324 Julius. 56.4, 229 73, 140 Terentius 7, 68 Vergilius 22–3, 281 23–4, 281

Index Locorum 33, 285 38, 281 39, 281 41, 281 42, 280 Tacitus Agricola 1.3, 214 Annales 1.2.1, 358 1.4.1, 358 4.34.4, 234 Dialogus 3–4, 70 18, 104 Terence Adelphoe 15–25, 66 470–1, 61 997, 59, 70 Andria 6–7, 68 16, 68 18–19, 68 Eunuchus 549–606, 67 Heauton Timoroumenos 22, 68 23–6, 66 30–33, 67 Phormio 1, 68 1–4, 68 Theocritus 11, 317 Thucydides 2.12.4, 232 Tibullus 1.4, 263 1.5.47–56, 259 1.7, 266, 267 1.10, 245 2.4.1–2, 260 [Tibullus] 3.13.1–2, 266 3.13.7–8, 266 3.13.7–10, 266 Valerius Maximus 3.7.3, 78 8.3.3, 86 Varro De Re Rustica 3.2.3, 164

Velleius 2.86.3, 229 Vergil Aeneid 1.1, 37, 283 1.11, 284 1.145–57, 78 4.70–3, 285 6.851–3, 285 7.45, 286 9.80–122, 297 11.601–2, 290 Eclogue 1.1–2, 318 1.4, 321 1.27–35, 321 1.40–1, 321 1.70, 321 1.71–2, 321 1.78, 322 3, 229 3.85, 318 4, 240, 318 4.1–3, 322 5, 319 5.85–90, 319 6.4–5, 318 6.8, 318 6.74, 319 8.5, 319 9.1–6, 321 9.11–16, 321 9.26–9, 321 10.1–2, 319 10.69, 320 10.70, 320 10.75–6, 322 Georgics 1.25, 182 1.145–6, 182 1.506–7, 183 1.678, 182 2.136–76, 183 2.174–6, 183 2.490–6, 181 3.8–11, 183 3.46–8, 184 4.3–5, 185 4.281–558, 185 4.559–62, 182 4.560–1, 186 4.564, 186 Vitruvius De Architectura 7.pf.1, 149

371

Index Nominum

Places and peoples are indexed under the place name (e.g. Spanish under Spain). Ancient works of literature are indexed under their authors (see also the Index locorum) Accius, 45, 47, 53, 118, 173, 174, 203, 274, 356 Achaea, 215, 313 Achaemenides, 310 Acheron, 181 Achilles, 46, 75, 169, 194, 277, 286, 287, 313 Acilius, 201 Acropolistis, 64, 65 Actaeon, 348 Actium, 182, 229, 231, 234, 242, 286 Adriatic, 254 Aeetes, 288 Aelius Paetus, 148 Aemilius Paullus, 52, 69 Aemilius Scaurus, 77 Aeneas, 22, 177, 200, 279, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288, 289, 291, 292, 293, 297, 310, 313, 314, 350 Aeschines, 79, 84 Aeschinus, 60, 69 Aetolian War, 25, 27, 31, 202 Afranius, 54 Africa, 224, 225, 226, 231, 241, 242, 284, 288, 290 Africa Nova. See Africa African War, 220 Africanus. See Scipio Africanus Agamemnon, 313 Agesilaus, 213, 223 Agrasius, 164 Agrippa, 338 Agrius, 164 Ajax, 202, 313 Alba Longa, 313 Albinus, 201, 206 Alcaeus, 336 Alcyone, 277, 295 Alesia, 216 Alexander, 8, 106, 176, 201 Alexandrian War, 220

Allecto, 286 Alps, 137 Amata, 286 Ambiorix, 218, 219 Ambracia, 25, 27, 31 Anacreon, 246, 338 Anaxagoras, 175 Anchises, 22, 288 Andromache, 284 Andromeda, 306 Andronicus, 2, 3, 6, 10, 11, 12–13, 14, 15–18, 21, 22, 24, 26, 28, 29, 31, 34, 37, 51, 52, 124, 202, 279, 328, 344, 355 Anna Perenna, 191 Antimachus, 128 Antiochus III, 91, 206, 209, 214 Antiochus IV, 117 Antiphon, 79 Antonius Liberalis, 298 Antonius, C., 45 Antonius, L., 320 Antonius, M. (cos. 99), 93 Antony, 45, 49, 50, 51, 86, 93, 95, 97, 143, 144, 161, 164, 180, 182, 229, 230, 231, 237, 242, 256, 273, 279, 320, 322, 323, 327, 330 Aphrodite. See Venus Apicius, 193 Apollo, 41, 44, 45, 145, 289, 300, 301, 303, 306, 309, 318, 344 Apollodorus, 171, 221 Apollonius, 22, 146, 278, 288, 289, 319 Appian, 86, 230, 231, 233, 320 Apuleius, 130, 269 Apulia, 253, 323 Arachne, 302, 303 Aratus, 170, 171, 172, 180, 181, 182, 215 Arausio, Battle of, 227 Archestratus, 171, 173

372

Index Nominum Archias, 35, 204 Archilochus, 247, 329, 333, 334, 339 Archimedes, 150 Ares. See Mars Arethusa, 319 Argo, 46, 146, 277 Ariadne, 276, 277, 278 Ariovistus, 203 Aristaeus, 186, 277 Aristophanes, 42, 113 Aristotle, 84, 156, 160, 170, 187 Arpinum, 204 Artemidorus, 318 Artemis. See Diana Ascanius, 284, 313 Asclepius, 311 Ascra, 183 Asellio, 210 Asinius Gallus, 322 Asinius Pollio, 70, 104, 105, 151, 162, 195, 220, 229–33, 237, 318, 319, 322 Astaphium, 63 Atellan farce, 47, 62 Athena. See Minerva Athens, 42, 44, 52, 58, 65, 79, 81, 88, 94, 142, 146, 177, 179, 221, 228, 232, 246, 276, 302, 314 Atratinus, 98, 239 Attica, 58, 276 Atticus (Cicero’s friend), 44, 77, 89, 142, 143, 144, 158, 160, 193, 194, 209, 221, 222, 223 Atticus (Ovid’s friend), 258 Aufidius, 201 Aufillena, 138 Augustine, 158, 163 Augustus, 6, 42, 70, 142, 151, 161, 163, 164, 165, 171, 182, 184, 186, 192, 195, 221, 229, 230, 231, 233, 234, 242, 255, 267, 279, 281, 282, 285, 286, 291, 293, 303, 311, 314, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322, 323, 324, 326, 327, 330, 336, 338, 339, 342, 343, 344, 346, 347, 348, 349, 352, 353, 355, 358 Aurelius, 110, 134, 137, 138 Aventine, 25 Babylon, 199 Bacchis, 59, 60 Bacchus, 319 Baiae, 262 Balkans, 229 Bellona, 216 Berenice, 172 Berossus, 199, 201 Bion, 324 Bithynia, 126, 129 Black Sea. See Pontus Boccaccio, 295 Boios, 171, 298

373

Bologna, 47 Bononia. See Bologna Britannia, 205, 216 Britons. See Britannia Brundisium, 231, 330 Brutus, 45, 50, 53, 77, 104, 105, 144, 156, 157, 161, 217, 221, 226, 236, 239, 242, 256, 273, 323 Bucco, 47 Byblis, 298 Cadiz, 237 Cadmus, 47 Caecilius, 140 Caecilius Metellus (cos. 206), 19, 20, 238 Caecilius Metellus Celer, 130, 132 Caecilius Metellus Numidicus, 226, 227, 230 Caecilius Metellus Macedonicus, 120, 121, 122 Caecilius Niger, 80 Caecilius Statius, 51, 53, 66, 67, 174 Caelius Rufus, 46, 134, 193, 239 Caesar, 19, 33, 45, 48, 49, 68, 80, 83, 86, 95, 97, 126, 135, 137, 138–40, 141, 144, 157, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 182, 191, 193, 198, 203, 205, 216–20, 222, 224, 225, 226, 229, 230, 231, 239, 242, 256, 273, 275, 294, 301, 311, 314, 325, 356 Calabria, 124, 254 Caligula, 356 Callimachus, 29, 30, 128, 133, 144–6, 171, 172, 183, 190, 191, 247, 249, 275, 276, 289, 297, 305, 319, 333, 336 Callinus, 247 Calliope, 204, 300. See also Muses Calpurnius Piso Frugi, 210, 211 Calvus, 82, 104, 105, 127, 140, 276 Calypso, 288 Camenae, 16, 21, 23, 28, 29, 30, 31, 341 Camilla, 293 Camillus, 9, 236 Campania, 18, 47, 116 Campus Martius, 31 Canace, 264 Canidia, 333, 334 Caracalla, 34 Carneades, 81 Carthage, 7, 14, 20, 22, 66, 120, 150, 164, 201, 202, 284, 288, 292 Casina, 60 Cassius, 237, 242, 273 Catiline, 94, 96, 204, 224, 225 Cato the Elder, 11, 25, 28, 87–92, 94, 103, 153–5, 156, 163, 164, 165, 181, 206–10, 211, 222, 233, 235, 241, 355 Cato the Younger, 219, 221, 225, 226, 231 Catullus, 32, 33, 36, 38, 97, 102, 104, 108, 110–11, 118, 126–41, 145, 177, 179, 195, 203, 204, 221, 229, 244, 246, 250, 251, 252, 260, 269, 272,

374

Index Nominum

276, 277, 278, 289, 301, 311, 327, 334, 335, 344, 358 Catulus, 203, 214, 215, 249 Celsus, 193 Cerastae, 301 Ceres, 41 Cethegus, 76 Ceyx, 277, 295 Chaerea, 67 Chaucer, 295 Chrysalus, 56 Cicero, 2, 10, 11, 17, 20, 22, 30, 33, 34, 35, 37, 44, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 53, 55, 66, 71, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80, 82, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 91, 92, 93–104, 107, 108, 109, 111, 118, 125, 128, 134, 140, 141–4, 152, 155, 156, 157, 158–61, 162, 163, 171, 172, 175, 179, 180, 187, 193–5, 198, 203, 204, 205, 209, 213, 215, 217, 221, 222, 224, 225, 228, 229, 232, 234, 236, 237, 239, 242, 273, 275, 277, 325, 346, 355, 356, 357 Cicero (junior), 142, 161, 239 Cicero, Q., 144, 157, 158, 179, 203, 205, 239 Cilicia, 128 Cimbrian War, 204 Cincius Alimentus, 201 Cinna, 127, 129, 140, 276 Cinyras, 276, 301 Cipus, 311 Circe, 288, 313 Clastidium, 52 Claudius Caecus, Appius, 76, 102, 172 Claudius (emperor), 125 Claudius Nero (cos. 207), 19 Claudius Pulcher, Appius, 130, 157, 164 Cleopatra, 182, 242, 279, 290, 292, 327, 336 Cleostrata, 60 Clodia Metelli, 33, 97, 98, 100, 101, 102, 130, 131, 269, 272. See also Lesbia Clodius Pulcher, 95, 101, 102, 224 Clytemnestra, 101 Coelius Antipater, 203, 210 Colchis, 46 Collyra, 118 Colophon, 171 Consentia, 124 Corax, 78 Corinna, 264, 270 Cornelia, 272 Cornelius Gallus. See Gallus Cornelius Lentulus Lupus, 121 Cornelius Scipio (son of Africanus), 201 Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus, 69. See Scipio Aemilianus Cornelius Scipio Africanus. See Scipio Africanus Cornelius Sulla. See Sulla

Cornificius, 104, 140 Cornutus, 267 Crassus, 46, 95, 97, 98, 99, 101, 138, 230 Crates, 155 Cratinus, 113 Crete, 276, 277 Critolaus, 81 Croton, 7 Ctesipho, 59, 60, 69 Cupid, 191, 238, 247, 258, 263, 284, 309 Cybele, 297 Cynicism, 125, 329 Cynthia, 254, 257, 261, 262, 263, 269, 270 Cyparissus, 300 Cyrene, 133, 186 Cyrus, 214, 253 Damasippus, 332 Danae, 306 Dante, 323 Daphne, 309 Davus, 332 Decimus Laberius, 48 Delia, 263, 269 Delphi, 200 Demea, 69 Demosthenes, 79, 84, 95, 105 Diana, 276, 278, 288, 344, 348 Dido, 22, 264, 284, 285, 287, 288, 289, 290, 292, 350 Dio, 237 Diocles, 200 Diogenes, 81 Diomedes, 313 Dionysia, 94 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 314 Dionysus, 94, 277, 278. See Bacchus Diphilus, 55, 57, 67 Dolabella, 83, 193 Domitian, 358 Domitius Marsus, 357 Echo, 307 Egypt, 8, 13, 46, 56, 97, 101, 137, 145, 172, 199, 242, 255, 256, 276, 290, 327, 340 Empedocles, 170, 177, 298 Ennius, 2, 3, 21, 22, 23–32, 34, 36, 37, 38, 46, 52, 53, 68, 76, 101, 111, 112, 114, 115–16, 118, 145, 146, 163, 173, 174, 175, 179, 183, 184, 194, 202, 203, 209, 210, 235, 249, 274, 289, 290, 293, 300, 302, 310, 319, 340, 350, 355, 358 Epicharmus, 173 Epicurus, 150, 174, 176, 177, 182, 184, 281, 291, 299, 328, 342

Index Nominum Epidicus, 64, 65 Epirus, 13, 76 Erasmus, 158 Erichthonius, 276 Etruria, 7, 9, 10, 43, 113, 150 Etruscan. See Etruria Euhemerus, 173 Eumolpus, 205 Eupolis, 76, 113 Euripides, 47, 264 Europa, 300 Euryalus, 287 Eurydice, 186 Evander, 286 Fabius Pictor, 21, 200–1 Favorinus, 92 Fescennine verses, 11, 113 Flavius, 7 Floralia, 41 Florus, 237, 345 Formiae, 139 Frontinus, 165 Fronto, 92, 203 Fulvia, 320 Fulvius Nobilior, 25, 29, 31, 184 Furius, 110, 134, 137, 138, 203, 214, 275 Galatea, 307, 318 Gallus, 49, 255, 256, 257, 271, 318, 319, 320 Ganymede, 300 Gaul, 9, 27, 46, 47, 52, 137, 157, 211, 212, 216, 217, 218, 219, 221, 235, 236, 239, 241, 263, 286 Gellius, Aulus, 10, 18, 23, 26, 51, 53, 54, 55, 92 Gellius, Gnaeus, 210 Germania, 218, 219 Germanicus, 171, 180 Glaucon, 277 Glycera, 253 Gorgias, 79 Gracchus. See Sempronius Gracchus Gripus, 63 Gymnasium, 60 Hadrian, 32, 92, 210 Hannibal, 17, 106, 214, 241 Hecale, 276 Hector, 286, 293, 313 Hegio, 71 Helen, 132, 265, 312, 350 Heliades, 296 Helicon, 17, 184 Helios, 296 Hera. See Juno Heracles. See Hercules

375

Heraclitus, 176 Hercules, 29, 31, 116, 286, 299, 313 Herennius Balbus, 98 Hermes. See Mercury Herodotus, 178, 199, 209, 211 Hersilia, 310 Hesiod, 29, 30, 144, 151, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 181, 183, 297, 319 Hippocrene, 17 Hippolytus, 311 Hipponax, 333 Hirtius, 216, 218 Hispania. See Spain Homer, 10, 14, 16, 17, 21, 22, 28, 29, 30, 31, 76, 115, 144, 146, 163, 169, 172, 177, 187, 199, 202, 203, 247, 264, 274, 276, 278, 279, 282, 287, 288, 289, 290, 301, 306, 310, 329, 330, 341 Horace, 2, 3, 6, 12, 17, 22, 32, 36, 38, 53, 55, 70, 108, 112, 113, 114, 117, 118, 120, 122, 141, 145, 166, 186–8, 195, 203, 204, 208, 229, 230, 231, 244, 246, 251, 252, 253, 254, 268, 293, 299, 302, 312, 315, 317, 349, 352, 353, 355, 357 Hortalus, 94, 105 Hortensia, 86, 272 Hortensius, 81, 86, 93, 94, 95, 128, 158 Horus, 262 Hostia, 269 Hostius, 203, 274 Hyacinthus, 301 Hyginus, 221 Hyrcanians, 137 Ides of March, 165, 191, 242 Ilia, 350 Ilion. See Troy Illyricum, 218 India, 137 Io, 276 Ipsitilla, 138 Isocrates, 79 Istrian War, 202 Iunius Brutus, 163. See Brutus Janus, 191 Jason, 46, 146, 288, 289 Jerome, 125, 178 Jonson, Ben, 280 Jugurtha, 224, 226 Jugurthine War, 204, 224, 227 Julius Florus, 341 Junius Brutus, 157 Junius Congus, 124 Juno, 15, 276, 284, 286, 288, 307, 312, 315 Jupiter, 9, 127, 135, 163, 169, 171, 173, 176, 202, 239, 276, 284, 287, 297, 300, 306, 307, 310, 311

376

Index Nominum

Juturna, 287 Juvenal, 112 Juventius, 138 Laberius, 49 Laelius, 66, 120, 122 Laelius Decumus, 124 Lampsacus, 314 Lanuvium, 28, 313 Lanuvius, 68 Laomedon, 315 Latinus, 286 Latium, 116 Lausus, 287 Lavinia, 286, 292, 306 Leonidas, 209 Lepidus, 86, 95, 161, 230, 239, 242, 320 Lesbia, 33, 98, 102, 130–8, 250, 251, 252, 269, 272, 334 Lesbos, 246 Liberalis. See Antonius Liberalis Licinius Crassus, L., 15 Licinius Crassus, M. See Crassus Licinius Macer, 140 Liguria, 208 Livius Andronicus, 1. See Andronicus Livius Salinator, 15, 19 Livy, 9, 10, 51, 70, 113, 198, 203, 206, 211, 212, 228, 229, 230, 232, 233, 278, 314, 355, 356 Lollius, 341, 343 Lucan, 206, 220, 233, 237, 312, 356 Lucceius, 193 Lucian, 125 Lucilia, 117 Lucilius, 2, 108, 111, 112, 113–15, 116–25, 174, 195, 329, 331, 332, 342, 355, 357 Lucius Pomponius, 47 Lucretius, 36, 37, 126, 152, 160, 167, 174–9, 180, 181, 183, 184, 185, 188, 252, 253, 289, 298, 299, 314, 323, 328 Lucullus, 35, 204, 215 Lupus, 120 Lycaon, 295 Lycidas, 321 Lycoris, 50, 253, 256. See also Volumnia Cytheris Lygdamus, 265 Lysias, 79, 89, 104 Macareus, 310 Maccus, 47, 62 Macedon, 95, 201, 214, 240 Macedonian Wars Third, 69, 89 Maecenas, 182, 195, 245, 323, 324, 325, 326, 327, 330, 331, 332, 334, 336, 340, 341, 342, 343, 357

Magna Graecia, 199 Magna Mater, 41, 103 Mago, 150, 164 Mamurra, 139, 140, 166 Manetho, 199, 201 Manlius Torquatus, 93, 211, 212, 235 Mantua, 280, 318, 321 Marathon, 276 Marathus, 263 Marcellus, 52, 285 Marcus Aurelius, 210 Marius, 33, 35, 93, 180, 204, 218, 224, 226, 227, 241, 278 Mark Antony. See Antony Mars, 27, 177, 310, 314 Marsyas, 303, 304, 308 Martial, 238, 312, 357 Medea, 46, 70, 101, 146, 264, 288, 289, 350 Medullini, 76 Medusa, 306 Megalensia, 62, 97, 103 Meleager, 270 Meliboeus, 321 Melpomene, 340. See also Muses Memmius, 126, 129, 177 Menalcas, 319 Menander, 54, 55–7, 66, 69 Menelaus, 133, 293, 299, 312, 313 Menippus, 125 Mercury, 284, 339 Merula, 164 Messalla, 245, 265, 267 Messene, 173 Metaurus, 17, 19 Mettius Fufetius, 286 Mezentius, 287 Micio, 69, 102 Milo, 96 Milton, John, 280 Mimnermus, 246, 247 Minerva, 22, 31, 204, 302, 303, 306, 312 Minotaur, 277 Misenum, 231 Mithridates, 241 Mithridatic Wars, 215 Moeris, 321 Molon, 80 Mopsus, 319 Muse(s), 16, 21, 23, 28, 29, 30, 31, 94, 145, 163, 169, 170, 171, 178, 183, 184, 204, 256, 261, 275, 300, 318, 319, 322, 337, 338, 340, 341 Myrrha, 128, 276, 301 Myrtale, 254 Mytilene, 239

Index Nominum Naevius, 2, 3, 18–23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 30, 34, 37, 44, 51, 52, 68, 124, 201, 202, 203, 279, 289, 355 Nanno, 246 Narcissus, 307 Nausicaa, 288, 289 Neaera, 334 Nemesis, 263 Neoterics, 140–1 Nepos (Cornelius), 127, 128, 144, 195, 198, 207, 209, 220–4, 311 Neptune, 78, 302 Nero, 70, 358 Nervii, 216 Nestor, 76 New Carthage, 214 Nicander, 171, 172, 181, 298 Nigidius Figulus, 156 Nisus, 287 Noricum, 185 Novius, 47 Numa, 8 Numantia, 117 Numidia, 224, 226 Nymphs, 181 Octavia, 166, 285, 322 Octavian. See Augustus Odysseus, 16, 130, 169, 276, 283, 284, 288, 307, 310, 313, 351 Orpheus, 186, 300, 301, 310, 319 Orcus, 23 Oscan, 7, 15, 18, 28, 47, 124 Ovid, 30, 32, 38, 70, 108, 145, 167, 168, 171, 180, 188–92, 238, 244, 245, 247, 255, 257, 261, 263–5, 268, 269, 270, 271, 292, 293–312, 317, 323, 326, 340, 347–53, 355, 356 Ovid’s wife, 351 Pacuvius, 32, 52, 53, 114, 116 Padua, 128 Palatine, 101, 151 Pallas, 286, 287, 293 Pamphila, 60 Pan, 181, 309 Panaetius, 122 Paphos, 301 Pappus, 47 Parathini, 229 Paris, 132, 191, 265, 286, 293, 312, 313, 315, 350 Parmenides, 170 Parthenius, 298 Parthia, 137 Passer, 164 Patavium, 229, 233 Patroclus, 286, 313

377

Paulus Maximus, 252 Pavo, 164 Peleus, 128, 277 Pelion, 46, 101 Peloponnesian War, 179, 199, 232 Penelope, 261, 264, 351 Peparethos, 200 Pericles, 76 Periphanes, 64, 65 Perses, 168, 169 Perseus of Macedon, 89 Perseus (mythological hero), 306 Persia, 209, 223, 314 Persian Wars, 199 Persius (poet), 112, 114 Persius (reader of Lucilius), 124 Perusine War, 320, 322 Petronius, 205 Phaeacia, 288 Phaedra, 264, 276 Phaethon, 296 Philemon, 172 Philip II, 95 Philip V, 214 Philippa, 64, 65 Philippi, 50, 182, 239, 242, 320, 323, 338 Philocrates, 71 Philoctetes, 313 Philomela, 304 Philopolemus, 72 Phineus, 306 Phoenix, 75 Pholoe, 253 Phronesium, 60 Phrygia, 297 Pica, 164 Pierea, 178 Pindar, 336, 343 Pisones, 186, 187, 328 Pitholaus, 220 Plania, 269 Plataea, 247 Plato, 150, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 169, 170, 249 Plautus, 18, 35, 38, 41, 45, 47, 51, 53, 54, 55–7, 59, 60, 61–6, 67, 68, 71, 172, 174, 332, 355 Plebeian Games, 41 Pliny the Elder, 165, 192 Pliny the Younger, 105, 144, 237 Plutarch, 169, 200, 206, 215, 216, 222, 230, 231, 233, 237 Polybius, 83, 107, 122, 159, 215, 239 Polyphemus, 307, 317 Pomona, 309, 310 Pompeii, 279 Pompeius, 338

378

Index Nominum

Pompeius Strabo, 117, 220 Pompey, 19, 44, 70, 95, 97, 117, 135, 138, 139, 161, 163, 164, 205, 219, 220, 221, 224, 226, 227, 230, 234, 239, 242, 325, 356 Theatre of, 42, 70 Pompey, Sextus, 231, 242, 330 Ponticus, 254 Pontus, 8, 241, 347, 350 Porcius Licinus, 174 Porsenna, 286 Portico of Octavia, 166 Posidippus, 112 Pound, Ezra, 141 Priam, 313 Privernum, 158 Procris, 276 Propertius, 145, 240, 244, 245, 254, 255, 259, 261, 262, 264, 269, 270, 271, 286 Propoetides, 301 Ptolemy I, 201 Ptolemy II, 13 Ptolemy XII, 46, 97, 101 Publilius Syrus, 48 Punic Wars, 27, 71, 358. See also Carthage First, 18, 20, 22, 28, 58, 200, 201, 207, 208, 240, 279 Second, 21, 24, 32, 58, 76, 198, 200, 203, 207, 210, 240 Third, 150 Pydna, 52, 214 Pygmalion, 301, 302 Pyrrha, 252 Pyrrhus, 13, 76, 102, 199 Pythagoras, 30, 172, 298, 299, 311 Quadrigarius, 210, 211, 212, 235 Quintilian, 53, 54, 66, 80, 98, 112, 113, 114, 115, 118, 162, 228, 234, 355, 356 Rabelais, François, 125 Reate, 161 Remus, 8, 134, 183, 200, 286, 313 Rhine, 216 Rhodes, 80, 88, 89, 94 Robigus, 163 Romulus, 8, 22, 28, 52, 77, 134, 183, 200, 286, 310, 313, 314 Roscius Gallus, 51 Roscius of Ameria, 46 Rubicon, 231 Rudiae, 34, 114 Rufus, 214 Sabines, 76, 286, 310, 325 Sacred Mount, 76

Sallust, 34, 198, 209, 224–9, 230, 231, 232, 234, 235, 278, 355, 356 Santra, 221 Sappho, 130, 132, 137, 246, 260, 336 Satrachus, 128 Saturnalia, 64, 203 Scaeva, 343 Scaurus, 77, 214, 215 Scipio Aemelianus, 117 Scipio Aemilianus, 66, 83, 122, 123, 159 Scipio Africanus, 25, 44, 106, 159, 214, 272 Scipio Nasica, 25, 77, 78, 115, 214 Scylla, 277 Scythia, 137 Sedigitus, 174 Selenium, 60 Sempronia, 225 Sempronius Atratinus, 98 Sempronius Gracchus, C., 272 Sempronius Gracchus, Ti., 272 Seneca the Elder, 106, 232, 233, 236 Seneca the Younger, 47, 70, 125, 312, 356 Senian baths, 102 Sertorius, 228 Servilia, 273 Servilius Geminus, 25 Servius, 282 Servius Galba, 115 Sicily, 7, 8, 14, 16, 21, 43, 58, 124, 199, 209, 313, 314, 317, 321, 322, 323, 329 Sicyon, 215 Silenus, 319 Silius Italicus, 32, 206, 237 Silvanus, 181 Simonides, 184, 247 Sisenna, 210, 213 Social War, 77, 215, 240–2, 278, 291, 324 Socrates, 158 Solon, 246 Sostrata, 69 Spain, 206, 207, 212, 216, 228, 237, 242 Spanish War, 220 Sparta, 209, 223, 232 Spenser, Edmund, 280 Statius, 179, 312, 356, 357 Stilo, 155 Stoicism, 291, 329, 332, 342 Strabo, 233 Stratippocles, 64, 65 Suessa Aurunca, 116 Suetonius, 15, 140, 156, 221, 233, 280, 281, 285, 323, 324, 326, 331, 342, 343, 344, 345 Sulla, 19, 46, 51, 93, 94, 95, 215, 223, 224, 226, 227, 241, 242, 278 Sulmo, 351

Index Nominum Sulpicia, 265, 266, 272 Sulpicius Galba, 77, 207, 208 Sulpicius Gallus, 190 Syracuse, 7, 78, 317 Syria, 56, 91 Syrinx, 309 Syros, 56 Tacitus, 70, 105, 214, 229, 231, 232, 233, 237, 356, 357, 358 Tarentum, 7, 13, 15, 124 Tarpeia, 263 Telemachus, 313 Telestis, 65 Tellus, 163, 164 Teos, 246 Terence, 41, 45, 53, 55, 59, 60, 61, 62, 66–70, 102, 122, 324 Terentia, 50 Tereus, 45, 304 Thebes, 44, 47, 64 Theocritus, 317, 318, 321 Theophrastus, 160 Theotimus, 249 Thermopylae, 206, 209 Theseus, 146, 276, 277 Thetis, 22, 128, 277, 278, 286 Thrace, 338 Thucydides, 104, 179, 185, 199, 211, 228, 232 Thyestes, 32 Tiberius, 322, 358 Tibullus, 244, 245, 253, 254, 260, 262, 263, 265, 266, 269, 271 Tibur, 342 Ticinum, 221 Timaeus, 199 Tiresias, 47 Tiro, 34, 71, 89, 90, 144, 221 Tisias, 78 Tithonus, 184 Titinius, 54 Titus Tatius, 28 Tityrus, 318, 321 Tomis, 347, 350 Trajan, 169 Trebatius, 332 Trebonius, 193 Troy, Trojan War, 22, 27, 78, 102, 129, 132, 171, 192, 199, 201, 202, 233, 236, 274, 282, 284,

379

286, 287, 288, 291, 292, 293, 297, 299, 310, 312–15 Tuditanus, 76, 203 Turia, 271 Turnus, 286, 287, 288, 293, 297, 306 Turpilius, 55 Tusculum, 87 XII Tables, 7, 148 Tyndarus, 71 Tyrtaeus, 247 Umbria, 28, 62 Valerius Antias, 210 Valerius Maximus, 76, 86, 272 Valerius of Sora, 174 Varius, 77 Varius Rufus, 70, 280, 281, 318, 331 Varro, 11, 18, 53, 54, 62, 71, 114, 118, 126, 152, 155, 156, 158, 161–5, 190, 193–5, 221, 222 Varro of Atax, 203, 275 Veii, 211, 236 Velleius, 233 Venus, 22, 94, 176, 177, 179, 217, 246, 249, 252, 254, 258, 283, 284, 286, 301, 311, 312, 313, 314, 344 Venusia, 323, 324 Vercingetorix, 216 Vergil, 3, 22, 32, 36, 37, 78, 108, 118, 141, 145, 146, 163, 167, 179, 180–6, 188, 195, 203, 204, 206, 229, 231, 240, 274, 275, 277, 279–93, 294, 297, 298, 299, 300, 301, 305, 306, 307, 308, 310, 311–12, 315, 317–23, 328, 331, 337, 347, 350, 353, 355, 356, 357 Verona, 126, 130, 132 Verres, 80, 94, 95, 96, 232 Vertumnus, 309, 310 Vesta, 191 Vestal Virgins, 42 Vinnius, 342 Vitruvius, 149, 165–7, 187 Volumnia Cytheris, 49, 256. See also Lycoris Volumnius Eutrapelus, 49 Volusius, 128, 204 Xenophanes, 169 Xenophon, 150, 199, 213, 218 Zeus. See Jupiter

General Index

Authors and their works will be found in the Index nominum, as will geographic locations and wars. Latin and Greek words are in italics. actio, 84, 86, 93 actors, 10, 15, 18, 24, 44, 47, 48, 50–1, 54, 62, 85, 94. See also actresses actresses, 49, 50, 256, 267 adoption, 69, 72 alphabets, 7 amicus, 26 annales, 24, 27, 127, 128, 198, 202, 203, 204, 207, 274. See also Index Nominum sv Ennius, history, annalistic annals, 224 ars, 156, 167, 186, 188, 189, 328 autobiography, 144, 166, 204, 213, 214, 215, 216, 221, 251, 269, 350. See also biography bilingualism, 8, 14, 15, 17, 18, 24, 28, 57, 58, 80, 88, 94, 141, 143, 154, 201, 204, 206, 239, 257, 346 biography, 15, 66, 127, 213–24, 270, 281, 323, 324, 358 bugonia, 185, 299

dactylic hexameter, 10, 28, 29, 36, 37, 38, 86, 117, 125, 146, 167, 169, 173, 174, 203, 237, 244, 247, 275, 295, 305, 328 declamation, 105, 108, 233, 237, 312, 355 dialogues, 46, 47, 55, 76, 77, 80, 84, 89, 93, 115, 122, 125, 149, 150, 152, 153, 156, 157–61, 162, 163, 164, 165, 169, 191, 193, 194, 201, 217, 220, 321, 357. See also philosophy dictator, 15, 19, 46, 48, 76, 106, 160, 211, 215, 217, 233, 236, 241, 242 didactic, 23, 29, 87, 142, 148–93, 214, 252, 294, 295, 344, 349 dispositio, 84, 85, 93 divisio, 85 domina, 256, 260 dominus, 249 drama, 6, 8–11, 14, 18, 23, 32, 41–70, 75, 79, 80, 85, 97, 101, 106, 111, 113, 115, 125, 142, 173, 186, 187, 199, 295, 355. See also tragedy, comedy dubitatio, 93

carmen, 11, 16, 113, 120, 178, 256, 257, 260, 280, 305, 347 civilisation, Greek, 7, 13, 29, 31, 87, 149, 153, 206, 221 clausulae, 86, 99, 105, 213 collegium poetarum, 31 comedy, 10, 13, 17, 24, 35, 38, 41, 42, 43, 45, 47, 48, 51, 52, 53, 55–7, 58, 59–70, 71, 83, 101, 103, 113, 125, 171, 240, 251, 255, 269, 324. See also drama commentarii, 216, 217, 229 comparatio, 222, 226, 232 confirmatio, 85 confutatio, 85 contaminatio, 68 contio, 81 controversia, 106

ecphrasis, 202, 277 education, 8, 14, 15, 17, 18, 20, 24, 41, 62, 75, 79, 80, 81, 83, 86, 94, 100, 103, 107, 108, 112, 142, 149, 151, 152, 155, 165, 167, 169, 178, 189, 214, 239, 272, 279, 323, 347, 351 elegiac couplets, 38, 117, 128, 145, 171, 244, 247, 250, 305 elegy, 188, 189, 190, 246–50, 251, 252, 253–71, 294, 301, 307, 309, 319, 334, 337, 347–53, 355 elocutio, 84, 85, 93 encomium, 84, 172, 213, 220, 238, 266, 275, 282, 349, 352 epic, 6, 10, 16, 18, 20–3, 25, 26–31, 32, 36, 52, 80, 106, 111, 115, 124, 128, 137, 138, 146, 167, 169, 173, 175, 180, 184, 199, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 211, 213, 235, 236, 238, 240, 247, 254, 257,

380

General Index 264, 274–312, 319, 326, 337, 338, 344, 350, 355, 356, 357 epigram, 23, 38, 105, 129, 174, 246–50, 267, 355, 357 epistles, 46, 87, 88, 97, 141–4, 149, 150, 153, 157, 160, 161, 163, 178, 186, 194, 198, 214, 221, 225, 229, 233, 263, 264, 265, 328, 340–3, 349, 351, 355 epitaphs, 21, 23, 50, 71, 117, 129, 203, 213, 232, 248, 267, 271 epyllion, 128, 275–8, 294, 298, 323 equestrians, 36, 42, 48, 49, 51, 54, 106, 117, 126, 127, 132, 139, 155, 156, 161, 163, 166, 210, 223, 233, 242, 245, 315, 325, 329, 350 error, 347, 349, 350 exordium, 85 expansion, Roman. See imperialism, Roman fabula cothurnata, 45 fabula crepidata, 45, 46, 52 fabula palliata, 45, 55, 62 fabula praetexta, 45, 52, 53, 70, 199 fabula togata, 45, 54 fatum, 19, 20, 181 freed slaves, 33, 34, 49, 50, 53, 65, 66, 71, 72, 156, 166, 267, 268, 324, 346 games, 31, 45, 67, 70, 97, 103, 328, 343. See also gladiators funerary, 69 Roman, 7, 8–11, 12, 166 theatrical, 9, 41, 50 Trojan, 291, 314 gladiators, 41, 50, 67, 327, 344 grammarians, 41, 45, 47, 79, 94, 111, 150, 155, 156, 174, 220, 282 history, 10, 20, 22, 24, 27, 28, 30, 45, 51, 52, 79, 85, 88, 106, 128, 142, 148, 153, 162, 169, 174, 179, 180, 185, 186, 190, 198–213, 221, 224–38, 239, 240, 246, 262, 274, 275, 279, 282, 283, 284, 288, 290, 291, 298, 310, 311, 313, 320, 321, 338, 344, 347, 352, 355, 358 annalistic, 202, 203, 210, 227, 234, 356 iambic poetry, 54, 112, 113, 115, 137, 171, 327, 333. See also invective, metre Ides of March, 165, 191, 242, 273, 311 imperialism, Roman, 7, 13, 20, 24, 27, 58, 71, 78, 80, 137, 149, 154, 172, 201, 207, 208, 236, 238, 240, 314, 358 inductio, 90 infamia, 50, 267 ingenium, 232, 237 invective, 19, 44, 97, 98, 100, 111, 121, 134, 137, 139, 180, 220, 229, 327, 329, 334, 352

381

inventio, 84 ira, 348 kleos, 199, 274 labor, 182 law, Roman, 7, 50, 81, 82, 83, 84, 87, 90, 95, 105, 148, 149, 151, 153, 156, 158, 160, 162, 163, 216, 239, 249, 267 letters. See epistles libertas, 118, 121, 122, 123, 223, 291, 320, 321, 325, 329, 342, 357 libraries, 145, 151, 161, 229 literacy, 7, 148 literature definitions, 6, 148, 150–1 literature, Greek, 7, 8, 9, 11, 13, 21, 27, 29, 32, 37, 41, 42–5, 46, 48, 52, 53, 55–7, 61, 69, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80–3, 86, 88, 91, 112, 114, 125, 145, 149, 150, 155, 159, 161, 164, 167, 168, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 181, 183, 184, 187, 190, 198, 199, 200, 208, 211, 213, 215, 218, 220, 221, 228, 232, 235, 245–50, 251, 270, 274, 275, 283, 284–7, 289, 294, 296, 297, 317, 324, 335, 343, 358. See also Index nominum ludi Romani, 9. See games, Roman lyric, 128, 137, 244, 245–6, 250, 251, 328, 329, 333, 335–40, 343 manumission, 15. See freed slaves memoria, 84, 86, 96, 212 metre, 12, 36–7, 85, 112, 115, 125, 132, 187, 248, 288, 305, 308, 334, 335, 337. See also dactylic hexameter, saturnian metre miles gloriosus, 58, 64 military, 11, 12, 17, 19, 21, 24, 25, 31, 52, 58, 64, 71, 75, 82, 87, 94, 108, 150, 153, 155, 161, 166, 172, 199, 205, 211, 212, 214, 217, 223, 233, 238, 245, 258. See also Index nominum under specific wars, miles gloriosus mime, 41, 47, 48, 49, 54, 70, 102, 103, 256 moralism, 48, 52, 87, 91, 98, 100, 102, 111, 112, 115, 116, 119, 121, 125, 153, 155, 166, 168, 169, 172, 179, 180, 220, 222, 225, 228, 232, 246, 278, 298. See also philosophy mores, 27, 153, 185, 235 multilingualism. See bilingualism mythology, 14, 17, 22, 27, 29, 42, 48, 51, 52, 55, 125, 150, 169, 171, 178, 186, 190, 202, 221, 246, 257, 261, 274, 275, 279, 282, 283, 289, 294, 296, 297, 311, 312–14, 338, 348, 351, 352. See also Index nominum narratio, 85 neoterics, 37, 140, 141, 276

382

General Index

new man, 94, 108, 161, 204, 227, 229, 232 novus homo. See new man oratory, 11, 46, 47, 53, 54, 108, 120, 131, 140, 156, 158, 159, 167, 187, 198, 200, 202, 206, 213, 215, 222, 229, 237, 238, 239, 240, 264, 281, 355, 357, 358 funerary, 77, 84, 213, 220, 238 pastoral, 280, 295, 300, 317, 318, 319, 321, 323 paterfamilias, 154 patria potestas, 63 patronage, 25, 26, 36, 66, 68, 83, 94, 118, 122, 123, 127, 194, 229, 245, 265, 282, 324, 325, 326, 327, 330, 331, 334, 336, 341, 342, 343, 353, 357 pederasty, 55, 66, 138, 250, 263, 300 period (oratorical), 85, 99, 228, 356 peroratio, 85, 103 philosophy, 8, 30, 46, 79, 80, 81, 84, 85, 94, 112, 120, 142, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 167, 169, 170, 173, 174–9, 184, 213, 220, 228, 233, 239, 246, 249, 281, 289, 291, 298, 299, 311, 323, 328, 329, 332, 340, 342, 345. See also dialogues piracy, 58, 65, 71, 224 pius, 283, 292 poetry. See metre politics, Roman, 19, 44, 75, 81, 83, 92, 95, 98, 122, 135, 138, 141, 153, 159, 164, 177, 180, 206, 218, 223, 236, 239, 241, 256, 278, 282, 328, 334, 337, 341, 353, 355 praeteritio, 91, 100 praise. See encomium pronuntiatio. See actio proscriptions, 95, 161, 164, 232, 241, 242 prosopopoeia, 102, 103, 264 prostitution, 50, 58, 59, 60, 63, 64, 67, 69, 71, 100, 101, 134, 250, 254, 259, 261, 269, 301, 341 provinces, Roman, 7, 14, 58, 94, 97, 124, 126, 202, 218, 221, 223, 224, 226, 229, 231, 240, 255, 273, 324. See also the Index nominum puella, 188, 190, 245, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 260, 261, 263, 264, 269, 348 puns. See wordplay recusatio, 245, 263, 318, 326, 338 religion, Roman, 7, 8, 9, 11, 13, 15, 16, 17, 23, 31, 42, 43, 119, 148, 149, 150, 154, 156, 160, 162,

163, 173, 174, 175, 176, 190, 216, 236, 248, 286, 311 rhetoric. See oratory satire, 23, 25, 36, 111–16, 117–26, 167, 295, 327, 328–32 Menippean, 125–6 satura, 111, 112 saturnian metre, 13, 21, 23, 28, 37 satyr-plays, 47 science. See philosophy scriba, 166, 324, 342 senators, 32, 34, 35, 42, 70, 76, 77, 80, 81, 84, 89, 92, 95, 97, 105, 106, 117, 121, 122, 143, 150, 151, 156, 163, 193, 200, 201, 205, 210, 214, 224, 226, 233, 238, 239, 241, 267, 273, 358 slavery, Roman, 15, 33, 42, 53, 55, 57, 58, 59, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 70–2, 90, 154, 249, 260, 332 suasoria, 105 theatres, 8, 42, 50, 70, 166, 175. See also games: theatrical tragedy, 10, 13, 17, 24, 32, 38, 41, 42, 44, 47, 51, 52, 53, 70, 101, 103, 124, 187, 199, 221, 264, 289, 292, 298, 301, 312, 350, 356. See also drama translation, 6, 10, 12, 16, 17, 44, 55, 57, 80, 132, 150, 160, 164, 171, 172, 175, 180, 201, 283, 335 triumph, 15, 24, 31, 41, 52, 87, 184, 203, 215, 227, 229, 239, 279, 327 triumvirate first, 138, 226, 227, 230, 272 second, 95, 97, 161, 223, 225, 230, 231, 232, 233, 237, 242, 320, 322, 333 trochaic septenarii, 173, 174 vates, 30, 115, 352 violence, 59, 60, 64, 65, 67, 84, 135, 164, 176, 179, 185, 186, 187, 188, 191, 215, 218, 224, 225, 231, 237, 258, 260, 287, 302, 303–4, 309, 321, 327, 332, 333, 350 women, Roman, 7, 33, 42, 48, 60, 61, 64, 119, 130, 141, 188, 189, 225, 239, 251, 265, 268, 271–2, 329, 332, 333. See also Index nominum education, 86 wordplay, 57, 58, 62, 65, 94, 98, 101, 304, 306