American Journal of Ancient History, New Series, Volume 3-4, 2004-2005 [2007] 9781593337827, 1593337825

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AMERICAN JOURNAL OF ANCIENT HISTORY

AMERICAN JOURNAL OF ANCIENT HISTORY Editor, New Series: T. Corey Brennan, Rutgers University Associate Editor: Christopher Mackay, University of Alberta Assistant Editors: Dobrinka Chiekova, Bryn Mawr College; Debra Nousek, University of Western Ontario Editorial Advisory Board: W. Robert Connor, President, The Teagle Foundation, New York; Erich S. Gruen, University of California, Berkeley; Sabine MacCormack, University of Notre Dame; Stephen V. Tracy, The Ohio State University and Director, American School of Classical Studies, Athens. Editorial assistant: Andrew G. Scott, Rutgers University For Contributors: From New Series volume 1 (2002) the editorial office of the Journal is at The Department of Classics, Ruth Adams Building 007, Rutgers University, 131 George Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901-1414, (USA), tel. 732.932.9493, fax 732.932.9246, email: [email protected]. For further information, please visit the journal website www.ajah.org. All editorial correspondence should be addressed to the Editor. Typescripts intended for publication should be at least double-spaced (text and notes), with the notes numbered consecutively and following the text. Journals should be abbreviated as in L’Année philologique; modifications customary in English will be accepted. No indication of the author’s identity should appear on the typescript: the name and address should be on a separate page. References to the author’s own work should be in the same style as references to the work of others. Personal acknowledgments should not be included: they may be added after the article has been accepted for publication. Authors who want rejected articles returned should enclose postage. For Subscriptions: From New Series volume 2.2 (2003) [2007] AJAH is published by Gorgias Press. All correspondence on business, subscription, advertising and permission matters should be addressed to Gorgias Press (AJAH), 46 Orris Ave., Piscataway, NJ 08854 (USA), tel: 732.699.0343, fax: 732.699.0342, email: [email protected]. Subscriptions dues are $50/vol. for individuals and institutions, plus shipping, handling and sales tax when appropriate. All prices are in USD and payments can be made by credit cards or checks drawn on US banks. Prepayment is required for shipment. For further information, see www.gorgiaspress.com.

AMERICAN JOURNAL OF ANCIENT HISTORY

New Series Volume 3-4 2004-2005 [2007]

GORGIAS PRESS 2007

Copyright © 2007 by T. Corey Brennan All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. Published in the United States of America by Gorgias Press LLC, New Jersey ISBN 978-1-59333-782-7 ISSN: 0362-8914

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C ON T E N T S The Heraia at Olympia: Gender and Peace dolores mirón

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Thucydides on Peloponnesian Strategy at Pylos robert d. luginbill

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The Athenian Decree Honoring Hebryzelmis of Thrace Reconsidered danielle kellogg

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In Defense of Hellas: The Antigonid Soteria and Paneia at Delos and the Aetolian Soteria at Delphi craige b. champion 72 Insignia Lugentium: Female Mourning Garments in Roman Antiquity kelly olson 89 A Cuckoo in the Nest: The Roman Odeon at Carthage in its Urban Context colin m. wells

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Usurpations in Africa: Ruler and Ruled in the Third Century Crisis alexander polley 143 Quasi Libera, Quasi Ancilla: Diogenia and the Everyday Experience of Slaves serena connolly

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Classicism, Barbarism, and Warfare: Prokopios and the Conservative Reaction to Later Roman Military Policy anthony kaldellis 189

EDITOR’S N OTE Founded in 1976, the American Journal of Ancient History was the first journal wholly devoted to ancient history in America, or indeed in any English-speaking country. Ernst Badian founded AJAH at Harvard University, and edited and published the Journal for twenty-five years, until 2001. I launched a second series of the Journal at Rutgers University in 2002, and quickly found what a demanding business it is. Three fascicles of the Journal appeared, followed by an embarrassing lapse of a full three years after AJAH 2.1 (2003) [2004]. For that gap of course I as Editor bear sole responsibility, and I offer my sincere apologies to the Journal's Board, authors, individual and institutional subscribers, subscription agents, and to the general scholarly community. Now for the good news. I am pleased to announce that AJAH has entered into a production and distribution partnership with Gorgias Press to guarantee the timely appearance of the Journal and to maximize its exposure. Gorgias is an independent press founded in Piscataway NJ, adjoining the Rutgers campus. Though just five years old, Gorgias Press has produced over 600 titles in an ever-widening range of books, starting from Eastern Christianity, Syriac linguistics and Judaica, and now encompassing the ancient Near East as a whole, Greek and Latin classics, Arabic and Islamic studies, and travel literature. I have closely followed the successes of founders and directors George and Christine Kiraz over the past years, and am convinced that the business aspects of AJAH are now in very good hands indeed. The editorial practices of the Journal remain unchanged, and I shall continue to handle all authors' correspondence, the receipt of manuscripts, the peer reviewing process, copyediting and typesetting.

6 The Journal has always been distinctive in its very low subscription cost, and the fact that as a firm matter of principle it never has distinguished in its billing practices between individuals and institutions. This is virtually unique among journals of its type, and is a particular point of pride. However, the necessity of meeting ever-increasing publishing and mailing costs, as well as a desire to offer greatly enhanced subscriber services, means that the price of the Journal will rise to $50.00 per annum (both individuals and institutions) from 2007. Gorgias generously has agreed to take on the delayed installments of AJAH: 2.2 (2003) [2007]; the present issue, 3-4 (2004-2005) [2007]; and 5 (2006) [2007], a special edition of the Journal which offers the unpublished autobiography of Roman historian T.R.S. Broughton. With 6 (2007) the Journal will proceed as an annual one-volume issue, always well in excess of 200 pages; in the course of time my Gorgias partners and I are determined to keep the price of AJAH always below the individual subscription rates of the journals deemed to be the best values in the ancient studies field. The announcement of this new partnership with Gorgias Press is a timely moment also to thank the students who have worked on various aspects of the Journal as editorial assistants over the past few years: Carlee Catena, Andriy Fomin, Andrew Scott, Kristin Wright (Rutgers University); and Lesley Lundeen (Bryn Mawr College). Christopher S. Mackay of University of Alberta continues to serve as associate editor of the Journal, and Dobrinka Chiekova (Bryn Mawr) and Debra Nousek (University of Western Ontario) as assistant editors. Editorial board members are W.R. Connor (since 1977), Erich Gruen (since 1976), Sabine MacCormack and Stephen V. Tracy (each since 2002); Ernst Badian also served on the Board from 2002 through 2004, when he brought his association with AJAH to an end. If anything, the last years have increased my already immeasurable respect and admiration for Ernst Badian. It is hard for me to fathom how this exceptionally distinguished scholar was able for so many years (1976-2001) to manage so successfully all aspects of the Journal, as both its (unusually meticulous) Editor and publisher, with such spectacular results to show. T.C.B.

THE HERAIA AT OLYM P IA: GENDER AN D P EACE Every four years, athletic games involving parthenoi were held at the sanctuary at Olympia in honor of the goddess Hera.1 Though less renowned than the Olympic Games—which were also held every four years, at the same sanctuary, in honor of Zeus—these two events were closely related and joint study of the two is essential to understanding the ideological-ritual program that imbued the sanctuary at Olympia. The different rites held at the sanctuary, inseparably linked the cult of fertility to the concepts of gender, order and peace, in both their public and private aspects. In this paper I shall analyze the feminine aspects of the cults celebrated at Olympia and how, when they are compared to the masculine aspects, they provide some of the essential keys to understanding Greek civilization Aside from some variations in degree throughout antiquity, Greek society featured a clear division of gender roles between women and men. Men were associated with the outdoors, and therefore, the public sphere of decision making, politics and war. In other words, they were in charge of running the polis. Women were associated with the indoors,

Although there is a great deal of information and literature about the Olympic games, the Heraian Games have been given less attention. In recent years, however, interesting works have been written on this subject: S. Bouvrie, “Gender and the games at Olympia”, in Greece and gender, edd. B. Berggreen and N. Marinatos (1995) 55-74; T.F. Scanlon, “The footrace of the Heraia at Olympia”, AncW 9.3 (1984) 77-90; N. Serwint, “The female athletic costume at the Heraia and prenuptial initiation rites”, AJA 97 (1993) 403-422. These studies have focused on the girls’ footraces. 1

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that is, the oikos, and their main role was the reproduction of the community of citizens. These gender roles were ritually reproduced by the cults of the sanctuary at Olympia. The Olympic Games were exclusively male. Women were not only excluded from the games but also not even allowed to watch them, and, with the exceptions of the priestess of Demeter Chamyne and of unmarried girls, they could face the death penalty if they disobeyed this rule.2 Moreover, only male Greek citizens participated in the games. These men came from all across the Mediterranean. The primary significance behind the Games was the cultural unity of all Greeks, the idea that they all belonged to the same Hellenic ethnic group and the joint ritual celebration of the principal role of Greek citizens, namely that of warrior. On this occasion, however, this role was put to the service of establishing peace and maintaining harmony. Indeed, Greek citizens were defined by their joint status as warriors and as landowners and, as such, were the only people with political rights. The Olympic Games celebrated masculinity, and, more specifically, Greek masculinity. As such, the Olympic Games were held in honor of Zeus, the sovereign of the gods, the symbol of political power and patriarchal authority, and the deity around whom the different male rituals held at Olympia revolved. The girls’ games, however, were held during the Heraia, the festival held in honor of Hera. This goddess was the wife of Zeus, the deity who protected women, and, especially, the institution of marriage, that is, the primary gender role designated for women. Like the male games, the Heraian Games and the rituals associated with them exalted feminine gender roles, with an emphasis on women giving up their single status— defined by irrationality, associated with nature, and thus considered essentially feminine—for marriage, which was linked to rationality and thus to culture, which was considered masculine. The festival also celebrated married women’s natural role as mediators. They were seen as the trustees of peace among the Greek cities. There are four main, opposed and yet complementary themes underlying the Olympia rituals: peace/war and marriage/virginity. These themes are all linked to the fer-

2 Paus. 5.6.7-8; 6.20.9. On exceptional occasions, the Olympic Games were won by the women who owned the winning horses in the chariot races (Paus. 3.8.1-2; 15.1; 5.12.5; 6.1.6; AP 13.16).

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tility both of humankind and of nature. Zeus and Hera together seem “to preserve the fundamental order of the polis and the oikos”.3 Pausanias (5.16) provides the main information available on the Heraian Games during the second century AD. First, he describes the temple of Zeus, the main temple at the sanctuary, and the exclusively male games organized in his honor. After that, he discusses the temple of Hera, the next building in importance and size at the sanctuary, and the games involving maidens that were still held there at that time. This Greek author says the Heraian Games were held every four years and describes them as follows:4 The games consist of footraces for maidens. These are not all of the same age. The first to run are the youngest; after them come the next in age, and the last group to run are the oldest maidens. They run in the following way: their hair hangs down, a tunic reaches to a little above the knee, and they bare the right shoulder as far as the breast. These too have the Olympic stadium reserved for their games, but the course of the stadium is shortened for them by about one-sixth of its length. To the winning maidens they give crowns of olive and a portion of the cow sacrificed to Hera. They may also dedicate statues with their name inscribed upon them. (Paus. 5.16.2-3)

These games were organized by the college of the Sixteen Women, which, assisted by other women, wove the peplos, or robe, of the goddess Hera every four years. The college also organized two choruses bearing the names, respectively, of Hippodameia and Physcoa. The games were essentially a women’s matter, just as the Olympic Games were a masculine affair. All the rituals of the Sixteen Women, as well as those of the Elean Hellanodikai, the organizers and judges of the men’s games, required that they be purified first with the blood of an appropriate pig and with water. This purification had to be performed in the Piera fountain, located on the road between Elis and Olympia (Paus. 5.16.8). Such a procedure indicates a hierarchical equality, at a religious level, between

Bouvrie (above, n. 1) 60. All translations are taken from the Loeb series published by Harvard University Press. 3 4

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priests and priestesses. Similarly, the awards granted to the victorious maidens also resembled those received by the male winners of the Olympic Games, consisting of a portion of the ox that had been sacrificed to Zeus. There was a clear parallelism, then, between men’s and women’s rituals held here.5 However, the girls’ footrace was one-sixth shorter than the men’s, a proportion found likewise in the dimensions of the temple of Hera, which is one-sixth smaller than the temple of Zeus. This size difference seems to reflect a gender-based hierarchy.6 Pausanias recounts two different traditions concerning the origin of the Heraian Games and the college of the Sixteen Women. One of them (Paus. 5.16.4) relates them to Hippodameia, the wife of Pelops, the founder of the Olympic Games. According to the myth, Hippodameia was the daughter of Oinomaus, the king of Pisa, a city located in the region of Elis. Her father was reluctant to offer her in marriage and had announced that the hand of his daughter would be the prize for the winner of a chariot race held between himself and any prospective suitor. If the suitor lost, he would be put to death. In order to win the race, the king made Hippodameia ride in his rival’s chariot not only to increase its weight but also to distract the driver’s attention, since she was an extremely beautiful maiden. Thus, Oinomaus, whose chariot, moreover, was pulled by divine horses given to him by his father Ares, easily won and the race always ended with the beheading of the loser. This inevitably happened numerous times until Hippodameia fell in love with one of the suitors, namely Pelops. With the help of Myrtilus, who was Oinomaus’ driver, Pelops won and Oinomaus did not survive the race. Certain accounts say that he died in the accident involving his chariot, whereas others say that Pelops killed him or that he committed suicide.7 Out of gratitude to Hera for her marriage to Pelops, Hippodameia assembled sixteen women and, with them, inaugurated the Heraian Games.

Cf. Bouvrie (above, n. 1); Scanlon (above, n. 1). D.G. Romano, “The ancient stadium: athletes and arete”, AncW 7.1-2 (1983) 9-16; Bouvrie (above, n. 1) 68. 7 Hes. frg. 259a; Pind. Ol. 1.67 ff.; Diod. 4.73.2; Paus. 5.10.6-7; 14.6; 17.7; 6.20.17; 21.6-11; 8.14.10-11; Apol. Ep. 2.3-9; Hyg. Fab. 84. 5 6

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The second tradition situates the origin of the Games in later times, in the context of the wars between two cities from that region—Pisa, which was governed by the tyrant Damophon, and Elis: [...] but when [Damophon] died, since the people of Pisa refused to participate as a people in their tyrant’s sins, and the Eleans too became quite ready to lay aside their grievances, they chose a woman from each of the sixteen cities of Elis still inhabited at that time to settle their differences, this woman to be the oldest, the most noble and the most esteemed of all the women. The cities from which they chose the women were Elis [...] The women from these cities made peace between Pisa and Elis. Later on they were entrusted with the management of the Heraian games and the weaving of the robe for Hera. (Paus. 5.16.5-6)

As of the fourth century BC, two women were chosen from each of the eight tribes into which the inhabitants of Elis had been divided (Paus. 5.16.5-6). These two traditions are not incompatible and may refer both to elements of the mythic foundation and of the historic reestablishment of the games. According to the legend, the Olympic Games themselves suffered different ups and downs, interruptions and reestablishments. After Pelops, Hippodameia’s husband, inaugurated the games, there was a series of interruptions and of attempts to reinstate this traditional event over the next centuries. One of these initiatives was said to have been led by Heracles (Paus. 5.7.6-8.5), and the games were finally reestablished by Iphitus, the king of Elis, in the year 776 BC (Paus. 5.4.5-6). If we believe Pausanias, the Heraian Games were reestablished later, when Damophon was the king of Pisa, in 588 BC. The context for this reinstatement was the battle between Pisa and Elis over control of Olympia and the rise of tyrannies in the Greek archaic period.8 At that point, an earlier tradition may have been taken up and adapted, one that did not necessarily date back to mythic times, as in the case of the Olympic Games. It is during times of political turbulence and of crises over traditionally held values that unifying traditions are usually reintroduced. In this

8 R. Sealey, A history of the Greek city states ca. 700-338 BC (1976) 35; A. Andrewes, The Greek tyrants (1963) 62-63.

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sense, the reestablishment of both games may have been contemporary, and the establishment—or reformation—of the Sixteen Women may have been a reorganization of a pre-existing festival in honor of Hera.9 In fact, the temple of Hera was built before the temple of Zeus, by 600 BC,10 and thus at the same period as the reestablishment of the Heraia. It is the most ancient temple at the sanctuary, which has made some historians think that the area at Olympia originally consisted of a sanctuary devoted to fertility and focused on Hera. The rituals held for this goddess may therefore have been established before those associated with the Olympic Games.11 Yet, the cult of Zeus and the Olympic Games themselves certainly predate the construction of his temple during the fifth century BC. In any case, it seems clear that a ritual centered on Hera and the concept of fertility existed before the definitive establishment of the Heraia, as it was described by Pausanias. Therefore, when the Heraian Games were organized in the sixth century, complex female rituals must have already existed, and these rituals may have included girls’ footraces. However, it is difficult to reach any conclusions about whether the women’s rituals and games were earlier than their male counterparts and vice versa, or contemporary in their foundation. The latter hypothesis, that is, that the two were founded simultaneously, springs from the myth of their origins and also from the parallelism between the rituals per-

9 Scanlon (above, n. 1) 77-90, esp. 86, relates them to a Spartan influence; Serwint (above, n. 1) 405-406 points out that, according to archaeological findings, the reestablishment of the Olympic Games should be dated later to some time between 700 and 600 BC. 10 A. Mallwitz, Olympia und seine Bauten (1972) 138; Serwint (above, n. 1) 405. 11 F.M. Cornford, “The origin of the Olympic Games”, in Themis. A study of the social origins of Greek religion, ed. J. Harrison (1912) 230-231, believes that the Heraia were probably more ancient and were held every year according to the lunar calendar, which is older than the solar one. J.V. O’Brien, The transformation of Hera. A study of ritual, hero, and the goddess in the Iliad (1993) 232235 suggests that the footraces and chariot races held at Olympia derived from a purported Mycenaean cult of trees, in which the goddess of trees and of the seasons was worshipped by means of fertility races. Yet, this theory does not seem to be compatible with the archaeological findings for the earliest date for cult activity. Cf. Serwint (above, n. 1) 405.

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formed for Zeus and Hera as well as those performed for the mythic founders of these respective events, Pelops and Hippodameia. Whether or not this is the case, the mythic background highlights the antiquity of these rites. As I mentioned above, the Heraian Games were an exclusively female ritual event, though the issue of whether or not men were allowed to attend them as spectators is never addressed.12 The festival of the Heraia was organized in honor of the embodiment of femininity, Hera, as opposed to the embodiment of masculinity, Zeus. Its rites symbolized the essential nature of women, as defined in Greek ideology, and the fundamental division of women as girls, who by definition were irrational beings, and as adults/wives, the latter being represented in Olympia by prestigious older women. Thus, the Heraia represented the ritualization of the various ages of women and the female reproductive cycle.13 Greek women’s (that is, the wives and daughters of citizens) lives were divided into two different stages: before and after marriage. Before marriage, young girls and maidens were called parthenoi or “virgins”, less in the modern, physical sense of “virginity” but rather as women who were not linked to a husband. Thus the term parthenoi was given both to virgins and to women such as the Amazons, who had sexual relations with men but who never married and who were independent of male authority. When the parthenos joined a man in a stable relationship, she ceased to take part in this stage and began to be called gyne or “woman”, the stage she would inhabit until her death. The lack of a specific word for “married woman” in Greek, and the use of the generic term meaning “woman” for those who were not parthenoi, shows to what extent the position of women in the Greek world was defined by marriage and thus by the reproductive function of women, their essential role in the polis system. The only possible position of status for a freeborn Greek woman, then, was that of wife. A parthenos thus was not a woman in the strict sense of the word but rather a disruptive element that had to be transformed into a gyne. 12 Serwint (above, n. 1) 420 believes that boys and men were probably not allowed to attend the girls’ footraces. 13 On Hera as the goddess of marriage, cf. I. Clark, “The gamos of Hera”, in The sacred and the feminine in ancient Greece, edd. S. Blundell and M. Williamson (1995) 13-26.

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According to Greek ideology, women, and particularly unmarried women, were irrational beings, comparable to wild animals and thus a part of nature. As such, they inhabited the world outside the civilized order of the polis, whose primary function was to control nature by means of agriculture and domestication. It is not surprising to see that the non-domesticated nature of the parthenoi was considered a potential disturbance to the Greek social order and therefore had to be integrated into society, like animals and the land, by means of domestication. The feminine nature was civilized through the act of marriage.14 The clothing of the female athletes described by Pausanias has been compared to that of the Amazons, the wild warrior women par excellence, who not only did not submit to marriage or men but also adopted masculine gender roles, usually with disastrous results. Yet, it has also been suggested that this kind of attire corresponded to the exomís, the typical male attire used for tasks that required physical effort.15 It was this outfit that was adopted in classical times to represent the Amazons and Artemis the hunter, that is, women in masculine roles. Both the Amazons and the Greek parthenoi had Artemis as their protector. She was the goddess of hunting and wild animals and a virgin goddess, hence numerous rituals involving the parthenoi, from their childhood to their marriage and even at the birth of their first child—a definitive sign of their feminine state—were governed by this goddess. Among such rituals, it is worth highlighting athletic competitions, consisting of footraces, for girls.16 In Athens, a specially chosen set of girls, who represented the community, and who were divided into different age groups, participated in the rites held at the sanctuary at Brauron in honor of Artemis. During these rituals, the girls “acted like female bears”—wild animals par excellence—and competed against each other in a sort of ritual hunt, and, finally, were stripped of their wild attributes, or “tamed”, after having been taught textile work and other Cf. M.D. Mirón Pérez, “Las mujeres, la tierra y los animales: naturaleza femenina y cultura política en Grecia antigua”, FlorIlib 11 (2000) 151-169. 15 Serwint (above, n. 1) 416-417. 16 For women and sports in Ancient Greece, see G. Arrigoni, “Donne e sport nel mondo greco. Religione e società”, in Le donne in Grecia, ed. G. Arrigoni (1985) 55-201; R. Frasca, L’agonale nell’educazione della donna greca: Iaia e le altre (1991) 61-82. 14

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domestic tasks.17 It is worth mentioning Chloris, the protégée of Artemis, who was the first winner of the Heraian Games. Chloris and her brother were the only survivors among the children of Niobe, who were exterminated by Apollo and Artemis (Paus. 5.16.4). Niobe, the sister of Pelops, had boasted that she was more fertile than the goddess Leto. Offended by this insult to their mother, Apollo shot the boys down with arrows while Artemis did the same to the girls. Artemis spared Chloris because the girl implored Leto to have mercy on her. An image of Chloris was placed next to that of Leto in the goddess’ temple at Argos (Paus. 2.21.9). We might ask whether the girl’s life was spared thanks to her speed or whether it was her fear of Artemis that turned her into an excellent athlete. In any case, she was rewarded with marriage and fertility, that is, with the fulfillment of her proper gender role, though her own plentiful offspring were “balanced” by Heracles,18 as if excessive fertility was offensive to the gods. In daily life, physical exercise was a fundamental part of the education of the Spartan parthenoi, who, by gaining mental and physical strength, prepared to become the mothers of strong and courageous warriors.19 It is true that Spartan women were, practically speaking, the exception among Greek women, considering their importance in public life, even though their primary goal still was the fulfillment of their essential reproductive function. But even in cities such as Athens, which advocated the seclusion of women in their homes (something not always possible in practice), athletic games, at least on a symbolic level, were an essential part of the ritual education of girls. The rituals celebrated at Olympia belonged to the category of prenuptial initiation rites. The division of the participants into three age categories corresponded to the three different stages of the biological 17 P. Brulé, La fille d’Athénes. La religion des filles à Athénes à l’époque classique: mythes, cultes et société (1987) 179-283; C. Sourvinou-Inwood, Studies in girls’ transitions. Aspects of the arkteia and age representation in Attic iconography (1988). 18 Hom. Od. 11.281-287; Hes. frgs. 33-35; Paus. 2.21.9: Apol. 1.9.9; 3.5.6. 19 Plut. Lyc. 14.2.4; Xen. Lac. 1.3-4. Ritual girls’ footraces were also held in this city in honor of Dionysus (Paus. 3.13.7). Cf. Arrigoni (above, n. 16) 70-84. About Spartan women and sports, T.F. Scanlon, “Virgineum gymnasium. Spartan females and early Greek athletics”, in The archaeology of the Olympics, ed. W.J. Raschke (1988) 185-216.

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and sexual development of girls.20 Thus, “girls participate in ritual races for Hera as part of the process of acculturation which leads them through the transitions from childhood through puberty to sexual and social maturity”.21 It has even been suggested that girls dressed as men in such games, and that, through these rituals, women moved from the asexual world of childhood to the sexual world of adult age.22 Yet, in Greece, there were no asexual worlds. Women clearly belonged to the female sex since their birth. It was possible to alter gender roles, but not the essence of the feminine nature. A woman could become a warrior, but not a man. In the case of a warrior virgin, her feminine nature dominated (Lys. 2.4-6), and thus made her an irrational and cruel warrior existing in a non-civilized state, which was precisely what a male Greek warrior should never be. Warrior virgins lived in a barbaric world, on the margin of society.23 Greek civilization, with its civilized gender order, was opposed to barbarism, hence the need for established gender roles. The parthenoi were portrayed as women in their fully natural, wild state, in the stage prior to their definitive, proper feminization through marriage, and therefore at the moment when they might still be tempted into adopting inappropriate masculine roles. In this sense, it is interesting to see that Greek female athletic events consisted of footraces and not, with rare exceptions, of combat.24 Military training, an exclusively 20 Clark (above, n. 13) 21 thinks that these age groups correspond to those found in the iconography of Brauron: “the youngest are small children, the second group corresponds to those who have not yet attained the age of menarche, and the third group are parthenoi of marriageable age.” However, Scanlon (above, n. 1) 79 suggests that the first group corresponded to girls under thirteen, whereas the other two groups were made up of girls up to the age of eighteen or twenty. 21 Clark (above, n. 13) 21. 22 Serwint (above, n. 1) 87 compares them with the Spartan nuptial ritual where the bride dressed as a man, but Pausanias only describes the attire of the runners and does not indicate any kind of sexual transvestism. If the Olympic Games provide the reference point, it should be noted that men participated naked, thus showing that there is no correspondence between the relevant male and female clothing. 23 See S. Deacy, “Athena and the Amazons: Mortal and immortal feminity in Greek myth”, in What is a god? Studies in the nature of Greek divinity, ed. A.B. Lloyd (1997) 153-168. 24 Cf. Arrigoni (above, n. 16).

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male activity, was never part of the education of Greek girls. Instead, footraces, such as those run by the “bears” at Brauron, were considered appropriate exercises for girls. Animals, wild creatures whose gender roles are more blurred, run to hunt and to avoid being hunted and as well as to escape domestication. In the Greek world, girls were frequently compared to horses, that is, wild animals that can be tamed.25 It is possible to relate the girls’ arrival at the finish line (telos) with the fulfillment of their roles as married/domesticated woman (teleia). In any case, animals do not wage war, since this requires civilized rules and a certain imposition of order. At Olympia, the parthenoi ran footraces that revolved around the goddess Hera who, as I explained, was a goddess of marriage and the patron of married women. This could only have strengthened the idea that women were domesticated or civilized by means of marriage. Hera herself was the embodiment of all women. She was the wife of the father of the gods, the married woman par excellence, and, at the same time, a parthenos in the most strictly physical sense of the word, since she recovered her virginity every year through a ritual bath (Paus. 2.38.2). She thus represented the various stages of womanhood, which were organized around marriage.26 Moreover, in archaic times she may have been the goddess of wild and domesticated animals, which links her to the taming of girls.27 Mirón Pérez (above, n. 14) 156-162. At the city of Stymphalus, in Arcadia, there were three sanctuaries devoted to Hera: Hera as a Girl (Pais), Hera as a Wife (Teleia) and Hera as a Widow (Chêra) (Paus. 8.22.2). Yet, she was usually worshipped as Teleia, that is, as a Wife (8.38.9; 9.2.7). Teleia (from telos) has connotations related to fulfillment and the act of completion. Hera Teleia and Zeus Teleius were deities of marriage. Cf. Clark (above, n. 13) 17-20. Cornford (above, n. 11) 230-231 thinks that the Heraia were held in honor of Hera Parthenos, which simplifies Hera’s cultural wealth at Olympia. 27 O’Brien (above, n. 11) suggests that this taming role of Hera was later adopted by Artemis, so that the Heraian Games preserved a relic of this primitive aspect of Hera (60-61), and that such taming originally applied both to boys and girls, though, as it evolved, it ended up affecting only girls. This is related to the image of women as fertile land sown by men (184-188, 205-206). Yet, in the case of the rituals held at Olympia, the recurrent theme of marriage makes Hera a fundamental figure as a symbol of the essential role of women, even within the ideological parameters of archaic and classic times. 25 26

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The celebration of marriage at Olympia is shown in the iconographic program of the temples of Zeus and Hera and throughout the whole sanctuary in general.28 The decoration of the temple of Zeus has been interpreted either as a memorial for the victory of the Eleans over Pisa (Paus. 5.10.2) or as a commemoration of the Greek victory over the Persians. This victory represented the triumph of civilization over barbarism and of order over chaos, in which the gods and humans worked “to restore the true balance of society”.29 On the western pediment, Apollo—the god of civilization—is represented leading the fight against the Centaurs, who had attempted to rape the wives of the Lapiths during the wedding of Peirithous and the daughter of Adrastus, whose name was also Hippodameia (Paus. 5.10.8; Apol. Ep. 1.21; Hyg. Fab. 84). The eastern pediment shows the chariot race of Oinomaus presided over by Zeus. The founders of the games, Pelops and Hippodameia, who appears veiled as a bride, are next to Zeus. “On both sides of the temple, then, the dramatic theme of the myth presented is some contest or conflict in which the gods will prevail and the just will overcome”.30 And, in both cases, marriage is the institution at stake. On one side of the temple, the theme is to grant a virgin the destiny that is due to her. On the other side, the aim is to restore a marriage that has just been established and that is threatened by uncivilized forces, embodied here by the Centaurs. In complementary fashion, the metopes represent the labors of Heracles, through which he cleansed the earth of various threats to civilization. Therefore, the overall theme of the temple seems to be the victory of order and justice (dike) over hybris, represented by the institution of marriage. This institution, founded by Zeus, formed the basis of the Greek social order since it guaranteed its stability and continuity.31 Inside the temple, the twelve Olympic gods were represented on the base of the large cult statue of Zeus in pairs. Aphrodite and Eros, the divinities of erotic forces related to marriage, were in the center. The 28 Cf. N.D. Tersini, “Unifying themes in the sculpture of the temple of Zeus at Olympia”, ClAnt 6 (1987) 139-159; Bouvrie (above, n. 1) 66-67. 29 A.F. Stewart, “Pindaric Dike and the temple of Zeus at Olympia”, ClAnt 2 (1983) 133-144; Tersini (above, n. 28). 30 Bouvrie (above, n. 1) 66. 31 Tersini (above, n. 28) 152-154; Stewart (above, n. 29) 143.

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other pairs were arranged around them. Some of these pairs, such as Zeus and Hera, Apollo and Artemis, Hermes (signifying the outdoors and movement) and Hestia (signifying the indoors and immobility) clearly expressed the established gender roles.32 Hestia was, in fact, the first deity that the Eleans sacrificed to, even before Olympic Zeus (Paus. 5.14.4). She was the goddess of the common hearth, both of the Elean community and the Greek community at large, as well as of the private, domestic hearth. She was the protector of every Greek oikos, which, again, was founded on the institution of marriage. Among the various deities to whom the Eleans made numerous sacrifices, one finds Zeus Herkeios, a title that refers to Zeus’ role as a protector of the oikos. His altar was located in the same place where the foundations of the house of Oinomaus could be found and, which, it was said, was erected by Oinomaus himself (Paus. 5.14.7). Thus, the oikos of Oinomaus, whose continuation was preserved by the marriage of Hippodameia and Pelops, symbolized all other Greek oikoi. In turn, there was a sculpture group of Zeus and Hera together in the temple of Hera (Paus. 5.17.1). This sculpture shows that they were perceived as a couple and that this couple was significant in cultic terms.33 The presence of Hera’s “husband” besides her in her temple highlights the common conception of her as a married woman and as a deity of marriage. It is also significant that Zeus should appear with a helmet, a symbol of the masculine warrior. Competitions that functioned as initiation rites held different meanings for boys and girls. Through these rites, boys reached the status of warriors, whereas girls prepared for marriage.34 As adults, men competed to show their courage. Therefore, in both the men’s and the women’s rituals held at Olympia, there is a clear reaffirmation of ideal gender roles: war—and thus politics—belonged to the masculine sphere while fertility through marriage characterized the feminine sphere.35 32 For Hestia and Hermes, see J-P. Vernant, “Hestia-Hermes. The religious expression of space and movement in ancient Greece”, in his Myth and thought among the Greeks (1983) 127-175. 33 Clark (above, n. 13) 20. 34 Frasca (above, n. 16) 60-77; J-P. Vernant, “La guerre des cités”, in his Mythe et société en Grèce ancienne (1974) 34-39. 35 For war and marriage as the essential roles of men and women respectively, see N. Loraux, “Le lit, la guerre”, L’Homme 21.1 (1981) 37-67.

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It is worth highlighting the fact that the mythical foundation of the Olympic Games originated in a competition between men—namely, the father-in-law to be and the suitor—the aim of which was marriage, a not uncommon situation in Greek myth. Such a tradition may well have inspired mighty historical characters. After winning the chariot race at Olympia (572 BC), Cleisthenes, the tyrant of Sicyon, is said to have announced that he would give his daughter Agariste in marriage to the Greek man who showed the greatest worth. He even had a ‘dromos’ and a palaestra built in Sicyon for this purpose (Herod. 6.126). Though the demonstrations of worth were not limited to sports, it is interesting to note that his choice of Olympia as the location at which to make his announcement served both to make sure that the information would be spread throughout the Greek world and also to strengthen the mythic and ritual relation of the sanctuary with marriage. Choruses led by adults were another of the essential elements in the ritual education of girls and boys in ancient Greece. The Spartan choruses are the best known. In the case of girls, these events were conducted by adult women and the wild nature of girls was proclaimed in the lyrics of their chants. They were often compared to wild horses, as it was thought that they had to be tamed through marriage and moved from the wild world of Artemis to the sphere of love and marriage ruled by Aphrodite.36 Marriage represented the appropriate yoke for the taming of women and metaphors of this kind were characteristic of the whole of Greek culture. Girls were compared to wild animals, married women were identified with cultivated land, and marriage was seen as the yoke or the plough. The man/husband, appointed as the civilizer of women, was the one who placed the yoke and operated the plough.37 Let us concentrate on the heroines around whom the choruses of parthenoi were organized at Olympia. Hippodameia, as I said, was the mythical founder of the Heraian Games, which commemorated her marriage to Pelops. Among other things, it was said that her father did not want her to marry because he himself was in love with her. Incest, like the refusal of marriage, meant a terrible violation of the reproductive order of the polis and therefore of the fulfillment of the gender role of

36 37

C. Calame, Les choeurs de jeunes filles en Grèce archaïque (1977) 402. Mirón Pérez (above, n. 14).

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every Greek woman. Through Hippodameia’s marriage to Pelops, order was restored to the reproductive system. Let us underscore the decisive and active role of Hippodameia; she voluntarily complied with the new situation because she was in love, and thus in the realm of Aphrodite. In fact, the name of Hippodameia means “tamed mare” or “horse tamer”, thus referring to tamed horses, the metaphor of marriage as the taming of girls, and perhaps to the possible archaic character of Hera as a tamer of animals.38 This heroine was also worshipped by married women, who made an annual sacrifice to her and performed other rituals at her sanctuary on the sacred grounds of Olympia (Paus. 6.20.7). It is further said that, after arguing with Pelops, Hippodameia retired to Midea in the Argolis where she died, and that an oracle later dictated that her remains should be taken to Olympia. Thus, there was some sort of a post mortem reconciliation between the couple and such marital reconciliation is one of the themes present in the sanctuary, with regards to the famous arguments and reconciliations between Hera and Zeus. When we turn to Physcoa, a heroine of the city of Elis, we find that she is said to have had a son named Narcaeus by the god Dionysus. Narcaeus became a great local hero and both Physcoa and Narcaeus were acknowledged as the first to pay worship to Dionysus. There are two elements concerning Physcoa that must be taken into account. On the one hand, there is her essential role as a mother of a hero who became very powerful and a benefactor to his city, thereby fulfilling a role symbolized by Zeus. On the other hand, there is Physcoa’s status as a lover of Dionysus, the mortal son of a woman and a god (Zeus) who became immortal, and her role in introducing the cult of the new deity. Dionysus was the god of irrationality but also of agricultural fertility, and both were symbolized by madness-inducing wine, the fruit of the vineyard. The god thus represents civilization’s triumph over irrationality as well as the way irrationality is put to the service of civilization. It is not surprising to see that married women participated in a special fashion in the cult to Dionysus. Their rituals consisted of a controlled explosion of irrational behavior during which women temporarily returned to their wild state before their necessary return to the order of marriage and civilization. The cult of the sexually ambiguous

38

O’Brien (above, n. 11) 17-18, 60-61, 192-201.

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Dionysus—a man with feminine features and characteristics—constituted a transgression whose ultimate aim was the reestablishment and clarification of the gender order.39 Girls’ races were specifically related to Dionysus to a greater or lesser extent in many places in Greece including Sparta and Brauron.40 What was celebrated in the worship of Physcoa was the fact that feminine irrationality—which could lead to an undesirable change in gender roles—had been controlled by Physcoa’s becoming a wife and mother. The college of Sixteen Women were also devoted to the worship of Dionysus and organized his festival at Elis.41 At the same time, both heroines were the founders of women’s cults, with Hippodameia establishing the worship of Hera and Physcoa that of Dionysus. There are close ties among these four characters, who form pairs, each consisting of a deity and a mortal: Hera and Hippodameia, the patroness and protégée, and Dionysus and Physcoa, the lover and beloved. Hippodameia and Physcoa became the first priestesses of these respective cults. The associated choruses and games were led and organized by the college of the Sixteen Women, who were priestesses of both Hera and Dionysus and had been appointed as representatives of the collective female body. As such, they acted as mediators between women and the divine. There were four levels involved in each cult: the deity, the heroine, the priestess and the worshipper. The divine and mortal levels are linked by the two intermediate categories of heroine and priestess: Hippodameia and Physcoa acted as mediators between the deity and the Sixteen Women or other earthly representatives and also between the deity and the general female population. The Sixteen Women served as mediators between women and both the divine and the immortal heroines, and also linked the parthenoi with the gynaikes. At the official religious level, the Sixteen Women acted as mediators between local cults and also between deities. Physcoa was from Elis whereas Hippodameia was from Pisa. Thus, the organization of both choruses may symbolize the reconciliation of the rival cities Elis and Pisa through their local cults. This is related to the conciliatory function of the Sixteen Women.

Frasca (above, n. 16) 113-123; Deacy (above, n. 23). Arrigoni (above, n. 16) 76-79, 103-104; Scanlon (above, n. 19) esp. 200-202. 41 For Dionysus and the Sixteen Women, see Plut. Mor. 251E-F, 299B, and Scanlon (above, n. 1) 87-90. 39 40

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At the same time, these priestesses were devoted to the cults of Hera and Dionysus, who were fundamental deities for married women and who themselves were rivals who later reconciled. Such mediation was not strictly limited to ritual matters. As I said, the Sixteen Women were selected from among the most respected and prestigious older women (¥tiw ≤lik¤& te ∑n presbutãth ka‹ éji≈mati ka‹ dÒj˙ t«n gunaik«n, Paus. 5.16.5). The reference to age shows that they were older women, that is, they were old according to ancient Greek thought, which considered women who had passed menopause as such. Their prestige shows that these women belonged to an elite group like that of the Hellanodikai, and their reputation shows that they were virtuous, that is, that they were irreproachable wives and mothers. Once women married, they ceased to compete in footraces and devoted their lives to weaving and having children. It is here that the ritual of the older women—the college of the Sixteen Women—and their ritual weaving of the new peplos of the goddess Hera, come into play. All across Greece, women were the ones who performed these rituals, which consisted of making a robe for the statue of a goddess or, in exceptional cases, a god. Indeed, textile crafts, particularly spinning and weaving, were considered to be specifically female occupations and even symbolized femininity itself, the very character of those members of the female sex. This symbolism applied to both goddesses and mortals and included slaves and prostitutes. Throughout the Greek world, with the partial exception of Sparta, women were taught textile work from childhood on, and they devoted the greater part of their time to this task, at least theoretically. This type of work also held great economic value. The value of a woman, be she free or a slave, was often measured by her ability to perform this task.42 Married women were the ones most frequently linked to this work, especially as leaders in the craft, so textile work was also a symbol of marriage. The woven fabric thus was an offering typical of women, especially directed towards Athena (the goddess of skills and gender roles) and 42 On this topic, see I.D. Jenkins, “The ambiguity of Greek textiles”, Arethusa 18 (1988) 109-132; E. Keuls, The reign of the phallus. Sexual politics in ancient Athens (1985) 258-266; M.D. Mirón Pérez, "Realeza y labor doméstica en Macedonia antigua”, Gerión 17 (1999) 213-222.

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Hera. Private offerings were sometimes made, but, in city rituals, several women carried out this task together. The rituals associated with Athena usually involved girls and formed part of their training for marriage. As for Hera,43 the rituals practiced at Olympia involved older married women who served as the educators of young girls. The nuptial peplos of the goddess was probably woven to commemorate her marriage to Zeus.44 The act of weaving was also a symbol of order and union.45 For girls and adult women, weaving the robe of the goddess was a public ritual, which symbolized order and union in the city. It represented the ideal order of gender roles, in this case, the proper role of women. It further symbolized the concept of order insofar as textile work turned raw wool into yarn and ordered what was in disorder. It symbolized union because it involved making a weft, first putting wool from different sheep together and then joining several threads, sometimes of different colors, to make fabric. Another feature of weaving that reflects unity is that, in the case of public offerings, the woven fabric usually was the joint work of a group of women. At Olympia, the women involved came from the different cities of Elis. At the same time, weaving symbolized the union between men and women through marriage,46 once again relating marriage to political concord, order and civilization. It cannot be a coincidence that the Greek word for wool (eiros) shares the same root eir- with the verb eiro, meaning to tie, to interweave, but also to talk, that is, to interweave words into speech, and with the noun eirene (peace). Gathering together, conversation and peace are three concepts that were therefore related, to For textile offerings in sanctuaries of Hera, see G. Greco, “Des étoffes pour Héra”, in Héra. Images, espaces, cultes, ed. J. de La Genière (1997) 185-199; H. Payne, Perachora. The Sanctuaries of Hera Akraia and Limenia vol. II (1962) 87-99, 129-131. See Callimachus, Aetia 3, frg. 66; Sappho frg. 28. 44 Arrigoni (above, n. 16) 97. Cf. Greco (above, n. 19) 194-197. 45 See J. Scheid and J. Svenbro, The craft of Zeus. Myths of weaving and fabric (1996) 9-34. 46 Scheid and Svenbro (above, n. 45) 12-14. 47 However, the evidence for the joint etymology for these words presents problems. Cf. C. Milani, “Note sulla terminologia della pace nel mondo antico”, in La pace nel mondo antico, ed. M. Sordi (1985) 20-23, who points out that the word eirene may come from the Indoeuropean root *wer- / *wera- / *w-rã -, 43

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a certain extent, to weaving.47 Aristophanes provides proof that this connection was understood by the Greeks in a passage from Lysistrata (Lys. 565-586) where the women demanding peace among the various Greek cities used weaving as a metaphor for achieving social harmony. Weaving has also been characterized as a specifically feminine language in comparison to the use of the spoken and written word (logos), viewed as specifically male. The Sixteen Women, not coincidentally, wove the peplos in the agora of Elis, the public place where male citizens met to talk and engage in politics (Paus. 6.24.10). The peplos was woven by the women who effected the reconciliation between the cities, which was renewed every four years. This was an extremely appropriate way to commemorate peace,48 and it linked the traditional gender order—in which marriage and textile work were part of the feminine domain— with the masculine political order, defined by peace and unity. Thus, women fulfilled a political function by fulfilling their established gender role. It is in this context that the second tradition concerning the origin of the Heraia finds its full meaning. The male and female competitions held at Olympia were related to peace. The Olympic Games were established by Pelops to celebrate the end of a bloody dispute. He envisaged them as a funerary commemoration for his father-in-law and rival Oinomaus, whom he would then honor, having become Oinomaus’ heir by virtue of his marriage with the princess and thus king in Oinomaus’ stead. The legislator king Iphitus definitively reestablished the games after consulting the oracle of Delphi, another of the major panhellenic religious reference points. Iphitus was moved by a desire to resolve the chaos devastating Greece at the time in the form of epidemics, plagues, wars and political divisions. Moreover, he ordered that the inhabitants of Elis should worship Heracles, the great Greek hero whom they had always considered their enemy (5.4.56). Whether or not these are historical facts, they formed the traditional explanation for the meaning behind the games. They thus were estabwhich means “friendship, pact, protection”, but the root *wer- also means “to talk”. Without trying to provide a common etymology for these three words, I intend to note the connection among some of the concepts related to them. Such a relationship may have been established a posteriori or may have been due to a common origin. 48 Scheid and Svenbro (above, n. 45) 11-12.

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lished as a means by which to reconcile enemies, bringing the Greek cities together in ritual action and establishing panhellenic union. Therefore, every four years, during the Olympic Games, a truce (ekecheiria) was declared in all the wars among the Greeks (Thuc. 5.49.3; Paus. 5.20.1; Plut. Lyc. 1.2; 23.3). Obviously, the sanctuary at Olympia and the masculine rituals performed there possessed an ambivalent character, since these rituals, particularly in the form of the games, also celebrated military courage.49 In fact, such competitions were governed by rules similar to those of the warrior world.50 We must not forget that Olympia was an area rich in memorial offerings and war trophies (Paus. 5.23-27; 6.19), and that wars were even fought there for control over the Olympic Games, thereby demonstrating the importance of being the champion of panhellenism. Apart from the statue of Zeus wearing a helmet, there were, among others, statues of Agon and Ares in the temple of Hera (Paus. 5.20.2), as well as the disc of Iphitus, on which was inscribed the panhellenic truce governing the Olympic Games (Paus. 5.20.1). Among the numerous offerings made at Olympia, both military and otherwise, and often dedicated to Zeus, a peace treaty between Athens and Sparta was preserved (Paus. 5.23.4). But, above all, the rituals performed at Olympia were an expression of panhellenism. The cities of rival poleis, which were sometimes warring with one another, joined all Greeks in common cult activity during these games. The Greeks could thus feel like members of a common hearth. Military combat gave way to athletic competition. It is worth pointing out that in Greek ideology seeking peace and preparing for war were not seen as contradictory actions.51 “Peace is the goal of war”, said Aristotle (Pol. 1334a15). In fact, though warrior values were celebrated, and, in particular, the value of courage demonstrated in battle, war itself was not praised. Moreover, the rituals associated with

49 For games as military training, see M. Poliakoff, Combat sports in the ancient world: Competition, violence and culture (1987) 94-103. 50 Cf. A. Brelich, Guerre, agoni e culti nella Grecia arcaica (1961). 51 For more on the concept of peace in Greece, see M. Alganza Roldán, “Eiréne y otras palabras griegas sobre la paz”, in Cosmovisiones de Paz en el Mediterráneo antiguo y medieval, edd. F.A. Muñoz Muñoz and B. Molina Rueda (1998) 123-152; L. Belloni, “‘Eirene’ fra comunicazione orale e tecnica della scrittura”, in Sordi (above, n. 47) 30-44.

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combat expressed the connection between confrontation and alliance, since the rites themselves promoted integration and social cohesion. As Vernant pointed out, through battle, “the group experiences its solidarity, as if the social ties came closer following the same lines that mark the game of rivalries”.52 Athletic competitions were thus presented as an alternative to war, at the same time that they celebrated the masculine values of courage, competition and strength put to the service of unity and peace. On a smaller scale, the Heraian Games symbolized the unity and peace between the cities of the region of Elis. Ancient sources do not allow us to ascertain whether they were panhellenic like the Olympic Games, or whether they belonged to local rituals, as appears normal in rituals symbolizing transitions. According to tradition, the first maiden to win the race was the Argive Chloris. This tradition may have been constructed to illustrate the panhellenic nature of the Heraian Games, though, given their features, they must have originated as a local ritual competition.53 However, though they may have been open to all the girls in Greece, most of the girls probably came from this region. We must remember that not all cities provided athletic training, or considered such training necessary, for girls, so only those who were specifically trained for that purpose could compete under equal conditions. Still, these footraces may have been quite widespread in Greece. We must not forget the prestige that a girl who won at Olympia would have garnered. Also, the general exclusion of all women from political life made it difficult for them to unite, simply because it was not easy for girls from different cities to meet and converse with one other, considering that the degree of female independence and female public visibility varied from one polis to another. On the other hand, these types of gatherings were possible in a relatively small area such as Elis, where women could all meet and where they seem to have enjoyed a freedom and public visibility greater than that open to them in other parts of Greece.54 Whereas the truce of the Olympic Games was applicable to the whole Greek world, the celebration of the Sixteen Women referred to a local Vernant (above, n. 34) 35. Scanlon (above, n. 1) 87; Serwint (above, n. 1) 419. 54 Cf. N.G. Kaldis-Handerson, A study of women in ancient Elis, diss. Minnesota (1979). 52 53

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truce between Pisa and Elis, one which particularly concerned the entire region. It must be kept in mind that the war between both of these cities affected the entire nation of Greece, to a certain extent, since the main impetus behind the war was the desire to control the important panhellenic sanctuary at Olympia. In fact, the peace established between Elis and Pisa did not last long. Both cities resumed their hostilities, and Elis was finally victorious. The limited duration of this peace did not undermine the mediation of the Sixteen Women, whether it was historic or legendary, but instead transformed the periodic remembrance of this mediation, and the consequent truce, into a necessary step in order to regain peace.55 Moreover, female mediation in public conflicts, though unusual, was not alien to the Greek world. An account by Plutarch (Mor. 251E-F) asserts that the Sixteen Women enjoyed great prestige as mediators in public conflicts in later times. In the year 271 BC, Aristotimus became a tyrant in Elis, taking the women and the small children of his opponents as hostages and cruelly abusing them. The Eleans were outraged and the Sixteen Women then took consecrated fillets to Dionysus and met Aristotimus next to the agora in order to intercede on behalf of the female prisoners. The tyrant’s guards made way for the college out of respect, but Aristotimus ordered that the women be struck and pushed out of the agora and even imposed a fine on them. After this incident, which must have been considered the height of mercilessness, an open rebellion broke out against the tyrant, in which the participation of women was essential. Once the tyrant had been overthrown, the Elean women once again interceded so that the daughters of Aristotimus did not suffer an unworthy death and could receive the proper funerary honors (253DE).

L. Piccirilli, L. Gli arbitrati interstatali greci (1973) 22-25 believes that these women were partial arbiters, since they came from Elis. Unfortunately the text written by Pausanias is not clear when it lists the cities where the Sixteen Women came from. It is difficult to ascertain whether they were from the territory dominated by the city of Elis (ÜHliw) or from the region of Elis (ÉHle¤a), which may include Pisa. Piccirilli himself tends to accept the hypothesis that, around that time, and perhaps as part of the reconciliation compromise, the appointment of two Hellanodikai (Paus. 5.9.4) probably indicate that one came from Elis and the other from Pisa. 55

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During the conflict that gave birth to the Heraia, women, who were not allowed to participate in decisions concerning either peace or war— that is, politics—were granted the authority by men to mediate between them in order to reach a reconciliation. Diallagé was the term used to define this act. It designated both the act of conciliation and the legal act of arbitration, which seems to indicate an official political acknowledgment of the mediation of these women. In ancient Greece, the established division of gender roles that assigned war—a destructive function—to men, excluded women from the military sphere, since women were in charge of reproduction, a productive function. To the Greeks, war and reproduction are oppositional terms, just like men and women. The balance necessary to the existence of peace and prosperity, agriculture and reproduction depended on men and women properly performing their roles. Men held the function of defenders and rulers of their cities. This function included waging war but also the creation and administration of peace. Women possessed the primary role of mothers who created life and guaranteed the reproduction of the city. In order to fulfill this function, they had to control their innate, aggressive, virginal irrationality. To achieve and uphold peace, the warrior culture of men necessarily had to be counterbalanced by agriculture and marriage (reproduction). Peace was symbolized by both marriage and the abundant harvest of agricultural and human reproduction.56 It would not be a coincidence if the definitive establishment of the games at Olympia in archaic times had been linked to a change in cultural mentality. This can be seen by comparing the Iliad with Hesiod or with the ending of the Odyssey itself. In the context of the birth and formation of the polis, as citizens were defined simultaneously as farmers and warriors, agriculture became more valued than war as a way of life.

56 Hes. Op. 225-237. Cf. C. Martínez López, “Eirene y Pax. Conceptualizaciones y prácticas pacíficas femeninas en las sociedades antiguas”, Arenal 5.2 (1998) 239-261. On the concept of peace linked to wealth, see D. Plácido, “Las ambigüedades de la paz. El culto de Irene en Atenas”, in La religión como factor de integración y conflicto en el Mediterráneo, edd. A. Pérez Jiménez and G. Cruz Andreotti (1996) 55-66. 57 Vernant (above, n. 34) 55-56. See M. Detienne, “La phalange: problèmes et controversies” in Problèmes de la guerre en Gréce ancienne, ed. J.-P. Vernant (1985) 119-142.

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This entailed an extension of the ancient aristocratic military values to small landowners.57 It is worth pointing out that Elis was described by Polybius as a highly populated and agriculturally rich area with a tendency towards neutrality (4.73.7-11; 4.74) and a strong relationship with the “sacred life” of their ancestors.58 If female mediation actually occurred, perhaps it was understood that women were more neutral than men, as their gender role involved them less directly in war and thus their resentment, if any, would have been less serious. Moreover, as a consequence of war, Greek women likely would have been greatly affected by the loss of their male support, especially their husbands and sons. Nor should we rule out the existence of marriages between cities in Elis. Such marriages would have turned the political conflict into a personal conflict for the relevant women. This is particularly so considering the essentially patrilocal nature of Greek marriage, with the exception of heiresses such as Hippodameia. Marriage was the first and most basic alliance between strangers, through which women acted as links between families and, specifically, between men, though such alliances eventually may also have been the source of conflicts. The main deity overseeing marriage was also a symbol of mediation and alliance. In the Greek archaic world, the goddess Hera was often presented as the protector of relationships between foreigners and as the mediator between the city and the world outside it. “The main form and the fundamental mechanism for a balanced exchange subject to a common law which is accepted by the two parties” is marriage, the “ritualized integration of an exogenous element”.59 In spite of the fact that Hera and Zeus constantly argued and were far from being ideal spouses in myth and literature, they specifically symbolized human marriage, with all its virtues and defects, and their reconciliations served as the occasion for celebration rites.60 They were not a model of

58 Pol. 4.73.8-10; Strab. 8.3.2; Diod. 11.54.1. Cf. G. Glotz, La solidarité de la famille dans le droit criminel en Grèce (1904) 247. 59 F. de Polignac, “Héra, el navire et la demeure: offrandes, divinité et société en Grèce archaïque”, in La Genière (above, n. 43) 118. 60 Clark (above, n. 13) 16-17, 22-25. 61 J-C. Bermejo Barrera, “Zeus, Hera y el matrimonio sagrado”, Polis 1 (1988) 7-24 believes that the myth of Hera was related more to seduction within marriage.

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marriage; they were marriage itself. It has been objected that Hera was not fertile enough to represent marriage.61 Each goddess fulfilled a role in the life of women, and Hera represented marriage per se above all. This involved children, textile work and the preparation of girls for marriage, roles also sponsored by other specific deities, due to the flexibility of attributes and roles associated with the members of the Greek pantheon. Regarding her fertility, Hera had four children: Ares, Hephaistus, Eileithyia (the goddess of childbirth) and Hebe (Youth). Her daughters are therefore directly associated with procreation. In fact, were essential to the performance of this act. Besides, in Greek marriages emphasis was not placed on the number of children born but the general continuity of the family. Such continuity might, in fact, be endangered by an excessive number of offspring, hence the many myths in which excessive fertility was punished by the gods. Moreover, Hera’s role as wife, not mother, was highlighted. The Greek mother par excellence was the goddess Demeter, who, it so happened, had only one daughter. In the temple of Hera, next to the enthroned statue of the goddess and the statue of Zeus, there were enthroned images of the goddesses known as the Horai and a statue of the goddess Themis. According to tradition, Hera was raised by the Horai: Eirene (Peace), Eunomia (Good Rule) and Dike (Justice) (Paus. 2.13.3). The Horai were the daughters of Zeus and Themis (Eternal Law and Order) who symbolized and guaranteed political order and whose images also crowned the head of the great statue of Olympic Zeus (Paus. 5.11.7). Peace was linked to order and good rule, and “it was felt as the tranquility of an order founded on justice and as the bearer of well-being. It was seen as a moral and political value and as a divine gift”.62 But the Horai were also the goddesses of the Seasons, and as such they oversaw the rhythms of agriculture. A union was therefore established between the natural order and the political order, which allowed for both the practice of farming and that of the normal civic rhythm. Moreover, the symbolic aspects of the Horai, espe62

M. Sordi, “Dalla ‘koinè eirene’ alla ‘pax Romana’”, in Sordi (above, n. 47)

3. Martínez López (above, n. 56) 246-248. The link between the Horai, Hera and Hebe is close, to the extent that there are etymological and conceptual connections that show that Hera could be considered the goddess of the seasons. Cf. O’Brien (above, n. 11) 113-119, 13463 64

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cially those of Eirene, were connected to the feminine world63 and therefore to the gender order, hence their link to Hera.64 One can observe this allusion to the gender order and the world of female cults in the remaining statues displayed in the Heraeum—the Hesperides, Athena, Core and Demeter, Apollo and Artemis, Leto, Tyche, Dionysus, Nike, Hermes and Aphrodite (Paus. 5.17.2-4). Similarly, the temple held a coffer in which Cypselus’ mother was said to have hid him from the Bacchidae after his birth, which clearly refers to the maternal protective function. Among the images that decorated this chest (Paus. 5.17.5-19.10), besides military and athletic motifs, were a predominance of mythic feminine themes, especially stormy relations between men and women. Examples include the tales of Amphiaraus and Eriphyle, Alcmena and Zeus as Amphitryon, Menelaus and Helen, Jason and Medea, Ares and Aphrodite, Thetis and Peleus, Theseus and Ariadne, Aethra, Odysseus and Circe, Nausicaa, Artemis, the rape of Cassandra by Ajax, the trial of Paris and the chariot race between Oinomaus and Pelops for the hand of Hippodameia. In this last case, marriage, the happy ending to this dispute, symbolized the resolution of such gender conflicts. Perhaps this is the context in which another curious scene on the chest should be seen. It depicted Dike (Justice) punishing Adikia (Injustice). There was a small bed in the temple, decorated with ivory and said to have been a toy of Hippodameia (Paus. 5.20.1). It was considered a symbol of the heroine’s marriage to Pelops and the representation of a Greek girl’s future. Male and female athletic games were founded in myth to commemorate a marriage, an act that restored the gender order. At Olympia, men’s and women’s rituals were both oppositional and complementary sets of actions. They were symbolized by two marriages, one divine and one human, with the male half, Zeus/Pelops, representing masculinity, and the female half, Hera/Hippodameia, standing for femininity.65 Significantly, the Olympic Games were also held in honor of Heracles,

142, 192-201. Cornford (above, n. 11) 212-259 believes that originally the games held at Olympia were a New Year’s Festival. 65 Cornford (above, n. 11) 224-229 believes they symbolize the marriage between the Sun, which is a masculine entity, and the Moon, which is a feminine one, and the correspondence between the natural solar cycles and the lunar ones.

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the Greek hero par excellence who defeated the Amazons, thus saving the people from being ruled by women, a serious threat to the “right” gender order. It is worth noting the prominence of the myths of Heracles on the chest of Cypselus as well as on the decoration associated with the temple of Zeus (Paus. 5.10.9). There were numerous monstrous beings fighting, most of which were somewhat related to Hera, that is, to women and femininity. The close, ambiguous and stormy relationship between Heracles and Hera—in fact, the name of the former has been interpreted as “the glory of Hera” or “he who wins fame from Hera”— has been the object of several contradictory studies.66 It would not be appropriate for me to analyze this debate in this paper. Yet, it must be emphasized that the story has a happy ending, namely the reconciliation between the goddess and the hero, who is then made a god, sealed by the marriage of Heracles to Hebe (Youth).67 The ambiguous and difficult relationship that Hera had with her sons, among whom Heracles should be included, contrasts directly with her cooperation with her daughters, as if there were a violent opposition between the genders. Heracles, the symbol of extreme masculinity and the benefactor hero who rid humanity of monstrous beings, most of whom were related to the feminine sphere, was also characterized by his hybris and his difficult relationships with women. The quintessentially feminine Hera declared a very peculiar war against him and also Dionysus, whom the women of Olympia particularly adored but whose sexual ambiguity threatened established gender roles and thus had to be neutralized. The balanced gender order entailed both the clear definition of the roles of women and men, and the harmonious and complementary— and hierarchic—relationship between both.68 An evocative example of this order can be found in the Odyssey (11.605-614), where Heracles appears as both his mortal shade, who lives in Hades and is a horrific,

There are different views, i.e., in F. Wulff Alonso, La fortaleza asediada. Diosas, héroes y mujeres poderosas en el mito griego (1997) 113-142; O’Brien (above, n. 11) 113-119, 188-192; P.E. Slater, The glory of Hera. Greek mythology and the Greek family (1992) 337-396. 67 Hom. Od. 11.601-604; Hes. Theog. 950-955, frg. 229; Pind. Isth. 4.73-78; Nem. 10.17-18; Eur. Heraclid. 915-916; Apol. 2.7.7. For Hera and Hebe, see O’Brien (above, n. 11) 140-141. 68 On this topic in mythology, see Wulff Alonso (above, n. 66) 309-327. 66

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violent character, devoid of peace, and as his divine self, who lives at Olympus. There, it is peaceful and he enjoys the love of his wife and parents (now Hera and Zeus). This dual nature therefore represented the opposition between women and men, an opposition that was both dangerous and necessary and that had to be balanced through marriage. This is why Hera Teleia (the Fulfiller) stands next to Hebe and Heracles on Olympus (Pind. Nem. 10.18).69 The reconciliation between Hera and Heracles also seems to be that of Hera and Zeus. From there on, the love affairs of Heracles stop and so do those of Zeus, who does not have any more children outside of marriage, either with mortal or immortal women. The reconciliation between Hera and Heracles seems to have symbolized the reconciliation between women and men, in a gender order that is finally fair and balanced. This reconciliation implies that Heracles was tamed by Hera (Hom. Il. 18.119), but the very act of marriage that Hera symbolizes represented the taming of women by men, and therefore, the submission of Hera to her husband Zeus. Hera and Heracles symbolized a violent gender conflict: destructive women who are aggressive to men, and a male benefactor—the vanquisher of feminine monsters—who is also violent and destructive. The resolution of this conflict was monogamous and productive marriage, which subordinates women to men but also “pacifies” the latter, and which represents one of the foundations of Greek civilization. The ideology surrounding the rituals at Olympia rituals is summarized in Hesiod, in the seventh century BC. He describes two cities, one at war and the other at peace (Sc. 239-311). This was a broader development of a topic that had already appeared in the Iliad (18.490-540). In the city at war, men were fighting; some fought fairly and in defense of 69 In a very interesting hypothesis, O’Brien (above, n. 11) 192-201 links heroes to Hera as the primitive goddess of seasons and her epithet teleia (“fulfiller”) to the telos (“fulfillment”) of the chariot races in the race-track. According to this hypothesis, a cycle is completed where the starting point matches the finish line, and the telos of the heroes who die in battle is also important. She suggests that the origin of the games at Olympia can be found in the chariot races held at Elis in Homeric times. In this sense, Hippodameia, as a tamer of horses, should be identified with Hera, who leads young girls to be tamed by the telos of marriage, which in turn renews human life. Thus, “maturation in early Heraian religion would have meant a death and rebirth in rhythm with nature’s cycle, whether in the context of chariot races or war” (201).

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their city, whereas others fought unfairly, eager for destruction. There were women wailing and bloodthirsty goddesses. In the city that enjoyed peace, there were festivals, weddings, women singing, farmers working the land, and men hunting and participating in athletic competitions. Let us note that when Homer and Hesiod described the arms of the heroes Achilles and Heracles, respectively, every detail on the shields was provided. Shields not only allowed for great iconographic ornamentation but were also a basic defensive weapon. They symbolized the protective role of the warrior. Going back to the Sixteen Women, we may wonder why older women were chosen. Older women were more likely to be known and therefore to have prestige, especially if they had been good wives and mothers. Moreover, women who had passed the reproductive age suffered fewer restrictions on their movement, since it was no longer necessary to control their sexuality in order to guarantee the legitimacy of their offspring. They were the women who could most likely participate in public and thus were the most qualified for duties as political as arbitration. In a certain way, older women, like girls, were not women in the full sense of the word, and therefore they were allowed to approach masculine roles, though never to attain them completely. Hence, girls participated in athletic competitions, the ritual activity symbolizing the warrior values they had to give up in order to become complete women, while older women were involved in the active and public establishment of peace. Through their weaving, older women reminded the rest of the population that they did, after all, belong to the female sex. In the same way, girls’ footraces did not correspond exactly to the image of male warriors, whose position they would never acquire. But, above all, older women were regarded more highly than younger women because they had satisfactorily fulfilled their reproductive life cycle and had therefore fulfilled their gender role. These women were located somewhere beyond the limitations imposed on their sex, such as the irrationality associated with virginity or the duty to reproduce. This position placed them in the best position to mediate between mortal women and the divine. The act of biological reproduction also had its own cult at the sanctuary at Olympia, and again older women led its rituals. The sanctuary of the goddess Eileithyia (Paus. 6.20.2-5), the patroness of childbirth, was located in the same premises, and her priestesses were older women who had to live in chastity. Eileithyia, a virgin goddess, was the divine

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midwife of goddesses and the patron of mortal midwives. She was also the daughter of Hera and Zeus, linking her once more to the symbolism associated with the social and gender order that this divine couple represented. Like her priestesses, Greek midwives were usually women who had undergone menopause. According to an ancient tradition, Eileithyia was also called the “spinner”, indicating that she was identified with Destiny (Paus. 8.21.3). In fact, the Moirai spun the thread of life for each human being, determining that person’s life cycle from birth to death. Therefore, Eileithyia was a goddess of death as well, in the sense that everything that is born must die and thereby complete the cycle of death and generation. Girls and married women worshipped Eileithyia in this temple, probably through rituals devoted to helping childbirth. These women took an oath by Sosipolis, an Elean hero-baby who had been brought there by the goddess Eileithyia herself, who, dressed as a mortal, said he was her son. After Sosipolis won a miraculous victory for the Eleans over the invading Arcadians, the priestess acted as a nurse for the hero and brought him water for his bath and barley kneaded with honey. Thus, at Olympia we also find a specific celebration of motherhood, either biological or through adoption, and, specifically, praise for a male who, though a baby, had fulfilled his gender role by assuming the proper masculine role of protector. Let us underscore that, after he was placed on earth between both armies, Sosipolis became a serpent and crept into the earth. He seems to have been a chthonic hero connected to the cycles of life, death and regeneration of humanity and nature. Sosipolis was associated with the goddess Tyche at her sanctuary in Elis and was represented there as a youth with the horn of Amaltheia (Paus. 6.25.4).70 The fertility of the land was linked, once again, to the growth of the young. These were not the only Olympian cultural sites devoted to fertility and feminine roles. Near the sanctuary of Eileithyia stood the temple of Aphrodite Urania (Paus. 6.20.6), the goddess of sexual union and, specifically, of spousal love. Moreover, we find the temple of Demeter Chamyne (Paus. 6.21.1), whose priestess, a woman chosen by the Eleans to serve temporarily, received honored seating on an altar in the stadium 70 Cornford (above, n. 11) 241 considers Tyche and Sosipolis as being equivalent to Eirene and Ploutos (Wealth).

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opposite the umpires, in order to watch the athletic competitions (Paus. 6.20.8-9). The cults that reproduced the gender symbolism of the Greek world, then, came together at the sanctuary at Olympia. On the one hand, we find the opposition between marriage and irrationality represented respectively by married women and the parthenoi and mediated by older women. On the other hand, we find the opposition between marriage/reproduction and war, with the masculine role of warrior set up in opposition to the other fundamental male role, that of the farmer, a role that could only be fully performed during times of peace. I have already mentioned that the sanctuary at Olympia was originally devoted to fertility, and, significantly, the Olympic Games were presided over by the only married woman who was allowed to watch the male competitions, the priestess of Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, who was seated in a privileged place. Throughout Greece, Demeter was a deity associated with married women and their maternal role in enhancing the fertility of the land in a civilization based on agriculture. According to Greek ideology, the fertility of nature and the fertility of women were identical. In the same way that women were domesticated/civilized through marriage, the land was cultivated/civilized through agriculture. Both processes of domestication sought to master nature. Agriculture and marriage thus became essential foundations of Greek culture. But both could only be truly engaged in when the world was at peace. Peace had to be preserved by male warriors whose primary duty was to serve as protectors. As Callinus of Ephesus wrote, “it is honorable and splendid for a man to fight in a battle for his land, his children and his legitimate wife” (1.6-9) . In reproducing this ideological system, every stage of womanhood had its specific role. During the Heraian Games, girls and older women were linked as women who were outside the moment of reproduction. Those women who had passed the reproductive cycle guided the women who had not yet entered it. In this way, the older women moved from the biological reproduction of the community of citizens to the social reproduction of the order of the polis. Because these women, young and old, were outside the reproductive stage they were likely to be disruptive elements. Instead, they fulfilled their social roles as reproductive beings through these rituals. As for married women, that is, women at the age

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of reproduction, their political role was fully realized in the biological reproduction of its citizens. The athletic games held at Olympia served to reproduce the social order in every sense. First, the gender order was strengthened by the reaffirmation of the roles of both sexes. Such roles were symbolized by the different ages of the women involved, which revolved around marriage, as well as by the games’ ritualization of military training for men. Thus, the four main themes celebrated at Olympia—war and peace, irrational virginity and marriage—were concepts that were all put to the service of fertility. They also functioned as complementary opposites: male military values were praised, but peace had to be preserved; the natural irrationality associated with women was necessary for reproduction, but had to be controlled through marriage. At Olympia, therefore, there was a ritual regulation of the conflict between the masculine roles of warriors and farmers, between, in the case of women, irrational, uncivilized nature, without which reproduction could not take place, and motherhood, and between men and women. Thus, military values were made compatible with the values of peace which, in turn, made agriculture and marriage possible, thereby regulating and balancing the hybris of both sexes. Moreover, these Olympian rituals reaffirmed the Hellenism of these gender roles, which were common to all the independent cities of Greece and had been established as the essential character of Greek civilization. Finally, the establishment of peace among Greek cities was also related to the above, and was made possible in rituals even if it was not always so at the practical level. In this sense, the gender order was a symbol of the social order that was to lead to peace among Greek cities and Greek families. Universidad de Granada

Dolores Mirón

THUCYDID ES ON PELOP ONNESIAN S TRATEGY AT P YLOS With her entire fleet lost and nearly three hundred Spartiates taken prisoner on Sphacteria during the summer of 425, the Pylos campaign constituted for Sparta what was arguably her most significant defeat of the entire Peloponnesian War (5.14.3).1 But despite the importance of understanding the rationale behind the ultimately faulty Peloponnesian strategy that led to this debacle, past scholarship on the Pylos campaign has been dominated by questions about the area’s topography and the accuracy of Thucydides’ report.2 While no one would wish to undervalue the importance either of the actual geographical layout or of Thucydides’ appraisal of it, it is nevertheless the case that previous discussions have tended to call into question not only Thucydides’ understanding of the terrain, but also of the overall Peloponnesian strategy for the campaign (a trend which has in turn obscured just what that 1 Thucydides saw it as completely unprecedented (5.14.3) and attributes Spartan willingness to make peace, even after Brasidas’ successes, primarily to their desire to recover the men captured on the island (5.15.1). 2 See in particular C. Rubincam, “The topography of Pylos and Sphakteria and Thucydides’ measurements of distance”, JHS 121 (2001) 77-90; W.K. Pritchett, Essays in Greek history (1994) 145-177 and Studies in ancient Greek topography vol. I (1965) 6-29; R.B. Strassler, “The harbor at Pylos, 425 BC”, JHS 108 (1988) 198-203; R. Bauslaugh “The text of Thucydides IV 8.6 and the south channel at Pylos”, JHS 99 (1979) 1-6; J.B. Wilson, Pylos 425 BC (1979); and J.B. Wilson and T. Beardsworth, “Pylos 425 BC: The Spartan plan to block the entrances”, CQ 20 (1970) 42-52.

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strategy was).3 Now that Catherine Rubincam’s persuasive defense of his essential accuracy and consistency in the geographical descriptions of the campaign has laid many of these concerns to rest, it remains to consider whether Thucydides’ understanding of Peloponnesian strategy is equally cogent.4 First of all, Thucydides does make the main Peloponnesian objective quite clear: the sole reason for their mustering at Pylos was the ejection of the Athenian base improvised by Demosthenes. Given time to mount an effective siege, the Peloponnesians were confident that Pylos would be theirs (4.8.9). However, Sparta and her allies were well aware that the Athenian navy might prove a major stumbling block in the accomplishment of this goal. Unlike an inland fortification which could be walled off by minimal forces with the reasonable expectation of eventual capitulation (as in the case of Plataea), without some form of Peloponnesian intervention Pylos could be resupplied and reinforced by sea indefinitely, an eventuality which would make a full-blown siege pointless, and passive guard duty risky. In such a case, future cooperation between Athenian land and naval forces using Pylos as a base to stir up the local Messenian and helot populations was a virtual certainty (cf. 5.14.3). For these reasons, the entire Peloponnesian strategy rested, indeed, had to rest, on one consideration alone, namely, how to prevent the Athenian navy from intervening until Pylos could be reduced. Several strategic possibilities would have presented themselves to the Peloponnesian commanders for accomplishing the end of denying the Athenian fleet the opportunity to save Pylos. Before getting to these options, however, it is important to note that the geographical descriptions which have been the cause of such controversy are included in the

3 Rubincam (above, n. 2) 78. Thucydides’ understanding of the true Peloponnesian strategy is questioned by P.J. Rhodes, Thucydides: History IV.1V.24 (1998) 213; S. Hornblower, A commentary on Thucydides vol. II (1996) 167; Wilson and Beardsworth (above, n. 2) 41-42; and D.K. Silhanek, “Pylos revisited: Thucydides’ primary source”, CW 64 (1970) 10-13, at 13. 4 Among other things, Rubincam (above, n. 2) 81, argues that the “eight or nine” ship-width of the southern channel (4.8.6) refers to the interval necessary for sailing (or rowing) through in formation, rather than the number of ships necessary to block the channel.

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narrative after the description of the failure to take Pylos by storm and in anticipation of the Athenian navy’s imminent arrival. That is to say, Thucydides’ analysis of the terrain is presented as a sketch of the critical topographical features of a battlefield from the point of view of those who would have to fight this imminent battle (and were in the process of deciding the best way to fight it). (4.8.6) ≤ går n∞sow ≤ Sfakthr¤a kaloum°nh tÒn te lim°na parate¤nousa ka‹ §ggÁw §pikeim°nh §xurÚn poie› ka‹ toÁw ¶splouw stenoÊw, tª m¢n duo›n neo›n diãploun katå tÚ te¤xisma t«n ÉAyhna¤vn ka‹ tØn PÊlon, tª d¢ prÚw tØn êllhn ≥peiron ÙktΔ μ §nn°a: Íl≈dhw te ka‹ étribØw pçsa Íp' §rhm¤aw ∑n ka‹ m°geyow per‹ p°nte ka‹ d°ka stad¤ouw mãlista.5

The island called Sphakteria extends directly across the front of the harbor, sheltering it and leaving two narrow entrances: one, toward the fort and Pylos, wide enough for two ships to pass; the other, toward the rest of the mainland, wide enough for eight or nine. The island itself was entirely wooded and trackless because uninhabited, and about fifteen stades long.6

The position of the island astride the harbor, its proximity to Pylos, its elongated shape, its wooded, trackless and uninhabited nature, are all crucial bits of tactical information (just the sort of detail a military leader would demand from a reconnaissance patrol). Armed with this description, a Peloponnesian commander charged with securing Pylos (or a reader of Thucydides) would have a fair idea of the task that confronted him and be in a position to make preliminary plans even before laying eyes on the island. Whether such a hypothetical report would have caused any plan to be fatally flawed because of a qualified description of the island’s length as “about fifteen stades” instead of twenty-four or twenty-five (i.e., 3 km as opposed to 4.4 km by Bauslaugh’s calculations)

5 Text of Thucydides throughout is from the edition of J. Alberti, Thucydidis Historiae vol. II (1992). 6 Quotations of the History are from the translation of S. Lattimore, Thucydides: The Peloponnesian war (1998).

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is highly questionable.7 In either case, it was much too far a distance for the Peloponnesians to even think about an unbroken line of defense. A series of strong points manned by heavy troops and supported by light armed auxiliaries had to suffice for an island with these characteristics and dimensions (whether fifteen or twenty-five stades in length). The critical point is that Thucydides’ description gives an infantry commander (and the reader) the key information necessary to appreciate the size and type of force needed to defend such an island, the complications posed to communications and resupply, and the difficulties and possibilities that would exist for any potential invader as well. Thucydides could have told us more about Pylos (or less), but he tells us enough to understand the military factors which he saw as most important.8 Thucydides’ description of the harbor entrances is likewise given from a commander’s perspective.9 It is no accident that Thucydides begins his first and most detailed analysis of the original Peloponnesian strategy directly after this description of the tactically significant terrain features of the island and the harbor entrances. For just as the description of the island is tailored to provide the necessary facts from a military operations standpoint, so Thucydides’ description of the ¶sploi is more than a strictly geographical one. Simply put, the characterization of the two channels as “wide enough for two ships to pass” and “wide enough for eight or nine”, respectively, is meant to give a sense of the potential for naval operations rather than merely a raw measure of distance. Among other things, we are to draw from this description that entering such a harbor, garrisoned as it was by a hostile fleet, could not be done in a single line-ahead formation (for this would allow the Peloponnesians the possibility of defeating the Athenian fleet piecemeal).10

Rubincam (above, n. 2) 81 notes the double qualification used by Thucydides here is usually overlooked: per‹ p°nte ka‹ d°ka stad¤ouw mãlista. The point is that the scale is essentially correct for the way in which the campaign actually unfolded (or might have done). 8 The description exemplifies his principle of providing the reader with a perspicuous view of the actual events (i.e., tÚ saf°w, for which see 1.22.4). 9 See on this point especially Rubincam (above, n. 2) and Bauslaugh (above, n. 2). 10 Indeed, when the Athenians do enter, they make use of both entrances at 7

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If an approach by single column was unwise, to enter in a single line would have been impractical. For it would have courted disaster to form into line outside the harbor, then attempt to sail through the south entrance with all ships abreast. A similar undertaking would later cost Syracuse a victory when forty-five of her triremes attempted this very maneuver and became seriously disordered while entering the Great Harbor (where the width is almost identical to that of the south channel of the bay of Navarino: 7.23.3). In ancient warfare generally, and in trireme encounters in particular, order and tactical cohesion were of the utmost importance (as the Syracusan parallel shows).11 Approaching the battle area in a line of columns rather than a single line would have helped to preserve the tactical order so crucial to success (especially when such deployments had to take place over relatively long distances as would have been the case for the Athenians setting out from Prote).12 And we can hardly understand Thucydides’ description of the actual Athenian entrance into the bay in any way other than an approach by a series of columns (4.14.1). This attack on two axes only makes sense as an attempt to deploy the maximum number of ships possible while at the same time avoiding confusion and disorder, dual advantages which would only accrue to a fleet entering in multiple columns of squadrons. Thucydides’ estimate of the terrain informs us that this deployment could have involved at most two columns by the north, and eight or nine by the south, and we are led to understand from his description that anything more would have compromised speed and tactical order in his judgment.13 once in order to deploy as much combat power as possible as quickly as possible (4.14.1). 11 Compare also the successes attributable to Athenian good order versus the disordered state of their opponents at Salamis (Aesch. Pers. 399-401, 412-414), and off Patras under Phormio (Thuc. 2.83.3). 12 Precisely the situation and remedy employed by the Athenians at Arginusae (Xen. Hellenica 1.6.24-35). See especially the reconstruction of the battle given by J.S. Morrison, The Athenian trireme (2000) 87-93. 13 The fact that the southern channel is much more than four or five times the width of the northern one is no argument against this view. As anyone with experience of military formations can attest, the complications in maintaining coordination between eight or nine columns on the one hand and only two on the other, when all each of the latter have to worry about is each other, are not to be compared—anyone can juggle two balls.

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Just as the details we were given about Sphacteria were keyed to potential Spartan land operations, so the information Thucydides presents about the harbor entrances is framed in terms of the Athenian naval capabilities which the Peloponnesians will have to counter. Thucydides’ description of the southern diãplouw as sufficient for “eight or nine” ships thus refers neither to the exact width of the channel, nor to the precise number of ships that might be necessary to block it, but rather to the opportunities and limitations it presents in the deployment of an attacking fleet. Taken as a whole, Thucydides’ “terrain assessment” is designed to give the reader an idea of the tactical problems involved in preparing for the upcoming battle. As we shall see, the same may be said of his presentation of the Peloponnesian strategy which follows immediately (4.8.7-9). To begin our investigation of that strategy and Thucydides’ analysis of it, our primary concern is not with land operations where Spartan goals and methods in this campaign are clearly stated and universally understood (i.e., the recapture of Pylos), but rather with naval operations. Specifically, it was incumbent upon the Spartan generals to decide how best to prevent the Athenian navy from intervening in the ground campaign. This was the key to victory. If such intervention could be effectively prevented, success on the ground was inevitable, whereas if it could not be prevented, it might prove difficult or even impossible to subdue a well-supplied, well-supported Pylos (cf. 4.8.4-5; 4.8.9). The details provided in Thucydides’ narrative allow (and invite) us to posit four possible strategies for achieving this goal then available to the Peloponnesian commanders: Option 1: Fight it out fleet to fleet on the open sea. The most obvious and potentially most decisive option open to the Peloponnesians was to risk everything on a full-scale naval battle in open waters. Thucydides tells us that the Athenians at least considered the possibility that their opponents might do so: μn m¢n éntekple›n §y°lvsi sf¤sin §w tØn eÈruxvr¤an (4.13.3). In such an encounter, the Peloponnesians would have had several advantages. Their sixty ships gave them numerical superiority.14 They would also be able to launch the operation directly from 14 Though slightly less than they would have assumed, for the Athenians had picked up four additional Chian ships for a total of perhaps fifty (4.13.2). A.W.

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their own proximate base (while the Athenians would have a haul of some twenty kilometers before reaching the battle area). This would result in the Peloponnesian crews being significantly more rested for the battle than those of the Athenians. An additional advantage was afforded by the disparity of distances in basing: the Peloponnesians stood to gain a tactical advantage by being able to deploy in final battle formation at their leisure at a favorable time and place (thus minimizing the risk of becoming disordered and of losing crucial tactical cohesion). For a people given to risk aversion even in land battle wherein they preeminently excelled, however, such considerations were for the Spartans merely hypothetical. Thucydides gives us no indication that they ever seriously considered this possibility. Understandably gun-shy after their defeats at the hands of Phormio several years earlier, and never greatly enamored of naval affairs, it should come as no surprise that the Spartan generals were loath to settle on a course of action that was at once so fraught with risk and that took no advantage of their strength and superiority in ground forces. Option 2: Fight it out fleet to fleet in the harbor narrows. This course of action would have had the effect of partially neutralizing the considerably superior Athenian skill which might otherwise pose serious problems for a fleet with open flanks. Ensconced in the south channel in a solid line, the Peloponnesian ships would be protected from an Athenian periplous on either end. In addition, the stationing of friendly forces on the beach on either side of their line might prove a considerable help to them and a disadvantage to any of their enemies who ventured too close to shore. The Peloponnesians would use a very similar deployment at Erineus later in the war, securing both of their fleet’s flanks by tying them in with friendly ground forces on either end of a crescent-shaped bay (7.34.2). This was clearly a safer course than trusting their luck on the open sea,15 but it did not by any means remove all of the risks involved in a naval Gomme (A historical commentary on Thucydides [1956] 447) argues persuasively that the figure of 43 (given at 4.11.2) with which the Peloponnesians attack Pylos represents only the detachment assigned to that duty. The figure for the Athenian ships is also open to debate, 50 being the largest likely figure. See Hornblower (above, n. 3) 167. 15 Pritchett 1994 (above, n. 2) 173.

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battle with the Athenians. The knowledge that their adversaries were also adept at breaking through an enemy line and creating a flank where there had been none before would also have weighed heavily on the Spartan commanders.16 The fact that the harbor had two entrances, moreover, complicated this option. Some method would have to be found to protect the north channel in order to prevent an attack from the rear before the entire fleet could be committed in the southern entrance. And if this were to necessitate a detachment of ships, then the Peloponnesian numerical advantage would be largely eroded at the same time that the Athenians were presented with the opportunity of attacking either entrance with their entire force. Option 3: Prevent the Athenians from using the harbor by means of a static defense. In Thucydides’ eyes, barring access to the harbor was an idea which held promise.17 Whatever one may think of the accuracy of Thucydides’ sources here or the correctness of his understanding of the Peloponnesians’ strategy, his threefold and unambiguous repetition of this plan shows unequivocally his belief that it was, in fact, the option originally chosen. Since so much hinges upon his descriptions of this strategy, it is necessary to quote them here in full: (4.8.5) prosdexÒmenoi d¢ ka‹ tØn épÚ t∞w ZakÊnyou t«n ÉAttik«n ne«n boÆyeian §n n“ e‰xon, μn êra mØ prÒteron ßlvsi, ka‹ toÁw ¶splouw toË lim°now §mfãrjai, ˜pvw mØ ¬ to›w ÉAyhna¤oiw §form¤sasyai §w aÈtÒn.

At the same time, they anticipated the Athenian reinforcements from Zakynthos and planned—unless they captured the fort first—to block the harbor entrances to prevent the Athenians from anchoring.

16 Part of the Syracusan motivation reported by Thucydides for fighting in the Great Harbor is that the cramped space averts the periplous and makes the diekplous more difficult (7.36.4). On the diekplous see J.S. Morrison, “The Greek ships at Salamis and the diekplous”, JHS 111 (1991) 196-200, and J.F. Lazenby, “The diekplous”, G&R 34 (1987) 169-177. 17 So Bauslaugh (above, n. 2) 4, drawing from Thucydides’ handling of naval matters generally. Thucydides’ favorable opinion of the plan can also be inferred from his incredulous description of the Spartan failure to carry it out (4.13.4).

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(4.8.7-8) toÁw m¢n oÔn ¶splouw ta›w naus‹n éntipr–roiw bÊzhn klπsein ¶mellon: tØn d¢ n∞son taÊthn foboÊmenoi mØ §j aÈt∞w tÚn pÒlemon sf¤si poi«ntai, ıpl¤taw dieb¤basan §w aÈtØn ka‹ parå tØn ≥peiron êllouw ¶tajan. oÏtv går to›w ÉAyhna¤oiw tÆn te n∞son polem¤an ¶sesyai tÆn te ≥peiron, épÒbasin oÈk ¶xousan (tå går aÈt∞w t∞w PÊlou ¶jv toË ¶splou prÚw tÚ p°lagow él¤mena ˆnta oÈx ßjein ˜yen ırm≈menoi »felÆsousi toÁw aÍt«n) sfe›w d¢ êneu te naumax¤aw ka‹ kindÊnou §kpoliorkÆsein tÚ xvr¤on katå tÚ efikÒw, s¤tou te oÈk §nÒntow ka‹ di' Ùl¤ghw paraskeu∞w kateilhmm°non.

They intended to block the entrances with ships close together, prows toward the enemy. Concerned about the island, since the Athenians might use it for fighting them, they transported some hoplites over to the island and stationed others along the mainland. This way, the Athenians would have the island hostile to them as well as the mainland, where there is no place to land; the whole coast of Pylos, without a harbor except the one with two entrances, would give them no base for supporting their troops, and they would probably besiege the place successfully without a sea battle or other risk, since there was no food inside the fort, and it had been occupied with little preparation.

(4.13.4) ka‹ ofl m¢n oÎte éntanÆgonto oÎte ì dienoÆyhsan, fãrjai toÁw ¶splouw, ¶tuxon poiÆsantew, ≤suxãzontew d' §n tª gª tãw te naËw §plÆroun ka‹ pareskeuãzonto, μn §spl°˙ tiw, …w §n t“ lim°ni ˆnti oÈ smikr“ naumaxÆsontew.

The Lacedaemonians neither came out against them nor, as it happened, carried out their intention of blocking the entrances but instead, with no activity on land, manned their ships and prepared to fight in the harbor (which is not small) in the event of an attack.

If the Athenians could be denied access to the harbor, according to Spartan reasoning, they would shortly have to retire altogether, and Pylos would fall as a matter of course. In order to keep their adversary’s

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triremes out of the harbor without offering battle in the entrances, however, two important measures would have to be taken: first, an effective static defense of the ¶sploi would have to be mounted, and second, the island of Sphacteria would have to be occupied in order to deny it to the Athenians. Not sufficiently appreciated in discussions of this campaign is that these two measures were critically interrelated (just as the description of the island and the harbor entrances on the one hand, and of the ground and naval deployments on the other are each paired in Thucydides’ narrative). As in the somewhat parallel situation of Erineus mentioned above (7.34), the Peloponnesians planned to station troops on the coast of the mainland opposite the landward flanks of their fleet—not a particularly surprising move since ground forces often intervened to support friendly triremes in shallow water.18 But the parallel is not exact. At Erineus, the fleet does “block” the entrance to the crescent-shaped bay, but remains mobile while it does so. A static defense in that situation would have been no use in preventing the Athenians from moving to attack the Peloponnesian merchantmen bound for Sicily (this, after all, was their chief mission, not blocking access to the harbor, and, indeed, at the appropriate time the Peloponnesians did sally forth from their blocking position to engage the Athenians in that instance). At Pylos, the goal was entirely defensive. A static defense denying access to the harbor was all that was necessary for success. The accomplishment of this goal, however, would require the occupation of Sphacteria in order to support that defense from the island’s flanks as well as from the two coastal headlands. That is what Thucydides means when he tells us that the Peloponnesians “transported some hoplites over to the island and stationed others along the mainland”, not general deployments to deny other points of landing (as he says, there were no other places to land north of Pylos), but specific deployments to support the four seaward flanks of their naval defense (i.e., two in the north and two in the

Compare the Messenian support of the Athenian fleet at Naupactus (2.90.6), and several instances at Syracuse of ground forces in support of triremes in trouble (7.53.3; 71.6). In the event, Spartan soldiers did give important aid to their triremes in this battle (4.14.2). 18

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south).19 For it would only be in this way that “the Athenians would have the island hostile to them as well as the mainland”. In fact, the importance of such troop dispositions to ensure that the Athenians would have no way of affecting the Peloponnesian flanks was not merely an added tactical advantage (i.e., providing succor for their own ships in trouble in the shallows while harassing enemy vessels that ventured too far inshore), but was essential to the static defense originally planned. For what Thucydides is describing in the three passages quoted above is not merely a semi-mobile stationing of the Peloponnesian fleet in the two narrows with troops in support (as at Erineus), but the erecting of a static defense to negate all Athenian advantages of skill in maneuvering (as at Syracuse). Exactly what form this planned, but never implemented, static defense was meant to have taken has also been a matter of some debate. While Gomme’s idea that a line of sunken ships was being proposed has been justly criticized as unworkable,20 the feasibility of physically blocking the southern entrance at all has been called into question by some scholars.21 Nevertheless, blocking a channel of this width was not beyond the technology of the times.22 The closest parallel we have for this is the Syracusans’ locking in of the Athenian fleet in the Great Harbor of Syracuse, the width of which is, as we have mentioned before, nearly equidistant to that of the southern entrance of the bay of Navarino (7.56, 59.3, 70.2). This later blockade was very effective indeed, and it is not unreasonable to assume that the Spartans and their allies had something very similar in mind at Pylos—only meant to keep the Athenians out, not in.

19 Confusion on this point has been a complicating factor in discerning Peloponnesian strategy. See Wilson (above, n. 2) 79. 20 The view of Gomme (above, n. 14) 444, is rejected by Hornblower (above, n. 3) 160, Pritchett 1994 (above, n. 2) 147-149, Wilson and Beardsworth (above, n. 2) 73-75, et al. 21 E.g., Rhodes (above, n. 3) 212-213, R.B. Strassler, The Landmark Thucydides (1996) 228; Wilson and Beardsworth (above, n. 2) 42-52; and Wilson (above, n. 2) 76. 22 For example, large harbors in the ancient world were sometimes closed by means of chains (e.g., see 2.93-94 for the Piraeus).

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The words used by Thucydides to describe the blocking of the harbor entrances at Pylos indicate that such was his understanding of their intentions. Based on the parallel of Syracuse, the most likely meaning of the phrase bÊzhn klπsein is “to close [the entrances] up tight” (4.8.7).23 For Thucydides describes the Syracusan blockade in a nearly identical fashion (7.56.1 klπsein; cf. 59.3 ¶kl˙on, and 70.2 klπseiw). In regard to the last term listed, the fact that the Athenians, in their attack on this barrier, attempt to physically loosen these klπseiw also serves to show that Thucydides is not using these words in a figurative way (7.70.2). That the barrier at Syracuse (and consequently the one planned for Pylos) was a tangible and static one is further shown by Thucydides’ choice of the very concrete zeËgma to describe the “boom” across the Great Harbor at Syracuse (7.69.4, 70.2). The zeËgma across the Great Harbor did require a picket line of ships of various sizes and types deployed to support, anchor, and defend it. Such would have doubtless been the case at Pylos as well. It is not, however, consistent with Thucydides’ description nor with logic to understand a loose line of boats as in and of itself capable of denying the Athenian navy an exit from the bay. The entire Syracusan navy was not able to do so without a fight—how much less a loose picket line of boats. The klπseiw which the Athenian sailors fought to remove are thus not anchors, but cables or the like, connecting one ship to another and collectively forming the zeËgma, a boom which provided a near complete, physical closure across the harbor except at one point only, where a gap was deliberately left (7.69.4).24 Indeed, the very fact of this gap, whose purpose was obviously to allow the Syracusans ingress and egress to the harbor on their own terms, is convincing evidence that no other point in the line was navigable. For, given the sizeable distance involved and the great maneuverability of the Athenian triremes, without a solid barrier of the type posited above there would have been many small gaps between the individual ships which could have easily been put to the test. This analysis gives credence to the description of the boom given by Diodorus (13.14.1-2): On bÊzhn, see especially Bauslaugh (above, n. 2) 4, and Pritchett 1994 (above, n. 2) 147-149, both of whom argue convincingly for taking the adverb in the general sense preferred here of “close-packed”. 24 Compare the securing of the Piraeus klπsei, where a physical, water-level barrier is in view (2.94.4). 23

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ofl d¢ SurakÒsioi nom¤zontew mhk°ti tÚn k¤ndunon e‰nai per‹ t∞w pÒlevw, éllå polÁ mçllon §nesthk°nai tÚn ég«na per‹ toË labe›n tÚ stratÒpedon metå t«n polem¤vn afixmãlvton, ép°fratton tÚ stÒma toË lim°now zeËgma kataskeuãzontew. ékãtouw te går ka‹ triÆreiw, ¶ti d¢ stroggÊlaw naËw §p' égkur«n ırm¤santew, ka‹ sidhra›w èlÊsesi dialambãnontew, §p‹ tå skãfh gefÊraw §k san¤dvn kateskeÊasan ka‹ p°raw §n ≤m°raiw tris‹ to›w ¶rgoiw §p°yhkan.

The Syracusans, believing that the danger no longer was the losing of their city but that, far more, the contest had become one for the capture of the camp together with the enemy, blocked off the entrance to the harbor by the construction of a barrier. For they moored at anchor both small vessels and triremes as well as merchant-ships, with iron chains between them, and to the vessels they built bridges of boards, completing the undertaking in three days [emphasis added].25

The use of an impenetrable barrier, then, is surely what klπsein means in the case of Pylos as well. The only difference is that in this earlier case Thucydides uses the adverb bÊzhn to show that, unlike at Syracuse where one navigable gap was left, here the harbor would have been closed up tight, that is, with no gap at all for the Athenians to exploit. What we would have seen at Pylos then, had the Peloponnesians gone forward with this plan, was an unbroken boom across the southern entrance (and a smaller one across the northern entrance), possibly held in place by floats, small boats, or even some anchored triremes (ta›w naus‹n éntipr–roiw).26 Thucydides’ description of Sphacteria as Íl≈dhw suggests that there would have been enough small timber available for the construction of a makeshift log-boom.27 The presence of a

25 The translation is by C.H. Oldfather in the Loeb edition (Diodorus of Sicily vol. V [1950]). 26 It is also possible to take these words as referring to hostile ships approaching the barrier (the dative then meaning “for” in the sense of “against”): “to close the entrances up tight against attacking ships” (toÁw m¢n oÔn ¶splouw ta›w naus‹n éntipr–roiw bÊzhn klπsein). 27 While scrub timber might suffice for floats and for the boom itself, the finished lumber necessary for scaling ladders (which had to be both light and strong

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sizeable army and fleet ready at hand to employ for its construction also meant that time should not have been a prohibitive factor.28 Indeed, Diodorus tells us that the construction of the Syracusan zeËgma of comparable length was accomplished in a mere three days (directly in the face of an enemy fleet at that).29 The fortification of Pylos, by a much smaller contingent in a limited time, also argues for this large Peloponnesian force being able to accomplish the task in relatively short order. The anticipated presence of twin booms physically blocking the harbor entrances helps to explain why the Peloponnesian generals thought it necessary to occupy both Sphacteria and the headlands opposite it. Even if the bulk of their fleet were stationed to defend the zeËgma itself (i.e., all the remaining vessels not employed as part of the boom), without these supporting ground forces the Athenians would be able to attack or detach the booms at the points where they touched the shore. This might prove a minimal risk directly opposite Pylos itself in the vicinity of the main Peloponnesian army, but on either end of Sphacteria and in the extreme south, attack from the landward side would be a simple matter in the absence of infantry protection. This possibility is at least part of the reason for Thucydides’ comment that the Spartans were afraid the Athenians might prosecute the war against them from Sphacteria (4.8.7 mØ §j aÈt∞w tÚn pÒlemon sf¤si poi«ntai). In the same breath, Thucydides tells us that it was precisely because of this concern that the Spartans stationed troops on Sphacteria and on the mainland (ıpl¤taw dieb¤basan §w aÈtØn ka‹ parå tØn ≥peiron êllouw ¶tajan). The second part of this remark makes little sense unless one

in order to be employable in battle) was easier to procure by ship from a distance (4.13.1). Proper boards and planks would have been equally necessary for the construction of siege engines (if that is what mhxana›w means at 4.13.1). 28 It is suggested by Wilson and Beardsworth (above, n. 2) 51 that the Spartan failure to block the entrances was a result of their running out of time. From Thucydides’ narrative, however, we receive no indication that they ever even began to do so (and every indication that they had changed their minds). 29 As is noted by A.W. Gomme, A. Andrewes and K.J. Dover, A historical commentary on Thucydides vol. IV (1970) 440.

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understands it in terms of the defensive measures taken in support of the intended zeËgma.30 Protected by troops on its flanks and with the Peloponnesian fleet to guard its main line, such a barrier would have had great advantages. An Athenian diekplous would have been a virtual impossibility in such a circumstance, with any attempt to breach the zeËgma reduced to a scrum which would cancel out any Athenian advantage in skill. The Spartans and their allies were therefore quite right to assume that such a strategy would all but eliminate the risk of a naval battle with their adversary who was so dangerous at sea (4.8.8 sfe›w d¢ êneu te naumax¤aw ka‹ kindÊnou §kpoliorkÆsein tÚ xvr¤on katå tÚ efikÒw). Option 4: Refuse battle and achieve the objective merely by denying the Athenian navy any place to lay up. Arrayed behind a boom line and supported by superior infantry, the Peloponnesian fleet should have had every expectation of being able to fight the Athenians at least to a draw without any serious risk. In the event, however, the plan to block the harbor entrances was not carried out. Thucydides gives us at least two definite indications that this change of plan was deliberate (4.13.4). The first of these is an outright statement to that effect, which, however, tells us little about the reasoning behind the change of strategy (oÎte éntanÆgonto oÎte ì dienoÆyhsan, fãrjai toÁw ¶splouw, ¶tuxon poiÆsantew).31 Thucydides’ apparent chagrin over the abandonment of a plan which he presents as workable is evident in these words, but it would be wrong to interpret them to mean that the Spartan commanders had no plan at all.32 For when the Athenian fleet sails into the harbor,

30 The reference to additional deployments on the mainland has puzzled commentators in the past. 31 The use of ¶tuxon does not indicate that this occurred by mere chance or without any conscience decision-making on the Peloponnesian side. See Gomme (above, n. 14) 488-489. 32 They did not sail out of the harbor (an active offense), nor prevent the Athenians from sailing in (an active defense), but as an alternative they did take (ultimately insufficient) measures for a passive defense of their base (tãw te naËw §plÆroun ka‹ pareskeuãzonto). Thucydides’ mention here of two options they did not choose (one of which they had originally planned to carry out) is not due to any confusion on his part about their actions, but rather is necessary to clarify for us that they had abandoned the plan to block the harbor entrances for what we are calling here the fourth option.

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they find their opponents calmly (≤suxãzontew) making deliberate preparations “to fight in the harbor (which is not small) in the event of an attack” (μn §spl°˙ tiw, …w §n t“ lim°ni ˆnti oÈ smikr“ naumaxÆsontew). This is a decided change from their previous anticipation of being able to accomplish their objective without a naval battle (4.8.8 êneu te naumax¤aw ka‹ kindÊnou).33 Thucydides here presents the Peloponnesians as operating according to a definite plan, albeit different from the one he previously described in such detail. What precisely this new plan was, and why the original plan was changed, are questions left to the reader to disentangle from the narrative. The connection of Brasidas’ untimely removal from the battlefield with this change of plans is a reasonable one, and one the reader is no doubt intended to make (4.12.1).34 The energy he brought to all the operations in which he was involved are familiar to every reader of the History.35 What we have following that great captain’s departure, however, is not so much a lack of drive as it is a different tactical philosophy. It is frequently the case in Thucydides that, in the absence of exceptional leadership, both the Spartans and the Athenians are likely to revert to the tendencies of their respective national characters, and that is the case with this last option finally adopted by the Peloponnesian commanders.36 Without an energetic advocate to support this novel plan, it was predictable that more risk-averse voices would be heard. The strategy which Brasidas had undoubtedly supported (if not conceived) was as risk free as any sensible plan might be, but it was also innovative, unprecedented, and untried. It was, so to speak, a genuine res nova, the

33 They could not, of course, have prevented the Athenians from making an attack against the boom, but the presence of such a barrier certainly would have reduced the Athenians’ options and would have made the likelihood of a decisive naval engagement much more remote (the essence of the Spartan thinking on that point, as 4.8.8 shows). 34 A point made by C.E. Graves, The fourth book of Thucydides (1888) 135. Pritchett 1994 (above, n. 2) 175 also suggests Brasidas as a possible source for the blocking strategy. 35 See especially Hornblower (above, n. 3) 38-61 for Thucydides’ presentation of Brasidas. 36 See R.D. Luginbill, Thucydides on war and national character (1999) 200203.

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very sort of thing of which the Spartans were notoriously skeptical. Worse to tell, it committed them to an energetic defense of their barrier, should the Athenian fleet attack. Though an attack under such unfavorable circumstances was perhaps unlikely, it could not be ruled out entirely. Had the harbors been blocked, the Athenians would have been left with few other options besides abandoning Pylos or attempting a penetration of the barrier by force. After Brasidas’ injury, and with the Spartan hoplites already having been transported to Sphacteria, it must have occurred to the remaining generals in charge (in a typically pessimistic Spartan way) that the Athenians were unlikely to abandon Pylos without a fight. Faced then with the likelihood of a naval battle, even with the advantage of a boom-line to fight behind, an alternative option which would, in their thinking, reduce the possibility of such an event could not have but been attractive.37 The Spartan occupation of Sphacteria had already effectively denied it to the Athenians as a base of operations. So while the Athenian fleet might well sail into the harbor if unblocked, there was little chance of them attempting to come to anchor: they would find every shore hostile, and an enemy fleet positioned immediately opposite them, securely based and in position to attack at a time and place of their own choosing (exactly as they later would do with success at Erineus). In this assumption, the Peloponnesian commanders would not be entirely incorrect, for after their initial entrance on the first day, the Athenian fleet did depart for Prote for want of an anchorage—precisely because they saw that “both the mainland and the island were filled with hoplites, and that the fleet was in the harbor with no sign of sailing out” (4.13.3). After the events of that first day, it is not unreasonable to suppose that these same commanders were congratulating themselves for having chosen the safest possible plan. The Athenian fleet had retreated for want of

37 While it may seem counter-intuitive that leaving the harbors unblocked should reduce the possibility of a naval battle, from the Spartan point of view, concentrating their fleet in a small area in defense of their base with large numbers of troops directly at their backs should have provided even greater security than the blockade, while at the same time presenting a less attractive target to the Athenians.

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a harbor, and a naval battle had indeed been avoided, all without the trouble (and the danger) involved in blocking the harbor. Were these the Spartan commanders’ thoughts, the events of the second day will have proved them to be wishful thinking. Even though the Peloponnesian fleet was lying well inshore in the close embrace of the army, and with no intention of giving battle unless directly attacked (i.e., μn §spl°˙ tiw...naumaxÆsontew), the Athenians forced the issue and with one blow turned this inferior Spartan strategy on its head. It is important to note that without the audacious and successful Athenian naval attack, this typically Spartan plan would have worked. But while most adversaries may well have been reluctant to engage a superior fleet ensconced in their own base without a secure base of their own in the immediate vicinity, the Spartans had once again failed to take into account the temerity of their opponents. The real disadvantage of this fourth option, therefore, only comes fully to light once it has come into contact with the Athenians: it may have been effective against another, more cautious opponent (like the Peloponnesians themselves), but not against the risk-taking Athenians. The parallel which Syracuse offers for the Pylos campaign is one from which Thucydides draws both explicitly and implicitly.38 Athenian boldness at Pylos shattered the overly cautious Spartan plan where Thucydides leaves us to conclude that their previous, more active strategy might have been effective. At Syracuse, Athens found an adversary who grew bolder and more inventive during the course of the campaign (rather than more cautious as at Pylos). Consequently, fighting against opponents who were “most like themselves” (8.96.5 ımoiÒtropoi) proved far more difficult than fighting against Spartans, whose riskaverse behavior Thucydides describes as “most convenient” (8.96.5 jumfor≈tatoi). It is through this lens that Thucydides means for us to evaluate the Peloponnesian strategy at Pylos. Their plan failed not because it was incompetent or irrational in the abstract—against likeminded Peloponnesians we have every reason to suspect it would have

38 E.g., the victory of the most undeserving man, Cleon, at Pylos (4.39.3) contrasted with the defeat of the man who least deserved it, Nicias (7.86.5). Pylos is specifically mentioned by Thucydides to compare the fate of the Athenian army to that of the Spartans stranded on Sphacteria (7.71.7).

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been ideal. Its main flaw was its failure to take into account the nature of the opponents who would actually have to be faced. Thucydides genuinely believed that the Peloponnesians had changed their strategy at Pylos. Had he been in any doubt about the genuineness of their original plan to block the harbor, it would have been much easier (and clearly less controversial) simply to leave it out of his narrative altogether. In light of the fact that this final alternative was such a dismal failure, it is perhaps understandable that some have concluded that Thucydides was misinformed about Peloponnesian strategy at Pylos. However, in terms of the narrative presented, both the original plan (Option 3) and its alternative (Option 4) provide an understandable rationale when viewed from the Spartan perspective. It therefore virtually certain that, from Thucydides’ point of view, the development and implementation of the Peloponnesian strategy at Pylos had much to do with Spartan national character. For it flowed from their own predispositions (hyper-cautious) and wrongly anticipated similar behavior from their opponents (a more conservative adversary would probably not have made the risky frontal attack in such unfavorable circumstances). Given what we know of similar Spartan behavior elsewhere in the History, we would be unwise to conclude that Thucydides was mistaken about their eventual choice of strategy, their change of plans, or the implicit reasons for that change (i.e., switching from something unaccustomed to something more familiar and more attuned to their low tolerance for risk). Had their plans been informed by gnome and not comfortably adapted to their national character,39 that is to say, had Brasidas not been wounded and the plan not changed, the narrative implies that things might well have worked out quite differently. The Pylos campaign, and the evolution of the Peloponnesian strategy there, is a clear example of Thucydides leading the reader to see what he felt to be the truth, even when it may have been hidden to the History’s actors. University of Louisville

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n. 1.

Robert D. Luginbill

See L. Kallet, Money and the corrosion of power in Thucydides (2001) 147

T HE ATHENIAN DEC REE H ONOR I NG HEBRYZELM IS OF T HR ACE RECONSIDERED

1. Introduction The inscription honoring King Hebryzelmis of Odrysian Thrace, IG II2 31 = Tod, GHI 117, contains a clause which has long intrigued scholars. The section, lines 17-21, consists of instructions to three envoys, chosen from among the body of the Athenians, directing them to report to Hebryzelmis about the things voted on by the demos and about some ships which seem to have been near an unidentified place along the Thracian coast. The question that immediately comes to mind is, why are there ships along the Thracian coast? It has been postulated that the ships are part of the annual squadron the Athenians sent to the North Aegean to escort the grain fleet from the Black Sea.1 What this hypothesis does not take into account is that the envoys needed to report to Hebryzelmis “concerning the ships”, the most natural interpretation of which is “concerning [the purpose] of the ships”. Such a report seems superfluous if the ships were part of a fleet whose presence in the region was usual and accepted. I would like to suggest that the ships were not part of the annual grain escort, but rather a

1 R.K. Sinclair, “The King’s Peace and the employment of military and naval forces 387-78”, Chiron 8 (1978) 47-49.

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squadron sent out by the Athenians to collect the five percent tax from the states that Thrasyboulos had brought into alliance in 391/0.2 The full text of IG II2 31 = Tod, GHI 117 reads:3 [ÉE]p‹ Mustix¤dou êrxon[tow]. [ÖEdojen] t∞i b[ou]l∞i ka‹ t«i dÆmvi: [ÉErexy][h˛w §pru]tãne[ue, X]e¤lvn Khfisi[eÁw §p]e[stãt]ei, N°vn [ÑA]l[a]ieÁw §grammãt[eue, E][Îa]n[dr]ow e‰[pe]n: §[p]ain°sai m¢n ÑEb[rÊze]l`m`[i]n tÚn ba[s]il°a tÚn ÉOdrus«n, ˜t[i §st]‹[n] énØ[r égay]Úw [p]er‹ tÚn d∞mon tÚ[n ÉAyh]na¤vn, [ka]‹ e‰nai aÈt«i ëper to›w p[rogÒ]noi[w] ëpa[n]t[a]: §p[ai]n°sai d¢ ka‹ [-6-] an ka‹ . . i . . . . n`on tÚn strathg[Ún ka‹] [. . . .]e[. .]hthn ÑEbruz°lmidow t[oË basil]°[vw: k]a[‹ st∞s]ai [§]w stÆlhn énagr[ãcant]a tÚn gram[m]at°[a] t∞w boul∞w tå §c[hfism]°na [k]r[opÒ]l[ei, §w d]¢ tØn énagraf[Øn t∞w] [s]tÆ[lhw mer¤sai] toÁw [ép]od°kta[w triãk][o]n[ta] d[raxmåw] t«i grammate› t[∞w boul∞][w: •l°syai d¢ ê]nd[ra]w tre›w §j ÉAy[h]na[¤vn] èpãnt[vn o·t]ine[w] épaggeloËsi [p]r[Úw ÑEb]rÊ[zel]min [tå §]chfi[s]m°na t«i d[Æ]m[vi, ép]ag[geloËsi d¢] k[a‹] per‹ t«n ne«n [t]«[n per]‹ Pl[-5-ka‹] per‹ t«n êllvn œ[n] a[fitoËs]in ofl pr°sb[ei]w ofl p[ar]å basil°v[w] ÑE[bruz]°l[m]ido[w ¥]kontew t«i dÆmvi t«[i] ÉA[yhna]¤vn: §[pain]°sai d¢ ka‹ T[e]¤sand[r]o[n ka‹] LÊsa[n]dron, ˜ti §stÚn êndre ég[a]y[Δ per][‹] tÚn d∞mon tÚn ÉAyhna¤vn ka‹ t[-6-] [-21-]sai[-6-]

5

10

15

20

25

For the date, see G.L. Cawkwell, “The imperialism of Thrasyboulos”, CQ 70 (1976) 270-77. 3 The text here is adapted from M.N. Tod, Greek historical inscriptions. Vol. II: 403-323 BC (1948) 117, superseding IG II2 31 and SIG3 III 138. 2

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DANIELLE KELLOGG When Mystichides was archon; Resolved by the boule and the demos; Erechtheis held the prytany, Cheilon of Kephisia was the president, Neon of Halai was secretary, E|uandros proposed: to commend Hebryzelmis the king of the Odrysians, since he is a good man towards the demos of the Athenians, and he himself is to have all the things which his ancestors had. And also to commend | [the two names originally here cannot be read] the general and …. of Hebryzelmis the king. And to erect a stele on the acropolis inscribed with the decision voted by the boule, and for the inscribing of the | stele the financial officials are to contribute thirty drachmae to the secretary of the boule. And to choose three men from all of the Athenians, who will | report to Hebryzelmis the things decided by the demos, and report to him also concerning the ships, the ones around …. and concerning the other things which the ambassadors who came from the king Hebryzelmis asked the demos of the Athenians. And to commend both Teisandros and | Lysandros, since they are good men to the demos of the Athenians and….

A number of issues are tied up with an examination of this inscription and the curious clause concerning the ships, and any reconstruction of the circumstances surrounding the ships off the coast of Thrace must take these into account. 2. The accession of Hebryzelmis We know, unfortunately, relatively little about this particular point in Thracian history. Even the date of the accession of Hebryzelmis to the throne remains uncertain. Sinclair places it at or about the time that Tod, GHI 117 was erected, and a fair portion of his reconstruction of events is dependent upon this date. Sinclair postulates that Hebryzelmis sent envoys to Athens for a dual purpose: to gain recognition of his place on the Odrysian throne, and to gain assistance in an internal struggle against Seuthes, who was attempting to expand the boundaries of his kingdom at Hebryzelmis’ expense.4 4 Sinclair (above, n. 1) 48. Hebryzelmis has been variously identified as a son of Medokos, a son of Seuthes I, or a usurper. Cf. Z.H. Archibald, The Odrysian

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Regrettably, Tod, GHI 117 does not provide as much evidence supporting this reconstruction as one might like. Certainly it is reasonable that Hebryzelmis would have wished to gain Athenian recognition of his position, as his predecessor Medokos had, but there is no evidence that Hebryzelmis himself had come to the throne in the years immediately preceding the publication of this document. The date of Hebryzelmis’ accession could possibly have been as early as 390,5 the last time at which we know Medokos to have been alive, and if this is the case it would be odd to find Hebryzelmis seeking recognition some four years later. The document itself may support the earlier accession date. Lines 5–9 read §[p]ain°sai m¢n ÑEb[rÊze]l`m`[i]n tÚn ba[s]il°a tÚn ÉOdrus«n, ˜t[i §st]‹[n] énØ[r égay]Úw [p]er‹ tÚn d∞mon tÚ[n ÉAyh]na¤vn, [ka]‹ e‰nai aÈt«i ëper to›w p[rogÒ]noi[w] ëpa[n]t[a]. The second clause, granting to Hebryzelmis the honors that the previous kings of Odrysian Thrace enjoyed, might seem to imply that he was gaining the throne at the time of the document. However, the first clause commends Hebryzelmis for being a “good man towards the demos of the Athenians”. Although this phrase may be formulaic in nature, the implication is that Hebryzelmis had at least indicated cooperation with Athenian causes in the Thracian region. For, despite the fact that this commendation may not be as helpful as we might like in terms of determining policy, it almost certainly is going too far to assume that because it is formulaic, it therefore lacks any and all meaning. This in turn indicates that either Hebryzelmis had been on the throne long enough to demonstrate some loyalty to the policies of his predecessor towards the Athenian state—for it is doubtful that the Athenians, given the vagaries of politics in the Thracian kingdoms, would simply have assumed that Hebryzelmis would continue Medokos’ policies with regard to Athens—or alternatively that Hebryzelmis, while still a private citizen, had given the Athenians assur-

kingdom of Thrace (1998) 219. 5 Tod (above, n. 3) 49. For arguments placing the accession of Hebryzelmis in 387, see E. Schönert-Geiss, “Die Munzstätte Kypsela in Thrakien im 4. Jh. v. u. Z.”, in Actes du XIe Congrès International de Numismatique, Bruxelles, 8–13 septembre 1991, vol. I (1993) 165-8 [non vidi]. I thank an anonymous reader of my contribution for bringing this to my attention.

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ances as to his future attitudes towards them when and if he acceded to the throne.6 The second part of Sinclair’s theory, that Seuthes was once again attempting to expand his kingdom and Hebryzelmis was seeking Athenian military support to rebuff him, is probable in itself, despite the lack of demonstrable proof. Seuthes had feuded with Medokos, and there is no reason to suppose that on the death of Medokos and the accession of Hebryzelmis he was any more favorably disposed towards the new king than he had been towards the last. But Sinclair himself points out that Tod, GHI 117 is “full of commendation and goodwill but little else, despite the fact that the northern Aegean and the Propontis were of major importance to Athens”.7 This, he claims, indicates an Athenian disinclination to continue the policies of Thrasyboulos and an unwillingness to provoke Sparta and Persia into renewing hostilities. Since Hebryzelmis and Seuthes had not been parties to the Peace of Antalkidas, there could be no question that an alliance with either would contravene the Peace, but complaints about Athenian and Thracian imperialism from the Greek cities in the region might find ready support. Yet if Seuthes were really attempting to extend his control at the expense of Hebryzelmis, the area of hostilities would almost certainly be limited to the Thracian kingdoms. Even if not, Seuthes had already proven himself to be a threat to stability in the region in his previous attempts to expand his realm. It is probable that despite any lack of enthusiasm the Greek poleis of the region may have had for Athenian intervention, in a situation in which Seuthes was seeking to expand his control, he would have been regarded as the bigger threat to their independence.

6 We must believe that Hebryzelmis, before his accession, if not a member of the royal family, was a private citizen of such means and position as to make his assumption of the throne of Odrysian Thrace both plausible and possible. As such, even if one accepts a later date for the accession of Hebryzelmis than 390, it may certainly be believed that he had the means and opportunity to make his position towards Athens known to the Athenians, and this would not have been the first time that the Athenians had dealings with private individuals in the Thraceward region. 7 Sinclair (above, n. 1) 48.

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3. The Athenian grain fleet It has long been accepted that Athens needed to import a significant percentage of her food supplies, and that as a result, control of the shipping routes to the Black Sea formed a central part of Athenian foreign policy during the fourth century.8 Indeed, the protection of the annual grain fleet from the Black Sea was one of the major functions of the Athenian fleet during this period, as the grain transports were liable to be stopped at Byzantium in times of food shortage without such an escort.9 Additionally, the Athenian insistence on retaining control over Lemnos, Imbros, and Skyros during the negotiations for the Peace of Antalkidas can be traced not only to the rather significant amounts of foodstuffs these islands produced, but also to their positioning along the Black Sea grain trade route.10 By 386/5, Athens had been importing grain regularly, even annually, for several generations. There seems to have been little interest in developing a large stockpile in Athens for times of shortage; most years saw the grain surplus of the city re-exported for profit.11 Indeed, it is probable that Athens regularly imported more grain than was needed to make up the shortfall in Attic grain in order to ensure that prices in the Athenian markets remained relatively low and stable. Such economic practices ensured the regularity of grain imports to the city, and in turn the repeated dispatch of Athenian ships to protect the transports from

8 I am not going to speculate on the exact percentages of the total food supply that Athens needed to import, as such speculations rest upon a complex series of guesses, assumptions, and calculations. For such conclusions and references to the ongoing debate over such figures, see M. Whitby, “The grain trade of Athens in the fourth century BC”, in Trade, traders, and the ancient city, edd. H. Parkins and C. Smith (1998) 102-128. 9 S. Burstein, “IG I3 61 and the Black Sea grain trade”, in Text & tradition: Studies in Greek history and historiography in honor of Mortimer Chambers, edd. R. Mellor and L. Tritle (1999) 100. 10 Whitby (above, n. 8) 108. He notes here that Lemnos, Imbros, and Skyros together produced about 2.75 times the amount of wheat grown in Attica and about 80 percent of Attica’s barley crop. Burstein (above, n. 9) 100 observes that the occupation of Lemnos, Imbros, and Skyros has long been accepted as a part of Athenian policy to control the shipping routes from the Black Sea. 11 Whitby (above, n. 8) 125-126.

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the Black Sea. Consequently, the sight of Athenian ships in the North Aegean would have been unremarkable, had their purpose been to escort the grain transports. The fact that the Athenian envoys mentioned in Tod, GHI 117 were directed to report to Hebryzelmis “concerning the ships” suggests that protecting the grain ships was not the purpose of the ships off the Thracian coast, for, if so, why would their presence be of concern to the Odrysian king? Moreover, the presence of a clause “concerning the ships” in the context of an honorific decree is odd in and of itself; it is more odd if we assume that the ships in question were annually dispatched along such a route for a well-known and clearly defined purpose.

4. The five percent tax The general history of the five percent tax, imposed by the Athenians upon their subjects, is well known. Thucydides reports that financial difficulties encountered by Athens during the Dekeleian War caused the Athenians to cease collecting tribute and instead switch to a five percent tax on sea-borne trade.12 In 413, with the Spartans occupying Dekeleia, the Athenians found themselves in what can only be described as a financial crisis. The Spartan garrison cut off the most direct route to the agricultural resources of the Athenians on Euboia, there were difficulties internally in the Empire, and the Athenians were now committed to war on two fronts: in Attica, and in Sicily. It is clear from Thucydides that the Athenians imposed the five percent tax as a way of creating more income, not less, than they would have otherwise received from the regular collection of tribute. In 410 the tax ceased to be collected and tribute was reinstated, possibly as an attempt to retain some modicum of control over a rapidly disintegrating empire. Moreover, as island states in the Aegean one by one regained their independence from Athens, they probably ceased to collect the tax, which would have made their ports more attractive to those 12 7.28.4 ka‹ tØn efikostØn ÍpÚ toËton tÚn xrÒnon t«n katå yãlassan ént‹ toË fÒrou to›w ÍphkÒoiw §po¤hsan, ple¤v nom¤zontew ín sf¤si xrÆmata oÏtv prosi°nai.

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engaging in sea-borne trade. With the collapse of the Athenian Empire at the end of the Peloponnesian War came both the end of tribute and the independence, political and economic, of the Aegean poleis formerly subject to Athens. Why, then, would states have made treaties with the Athenians during the first years of the fourth century which required the collection of the five percent tax once again? We may posit a number of causes. First, the Greek poleis were notoriously quarrelsome, and an alliance with Athens, militarily weaker than at the height of her empire but nonetheless one of the largest poleis of the region, may have been an attractive proposition to states seeking to avoid conflict with or conquest by their neighbors. Second, as often happened when a major power either withdrew from a region or concentrated its resources elsewhere, piracy may have increased in the wake of the Athenian collapse.13 Traders losing money to pirate attacks may have felt the imposition of the five percent tax in a regulated port was a better alternative than the threat of pirates elsewhere.14 13 For example, note the battles of the Roman Republic against the resilient pirates of the Mediterranean in the first century BC. 14 Although nowhere near the numbers at the height of their power in the fifth century, the Athenian fleet was still among the most formidable in the Aegean. See Sinclair (above, n. 1) 49-51 for calculations on the size of the fleet, although I disagree with his conclusions concerning the amount of naval activity in which the Athenians were engaged at this period. P. de Souza argues that the suppression of piracy was neither a motivating factor in nor a function of the formation and actions of the Athenian Empire in the fifth century. He notes that inscriptions provide evidence of continuing pirate depredation, and that piracy actually increased in the later fifth century, probably as a result of the Spartans encouraging raids on Athenian interests. He further observes that piracy and/or raiding, subsumed under the heading leisteia, was often a part of warfare in the fourth century, and that there were several generals accused of acting like pirates. But surely the alliances formed by Thrasyboulos would have decreased such acts against allied states, which in turn would have encouraged an increase in trade in those poleis. Moreover, there is evidence that piracy was also occurring independently of reprisals or raids taking place as a part of ongoing disputes between poleis. The more peaceful the Aegean became, through the institution of alliances such as those formed by Thrasyboulos, the more conspicuous such independent opportunists would have become, and the overall amount of raiding and piracy would have decreased. See de Souza, Piracy in the Graeco-Roman world (1999) 17-36.

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But the most important thing to note about the five percent tax is that Thucydides expressly places it in opposition to tribute.15 Therefore we should not regard the five percent tax as just another way of collecting tribute, qua tribute, from the poleis of the empire. The significance of this distinction should not be missed, as the collection of the phoros was the most despised aspect of the fifth century Empire. In the Athenian mind, at least, the five percent tax and the phoros were distinctly different things.

5. Autonomia During the expedition of Thrasyboulos, dated by Cawkwell to 391/0, alliances had been concluded with various poleis of the North Aegean and Ionian coasts: Thasos, Samothrace, Byzantium, Chalkedon, Abydos(?), Mytilene, Methymna, Eresus, Antissa, Chios, Halicarnassus, and Aspendus.16 In several of these places, the five percent tax was reinstated. The Peace of Antalkidas, some four years after Thrasyboulos’ expedition, however, declared that most of the cities he had “incorporated” should be autonomous. But what did “autonomous” mean? Sealey has demonstrated that without specific context, “autonomous” had become an increasingly vague term, subject to various interpretations based upon the specific circumstances.17 So we must now ask the question, would the Peace of Antalkidas, with its equivocal promises of autonomy, have superseded the individual arrangements previously made by Thrasyboulos? The answer would seem to be no. There is evidence demonstrating that autonomy, in the political sense, did not necessarily mean freedom from tribute. The guarantee of autonomy to the Aiginetans in the treaty of 446/5, for example, did not provide an exemption from tribute pay-

7.28.4; cf. n. 12 above. Cf. Cawkwell (above, n. 2) 270 and n. 4. 17 R. Sealey, History of the Greek city-states ca. 700-338 BC (1976) 397. For an interpretation of the term as used by Xenophon, see D. Musti, “Il tema dell’ autonomia nelle Elleniche di Senofonte”, RFIC 128 (2000) 170-181. 15 16

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ments as well,18 and the autonomy promised to the six poleis of the Chalkidike won over by Brasidas in the Peace of Nikias was guaranteed only so long as the cities paid tribute on the “Aristidean scale”.19 The changes that the Peloponnesian War wrought in the sphere of Greek politics do not seem to have altered this viewpoint materially; in 395 Tithraustes proposed that the Greek cities of Asia Minor should be autonomous but pay tribute on the scale fixed by Artaphernes after the Ionian revolt.20 Moreover, the decree of Aristoteles guaranteed that the member states should be “free and autonomous”, and that they should be free of tribute (phoros). Yet, as Cargill points out, maintenance of the League’s navy required some funds, and as a result the allies were expected to contribute funds to the League treasury (syntaxis). While it has been suggested that the syntaxeis collected from the allies differed from the phoros in name only,21 it seems unlikely that states debating whether or not to join the League would have been either fooled or satisfied by a simple change in terminology.22 Thus the inference must be that, at least at the beginning of the Second Athenian League, the syntaxeis contributed by the allied states were not regarded in the same light as the phoros imposed by the Athenians on their allies in the fifth century, and that the collection of syntaxeis was not considered an infringement upon the autonomy of the members of the League. This evidence has, of course, long been noted. Ryder, for example, has defined an autonomous city as “one where the people were governed according to their own laws and not according to any dictated from elsewhere”.23 This definition, notably, does not include any references to tribute or tax. Therefore, Ryder claims “these stipulations [of tribute] may perhaps be regarded as conscious exceptions to what was felt to be the rule or alternatively may reflect a ‘compromise’ view that payment at a fixed rate, freely agreed, was compatible with autonomy, but when the

Thuc. 1.67.2; ATL II, lists 10, 12-15, 22. Thuc. 5.18.5. 20 Xen. Hell. 3.4.25. See also T.T.B. Ryder, Koine Eirene (1965) 22. 21 See, for example, Tod (above, n. 3) 123 and commentary, for an example of this position. Cargill gives a more extensive list of sources; see his The Second Athenian League (1981) 124 n. 27. 22 Here I agree with Cargill, among others. See Cargill (above, n. 21) 124 ff. 23 Ryder (above, n. 20) 20. 18 19

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rate was arbitrarily raised by the collecting city ... it became an infringement of autonomy”.24 According to this definition, the autonomy guaranteed by the Peace of Antalkidas would not have interfered with the alliances made by Thrasyboulos four years earlier. But did the Athenians regard this as being the case? Xenophon claims that the reason the Athenians rejected the first peace offered by the Persian King in 392 was due to the fact that their claims to Lemnos, Imbros, and Skyros were not recognized.25 When this was rectified in the Peace of 387/6, the Athenians agreed to the pact. Notably absent from Xenophon’s account is reference to any stipulations the Athenians made concerning the arrangements Thrasyboulos had made in the Aegean in the meantime. Either the Athenians were so desperate for peace that they gave up without a murmur the alliances that Thrasyboulos had made, or they did not think that the Peace of Antalkidas and the previous alliances were inherently at odds. The history of previous alliances from the fifth century and the evidence from the fourth century suggests that the Athenians, at least, would not have believed that the Peace of Antalkidas and the alliances of Thrasyboulos were mutually exclusive. Futhermore, it seems as though the Athenian allies may not have thought so either; it would surely be a marked shift in political thought if the cities brought into alliance by Thrasyboulos regarded the payment of the five percent tax as an infringement upon their autonomy in the mid-380s, but within ten years had decided that the syntaxis was not.26

6. Conclusions Having examined all the different aspects of the circumstances surrounding the Hebryzelmis document, we may now draw some conclusions. The evidence, such as it is, does not incontrovertibly support the

Ryder (above, n. 20) 22. Hell. 4.8.15. 26 Several states brought into alliance by Thrasyboulos are also listed on the stele with the decree of Aristoteles, most notably Mytilene, Methymna, and Chios. 24 25

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reconstruction of events proposed by Sinclair. There is no solid indication that Hebryzelmis ascended to the Odrysian throne just before the decree of the Athenians was passed, and indeed the wording of the clause at Tod, GHI 117 lines 5–9 §[p]ain°sai m¢n ÑEb[rÊze]l`m`[i]n tÚn ba[s]il°a tÚn ÉOdrus«n, ˜t[i §st]‹[n] énØ[r égay]Úw [p]er‹ tÚn d∞mon tÚ[n ÉAyh]na¤vn, [ka]‹ e‰nai aÈt«i ëper to›w p[rogÒ]noi[w] ëpa[n]t[a] could be seen to support an earlier accession date. If this is true, Hebryzelmis would have no discernable need to send envoys to Athens to seek recognition of his kingship, and we must search for another reason. We have also seen that the imposition of monetary payments upon allied poleis was not necessarily considered an infringement of political autonomy. Several instances from Athens in the fifth century, such as that of Aigina, demonstrate that political independence was not reliant upon a lack of financial obligations to Athens. Furthermore, it has been shown that the five percent tax was, in the Athenian mind, expressly different from the payment of tribute. This distinction is further supported by the Klazomenian Decree, which gives assurances to the Klazomenians that the Athenians will not install a governor or garrison, nor will they exact tribute, but the Klazomenians are required to pay the five percent tax.27 If the payment of the tax was not a violation of the autonomy of a polis, then its collection could not be seen to be a contravention of the terms of the Peace of Antalkidas. The purpose of the Athenian ships mentioned in the Hebryzelmis decree should now become clear. It is likely that these were not grain ships, but rather ships sent to collect the revenues from the five percent tax owed to the Athenians under the arrangements made by Thrasyboulos in 391/0.28 This explanation has the added benefit of elucidating the reasons why Hebryzelmis and the Athenians were engaged

Tod (above, n. 3) 114. That the Peace of Antalkidas probably nullified this agreement with its specific reference to Klazomenai as a possession of the Persian King is irrelevant; the stipulations of the document show that the payment of the five percent tax was a) inherently different from the payment of tribute and b) not considered an infringement upon the autonomy of a polis. 28 Dispatching a squadron of ships to collect monetary payments was a fairly regular practice under the Athenian empire; cf. H.B. Mattingly, The Athenian Empire restored: Epigraphic and historical studies (1996) 507. 27

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in a diplomatic discussion concerning those same ships. It is possible that Hebryzelmis, noting the conclusion of the Peace of Antalkidas in the previous year, believed that the collection of the five percent tax would cease.29 When, the very next year, he was confronted with an Athenian squadron sailing in the north Aegean, he may very well have desired an explanation for their presence in the region, particularly if his diplomatic position was as tenuous as has been hypothesized.

7. A further note Xenophon reports that during his negotiations with Seuthes, he received a messenger from Seuthes by the name of ÉAbroz°lmhw.30 The similarity between the messenger’s name and the name of the Odrysian king in the inscription discussed above has led some scholars to hypothesize that the two are actually one and the same.31 Seuthes’ messenger was likely a notable Thracian, as obviously Hebryzelmis was himself, but other than the similarity of the names and the position in society there is little to link Xenophon’s Thracian messenger with the king from our inscription. If, however, the envoy from Xenophon’s narrative is indeed the same person as the Odrysian king, the connection implicit between Hebryzelmis and Seuthes should make us more skeptical of internal troubles, such as those postulated by Sinclair, in the Thracian kingdoms. This is not to state that Hebryzelmis and Seuthes would not possibly have had rivalries or differences; but certainly a past connection between the two should have made the Athenians suspicious of Hebryzelmis’ policies upon his accession. If we accept an early date for the beginning of Hebryzelmis’ reign, this could help to explain why the Athenians are granting him recognition some four years later—for he would have had to have been on the Odrysian throne long enough to display a lack of aggression towards Athenian interests in Thrace in order to allay any suspicions the Athenians had regarding his policies. His actions need not 29 Note, for example, the analogous arguments by the editors of ATL concerning the missing tribute list and the Peace of Kallias. 30 Xen. Anab. 7.6.43. 31 Cf. Tod (above n. 3) 49-50. The aspiration of the name of the king in the decree was proposed by Lolling.

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have included any overt hostilities towards Seuthes; a simple disinclination to upset the status quo might have been enough. Moreover, this may help to explain why there are notable omissions in the honors granted Hebryzelmis; most significantly, he was not granted Athenian citizenship as some of his predecessors had been.32 The tone of the inscription, “full of commendation and goodwill but little else”,33 may be due to Hebryzelmis’ connection with Seuthes—although the Athenians are commending him for his loyalty to their interests in the region, they may be withholding greater honors until they could see which way Hebryzelmis’ long-term policies would tend. With the accession of Kotys ca. 383, however, the issue would become moot.34 Brooklyn College

Danielle Kellogg

32 Archibald (above, n. 4) 219. Archibald may go too far in stating that Hebryzelmis “received none of the privileges bestowed on other Thracian kings”, particularly since the inscription states that Hebryzelmis is to have all of the privileges of his ancestors. I am skeptical that this blanket provision would extend to something as important as the Athenian citizenship, but certainly there must be a position between all and nothing! 33 Sinclair (above, n. 1) 48. 34 I would like to thank Eric Kondratieff and Christopher Baron for reading previous drafts of this paper, and especially Michael Flower and Jeremy McInerney for their insight and advice. All errors remain my own.

I N DE FENSE OF HELLAS The Antigonid Soteria and Paneia at Delos and the Aetolian Soteria at Delphi In 245 the Macedonian king Antigonus II Gonatas established new Soteria and Paneia vase festivals at Delos. He deposited monies with the Delian fleropoio¤ of Apollo’s treasury, the accrued interest of which paid for annual dedications of vases to “Savior Deities” and to Pan, patron god of the Antigonids. Scholars have maintained that the Delian Soteria and Paneia were commemorations of Gonatas’ naval victory over a Ptolemaic fleet, and therefore a chapter in on-going AntigonidPtolemaic struggles for Cycladic hegemony. But the epigraphical evidence for these festivals is meager.1 Indeed, as Elias Bikerman observed long ago, Delian vase festivals in this period were commonplace, the Antigonid foundations do not seem to have been elaborate, and the available inscriptions do not explicitly mention a specific military vicIDelos 298 A85-86; 320 B32-33, 61 (Soteria); IDelos 298 A87-88; 313a 6869 (Paneia), with Bruneau 1970, 558-564. Soteria named explicitly: IDelos 320 B32, 61; supplement: IDelos 298 A85, with Tarn 1913, 380 n. 33, and Dürrbach’s commentary at IDelos 298 A83-88 (p. 50). Paneia named explicitly: IDelos 313a 68-69; supplement: IDelos 298 A87; Bruneau 1970, 558-559 for later attestations. See Bringmann and von Steuben 1995, 203-204 (no. 142), for a catalogue of Antigonid vase-celebration foundations. Earlier versions of this paper were presented as part of the joint AIA/APA panel “Epigraphy Across Cultures”, Philadelphia, PA, 4 January 2002, and at the First International Conference on European History: Ancient to Modern, Athens Institute for Education and Research, Athens, Greece, 29 December 2003. I wish to thank John P. Karras, John D. Morgan, and Gary Reger, who generously read and commented on earlier drafts, and the anonymous readers of the journal for their helpful suggestions. Any remaining faults are of course my own. All dates are BC. 1

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tory.2 Consequently, the view of Gonatas’ Delian festivals as propaganda directed against the Ptolemies does not rest upon firm foundations, and the exiguous evidence demands that we keep the question open-ended, allowing for alternative interpretations. Twenty-five years ago Édouard Will offered such an alternative interpretation, proposing that Gonatas’ Delian Soteria and Paneia commemorated the king’s victory over Galatians at Lysimacheia in the Thracian Chersonese in late 278 or early 277.3 In his view, Gonatas’ Delian vase festivals responded to the recent Aetolian reorganization of the Soteria at Delphi, celebrating the Aetolian repulse of a Galatian incursion from Apollo’s sanctuary in 279. But Will (1979, 323; cf. 108-109) left the idea as a mere suggestion without full argumentation, and to the best of my knowledge it has lain dormant ever since. This article does not pretend that the scant epigraphical evidence for Gonatas’ Delian vase festivals permits any historical reconstruction to rise above the level of conjecture. But it does maintain that scholarly work done since Will issued his challenge to the standard interpretation of the Antigonid Soteria and Paneia, in particular studies in the politics of culture in ancient Greece and advances in the relative chronology of Gonatas’ Delian vase festivals and the reorganized Aetolian Soteria at Delphi, allows us to expand upon and lend force to Will’s reconstruction. Section I summarizes the traditional interpretation of Gonatas’ Delian vase festivals as celebrations of naval victory over a Ptolemaic fleet at Andros, stressing that the connection of the festivals and the battle rests on insecure foundations. Section II argues that as commemorations of victory over Galatian barbarian hordes both Gonatas’ Delian festivals and the new Aetolian Soteria would have participated in commonplace propaganda through which third-century Hellenistic powers laid claims to Hellenic identity. Moreover, there is evidence that both the traditions on the Aetolian heroics at Delphi and Gonatas’ exploits at Lysimacheia played upon the Hellenic gods’ assistance, and this theme 2 Bikerman 1938, 374-375 (twenty-six vase celebration foundations in 207); 376 and nn. 5-6 (“celles-ci ne mentionnaient aucune victoire”); but on this last point, cf. Hammond and Walbank 1988, 593, “This emphasis on Gonatas’ patron deity and gods who bring salvation is surely best explained as commemorating some important event”. 3 See Nachtergael 1977, 167 and n. 191 for discussion of the date of Lysimacheia; on the site, see Walbank 1967, 478.

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finds its place in the context of an established propagandistic topos of divine interventions on behalf of Greeks against barbarians. Section III examines the chronological relationship between the Antigonid Delian festivals and the reorganized Aetolian Soteria at Delphi. Gonatas’ Delian foundations clearly followed but also fell hard on the heels of the Aetolians’ announcement of their reorganized Soteria. The close temporal proximity of the Delian and Delphian establishments is likely to have been more than coincidental, and understanding Gonatas’ Delian festivals as reactions to the Aetolian Soteria explains why the king would have commemorated Lysimacheia at this time, more than thirty years after the event. Section IV reconstructs interpretative historical contexts for reading Gonatas’ Delian vase festivals as responses to the Aetolian Soteria, arguing that while Gonatas’ Delian Soteria and Paneia may well have proclaimed the elimination of Ptolemaic hegemony in the Cyclades, they also may have served other symbolical political purposes in relation to the Aetolian koinon.

I. The Antigonid Delian vase festivals and the battle at Andros Antigonid and Ptolemaic struggles for influence in the Cyclades had a long history. Antigonus I Monophthalmus and his son Demetrius I Poliorcetes controlled the islands from about 314 through the Nesiotic League. Sometime in the early 280s Ptolemy I Soter seized control of the League, and the Ptolemies maintained a visible naval presence in the central Aegean until the end of the Chremonidean War.4 But Antigonus Gonatas dedicated a portico at Delos on the northern bounds of the flerÒn, perhaps commemorating his victory over a Ptolemaic fleet off Leucolla in Cos, which scholars have dated to ca. 261 or ca. 255.5 Ptolemy II Philadelphus reasserted a waning Egyptian presence in 253 at the conclusion of the Second Syrian War, although Ptolemaic influence in the islands was now more apparent than real: there are no attested 4 See Syll.3 390; IG xii.7.506 (Nikouria decree), lines 28, 48-49 for the Nesiotic League’s honors to Ptolemy I Soter for his assistance in expelling Demetrius I Poliorcetes. 5 IG xi.4.1095 (largely restored), with Hammond and Walbank 1988, 292; on the date of Cos, see Buraselis 1982, 141-144, 146-151, 162 (ca. 255); Reger 1985 (1993), arguing for ca. 261; cf. Hammond and Walbank 1988, 595-599.

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Ptolemaic nesiarkhoi or other officials in the Cyclades known from earlier periods.6 Around this time Gonatas established rival Antigonid festivals on Delos, the Antigoneia and Stratonicea (IG xi.2.287B, lines 124-125). New Ptolemaieia festivals, however, were established on Delos in 249 and 246, following a Ptolemaic naval victory over Gonatas, sometime around 250.7 From the Diadochi to the mid-third century, then, the Cycladic islands were a site of contention between Antigonids and Ptolemies. In light of events in the Cyclades in the first half of the third century, it is no surprise that scholars have suggested that Gonatas’ Delian Soteria and Paneia represent Antigonid celebration of Cycladic liberation from Ptolemaic control in the aftermath of the naval battle at Andros, the date for which of 246 or 245 seems to be gaining scholarly acceptance.8 But scholarly arguments for linking the vase celebrations and Antigonus’ victory at Andros, it must be said, have been circular. On the one hand, it is assumed that the festivals must celebrate a resounding Antigonid victory, with Andros being the most likely candidate; on the other hand, the foundation of the vase festivals can be securely dated, so that by linking the celebrations with Andros we gain a fixed date for that mysterious battle.9 The connection between the Soteria and Paneia festivals and Andros is therefore tenuous, and the evidence does not foreclose alter6 After 250 the Ptolemaic garrison at Thera continued, on which see Bagnall 1976, 123-134. For a prosopographical study of the exiguous evidence for Ptolemaic officials and the Nesiotic League, see Merker 1970; cf. Hazzard 2000, 168-175. 7 Ps.-Aristeas 180; Joseph. AJ 12.93, with Buraselis 1982, 170-171; Second and Third Ptolemaieia: Bruneau 1970, 519-525, and 516-531 for Ptolemaic benefactions at Delos. Upon his accession in 246, Ptolemy III Euergetes I claimed the Cyclades as an hereditary Ptolemaic domain: OGIS 54, lines 7-8 (Adulis inscription); cf. Theoc. Id. 17.85-92. 8 Cf. Reger 1994b, 44-45, “[I]t is virtually certain that the Soteria and Paneia founded in 245 BC by Gonatas commemorated his victory over the Egyptian fleet at Andros”; and Hammond and Walbank 1988, 599-600; Reger 1994b, 46 n. 56 for bibliography on Andros. 9 The ancient sources for Andros are Plut. Pel. 2.4; and perhaps Plut. Mor. 183c; Trog. Prol. 27; P.Haun 6, with Hammond and Walbank 1988, 587-595. On the vase festivals as criteria for dating the battle at Andros, see Buraselis 1982, 144, “Dass die Soteria und die Paneia von 245 in einem direkten Zusammenhang mit dem Androssieg ihres Gründers stehen, ist bisher mehrmals angenommen worden, wobei aber die Datierung der Androsschlacht ebenfalls eine Annahme

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native historical interpretations of the political import of Gonatas’ Delian establishments.

II. Antigonus Gonatas, Greek cultural politics, and the Galatians As is well known, both the Macedonian monarchy and the Aetolian koinon labored to gain Hellenic cultural identities and acceptance as part of the civilized Greek world.10 Preservation of Greece from barbarian invasion was perhaps the most dramatic of all possible political claims to Hellenic cultural legitimacy. Indeed, commemoration of Greek victories over Galatian barbarians was something of a propagandistic commonplace among Greek states in the third century. Between 276 and 268 Antiochus I defeated a Galatian force in western Asia Minor at the “Battle of the Elephants”, and the Seleucid king first assumed the title Soter after this victory.11 Ptolemy II Philadelphus put down four thousand mutinous Galatian mercenaries ca. 275, memorializing the victory by dedicating Galatian shields in a celebration of the Alexandrian Ptolemaieia, and in his Hymn to Delos Callimachus compared Philadelphus’ exploit with the battle of gods and giants and Apollo’s recent triumph over Galatians at Delphi.12 Pyrrhus of Epirus employed Galatian mercenaries in an attack on Gonatas, whose army also included a Galatian mercenary force. After success in this minor battle, Pyrrhus glorified his exploit over Galatians by dedicating the barbarians’ shields, crowned by an elegiac couplet relaying his heroics, in the temple of Athena Itonis in Thessaly.13 These commemorations of victories over Galatians constitute an important historical context for interbildete”. (emphasis original); cf. 145, “Mehr als eine Hypothese kann dies aber nicht sein”. 10 For Macedonia, see Borza 1982, 1996, and 1999; Badian 1982 and 1994; Hall 2001; for Aetolia, Antonetti 1990; Champion 1995. 11 App. Syr. 65; cf. Lucian, Zeuxis, 9-12; Simonides of Magnesia, FGrH 163 T 1. For proposed dates for the battle, see Nachtergael 1977, 166 n. 188. 12 Paus. 1.7.2; Callim. Hymn. 4.171-188 and Schol. 4.175-187 Pfeiffer, with Nachtergael 1977, 184-191. 13 Plut. Pyrrh. 26.2-5; Diod. 22.11; Paus. 1.13.2-3, with Launey 1949, 499501. Following the Aous battle, Pyrrhus’ restive Galatian mercenaries broke into the royal tombs at Aegae and dug up graves in search of treasure with impunity

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preting the symbolical dimensions of Gonatas’ Delian vase festivals (cf. Nachtergael 1977, 175-205). Concerning Gonatas as Hellenic conqueror of Galatian barbarians, an Athenian decree dated to 277-276 may provide epigraphical testimony for Lysimacheia. It makes provision for Athenian commemoration (ÍpomnÆmata) of deeds against barbaroi for the salvation of the Greeks. The grammatical construction in lines 4-5 has a perfect passive participle as substantival objective genitive, but the stone is effaced, obliterating the identity of the benefactor. Koehler restored t«i basile› (that is, King Antigonus Gonatas) as dative of agent. His supplement is attractive because of the decree’s temporal proximity to the battle at Lysimacheia and the fact that a Salaminian honorific decree reveals that its proposer, Heraclitus of Athmonon, had acted as Gonatas’ agent, and indeed had been appointed by the king as garrison commander of the Piraeus. But of course historical reconstruction cannot rest upon editorial supplement.14 In any event, Diogenes Laertius preserves a motion of an Eretrian decree, proposed by Menedemus shortly after Lysimacheia and most likely copied by Antigonus of Carystus sometime around 270, in honor of the king for his great victory over the Galatians. In light of the widespread and sustained propaganda of other Hellenistic powers in this period, it is reasonable to think that the Delian Soteria and Paneia (Plut. Pyrrh. 26.6-7; Diod. 22.12). Like other Hellenistic rulers, Gonatas employed Galatian mercenaries. For example, he hired Galatians to beat down Cassander’s nephew Antipater (Polyaen. Strateg. 4.6.17), Galatians comprised part of his garrison at Acrocorinth (Plut. Arat. 38.6), and he garrisoned Megara with an unruly Galatian contingent, which in the end he annihilated (Trog. Prol. 26, defectores Gallos Megaris delevit). But the actions of both Ptolemy II Philadelphus and Pyrrhus of Epirus demonstrate that Hellenistic rulers could simultaneously employ Galatians as mercenaries and celebrate victories over them as barbarians without compunction. 14 Syll.3 401; IG ii/iii2.677; Chaniotis 1988, 301 (E8), lines 3-6, énat|¤yhsin t∞i ÉAyhnçi t∞i [N¤khi graf]åw §xoÊsaw Íp|omnÆmata t«n [t«i basile› p]epragm°nvn prÚw to|Áw barbãrouw Íp¢r t∞w t«n ÉEllÆnvn svthr¤aw. See lines 9-10 for Heraclitus as sponsor of the dedications, and Syll.3 454; IG ii/iii2.1225; Bielman 1994, 100-104 (no. 25), lines 7-9 for Heraclitus’ jurisdiction, kayesthkΔw ÍpÚ t|[o]Ë basil°vw strathgÚw §p‹ toË Perai°vw ka‹ t«n êllvn t«n | tattom°nvn; cf. D.L. 4.39; Plut. Arat. 34.2. For a salutary warning against “history from square brackets”, see Badian 1989, with illustrations concerning the history of Philip II and Alexander III.

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may have perpetuated the celebration of Gonatas as Hellenic vanquisher of Galatian barbarians.15 The reorganized Aetolian Soteria at Delphi must have formed an important part of the contemporaneous international political context for Antigonus Gonatas’ Delian Soteria and Paneia (see Section III below on the close temporal proximity of the inauguration of the festivals). The Aetolian proclamation for the new festival was a clear statement to the Greek world of mastery of the Amphictyony, but it was also an attempt to win Panhellenic recognition as Hellenic champions.16 And divine intervention plays an important role in both the earliest epigraphical record and in the literary tradition concerning the Galatian incursion at Delphi. A Coan decree of 278 records an epiphany of Apollo, and a later Smyrnaean acceptance decree for the reorganized Aetolian Soteria, in recording an epiphany of deities, preserves a trace of a diplomatic tradition which featured divine intervention on behalf of the Greeks. Pausanias’ account of the events at Delphi in 279 includes Apollo assuring the Delphians and warning the barbarians, an epiphany of heroes, and a heaven-sent madness, with the terror said to have issued from Pan himself, leading the Galatians to self-annihilation. Finally, Justin’s epitome of Pompeius Trogus has an epiphany of Apollo, aided in the defense of his sanctuary by Athena and Artemis.17

15 D.L. 2.141-142, with Knoepfler 2001, 390-394. For an overview of Galatians as quintessential barbaroi in this period, see Mitchell 2003. 16 Syll.3 408; IG ii/iii2.680 (Athens); Syll.3 402; IG ix.12 194b; FD iii.3.215 (Chios), with the improvements of Robert 1933, 535-537; IG xii suppl. 309; FD iii.1.482 (Tenos); FD iii.1.481 (Cyclades); FD iii.1.483; Petzl, ISmyrna 574 (Smyrna); Delph. Inv. 6377, 2827 (Abdera); Delph. Inv. 6203 (unknown origin). Nachtergael 1977, 435-447 conveniently assembles the acceptance decrees as Actes, 21-27. For the Aetolian propaganda, see Segrè 1927, 34-42; Champion 1995; SEG 45.468, anticipated by Tarn 1913, 439-442. 17 Syll.3 398; Nachtergael 1977, 401-403 (Actes, 1); Cortés Copete 1999, 337340, lines 16-18 (Cos), with Sherwin-White 1978, 107-108; FD iii.1.483; Petzl, ISmyrna 574, lines 4-6 (Smyrna); for the date, see Elwyn 1990, anticipated by Ferguson 1932, 128-131. Paus. 10.23.1-10; Just. Epit. 24.7.6, 8.3-7, with Bearzot 1989; cf. Cic. Div. 1.37.81. Flacelière 1937, 103 n. 2 suggests that the cult of Pan at Delphi may have been connected with these events. The principal literary sources for the Galatian invasion are Diod. 22.3-5; Just. Epit. 24.4-8; Paus. 1.4.14; 10.19.5-23.14.

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Thanksgiving to the gods and to Pan in particular is self-evident in the names of Gonatas’ Delian establishments. Some scholars have seen Gonatas’ silver tetradrachms with Pan on the obverse as allusions to Lysimacheia, and hence as evidence for the god’s assistance against the Galatians.18 Pan indeed possessed weighty credentials as an Hellenic deity who assisted Greeks in their struggles against barbaroi.19 And of course epiphanies of Hellenic deities in military contexts are characteristic of conflicts between Greeks and non-Greek barbarians in the ancient Greek historiographical tradition.20 In sum, although the association of the Delian Soteria and Paneia festivals and Lysimacheia is not susceptible of definitive proof, the following points make the connection See SNG iv, no. 2304, with Tomlinson 1984, 58; contra Pritchett 1979, 3234. Scholars have suggested that since Gonatas’ “Pan” bronze issues also carry marine symbolism, the king associated the god Pan with a naval victory over a Ptolemaic fleet, either at Cos or Andros; see Nachtergael 1977, 178 n. 231. Borgeaud 1988, 237 n. 138 notes that some of Gonatas’ coin issues show Pan upon a Macedonian shield, while others show the god before a trophy and nautical symbol. He concludes, “These coins surely commemorate two victories, one by land and one by sea, marked by Pan’s seal”. But it is noteworthy that the single battle of Lysimacheia, which on the evidence of Just. Epit. 25.2.6 involved Macedonian marines, could accommodate both of Gonatas’ “Pan” numismatic iconographies. 19 Pan at Marathon: Hdt. 6.105; cf. Lucian, Dial.D. 2.3.8; Bis acc. 9.12-10.13; Paus. 1.28.4; Suidas s.v. ÑIpp¤aw (545 Adler), Pan as Athenian sÊmmaxow. Pan in second Persian invasion: Paus. 1.36.1-2 (jÒana of Pan on Psyttaleia); A. Pers. 447-449; Suidas s.v. él¤plagktow (1241 Adler), Pan’s assistance at the battle at Salamis (S. Aj. 695 for the epithet); Strabo 9.1.21 (C398). For Pan’s cult in Athens, see Parker 1996, 163-168; Borgeaud 1988, 133-162; 243 n. 3 for Pan’s epiphanies. Although Pan’s first recorded epiphany in a military context occurs during the Persian Wars, the god also appears in conflicts involving Greek pitted against Greek; see Borgeaud 1988, 95-96 for examples. But it may be significant that, as Borgeaud 1988, 101 notes, Pan’s intervention among Greeks makes battle impossible (Phyle, Stratos, Megara, Apollonia), whereas when the god invades the defeated following a battle, it is among vanquished barbarians (Persians, Galatians). 20 See, for example, Plut. Thes. 35 (Theseus); Xen. Anab. 3.2.11-13 (Artemis Agrotera); Paus. 1.15.3-4 (Athena and the heroes Theseus, Heracles, Marathon, and Echetlus in Stoa Poikile); Hdt. 7.189 (Boreas); 7.192-193 (Poseid°vnow Svt∞row §pvnum¤hn). Pritchett 1979, 19-39 assembles further examples (several of which, admittedly, concern conflicts among Greek states); 30-34 for divine assistance against Galatians. 18

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attractive: the names of the Delian vase festivals suggest thanksgiving for divine assistance (with the Soteria being homonymous with the Aetolian celebration of victory over barbarian Galatians); divine intervention was indeed central to the legends, in which Pan figured, concerning the Galatians at Delphi in 279; and thanksgiving for divine assistance against non-Greek barbarians was a well-established tradition going back to the fifth century. But why would Gonatas have chosen to institute celebrations of Lysimacheia at Delos more than thirty years after the event?

III. Relative chronology of the Antigonid and Aetolian festivals IDelos 298 A85-86 and A86-88 establish a reasonably certain date for the inauguration of Gonatas’ Delian Soteria and Paneia vase festivals. The first of these entries lists vases (phialai) having the inscription “King Antigonus, son of King Demetrius of the Macedonians, to the Savior Gods, under the [Delian] archonship of Xenocrates”, followed by the names of four other archons.21 IDelos 298 A86-88 has the same inscription, but with the dedication to the god Pan. In this entry the name of the Delian archon Xenocrates is completely intact.22 Since Xenocrates appears first in the lists of Delian archons, the first vases were dedicated in his archon year, Hecatombaion 244.23 Concerning the time of year of the inauguration, the sailing season determines rough chronological boundaries. Gonatas or proxy would accordingly have visited the island between early March and early November 245, with more likely termini

21 IDelos 298 A85-86: [êllaw fiãlaw] §pigrafØn §xoÊsaw: BASILEUS ANTIGONOS BASILEUS DHM[HTRIOU MAKEDVN YEOIS SVTHRSI §p'] êrxontow Jeno[krã|touw] ktl. For the near certainty of the supplement YEOIS SVTHRSI, see Tarn 1913, 380 n. 33. 22 IDelos 298 A86-87: êllaw fiãlaw §pigrafØn §xoÊ]saw: BASI[L]EUS AN[TI]|[GONOS BASILE]US DHMHTRIOU M[AKEDVN PANI, §p' êr]xontow Jenokrãtouw ktl. Entries IDelos 320 B32-33 (Soteria) and 313a68-69 (Paneia) are more complete and assure the restorations. 23 On the chronology of Delian archons, see Dürrbach 1916, esp. 300-308; and table for IDelos nos. 372-509 (p. 333) for Xenocrates’ archonship. Antigonid Delian festivals in Hecatombaion: IDelos 338A a24, 41, with Bruneau 1970, 562.

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of late May to mid-September.24 But much greater chronological precision is possible, since a full year’s interest on monies deposited paid for the celebrations. It is conceivable that Gonatas simply paid for a first celebration of the festivals in 245, but there are no recorded phialai for such a celebration; and organizing the festivals must have required time and planning. The inauguration date of Gonatas’ Delian Soteria and Paneia therefore most likely occurred sometime between the opening of the sailing season (early March at the earliest; more likely after late May) and the Delian month of their first celebration, Hecatombaion, 244; that is, June/July 245. The Aetolian Soteria’s announcement revolves around the dating of the Athenian archon Polyeuctus.25 It is linked to Polyeuctus’ archonship because in his year the Athenians accepted an Aetolian invitation to participate in the expanded and reorganized festival (Syll.3 408; IG ii2.680). The most recent research on Polyeuctus’ archonship has suggested either 250-249 or 247-246.26 This results in the initial proclamation of the reorganized Aetolian Soteria in spring 249 or spring 246.27 What is important for the present argument is the fact that on either dating scheme, the Aetolian announcement of the new Soteria festival at Delphi was a recent event, preceding Gonatas’ establishment of the Delian vase festi-

24 See Casson 1971, 270-273; Morton 2001, 255-265. To be sure, some lowlevel commercial maritime activity persisted throughout the year, as evidenced by the fifth-century Elephantine palimpsest, on which see Horden and Purcell 2000, 142-143, 149. But an official act of international political symbolism, such as that under discussion, would most certainly have conformed to the generally accepted termini of the sailing season. 25 For third-century Delphic chronology, see Lefèvre 1995, with extensive bibliography of earlier work at 161 n. 1. In that article Lefèvre opted for the date of 246-245 for the Athenian archonship of Polyeuctus, a date widely accepted at the time but now becoming increasingly unlikely; see the modifications at Lefèvre 1998a, 173-180 and following note. 26 See Knoepfler 1995; Lefèvre 1995; 1998a; 1998b, 239-240 and n. 346; Morgan 1998; Sánchez 2001, 306-309. For the epigraphical evidence from Delphi, see Nachtergael 1977, 475-483 (Actes, 58-68); new editions in F. Lefèvre, D. Laroche, and O. Masson (eds.), CID IV (2002), nos. 61, 67, 73, 75, 79, 84, 94 (non vidi). 27 Since the proclamation reached Athens in late April: Syll.3 408; IG ii/iii2.680, line 3, ÉElafhboli«now §nãtei met' efikãdaw = 22 Elaphebolion (regressive reckoning).

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vals. Even on the later possible date for Polyeuctus (247-246), as Knoepfler has suggested, the Aetolian announcement could have taken place in spring 246, and the first celebration of the Aetolian penteteric Soteria in summer 245.28 On this scheme, nearly a full year would have elapsed from the time of the Aetolian announcement and Gonatas’ foundation (Aetolian Delphian Soteria in spring 246; Antigonid Delian Soteria and Paneia in spring/summer 245). A relative chronology establishing the close temporal proximity of the Antigonid and Aetolian festivals and the priority of the Aetolian Soteria is therefore secure, lending support to the idea that Gonatas’ establishments in some sense responded to the Aetolian festival. And it is worth recalling in this context that the temporal relationship of Gonatas’ Delian vase festivals and the battle at Andros cannot be established with any certainty.

IV. Antigonus Gonatas and the Aetolian koinon The relationship between Gonatas’ predecessors and the Aetolian koinon was usually one of hostility.29 But Aetolia cooperated with Gonatas, as a counterweight to Lysimachus, sometime around 280.30 The traditional tensions, however, soon reappeared. For example, the Macedonian kings enjoyed official representation in the Amphictyonic assembly from the time of Philip II. Thessalians, with Macedonian support after 346, traditionally held the presidency of the Amphictyony (Diod. 16.59.4-60.1). But following the Galatian invasions, when Gonatas regained control in Thessaly, Aetolians assumed the Amphictyonic presidency and Thessalian representation soon disappeared from the council. Two Thessalian votes headed the list of 28 Knoepfler 1995, 158-159 believes the first celebration of the Aetolian penteteric Soteria occurred in 245, in order not to interfere with the Pythia of autumn 246. On his reconstruction, the important point for the present argument remains unaffected: the new Aetolian festival was announced while Polyeuctus was still in office, in April 246. Cf. Lefèvre 1998a, 174 n. 4. 29 See Mendels 1984; cf. Bosworth 1976, arguing that the origin of the enmity came in 338-337 when Philip II reneged on his promise of Naupactus to the Aetolians. 30 Cf. Just. Epit. 24.1.3: Aetolians as Gonatas’ socii; Beloch 1927 repr. 1967, 520-522; Flacelière 1937, 205-208; Scholten 2000, 83-93.

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Amphictyons in the Delphic archonship of Hieron (probably 279-278), and significantly Phocians, who themselves had played an important role against the Galatians, regained official representation in the council, apparently at Macedonia’s expense. And for the first time an Aetolian delegation of two members appears in the lists. In the list placed next, however, the Aetolian delegation, now increased to three members, appears first and the Thessalians have vanished.31 The disappearance of the Thessalian delegation may represent an Aetolian rebuff of an Antigonid satellite or a protest on Gonatas’ part against Aetolian ascendancy at Delphi.32 What is certain, however, is that the strengthened Aetolian delegation and Aetolia’s assumption of the presidency demonstrated the koinon’s newly-assumed primacy in the Delphic Amphictyony (See Lefèvre 1995, 170 and n. 36). Aetolian control of Apollo’s sanctuary at Delphi was thus most likely an on-going source of Macedonian discomfiture during Gonatas’ reign, but immediate and discrete historical events exacerbated MacedonianAetolian antagonisms as well. In 272-271 Aetolians received Elean refugees from the tyrant Aristotimos, and the Elean fugitives plotted the overthrow of this partisan of Gonatas.33 In the context of the Chremonidean War, Aetolia concluded an alliance with Athens, the leading state in the revolt, and somewhat later Aetolia chose to register acceptance of Ptolemy II Philadelphus’ request for recognition of the Alexandrian Ptolemaieia, proclaiming the divinity of Ptolemy I Soter. Gonatas could hardly have perceived these Aetolian actions as anything other than rude affronts to himself.34

31 Thessalian presidency and two Aetolian delegates: Syll.3 399; FD iii.2.68; Flacelière 1937, 386 (App. 1.1), lines 3-4, with Lefèvre 1995, 169; three Aetolian delegates without Thessalians: Syll.3 405; FD iii.1.87, lines 2-5. For the Phocian restoration, see Paus. 10.8.3; Syll.3 399; FD iii.2.68, line 5; Flacelière 1937, 113114. Cf. the appropriately cautious remarks at Scholten 2000, 39 and n. 32. 32 Beloch 1927 repr. 1967, 387-388 argued for the first; Tarn 1913, 214-215 for the second of these explanations. 33 Plut. Mor. 250f-253e; Just. Epit. 26.1.1-10; Paus. 5.5.1; 6.14.11, with Scholten 2000, 56 and nn. 88-89. 34 Treaty: IG ix2.1.176; SVA 3.470, with Knoepfler 1995, 150-152; cf. Lefèvre 1995, 176. Ptolemaieia: FD iii.4.357; Moretti ISE ii.75, with Bousquet 1958, 7782 and figs.11, 12; the date of acceptance hinges on that of the Delphic archon Pleiston, whom scholars have placed in 266-265 or 262-261; for 266-265, see

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Yet Aetolia apparently remained neutral during the Chremonidean War, regardless of the treaty concluded with Athens. Gonatas’ general policy seems to have been to turn a blind-eye to Aetolian expansion in return for Aetolian neutrality in conflicts involving Macedonia, with the northern border perhaps occupying the king’s attentions in his later years (cf. Will 1979, 322-323). Moreover, the late 250s and 240s seem to have witnessed a convergence of Aetolian and Antigonid interests. In this period their foremost common interest was most certainly containment of the rebellion at Corinth of Gonatas’ half-nephew Alexander, son of Craterus II.35 The last decade and a half or so of Gonatas’ reign, then, was a time of quietude in Antigonid-Aetolian relations. Gonatas’ relatively conciliatory and pacific approach to the Aetolian Confederation in this period, regardless of whether the two powers ever struck a formal alliance, would have done little to enhance Macedonia’s image in the larger Greek world.36 Gonatas’ conscious intentions in establishing the Delian vase festivals are of course beyond recovery, but the Delian Soteria and Paneia would seem to have possessed a symbolic multivalence vis-à-vis Aetolia. While they joined in the Aetolians’ celebration of Greek heroics against barbaroi, they also served to underscore Gonatas’ own exploits against Galatian invaders, commemorating the king’s distinctive achievement at Lysimacheia at a time when Aetolia was vaunting its legendary defense of Delphi. These historical consideraLefèvre 1998a, 182-183; for 262-261, Knoepfler 1995, 140 and n. 13, 149 and n. 69, 157, 159 (additional note); cf. Will 1979, 202-203, 230-231. Note also the grant of promanteia to the Alexandrians ca. 278: Syll.3 404. 35 Trog. Prol. 26; Plut. Arat. 17.1-18.1; Suidas s.v. EÈfor¤vn (3801 Adler); IG xii.9.212 (but cf. Billows 1993, arguing that the Eretrian honorific decree pertains to an officer of Alexander the Great, not of Alexander, son of Craterus II); IG ii2.774, lines 14-21; 1225; Syll.3 454, lines 11-15 for involvement of Athens and Argos in the war. On these events, see Urban 1979, 15-38; Will 1979, 316-318; Bielman 1994, 102-103. 36 For a formal alliance, see Polyb. 2.43.9-10, 45.1; 9.34.6, 38.9, with Scholten 2000, 93; cf. Flacelière 1937, 241; SVA 3.490. Philip V, Gonatas’ grandson, stated in an international forum that most Aetolians were not even Greeks (Polyb. 18.5.7-8; cf. Liv. 32.34.4-5), and in 201 on the Cycladic island of Paros he posed as an enemy of pirates, since an Aegean hegemon’s traditional duty was to police the sea, in an inscription recounting his sack of the Aetolian stronghold at Thermon (IG xii.5.125, with Reger 1994a, 24-25); for the image of Aetolians as pirates, see Antonetti 1990, 113-143; de Souza 1999, 73-76.

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tions furnish motivational contexts as to why, when the Aetolians chose to commemorate their heroics against Galatians at the site of Apollo’s venerable oracle, Gonatas may have chosen to celebrate his exploits against Galatians on the sacred island of the god’s mythical birthplace.

V. Conclusion Some ninety years ago, in the preface to his study of Antigonus Gonatas, William Woodthorpe Tarn observed, “one is often compelled to write, not what one would, but what one can”. In this article I have attempted to adhere to Tarn’s precept. The epigraphical evidence for Gonatas’ Delian Soteria and Paneia vase festivals is pitifully meager. Scholars have proposed Antigonid-Ptolemaic rivalries in the Cyclades in general and Gonatas’ naval victory over a Ptolemaic fleet at Andros in particular as the motivational contexts for the establishment of the Delian vase festivals. This study has not attempted to refute the communis opinio, but rather to show that the nature of the available evidence permits alternative and complementary interpretations of the significance of Gonatas’ Delian establishments in the international cultural politics of the mid-third century Hellenistic world. In 210 Acarnanian and Aetolian ambassadors arrived in Sparta. Lyciscus, the Acarnanian envoy, attempted to persuade the Spartans to join Philip V in his war against the Aetolian koinon. Chlaeneas, the Aetolian representative, implored the Spartans to join the Aetolians (and Romans) against Philip. After recounting Macedonian injustices to the Greeks, Chlaeneas turns to Aetolian benefactions to Hellas, stating that Aetolia stood alone against the Galatians and their leader Brennus (Polyb. 9.30.3). In reply Lyciscus counters with Macedonian benefactions to Greeks and Aetolian impieties. He belittles the Aetolian defense of Delphi against Galatians in 279, arguing that this was but a single service, whereas Macedonians had acted as a perennial bulwark against barbarian invasions, securing the safety of the Greeks (Polyb. 9.35.2-3, prÒfragma). These paired speeches in Polybius show that rival Macedonian and Aetolian claims of heroic resistance against Galatians in the early 270s were still hotly debated more than half a century after the events, and that echoes of them survived to the time of composition

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of Polybius’ Histories in the mid-second century. This paper has argued that the exiguous epigraphical evidence for Antigonus Gonatas’ Soteria and Paneia may well shed light upon the inception of that diplomatic polemic. Craige B. Champion

Syracuse University

BIBLIOGRAPHY The following works are cited in the notes in abbreviated form: C. Antonetti, Les Étoliens: Image et religion (1990). E. Badian, “Macedonians and Greeks”, in B. Barr-Sharrar and E.N. Borza (edd.), Macedonia and Greece in late Classical and early Hellenistic Times (1982) 33-51. ________, “History from square brackets”, ZPE 79 (1989) 59-70. ________, “Herodotus on Alexander I of Macedon: A study of some subtle silences”, in S. Hornblower (ed.), Greek historiography (1994) 107-130. R.S. Bagnall, The administration of Ptolemaic possessions outside Egypt (1976). C. Bearzot, “Fenomeni naturali e prodigi nell’Attacco Celtico a Delfi (279 a.C.)“, in M. Sordi (ed.), Fenomeni naturali e avvenimenti storici nell’antichità (1989) 71-86. K.J. Beloch, Griechische Geschichte, vol. 4, pt. 2, 2nd ed. (1927, repr. 1967). A. Bielman, Retour à liberté: Libération et sauvetage des prissoniers en Grèce ancienne (1994). E. Bikerman, “Sur les batailles navales de Cos et d’Andros”, REA 40 (1938) 369383. R.A. Billows, “IG XII 9.212: A Macedonian officer at Eretria”, ZPE 96 (1993) 249-257. Ph. Borgeaud, The Cult of Pan in ancient Greece, tr. K. Atlass and J. Redfield (1988). E.N. Borza, “Athenians, Macedonians, and the origins of the Macedonian royal house”, Hesperia Suppl. 19 (1982) 7-13. ________, “Greeks and Macedonians in the age of Alexander”, in R.W. Wallace and E.M. Harris (edd.), Transitions to empire: Essays in Greco-Roman history, 360-146 BC, in honor of E. Badian (1996) 122-139. ________, Before Alexander: Constructing early Macedonia (1999).

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A.B. Bosworth, “Early relations between Aetolia and Macedon”, AJAH 1 (1976) 164-181. J. Bousquet, “Inscriptions de Delphes”, BCH 82 (1958) 61-91. K. Bringmann and H. von Steuben, Schenkungen hellenistischer Herrscher an griechische Städte und Heligtümer. Teil I: Zeugnisse und Kommentaire (1995). Ph. Bruneau, Recherches sur les cultes de Délos à l’époque hellénistique et à l’époque impériale (1970). K. Buraselis, Das hellenistische Makedonien und die Ägäis. Forschungen zur Politik des Kassandros und der drei ersten Antigoniden im ägäischen Meer und in Westkleinasien (1982). L. Casson, Ships and seamanship in the ancient world (1971). C.B. Champion, “The Soteria at Delphi: Aetolian propaganda in the epigraphical record”, AJP 116 (1995) 213-220. A. Chaniotis, Historie und Historiker in den griechischen Inschriften: Epigraphische Beiträge zur griechischen Historiographie (1988). J.M. Cortés Copete (ed.), Epigrafía Griega (1999). Ph. de Souza, Piracy in the Graeco-Roman World (1999). F. Dürrbach, “Chronologie des archontes déliennes”, BCH 40 (1916) 298-352. S. Elwyn, “The recognition decrees for the Delphian Soteria and the date of Smyrna’s inviolability”, JHS 110 (1990) 177-180. W.S. Ferguson, Athenian tribal cycles in the Hellenistic age (1932). R. Flacelière, Les Aitoliens à Delphes (1937) J.M. Hall, “Contested ethnicities: Perceptions of Macedonia within evolving definitions of Greek identity”, in I. Malkin (ed.), Ancient perceptions of Greek ethnicity (2001) 159-186. N.G.L. Hammond and F.W. Walbank, A history of Macedonia, vol. 3 (1988). R.A. Hazzard, Imagination of a monarchy: Studies in Ptolemaic propaganda (2000). P. Horden and N. Purcell, The corrupting sea: A study of Mediterranean history (2000). D. Knoepfler, “Les rélations des cités eubéennes avec Antigone Gonatas et la chronologie delphique au debut de l’époque étolienne”, BCH 119 (1995) 137-159. ________, Décrets érétriens de proxénie et citoyenneté (2001). M. Launey, Recherches sur les armées hellénistiques, vol. 1 (1949). F. Lefèvre, “La chronologie du IIIe siècle à Delphes, d’après les actes amphictioniques”, BCH 119 (1995) 161-208. ________, “Chronologie attique et chronologie delphique: deux problèmes relatifs aux actes amphictioniques du IIIe siècle”, Topoi 8 (1998a) 173-185. ________, L’Amphictionie pyléo-delphique: histoire et institutions (1998b).

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D. Mendels, “Aetolia, 331-301: Frustration, political power, and survival”, Historia 33 (1984) 129-180. I.L. Merker, “The Ptolemaic officials and the League of the Islanders”, Historia 19 (1970) 141-160. S. Mitchell, “The Galatians: Representation and reality”, in A. Erskine (ed.), A Companion to the Hellenistic World (2003) 280-293. J.D. Morgan, “Polyeuctus, the Soteria, and the chronology of Athens and Delphi in the mid-third century BC”, AJA 102 (1998) 389. J. Morton, The Role of the Physical Environment in Ancient Greek Seafaring (2001). G. Nachtergael, Les Galates en Grèce et les Sôtéria de Delphes (1977). R. Parker, Athenian Religion: A History (1996). W.K. Pritchett, The Greek State at War, vol. 3 (1979). G. Reger, “The date of the battle of Kos”, AJAH 10 (1985) [1993] 155-177. ________, Regionalism and change in the economy of independent Delos (1994a). ________, 1994b. “The political history of the Cyclades 260-200 BC”, Historia 43 (1994b) 32-69. L. Robert, “Sur les inscriptions de Chios”, BCH 57 (1933) 505-543. P. Sánchez, L’Amphictionie des Pyles et de Delphes. Recherches sur son rôle historique, des origines au IIe siècle de notre ère (2001). J.B. Scholten, The politics of plunder: Aitolians and their koinon in the early Hellenistic era, 279-217 BC (2000). M. Segrè, “La più antica tradizione sull’invasione gallica in Macedonia e in Grecia (280-279 a.Cr.)”, in Historia. Studi storici per l’Antichità classica 1.4 (1927) 18-42. S.M. Sherwin-White, Ancient Cos: An historical study from the Dorian settlement to the Imperial period (1978). W.W. Tarn, Antigonus Gonatas (1913). R.A. Tomlinson, “Macedonia, Greece, and the Cyclades”, in R. Ling (ed.), Plates to CAH 72, pt. 1 (1984) 53-70. R. Urban, Wachstum und Krise des achäischen Bundes: Quellenstudien zur Entwicklung des Bundes von 280 bis 222 v.Chr. (1979). F.W. Walbank, A historical commentary on Polybius, vol. 2 (1967). Éd. Will, Histoire politique du monde hellénistique, vol. 1, 2nd ed. (1979).

INSIGNIA LU G ENTIUM Female Mourning Garments in Roman Antiquity1 It is odd that with so much interest in the Roman family and the life cycle, combined with the growing appeal of Roman costume, there should be so little written on formal mourning clothing.2 But costume is not a topic which has traditionally garnered much attention from social 1 This article is part of a larger study on the appearance of women in Roman antiquity. I am grateful for comments made on an earlier draft of this article by D. Lamari, C.L. Murison, and D.L. Wilson; and am very thankful to the readers at AJAH for their many useful comments and suggestions. 2 The scholarship on Roman clothing is slowly growing, especially with the publication of The world of Roman costume, edd. J.L. Sebesta and L. Bonfante (1994), which includes short articles on many aspects of Roman costume, including men’s and women’s clothing, jewelry, shoes, and clothing in literature. This must now necessarily be the starting place for any scholar of Roman clothing. As well, see A.T. Croom, Roman clothing and fashion (paperback edition, 2002); H.R. Goette, Studien zu römischen Togadarstellungen (1990); L. La Follette, “The costume of the Roman bride”, in Sebesta and Bonfante 1994, 54-64; K. Olson, “Matrona and whore: the clothing of Roman women”, Fashion Theory 6.4 (2002) 387-420, and “Roman underwear revisited”, CW 96.2 (2003) 201-210; R.E.A. Palmer, “Bullae insignia ingenuitatis”, AJAH 14 (1998) 1-69; B. Scholz, Untersuchungen zur Tracht der römischen matrona (1992); J.L. Sebesta, “Symbolism in the costume of the Roman woman”, in Sebesta and Bonfante 1994, 46-53 (= Sebesta 1994a); also her articles “Tunica ralla, tunica spissa: the colours and textiles of Roman costume”, in Sebesta and Bonfante 1994, 65-76 (= Sebesta 1994b); “Women's costume and feminine civic morality in Augustan Rome”, Gender and History 9.3 (1997) 529-541; and “The toga praetexta of children and praetextate garments”, in The clothed body in the ancient world, edd. L. Cleland, M. Harlow and L. Llewellyn-Jones (2005) 113-120; L.M. Wilson, The Roman toga (1924), and The clothing of the ancient Romans (1938).

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historians, and in addition the ancient evidence, whether artistic or literary, is scant. By way of illustration, in J.M.C. Toynbee’s Death and Burial in the Roman World, the standard work in English on death ritual, there is only one reference to mourning clothing. In the description of the funeral procession (pompa), we are told simply: From the following of the corpse to the place of its disposal by relatives, friends, and other invited persons (all wearing black lugubria) come the funerary terms exsequiae and prosequi…3

In the present study therefore I attempt a comprehensive collection and thorough examination of sources on female mourning garments in Roman antiquity. After a glance at method we will briefly examine comparative evidence concerning the psychology of mourning garments, that is, what mourning has meant to its wearer in other Western societies; and at the length of the mourning period in Roman antiquity, primarily in relation to women. Clothing color was of paramount importance in identifying the bereaved. Black or “dark” was the accepted shade of mourning in Roman antiquity, and several different words were used to designate such garments, whether of dyed or natural wool: pullus, ater, and niger, for example. We will then consider the types of garments and colors utilized for female mourning clothes; the practice of assuming sordes (sullied clothing) by both men and women, and how the omission of marks of status also indicated mourning. In addition I will examine the essential meaning of mourning clothing and how it was connected to the garments of the poor, and question whether the color black was acceptable as an upper-class non-mourning color. Finally, the study looks closely at the various types of Roman mantles usually designated as female “mourning clothing” by modern scholars and applies the findings to a famous art historical problem: the interpretation of the Ara Pacis frieze. I hope to prove in this study that the garments the women are wearing here do not designate them as widows but instead function in a religious or ritual sense.

3

J.M.C. Toynbee, Death and burial in the Roman world (1971) 46.

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This article is concerned mainly with women’s mourning, but reference to male mourning is given where appropriate or useful. Because the sources are more concerned with men generally, there is usually more evidence for male clothing: for example, descriptions of what it looked like, accounts of how it was worn, indications of certain infractions of normal dress. In this case, however, there is more evidence for female clothing, because women were more often in formal mourning (see below), and thus the mourning garments of women would likely have been especially visible at Rome.

I. Method The spatial and temporal parameters of this study have been restricted to the women of Italy, and mainly to what has been termed “the central period” in Roman history; that is, roughly 200 BCE to 200 CE, although of necessity certain authors fall outside this boundary.4 Due to the absence of any connected literary narrative on ancient clothing, the sources utilized here range from Cicero and Varro to Isidore of Seville. Admittedly, these are disparate sources, but ones which I believe reflect something of the social history and cultural mores of this period. I have made use of satirists and erotic poets, which contain much which is pertinent to cultural history, but also moralists, historians, and (on occasion) later lexicographers and antiquarians. Using such a piecemeal approach to ancient history may seem dangerous to some. It is true that each author wrote with a different intention; thus it is essential that we be aware of the differences amongst genres, and beware of over-hasty generalizations and overly-ambitious conclusions.5 But due to the nature of the sources, ancient cultural history (like the history of women in antiquity) requires combinations of authors and genres, which can add

K.R. Bradley, Slavery and society at Rome (1994) xi, 6; and see P.A. Brunt, The fall of the Roman Republic and related essays (1988) 9-12. 5 S. Dixon, “Familia Veturia: towards a lower-class economic prosopography”, in Childhood, class and kin in the Roman world, ed. S. Dixon (2001) (= Dixon 2001a) 122. 4

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to a richness of textual detail. Mingling genres has an added bonus, which is that because many of the representations are inconsistent (“an important caveat against ever taking a single genre as ‘the’ guide to ancient attitudes or taking any single stereotype as the key to cultural attitudes”)6 using this approach can help highlight interpenetration, similarities, and interplay between and amongst sources. Combining sources then may go far to minimize their inherent problems. Cultural studies is a field not strictly philologically based; the scholar needs to consider different genres of literary sources together; and she needs especially to combine artistic, literary, and epigraphical sources to achieve a desirable “thick description”. One of the aims of the project is to contribute to a methodology for Roman cultural studies, an area sometimes viewed with suspicion because of its reliance on (and ability to utilize) more than one type of evidence simultaneously. Interdisciplinarity is vital to the field of ancient cultural studies, but it is also necessary that methods be furnished to negotiate the differences both between types of literary sources (and also between literary and artistic evidence). In addition, what the literary sources offer us is often not a true picture of sartorial practice in Roman antiquity, but an ideal situation which may not always have corresponded to reality.7 Literary description of vestimentary boundaries often seems to represent prescribed costume: what ancient authors describe is an ideal visual situation, in which all citizens wear the toga, all equites the gold ring, all married women the stola, and no one ornaments himself above his status. Thus we need to beware that the picture of “mourning dress” presented by the sources may be an idealized picture, having little to do with sartorial reality.

6 S. Dixon, Reading Roman women: Sources, genres, and real life (2001) (= Dixon 2001b) xiii and 70. 7 See Olson 2002 (above, n. 2) passim.

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II. Luctus 8 It is my intention here to give only a brief summary of prescribed mourning periods in Roman antiquity, in the main as they relate to mourning dress itself; but the problem is to distinguish between law and custom. The part of formal mourning which was legally regulated was the widow’s remarriage.9 Paul says that periods of mourning could be one year for parents and children over age six (or age ten according to Pomponius), ten months for a husband, eight for close kin, and one month for a child below age six. Pomponius, probably rightly, held that the “one year” here meant the archaic year of ten months, so husbands were given the same rights as parents or children (Paul S. 1.21.13).10

8 The following section owes much to S. Treggiari, Roman marriage: Iusti coniuges from the time of Cicero to the time of Ulpian (1991) 493-502 passim. On Roman widowhood, see Women and the law in the Roman Empire: a sourcebook on marriage, divorce and widowhood, ed. J. Evans Grubbs (2002) 219-269; E. Fantham, “Aemilia Pudentilla: or the wealthy widow’s choice”, in Women in antiquity: New assessments, edd. R. Hawley and B. Levick (1995) 220-232; A.E. Hanson, “Widows too young in their widowhood”, I Claudia II: Women in Roman art and society, edd. D.E.E. Kleiner and S.B. Matheson (2000) 149-65; M. Humbert, Le remariage à Rome. Étude d’histoire juridique et sociale (1972) 55-56, 60-62, 67-72, 109-110, 150-53, 160-70; J.-U. Krause, Witwen und Waisen im römischen Reich vols. I-IV (1994-1995). On the latter, see T.A.J. McGinn’s review “Widows, orphans, and social history”, JRA 12 (1999) 617-32. 9 Treggiari (above, n. 8) 494. The law appears to have been entirely unconcerned with how soon a daughter married after her father’s death (thanks to AJAH’s anonymous reader for this point). 10 The Sententiae on periods of mourning: see Treggiari (above, n. 8) 494. The Sententiae are likely a spurious work compiled in the late third century, and may not represent the views of the famous Roman jurist. On the year’s mourning for widows, see Plut. Numa 12.2; Sen. Helv. 16; Ov. F. 1.33-36; Dig. 3.2.8 ff; 3.2.11.1; FIRA I 65.16; Humbert (above, n. 8) 113 ff. In Victorian England, “the time of mourning was reduced for the bereaved other than spouses—the mourning period of a parent for a child, and vice versa, was twelve months, while six months was conventional for a brother or sister. Inevitably most of the evidence on mourning-dress relates to widows, who experienced the code in its most severe form” (P. Jalland, Death in the Victorian family [1996] 301).

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Widows were in mourning for the longest period of time.11 Augustus’ lex Julia de maritandis ordinibus (18 BCE) compelled widows up to the age of fifty to remarry at the end of one (archaic) Roman year, after a mandatory period of ten months’ mourning had ended. Apuleius believed this was a period sufficient to avoid giving offense to the dead man (Met. 8.9), but the fundamental reason for the enforced mourning period of ten months seems to have been biological: that is, to ensure that a woman pregnant by her former husband gave birth before she remarried, to put to rest any questions concerning the child’s paternity. But in addition, if a widow had sexual intercourse with her new husband while (knowingly) pregnant by her last, this could cause turbatio sanguinis (confusion of bloodlines): the fetus would have two fathers, which would in turn cause problems over paternal inheritance. Thus Pomponius thinks that widows ought to be able to remarry immediately after giving birth (Dig. 3.2.11.2; CTh 3.8.1).12 The ten month mourning period was modified by the lex Papia Poppaea of 9 CE, which extended the mourning period to two years: perhaps this reflected a common perception of the respect a widow ought to show for her dead husband and how long she ought to feel bereaved before remarrying.13 Seneca, on the other hand, stated (Epp. 63.13) that the mourning period was enacted “not so that women mourn so long, but lest they mourn longer...nothing

11 Llewellyn-Jones (Aphrodite’s tortoise: The veiled women of ancient Greece [2003] 305) notes not much work has been done on the formal Greek mourning period. 12 On turbatio sanguinis, see RE s.v. ‘Luctus’ col. 1702; Humbert 1972 (above, n. 8) 122-130. 13 One scholar has reported that “the therapeutic value of Victorian mourning customs naturally depended on the nature and degree of the consolation they offered to the bereaved. Mourning-dress rules were based in part on traditional customary judgement regarding the most appropriate time required to work through grief. It was assumed that normally the period of mourning dictated by society would approximate to the period of personal grief ” (Jalland [above, n. 10] 300). In Roman antiquity, there were exceptions to the customary or prescribed periods: Livy reports that in 216 BCE after the battle of Cannae there was no matron who was not in mourning, and the festival of Ceres could not be performed; thus the mourning period was limited to thirty days (22.56.5).

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becomes so odious as quickly as grief. Becoming chronic, it is ridiculed, and not undeservedly. For it is either assumed or foolish” (non ut tam diu lugerent, sed ne diutius…nulla res citius in odium venit quam dolor…inveteratus vero deridetur, nec inmerito. Aut enim simulatus aut stultus est). But some admiration was accorded inconsolable widows.14 Widows who did not remarry within Augustus’ statutory time limit were subject to various penalties, mainly a ban on receiving legacies outside relatives up to the sixth degree. Marriage allowed the woman to take half the legacy; and the whole as soon as a child was born and survived in the new marriage.15 Note that although the widow was compelled to observe the mourning period, she incurred a legal penalty if she did not marry at the end of it. Thus at least in theory antagonistic demands were made on the widow: she must mourn her former husband, and at the same time she or her relatives must contract a new marriage. Nor, conversely, could a woman marry within the mourning period without incurring infamia unless she received imperial dispensation (Dig. 3.2.10).16 Although a widow was not to remarry within ten months, she

14 See Treggiari (above, n. 8) 495-498: Tac. Ann. 15.64.2; Luc. Phars. 5.805810. Tacitus (Ann. 13.32) writes of Pomponia Graecina’s long-term mourning for Julia daughter of Drusus. On chronic or prolonged grief and psychologists’ views, see Jalland (above, n. 10) 318-338, esp. 320-21. 15 Fragmentum Vaticanum 214, 216-17 = FIRA II 463 ff. See A. WallaceHadrill, “Family and inheritance in the Augustan marriage laws”, PCPhS 207 (1981) 73-76, and M. Corbier, “Divorce and adoption as Roman familial strategies (Le divorce et l’adoption ‘en plus’)”, in Marriage, divorce, and children in ancient Rome, ed. B. Rawson (1991) 55-57; and Humbert (above, n. 8) 138-142; Treggiari (above, n. 8) 73-74. Unless a woman wanted to accept a legacy outside the family circle, legally she could remain a widow indefinitely. There were some notable cases of non-enforcement even in the Imperial family, such as Antonia the Younger. 16 Treggiari (above, n. 8) 494. On the remarriage of widows, see Treggiari 498502; Evans Grubbs (above, n. 8) 219-236; Humbert (above, n. 8) 160-70; Krause (above, n. 8) vol. I 86-191. The strong social expectation of remarriage, at least in the upper classes, and the probable pressure put on the widow by her family and friends would probably be far more effective in inducing her to remarry than Augustus’ laws. It seems many upper-class widows did marry again, although evidence from Roman Egypt suggests that widows over the age of 30 or 35 were unlikely to remarry: see R.S. Bagnall and B.W. Frier, The demography of Roman Egypt (1994) 126-127, 153-155.

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might (of necessity) become betrothed (Dig. 3.2.10). If the widow gave birth to a child, however, her mourning was at an end, and some lawyers also thought she should be free to remarry (see above, Dig. 3.2.11.2). There were no compulsory mourning periods for men. Indeed, the observance of luctus, the formal mourning period, “was both more proper and more practicable for women than for men (who might be involved in public life)”.17 But the limited scope of male mourning also embodies Roman ideals of masculinity: in the case of men, no rules were laid down, because to mourn in a ceremonial sense was not regarded as honorable.18 But naturally, bereaved men might feel maeror (grief), and refuse social engagements after a death.19 It appears that customarily formal mourning or luctus for women involved the assumption of dark (but not otherwise special) clothing and abstinence from public festivals and social occasions.20 I can find no extant Roman law stating luctus was obligatory, and Susan Treggiari has noted that mourning was not legally required: “in any case, neither the edict nor the opinion of jurists made mourning compulsory”.21 (See also Dig. 3.2.9.) Conversely, removing one’s dark garment at the end of the mourning period was also optional. This is a practice we hear about especially in relation to mothers mourning their sons and which, again, may be an instance of ideal or admirable, not actual, behavior. Seneca tells us that Octavia refused to put away her garb of mourning on her son Marcellus’ death (Dial. ad Marc. 2.4), and he wrote to Helvia: “there is no need for you to regard certain women, whose sorrow once assumed [only] death ended: some you know who having put on lugubria for sons they had lost, never laid it aside” (ad Helv. 16.2). Pomponia Graecina See Treggiari (above, n. 8) 494, and also 495-498; Dig. 3.2.9. Similar customs obtained in Quattrocento Florence: S.T. Strocchia, Death and ritual in Renaissance Florence (1992) 173 speaks of “the restricted scope of men’s mourning” and “the sustained complexity of women’s mourning”. 19 At Tac. Ann. 3.3, Tiberius and Livia do not appear in public after Drusus’ death; see also Cic. Att. 12.13.2. 20 Paul S. 1.21.14; Livy 22.56.5. On mourning clothing for women, see Sebesta 1994a (above, n. 2) 50, and Wilson 1938 (above, n. 2) 150-51. In Victorian England, the wearing of mourning-dress implied social isolation, “since a widow could not accept formal invitations in the first year, except from close relatives, and had to avoid public places” (Jalland [above, n. 10] 301). 21 Treggiari (above, n. 8) 494. 17 18

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was a woman who wore mourning clothes for forty years for Julia daughter of Drusus (Tac. Ann. 13.32). This underscores the fact that mourning garments (as in most other societies) were not legally required, but a social convention. Moreover, there are no references in our sources to the types of half-mourning for women as in Victorian society,22 and it seems that at the end of the formal period of mourning the dark garment was simply exchanged for a colored one. Thus in the early third century CE Ulpian wrote: Since the time of mourning starts immediately, it is right for it to run, even for a wife in ignorance, from the day of her husband's death, and it is for this reason that Labeo says that if she finds out after the statutory time, she both assumes and removes her mourning (lugubria) for one day (Dig. 3.2.8).

Although probably a piece of legal theorizing, this passage suggests that certain lawyers did not assume mourning was donned for personal reasons (to be a comfort to the wearer, for example, or to help her work through her grief), but rather as a social duty, a visual manifestation of the respect owed to the deceased. Presumably a widow could wear her mourning for longer than the prescribed mourning period should she so choose, although of course a remarriage would make this impossible. But conversely, also during the third century, some perceived lugubria as closely tied to the state of mind of the wearer. Mourning clothing was also the focus of some legislation. In a rescript of the emperor Gordian to a woman named Sulpicia (239 CE) we find: by a decree of the most splendid order, when women’s grief has lessened, their more mournful dress and other distinctive marks of this sort are given up. [But] it is still not permitted to contract marriage within the time in which it is customary to mourn a husband…23 22 See Jalland (above, n. 10) 300 for types and colors of Victorian halfmourning (i.e., colors of grey and lavender, black and white, which Victorian widows could assume in the final six months of their two-year mourning period). 23 Cod. Iust. 2.11.15 (cited by Evans-Grubbs [above, n. 8] 222) decreto amplissimi ordinis luctu feminarum deminuto tristior habitus ceteraque hoc genus insignia mulieribus remittuntur, non etiam intra tempus quo lugere maritum moris est, matrimonium contrahere permittitur… (June 239 CE).

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The date of the decree of the Senate to which the rescript refers is unknown, but it seems to have provided that a woman could wear color again once her maeror had abated, even within the statutory mourning period, should she choose to do so. But the decree had apparently not changed the ban on remarriage.24 There is little hint in the ancient sources of the social psychology of clothing; that is, what clothing meant to the person who wore it, as well as what it connoted to those around them. This is doubly true for women, given the male-dominated nature of the literary evidence. It may then be useful to examine the meanings mourning garments had in other societies. Psychologists and sociologists have agreed that most mourning rituals assist in providing a helpful rite of passage for the grieving.25 Scholars have also maintained that assuming special garments is a source of comfort for the mourner, a living bond to the deceased.26 In nineteenth century England, for example, Victorian advice manuals on etiquette “tended to highlight the argument that it soothed the sorrow of mourners to express it outwardly” in the form of clothing.27 John Hinton argued in 1967 that mourning rituals were usually helpful in identifying the mourner and thus in relating social customs to the feelings of the bereaved: “during [formal] mourning the instinctive withdrawal from conviviality is fostered, with an expectation that social engagements will be limited”.28 Generally, then, scholars concur that the primary funcSee R.J.A. Talbert, The senate of Imperial Rome (1984) 456. For some comparative evidence on mourning clothing, see Jalland (above, n. 10) 300-307; Strocchia (above, n. 18) 173-174; L. Taylor, Mourning dress: A costume and social history (1983); and G. van Os, “Widows hidden from view: the disappearance of mourning dress among Dutch widows in the twentieth century”, in Between poverty and the pyre: Moments in the history of widowhood, edd. J. Bremmer and L. van den Bosch (1995) 230-246. 26 See Jalland (above, n. 10) 302, and van Os (above, n. 25) 239, citing P. Marris, Widows and their families (1958) 31, 33; L.M. Danforth, The death rituals of rural Greece (1982) 139-152. 27 Jalland (above, n. 10), 302. But see p. 300 here: “the archival evidence suggests, however, that mourning-dress served a less useful purpose than many other rituals for the bereaved”. 28 Jalland (above, n. 10) 302; J. Hinton, Dying (2nd ed., 1972) 186. Thus Jalland (305) argues that “mourning-dress performed a useful function in reminding friends and relatives that those most closely affected by the bereavement were likely to be in a state of depressive withdrawal for a number of 24 25

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tions of mourning-dress were to identify the bereaved, show respect for the dead, bring forth the sympathy of the community, and match the mourner’s somber mood.29 We might postulate that mourning clothing embodied a similar set of functions in Roman antiquity (as in the Gordian rescript, above).30 In Cicero’s time at least it appears men removed their dark but not otherwise special mourning garments immediately after the funeral (Vat. 30), although there is some evidence that black was assumed on the anniversary of Germanicus’ death.31 Intriguingly, Varro and Sidonius mention freedmen clothed in half-black or half-mourning (semiatratus),32 but this is likely a reference to sordes (see below).

III. Technology and terminology of mourning clothing It is necessary to begin with some vocabulary for Roman mourning clothing and colors, and an investigation into the techniques used for producing mourning clothing at Rome. Although this discussion may veer dangerously close to the antiquarian, it will provide us with the ter-

months, not just the funeral week”, adding (301) that “Geoffrey Gorer concluded in his 1965 study (i.e., Death, grief, and mourning in contemporary Britain [1965]) that the wearing of mourning clothes identified the recently bereaved, thereby stimulating support and sympathy from the community”. 29 This is of Victorian England: Jalland (above, n. 10) 302. One scholar however remains skeptical as to the benefits of assuming mourning: “it remains undemonstrated exactly how—if at all—the elaborate rituals of [Victorian] mourning actually helped to assuage the grief of the survivors” (D. Cannadine, “War and death, grief and mourning in modern Britain”, in Mirrors of mortality: Studies in the social history of death, ed. J. Whaley [1981] 190). 30 Llewellyn-Jones (above, n. 11) 307 states that in ancient Greece, the black veil (like the white veil) was deliberately worn by women “who need to reflect a social situation or an internal feeling and they are purposefully intended to attract the attention of an onlooker who is expected to read a social message in the woman’s choice of clothing”. 31 Tab. Siar. II col. A line 3. See J. González, “Tabula Siarensis, Fortunales Siarenses et Municipia Civium Romanorum”, ZPE 55 (1984) 55-100. 32 Non. 152L, quoting Varro Bimarcus 47: ipsum propter vix liberti semiatrati exequiantur. In Sid. Epist. 1.7.9 and 11 the accused (Arvandus) is well groomed (11 exornatus, politus) while his accusers are semipullati (9) and atrati (11).

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minology of mourning clothing used elsewhere in the paper, and many incidental details of Roman sartorial practices and technology. The color of mourning clothing in Latin texts is described as “black” or “dark”.33 Comparative evidence suggests that dark colors were chosen for mourning clothing in Roman antiquity for reasons of self-abasement: “if not dressed in the black of deep mourning, the bereaved are expected to choose sombre garments which reflect their mood. Gay clothes which enhance the appearance would seem disrespectful or adjudged so symptomatic of human vanity as to be callous or near to wickedness…”.34 The essence of mourning, then, was ideally to demonstrate grief by a lack of interest in personal appearance.35 Although black dyes were known, R. Forbes believed that “in general… the ancients preferred to select natural brown…or black wool for such colors”.36 Dark wool grew on sheep at Pollentia, Liguria, and Tarentum; Columella considered it expensive (R. 7.2.4 sunt etiam suapte natura pretio commendabiles). Strabo states (12.8.16, 3.2.6) that Laodicean wool is a splendid raven-black color (korazein) and that being surpassingly beautiful the Laodiceans derived large profit from it. Pliny (HN 8.190-191) mentions the black sheep of Asia Minor and Pollentia but gives no indications as to the value of their wool. Martial associated Pollentian wool with sadness: it is that “which mourns with somber fleece” (14.157 pullo lugentes vellere lanas) and was ‘tristis’ (14.158), but he also thought it was a suitable material for second-rate serving slaves (14.158).37 Plutarch states that sometimes naturally dark wool was fur33 Contra Taylor (above, n. 25) 251-252. She states that “black for mourning was introduced by the Christian church… it was first used by St Benedict in the sixth century”; van Os 1994 (above, n. 25) 236 repeats this assertion. 34 Hinton (above, n. 28) 186. 35 Croom (above n. 2) 115. Strocchia (above, n. 18) 174 quotes a Quattrocento writer and bookseller, one Vespasiano da Bisticci, who was firm that the ideal garb for a widow stressed her frugality and modesty as it effectively effaced and desexualized her. But not all Florentine widows adhered to this cultural model: some sported low-cut mourning dresses or skirts with slits which “introduced an explicit degree of sexuality into mourning garb”, and which were promptly legislated against (174-175). 36 R.J. Forbes, Studies in ancient technology vol. IV (1964) 126-127. On dyes and dyeing in antiquity, see Sebesta 1994b, 65-76 passim; Wilson 1938, 6-13 (both above, n. 2); and Forbes 99-150. 37 See also T.J. Leary, Martial Book XIV: The Apophoreta (1996) 218-220.

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ther darkened with black dye, but modern experimentation suggests this is difficult.38 Gray may have been obtained by spinning black and white wool together.39 Black dye was obtained from various substances. “Carbon black and bitumen can be said to be organic dyes, though they were little used in the ancient textile industry”. Gall-black (from oak-galls) seems to have been the most common, used for inks as well as black dye.40 A mordant was also required: Most of the vegetable dyes… require some sort of mordant to set permanently in any fiber. A mordant is a separate chemical that combines with the dye in such a way as to attach the coloring matter to the fiber with a lasting chemical bond (mordant means “biting in”), thereby making the color stand fast against light and washing. It would thus seem to be a crucial ingredient in most dyeing processes. Some mordants will also change the hue of certain dyes (different mordants on the same dye may darken, brighten, or drastically alter the color).41

Pliny (HN 35.183; cf. 16.26) tells us that dark alum was used as a mordant in dyeing wool or other fibers which need to take a dark or somber color.42 Plut. RQ 26. Pliny HN 8.193 states however that “black woolen fleeces will not take dye of any color” (lanarum nigrae nullum colorem bibunt). See E.J.W. Barber, Prehistoric textiles: The development of cloth in the Neolithic and Bronze Ages with special reference to the Aegean (1991) 21, in which she states that sheep’s wool “ranges in color from black and dark brown, through the reddish and buff or grey colors typical of wild sheep, to white. The naturally pigmented wools do not take artificial dyes well. On the other hand, white wool takes and keeps even primitive dyes more easily than almost any other fiber, having natural substances in it that act as mordants or fixatives…” 39 See Forbes (above, n. 36) 127 who cites “Accadian texts” (not specified). 40 Forbes (above, n. 36) 126. 41 Barber (above, n. 38) 235. 42 Black hair-dyes were also known: Pliny recommended applying to the head a mixture of leeches which have rotted for forty days in red wine (HN 32.67-68). See also Dioscorides, Pharm. 1.106-111, in which he recommends letting kermes soak in water until tender and rotten, which produces a black hair-dye. This is odd as kermes normally produces a red dye; perhaps it is the “rotting” which makes the dye black. 38

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Pullus is the descriptor most often used to indicate the color of mourning garments, whether dyed or natural wool.43 Usually translated as “dark”, scholars have come to no agreement on its precise shade. In 1924 L.M. Wilson thought that “the color of [the] dark toga cannot be asserted positively, but it was probably a dark shade of brown or gray”.44 But in 1938 she was of the opinion that “several passages clearly indicate that the toga pulla worn for mourning was black”. J. André places pullus under ‘le gris’, and states: D’autre part, pullus est l’épithète habituelle d’une certaine qualité de laine dont c’est la teinte naturelle, originaire surtout de Pollentia, en Ligurie…et de Tarente…Toutefois ce n’est pas un noir brillant et lustré. Vitruve distingue les pulla pecora de ceux qui sont coracino colore (8.3.33)…45

J.L. Sebesta believes pullus was a dark brown or brownish black; J. Heskel states that “opinion is divided on whether pulla means gray or black”.46 The ancient sources are equally as varied in their definitions of the term, which has given rise to this range of modern opinion. Pullus occurs in agricultural handbooks and literary works with pastoral themes: thus Varro speaks of a rabbit half pullus and half white, Columella of terra pulla, “dark” soil, and “dark” spots on a ram (Var. R. 3.12.5; Col. R. 1. pr. 24, 2.2.19, 7.3.1). Ovid used pullus to describe the fruit of the mulberry tree (Met. 4.160-161), but also “purple” (purpureus; Met. 4.125), “red” (madefactaque sanguine; Met. 4.126), and “black” (ater; Met. 4.127) to describe the berries.47 Horace uses the word to

43 We also hear of pulleiaceus (Suet. Aug. 87; Augustus allegedly used this word as slang in place of pullus). Pulligo was another term for “dark”: see Pliny HN 8.191 (of wool). On Greek color terms for black, see Llewellyn-Jones (above, n. 11) 306-307 with notes. 44 Wilson 1924, 50; Wilson 1938, 37 (both above, n. 2). Different shades of “dark” with examples are given in Wilson 1938, 37-38. 45 J. André, Étude sur les termes de couleur dans la langue latine (1949) 71. 46 Sebesta 1994b (above, n. 2) 65; J. Heskel, “Cicero as evidence for attitudes to dress in the late Republic”, in Sebesta and Bonfante (above, n. 2) 141. 47 Ov. Ars 3.182 does refer to another type of gray: light or pinkish. Albentes rosae is a phrase usually translated as pale pink, but is a difficult color to iden-

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describe the color of a fig tree (Epod. 16.46). The word occurs in other contexts as well. Cicero equated the toga pulla with being clothed in black (atratus).48 Ovid (Am. 2.4.41-42) likened hair which is “dark” (pulli capilli) with black hair (nigra…coma). Seneca (NQ 3.25.3-4) described pullus as niger. Nonius (882L) says that pullus “is the color which we now call Spanum or nativum” (color est quem nunc Spanum vel nativum dicimus). Spanum seems to have indicated a brown or swarthy color; nativum simply natural dark wool.49 It seems then that pullus had a variety of shades, from deep black, blackish-gray, dark-gray, and “dusky”, to gray-brown, deep brown, even blackish-purple, and doubtless, as Wilson states, designated both clothing made of natural undyed dark fleeces and wool dyed black or another dark color.50 (Nor can we ignore the possibility that the color pullus may have changed over time). Whatever the hue, in keeping with its function as a signifier of mourning clothing, pullus was often associated with death.51 Tibullus 1.2.62 speaks of a hostia pulla, a black victim to the gods of sorcery; in Martial 6.58.7-8, the Fates draw dark threads (pulla...stamina); in Ovid Met. 11.610-611 the god Somnus’ cave has a black couch (torus atricolor) with a gray coverlet (pullo velamine tectus). But intriguingly, pullus was also the color of the clothing of the poor, as well as a fashionable non-mourning color (see below). There is less variation in the precise hue of ater, a color André defines as sable black, lusterless or matte black.52 He describes ater as an absence tify, as albens can denote a very light gray (Sebesta 1994b [above, n. 2] 68), but can also mean simply pale (for roseus, see André [above, n. 45] 111-113). 48 At Cic. Vat. 30 and 31 Vatinius is in a toga pulla; at 31 this is equated with atratus. Heskel (above, n. 46) 141 notes that “since Cicero calls Vatinius atratus in order to create a strong contrast with the white garb of the correctly dressed Arrius, we cannot be certain of the actual hue of the garment”. For other oppositions of this kind, see André (above, n. 45) 59. 49 André (above, n. 45) 72: “nativus écarte le blanc et les teintes artificielles. Spanus se retrouve pour la robe des chevaux…Ainsi pullus est pour les toisons un gris très foncé s’étendant jusqu’au noir et au brun”. 50 Wilson 1938 (above, n. 2) 38. 51 On the ties of the color black with death, grief, mourning, and sorrow, civic despair and disorder in Greek literature, see Llewellyn-Jones (above, n. 11) 306-307, with references. 52 André (above, n. 45) 44. But niger and ater are used with varying frequency in different periods: see André 45.

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of color: “ater, au contraire, se présente moins comme une couleur que comme une notion négative: l’absence de couleur et de lumière, par conséquent un ‘noir mat’”.53 While variants of the term were sometimes used to describe the appearance of things such as atmospheric phenomena,54 like pullus, ater or atratus most often denoted death, mourners, suppliants and bad omens.55 Horace (Epp. 1.7.5-6) speaks of an undertaker and his black attendants (lictoribus atris); Ovid (Met. 6.288-89) uses the term to describe the clothing of the daughters of Niobe mourning their brother (cum vestibus atris). Suetonius reports that the deposed Nero planned to appear on the Rostra before the people clothed in black (atratus) to beg for pardon, and states that Galba saw an old man dressed in black (atratus) by the altar to Fortuna, a bad omen (Nero 47, Galba 18). Unlike pullus, ater or atratus was not normally used to describe the clothing of the poor, and may have been a true mourning color.56 André considers niger to have been a brilliant or lustrous black, and a sort of literary poor cousin to pullus (“pullus apparaît dans la langue des éleveurs comme l’équivalent de niger”)—thus perhaps even a deep gray or blackish-gray; Sebesta defines niger as very dark brown or black.57 The term can be used of wool (Seneca at NQ 3.25.3-4 speaks of black and white sheep as niger and albus), and thus also of mourning

André (above, n. 45) 44. TLL s.v. ‘atratus’ coll. 1093-1094 ‘usitatius de vestitu lugubri’; also s.v. ‘ater’ col. 1019. 54 Thus obatratus, half-obscured or blackish (Pliny HN 18.349, of the moon); atritas, blackish (Plaut. Poen. 1290, of bruises; see also Paul. ex Fest. 26L). The eruption of Vesuvius is described as nubes atra et horrenda (Pliny Epp. 6.20.9; see also Virg. Aen. 10.264). 55 Black garments and animals were “sacred to the dead” and black could also signify bad luck. For examples, see M.E. Armstrong, The significance of color in Roman ritual (1917) 33-34, with notes. 56 A.J. Woodman and R.H. Martin (edd., The Annals of Tacitus Book 3 [1996] 86) state that although it was customary to wear black at funerals “atratus in this sense seems not to have been used between Cicero (Vat. 30-2) and T[acitus]”. This does not appear to have been the case, given the examples above. 57 André (above, n. 45) 71; Sebesta 1994b (above, n. 2) 65. 53

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garments.58 Other authors equate it with different shades. Isidore states that clothes which were niger were called pullus (Orig. 12.7.5 unde et vestis nigra pulla dicta est). Nonius states that anthracinus or coal black was equivalent to niger and also states it was the color of mourning clothes. He quotes Varro: “young kinswomen are [clothed] in anthracinus; those nearest [to the deceased are dressed] in a blackish mantle, [and] with disheveled hair follow the corpse…” (882L propinquae adulescentulae etiam anthracinis, proxumae amiculo nigello, capillo demisso sequerentur luctum). There are other Latin descriptors of dark colors, some of which are used to describe mourning. Fuscus (“dusky”) is a color term with varied shades—the word was used of funeral garments (Apul. Met. 2.23), but also of the clothing of the poor, and it can refer to dusky skin.59 One shade of fuscus may even have been a reddish-brown color: Cicero called it poor man’s or plebeian purple, and Martial describes a cloak of Canusian wool as fusca (the color, he says, of stirred honey-sweetened wine).60 Coracinus may have been a very deep black, possibly with blue overtones.61 Although the word is used twice of sheep’s wool, and is named at Dig. 32.78.5 as a color (of cloth), it is not used to describe mourning clothes. Funestus was also occasionally used of mourning garments (Acc. Amphitryon 86 [ap.. Non. 263L]), and at Catullus 64.234 the dark sail on Theseus’ ship is described as funestam...vestem.

58 See Juv. 10.245 (nigra vestis); Ov. Ibis 102 (nigra vestis). Isis wears a cloak of the deepest black at Apul. Met. 11.3 (palla nigerrima), although this is not mourning. André (above, n. 45) 57 states “en liaison avec l’usage du noir pour les vêtements de deuil, tout ce qui cause la mort peut-étre qualifé de niger”. 59 See Prop. 2.25.42; Ov. Am. 2.4.40. See also Ov. Am. 2.8.22; F. 3.493-498. Fuscus as a proper name: Hor. Carm. 1.22.4. 60 Cic. Sest. 8.19 vestitus aspere nostra hac purpura plebeia ac paene fusca. Canusian wool: Mart. Epig. 14.127 and 129. For an explanation of turbato… mulso see Leary (above, n. 37) 191-194; see also André (above, n. 45) 123-125. Leary (191) states that such cloaks were rich gifts as the wool was expensive; but see his opinion on Pollentian wool (above, n. 37). Martial also describes wine as “black” at 9.22.8 (et faciant nigras nostra Falerna nives). 61 Vitr. 8.3.14 (in describing cattle) makes a distinction between coracinus and pullus. See also André (above, n. 45) 63; Apul. Met. 2.9 nunc corvina nigredine caerulus columbarum collis flosculos aemulatur.

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There is no way to ascertain if all these colors were approximately the same, or if there were dramatic differences in shade. It is also unclear which connotations or resonance each tone had for the ancient wearer. In any case, it is clear that some form of “dark” was the proper shade of mourning clothing in Roman antiquity.

IV. Female mourning clothing and color When the precise color of women’s mourning clothes is described in the literature, we encounter the expected words (fuscus, pullus, niger, ater).62 Apuleius describes a widow and a bereaved mother clad in “dusky” or dark clothes: fusca veste contecta.63 Ovid (Met. 11.48) describes naiads and dryads mourning the death of Orpheus with disheveled hair and black bordered garments (obstrusaque carbasa pullo); Varro states when women are in mourning they wear dark cloaks (ap. Non. 882L pullis palliis amictae). At Tibullus 3.2.18 the women in mourning are wearing nigra vestis. At Ovid Met. 6.568 Procne puts on mourning for Philomela (atrae vestes); Statius (Theb. 7.243-44) describes Antigone in a black mantle (defenditur atra / veste genas), and at 12.363 the widow Argia’s mourning garments are atra vestis.64 Most often, however, female mourning garments are spoken of in a general way as lugubria, which does not seem to refer to specific mourning garments but a tunic and mantle of a dark color (although possibly the ricinium, a certain type of mantle, is meant; see below). Seneca (ad Helv. 16.2) speaks of mothers in lugubria for their sons. Propertius’

62 In Greece women in mourning were also associated with the color black. See Plut. Mor. 609B; Llewellyn-Jones (above, n. 11) 305; E. Vermeule, Aspects of death in early Greek art and poetry (1979) 13 ff; K. Stears, “Death becomes her: gender and Athenian death ritual”, in The sacred and the feminine in ancient Greece, edd. S. Blundell and M. Willamson (1998) 113-127. 63 Apul. Met. 7.27, 2.23. 64 The “widow” at Apul. Met. 3.8 is described likewise: atra veste contecta. At Ammianus 18.10.3 the wife of Craugasius is covered “to the lips” in a black veil (ad usque labra ipsa atro velamine).

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Cornelia says thankfully that “never as a mother did I put on mourning clothes” (4.11.97 [65] numquam mater lugubria sumpsi). The death of the younger Maximinus was heralded by the sudden appearance of a woman wearing lugubria and with disheveled hair.65 Other, more general terms also occur: Ovid’s Sabine women go out to the battle lines in funerea…vestes (F. 3.214). Sometimes the presence of mourning clothes is only suggested: Plancina in mourning for the death of a sister changed into “joyful” clothes upon Germanicus’ death (laetus cultus); Antistia Pollita’s dark clothing is implied (Tac. Ann. 2.75, 16.10). Sometimes specific garments are named. If, for instance, a woman was in the habit of wearing a stola she could wear it in a mourning color: a fragment of Ennius asks “who is she wrapped up in a stola of mourning?”66 There is also an intriguing passage from Book III of Varro’s de vita populi Romani in Nonius (882L) which seems to imply that female mourners changed mantles according to particular parts of a funeral ritual, not suggested by any other ancient source. It is stated that when the corpse is above ground, women mourn in ricinia; but that at the funeral itself, they are wrapped in dark pallae (ut dum supra terram essent, riciniis lugerent, funere ipso, ut pullis palliis amictae). This may correspond to what Plutarch says of Roman mourning practices. At RQ 26 he queries why Roman women in mourning (en tois penthesin) wear white robes and white headdresses, a statement which does not find corroboration in our other ancient sources (e.g., Paul S. 1.21.4). Is he referring to the time before the body was interred, or is this a localized variation of Roman practice? And does Varro’s statement that women change into dark pallae on the day of the funeral reflect this?

65 HA Maxim. 31.1 mulier quaedam passis crinibus occurit lugubri habitu. Lugubria also appear on mythological women: see Ov. Met. 11.669 and Sen. Her. Fur. 626-627. 66 Enn. trag. 346 (Non. 290L) et quis illaec est quae lugubri succincta est stola? Intriguingly, an article of male clothing called a ‘stola’ appears in another of Ennius’ plays (Enn. Telephus 285, 286 ap. Non. 862L), but whether this was a Roman garment or a Greek one is uncertain. In both cases, ‘stola’ probably means simply garment.

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In addition to color, there were other signs of mourning which had a similar meaning. For men, the tunic was usually girt about the waist and drawn up so as to be of proper length. But “in certain solemn observances, such as funeral rites, it was the custom for those taking part to wear their tunics ungirt”.67 Thus the pallbearers for Augustus’ corpse were equites who were barefoot with loosened tunics (Suet. Aug. 100.4 tunicati et discincti pedibusque nudis). When Severus banished certain Praetorians from Rome for their role in the slaying of Pertinax they scattered clad in ungirt tunics (Dio 75.1-2). The practice denoted mourning and self-abasement for women as well: Tibullus’ Lygdamus asks that Neaera and his mother gather his bones “with black robes ungirt” (3.2.18 incinctae nigra...veste). Women’s hair was usually loosened for the funeral, but we also have a reference to a grieving woman with shorn hair.68 As mourning was supposed to indicate sadness and humility, men on the day of the funeral omitted their customary or ideal insignia and costume (Dio 56.31.2-3; Tac. Ann. 3.4, 4.8; Consol. ad Liv. 186). Likewise, a woman in mourning ideally did not wear her own insignia: ornaments or colors. Terence describes a woman in mourning for her mother as …poorly dressed in mourning, I guess for the old woman who was dead, without gold jewelry. And dressed thus, she was adorned like women who

67 Wilson 1938 (above, n. 2) 58-59. On the tunic, see also N. Goldman, “Reconstructing Roman clothing”, in Sebesta and Bonfante (above n. 2) 221. Illor loose-girding for men usually had negative moral implications (Suet. Iul. 45; Hor. Epod. 1.34), but “ungirt” women do not appear to have been morally suspect. See Croom (above, n. 2) 80-81 in which she gives some visual examples of slave women and poor women in ungirt, short-sleeved tunics—another example of the link between mourning and the clothing of the poor. 68 Acc. Amphitryon 86 in Non. 263L (set quaenam haec est mulier funesta veste, tonsu lugubri?). Treggiari (above n. 8) 489-490 notes that widows at the funeral of their husband wore their hair loose, and sometimes tore it (Ov. Am. 3.9.52; Apul. Met. 4.34). Ov. Ars 3.431-432 suggests that a widow with loosened hair (solutes / crinibus) is attractive. See also Ov. F. 3.213-214; Sen. Troad. 884; Tib. 1.1.67-68; Petr. Sat. 111; Apul. Met. 2.23.

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dress for themselves, her cheeks untouched by women’s arts, her hair not done up, but long and loose around her head, thrown indifferently.69

“Women in adverse times or in mourning”, says Varro, “lay aside all rather fine and costly clothing” (Non. 869L, from de vita populi Romani I: ex quo mulieres in adversis rebus ac luctibus, cum omnem vestitum delicatiorem ac luxuriosum postea institutum ponunt). Livy tells us that women laid aside purple garments and jewels while in mourning and resumed them when mourning was over.70 Ovid (Met. 8.448) states that Althaea in mourning for her brothers exchanged her gold robes for black (vestibus atras). Dionysius of Halicarnassus wrote that the matrons of Rome mourned for Agrippa Menenius Lanatus (cos. 503 BCE) for one year, laying aside their gold and purple as they had for P. Valerius Publicola (cos. I 509, IV 504 BCE) and for L. Junius Brutus, and “as they do after the funeral rites of their nearest relations”. The women had also done this on the death of Coriolanus; Dionysius adds that the women were dressed in black (and presumably on the other occasions as well).71 On her remarriage to Cato, Marcia wears no bridal attire, but married in her widow’s clothes; Lucan also tells us that Marcia’s “purple [wool] was hidden by wool of a dark color” (purple was a color that presumably Marcia would have worn when not in mourning; otherwise, this is puzzling).72 Plutarch says (RQ 26) women in mourning embrace sim69 Ter. Heaut. 286 mediocriter vestitam veste lugubri, / —eius anuis causa opinor quae erat mortua— / sine auro; tum ornatum ita uti quae ornantur sibi, / nulla arte malas expolitam muliebri; / capillus passus, prolixus, et circum caput / reiectus neglegenter…” 70 Livy 34.7.10 quid aliud in luctu quam purpuram atque aurum deponunt? Quid cum eluxerunt sumunt? But Isidore in the sixth century stated that because of the significance of blood to the dead “women are accustomed to tear their cheeks in mourning; and display purple clothing and purple flowers for the dead” (Orig. 11.1.123 proprie autem sanguis animae possessio est: inde genas lacerare mulieres in luctu solent; inde et purpureae vestes et flores purpurei mortuis praebentur). 71 Dion. 9.27.2 (Agrippa Menenius), 5.48.4 (Publicola, Brutus), 8.62.2 (Coriolanus). Quote: 5.48.4. 72 Luc. 2.365-367 sicut erat, maesti servat lugubria cultus, / …Obsita funerea celatur purpura lana. La Follette (above, n. 2) states that “the purple stripe is nowhere mentioned as part of the bride’s flammeum”, although in the frieze of the villa of the Mysteries in Pompeii the bride wears a yellow flammeum with a purple stripe (see 56 and n. 18).

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plicity and plainness. Pomponia Graecina in her mourning for Julia daughter of Drusus wore “no ornament (cultus) except lugubria” (Tac. Ann. 13.32); Antistia Pollita is described (Ann. 16.10) as vidua inpexa (a widow with uncombed hair); and Statius at Theb. 2.440-441 describes a woman as “unsightly from long mourning” (longo quam sordida luctu / mater). Suddenly widowed, Apuleius’ Charite at Met. 8.7 squalidly neglects herself (incuria squalida). The Pauli Sententiae stated “who mourns ought to abstain from dinner parties, ornament, purple and white clothing”.73 This could refer to male or female practice, but as men usually laid aside their dark garments immediately after the funeral, it likely refers to women. The rescript of Gordian (above) may refer to an omission of jewelry and ornament with the phrase ceteraque hoc genus insignia (“distinctive marks of this sort”). So, as with male political insignia, the omission of her own insignia (ornament, jewelry, and color) indicated that a woman was in mourning. As a caveat, it must be remembered, however, that ancient authors tend to prescribe rather than describe, and the picture they offer us of the widow (unkempt, unadorned, clad in black) may not have corresponded in all its particulars to sartorial reality.

VI. Poor black, emotional black, mourning black Anne Hollander has stated that “black began in Europe as the straightforward color of death, appropriate for mourning but nothing else. This custom was the legacy of Mediterranean antiquity”.74 But there is evidence that black or dark grey was the color of poor clothing as well as fashionable non-mourning clothing. The clothing of the poor is described as pullus in a variety of genres, and when items of clothing are specifically identified usually it is a tunica pulla rather than the toga pulla which is named (crowds are also generally termed pullati, and it is probably the tunic rather than the toga which is meant; see below). Thus, Cicero described Verres in the tunica

73 Paul S. 1.21.4 (= FIRA II 319 ff) qui luget, abstinere debet a conviviis, ornamentis, purpura et alba veste. 74 A. Hollander, Seeing through clothes (1978) 365.

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pulla of an artisan (artifex) and a Greek mantle (pallium), clothing which was unsuitable to his rank as a Roman governor.75 In Quintilian vestis pulla is the polar opposite of the toga praetexta.76 Quintilian also complained of orators who give a magnificent forensic speech and then depart, leaving the battle of debate to the pullata turba (Inst. 6.4.6); and elsewhere (2.12.10) of those who by shouting and gesticulating wildly during an oration “do a wondrous thing for the gray-clad crowd” (mire ad pullatum circulum facit). Martial (10.76.8) uses the word to describe a poor man's cucullus or hood (of a poet; by way of contrast the muleteer Incitatus has a scarlet cloak). He also tells us (14.158) that Pollentian wool was used for slave clothes (but as noted other authors describe the material as expensive). The younger Pliny (Epp. 7.17.9) states that in giving a reading, even an audience of low, gray-clad persons (pullati) fill an author with awe. Calpurnius Siculus described the common people in the rows at the theatre in gray and dirty clothing, and epitomized poverty itself as “gray” or “black” (pulla paupertas).77 Suetonius tells us (Aug. 44) that Augustus directed that no one in dark clothing (pullator) could sit in the middle of the amphitheatre (media cavea), and that when Augustus saw a throng of men in a contio who were pullati he directed the aediles to police the forum and be certain everyone was in a toga (Aug. 40). This suggests that pullatus may have meant “clad in a gray tunic” not simply “clad in gray”. Isidore states a poor man is described as pullus.78 Given the various contexts, these are all probably references

75 Cic. Verr. 2.4.54; see also 5.40 in which Verres addresses the deputation from Valentia dressed “in a dark tunic and a Greek cloak” (tunica pulla et pallio). 76 Quint. Inst. 5.10.71. The analogy occurs in a section in which Quintilian states that oratorical ends arise from appropriate beginnings, and the introduction of an oration may therefore be inferred from the conclusion: “I am not able to hope for a toga praetexta when I have seen an exordium pullum” (non possum togam praetextam sperare, cum exordium pullum videam). 77 Calp. Ecl. 7.26-29 venimus ad sedes, ubi pulla sordida veste / Inter femineas spectabat turba cathedras. / Nam quaecumque patent sub aperto libera coelo, / Aut eques aut nivei loca densavere tribuni; 80-82 vidissem proprius mea numina; sed mihi sordes, / Pullaque paupertas, at adunco fibula morsu / Obfuerunt.... 78 Isid. Orig. 12.7.5 pulli dicuntur omnium avium nati; sed et animalium quadrupedum nati pulli dicuntur, et homo parvus pullus. Recentes igitur nati pulli eo quod polluti sint. Unde et vestis nigra pulla dicta est.

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to poor men, although of course pullati could refer to men and women together, and it is interesting to note how a color can function as metonymy for “the multitude”. Poor women are not usually described in the sources as to color of clothing, but surely lower-class women must have worn similar shades. Black as a fashionable color is what Anne Hollander has termed “emotional” black. She writes that “[black] was recognized, at the dawn of the Renaissance, as an enhancement to the individual qualities of the human face”. It glorified white flesh; it had dramatic possibilities as a color.79 But this may have happened as far back as Roman antiquity. Two sources hint that, at least by Cicero’s day, dark grey or black was not reserved exclusively for mourning or viewed solely as a shade for the poor. In excusing C. Rabirius Postumus of wearing Greek clothing, Cicero claims, surely with some exaggeration, that he has seen citizens, high-born youths and even some senators wear the tunica pulla not at their country seat or in their suburban villa, but in highly populated Naples, for the sake of “love affairs and pleasure” (deliciarum causa et voluptatis).80 It may be argued that it is Greek clothing (at Naples) which is at issue here. But I disagree: there is nothing specifically “Greek” about a dark tunic. It must be the shade of the clothing as well as the implied omission of the toga which is significant here; the color, which made the wearer stand out (?), was associated with a fashionable life of pleasure. Decades later, in his catalogue of female clothing colors, Ovid mentions a women’s tunic which is pulla, stating that “black suits snowwhite skins”. Briseis, he says (Ars 3.189), wore this color (pulla decent

79 Hollander (above, n. 74) 366. It was not until the fourteenth century, chiefly at the courts of France and Burgundy, that black as a fashion color came into its own (365). Hollander names as other “black spots” in fashion history sixteenth century Spain, seventeenth century Holland, and early sixteenth century Germany, when both sexes took up chic black (375). During the course of the eighteenth century “dramatically frivolous black” made an occasional appearance in Europe (373), and by the Romantic period, black in male and female clothes connoted melancholy, death, isolation, detachment from society, and had “satanic and fatal eroticism” (377). 80 Cic. Pro Rab. 26 non modo cives Romanos, sed et nobilis adulescentis, sed quosdam etiam senatores, summo loco natos, non in hortis aut suburbanis suis, sed Neapoli in celeberrimo oppido in tunica pulla saepe vidi…

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niveas: Briseïda pulla decebant).81 It is unclear whether Ovid is reflecting social practice or merely being outrageous here; J. Sebesta has noted that “Ovid’s suggestion indicates that pullus was an acceptable nonmourning color, for women at least”. But R. Gibson states that pullus does not refer to the actual mourning shade, but stands in as a term meaning “dark stuff ” or “darker colors”, which look best on fair-skinned women.82 These are the only two extant references to this practice. But if there did exist a form of “emotional” black in Roman antiquity, it must surely have been visually distinct from the pullus of the poor. Anne Hollander has noted that after 1850 in Europe servants, shop girls and clerks dressed in black, but that black could also be “chic”. She explains how the two colors were distinguished: For the rich, conspicuously consumed “emotional” black could be of fragile velvet, superfine wool, or silk gauze, and intricately cut and trimmed…Null black was economical and hard-wearing and did not show stains, and looked it. The similarity in color…was carefully offset by differences in cut and usage to preserve the artificially separate meanings. If, in 1880, maid and mistress were both dressed in black…the similarity of color was unremarkable to the wearers because two totally differing, significant ways of wearing black were known to be in effect.83

It is possible that something similar was in place in Roman antiquity. The woman in “emotional” or chic black (as opposed to mourning or poor black) might have been wearing jewelry and other items of adornment, and surely fabric and dye must have distinguished these types of garments from the pulla vestis of the poor. The same may have held true

When Briseis is taken from Achilles and given to Agamemnon (Il. 1.318 ff), “Ovid imagines her dressed at that moment in a dark shade (suitable to her bereavement) which complemented her snow-white complexion” (Ovid Ars Amatoria Book 3, ed. R. Gibson [2003] 170-171). 82 Sebesta 1994b (above, n. 2) 75 n. 32; Gibson (above, n. 81) 170. 83 Hollander (above, n. 74) 380. She also outlines what black on both mistress and maid would have meant in 1380 and 1580. 81

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for men. Seneca and Festus both mention that dark clothing can be made praetexta, with a purple stripe.84 And of course, pullus was the hue of mourning as well as the clothing of the poor. Were these two distinguished in any way? The color pullus of mourning and the color pullus of the poor may in fact have been two different shades (deliberately dyed mourning rather than undyed gray or brown wool, for instance). When Tacitus wants to emphasize the people are in mourning he describes them as atrata plebes rather than pullata (Ann. 3.2).85 Or it may have been the item of clothing itself which distinguished poor clothing from mourning: mourners wore the toga, poor citizens the tunic. Thus pullatus meant “clad in a gray tunic”; but surely poor citizens must have owned togas, even if they were grayish or dark. In addition, perhaps fabric, dye, cut of garment, or amount of material used may have served to mark the different usages of black. In Quattrocento Florence, even male mourning clothing could be rich and expensive: sporting long and sumptuous mourning mantles, or lined with fur. This was especially true for women. For example, the widow Matinella Bardi sported “an extravagant outfit which consumed over twice the usual yardage of cloth, and a fur mantle and hood”. In 1380 Valorino Ciurianni “spent almost 55 florins to dress his father’s widow, Lisa Frescobaldi, in a sumptuous outfit that cost more than twice the amount he spent to dress himself, a manservant, and his father’s corpse”. The elaborate cloth, sumptuous linings, and multiple veils offered yet another way “for households and women themselves to assert their wealth and status”.86 But if mourning garments were supposed to connote humility, bereaved Romans may not have wanted to distinguish themselves strongly from the poor. This may have been one reason why men wore the toga pulla only on the day of the funeral. Perhaps upper-class Roman women, who might assume mourning garments for up to two years, were more likely to lend distinction to that mourning by rich dyes and expen-

Sen. Con. 9.5.1 vagabatur lugubri sordidaque praetexta (a boy’s toga); Fest. 272L and Paul ex Fest. 273L. 85 See Woodman and Martin (above, n. 56) 86. 86 Strocchia (above, n. 18) 126, 25. 84

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sive cloth.87 Varro (ap. Nonius 869L) does tell us that “in adverse times or in mourning, women removed all rather fine and costly clothing” (cum omnem vestitum delicatiorem ac luxuriosum); the force of the comparative may suggest that women in mourning were not without some sartorial signs of their status.

VII. Sordes Vestes sordidi or sordes were not gray or black togas but those of ordinary light-colored wool which had been dirtied or sullied. In some periods, if a capital accusation was launched against a man, he and his family and friends put on vestes sordidi, i.e., sullied or dirty clothing.88 The man also habitually laid aside the insignia of office. In Cicero’s day, vestes sordidi could also be donned in times of political crisis or national emergency to demonstrate a unified political purpose, and the practice of vestem mutare was an official protest decreed by the Republican Senate during which large numbers of citizen males were encouraged to exchange their clean togas for sordes.89 But a senatorial decree of vestem mutare was not strictly necessary: the act could also be done by smaller groups of men in private remonstration to mark a more specific solidarity (see Cic. Vat. 30, 31).

87 In Quattrocento Florence, actual legal distinctions were drawn between black clothing especially intended for mourning (panni neri imbastiti), ordinary black clothes (vestiti di nero) and lesser degrees of mourning (panni bruni). See Strocchia (above, n. 18) 213. 88 The OLD translates as “unfulled”. On fulling in antiquity, see now M. Bradley, “‘It all comes out in the wash’: looking harder at the Roman fullonica”, JRA 15 (2002) 21-44; M. Flohr, “Fullones and Roman society: a reconsideration”, JRA 16 (2003) 447-450; A. Wilson, “The archaeology of the Roman fullonica”, JRA 16 (2003) 442-446. 89 See Heskel (above, n. 46) 142-143, an excellent study of the topic. Most of the extant examples of vestem mutare occur in the works of Cicero. At ad Quir. 13 the senators and knights were forbidden by “peremptory edicts” (edictis… imperiis) to practice mutare vestes for Cicero. See also Dom. 55, 99; Planc. 87; Sest. 26-27, 32-33, 144-146; Plut. Cic. 30-31; Dio 38.16.3. Livy 26.29.3 reports that in 210 BCE Sicilians are cum veste sordida because they do not wish Marcellus as governor.

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We hear more about women in actual mourning garments, but it seems they could also don vestes sordidi. It may be as well that sordes was sometimes employed as a synonym for lugubria. Thus Tullia (Cic. Dom. 59) is both in mourning and wearing sordidi for her father when he is in exile (sordesque lugubres); likewise, Seneca (Con. 9.5.1) speaks of a young boy’s sullied mourning toga (vagabatur lugubri sordidaque praetexta).90 Varro (ap. Non. 869L, cited above) tells us that women laid aside all rather fine and costly clothing in adverse times as well as in mourning. Ennius (Telamon 283, ap. Non. 253L) describes Eriboea in her grief at the death of her son Ajax as “stretched out on the ground she washed with tears her squalid and dirty tunic” (strata terrae lavere lacrimis vestem squalam et sordidam). Livy (3.47.1) reports that when Verginius in 449 BCE went to the Forum to canvas support for his daughter’s plight, he was in vestes sordidi and Verginia was in shabby clothing (obsoleta veste). Like pullus, sordes and related words could also indicate the clothing of the poor. Thus the word can denote the dirt associated with poverty (Hor. Carm. 2.10.7; Cal. Ecl. 7.80), lowness of condition or birth (Cic. Brut. 224; Hor. Epod. 17.46; Sen. Con. 9.1.11), or the meanest element of a population (Cic. Att. 1.16.11, Pis. 62; Petr. Sat.126.5; Pliny Epp. 7.29.3).91 Juvenal at 3.149 speaks of a toga sordidula, the dirty little toga of a poor man. The clothing of poor women is also described in this way. In Apul. Met. 3.8.1 the mother of the “deceased” is dressed in tattered rags (pannis horridis obsita), which indicate her poverty but is possibly also a reference to sordidi. Terence variously describes a courtesan and a slave girl as “shabby”.92

90 See also Fest. 272L and Paul ex Fest. 273L: praetexta pulla nulli alii licebat uti, quam ei qui funus faciebat. 91 On dirt see Bradley (above, n. 88); A. Scobie, “Slums, sanitation, and mortality in the Roman world”, Klio 68 (1986) 399-433; W. Scheidel, “Germs for Rome”, in Rome the Cosmopolis, edd. C. Edwards and G. Woolf (2003) 158-176. 92 Ter. Eun. 937 harum videre inluviem sordes inopiam (of a female courtesan); Heaut. 297-299 (a slave girl is sordidata and sordida, indicating her mistress is chaste and upright) magnum hoc quoque signumst, dominam esse extra noxiam, / quom eius tam necleguntur internuntii). For male slaves described in this fashion, see Pl. As. 497; Cic. Pis. 67, Phil. 2.73.

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VIII. Head coverings

1. Ricinium

In nineteenth century Europe, in part because of the sartorial presence of chic black and poor black, a special headdress was adopted to indicate widowhood (a cap with a veil which ran into a peak on the forehead, called the “widow’s peak”).93 A few ancient literary sources indicate that the Roman widow also had a special head covering or mantle. Usually named as the ricinium or recinium,94 it seems to have been a mantle worn over the shoulders and head, assumed in place of the palla.95 It was an archaic garment: Varro (L. 5.132) named the ricinium as the female garment of greatest antiquity (antiquissimi amictui ricinium). Varro also tells us (ap. Non. 869L, above) that when women lay aside all rather fine and costly clothing, they put on ricinia (ricinia sumunt). Cicero mentioned ricinia in quoting a passage from the XII Tables. Funerals, he writes (de Leg. 2.59), were allowed three ricinia, a small purple tunic, and ten flute players (tribus riciniis et tunicla purpurea et decem tibicinibus). A passage from Varro (ap. Non. 882L) cited above seems to imply that female mourners changed mantles according to parts of the funerary ritual.

Hollander (above, n. 74) 382. On the clothing of widows and on their special head covering, see D.E.E. Kleiner, “The great friezes of the Ara Pacis Augustae: Greek sources, Roman derivatives, and Augustan social policy”, in Roman art in context: An anthology, ed. E. D'Ambra (1993) 27-52; Sebesta 1994a (above, n. 2) 50; Wilson 1938 (above, n. 2) 150-151; L. Sensi, “Ornatus e status sociale delle donne romane”, in ALFPer 54 (1980-81) 65. But opinion is divided on this subject: L. AllasonJones (Women in Roman Britain [1989] 114) states that there is “no evidence to indicate whether the wearing of a headdress was related to a particular period of a woman's life” (such as widowhood); see also Croom (above, n. 2) 115. 95 The palla was the cloak or mantle ideally drawn up over a woman’s head when she went outdoors: Isid. Orig. 19.25; Val. Max. 6.3.10; Sen. Con. 2.7.6; Prop. 2.23.13. For the use of the palla, see Olson 2002 (above, n. 2) 391-392. 93 94

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The garment is also mentioned, however, by authors who do not reference luctus as well. Thus the ricinium may have had a function unconnected with mourning, or the term may have come to function as a synonym for the palla. Festus (342L) defines the ricinium as an ancient garment of general use, tells us it is praetexta, and further defines it as a “man’s toga” (?) used by women. Serv. (ad Aen. 1.282) describes the ricinium as the original garment for women, saying that “moreover women had togas, as the use of the ricinium and of cyclades shows. The ricinium is so called from the fact that it is ‘thrown behind’ the back (which garment they commonly call the mafurtium)”.96 And Nonius (869L) states that “the ricinium, which now we call the mafurtium, is a short palliola worn by women” (ricinium, quod nunc mafurtium dicitur, palliolum femineum breve…). Festus (342L) considers the ricinium almost a generic term for any four-sided mantle, and in fact mentions it in relation to mime-dancers (omne vestimentum quadratum…unde reciniati mimi planipedes). Isidore (following Servius and Varro?) states “likewise also the ricinium is so called by that Latin name because a doubled part of it is ‘thrown back’, which vulgarly they call the mafurtium”.97 Novius, the writer of Atellan farces, in his Paedio (71) seems to have mentioned a ricinum in a list of female clothing: “a molucina, a yellow dress, a sleeved tunic, a rica, a ricinus”.98 Thus the ricinium may have had a func-

96 Festus: recinium omne vestimentum quadratum [h]i qui XII interpretati sunt esse dixerunt †vir toga† mulieres utebantur, praetextam clavo purpureo. Servius: togas autem etiam feminas habuisse, cycladum et recini usus ostendit. Recinus autem dicitur ab eo, quod post tergum reicitur quod vulgo maforte dicunt. A cyclas was a woman’s outer garment having a decorative border or fringe of gold or purple, and which was apparently a sign of wealth (see Juv. 6.259 [tenui…in cyclade]; Prop. 4.7.40 [aurata cyclade]). E. Courtney (A commentary on the Satires of Juvenal [1980] 291) states the cyclas is described as circumtextum by Servius (ad Aen. 1.649). 97 Isid. Orig. 19.25.4 idem et ricinium Latino nomine appellatum eo quod dimidia eius pars retro reicitur; quod vulgo mavortem dicunt. Vocatum autem mavortem quasi Martem; signum enim maritalis dignitatis et potestatis in eo est. 98 Ap. Non. 880L: molucinam, crocotam, cheridotam, ricam, ricinum. (The last word is the adjective ricinus/a/um, “made from or resembling a rica.”) For molucina, see OLD s.v. “? moluchium ~(i), n. [perh.] A women’s ornament”.

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tion unconnected with mourning, or the term may have come to function as a synonym for the palla. Clearly there are questions here which remain unanswered by the sources: whether the ricinium differed from the palla in terms of color, size, and function, and how and when it was worn. The ricinium may have been distinguished from the palla in layers of fabric. Indeed, Varro stated that women wore it “double-folded” (duplex, probably meaning having a double layer of cloth), with “half thrown back” (this part of the definition is probably due to a false etymology, possibly from reicio; see the Servius passage below). The term duplex is puzzling, but may mean it was folded upon itself before being draped around the shoulders.99 In Servius ad Aen. 4.262, the togas that the flamines and augurs wear are duplex: perhaps the double layer of wool had a religious significance? Varro in his Taphe Menippou (538, ap. Non. 869L) asserts “nothing can be called more feminine than the ricinium, that is, the pallium simplex” (simplex meaning, possibly, having a single layer of cloth).100 Note that elsewhere (Varro L. 5.132) the ricinium is described as duplex (having a double layer); so possibly he uses the term here as a synonym for the palla. The ricinium is described as the costume of the Roman widow by some modern authors,101 although Wilson believes that “by the close of 99 Var. L. 5.132 id quod eo utebantur duplici, ab eo quod dimidiam partem retrorsum iaciebant, ab reiciendo ricinium dictum; 133 Laena quod de lana multa, duarum etiam togarum instar; ut antiquissimum mulierum ricinium, sic hoc duplex virorum. Puzzling: L. Bonfante-Warren, “Roman costume: a glossary and some Etruscan derivations”, in ANRW 1.4 (1973) 608-609. She also points out that the laena was draped over both shoulders and hanging in a curve front and back (another possible meaning of the word duplex). 100 Non. 869L …Varro Taphe Menippou (538): ‘nihilo magis dicere muliebre quam ricinium, pallium simplex’. This employs the emendation of Mueller in his 1888 edition of Nonius. (Lindsay has nihilo magis dicere muliebre quam de muliebri ricinio, pallium simplex.) On the pallium simplex, see Sebesta 1994a (above, n. 2) 53 n. 44. 101 Sebesta 1994a (above n. 2) 50; Sebesta 2005 (above, n. 2) 117; Kleiner (above, n. 94) 33; Sensi (above, n. 94) 65. Festus (342L) tells us that the ricinium was praetexta, banded with a purple stripe. M. Torelli (Lavinio e Roma: riti iniziatici e matrimonio tra archeologia e storia [1984] 71) argues that the widow wore the praetextate ricinium because she had reverted to her former state as an unmarried girl, when she would have worn the toga praetexta.

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the fourth century, the mourning veil seems no longer to have been known by this name”.102 It is important to note as well that the garment was not exclusively female: riciniatus (i.e., wearing a ricinium) is used in CIL 6.2060 line 18 of the fratres arvales (see also CIL 6.2068 col. II line 9, from the Domitianic period, and 6.2041 line 1).

2. Rica The rica was a little ricinium, though exactly how much smaller is unclear. The term, as Wilson notes, is “used of three or four articles of similar shape”.103 Like the ricinium, the rica appears to have been a garment with some history, and similarly, we are unable to form a clear idea of its appearance and function. Unhelpfully, the word usually occurs simply in lists of female clothing, such as the one in Plautus’ Epidicus 232 (ricam, basilicum [sc. vestimentum] aut exoticum [sc. vestimentum]). Nonius has several examples as well, quoting Serenus (“a girdle or a rica or a hairpin”), Novius (“a molucina, a yellow dress, a sleeved dress, a rica, a ricinus”), and Lucilius (“a gold-ornamented sleeved tunic [chirodytus], ricae, an under-vest, Eastern headdresses”).104 All this tells us is that the rica was conventionally held to be a female garment. Sometimes rica seems to have been employed as a synonym for “mantle” or even “veil”. Nonius quotes Varro’s Prometheus Liber (433): “a mitra [an Eastern headdress] with a rica or a fine woolen mitra”.105

Wilson 1938 (above, n. 2) 151. Wilson 1938 (above, n. 2) 151. See also Sensi (above, n. 94) 64-65. 104 All Non. 865L (and 880L). Serenus: aut zonulam aut ricam aut acum. Novius: see above, n. 98. Luc. Sat. 2.26: chirodyti aurati, ricae, thoracia, mitrae. The chirodytus was probably a sleeved tunic, worn by women and effeminate men: see the fragment of Scipio Aemilianus’ speech against P. Sulpicius Galus (142 BCE) in ORF2 127 cum chiridota tunica inferior accubuerit; Gell. NA 6.12.5. For the mitra, see below. 105 Non. 866L: aliae mitram ricinam aut mitram Melitensem. (Here again the adjective ricinus/a/um, “made from or resembling a rica”.) The TLL (s.v. ‘mitra’ coll. 1160-1161) defines the mitra as “a protection for the head (sc. vitta), which is wrapped around the head, or rather a curved pilleolus ending in a point, which is tied by ribbons at the chin” (tegumentum capitis sc. vitta, quae circum caput 102 103

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Nonius (865L) says “the rica is what we call a sudarium [a handkerchief]” (rica est quod nos sudarium dicimus). The face of Germanicus Caesar’s Iustitia is described as “hidden by a rica”.106 Gellius (NA 7.10.4) describes the Greek Euclides disguised as a woman with the help of a rica (and see Fest. 342L on the rica, below).107 Some authors designate the rica as a religious garment, and these references are more descriptive. Varro (L. 5.130) gives an (incorrect) etymology for rica from ritus, since “according to Roman religious ceremony, when women make a sacrifice they veil their heads” (sic rita ab ritu, quod Romano ritu sacrificium feminae cum faciunt, capita velant). Festus 342L tells us that “little ricinia are called ricae or riculae, little mantles [palliolae] worn on the head. Granius indeed says that this is a feminine band/covering for the head, by which instead of a vitta [fillet] the flaminica is encircled”.108 Festus (368L) describes the rica as triplex, possibly with three layers of cloth. Festus and Paul. ex Fest. state the rica is part of the costume of the wives of the flamines, that it was a four-

obvolvitur sive pilleolus incurvatus in angustum desinens, qui redimiculis a mento alligatur). There are literary instances of both men and women wearing this headgear. 106 Germ. Arat. 123-24 [Iustitia] seraque ab excelsis descendens montibus ore / velato tristisque genas abscondita rica… 107 Space precludes an in-depth discussion of female veiling practices in the Roman world here. There is an interesting disjunction between the artistic and literary evidence in this regard: literary sources speak of women with covered heads, while artistic sources do not always present us with this picture. In Olson 2002 (above, n. 2) 391-392, I argue briefly that this is because the literary sources present us with prescription, rather than description, and also because such sources may function as literary shorthand: the veil stands in for the sexually upright married woman. Although the Greek sources display a similar disjunction, Llewellyn-Jones (above, n. 11) 10 attributes this to different reasons: “representations of female dress…, and female veiling in particular, are especially prone to artistic contortions”. Or perhaps (11) there were “trends and fashions in the depiction of veiled women which varied over time and place, but not necessarily that the veil itself was considered unimportant for women to wear at corresponding times and places”. For types of veils in the Greek world, see Llewellyn-Jones 41-84. 108 Fest. 342L ricae et riculae vocantur parva ricinia, ut palliola ad usum capitis facta. Gran quidem ait esse muliebre cingulum capitis, quo pro vitta flaminica redimiatur.

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sided purple garment (vestimentum), and that it was fringed.109 Festus then goes onto assert that “others say that it is made from fresh white wool, that virgins make [it], virgins who are freeborn citizens with fathers and mothers still alive, and that it is dyed with a blue color”.110 Gellius (NA 10.15.28) tells us that the flaminica Dialis wore “a twig from a fruitful tree in her rica” (et quod in rica surculum de arbore felici habet) and (10.15.27) a venenatum, a dyed piece of clothing (veluti est quod venenato operitur), implying the flaminica wore two mantles, the pallium and the rica.111 Vestals wore a small head covering in addition to their cloak (the suffibulum).112 Or possibly he refers to one cloak, the dyed rica. Servius

Fest. 368L; Paul ex Fest. 369L rica est vestimentum quadratum, fimbriatum, purpureum, quo flaminicae pro palliolo utebantur. A Vestal’s linen cloth at Val Max. 1.1.7 (carbasum optimum) may possibly also refer to the rica. Fringe on garments: see Var. L. 5.79 (on blankets); Cels. 2.6.6; Apul. Met. 11.3 (cloak of Isis); Suet. Iul. 45.3; Petr. Sat. 32. Fringe was simply the warp end of weaving left unfinished (Barber [above, n. 38] 274). 110 Fest. 368L, Paul. ex Fest. 369L: alii dicunt, quod ex lana fiat sucida alba, quod conficiunt virgines ingenuae, patrimae, matrimae, cives, et inficiatur caeruleo colore. 111 Elsewhere we are told the flaminica Dialis (the wife of the priest of Jupiter) wore the bridal veil or flammeum. Nonius' statement (869L) that the flammeum was the veil worn continuously by matronae (flammeus, vestis vel tegmen quo capita matronae tegunt) has been rejected by modern scholars, and interpreted as “a careless statement of a well-known wedding custom” (F.M. Dana, The ritual significance of yellow among the Romans [diss. University of Pennsylvania 1919] 13-14). Nonius must simply mean that matronae wore head-coverings. 112 The clothing of Vestals is difficult to determine (Croom [above, n. 2] 114) as the artistic evidence displays a variety of tunics, some possibly even Hellenistic, and the literary evidence is scant. Vestals’ (shorn) hair was supposedly concealed with the infula, red (?) and white woolen ribbons coiled round the head and tied at the back with the ends hanging over the shoulders in long loops (Serv. ad Aen.10.538). Over this they wore a short white mantle fastened with a brooch and bordered with purple (the suffibulum, on which see Paul. ex Fest. 475L). But some images show them bare-headed or with a regular mantle. Even a Vestal virgin was allowed some adornment: a Vestal in Sen. Con. 6.8 seems to live a modest life because she possesses no finery (cultus) that is overly-luxurious (luxuriosior; see also Livy 4.44.11). Tertullian (de Pall. 4.10) accuses women of wanting to become Vestals solely on the basis of the clothes. On Vestal clothing, see further Bonfante-Warren (above n. 99) 612 (the suffibulum and the seni 109

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also tells us that the flaminica Dialis wore a dyed pallium (either the rica itself or in addition to the rica): It is signified that [the flaminica] is covered when ‘pallium’ is used, moreover a dyed piece of cloth…therefore the flaminica is directed to have an arculus, a dyed rica, a fibula. Concerning the dyed [rica enough] has been said…and concerning the fibula it is cleared up when [Virgil] said “she fastened her purple garment below with a golden fibula”. What else is ‘subnectit’ other than “to fasten below” and by this to make a woman girt? And we are able to accept ‘rica’ as ‘vestis,’ because the rica is a type of clothing”.113

Elsewhere, Servius states that “the flaminica ought to be covered with a dyed cloth, for when [Virgil] says ‘a cloak’, he says she is veiled, which thing refers to the pallium”.114 So it appears that the rica was a peculiarly female garment, sometimes associated with ritual activity and with flaminicae. Notably, the rica is not spoken of by ancient authors in a mourning context, an observation which will become important below.

crines); and L. Bonfante and E. Jaunzems, “Clothing and ornament,” in Civilization of the ancient Mediterranean: Greece and Rome, edd. M. Grant and R. Kitzinger, vol. III (1988) 1402-1403; also A. Staples, From Good Goddess to Vestal Virgins: Sex and category in Roman religion (1998) 145-147. For the hairstyle of Vestals, see Bonfante-Warren (above, n. 99) 43, fig. 9; La Follette (above, n. 2) 57-60. La Follette 63 n. 32 lists monuments depicting Vestals. 113 Ad Aen. 4.137 operta autem cum dicitur pallium significatur, venenatum autem infectum…propterea flaminicam habere praecipitur arculum, ricam venenatam, fibulam. de venenata dictum est… nam de fibula manifestum est cum ait ‘aurea purpuream subnectit fibula vestem.’ ‘subnectit’ autem quid aliud est, quam sursum nectit ac per hoc succinctam facit? ‘vestem’ vero possumus ricam accipere, quia rica genus est vestis. This employs a reading from several different MSS: G (propterea for praeterea); T (venenatam for venenatum); and FT (venenata for venenato). See Servii Grammatici qui feruntur in Vergilii carmina commentarii, edd. G. Thilo and H. Hagen (1881-1902), vol. I 488. The arculus appears to have been an ornament for the head: TLL s.v. ‘arcula’ coll. 474-75; s.v. ‘arculus’ col. 475. On Vestal clothing, see above, n. 112. 114 Serv. ad Aen. 12.602 flaminica enim venenato operiri debet: nam cum ‘amictus’ dicit, opertam dicit, quae res ad pallium refertur.

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The two mantles described above do not appear to have been the same. While Festus (342L) implies that the garments were of a similar shape, they were likely not of equal size. The ricinium was a mantle, named by some authors as a cloak of mourning. The rica seems to have been a smaller version of this (how much smaller is unclear), spoken of in a religious rather than a mourning context. Although it is usually merely noted in lists of feminine clothing, Festus gives us more detail: it was purple or blue, fringed, and both he and Servius state it was the garment of the flaminicae. Varro seems to equate it with a garment for sacrificing.

Source: Paris Louvre, MA 1088. Credit: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, NY.

Figure 1. Detail from the north frieze of the Ara Pacis.

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Several modern authors however name the ricinium as the distinctive mantle of the widow, and detect it in Roman art by its fringed border. Thus, the woman at the juncture of the third and fourth panels of the north frieze of the Ara Pacis (fig. 1) has been identified by some as Augustus’ daughter Julia, the widow of Agrippa,115 because of this mantle. Kleiner states that “the fringed shawl or ricinium of a widow is draped across her left shoulder…Julia is represented in widow’s garb, which alludes to Agrippa’s death in 12 BC”.116 A woman in the second group of the north frieze (again, fig. 1) is also wearing a fringed mantle, identified as a ricinium, “indicating that she is a widow”. She has been variously identified again according to this mantle.117 But as we have seen, the literary sources do not describe the mourning mantle or ricinium as fringed. Festus says this of the rica, a little ricinium, which is named not as a mourning garment but as a sacrificial or religious one. In addition, some ancient literary sources state that if a woman was in mourning she would not participate in public sacrifices and (presumably) ritual processions like that depicted on the Ara Pacis (Paul. S. 1.21.14; Livy 22.56.5). Finally, as one scholar has noted, it

115 For identifications of this figure, see R. Billows, “The religious procession of the Ara Pacis Augustae: Augustus’ supplicatio in 13 BC”, in JRS 6 (1993) 91; H. Gabelmann, “Römische Kinder in Toga Praetexta”, JDAI 100 (1985) 523524; M. George, “A Roman funerary monument with a mother and daughter”, in Dixon 2001a (above, n. 5) 185; W. Helbig, Führer durch die öffentlichen Sammlungen klassischer Altertümer in Rom vol. II, Die Staatlichen Sammlungen (Ara Pacis) (1966) 686; C.B. Rose, “‘Princes’ and barbarians on the Ara Pacis”, in D’Ambra (above, n. 94) 64; E. Simon, “Das neugefundene Bildnis des Gaius Caesar in Mainz”, MZ 58 (1963) 9-10, and also her Ara Pacis Augustae (1967) 21. But not all scholars concur here: W.B. Gercke (Untersuchungen zum römischen Kinderporträt von den Anfängen bis in hadrianische Zeit [1968] 135-136) follows K. Hanell’s earlier identification (in “Das Opfer des Augustus an der Ara Pacis”, OpRom 2 [1960] 87) of this woman as a Vestal Virgin. 116 Kleiner (above, n. 94) 33 and 49 n. 23. Kleiner states that the woman is also wrapped in a thick palla, but I am unable to detect this as separate from the fringed mantle. 117 As Augustus’ sister Octavia, among others. See Kleiner (above, n. 94) 34; also (each above, n. 115) Helbig II 686; Simon 1967, 21; Gercke 136; Rose 64.

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would be wrong to identify this mantle as the ricinium (although the woman, he believes, is definitely Julia), as “Julia was betrothed to Tiberius shortly after Agrippa’s death, and had already been his wife for two years at the time in which the altar was inaugurated”.118 It is more likely I think that the cloaks the women wear on the north frieze of the Ara Pacis are cloaks for sacrificing, or garments which otherwise indicate a religious role. It is possible, for instance, that the women are flaminicae, the wives of the flamines. Three flamines (the flamines maiores?) appear together on the south side procession; it is not without significance perhaps that the only two women in fringed cloaks appear together, in the north frieze. The fragmentary nature of this frieze makes it difficult to determine whether there were more than two women or flaminicae (three would be the expected number). And the heads are missing as well, so whether or not the women sported tutuli, the beehive-like hairstyle which was supposed to mark flaminicae, is also open to question.119 Unfortunately, “nearly all available information about flaminicae concerns the wife of [the] flamen Dialis”; for this reason, some scholars have claimed only one flaminica existed.120 But there are references to other or

Rose (above, n. 115) 72 n. 59. He does not elaborate however on what the mantle might signify. Bartman thinks the woman is Julia, but describes her cloak not as the ricinium but as “a favorite type of fringed shawl woven from heavier fabric” for which she adduces Hellenistic models (E. Bartman, Portraits of Livia: Imaging the imperial woman in Augustan Rome [1999] 44). 119 Anything remotely resembling the tutulus is absent from the bulk of surviving female portraits; Bonfante-Warren believes that the tutulus died out as a hairstyle around 480 BCE, but survived in a ritual capacity as the seni crines, the ritual hairstyle of the bride and the flaminica (1973 [above, n. 99] 596 and pls. 89; and see L. Bonfante, Etruscan dress [updated ed., 2003] 75-76). But see Sebesta 1994a (above, n. 2) 49-50, who speaks of the tutulus as though it were the everyday hairstyle of the Roman matrona. Descriptions are extant in the ancient authors: “they say that the hairstyle on the heads of the flaminicae is called the tutulus, which is made by means of a purple fillet woven throughout the hair, and the [hairstyle] is piled up to a height” (Fest. 484-486L tutulus: vocari aiunt flaminicarum capitis ornamentum, quod fiat vitta purpurea innexa crinibus, et exstructum in altitudinem…”). See also Var. L. 7.44. 120 J. Vanggaard, The flamen: A study in the history and sociology of Roman religion (1988) 30. See here 22-23, 30-31 and n. 1. 118

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multiple flaminicae in our authors. Macrobius (Sat. 3.13.11) states that at a dinner given by the flamen Martialis L. Cornelius Lentulus Niger, his wife the flaminica Publicia was present (ipsius uxor Publicia flaminica). J. Vanggaard concludes that since the wife of the flamen Martialis was called flaminica, “it is most probable that the wives of all three flamines maiores bore the priestly title of flaminica”, and that they all had sacred duties to perform.121 Festus refers to flaminicae and their ricae at 368L (and see Paul ex Fest. 369L, above). At 484-486L he refers again to flaminicae in the plural, and describes their distinctive hairstyle, the tutulus. Servius names a secespita, a sacrificial knife, which, he says, flamines, flaminicae, virgines and pontifices use at sacrifices (ad Aen. 4.262; see also on 11.543). So it is not unlikely that the women in fringed cloaks on the north frieze of the Ara Pacis are wearing them in a ritual context, and they may in fact be flaminicae, or women in other religious roles, rather than widows.122 The identification of women on the Ara Pacis as “widows” or religious figures necessarily has ramifications for the classification of the other figures as well. The young boy who follows the first woman in fig. 1 has been named as Julia’s and Agrippa’s son Gaius (or possibly Lucius) Caesar. This is based on supposing the woman’s garment that of a widow (and hence identifying the woman as Julia). The boy is dressed as a camillus in a short tunic and fringed mantle. Gercke has pointed out, however, that a condition of being a camillus was to have two parents living, and thus identifies the boy as a nameless camillus and the woman as a Vestal virgin.123 By way of contrast, it is noteworthy that portraits of known widows from the first century CE do not show the woman wearing the fringed

121 Vanggaard (above, n. 120) 31. Whether the wives of the flamines minores were also called flaminicae is unknown. 122 The supposition that the women are religious figures might find some correspondence in the episode the frieze itself portrays, if we knew the exact nature of the occasion depicted (whether the dedicatio of the altar or other event). For a summary of scholarly conjectures, see Billows (above, n. 115) passim. 123 Gercke (above, n. 115) 135-136. C.B. Rose (above, n. 115) 64 names the boy as Gaius dressed as a camillus: “a mappa or fringed cloth has been draped over Gaius’ shoulder, and marks him as a camillus or acolyte who assists at an offering…”

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ricinium, supposedly “the” mark of a widow. Portraits of Antonia Minor, for example, dated to after 9 BCE, do not show the fringed cloak.124 Nor do portraits of Agrippina I, datable to after 19 CE, clothe her in this garment.125 If such a mantle was truly the marker of widowed status at Rome, it is odd that portraits of known widows do not display it. Antonia Minor, especially, was renowned as an univira,126 and one might think this status would be reflected in her portraits. One statue, now in the Capitoline Museums in Rome, shows a woman in a similar cloak, which bears likeness to a portrait type of Julia Domna. The statue has been assigned various dates, although the most likely is between 193 and the first years of the third century.127 She wears a mantle which is fringed, very similar to the ones worn by the “widows” on the Ara Pacis. It is unlikely that this garment signifies the woman’s widowed status (and interestingly, I am not able to discover any identification of the woman as a widow). It is probably a cloak for sacrificing, meant to indicate pietas, like the mantles on the Ara Pacis, or to indicate another religious role. If she is meant to be a flaminica, however, she lacks the distinctive cone-shaped hairstyle, the tutulus. Her head is covered, probably in a ritual context rather than from reasons of modesty:

124 See conveniently S.E. Wood, Imperial Women: A study in public images, 40 BC-AD 68 (1999) pls. 59-68. These include posthumous portraits, and several in Greek dress. 125 See again Wood (above, n. 124) pls. 86, 87. 126 On the univira, Humbert 31-58; Treggiari 233-236 (both above, n. 8). 127 Rome, Museo Capitolino, salon 15, inv. 636. For identifications of this figure, see J.J. Bernoulli, Römische Ikonographie vol. II 3 (1894) 46 (Diva Julia?); K. Buchholz, Die Bildnisse der Kaiserinnen der severischen Zeit nach ihren Frisuren 193-235 n. Chr. (1963) 146 (Flavian); K. Fittschen and P. Zanker, Katalog der römischen Porträts in den Capitolinischen Museen und den anderen kommunalen Sammlungen der Stadt Rom vol. III: Kaiserinnen- und Prinzessinnenbildnesse Frauenporträts (1983) fig. 168, no. 141; H. Stuart Jones, A catalogue of the ancient sculptures preserved in the municipal collections of Rome. The sculptures of the Museo Capitolino (1912) 285 no. 15, figure 69 (Severan); J. Meischner, Das Frauenporträt der Severerzeit (diss. Berlin, 1964) 150, no. 69, 152 ff (middle Severan period); A. Linfert, Kunstzentren hellenistischer Zeit: Studien an weiblichen Gewandfiguren (1976) 150 n. 596 no. 98; G. Lippold, Kopien und Umbildungen (1923) 219 (early third century); R. Schlüter, Die Bildnisse der Kaiserin Iulia Domna (diss. Münster 1977) 153 ff (not Julia Domna); E. Schmidt, Römische Frauenstatuen (1967) 136 (early Severan period).

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women did not always veil their heads, as the literary sources prescribed (see above). In sum, it is unlikely that the fringed mantle in Roman art is in fact the ricinium, the mantle of the widow; this represents a misreading of the literary sources on clothing. The fringed mantle or rica is named only once in the literary sources (by Festus) and he describes it as the garment of the flaminicae, not as the mourning cloak of the widow. It is true that the fringed ricae worn in a ritual context were “smaller” than the larger ricinia worn for mourning (and the mantles on the women in the north frieze and on the Severan statue do look quite large), although the size of the rica remains unclear. The shade of the paint used for the cloaks on the Ara Pacis and the Severan statue (black, or blue/purple) would have gone far in helping to identify the piece of clothing in question as a mourning or ritual mantle. Given the nature of the extant artistic evidence, it is evidently often difficult to pinpoint certain particulars of dress such as decorative details and color.

X. Conclusions Female mourning clothing has been emphasized in this study because women were more often in formal mourning than men (due to the fact that men did not formally mourn after the funeral of their friend or relation), and thus probably appeared more frequently in dark clothing. These female garments were distinctive in color but not in style: women in mourning wore black or dark tunics and mantles, perhaps even dark stolae. There were various ways to describe “black” in Roman antiquity. Pullus can be translated variously, to mean black, dark grey, or “dark”, and is a color often associated with mourning, bad luck, and death. Ater and niger, among other terms, also have connotations of bereavement and grieving. Female mourning clothing was not legally regulated, however, and it is likely that social pressure dictated the assumption and removal of mourning garments rather than any legislation concerning the mourning period (although it appears that this had changed by Gordian’s time: a rescript does refer to legislation in this area). In Cicero’s day, at least, it seems that men removed their dark togas immediately after the funeral. The Romans employed other sartorial signs to

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indicate grief: men and women would wear loosened tunics and omit outward signs of status: official insignia in the case of men, ornament and color for women. Sordes or soiled garments were worn by a man under accusation of a capital charge and by his friends and relations, and (we are told) by poor men and women. Black was used for other purposes as well. Scholars have asserted that dark clothing functioned as a visualization of the mourner’s self-abasement and her humility in grief, and like sordes, pullus is used to describe poverty and the clothing of the poor in the ancient sources. In addition, two sources suggest there was a variety of “emotional black” in Roman antiquity; that is, black as a fashionable (non-mourning) color, which was almost certainly distinguished in some way from the pullus of the poor. In addition, because of the fact that the color of mourning clothing was associated with poverty, it is likely that upper-class Roman women in mourning for up to two years would probably have taken care to distinguish themselves from poor women through cut and fineness of cloth. But as mourning was ideally supposed to indicate a lack of interest in personal appearance, this may not always have been the case. It has been asserted by several modern scholars that the Roman widow wore a special headcovering: the ricinium, detectable in Roman art by its fringed border. I have argued however that this in fact represents a misreading of the literary sources, and what the women on the north frieze of the Ara Pacis wear are probably ricae, cloaks which had ritual or religious overtones, and which are described by some authors as the costume of flaminicae. More importantly, if, as the literary sources tell us, women in mourning did not attend public sacrifices, it is even further unlikely that the women are meant to be widows. Their mantles indicate that these women are functioning in a ritual or religious role, not in the family role of widow. University of Western Ontario

Kelly Olson

A CUC KOO IN THE NES T The Roman odeon at Carthage in its urban context The Roman odeon at Carthage (Figure 1) occupies three city blocks on the summit of the so-called Odeon Hill, between cardo IV and cardo VII east, and decumanus V and decumanus VI north (Figure 2). The Hill was so named in the late 19th century, not from the odeon itself, which was still undiscovered, but from the false identification of the theater adjacent to it. This was visible as a depression in the ground even before

Figure 1. Computer-generated overhead plan of the odeon, looking north.

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Figure 2. The Odeon Hill: excavations in relation to theoretical Roman street grid.

excavation, and was mistakenly identified with the odeon whose existence at Carthage was known from Tertullian.1 The cardines run approximately south-north, the decumani west-east, terminating at their eastern end on the shore. The city blocks are four times as long from south to north as they are wide, and were apparently intended to measure 480 by 120 Roman feet. In the layout of the original Augustan colony, decumanus VI was planned as the most northerly east-west street, the decumanus ultimus, although the city expanded later beyond this, at least on the seaward side, where it benefits in summer from the sea breezes.2

Tertullian, de res. mort. 42.8. Edith Wightman, “The plan of Roman Carthage”, in John G. Pedley, ed., New light on ancient Carthage (1980) 29-46. The fundamental work on the street grid is Charles Saumagne, “Colonia Iulia Karthago”, Bull. arch. 1924 pp. 131139. 1 2

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Immediately south of the odeon and separated from it by decumanus V lay the theater, occupying four blocks, from cardo III to cardo VII. The theater, which in its original form probably dates back to the Augustan period,3 is second in size only to Utica among the theaters of Roman Africa,4 and the odeon is scarcely smaller than the theater. Its cavea measures some 100 meters in diameter, making it by far the largest odeon in the Roman empire, with an estimated seating capacity of 20,000 spectators. So vast an audience seems scarcely credible for an odeon, and we might rather think of the building as a second theater, were it not for a fragmentary inscription bearing the word ODEVM found in one of the cisterns under the stage and discussed in the next paragraph (Figure 3).

Figure 3. Cistern, now refilled, from which ODEVM inscription was recovered.

3 Karen E. Ros, “The Roman theater at Carthage”, AJA 100 (1996) 449-489; see also Ros, “Vitruvius and the design of the Carthage theater”, in Mustapha Khanoussi, Paola Ruggeri, and Cinzia Vismara, edd., L’Africa romana: Atti dell’XI convegno di studio Cartagine, 15-18 dicembre 1994 (1996) 897-910. 4 Jean-Claude Lachaux, Théâtres et amphithéâtres d’Afrique proconsulaire (1979) 26-27, table 5, lists Carthage as second only to the later theater at Utica in size, followed by Hippo Regius, the republican theater at Utica, Sabratha, and Lepcis Magna, in that order, with the rest nowhere.

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The next largest odeon that we know of is the odeon of Herodes Atticus in Athens, built a generation earlier, between 160 and 174, which is some 76 meters in diameter and is said to have seated around 5000.5 The Carthage odeon is outstanding, not only for its size, but for the richness of its decoration. Someone was prepared to invest immense resources in building it. The Carthage odeon was discovered and partially excavated by Paul Gauckler in 1900-1901.6 It was again the focus of a campaign of survey and excavation between 1994 and 2000, carried out by a team from Trinity University, Texas, and the School of Architecture at the University of Waterloo, Ontario.7 The aim of this campaign was in the first place to clarify the layout and history of the odeon complex, and secondly to link it to the four adjacent streets, cardines IV and VII east and decumani V and VI north. The identification as an odeon, despite its unprecedented size, depends essentially on the fragmentary inscription recovered by Gauckler from a collapsed cistern beneath the stage, of which the only word that can be reconstituted reads ODEVM (Figure 4).8 The building cannot for instance have been roofed, as one normally expects an odeon to be, though it may have had the same sort of cantilevered partial roofing system as has been conjectured for the odeon of Herodes Atticus,9 such as we used to find in the open-air opera house at Santa Fe.10 John Travlos, Pictorial dictionary of ancient Athens (1971) 378. Reports summarized and analyzed by Colin Wells, “Paul Gauckler et la colline de l’Odéon à Carthage”, Ktèma 21 (1996) (= Hommage à Edmond Frézouls III) 157-179. 7 Many factors have delayed the final publication of the results, and the present article is one of a number intended to put on record some of the salient conclusions while waiting. 8 Wells (above, n. 6) 167-168. At one time I tried to get away from the evidence of the inscription by rearranging the fragments to find a different reading, simply because I found it hard to believe that a building so large could be an odeon, and because the discovery seemed too good to be true, but in vain. On the other hand, A.E. Housman, CR 41 (1927) 61, thought it perverse to try to read anything but ODEVM on the inscription, and who am I to disagree with Housman? 9 George C. Izenour, Roofed theaters of classical antiquity (1992) 132-139. 10 The Santa Fe Opera used such a theater in the years 1957-1997; the new opera house that opened in 1998 is completely roofed. 5 6

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Figure 4. Fragments of inscription reassembled to yield the word ODEVM.

The two earliest phases of decumanus VI flanking the north side of the odeon complex were shown by the Trinity/Waterloo excavations to be Augustan, on the evidence of imported Italian sigillata in the makeup of the two earliest street levels, which suggests that this outlying area of the colony was developed early (Figure 5).11 Gauckler had already reported the presence of a spacious courtyard to the north of the odeon, between the northern façade of the stage building and decumanus VI. This we confirmed, locating the massive concrete foundation of the outer wall of this courtyard at three points on the south side of decumanus VI, at a depth of from 3 to 5 meters below the present ground level. The actual wall of ashlar masonry had been robbed out in the first half of the 5th century, possibly to provide material for the construction of the late Roman city wall, the so-called Theodosian Wall of ca. AD 425, which is less than a block away.12 Timothy Barnes has argued convincingly from the evidence of Tertullian that the odeon was built around AD 200, since Tertullian refers to it in a work written between 203 and 212 as having been built 11 The evidence from the 1996 excavation in the decumanus north of the odeon and just west of its theoretical junction with cardo VI is fully published by Colin Wells, Maureen Carroll, Joann Freed, and David Godden, “The construction of decumanus VI north and the economy of the early colony of Carthage”, in Carthage papers, JRA Supplement 28 (1998) 7-63. 12 See especially Colin M. Wells, “The defense of Carthage”, in J.G. Pedley, ed. (above, n. 2); also Colin Wells, James Gallagher, and Marianne Goodfellow, “Further light on the late defences at Carthage”, in Studien zu den Militärgrenzen Roms III ( = 13. Internationaler Limeskongress Aalen 1983) (1986) 673-678.

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Figure 5. Stratigraphy of successive layers of decumanus VI north.

“recently” (proxime), in a context that seems to imply that he expects his readers in Carthage to remember the occasion.13 Observations in the course of our excavation of the foundations of the courtyard wall flanking decumanus VI seem to corroborate this date. If so, this raises the question of whether the odeon was built on a virgin site, as Gauckler and others supposed, “une réserve domaniale définie dès l’origine de la colonie”, in Saumagne’s phrase,14 or whether existing buildings had to be demolished to make room for it. No earlier writer seems to have considered that the emperor himself, rather than some unknown proconsul, might have been the builder. The fact that decumanus VI was already laid out and constructed in the earliest years of the colony tells against the supposition that so large and delectable a site covering three blocks immediately south of the decumanus was left vacant for the next two centuries. Two further pieces

13 Tertullian, de res. mort. 42; cf. T.D. Barnes, Tertullian: a historical and literary study, rev. ed. (1985) 35; on the date, p. 47, with further considerations, pp. 328-329. 14 Cited and discussed by Wells (above, n. 6) 171.

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of evidence tend to the same conclusion. Firstly, once the odeon was occupying the site, neither cardo V nor cardo VI can have existed between decumanus V and decumanus VI. Excavation has however revealed that the ends of the street drains that originally ran under these two streets are still in situ where they discharged into decumanus V and decumanus VI respectively (Figure 6),15 which strongly suggests that the streets themselves had previously existed before the odeon was built and that they were obliterated by the odeon. Secondly, Gauckler himself in the corpus of mosaics of Tunisia somewhat mysteriously refers to mosaics of the first or second century, apparently from houses on the site of the odeon, although he makes no mention of them in his earlier

Figure 6. Drain beneath former cardo VI (right) entering drain of decumanus VI (left).

Whereas decumanus VI continued in use until at least the first half of the 6th century, which is the date of the latest road surfaces of trampled earth (Wells et. al. [above, n. 11] 16, 62-63), decumanus V displays excellent stone paving roughly contemporary with the odeon, at least between cardo IV and cardo VII, and shows no sign of systematic later repair (Figure 7). 15

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Figure 7. Paved surface of decumanus V north.

excavation reports.16 It therefore seems likely that the site was already inhabited in the first and second centuries, in which case the three city blocks needed for the odeon will have had to be expropriated and demolished, making it a cuckoo in the nest indeed. The quality of the surviving houses adjacent to the odeon on the seaward slope of the Hill suggests that this was an élite residential quarter, so that the owners who will have been expropriated are unlikely to have been poor men. We can only guess at their feelings!17 The big event around 200 that might have occasioned the building of the odeon was the staging of the Pythian Games at Carthage, also mentioned by Tertullian.18 Permission to hold the Games could come only from the emperor, although the city had to take the initiative in peti-

Paul Gauckler, Inventaire des mosaïques de la Gaule et de l’Afrique II: Afrique proconsulaire (Tunisie) (1910) 208-209 (nos. 619-620). The reference under no. 619 to the Marche du Service for 1899 is simply incomprehensible. 17 The cuckoo analogy seems valid. The property owners were presumably dumped out of their houses as unceremoniously as the cuckoo dumps the real owners of the nest. 18 Tertullian, Scorp. 6.2-3, cf. Barnes (above, n. 13) 34-35. 16

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tioning for this permission. To quote James Rives, “As Louis Robert has demonstrated, games of this international status were regularly a gift of the emperor, obtained by the city on formal petition . . . That they were presented as a result of a special grant of Septimius Severus is an indication of the emperor’s importance in the life of the city.”19 So too Barnes again, on the date of the Games: “Plausibility and analogy combine to imply a connexion with Septimius Severus’s visit to the city . . . in the spring or early summer of 203.”20 The preparations for such games will however have taken time, possibly several years (compare the modern Olympics). There will therefore have been a considerable interval between the emperor’s approval of the petition and the actual celebration of the Games. If they were to be held in the emperor’s presence in 203, it is not too much to suppose that preparations began as much as five or six years earlier. What is more, if the odeon was built specifically for the Games, it is noteworthy that public works “even in the provinces”, and presumably expropriation in advance of such works, required the emperor’s express approval.21 We cannot be sure, but this may be a further indication that Septimius Severus himself personally commissioned the building. The Odeon Hill dominates the whole of Carthage and is visible from miles away. Two big apartment blocks built in the 1950s just west of the odeon and recently demolished were for nearly half a century the first thing visible to anyone approaching Carthage by sea (Figure 8), and an equally tall building on the adjacent site, like the odeon, will have been equally spectacular in Roman times. The size of the building suggests a deliberate attempt to outdo the odeon of Herodes Atticus a generation earlier, and the diversity of the marble chips in the ruins of the site, especially in the drains, suggest that the whole empire was put under contribution for the luxurious decoration of the building. One might compare

J.B. Rives, Religion and authority in Roman Carthage from Augustus to Constantine (1995) 64-65. 20 Barnes (above, n. 13) 34. 21 J. Walter Jones, “Expropriation in Roman law”, Law Quarterly Review 180 (1929) 512-527, esp. 524, pointing out that in the law codes “it is emphasized over and over again that building is not to be embarked upon even in the provinces at the public expense without the Emperor’s knowledge”. 19

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Figure 8. View across cavea of odeon to 1955 apartment buildings, now demolished.

the lavish use of different marbles in the Septizodium at Rome.22 Is it only coincidence that the Carthage odeon was the first thing to meet the eye of the traveller from Rome, while the Septizodium is said to have been intended by Septimius Severus to impress the traveller arriving in Rome from Africa?23 Do not such indications combine to suggest that Septimius Severus himself commissioned the odeon? This fits the pattern of his benefactions to African cities, and what more suitable recipient than the provincial capital, where otherwise Severus left little trace?24

22 E. Stevenson, “Il Settizonio severiano a la distruzione dei suoi avanzi sotto Sisto V”, Bulletino communale 1888, pp. 269-298. I owe this reference to Dr. Susann S. Lusnia; see also her article, “The Septizodium at Rome: a political image in monumental style”, in John Casey et al., edd., Imaging humanity (= Immagini dell’Umanità) (2000) 201-215. 23 The life of Septimius in the Historia Augusta, 24.3: cum Septizodium (or Septizonium) faceret, nihil aliud cogitavit quam ut ex Africa venientibus suum opus occurreret. The form ‘Septizodium’ is to be preferred: see L. Richardson, Jr., A new topographical dictionary of ancient Rome (1992) 350. 24 The contrast with Lepcis Magna is striking, where “the victory of Septimius Severus was followed by the initiation of a building programme even

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That he was concerned to advertise his generosity and thus to boost his popularity in Carthage, even if not his popularity with the owners of the expropriated houses, is suggested by the issue in 203-204 of coins with the legend INDVLGENTIA AVGG IN CARTH.25 What more suitable site too, one may ask? The site is spectacular and the building will have been worthy of it (Figure 9). It is no coincidence that in 2000 the current President of Tunisia himself expropriated roughly seven blocks of Roman Carthage immediately adjacent to the odeon and the theater in the heart of the Archaeological Park where all

Figure 9. View across cavea to Gulf of Tunis with Bou Kornine mountain in background.

more extraordinary than the city had previously experienced” (David J. Mattingly, Tripolitania [1994] 120). 25 Cf. A. Audollent, Carthage romaine, 146 avant Jésus-Christ—698 après Jésus-Christ (1901) 64. I am grateful to Dr. Kenneth Harl (Tulane University) for supplying the detailed references to RIC IV.1; he writes as follows (personal communication), “The coins were minted to honor the imperial visit to Carthage… For the Augusti Septimius Severus and Caracalla the mint struck both aurei and denarii bearing the types; for Julia Domna only denarii. The aes of the senior emperors likewise bear the types. All the coins appear to have dated from after the return from Africa…”

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building would be forbidden to a private citizen (Carthage is a World Heritage site), in order to build what is apparently intended to be the largest mosque in the Islamic world outside Mecca (Figure 10). The mosque, still unfinished at the time of writing, is visible from twenty miles away inland, and will no doubt be as visible from the sea as were the apartment buildings that preceded it.26 The Odeon Hill serves the same purpose for President Ben Ali as it did for Septimius Severus, the advertisement of supreme political power. Trinity University

Colin M. Wells

Figure 10. Odeon Hill: mosque under construction with earlier excavations in foreground.

26 “Twenty miles inland”, as the crow flies, means that the minaret even in its unfinished state is visible from the site of Oudhna. The mosque also stands out spectacularly from the air. I have not approached Carthage by sea since the mosque was started.

USURPATIONS IN AFRICA Ruler and Ruled in the Third Century Crisis I.

Some of these men ruled for quite a long time, others held only transient power; some hardly reached the title and fleeting honour before they were deposed. In a period of sixty years the Roman empire was shared by more rulers than the years warranted. (Herodian 1.1.5)

The title of this paper is deliberately provocative.1 The idea of a crisis of the Roman world in the third century AD has become unfashionable enough that a scholar who omits inverted commas around the words risks not being taken seriously.2 Those who continue to believe in crisis have always been able to point to the instability of the imperial throne and the prevalence of usurpations, noted by contemporaries such as

1 I would like to thank Alan Bowman, who supervised the thesis on a part of which this article, substantially revised in 2003-2004, is based; the Arts and Humanities Research Board, which funded it; and Olivier Hekster, who provided invaluable comment and correction. Any remaining errors are, in the usual fashion, my own responsibility. 2 Scepticism: K. Strobel, Das Imperium Romanum im “3 Jahrhundert”. Modell einer historischen Krise? Zur Frage mentalen Strukturen breiterer Bevölkerungsschichten in der Zeit von Marc Aurel bis zum Ausgang des 3. Jh. n. Chr. (1993). Classic statement, without inverted commas: M. Rostovtzeff, Social and economic history of the Roman empire2, rev. P.M. Fraser, 2 vols. (1957) 433501.

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Herodian, to support their views.3 Opponents have instead focused on the economic continuities between the second and fourth centuries to argue that the turbulent political history of this period is nothing more than froth on the grander wave of history. It is the contention of this paper that the relationship between usurpation and crisis is more subtle than has sometimes been thought, but that political instability is indeed evidence for a third century crisis, and is in fact also suggestive for our interpretation of the still more unsettled period in the fifth century. The core of this paper (section III) is a detailed and systematic case study of the usurpations in the north-western (Latinate) African provinces during the third century. No comparable study exists.4 Whereas earlier writers, when they have touched on this question, have tended to regard the mechanics of usurpation as self-explanatory, I lay greater emphasis on the processes by which individuals managed to make an effective bid for empire, and the contexts which were necessary in order for this to happen. Potter is typical, speaking only of the role of the soldiers in usurpations,5 but Ando’s recent study of the means by which the Roman empire was bound together as “imagined community” should alert us to the importance of what the Romans themselves called consensus omnium.6 I conclude that there was a direct link, which has not been sufficiently recognised in the literature, between central imperial attention to Africa and African political enthusiasm for the central empire. This relationship lends support to the notion of the Roman empire as autocracy tempered by the right of revolution, even when the reaction was not so dramatic as armed rebellion. The conclusions are that, notwithstanding P.J. Casey, Carausius and Allectus, the British usurpers (1994) 35-36 has a convenient table listing usurpers from 218 to 300 with the location of their revolt. 4 The edited volume by F. Paschoud and J. Szidat, Usurpationen in der Spätantike (1997) deals with usurpations, but in a conceptualising rather than a concrete fashion. The contributors rarely treat the mechanics of usurpation as anything other than evident. Nor is the work systematic in its treatment of specific usurpers. 5 D.S. Potter, Prophecy and history in the crisis of the Roman empire: A historical commentary on the Thirteenth Sibylline Oracle (1990) 41. 6 C. Ando, Imperial ideology and provincial loyalty in the Roman empire (2000). 3

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Alföldy’s observation that crisis was driven by external pressures,7 problems elsewhere in the empire had repercussions on the south coast of the Mediterranean—less obvious repercussions than the rise of the Gallic empire in the north-west or the Palmyrene in the east, but repercussions which may even have been more surprising and dramatic, in the context of African prosperity and Romanisation. Robert Gildea has pointed to the ways in which loyalties collapsed to the local rather than the national level in the “crisis” of Vichy France.8 This thesis is essentially concerned with such a phenomenon in third-century Africa, and with the political “connectivity” between Africa and the rest of the empire in the same period.9 Writing in the fourteenth century, ibn Khaldûn felt that a “group feeling” was necessary to bind communities together: “otherwise, splits would occur and lead to dissension and strife”.10 On the model suggested by this paper, the third century reflects the process by which such a supra-group feeling dissolved in the Roman west in the face of imperial neglect or impotence.11

II.

As when a great king arrives in a great city and takes up his residence in one of the houses in it, such a city is thought worthy in every way of great honour; and no longer does any enemy or bandit come to ravage it. (Athanasius, De Incarnatione Verbi 9.3)

7 G. Alföldy, “The crisis of the third century as seen by contemporaries”, in Die Krise des Römischen Reiches: Geschichte, Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbetrachtung (1989) 319-34, at 332-333. 8 R.N. Gildea, Marianne in chains (2002) 47. 9 “Connectivity” has been popularised in the economic sphere by P. Horden and N. Purcell, The corrupting sea: A study of Mediterranean history (2000). 10 Ibn Khaldûn, The Muqaddimah, tr. F. Rosenthal, ed. N.J. Dawood (1967) 108. 11 Compare for Gaul: R. Rees, Layers of loyalty in Latin panegyric, AD 289–307 (2002): the Gallic panegyrics emphasise local concerns and local imperial activities.

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As a preliminary to any enquiry into imperial attention to the African provinces, it is fundamental to establish the intellectual or politicalphilosophical assumptions of the period, to delineate the context within which individual emperors worked. What was expected of a Roman ruler with respect to the provinces? Fergus Millar has produced a powerful model of an essentially passive Roman government, reactive rather than proactive to the demands of provincial communities.12 In this model, provincial embassies and petitioners provide the points of contact between ruler and subject: it is they who approach an emperor, and not vice versa.13 It is said of Antoninus Pius that nec ullas expeditiones obiit, nisi quod ad agros suos profectus est et ad Campaniam, dicens gravem esse provincialibus comitatum principis, etiam nimis parci (HA Ant. Pius 7.11). Also in the Antonine period, Aristides could say (possibly with a slight dig at Hadrian, a deceased emperor famous for his peripatetism) that there was “no need for him [an emperor] to wear himself out making the rounds of the whole empire, or to be in one place after another adjusting the affairs of each people whenever he sets foot in their country. Instead he can very easily sit and manage the whole world by letters, which are practically no sooner written than delivered, as if flown in by birds” (Aristides, To Rome 33). Did he keep a straight face as he delivered these words? In a Mediterranean in which distance has always been “the first enemy”,14 Roman provincial governors might have agreed more with the early modern Spanish viceroy who commented wryly that “if death came from Madrid, we should all live to a very old age”.15 Whether or not Aristides took his own panegyric seriously, it might have been out of fashion a century or a century and a half later: the ideology of imperial government was visibly shifting. It is possible that Hadrian understood better how his empire worked than did his successor. Speaking in praise of Constantine in 313, an orator criticised the

F.G.B. Millar, The emperor in the Roman world2 (1992). Millar (above, n. 12), e.g., 385. 14 F. Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean world in the age of Philip II, tr. S. Reynolds, abridged edition (1992) 261; cf. C. Kelly, “Emperors, government and bureaucracy”, CAH XIII (1998) 138-183 at 157 and passim. 15 J.H. Elliott, Spain and its world, 1500-1700 (1989) 14. 12 13

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usurper Maxentius: nam in Sallustianos hortos ire peregrinatio et expeditio putabatur (Pan. Lat. XII 14.4). It was now not merely acceptable for emperors to travel to the provinces, it was positively expected. Already before 253, Herodian reflects a growing consciousness that active government might not be bad: “the more mature emperors took greater care to control themselves and their subjects, because of their political experience” (Herodian 1.1.6).16 Political good sense was certainly at issue: it is not difficult to trace the broad outlines of a reciprocal relationship in which interest in the provinces at an imperial level bred interest in the empire at a provincial level. Haywood long ago pointed to the variations in numbers of inscription per emperor in Africa—105 for Marcus Aurelius, 45 for Commodus, and 220 for Septimius Severus—as a general reflection of the contours of imperial policy and involvement with the provinces.17 If Commodus is almost certainly under-represented in this tally as a result of damnatio memoriae, and if Haywood’s application of this evidence to the question of African enthusiasm for Severus need not concern us here, the fundamentals of the argument are surely sound: interest bred enthusiasm. Around 283, the Carthaginian poet Nemesian, seems to have anticipated a journey to Rome to see the emperors: temporis impatiens sensus spretorque morarum praesumit videorque mihi iam cernere fratrum augustos habitus, Romam clarumque senatum. (Cynegetica 79-81) If lines 99-102 of the same poem wish to shun the oppressive noise of cities, it would be churlish to deny Nemesian the expression of conventional feelings: what is important is the perceived importance of imperial presence, of proximity to the ruler of the world. This should not seem surprising. In an imagined community as vast as the Roman

Cf. S. Corcoran, The empire of the tetrarchs: imperial pronouncements and government, AD 284-3242 (2000) 4 on the Tetrarchic expansion of governmental ambitions. 17 R.M. Haywood, “The African policy of Septimius Severus”, TAPA 71 (1940) 175-185, at 182-184. 16

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empire,18 the process of imagining was inevitably made easier by physical presence, and the complex mechanisms described by Ando which bound provincial communities into that imagination were a response to the impossibility of, and an attempt to evade the necessity of, an omnipresent emperor, rather than a replacement for him.19 An emperor like Caracalla, who “loathed the life in Rome, and preferred to get away from the city, no doubt in order to deal with the military administration and to inspect the provincial territories” (Herodian 4.7.1), was an asset to the system he embodied: the Roman empire demanded Caesars, not Ciceros. In part, too, this may have been due to the “big business” aspect of the imperial adventus: a perceptive essay finds the closest modern analogy for imperial journeys in the hosting of international sports events, which bring vast financial rewards—an emperor tended to lavish his beneficence on cities fortunate enough to lie in his path.20 Provincials wanted to see emperors: in some ways, the development of this civil ideology parallels and follows the contemporary development of a military ideology which insisted on imperial presence for major campaigns.21 A peripatetic monarchy was necessary by the middle empire, if provincials were to maintain their focus on Rome, for “Rome is where the emperor is” (Herodian 1.6.5; cf. Dio 53.16). When Gordian I “left Thysdrus and moved to Carthage . . . so that he could act exactly as if he were in Rome” (Herodian 7.6.1), there was a very real sense in which, albeit extremely briefly, Carthage was in fact the capital of the empire, or at least that short-lived empire which Gordian happened to rule. The rhetoric in the Panegyrici Latini is instructive. To Maximian in 291: Quarum infatigabiles motus et impetus ipsa vis divinitatis exercet, quae vos tantis discursibus toto quem regitis orbe deducit . . .; Quidquid

18 For imagined communities: B. Anderson, Imagined communities: Reflections on the origin and spread of nationalism2 (1991). 19 Ando (above, n. 6) passim. 20 J.-L. Mourgues, “Review of Halfmann, Itinera principum”, JRS 80 (1990) 219-222, at 220-221. Beneficence: Millar (above, n. 12) 38. 21 Traced by Millar, “Emperors, frontiers and foreign relations, 31 BC to AD 378”, Britannia 13 (1982) 1-23. The ideology could be said to culminate in John Malalas, whose sixth-century history of Antioch revolves around imperial visits and building. This is as true of the earlier portions as of his history of his own times, which suggests that his (local) sources also saw these things as central. For

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immortale est stare nescit; Ita omnes provinciae vestrae, quas divina celeritate peragrastis, ubi sitis vicissim nesciunt: sciunt tamen vos ubique vicisse (Pan. Lat. XI 2.4; 3.2; 4.4; cf. XII 22). The Historia Augusta, a century later, also emphasises imperial speed when it discusses Hadrian’s tour of the provinces: nec quisquam fere principum tantum terrarum tam celeriter peragravit (HA Hadr. 13.5). De Blois has written of the “childlike trust” which third-century intellectuals had in imperial charisma and efficacy.22 If the reality of imperial travel was more mundane, and if magical speed had to be conjured months in advance,23 this did not tarnish the image. An emperor could move quickly through his provinces, and naturally would, for quidquid immortale est stare nescit. The later second, third and early fourth centuries, then, saw the gradual development of a new and more proactive ideology of imperial government, according to which it was no longer anathema for emperors to show an interest in provincial affairs, but according to which they were, rather, expected to do so, both at a distance and, preferably, by personal visits. In practice, too, the third century saw a steady increase in imperial mobility, most of it directed to “afflicted” areas of the empire, which often meant the near east.24 It was perhaps inevitable in such a climate that no emperor would pay particular attention to the African provinces. There was an exception in Septimius Severus, the “African emperor”, but his attention did not extend much beyond his home region of Lepcis Magna. Maximian’s visit to Africa was unspectacular even in the military sphere, and certainly showed no broader interest in the provinces; Probus may have visited, but this is only conjectural.25

all this see E. Jeffreys, “Malalas’ world view”, in Studies in John Malalas, edd. E. Jeffreys with B. Croke and R. Scott (1990) 55-66, at 55-56 and passim. 22 L. De Blois, “Emperor and empire in the works of Greek speaking authors of the third century AD”, ANRW II 34.4 (1998) 3391-3443, at 3397. 23 Ando (above, n. 6) 190-199; cf. Millar, Emperor (above, n. 12) 569-570. 24 For this see H. Halfmann, Itinera principum. Geschichte und Typologie der Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich (1986) esp. 216-242; T.D. Barnes, The new empire of Diocletian and Constantine (1982) 47-87; and Millar, Emperor (above, n. 12) 15-57. 25 Most of the evidence comes from Halfmann (above, n. 24), supplemented by Barnes, “Emperors on the move”, JRA 2 (1989) 247-261, and idem, “Imperial campaigns, AD 285-311”, Phoenix 30 (1976) 174-193 (for Maximian). It would

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The general lack of evidence for imperial interest in Africa might be claimed as another result of our skewed evidence. Victor, an African, preserves a good deal of incidental evidence for the region; most writers, however, were of Greek eastern origin. If Herodian had been a native of Carthage, would our picture be very different? One suspects not radically so. The imperial system in a sense demanded a lack of serious attention to Africa. It was precisely because Africa was essentially prosperous, and remained largely unmolested by “barbarian” incursions in this period, and comparatively untroubled by internal disorders, that the emperors of this period turned away from her, and hurried to more troubled spots.

III. The emergence of “illegitimate” rulers is fundamental to our understanding of what “crisis” meant in the third century. But historians have paid surprisingly little attention to the mechanisms of rebellion. Sirago argues that usurpers were governors or military commanders “che si autoproclama imperatore in momenti di particolare fragilità”.26 While the model undoubtedly holds true for many rulers of the period, it is in

be tedious to reproduce it at length here. For Severus see A.R. Birley, Septimius Severus: the African emperor (1989); C. Letta, “La famiglia di Settimio Severo”, Africa Romana 4 (1986) 531-545; A. di Vita, “Leptis Magna. La ville des Séveres”, Karthago 23 (1995) 71-77; and the sceptical view of Barnes, “The family and career of Septimius Severus”, Historia 16 (1967) 87-107. Maximian: R. Rebuffat, “Maximien en Afrique”, Klio 74 (1992) 371-379. For Probus see HA Prob. 9.1-2 (perhaps unreliable) for an alleged visit; and Zos. 1.64 for possible favour to Africans. 26 V.A. Sirago, “Aspetti del colonialismo Romano in Africa”, Africa Romana 7 (1989) 973-992 at 975. E. Flaig, “Für eine Konzeptionalisierung der Usurpation im Spätrömischen Reich”, in Paschoud and Szidat (above, n. 4) 1534, at 16 defines acceptance as the acquiescence of particular relevant groups in the authority of a particular individual, and goes on to list those groups for the Roman empire: senators; plebs urbana at Rome; military. I would argue that too little attention is in any case paid to the central (civilian) group, and also suggest that to see only the Roman population as important is highly misleading. Contra Flaig, we can, I think, provide strong evidence that provincials mattered.

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fact something of a straitjacket which hinders rather than assisting understanding: we shall see that it cannot accommodate all instances. More can be achieved by posing some basic questions about the nature of support for these “illegitimate” regimes. Who supported usurpers and why? Traditionally, these “governors or military commanders” have been described as though it was enough for them to proclaim themselves ruler or be proclaimed ruler, and then depend on the support of the troops. But the army is not enough to explain the (limited) success of all usurpers, who needed at least a degree of support from the civilian inhabitants of a province. The relationship between soldiers stationed in and civilians inhabiting any area was sufficiently close that their respective attitudes to a particular candidate for the throne will have affected one another: an imperial hopeful thus needed to win support in all spheres. The model suggested by Van Dam for late Roman Gaul is of some assistance to us in understanding this phenomenon. Speaking of the Bacaudae of third and fifth century Gaul, Van Dam suggested that they represented local aristocrats effectively taking political authority into their own hands as a response to the ineffectiveness of central government in dealing with local problems.27 Van Dam’s model stresses the importance of consensus in the creation of authority: this emphasis tallies with the observations of Drinkwater on the “Gallic empire” of 260274, that substantial sections of the civilian population must have regarded Postumus and his fellow emperors as the best safeguards of their interests in an uncertain world; it also supports and is in turn reinforced by Clifford Ando’s powerful study of the creation of consensus in the Roman empire.28

27 R. Van Dam, Leadership and community in late antique Gaul (1985) 7-56, esp. 7-8. For a view which does not differ as much from Van Dam as its author believes, see J.F. Drinkwater, “The Bacaudae of fifth century Gaul”, in Fifth century Gaul. A crisis of identity?, edd. J.F. Drinkwater and H. Elton (1992) 208-217. 28 Gallic empire: J.F. Drinkwater, The Gallic empire. Separatism and continuity in the north-western provinces of the Roman empire, AD 260-274 (1987) 240. Consensus: Ando (above, n. 6) esp. 195 (observations on the usurpation of Julian and his courting of public opinion). But note his surprise at 314: “some usurpers spoke to their provincials too” (as well as to their soldiers). This aspect of imperial propaganda deserves more historiographical attention, and less shock.

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We can extend Van Dam’s analysis in two respects. Firstly, it is reasonable to assume that many existing imperial officials and senators, members of the “transnational” elite, in Rome will also have been happy to support the accession of a local man who might support their local interests. It is interesting, for instance, that the regions which pledged their support to the rebellion of the Gordiani were those providing some 90% of the mid-third century senate.29 Secondly, local dignitaries might well welcome the opportunity for “imperial” office up to and including membership of the senate. An usurper had immediately to create his own hierarchy of Roman officials, thus providing plenty of “jobs for the boys”. This factor will have counted heavily in favour of usurpers in areas with few existing imperial officials, such as Gaul.30 It will naturally have been less important in a province such as Africa Proconsularis, where many local notables already held central office in the third century. But when we read an inscription such as CIL VIII 7004, which Scironius Pasicrates and (apparently) Valerius Antoninus dedicated to d(omino) n(ostro) L(ucio) Domitio Alexandro P(io) F(elici) Inv(icto) Aug(usto), it is worth bearing in mind that many will have gained both benefits of a local “imperial” presence—security and munificence31— and that Domitius Alexander could not have functioned as a usurper without the support of men such as Pasicrates and Antoninus. The relationship was symbiotic. Let us examine whether this model helps us understand better the African usurpations of our period, examining in turn the Gordiani, Sabinianus, “Celsus”, and Domitius Alexander. Against conventional wisdom, we shall see that the most interesting African usurpers of the period may not, after all, have been those of 238.

29 P.W. Townsend, “The revolution of AD 238: the leaders and their aims”, YCS 14 (1955) 49-105, at 81-82. Cf. J.E. Lendon, Empire of honour (2001) on the administrative culture of the imperial establishment. 30 Drinkwater (above, n. 28) 249. 31 Van Dam (above, n. 27) 9-10 for these two benefits as fundamental.

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1. The Gordiani (238) The origins of the “revolution of 238” are much-discussed and generally well understood.32 “The Libyans were the first to take up their weapons and steadily move towards rebellion. The causes of defection stemmed from a severe procurator in the district of Carthage” (Herodian 7.4.1-2). The historian explains (7.3) the uprising by the rapacity of Maximinus Thrax and the consequent burden placed on the cities, which provoked a group of noble youths to murder him and then thrust the empire into the faux-reluctant hands of Gordian I.33 Ste. Croix states the case succinctly: no peasants’ revolt; rather a rebellion orchestrated by provincial elites.34 Precisely what backing did the Gordiani have? Eutropius (9.2) speaks of consensu militum, a very conventional statement; Victor tells more of the truth when he writes (Caes. 27) that Gordian I was created emperor ab exercitu, and Gordian II (a mistake for Gordian III) milites . . . creavere; neque sane factum nobilitas aspernata. Senatorial backing was important: it was not simply a “Severan” backlash,35 and may or may not have been planned in advance. Most likely the senatorial support for the Gordiani was a mixture of opportunism and genuine resentment.36

32 Townsend (above, n. 29) still provides the best introduction, to be supplemented in parts by Fr. Jacques, “Humbles et notables. La place des humiliores dans les colleges de jeunes et leur role dans la révolte africaine de 238”, Ant. Afr. 15 (1980) 217-230; F. Kolb, “Der Aufstand der Provinz Africa Proconsularis im Jahr 238 n. Chr.”, Historia 26 (1977) 240-277; K. Dietz, Senatus contra principem. Untersuchungen zur senatorischen Opposition gegen Kaiser Maximinus Thrax (1980). 33 Jacques’ observation (above, n. 32, at 226) that the procurator apparently had some right on his side has made as little difference to his historical reputation as the fact did to the attitudes of the noble youths. Cf. Kolb (above, n. 33) 445-446. 34 G.E.M. Ste. Croix, The class struggle in the ancient Greek world (1981) 475; cf. Rostovtzeff (above, n. 2) 455. 35 Townsend (above, n. 29) must be qualified by Dietz (above, n. 32) 280-290. 36 So Potter (above, n. 5) 28-29.

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Commentators on the revolt of 238 have often been hypnotised by the question of senatorial support. In fact, popular support during the revolt was at least as important. The conspirators themselves knew this: “they must make the provincial governor a partner in their predicament and induce the whole province (pçn te tÚ ¶ynow) to revolt” (Herodian 7.5.1). Perhaps they had been reading the recently “published” history of Cassius Dio.37 As Jacques has noted, the mixed social milieu of the iuvenes will have assisted them in their quest for a broad base of support.38 But Herodian’s account gives the lie to Eutropius and Victor: it shows a revolt which became military, when the civilians rose up in arms (7.4 ff). The African peasantry were not the cause (contra HA Max. 14), but became a crucial element. Were the Gordiani (I and II) in any sense “local leaders” in the sense demanded by Van Dam’s model? In one sense, clearly not: they belonged to the Greek-speaking and Hellenic Anatolian aristocracy, not to the local aristocracies of Roman Africa.39 But a detail in Herodian is fascinating: “in addition to his own title they gave him the name of Africanus after themselves; the name is given to Libyans in the south by those who speak the language of the Romans” (7.5.8).40 The Historia Augusta notes that addunt quidam Africani cognomentum Gordiano idcirco inditum, non quod in Africa imperare coepisset, sed quod de Scipionum familia originem traheret (HA Gord. 9.4). Even if this story were true, which is improbable, it would remain a political statement for either Gordian to have accepted the name at that juncture. Yet accept it they certainly did: we

U. Espinoza Ruiz, Debate Agrippa-Mecenas en Dion Cassio: respuesta senatorial a la crisis del Imperio Romano en época Severiana (1982) 52: Dio perceived the need for consensus omnium. 38 Jacques (above, n. 32) 229. 39 M. Christol, L’empire romain du troisième siècle (1997) 85. 40 Cf. Christol (above, n. 39) 113-114 n. 2. This is incidentally the only instance of Herodian using “Africanus” rather than “Libyan” for inhabitants of these provinces: see C.R. Whittaker ad loc. in his 1970 Loeb edition (II 189 n. 4). 41 RIC IV.2. The titulature is unusual. “Africanus” would normally imply a victory over Africans, but Herodian is explicit that the Africans themselves gave him the name: even if their support for it was only passive, they cannot have felt that it was an insult. 37

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have not only the testimony of Herodian, but coins minted with AFR in the nomenclature.41 Two possibilities, not incompatible, exist. Either Gordian felt that it was expedient to add “Africanus” to his name, or the Africans wished him to do so. In either case the implication is that an effort was made to “adopt” the usurper into the locality, to establish him as in some sense an “African” ruler. Further, the good name of the Gordiani persisted in Africa after their fall. It is possible that they had already earned the approval of the province when Gordian I was proconsul—amatus est ab Afris ita ut nemo antea proconsulum (HA Gord. 5.5), although the remark in the Historia Augusta is conventional and predictable. But it is fascinating how many inscriptions from Africa refer to Gordian III with explicit reference to Gordians I and II. AE 1956, 127a from Caesariensis is characteristic, dedicated to Gordian III [nepoti] divorum [Gordia]norum. The majority of inscriptions phrased in this way have been found in the African provinces, although they may not be exclusive to Africa.42 It is clear that in general the Gordiani were popular in Africa: Mrozek notes that his two frequency graphs (for all Latin inscriptions in the third century, and for Italian and African inscriptions) do not coincide at certain points. He can think of no reason for the much greater popularity of Gordian III in the second case than in the first, but it is likely that African enthusiasm has affected the figures.43 Though they were not local leaders in the strict sense, the Gordiani were embraced by Africa as though they were its own sons.

Cf. AE 1942/3, 40 (El-Djem); 1951, 48 (Mons); 1969/70, 708 (Lambiridi); 1973, 653 (Kaputtasaccura). See also Townsend (above, n. 29) 80-81. Outside Africa: X. Loriot, “Les premières années de la grande crise du IIIe siècle: de l’avènement de Maximin le Thrax (235) à la mort de Gordien III (244)”, ANRW II 2 (1975) 657-787 at 726 n. 533; IG V.1 1242 has ye«[n Gordian«n uflvnÒn].The reading seems dubious. 43 S. Mrozek, “La repartition chronologique des inscriptions latines dates au IIIe siècle ap. J.-C.”, in Les empereurs illyriens, edd. E. Frézouls and H. Jouffroy (1998) 11-20 at 12. Cf. AE 1967, 563 (Lambaesis): pro aeternitate imperi Gordian[i Augusti nostri], though I see no reason why the inscription should not refer to Gordian III alone (surely more likely at Lambaesis). 42

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Hard on the heels of the Gordiani came Sabinianus. Our evidence for this figure is slender: no inscriptions have survived describing his African episode, and he appears not to have minted coins. The literary evidence is exiguous, and consists of a notice in the Historia Augusta and another in Zosimus. The Greek historian writes that “not long after [sc. 238], the Carthaginians were estranged from the emperor and supported Sabinianus as ruler; but when Gordian marched against them with the African armies, they returned to their allegiance and handed over the would-be usurper, thus winning pardon and freeing themselves from danger” (1.17). The Historia Augusta has: Venusto et Sabino consulibus inita est factio in Africa contra Gordianum tertium duce Sabiniano; quem Gordianus per praesidem Mauretaniae obsessum a coniuratis ita oppressit ut ad eum tradendum Carthaginem omnes venirent et crimina confitentes et veniam sceleribus postulantes (Gord. 23.4). The mention of the consuls sets the episode in the year 240; Alföldy has speculated plausibly that such a reference, unusual in the Historia Augusta, argues for an annalistic source, possibly Dexippus, which increases the likelihood that it is reliable.44 To these literary references we can add the coins of Gordian III, which show his second liberality falling in January 240, and a third very soon afterwards.45 A natural interpretation is that the third donative was issued after the defeat of the usurper, who was therefore short-lived. In any case Sabinianus had almost certainly been overthrown by 241, in which year an inscription was set up at Rome to Gordian III as [r]estitutori orbis (CIL VI 1092).46 Sabinianus has attracted little attention from modern scholars. Benabou is typical, treating him quite literally as a footnote to the more prominent Gordiani; for Kolb he is an afterthought to the same usurpers; Salama, remarkably enough, even doubts his existence.47

44 G. Alföldy, “Die ortsnamen in der Historia Augusta”, in Krise (above, n. 7) 319-342, at 336-337. 45 RIC IV.3, 3 ff. 46 Loriot (above, n. 42) 734 n. 595. 47 M. Benabou, La résistance africaine à la romanisation (1976) 214 n. 53; Kolb (above, n. 33) 477; P. Salama, “L’apport des inscriptions routières à l’histoire politique de l’Afrique romaine”, Africa Romana 3 (1985) 219-231, at 219.

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Loriot, accepting his existence, doubts his impact on African history.48 The absence of serious modern discussion of Sabinianus is an unfortunate oversight. The starting point for our understanding of the significance of Sabinianus must be an attempt to establish who and what, precisely, he was. In his edition of Zosimus, Ridley speculates that he may have been proconsul of Africa, following the lead of Loriot: “il paraît logique de voir en lui un proconsul d’Afrique”.49 The “logic” is the assumption that all usurpers were “governors or military commanders”, but it raises problems. For one thing, there is no evidence beyond the assumption. For another, Townsend can point to the proconsulship of the distinguished Macer Rufinianus, sent to Africa soon after 238, and conjecture (reasonably enough) that it was his efforts to restore order to the province that contributed to provoking Sabinianus’ revolt.50 For a third, the Historia Augusta calls Sabinianus dux, not proconsul, although the same Vita takes care to explain Gordian’s office. Not, then, a proconsul Africae. The name perhaps evokes the Balkans;51 but that may be misleading. Are there any Sabiniani known in our period? Barbieri offers two. The first, C. Vettius Gratus Atticus Sabinianus, was cos. ord. in 242: he was clearly not the usurper of 240. The second is more promising: M. Asinius Sabinianus, cos. suff. perhaps under Alexander Severus, and proconsul of Asia in 239 or 240—a man, to boot, whose name appears to have been erased on one milestone in Asia Minor.52 The possibility that he is our Sabinianus carries intriguing implications. This man, Birley suggested, was the son of M. Asinius Sex. f. Rufinus Valerius Verus Sabinianus, adlected inter praetorios by Commodus and commemorated on an inscription from his home town

Loriot (above, n. 42) 734-735. Ridley ad loc. (p. 138 n. 33); Loriot (above, n. 42) 734 n. 591. 50 Townsend (above, n. 29) 88-89. 51 A. Mócsy, Nomenclator provinciarum Europae Latinarum et Galliae Cisalpinae (1983), s.v. Sabinianus. 52 G. Barbieri, L’albo senatorio da Settimio Severo a Carino (193-285) (1952) 314-315 (Vettius, no. 1751); 196 (Asinius, no. 956). The latter is treated also by Dietz (above, n. 32) 90-93 and 352-353. Erased inscription: E. Birley, “Africana in the Historia Augusta”, BHAC 1968/9 (1970) 79-90, at 87-88. 48 49

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of Acholla in Africa Proconsularis (AE 1954, 58).53 The proconsul of Asia would naturally have returned to his home province after his office expired, probably in 240, where he would have been an eminent figure.54 This attractive identification suggests a context which fits perfectly with the Van Dam model of local leadership, as well as with the wording of Zosimus’ notice, which explicitly suggests (1.17) that the Carthaginians selected Sabinianus as a sort of champion. Two questions must then be distinguished: why did Sabinianus revolt, and why did anybody support him? The answer to the former is probably straightforward: as Victor put it, quamquam eo prolapsi mores sunt, uti suo quam rei publicae magisque potentiae quam gloriae studio plures agant (Caes. 33.23). The answer to the second question is more complex. Loriot speculates that economic problems contributed to dissatisfaction, which in the aftermath of the Gordiani may indeed provide a partial explanation.55 Equally, it is clearly relevant that Gordian III had disbanded III Augusta in 238: this meant that there was no force immediately available to counter a usurper. But it is also a plausible supposition that elements of the African aristocracy, buoyed up by the success of “their” emperors in 238, resented the fact that Gordian III had abandoned them for the imperial centre, so that Africa once again ceased to be central to an emperor and slid back to the neglected periphery. What is certain is that, in the absence of military backing for Sabinianus—the absence of III Augusta meant equally that the usurper had no force immediately available for exploitation56—we are dealing with a base of civilian support, deriving from a climate of resentment towards the central empire. The episode of Sabinianus underlines the fragility of the notion that all usurpers depended exclusively or even predominantly on military support, and serves to strengthen Van Dam’s theory.

53 The inscription accompanied a mosaic in a surviving house: O. Hekster, Commodus: An emperor at the crossroads (2002) 179-180. 54 E. Birley (above, n. 52) 87-88. Dietz (above, n. 32) 92 rejects the proposed identification of Asinius Sabinianus as the usurper of 240, but offers no reasons; Loriot (above, n. 42) 734 n. 591 is sceptical, clinging to his theory that Sabinianus was proconsul in Africa. 55 Loriot (above, n. 42) 734. 56 No legionary force, at any rate: auxiliaries are unlikely to have amounted to much of an army.

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The extent of the rebellion of 240 is unclear: Carthage, certainly; probably all of Proconsularis, and possibly also Numidia.57 Sabinianus was crushed by Faltonius Restitutianus, governor of Mauretania, whose victory is probably commemorated by the inscription at Rome of 240 (CIL VI 1090).58 Potter argues that the limited impact of the events of 240 compared with those of 238 shows the success of the government of Gordian III in conciliating opinion.59 Not so: it simply reflects Sabinianus’ lack of an army, and the fact that Capelianus must have undermined Africans’ willingness to back even a winner. But the significance of Sabinianus is substantial, and it lies in the fact that such a hopeless cause got off the ground at all.

3. “Celsus” (260/268) The Historia Augusta discusses an usurper named Celsus, made emperor by the Africans under Gallienus and summoned from his fields in the manner of Camillus (in agris suis vivebat), is betrayed and killed, eventually being crucified in the manner of Christ (HA Tyr. Trig. 29). Needless to say, there is no other evidence for this usurper. The anecdote is one of the most entertaining fictional asides in the whole of the Historia Augusta, the author having excelled himself with allusions to Christianity, to Republican history, and to the African writer Arnobius.60 As historical writing, it is to be discarded. Its only significance lies not in the study of third century Africa, but in the study of the Historia Augusta itself, where it might add weight to the conjecture that the author was an African who, in this passage, sought to create an usurper for Africa lest it feel left out of the events of the reign of Gallienus.61 “Celsus” need detain us no further.

Loriot (above, n. 42) 734 n. 592: speculation, of course. Loriot, “Faltonius Restitutianus”, Ant. Afr. 6 (1976) 145-146. 59 Potter (above, n. 5) 34-35. 60 Arnobius: J. Schwarz, “L’Histoire Auguste et la fable de l’usurpateur Celsus”, L’Antiquité Classique 33 (1964) 419-430, esp. 427. 61 R. Syme, Emperors and biography (1971) 50; Ammianus and the Historia Augusta (1968) 54; cf. E. Birley (above, n. 52) 84. 57 58

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ALEXANDER POLLEY 4. Domitius Alexander (ca. 308-309)

Domitius Alexander took power in Africa probably in 308 and was suppressed probably in 309.62 His rule extended through Proconsularis and most of Numidia, as well as Sardinia: AE 1966, 169 is a milestone dedicated to him by the praeses Sardiniae.63 Who was he? Phryx origine according to the Epitome (40) and Zosimus (2.12), Pannonicis parentibus to Victor (Caes. 40.17): Kotula suggests a common source which offered both alternatives.64 Barnes convincingly identifies him with Valerius Alexander, attested as vicarius in 303: he had remained in office until his usurpation.65 Alexander was therefore not a local leader in the same sense as Sabinianus but, like Gordian I, was a local dignitary solely by residence. He was also an opportunist: IRT 404 is an inscription dedicated by Alexander at Lepcis to none other than Maxentius. Alexander, according to Zosimus (2.12), was chosen by the soldiers. His is an instance in which we might expect to find little evidence of civilian support. It seems that Alexander made some overtures towards African sentiment: coins, struck in a makeshift mint, bear legends such as AFRICA AVG N, GLORIA EXERCITVS KART or INVICTA

The dates are contentious: Barnes, New empire (above, n. 24) 14-15, and T. Kotula, “En marge de l’usurpation africaine de L. Domitius Alexander”, Klio 40 (1962) 159-177 at 160 opt for 309 as a terminus ante quem. The absolute ante quem is fixed by the Mangub shipwreck of spring/summer 310: P. Salama, “Les trésors maxentiens de Tripolitaine: rapport préliminaire”, Libya Antiqua 3/4 (1966/7) 21-27 at 26-27. General survey of Alexander, mistaken on dates: R. Andreotti, “Problemi sul significato storico della usurpazione di Lucio Domizio Alessandro”, in Afrika und Rom in der Antike, edd. H.-J. Diesner, H. Barth, and H.-D. Zimmerman (1968) 245-276. 63 Cirta: CIL VIII 7004. Sardinia: cf. Christol (above, n. 39) 223. Andreotti, “Problemi di epigrafia costantiniana I: la presunta alleanza con l’usurpatore Lucio Domizio Alessandro”, Epigraphica 31 (1969) 144-180 at 167 sets the takeover of Sardinia in 309 or 310, which is only just possible, let alone plausible, on the chronology set out above. He offers no evidence. 64 Kotula (above, n. 62) 161-162. 65 Barnes, New empire (above, n. 24) 14-15 (rejected by Andreotti [above, n. 62] 157 n. 27). Appointed before 303, therefore by Maximian: Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius (1981) 37; V. Aiello, “Costantino, Lucio Domizio Alessandro e Cirta: un caso di rielaborazione storiografica”, Africa Romana 6 (1988) 179-196, at 184. 62

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ROMA FEL KARTHAGO.66 The references to the Carthaginian army and to AFRICA AVG N, the two most single-mindedly African themes, are found on bronze coins,67 with a higher circulation: Alexander was evidently tailoring his propaganda to an audience and making some effort to exploit African feeling. We should avoid the temptation to exaggerate the importance of this campaign to mould public opinion. Felix Karthago is a common theme, used in fact by Maxentius before the mint of Carthage closed in 307 and persisting through the Vandal period.68 It was not only Alexander who knew how to play provincial audiences. But playing it undoubtedly was: the use of coins with provincial personifications had been a means of gathering local support as far back as the crisis of AD 68-69.69 At most Alexander tried to exploit, not lead African feeling. His aspirations were more global: ILS 8936 is dedicated to Impp(eratoribus) dd(ominis) nn(ostris) L. Domitio Alexandro et Fl(avio) Constantino Augg(ustis). Barnes writes that “it is neither attested nor probable that Constantine ever recognised Alexander”, perhaps over-hastily.70 The evidence is indecisive: Cirta, Alexander’s refuge and punished by Volusianus, was amply rewarded by Constantine, but this may simply have been prudent policy—Constantine also rewarded Volusianus.71 But Andreotti is right that Alexander’s strategic value to Constantine will have been substantial once he controlled Sardinia. At most any “alliance” will have been “comune fiducia, di Alessandro prima e di Costantino dopo”.72 Alexander’s was another short-lived revolt. The Epitome would attribute this to stupidity (40), but the reason was rather his impact on

66 Mint: R. Pera, “I riferimenti all’Africa nelle emissioni monetali della zecca di Africa”, Africa Romana 8 (1990) 503-521, at 516 n. 70. Legends: J. Maurice, Numismatique Constantinienne, 2 vols. (1908-1911) I 358-363. 67 Maurice (above, n. 66) I 360 nos. 1-2. 68 Maxentius: Andreotti (above, n. 62) 154-155 n. 24, with references. Persistence: F.M. Clover, “Felix Karthago”, in Tradition and innovation in late antiquity, edd. F.M. Clover and R.S. Humphreys (1989) 129-169. 69 Ando (above, n. 6) 314-315. 70 Barnes, New empire (above, n. 24) 15. 71 Aiello (above, n. 65) 189-190, 192. 72 Andreotti (above, n. 62) 170, 165; Aiello (above, n. 65) 188.

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Rome. Aside from the strategic threat from Sardinia, Alexander used the grain supply as a stranglehold on the imperial city, possibly provoking serious famine.73 The usurper was a serious threat, and so provoked a swift and powerful response. Given the scale of this counter-attack and its repercussions, it is perhaps not surprising that Africa largely passed over Domitius Alexander in silence.74

IV.

Upon the same principle that a man is more attached to his family than to his neighbourhood, to his neighbourhood than to the community at large, the people of each State would be apt to feel a stronger bias towards their local governments than towards the government of the Union; unless the force of that principle should be destroyed by a much better administration of the latter. (Alexander Hamilton, The Federalist Papers, No. 17)

Usurpers in the third century appear frequently to have been local notables.75 The Gallic emperors claimed to derive their authority from the Gauls themselves: Postumus claimed that ÍpÚ t«n Gãllvn r°yhn basileÊw (Dio, Petri Patricii exc. 165 B.). Their names hint at Gallic origins.76 Zenobia was another local ruler (HA Tyr. Trig. 30). It is possible to view the African instances in a similar light. Sabinianus fits the model most precisely: a native of Africa providing regional leadership. The Gordiani were “adopted” by the Africans. Alexander tried to follow his predecessors in this respect, with apparently less success. The chronological correlations bear pursuit. The Gordiani, who enjoyed substantial African popular support, followed a period of

73 Eusebius HE 8.14; Chr. Min. 1.148 fames magna fuit. The extent of the threat may have been exaggerated for propagandistic effect. 74 Kotula (above, n. 62) 161-162 on his Nachleben. 75 Cf. F. Hartmann, Herrscherwechsel und Reichskrise: Untersuchungen zu den Ursachen und Konsequenzen der Herrscherwechsel im Imperium Romanum der Soldatenkaiserzeit (3 Jahrhundert n. Chr.) (1982) 130. 76 Drinkwater (above, n. 28) 28, 125-127.

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rapacity and oppression by Maximinus, so that the conspirators “knew that such a move had been approved for a long time because people hated Maximinus” (Herodian 7.5.1). In Zosimus the progression is logical: Maximinus oppressed Africa and “therefore the Africans proclaimed Gordianus . . . emperor” (1.14; cf. HA Gord. 7). Sabinianus, who enjoyed substantial if ephemeral African popular support, came hard on the heels of the destruction enacted by Capelianus in retribution for the events of 238 (Herodian 7.8-9; HA Max. 19; cf. ILS 8499). It is revealing that in Alexander’s case there was no equivalent episode preceding the usurpation: Victor’s ea tempestate (Caes. 40.17) does not refer specifically to Africa. Alexander never attained the popular support of the other two usurpers: his rebellion fits most comfortably into the “traditional” model of “governors or military commanders” with military but little civilian support. We may conclude, then, that usurpation was at least partly a response to neglect or abuse of Africa by the official emperors, one response to the tyranny of distance. Third-century provincials may often not have known who their emperor was, given the rapid turnover; and even where certainty of a sort existed, petitioning a distant figure may have seemed an ineffective way of proceeding, for all that it was the model encouraged by the government of the principate.77 A character in Apuleius’ Golden Ass complains that the provincial governor can do nothing to stop killing in the city, because he is so far away (Met. 2.18). Better to seek government and law from those with both opportunity and incentive to help the province.78 It is suggestive that Marcus thought it prudent, after the revolt of Avidius Cassius, to forbid officials to govern their native provinces; and it is suggestive, too, that this requirement appears to have been ignored almost immediately. Possibly Marcus or his successors realised quickly that local governors were popular, and accepted the risk of revolt.79 Such usurpations were counterproductive, since this dramatic form of protest against neglect or abuse led inexorably to further abuse, here by Millar, Emperor (above, n. 12). Van Dam (above, n. 27) 7-10, 29. 79 Dio 71.31. Cf. Millar, The Roman Near East, 31 BC – AD 337 (1993) 117118. Millar notes that regional loyalties proved not to be a necessary condition for usurpers seeking support: but that does not show that it did not help. 77 78

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Capelianus and Volusianus (Victor, Caes. 40; Zos. 2.14). African usurpers were not conspicuously successful.80 But the attempts, and the apparent assumption that a ruler based nearby would neither neglect nor abuse, but rather protect, reveal the threat implicit in one Gaul’s rhetorical flourish in 289—tuque potissimum . . . has provincias tuas frequenter inlustres (Pan. Lat. X [2] 14.4)—if you don’t, we’ll turn the lights on ourselves. Usurpations were one possible response to the crisis of central authority in the third century. A more obvious manifestation of discontent was revolt or rebellion, for which there is also much evidence in Africa.81 Some emperors, of course, retained a popularity in Africa. Severus is the conspicuous example: aside from the number of inscriptions found in his reign, we have the testimony of the Historia Augusta: horum igitur tantorum ac tam inlustrium virorum, nam multi in his consulares, multi praetorii, omnes certe summi viri fuere, interfector ab Afris ut deus habetur (HA Sev. 13.8). This is a crucial passage,82 certainly implying more than that Severus was considered divus: it is metaphorical, just as one would use the phrase in English translated literally. It should be read with Dio’s comment for 218 that “the Moors . . . fought most valiantly for Macrinus, as he was a fellow-countryman of theirs” (79.32.1). We have seen that the Gordians retained popularity in Africa despite the brevity of their reign and the savagery of its aftermath. In all three cases, African enthusiasm correlates with emperors who were African by birth or by “adoption”, and who could have been expected to reciprocate the enthusiasm.

Sirago, (above, n. 26) 976. Space precludes detailed argument. Salama, “Vues nouvelles sur l’insurrection mauretanienne dite ‘de 253’: le dossier numismatique”, in Actes du IVe colloque international sur l’histoire et l’archéologie de l’Afrique romaine, 2 vols. (1988) II 455-470 is the best introduction to the most important period of revolt. For a too modest view of their importance, see E. Frézouls, “Rome et la Maurétanie Tingitane: un constant d’échec?”, Ant. Afr. 16 (1980) 65-93. 82 Its reliability is, of course, uncertain: but at the very least it provides evidence for the late fourth-century historisation of the emperor. 80 81

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V.

Genera ancora facilità l’essere il principe costretto, per non avere altri stati, venire ad abitarvi personalmente. (Niccolò Machiavelli, Il Principe, ch. 6.2)

Contemporary authors attribute vast powers to Roman emperors: the expectations of and demands placed upon emperors were correspondingly high. The functions of an emperor were both civil and military: legislation, the administration of justice, the defence of the empire. In a period of military turbulence, it is not surprising that the last of these assumed centre-stage.83 But an emperor himself could not satisfy everybody by being centre-stage: there were too many theatres. At a local level, therefore, individually and collectively, provincials appealed for assistance and support from whatever influential men could be found. Hence, naturally enough, third-century usurpations were most frequent in those marginal border provinces which were most vulnerable to foreign attack, whether by Sasanian Persians, northern barbarians or marauding Franks. In Dexippus’ history, barbarian incursions are resisted by local inhabitants of Greece and the Balkans: the Roman army does not feature as a safeguard of provincial lives and livelihoods.84 Millar claims that there is only one clear instance of such local selfdefence against barbarian attack in the third-century west, an inscription from Saldae in Africa that the iuvenes dedicated (in the 250s?) ob pulsum moenibus hostem (AE 1928, 38).85 In fact, there are two other such instances in Africa alone. It is the implication of Zosimus—Franks “sailed across to Africa, and although beaten off by an army from Carthage, they were still able to return home unharmed” (1.71)—that the Carthaginian forces were a local levy rather than a Roman legion.

Rostovtzeff (above, n. 2) 457-458. Millar, “P. Herennius Dexippus: the Greek world and the third century invasions”, JRS 59 (1969) 12-29, at 25. 85 Millar, “Dexippus” (above, n. 84) 29. 83 84

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Similarly, in CIL VIII 9045 (Aumale), one Aelius Primianus, a decurion of Auzia, is honoured with the title defensor prov(inciae) suae.86 In other circumstances Primianus, or the leader of the Carthaginian army which drove off the Frankish pirates, might easily have slipped into usurpation. Not for nothing did Dexippus claim that Decius was afraid of the consequences of such local self-defence: §n fÒbƒ e‰xen tØn Yrñkion dÊnamin (FGrH 100 F 26 [1]).87 Even in a comparatively untroubled province such as those in Africa, provincials became uneasy about security in the third century. The importance attributed to ridding the sea of pirates (cf. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 18) is symptomatic. Once again, this was the emperor’s responsibility. As Alföldy notes, the theory of biological and moral decline to which Roman commentators subscribed ensured that they saw escape from “crisis” as dependent on energetic and talented rulers.88 In such a context of nervousness edged with expectation, a lack of imperial attention to Africa led inexorably to Africans’ lack of attention to the empire. Neglected provinces and neglected provincials fell back on self-help, losing interest in the ideology and the reality of empire, which would inevitably come to seem the abstraction it really was. What is striking about the third-century usurpations of Africa, as distinct from those in other provinces, is that they correlate better with state oppression than with external attack, although where that occurred it too contributed to this climate of political uncertainty and anxiety. While the Gallic empire of AD 260-274, as Van Dam noted, represented overwhelmingly a response to military crisis in that region, the Van Dam model must be adjusted slightly to take into account the differing conditions in Africa.89 In the African provinces, the inhabitants felt less threatened from without than exploited from within the empire. This is not, in some respects, surprising. It is, after all, true that Africa was exploited by Rome for its wealth. 86 Cf. C. Melani, “Roma e le tribù della Mauritania Cesariense nel III secolo d.C.: una difficile convivenza”, Athenaeum 82 (1994) 153-176, at 156, rightly rejecting Février’s implausible suggestion that Primianus entered into relations with the province and became a decurion after the military exploits recorded. 87 Millar, “Dexippus” (above, n. 84) 25. 88 Alföldy, “Crisis” (above, n. 7) 339. 89 Van Dam (above, n. 27) 29.

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The rise of splinter states affected the African less than other Roman provinces in our period, in absolute terms. The separate “regional empires” of Gaul under Postumus and his successors; of Palmyra under Zenobia; and of Britain under Carausius and Allectus have no real equivalent in Africa: Sabinianus’ usurpation was too short-lived to count for much, and Alexander, like the Gordians, was always predominantly outward-looking. We have noted that in the dying years of the third century, an orator looking back over the history of his own times did not single out Africa as a hotbed of “secessionism” (Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 10). But if we consider Casey’s provisional list of third century usurpers, a pattern is clear.90 Almost all usurpations occur in regions such as Syria (thirteen listed), Germany (seven listed) or the Balkan provinces (seventeen names). The association is with frontier areas, and foreign wars— most of these usurpers are indeed figures who conform to the “traditional” model of third-century usurpation, relying to a greater extent on military support. We have seen in section III that the model does not hold so effectively for our African cases. Asia Minor, a region with little turbulence in the Roman imperial period, offers no usurpers. Africa and Egypt are conspicuous, in fact, at three and four cases respectively, because they were comparatively untroubled, economically relatively prosperous, and yet produced upstart emperors. The same conclusion—surprise at the extent of African political activity, rather than at its absence—should be drawn from Delmaire’s important observation that while “les petits” risked little in supporting a candidate for the throne, “les notables” faced a more acute dilemma when judging whether to pledge their support.91 The local elite in regions such as the Balkans, not heavily integrated in the third century into the Roman system of government and administration, could more easily afford to pledge such support than the elite in regions such as Asia Minor or Africa, which contained a substantial number of men with much to lose from a miscalculation. Once again, it is striking that while the nobility in Asia Minor seems to have been “risk averse”, the Africans did occasion-

Casey (above, n. 3) 35-36. R. Delmaire, “Les usurpateurs du bas-empire et le recrutement des fonctionnaires (essai de reflexion sur les assises du pouvoir et leurs limites)”, in Paschoud and Szidat (above, n. 4) 111-126, at 126. 90 91

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ally rise up. There existed reservoirs of discontent sufficiently deep to make an impression on third-century history. It cannot be stressed enough that this does not provide evidence for African “nationalism” in the period. A better, if slightly inelegant term would be “de-imperialisation”. In what would now be called a “transnational” or “globalised” political system, such as that which existed in the third century Mediterranean, regions which feel badly treated will cease to identify with the system. De-imperialisation did not even represent a complete abandonment of Roman political institutions. “Separatism” is a little strong, even if one of the results of the new mood of the third century was an increasing degree of de facto separation: the mood was not conscious enough to justify the “ism”. Geographical distinctions may be necessary: in “Libyan” Mauretania, third-century unrest at its most dramatic took the form of simple antagonism to Rome; in “Romanised” Proconsularis, unrest took the form of usurpations on the Roman model. Gordian’s action is instructive: he made straight for the old Punic capital (Vict. Caes. 26; Herodian 7.6). Loriot rightly maintained that Gordian I and Gordian II had no original conception of imperial office;92 one inscription is dedicated to Domitius Alexander as restituto[ri] publicae libe[r]tatis ac propagator totius generis human[i] nominisque Romani (CIL VIII 7004, Cirta). And yet the revolt of Alexander or of Sabinianus, like other usurpations, was not simply a Roman coup d’état: it created a new political “bubble” centred on Africa instead of Rome; it brought the empire closer to the province, substituted core for periphery. The provincial, regional metropole of Carthage could and did aspire to greater things. But locally manufacturing a new emperor seemed to provincials, in times of crisis, to be a more sensible and rational action than appealing to the old (cf. Herodian 7.5 on 238). In Dupuis’ observation that most emperors were honoured in Africa throughout the third century, we discern the truth: Africans liked and wanted emperors. But they wanted them to be close: Dupuis goes too far in speaking of “l’im-

Loriot (above, n. 42) 696. X. Dupuis, “Constructions publiques et vie municipale en Afrique de 244 à 276”, MEFRA 104 (1992) 233-280, at 246; inscriptions at 276-280. 92 93

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pression d’un loyalisme affirmé”, especially as many of the honorific inscriptions he cites are from the reigns of Gallienus or Valerian and Gallienus, representing an apologetic gesture after acts of precisely the opposite of “loyalisme”.93 Hobbes argued that political authority derives legitimacy from the security it appears or claims to offer: late Roman communities anticipated his arguments and took action accordingly to ensure their own security, as Barnwell shows for the empire in a later period than our own.94 This model of “de-imperialisation” is suggestive for the eventual fall of the western Roman empire. It suggests a reason for the phenomenon noted long ago by A.H.M. Jones, that many provinces seem apathetic and uninterested in the face of barbarian incursion.95 It explains the rise of such men as the Bacaudae of Gaul. It argues that in the fifth century, an ineffective central authority often seemed a less attractive proposition than a ruler, albeit a barbarian, who would provide security and law at a distance which made government feasible. Gibbon wrote of the Antonine age that the provinces “scarcely considered their own existence as distinct from the existence of Rome”.96 In a sense, late antiquity is the process by which that statement ceased to be true: and the main motor of change was distance. Peter Heather has written that “in a world without telephones, telexes and faxes, much power had of necessity to be devolved to the localities. The main political problem, therefore, was how to manage devolution without generating fragmentation”.97 But the problem was that devolution itself generated fragmentation, as regions separated: good news for Scottish nationalists, perhaps, but bad news for the later Roman empire. The Roman political system centred on the emperor, but human frailty prevented any individual emperor from shouldering all the burdens the system thrust upon him. A succession of strong military rulers in the fourth century managed to check, though

94 P.S. Barnwell, Emperors, prefects and kings: the Roman west 395-565 (1992) 13-14; cf. 16-17 on Vandal Africa. 95 A.H.M. Jones, The later Roman empire, 284-602: A social, economic and administrative survey, 3 vols. (1964) 1058-1068. 96 E. Gibbon, Decline and fall of the Roman empire, 6 vols. (1766-1788; repr. Everyman edition 1993-1994) vol. I 50. 97 P. Heather, “Senators and senates”, CAH XIII (1998) 184-210, at 209.

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not to reverse, the process of “de-imperialisation” which was inexorable once pressure on the frontiers of this “fractured empire” exposed the hollowness of Roman claims to offer pax Romana aeterna.98 In the fifth century the floodgates opened once again. T.D. Barnes observes that after reading Halfmann’s study of imperial journeys, we are still left with no sense of whether they mattered.99 Halfmann’s inexplicit answer is that they did not, at least not much; Mourgues begs to differ, and we must surely agree with him.100 Clifford Ando’s recent study of what held the empire together emphasises the mechanisms that could operate at a distance. Were they enough? Ando asks: “how did a solitary individual exercise tireless care in taking thought for the entire human race? The easy answer is, quite simply, by being present everywhere”.101 It is perhaps a reflection on our post-modern age that Ando has such faith in the power of illusions. Athanasius (cited at the head of section II) should warn us that not all those who lived in late antiquity were so easily fooled. Merton College, Oxford

Alexander Polley

Rees (above, n. 11) 2-3 for observation and phrase. Barnes, “Emperors on the move” (above, n. 25) 257-258, on Halfmann, Itinera principum. 100 Mourgues (above, n. 20) 221. 101 Ando (above, n. 6) 368-369. 98 99

QUAS I LIBER A, QUAS I ANCILLA Diogenia and the everyday experience of slaves* Et quidem summa divisio de iure personarum haec est, quod omnes homines aut liberi sunt aut servi.1 The division between slave and free lies at the heart of modern reconstructions of Roman society and the familia, but in reality, the differences between the two groups were not as clear cut as we might imagine: slaves could be taken for free-born, and vice versa. This discovery, made by examining neglected legal evidence, should lead us to reevaluate our assumptions about legal and social definitions of status in the Roman world and about the daily lives of slaves. It is a frequent complaint in accounts of ancient slavery that we lack first-hand testimony from ancient slaves.2 Unlike historians of the New World, we cannot know what slaves thought of the nature of their daily lives and their status, and we are left to reconstruct the slave experience from jurists’ arguments, from archaeological investigations, and from literary accounts written by members of the slave-owning class, often with philosophical or moralistic axes to grind.3 One valuable source of evi-

* I owe thanks to Judith Evans Grubbs. Her article “The slave who avenged her master’s death”, AHB 14.3 (2000) 81-8, which is a model for social historians wishing to use legal evidence, should be read alongside this paper. 1 Gaius, Inst. 1.9. 2 See, for example, K. Bradley, Slaves and masters in the Roman Empire: a study in social control (1987) 18. 3 K. Bradley, Slavery and society at Rome (1994) 92-5, has adduced testimony from former American slaves. Jurists: see Digest, especially book 40; also M. Morabito, Les réalités de l'esclavage d'après le Digeste (1981). Archaeology:

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dence, however, has been overlooked, which offers a fascinating and thought-provoking insight into the lives and experiences of slaves in the Roman Empire and provides unparalleled access to individual slaves’ stories. About 50 or so rescripts to slaves preserved in the Codex Justinianus (Cod. Iust.), though they lack the petitions that prompted them, show clearly that slaves disputing their status had recourse to law. They suggest that slaves had some understanding of the ramifications of their status and that they were able to seek legal advice on the matter.4 These texts also offer some insight into the question of what happened after slaves sought asylum because of mistreatment (and sought judgement over questions of status). Finally, rescripts also show us that while the difference between free and servile status in the eyes of the law was immense, nevertheless on a day-to-day basis, the difference may not have been so easily perceptible. The Cod. Iust. is seldom used as a source of evidence for social history: in any discussion of the value of legal sources it is overshadowed by the Theodosian Code and the Digest (Dig.), its companion in the Corpus Iuris Civilis. Yet the 2,500 or so rescripts contained in it, responses to petitions on legal matters sent by individuals to emperors, have much to tell us about Romans’ legal concerns. Most recipients of the rescripts were non-elites, of whom two thirds were civilian free-born men, just under a third were free-born women, and the remainder were soldiers and, surprisingly, slaves, both male and female.5 Little use has

Bradley (above, 6 and 86). Literary accounts: most famously Columella, RR 1.8, Sen. Ep. 47, Plin. Ep. 8.16. 4 The following list is not exhaustive: there are other rescripts that may or may not be addressed to slaves, though they concern questions of slavery. Cod. Iust. 1.18.9; 4.19.15; 4.19.17; 4.36.1 pr.; 4.36.1.1; 4.36.1.2; 4.57.1; 4.57.4; 6.21.4 pr.; 6.21.4.1; 6.21.4.2; 6.21.7 pr.; 6.21.7.1; 7.2.6; 7.2.12 pr.; 7.2.12.1; 7.2.12.2; 7.4.1 pr.; 7.4.1.1; 7.4.2; 7.4.8; 7.4.9; 7.4.11 pr.; 7.4.11.1; 7.4.13; 7.8.1; 7.8.4; 7.11.7; 7.14.7; 7.14.9 pr.; 7.14.9.1; 7.14.11; 7.16.6; 7.16.7; 7.16.12; 7.16.18; 7.16.22; 7.16.33; 7.16.38; 7.19.1; 7.21.6 pr.; 7.21.6.1; 7.22.1; 8.50.6; 8.50.8; 8.50.13; 9.23.6. 5 For numbers of women, see L. Huchthausen “Kaiserliche Rechtsauskünfte an Sklaven und in ihrer Freiheit angefochtene Personen aus dem Codex Iustinianus”, Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Universität Rostock, Gesellschafts- und Sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe 23, no. 3 (1974) 251-57; “Zu kaiserlichen Reskripten an weibliche Adressaten aus der Zeit Diokletians

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been made of rescripts to understand more fully the lives and experiences of slaves.6 This paper aims to correct the omission. In May AD 293, a slave woman named Diogenia in the city of Hadrianopolis handed a petition to court officials of the emperor Diocletian as he travelled from Sirmium to Byzantium. The response to her petition was posted up in a public place on 10 May 293.7 The journey from posting to codification was complex. Having been taken down, the rescript was kept by the imperial petitions department and then entered into the Codex Hermogenianus by Hermogenian, a libellis in 293-294. He seems to have compiled all or some of the rescripts of those years into a codex as a supplement to the Codex Gregorianus, which contained entries prior to 291. These two codices were later edited into successive compilations, culminating in the Cod. Iust. over 150 years later. Many rescripts to slaves were lost in the editing and subsequent assumption of the Codex Gregorianus and Codex Hermogenianus into the Cod. Iust., but we are fortunate that the legal interests of Justinian’s lawyers overcame any prejudice they may have had against preserving rescripts

(284–305 u.Z.)”, Klio 58 (1976): 55-85; Frauen fragen den Kaiser: eine soziologische Studie über das 3. Jh. n. Chr. (1992). On rescripts to soldiers, see J. Campbell, The emperor and the Roman army, 31 BC-AD 235 (1984) 265-99, although he has chosen to analyse a period of 33 years (AD 211-244) in which a greater proportion of recipients were soldiers than in other years. For a summary of recipients during the Diocletianic period, see S. Corcoran, The empire of the tetrarchs: Imperial pronouncements and government, AD 284–324, rev. ed. (2000) 95-122. 6 See only Huchthausen (n. 5 above [1974]), Corcoran (n. 5 above, 107-111) and Evans Grubbs 2000 (opening note above). A. Piganiol, “Les empereurs parlent aux esclaves”, in Scripta varia, Collection Latomus 133, ed. R. Bloch (1973) 202-11, describes the contents of some rescripts to slaves and ascribes their existence to emperors’ humanity, a striking quality in a slave-owning society. He does not, however, discuss slaves’ use of petitions to initiate legal proceedings, slaves’ legal knowledge, or the phenomenon of slaves being mistaken for free individuals and vice versa. 7 The location was most likely the agora, baths or gymnasium. For possible locations of posting, see for example P.Oxy. 3018 (dating to the reigns of Severus and Caracalla), a rescript which was put up `™§n tª stoò toË gumnas¤ou (line 5) and CIL 3.12336 = IGRR 1.674 = Syll.3 888, an inscription that tells us a rescript was posted in the baths of Trajan at Rome.

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to such lowly petitioners. The entries are not necessarily in their original form—many of the entries from earlier codes were altered to suit the organisation of the Cod. Iust. and the law of the time—but Diogenia’s rescript survived the purges of the compilations’ editors to be included in the seventh book, and it reads as follows: Cod. Iust. 7.16.16 (Diogeniae pp. 10 May 293 Hadrianoupolis) Si ministerium quasi libera exhibuisti ac te nesciente quasi ancilla in dotem data conscriptum instrumentum est, nihil haec libertati tuae nocere potuerunt, maxime cum te minorem aetate fuisse commemores et placuerit minores viginti annis nulla ratione mutare statum ac pro liberis servos fieri, ne ante libertatem inconsulte amittant (dett. cum BZ nec … amittunt PCR), quam aliis propter aetatis rationem sine consilio praestare non (tuetur BZ del Momm.) possunt.

If you carried out your work as though a free woman and an instrument was drawn up with you given as though a slave-maid as part of a dowry although you were unaware, they could not have harmed your liberty in any way, especially since you mention that you were underage, and it is decreed that people under the age of twenty years cannot by any rationale change their status and become slaves instead of free, lest before this lacking proper advice they lose their liberty, which they are unable to prove to others on account of their faculty for reasoning that arises from their age.

From this brief text we can plausibly reconstruct the following details about Diogenia. While under the age of twenty, she was employed in a household and believed herself to be free (quasi libera).8 But she was then informed that she was a slave (ancilla) and had been made part of a dowry agreement. We can assume that Diogenia was sent to work in another household, where she remained until at least the age of twenty. Sometime thereafter, believing that she had been wrongly identified as a slave, she petitioned Diocletian. The rescript states that because her

Although coming of age usually took place at twenty-five, it seems that slaves reached maturity at twenty. See, for example, Dig. 40.12. 8

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change of status had been imposed when she was underage and therefore lacked full advice or faculty of mind, she should remain free. The next step was to have that decision ratified in court. Petitions (libelli) that were sent to provincial officials or the emperor were either administrative or judicial. The first category included requests to have legal-administrative processes undertaken, such as applications for marriage by a senator to an unsuitable woman and for accepting an inheritance as heir. Responses to such petitions acted not only as authorisations to proceed, but also, because responses were posted up publicly, as advertisements to the community of the parties’ intent to proceed. The second category comprised judicial petitions, such as Diogenia’s, which asked for judgement or advice on how to solve a legal problem, or asked for leave to appeal against a standing judgement. A selection of answers to such petitions is preserved in the Cod. Iust. and other smaller collections such as the Fragmenta Vaticana and the Collatio legum Mosaicarum et Romanarum. Most of the individuals who sent judicial petitions were not members of the elite. Rather, as Deborah Hobson has pointed out, “First and foremost, petitions appear to be a cry for help from someone who is unable to assert his or her own rights”.9 Petitioning was a more attractive judicial option for socially and legally disadvantaged individuals than bringing a legal action: it cost less to hire a notary to compose a petition than it did to instruct a lawyer. Furthermore, those responsible for answering petitions, Diocletian’s court lawyers, were probably less biased and open to bribes than were local judges. Finally, a favourable response could either force an opponent to settle, thus avoiding an expensive trial, or persuade a judge of the merits of a case. For slaves, of course, the advantages of petitioning were even greater: bringing a case directly to court must have been almost impossible for most slaves, who lacked money, opportunity, and influence. Having decided to seek help from a legal authority, it is highly likely that Diogenia sought help with composing and delivering her petition. While there is no evidence for (nor attention paid to) how slaves received

9 D. Hobson, “The impact of law on village life in Roman Egypt”, in Law, politics and society in the ancient Mediterranean world, edd. B. Halpern and D. Hobson (1993) 209.

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legal advice or aid in petitioning, it is reasonable to assume that they received help from notaries, who also assisted free individuals in drawing up all sorts of legal documents, including petitions. Surviving petitions from Egypt on papyrus and elsewhere on inscriptions show such formulaic language and such complex phrasing (for example, the emperors’ full names and titles), that basically-literate individuals were surely incapable of composing them.10 Moreover, it seems unlikely that petitioners, untrained in written presentation, would trust their basic skills for such an important document. They would be wise to find someone qualified to present the case in the best possible light. Notaries were stationed at local fora, indeed wherever there was sufficient density of population to guarantee them a steady supply of business.11 They charged little: 10 denarii per 100 lines according to the Edict on Maximum Prices (7.41). So, even a farm labourer working for a daily wage of 25 denarii could have used their services (7.1). Diogenia may somehow have found the money, time and opportunity to approach a notary and told him of her predicament. He composed the petition, which outlined her story and most likely asked for a declaration that she should be free. If it seems extraordinary that a slave should have the means to hire a notary and direct her problem to the provincial governor, let alone the emperor, just as someone free-born would have done, it is worth reflecting on the connections between petitioning and seeking asylum, long recognised as a way for slaves to receive help. Slaves who had been mistreated by their masters sought asylum: an entry in the Digest tell us that they could flee to an altar, rendering them untouchable, after which their case could be brought before a provincial official.12 Slaves could use peti10 The rhetorical nature of petitions points to professional help, as do formulaic phrasing—see T. Hauken, Petition and response: An epigraphic study of petitions to Roman Emperors, 181-249 (1998)—and the professional handwriting and spacing of petitions on papyrus (see, for example, P.Euphrates 1). 11 There is later evidence for notaries in the forum in Nov. 44.1.4. 12 On slaves fleeing to the altar as the beginning of a judicial process, Dig. 1.6.2: Si dominus in servos saevierit vel ad impudicitiam turpemque violationem compellat, quae sint partes praesidis, ex rescripto divi Pii ad Aelium Marcianum proconsulem Baeticae manifestabitur. cuius rescripti verba haec sunt: “dominorum quidem potestatem in suos servos illibatam esse oportet nec cuiquam hominum ius suum detrahi: sed dominorum interest, ne auxilium contra saevitiam vel famem vel

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tions as a preliminary procedure for bringing an investigation of status (quaestio status) to trial before the governor and also for lodging appeals. Although, as Bradley points out, “It is not altogether clear whether a fair hearing of the complaints followed”,13 nevertheless, we do know that appellants were untouchable while their appeals were being considered. It is possible that other petitioners too, including slaves, enjoyed that same immunity. The connection between seeking asylum and petitioning is significant because it links two processes that had been identified with separate groups—seeking asylum with slaves, petitioning with free individuals—and therefore raises the possibility that slaves found recourse to justice by seeking asylum and then petitioning. A couple of extant petitions from free individuals highlight the connections between seeking asylum and petitioning. I am thinking of one in particular, P.Ryl. 4.617, in which we learn that Aurelia Isidora, a free woman, had a problem with her property. Her late father had purchased property that was now subject to a level of taxation so burdensome that Aurelia was forced to sell. Aurelia’s petition contains the statement kataf`[ug]Øn §po¤hsa diå taÊthw m`[ou t∞w éji]≈[s]evw §p‹ tå flerå Ím«n t«n eÈer[get«]n ≤m«[n b™Æmata] (l. 11): “I have sought refuge through my petition at the sacred feet of you, our benefactors”. Obviously b™Æmata is a supplement, for which I think ‡xnh could be equally apt: “I have fled to the sacred feet...”, a phrase found in similar form in other petitions.14 Aurelia Isidora’s claim that she went in desperation to the feet of the emperors to make her request for help may be referring to the imperial shrine, where she could have deposited her petition to be handed on to the governor. Alternatively, her claim to have

intolerabilem iniuriam denegetur his qui iuste deprecantur. ideoque cognosce de querellis eorum, qui ex familia Iulii Sabini ad statuam confugerunt, et si vel durius habitos quam aequum est vel infami iniuria affectos cognoveris, veniri iube ita, ut in potestate domini non revertantur. qui si meae constitutioni fraudem fecerit, sciet me admissum severius exsecuturum”. 13 See Bradley (n. 2 above, 125). 14 See, for example, PSI IV 292 line 18 parå tå så ‡xnh katafeÊgv, and PSI XIV 1422 lines 8-9 ¶speusa parå tå ‡xnh Ím«n | t«n kur[¤]vn t∞w ˜lhw ofikoum°nhw.

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sought refuge at the feet of the emperor may be a somewhat poetic way of describing the process of petitioning the emperor for his help, protection and judgement on the matter. Her claim may be a reflection of former practice: petitioning for help had replaced seeking protection at a shrine, although statements of the practice persisted in petitions; likewise, although in the classical period wills were probably no longer made by scales and bronze, it was customary to pretend that they were. But the fact that mistreated slaves did still go to the imperial shrine suggests that Aurelia may indeed have visited her local imperial shrine to hand in her petition, a process that was anticipated in the petition. The supplement b™Æmata, meaning tribunal, suggests she simply visited a local official. The answer to Diogenia’s petition was posted at Hadrianopolis in May 293. During the early months of that year, Diocletian was travelling through the lower Danube provinces of Upper Pannonia, Upper Moesia, and Thracia down to Byzantium in the company of Galerius, whom Diocletian had elevated to the rank of Caesar in March of that year in Sirmium. Galerius would travel on to Nicomedia to begin his duties; Diocletian returned to Sirmium. Along both the outward and return journeys, Diocletian and his court stopped at various locations, both large and small. A number of those locations are preserved in the rescripts given to petitioners along the way and preserved in the Cod. Iust., from which we can reconstruct Diocletian’s route.15 Diogenia most likely handed in her petition at Hadrianopolis soon after the court arrived; a few days later, on the 10th, her petition was answered and the response posted publicly. She was probably a local woman: given that the emperor received petitions at many locations on his journey, and that many of those locations (Tzouroulon, Burtudizon, Melantias) were small and unremarkable,16 it seems reasonable to assume that the people whose petitions were answered along the way

15 The route was first reconstructed by T. Mommsen, “Über die Zeitfolge der Verordnung Diocletians und seiner Miteregenten”, Abhandlungen der Königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin (1860) 349-447 = Gesammelte Schriften II (1905) 195-291. 16 Indeed some of the locations have not yet been identified, for example Aurris (Cod. Iust. 6.21.14, though this could be Aureus Mons) and Reginassi (Cod. Iust. 4.20.8 and Cod. Iust. 4.21.10).

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were fairly local.17 Court officials, members of the imperial petitions department, would then answer the petitions, writing their response below, pasting together the series of petitions and responses, and posting them in a public place. Diogenia could then show her copy to her master, who might feel compelled to free her, since the community, including his friends and acquaintances, could view the document publicly. If the master did not feel compelled simply by the existence of the rescript to let Diogenia go, she could take him to court. While slaves could not bring suits directly against free-born individuals,18 nevertheless they could begin the process by petitioning provincial officials or even the emperor to receive a judgement on the question of their status. Only three years before Diogenia received her answer, Diocletian had stated in a rescript that although slaves were not easily capable of sending petitions—that is, there was not always legal justification for them to do so—nevertheless, there were situations serious enough to grant them the opportunity to petition.19 Since she received a rescript, Diogenia’s case was clearly one such situation. It seems from the extant rescripts that slaves who disputed their status or were victims of serious mistreatment did petition and approach the governor, despite being barred from doing just this. A legal fiction was probably created to get round the ban: under certain circumstances, the servile condition of petitioners was ignored, just as in the Praetor’s Edict peregrini who wanted to bring suits were

17 See Huchthausen, “‘Thrakerreskripte’ aus dem Codex Iustinianus”, Historia. Acta Universitatis Nicolae Copernici 13 (1979) 8: “Je unbedeutender der Ort der Proponierung, desto größer die Aussicht, daß der Fragesteller in der Nähe wohnte”. Recipients may have addressed their petitions to either the emperor or provincial governor, but normally directed them to the latter. During 293, however, petitioners at various locations in the lower Danube provinces had the opportunity to direct their petitions to the emperor instead. 18 Cod. Iust. 3.41.5 … inter servum et liberum civile iudicium consistere non possit. 19 Cod. Iust. 1.19.1 Licet servilis condicio deferendae precis facile capax non sit, tamen admissi sceleris atrocitas et laudabilis fidei exemplum super vindicanda caede domini tui hortamento fuit, ut praefecto praetorio iuxta adnotationis nostrae decretum demandaremus (quem adire cura), ut auditis his, quae in libello contulisti, et reos investigare et severissimam vindictam iuxta legum censuram exigere curet.

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considered not foreigners, but citizens. The surviving tradition of using legal fictions shows how rescripts took over from the Edict as a source of equity. Some other rescripts to slaves, for example, Cod. Iust. 7.2.6, suggest that further action was required to complete the process of finding justice or a solution.20 In that rescript, a slave Pisistratus complained that a will by which he was to be manumitted was being rejected by the heirs on account of debt. How could he gain his freedom? The answer was that he should ask (postulabis) for the intention of the testator to be honoured. “Asking” in this case meant either petitioning the provincial governor or initiating a suit, which would ask the judge for his decision on the matter.21 Pisistratus and Diogenia’s rescripts both show that slaves’ search for justice did not involve simply petitioning: thereafter they had to use the processes followed by free people. Evidence for people claimed as slaves bringing cases to court is to be found in another rescript and in the Digest. In the rescript, Cod. Iust. 7.14.9.1, we learn that Potamon, who was born of a free mother taken hostage by foreign enemies, had been kept as a slave when she returned across the border. She was now initiating a suit concerning her freedom and wanted advice on how to proceed. She was told to approach the provincial governor, who would judge on the matter, knowing that her mother’s status was fixed and that capture could not enslave a free person.22 Like Potamon, Diogenia was not in a good position to bring her case to court. It was time-consuming, expensive, logistically difficult and

20 Cod. Iust. 7.2.6 Si hereditas eius, a quo testamento dicis te esse manumissum, ob aes alienum spernitur ab heredibus, conservandae libertatis gratia non iniusta ratione creditoribus hereditariis satis offerens iudicium testatoris servari tibi postulabis, maxime cum id etiam a divo marco consultissimo principe sit constitutum: quod in extranea quoque persona observari oportet. 21 Pisistratus may have been instructed to ask the heirs to honour the intention of his master’s will, but the choice of a technical word (postulare means to initiate a suit) suggests that he was directed to the provincial authorities. 22 Cod. Iust.7.14.9 pr.-1 Libertina matre procreatam ingenuis nasci natalibus evidentis ac manifesti iuris est. cum igitur te matre libertina editam, dehinc ab hostibus captam postliminio reversam proponas et nunc tibi servitutis moveri quaestionem, consequens est adiri praesidem provinciae, qui de causa liberali cognoscet iure laturus sententiam, sciens neque huiusmodi matris condicionem neque captivitatem reversis de statu pristino quicquam posse detrahere.

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even dangerous for a female slave to go through the process of bringing her case to court—hiring a lawyer, informing her current master of the impending suit, and having it made public. Once in court, she may have suffered prejudice from the judge as a result of her low status and gender. Furthermore, given the complexity of her situation, there was no guarantee that an unprejudiced judge would reach the right decision. Despite all the disadvantages they faced, quasi-slaves were expected to go to court. From Ulpian in the Digest (Dig. 40.12.1 pr.), we learn that if someone was in de facto slavery and did not allow a suit concerning their status to take place, it could be brought on their behalf by a family member.23 Ulpian attributes an individual’s unwillingness to undertake a suit to a desire to inflict outrage on his or her family. Since the jurist seems incredulous that a slave would not go ahead with a suit, we have to assume that plenty of slaves did go to court and that it was not a particularly hard undertaking. When a suit was heard, Ulpian tells us (Dig. 40.12.7.5), a slave claiming his freedom was the plaintiff; if a free man was claimed as a slave, he became the defendant. To determine which party should take which role, there would be a preliminary hearing. Following that hearing, a slave claiming freedom had to prove that he was free. Conversely, if a man had been enjoying freedom without intent to deceive, his opponent, the plaintiff, was obliged to prove him a slave.24

23 Dig. 40.12.1 pr. (Ulpianus 54 ad ed.) Si quando is, qui in possessione servitutis constitutus est, litigare de condicione sua non patitur, quod forte sibi suoque generi vellet aliquam iniuriam inferre, in hoc casu aequum est quibusdam personis dari licentiam pro eo litigare: ut puta parenti, qui dicat filium in sua potestate esse: nam etiamsi nolit filius, pro eo litigabit. sed et si in potestate non sit, parenti dabitur hoc ius, quia semper parentis interest filium servitutem non subire. 24 Dig. 40.12.7.5 (Ulpianus 54 ad ed.) Si quis ex servitute in libertatem proclamat, petitoris partes sustinet: si vero ex libertate in servitutem petatur, is partes actoris sustinet qui servum suum dicit. igitur cum de hoc incertum est, ut possit iudicium ordinem accipere, hoc ante apud eum, qui de libertate cogniturus est, disceptatur, utrum ex libertate in servitutem aut contra agatur. et si forte apparuerit eum, qui de libertate sua litigat, in libertate sine dolo malo fuisse, is qui se dominum dicit actoris partes sustinebit et necesse habebit servum suum probare: quod si pronuntiatum fuerit eo tempore, quo lis praeparabatur, in libertate eum non fuisse aut dolo malo fuisse, ipse qui de sua libertate litigat debet se liberum probare.

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In Diogenia’s case, she had to prove that she was free, but from the rescript we can assume that she now had some sort of proof of her freeborn status or manumission while a minor. She may have adduced evidence such as a birth registration document in court, though probably few people had one; more likely she brought witnesses to attest to her status. If her evidence stood up to scrutiny, the law was on her side: her counsel could point to an earlier rescript from the emperor Titus Antoninus (Antoninus Pius) ruling that the status of free people could not be adversely affected by the bearing of a badly drafted instrument.25 Perhaps the concept of bad drafting could be extended to include attributing the wrong status to an individual and then including that person erroneously as an item in an agreement. We cannot know what happened next, whether Diogenia had her day in court and regained her freedom. But the number of the rescripts to slaves and the evidence of the Digest suggest that her appearance in court would not have been unusual, and the clarity and force of her rescript suggest that she had a strong case. Diogenia’s rescript not only helps us to think about the procedure she may have followed to regain freedom, but also raises questions about her understanding of her situation. She seems to have realised that her age was significant, but how? How, under the age of twenty, did she know that slaves were different from free people? How could someone have mistaken her for a slave? Why did no one protest at the time? How did she know that she could petition the emperor about her problem? Inferring from the rescript, it seems that Diogenia knew or was told that she could complain to the authorities about being kept as a slave although she had assumed that she was free. Further, she now had some proof of her freedom while a child and was in a position to produce it (though it seems odd that she or a family member had not produced it earlier). Finally, she seems to have recognised the legal significance of being underage at the time she was told that she was a slave (maxime cum te minorem aetate fuisse commemores), but one wonders how she acquired this presumed legal knowledge.

25 Dig. 1.5.8 Imperator Titus Antoninus rescripsit non laedi statum liberorum ob tenorem instrumenti male concepti.

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Most of the slaves whose rescripts are preserved in the Cod. Iust. seem to have come from urban settings; rural slaves would surely have faced enormous difficulties finding the time, money and opportunity to travel long distances to urban centres in order to present petitions. Ramsay MacMullen’s analyses of the relative proportions of late Roman urban and rural slaves further support my assumption: many more slaves were kept in urban occupations than worked on country estates.26 Urban slaves enjoyed not only greater opportunities to petition the emperor, but also access to a far wider social network, from which they could acquire legal advice and help. Slaves serving in households and family businesses would have worked alongside and socialised with both servile and free individuals, a phenomenon that Keith Bradley has described as the “social and economic intercourse between free and slave”.27 As Diogenia shared her experience and received information and advice from others, she would have realised that her servile status was unlawful and that she could try to regain her freedom. Slaves who petitioned about their status seem, precisely in doing so, to have had a grasp of, or at least realised that they were in, often legally complicated situations. For example, in Cod. Iust. 7.8.1, a slave was told that since he was given as part of a dowry, he could be manumitted only if the woman agreed.28 From the wording of the rescript, it seems that Proculus had petitioned to check whether a husband could manumit him, given the wife’s unwillingness. He had some idea that dotal slaves could be manumitted, but that there were restrictions. He also realised that there was some importance attached to the purchaser being solvent, and he was right: for manumission by sale to be valid, the purchaser could not be in debt to another individual. A second example is Cod. Iust. 7.14.7, a response to Matrona, who petitioned concerning a suit brought by someone claiming that she and

26 R. MacMullen, “Late Roman slavery”, Historia 36 (1987) 359-382, at 375 (= Changes in the Roman Empire: essays in the ordinary [1990] 245). 27 See Bradley (n. 3 above, 77). 28 Cod. Iust. 7.8.1 Licet dotale mancipium vir qui solvendo est possit manumittere, tamen si te pignori quoque datum mulieri apparuerit, invita ea non posse libertatem adsequi non ambigitur.

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her sons were not free-born.29 It seems that she was about to come to court for the trial and wanted to make sure that a claim against her and her sons’ freedom could not hold sway if she had proof of it. We can assume that Matrona was probably free-born and subsequently lived as a free woman, yet it is remarkable that a woman, acting presumably without a guardian (for she petitions on her own account), and of sufficiently low status that her freedom was in doubt, could have the wherewithal to petition before she was taken to court. In a final example, Cod. Iust. 7.8.4, Sabinianus had been sold by his debt-ridden master to pay off a creditor even though he had been pledged to him; someone, presumably the creditor, contested Sabinianus’ freedom, but according to the rescript, the manumission stood.30 Sabinianus seems to have understood this complex legal situation, even though he was the object of it, not a party to it. While we may be surprised at slaves’ understanding of legal principles, jurists assumed it: we find one rescript in which a slave was upbraided for or warned about his lack of legal knowledge. Junius had petitioned with a query about his manumission and was told in no uncertain terms that because his manumittor, Rufinus, was clarissimus, a tribune and of age, therefore he ought to know or had better know (scire debes) that he could justly ask for his freedom according to the terms of Rufinus’ will.31

Cod. Iust. 7.14.7 Si te ac filios tuos ingenuos esse constat, natalium veritas vos tuetur. nam qui servitutis moverat quaestionem, apud acta causae renuntiando ad ingenuitatis probationem nec nocere quicquam nec prodesse potest. 30 Cod. Iust. 7.8.4 Si, ut proponis, consentiente creditore, cui pignoris iure cum aliis mancipiis obligatus fuisti, a debitore manumissus es, potuisti ad libertatem pervenire. 31 Cod. Iust. 6.21.4 pr. Si Rufinus vir clarissimus tribunus laticlavius maior annis lege definitis faciens testamentum te manumisit, iustam tibi libertatem competisse scire debes. In fact, the situation was more complicated than Junius had first tried to comprehend. In a subsequent rescript (Cod. Iust. 6.21.4.1, which originally was part of one document along with the previous and subsequent Cod. Iust. entries), Junius discovered that Rufinus had in fact not been of age when he made the will. Wills made by underage soldiers should not have been honoured, but the final entry in the series, Cod. Iust. 6.21.4.2, tells us that Rufinus’ intention should be recognised, and therefore the manumission is to be upheld. Two possible translations of scire debes (“you ought to know” and “you 29

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Sometimes slaves got themselves into legally complex situations. For example, in one rescript to a slave, we have an example of a slave mandating herself to a third party to entrust him with payment to the master for manumission. This complex procedure may have been used even by a female slave, but as the rescripts indicate, it was fraught with legal complications.32 Complications were not confined to mandate. In another rescript a slave woman, Pardalea, who had been born to a maidservant but was subsequently manumitted, was told, presumably in an attempt to undo the manumission, that she had named the wrong woman as her mother.33 Pardalea was understandably concerned that her status could be in jeopardy. But the rescript, Cod. Iust. 7.16.22, was on her side: the identity of the mother did not matter, simply her status and the fact of the subsequent manumission. The law concerning slavery was complex, requiring an understanding of some of the most impenetrable areas of Roman law, such as the laws of property and manumission. Yet some of the slaves who received had better know”) suggest that the author of the rescript was either admonishing or advising Junius. If the former is the more accurate translation, the composers of rescripts castigated ignorant petitioners; if the latter is more accurate, we have a surprising display of concern by lofty imperial officials towards humble individuals. 32 Cod. Iust. 4.36.1 Si extero servus se mandaverit emendum, quamvis nec ex persona servi (quia hoc liber mandare non potest) nec ex domini (quoniam qui mandat, ut a se res comparetur, inutiliter mandat) consistere credebatur actio, tamen optima ratione, quia non id agitur, ut ex ipso mandato, sed propter mandatum ex alio contractu nascatur actio, domino quaeri placuit obligationem. si itaque domino ignorante emi te mandasti ac te nummos subministrante peculiares soluti sunt, emptori minime liberatio per huiusmodi factum potuit pervenire. nec tamen si tradita nec manumissa es, etiam mandati de ancilla et empti de pretio consequendo tam contrarias actiones ei exercere concedi placuit. sane in illius arbitrio relictum est, utrumne mancipium an pretium consequi velit, cum ex peculio quod eius fuit solutio celebrata obligationis vinculo emptorem liberare non potuit. Other examples of admonitions in rescripts are given by T. Honoré, Emperors and Lawyers (1994): ignorare non debes (93 n. 262, 132 n. 796) and debuisti intellegere (169 n. 377). 33 Cod. Iust. 7.16.22 Parentes natales, non confessio adsignat. quapropter si ex ancilla nata post ad libertatem manumissa pervenisti, te velut ex altera natam ancilla servam professa quaesitam manumissione libertatem huiusmodi simulatione vel errore amittere minime potuisti, cum servi nascantur ratione certa, non confessione constituantur.

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answers to their petitions seem to have had an understanding of legal principles, even if it was sometimes hazy. If slaves’ legal knowledge was gained from fellow slaves, free acquaintances or legal professionals, as seems most likely, we should rethink our preconceptions about slaves’ social networks: they must have had much greater opportunities for socialising with other slaves and free people than we have assumed. And they must have been far more willing and capable of going to court than has been previously considered. One question remains: how could someone have thought that Diogenia was a slave? She carried out her duties as though a free woman, yet someone had drawn up an instrument in which she was given as a maidservant in a dowry. She was free, yet someone was able to believe her a slave and treat her as such, without the intervention of anyone, including family members. Diogenia’s rescript brings into sharp focus the fact that on the one hand there was a great difference between being free and servile in legal terms, but on the other free and servile persons could not necessarily be distinguished on a day-to-day basis by the duties they carried out.34 Diogenia’s was not an isolated case: in Cod. Iust. 7.16.38, we learn that Philoserapis held the office of harbour-master even though he was a slave.35 We are not told whether Philoserapis knew of his true status or not at the time of the appointment; the interesting point is that the local magistrates did not. It seems, therefore, that it was quite possible for a slave to pass himself off as a free man and even gain local office. Unfortunately, someone suspected that Philoserapis was a slave and reported him to the authorities, whereupon an investigation of his status was begun. Had it not been for the informant, no one would ever have known that a slave was controlling activity at the local port. One important cause of the uncertainty about status (and of some people’s ability to hide their status) was that Romans did not require registration of births. A rescript from Gordian (P.Tebt. 285, AD 239) states that lack of registration did not render a legitimate child illegitimate, but

On the similar living conditions of slaves and the free poor, especially diet and housing, see Bradley (n. 3 above, 65-66, 90 ff.). 35 Cod. Iust. 7.16.38 Non idcirco minus, quod te limenarcha creato nemo contradixit, rei publicae nomine moveri tibi status quaestio potest. 34

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that registering an illegitimate child did not make it legitimate.36 There must have been many children, especially those of humble birth, who were never registered and whose parentage therefore could not be confirmed. The result was that a free individual could be claimed as a slave, yet neither the plaintiff nor the defendant could find hard evidence for his status. One reflection of the widespread uncertainty is that five years after someone’s death, a trial concerning their status could not be held (although if their status affected that of a child, an investigation into the question could still be held). Cod. Iust. 7.21.6.pr-1 deals with this very issue: Polla’s mother had lived quasi ingenua communi opinione, just as Diogenia presumably had done.37 Ancient authors allude to the fact that slaves were not an easily defined group, distinct from the rest of society. For example, according to Tacitus, the emperor Claudius’ legislation concerning marriages between free women and slaves specified that if a master was ignorant of such a marriage, the woman was held to be slave, but if the master subsequently assented to the marriage, she was considered freed.38 It is remarkable that male slaves could marry without the knowledge of their masters, but this phenomenon could be explained by slaves’ infrequent contact with their master and frequent contact with free individuals. Another indication of the interaction and lack of everyday distinction between slave and free is found in an anecdote recalled by Seneca.39 He tells us that a resolution was brought before the Senate that slaves should wear clothes (perhaps a uniform) that would distinguish them

36 P.Tebt. 285 lines 1-6 YeÚw GordianÚw SebastÚw N°rvni | PoÊdenti. paralifye›sai t°knvn | épografa‹ oÎte toÊtouw toÁw {toÊtouw} élhye›w | _nomimous´ ˆntaw paranÒmouw poioËsin | oÎte toÁw éllotr¤ouw efi ka‹ §g°nonto efiw tØn | ofikete¤an efisãgousin. 37 Cod. Iust. 7.21.6 pr.-1. Si mater tua quasi ingenua communi opinione vixit et quinquennium a die mortis eius excessit, potes rem publicam et pupillos, si tibi status quaestionem movere temptaverint, nota praescriptione repellere. an autem pro ingenua in diem mortis egerit, in iudicio requiretur. quod si varietas interveniat, posteriora tempora spectari convenit. 38 Tacitus, Hist. 12.53. 39 Sen. Cl. 1.24.1 Dicta est aliquando a senatu sententia, ut servos a liberis cultus distingueret; deinde apparuit, quantum periculum immineret, si servi nostri numerare nos coepissent. I am grateful to Keith Bradley for drawing my attention to the story.

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from the free. But the resolution was voted down when senators realised that slaves would be able to calculate the numbers of free people. We can infer from Seneca that slaves, realising their strength in numbers, might have revolted. The stories from rescripts that I have described above show that many slaves had knowledge of and access to law, which were useful benefits when the distinction between slave and free was not as distinct as we might imagine. Romans owed their status not always just to their birth, but sometimes also to circumstance. While we must remember the significant distinctions between slaves and the free-born, from the evidence of the stories of Diogenia, and others like her, we should reevaluate our conceptions of status distinctions in Roman society to take into account the constant interaction between slaves and the free poor, whose origins and lives were so similar that they could be confused. Yale University

Serena Connolly

CL ASSIC ISM, BARBARIS M , AN D WARFA RE Prokopios and the Conservative Reaction to Later Roman Military Policy In the preface of his Wars Prokopios provides a famous description of the mounted archers of his age and, ostensibly in order to prove the greatness of the wars of Justinian, defends modern archers against certain unnamed partisans of antiquity who admire Homeric heroes and deny that archers are true warriors. Historians have generally taken this passage at face value and postulated the dawn of a new era of cavalry warfare. The first part of this essay will argue that Prokopios’ description of “modern” archers is factually misleading and must not influence our understanding of sixth-century warfare. It is instead designed to highlight trends that Prokopios found troubling, given that he in fact favored the infantry tactics of the Roman Republic, which he viewed as the best defense against the barbarians. His preface is ironic and is not a reliable indicator of his own sympathies.1 As we will see, modern archers are not presented favorably elsewhere in the Wars. The second part of the essay will link Prokopios to the conservative reaction against the policies of the Roman army after the reign of Theodosius I, in particular its use of barbarian mercenaries, which, Prokopios and others believed, was both

For the problems with Prokopios’ preface, see A. Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea: Tyranny, history, and philosophy at the end of antiquity (2004) 21-24. The standard edition is by J. Haury, Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia, rev. G. Wirth, vols. I-IV (1963-1964) (translations are my own). 1

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harmful and dangerous. This perspective, which has been unfairly malinged in much recent scholarship, shaped perceptions of Roman decline from Machiavelli to Gibbon.

I. Prokopios claims that in contrast to archers of the past those of the present wear a thorax and greaves and carry swords and bows. Some have spears and small shields slung around their shoulders. Their bows are so powerful that no armor can withstand them. They are, in addition, excellent horsemen and can easily fire missiles to either side, forwards, or backwards, at a full gallop (1.1.12-15). So his discussion is as much about cavalry as it is about archery. But we must not necessarily accept it at face value. It is difficult to shoot arrows backwards at full gallop in a thorax, to say nothing of carrying a sword and spear and having a shield slung around the shoulders. A thorax generally designates heavy armor, though it may be used loosely, indicating armor that even a specialized mounted archer could wear.2 Maurikios’ Strategikon prescribes training exercises in mounted archery that resemble those described by Prokopios, but it is not clear that these could be or—more importantly— were in practice performed while wearing the standard issue of armor prescribed in the next chapter (1.1-2). Specialist archers were lightly armored, as the Strategikon states later regarding even infantry archers (12B.2-5, 8-9, 12). In ca. 400 the military theorist Vegetius classified mounted archers among those “not issued with cuirasses” (3.16). The problem here stems from the fact that Prokopios’ mounted archers seem to conflate two types of unit that were generally distinct. The cavalry of the later Roman armies consisted mostly of armored lancers who charged the enemy directly, whereas hippotoxotai, special-

2 Julian described the armor of the fourth-century clibanarii, who were encased in metal, as thorax and greaves: Or. 1.37d, 2.57b-c. For the general meaning of thorax, see T.G. Kolias, Byzantinische Waffen (1998) 37ff.; for the sixth century in particular, see J.O. Maenchen-Helfen, The world of the Huns: Studies in their history and culture (1973) 249 and Wars 6.2.21-22; for infantry armor, J.C.N. Coulston, “Later Roman armour, 3rd-6th centuries”, JRMES 1 (1990) 139-160.

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ized mounted archers, shot from a distance and relied on maneuverability. Even if, as other sixth-century sources suggest, cavalry was uniformly armed with bows, spears, and swords,3 this does not reveal how it actually fought. Contrary to what Prokopios implies, for most soldiers the bow was an auxiliary weapon at best. Genuine hippotoxotai were rare and their skills required “a lifetime of training”.4 Additional proof for their scarcity will be found when we turn to the actual narrative of the Wars, which contradicts the emphasis placed on them in the preface. That emphasis, however, may be due to the fact that mounted archers would have been recognized by Prokopios’ classically educated readers as having a barbarian provenance. It was Herodotos who established the Persians and the Scythians as the archetypal mounted archers (4.46, 9.49). Hippeuein and toxeuein were two of the three lessons taught to young Persians (1.136). Those skills were later cultivated by the Parthians, whose hippotoxotai were famous for being able to shoot arrows backwards at full gallop. The “Parthian shot” was depicted often in art and literature. Plutarch famously described how they annihilated the army of Crassus at Carrhae (Harran) and Cassius Dio claimed that “many have spoken of their unique abilities”. Even Lucian used their ability to shoot from horseback as an analogy in philosophical argument. These authors emphasized that the Parthian bow, like that of Prokopios’ modern

3 Maur. Strat. 1.2 (Das Strategikon des Maurikios, ed. E. Gamillscheg and tr. G.T. Dennis [1981]); Corippus, Iohannis 2.441-445 (Flavii Cresconii Corippi Iohannidos seu de bellis Libycis libri VIII, edd. J. Diggle and F.D.R. Goodyear [1970]); Agath. Hist. 2.8.1 (Agathiae Myrinaei Historiarum libri quinque, ed. R. Keydell [1967]). Agathias does not mention armor, but certainly it is implied: 1.9.4 and 5.22.4. See R. Grosse, Römische Militärgeschichte von Gallienus bis zum Beginn der byzantinischen Themenverfassung (1920) 321-338, and, for a similar list of Sasanid cavalry arms, A.D.H. Bivar, “Cavalry equipment and tactics on the Euphrates frontier”, DOP 26 (1972) 271-291, here 276, 288. 4 Bivar (above, n. 3) 283. For the archery skills of all cavalry, see Maur. Strat. 1.1. For the rarity of hippotoxotai in the middle Byzantine period, J.F. Haldon, Warfare, state and society in the Byzantine world, 565-1204 (1999) 215-217, and “Approaches to an alternative military history of the period ca. 1025-1071”, in H autokrator¤a se kr¤sh (;) To Buzãntio ton 11o ai≈na (1025-1081), ed. V.N. Vlyssidou (2003) 45-74, here 54-56.

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archers, could penetrate any armor.5 But they also distinguished mounted archers from mailed cavalrymen, whose rigid armor prevented them from doing anything other than charging.6 Hippotoxotai on the other hand were not armored and tended to avoid close combat.7 The Romans copied both kinds of cavalry from the barbarians, and Roman armored cavalry did not primarily use bows.8 Prokopios’ claim that modern archers can shoot in both pursuit and flight (oÂo¤ t° efisin...ka‹ di≈kontãw te bãllein toÁw polem¤ouw ka‹ feÊgontaw) echoes references to barbarian cavalry in classical texts, for example, by Sokrates in Plato’s Laches: oÈx ∏tton feÊgontew μ di≈kontew mãxesyai (191a).9 It is important to note that the discussion of tactics in antiquity was never purely technical. It was infused with moral overtones, owing to the connection between combat and courage, and hence virtue. In Plato’s dialogue, Laches denies that Scythian archers were as courageous as hoplites and the Greeks who defeated Xerxes thought Persian archers were contemptible.10 “Do they fight with bow 5 Plut. Cras. 24.4-6; Lucian, Herm. 33; Cass. Dio 40.15.1ff. For the Parthian army, see J. Wiesehöfer, Ancient Persia from 550 BC to 650 AD, tr. A. Azodi (1996) 147-148; for the lost Greek accounts mentioned by Dio, E. Gabba, “Sulle influenze reciproche degli ordinamenti militari dei Parti e dei Romani”, in La Persia e il mondo Greco-Romano (1966) 51-73, here 56-58. 6 Plut. Luc. 28.3; Cass. Dio 40.15.2; Vegetius, Epitome of Military Science 3.23 (tr. N.P. Milner [1993]); cf. even Xen. Cyr. 6.4.1, 7.1.2, for heavy Achaemenid cavalry, and 6.4.16-18, 7.1.26ff., 8.8.22, for its hand-to-hand tactics. Modern discussions include J.W. Eadie, “The development of Roman mailed cavalry”, JRS 57 (1967) 161-173, here 172 (esp. n. 68); Gabba (above, n. 5) 66 (and n. 71). 7 Hdt. 4.128; Herodian, Hist. 3.4.8; cf. E. Darko, “Influences touraniennes sur l’évolution de l’art militaire des grecs, des romains et des byzantins”, Byzantion 10 (1935) 443-469 and 12 (1937) 119-147, here 453. 8 Gabba (above, n. 5) 67-73; Eadie (above, n. 6) 166, 170-173 (hippotoxotai were initially recruited in the east). For the later army, see Bivar (above, n. 3) passim, esp. 290; for a broader chronological sweep, J.F. Haldon, “Some aspects of Byzantine military technology from the sixth to the tenth centuries”, BMGS 1 (1975) 11-47, emphasizing military terminology. 9 Also Xen. Anab. 3.3.9-10; used for Scythians in Maur. Strat. 2.1.47-48, 11.1.46-48, and Romans in the treatise “On Archery” appended to the anonymous On Strategy (44.5-7), of uncertain date (see below. n. 24). 10 F. Hartog, The mirror of Herodotus: The representation of the other in the writing of history, tr. J. Lloyd (1988) 44-45.

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and arrow?”, asks Atossa about the Greeks in Aischylos’ Persians. “Not at all. Spears for close combat and shield-bearing armor” (239-240).11 Hippotoxotai in particular were firmly associated with, and even signified, barbarism. The bow itself was a symbol of barbarism, as it was the preferred Persian weapon and played a central role in Achaemenid ideology.12 Summing up the weapon’s symbolism one scholar wrote that “in Greece the bow belongs to the savage”.13 Scorn for archery and admiration for hand-to-hand combat was therefore not limited to the imaginary readers of Homer whose position is expounded in Prokopios’ preface. It was part of the classical tradition. Curiously, Prokopios does not say in the preface whether his archers are Roman or not. As it turns out later they are Roman, although the preface, which compares past and present rather than Romans and barbarians, is ambiguous. Classically educated readers of the Wars could have justifiably taken them for barbarians and at least one modern reader has assumed that they were. He also proposed that Prokopios based his description on a second-century treatise on Parthian archery.14 This cannot be proven, but the fact that it was proposed is significant. Roughly contemporary sources like Maurikios’ Strategikon and the historian Theophylaktos called the Persians “a nation of archers”.15 In his Translation and discussion in H. van Wees, “Politics and the battlefield: Ideology in Greek warfare”, in The Greek world, ed. A. Powell (1995) 153-178, here 158. 12 A. T. Olmstead, History of the Persian empire (1948) 237-244; Wiesehöfer (above, n. 5) 14, 28, 33; for the barbaric nature of hippotoxotai, see E. Bulanda, Bogen und Pfeil bei den Völkern des Altertums (1913) 40-47, 51-61; T. Sulimirski, “Les archers à cheval, cavalerie légère des anciens”, Revue internationale d’histoire militaire 3 (1952) 447-461, here 453-455; Darko (above, n. 7). Democratic Athens used hippotoxotai, who were either Scythians, public slaves, or mercenaries: I. G. Spence, The cavalry of classical Greece: A social and military history (1993) 56-58. 13 P. Vidal-Naquet, The Black Hunter: Forms of thought and forms of society in the Greek world, tr. A. Szegedy-Maszak (1986) 142 (with notable exceptions such as Odysseus). 14 O.S. von Fleschenberg, “Spätantike Anleitung zum Bogenschissen”, WS 59 (1941) 110-124 and 60 (1942) 43-70, here 44-45, 60; cf. 54 “Persian”, and 5556 “Sassanid-Roman”. 15 Theoph. Hist. 1.12.5 (Theophylacti Simocattae Historiae, ed. C. de Boor, rev. P. Wirth [1972]); Maur. Strat. 11.1.15-17, 11.1.41-53; cf. Vegetius 3.26 (end). 11

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account of the battle of Kallinikos in 531, Prokopios also says that Persian troops “are almost all archers” who shoot rapidly, but their arrows are deflected by armor; Roman bows on the other hand are slower but deadlier.16 The language exactly matches that in the preface, making the Persians akin to Homeric archers and showing the Romans as the true modern archers. The soldiers in the preface are Romans after all, but the important thing is perhaps that Rome has replaced Persia as “the nation of archers”. There were other such nations in late antiquity. In 398 the Platonist Synesios denounced the inclusion of “Scythians” (Goths) in the imperial armies, and, drawing on Herodotean imagery, demanded a show of strength against the new hordes of “foreign hippotoxotai”, i.e., the Huns.17 The Huns painfully reacquainted the Roman world with mounted archery. Equating them with the Royal Scythians of Herodotos, the historian Zosimos described their swift cavalry maneuvers in some detail. According to Agathias, the feigned retreat was a typical Hunnic strategy.18 Prokopios often calls them Massagetai, who, according to Herodotos, were related to the Scythians.19 He says that they were superb archers, even when running on foot (6.1.9-10). Their units consisted entirely of hippotoxotai (3.11.12). Referring to the army in Italy under Belisarios he again blurs the difference between Romans

Wars 1.18.31-35; cf. 1.14.35; Maur. Strat. 11.1.15-17 on Persian archery; Agath. 1.9.4, on the Goth Aligernos whose arrows could penetrate shield, armor, and body. 17 Synesios, On Kingship 21 (Synesii Cyrenensis opuscula, ed. N. Terzaghi [1944] 5-62; also The Essays and Hymns of Synesius of Cyrene, tr. A. Fitzgerald, vol. I [1930] 108-147); for Synesios’ politics, see below. 18 Zosimos, New History 4.20, following Eunapios and Herod. 4.20 (Zosimi comitis et exadvocati fisci Historia nova, ed. L. Mendelssohn [1887]); Agath. 1.22. See Maenchen-Helfen (above, n. 2) chapter 1, for their demonization; chapter 5, for their weapons and tactics (citations are unreliable in this posthumous but useful book). For our main source, see C. King, “The veracity of Ammianus Marcellinus’ description of the Huns”, AJAH 12 (1987) 77-95. 19 Hdt. 1.201, 1.215. See King (above, n. 18) 83-85, on identifying Huns with peoples in Herodotos, and G. Moravcsik, Byzantinoturcica, vols. I-II (19421943), with the Scythians (II 236). The Huns in sixth-century sources may have been Bulgars: V. Besevliev, “Bulgaren als Söldner in den italienischen Kriegen Justinians I”, JöB 29 (1980) 20-26. 16

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and barbarians by saying—inaccurately, as we will see—that “nearly all the Romans as well as the allied Huns were able hippotoxotai” (5.27.1529). So the Roman army consisted of Huns and Romans who fought like Huns. The tactics that Prokopios ascribes to modern archers are precisely those that Greek authors had deemed quintessentially barbarian for a millennium. By itself, however, this proves little. Though it is known that Prokopios exhibited a classical bias in many aspects of his work,20 we need specific evidence that he favored infantry over cavalry warfare and opposed Justinian’s use of barbarian soldiers. This would justify our suspicion that the preface not only fails to establish the greatness of the wars, but even highlights their disturbing effects on the development of the Roman army. Such evidence would indicate that the emphasis on mounted archery in the preface is tendentious and gives a slanted view of warfare in the sixth century. Many studies have concluded that in the sixth century most Romans fought from horseback and that virtually the entire cavalry consisted of hippotoxotai. A new age of military history dawned as the infantry armies of Rome were replaced with “barbaric” mounted archers. Prokopios’ preface is always cited as proof, while the rest of his narrative is largely disregarded along with, in some cases, all other sources.21 These claims, however, are wildly improbable and ignore the basic continuity of the Roman army. Most Romans continued to fight on foot. This was especially true of the field armies, with whose operations the Wars is 20 Av. Cameron, Procopius and the sixth century (1985; reprint, 1996) passim; however, this is a more complex problem than has been realized: Kaldellis (above, n. 1) passim. 21 Grosse (above, n. 4) 279, 301, 314-315, esp. 327-328, 335-336; Fleschenberg (above, n. 14) 110; K. Hannestad, “Les forces militaires d’après la Guerre gothique de Procope”, C&M 21 (1960) 136-183, here 176; B.S. Bachrach, “Procopius, Agathias and the Frankish military”, Speculum 45 (1970) 435-441, here 438; Maenchen-Helfen (above, n. 2) 221; O. Kurz in Cambridge History of Iran III.12: The Seleucid, Parthian, and Sasanian periods, ed. E. Yarshater (1983) 562; G.T. Dennis, Maurice’s Strategikon: Handbook of Byzantine military strategy (1984) ix-x; C.M. Mazzucchi, “Le KATAGRAFAI dello Strategicon di Maurizio e lo schieramente di battaglia dell’esercito Romano nel VI/VII secolo”, Aevum 55 (1981) 111-138, here 131-132; G. Ravegnani, Soldati di Bisanzio in età giustinianea (1988) 45, 49-50, 54 (the best survey of the sixth-century army); also, to a degree, Bivar (above, n. 3) 286; Haldon (above, n. 8) 12-13, 18-19.

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mostly concerned. Scholars not unduly influenced by Prokopios’ preface have deduced from administrative and literary sources that cavalry comprised about 20% of the eastern field armies after ca. 400,22 and, as we will see, a tiny fraction of that consisted of hippotoxotai. In other words, in his preface Prokopios singles out cavalry as the most interesting or distinctive aspect of sixth-century warfare, even though Roman armies were still predominantly infantry; and he emphasizes the “Scythian” skills of cavalry units, even though only a small minority of the latter actually used them. The agenda of the preface distorts the overall picture and has misled historians; the fact of distortion, however, reveals Prokopios’ agenda. He is not interested in statistics but in what is new and distinctive, and on its implications. But before we turn to the evidence of the Wars, a word of caution about two sources usually cited in connection with this problem. A treatise On Strategy that used to be dated to the middle of the sixth century discusses predominantly infantry armies supported by archers and cavalry, the latter consisting primarily of armored lancers, not mounted archers.23 It therefore supports the present argument, but the date of this work has been questioned; some scholars now assign it to the middle Byzantine period.24 And beyond issues of chronology, we will see below that this treatise probably does not reflect the actual circumstances of any historical period, making it virtually worthless as a source for contemporary military practices. From ca. 600 we have Maurikios’ Strategikon, but it too should be used with caution as it is devoted almost exclusively to cavalry operations. At one point its author speaks of a separate work on infantry, which may refer to Book 12, an appendix devoted to infantry and mixed armies.25 So whereas a maxim in Book 8 W. Treadgold, Byzantium and its army, 284-1081 (1995) 50-53, 108; Haldon, Warfare (above, n. 4) 191-193. The percentage was higher in the limitanei, which, however, are relatively absent from the Wars. 23 Ed. and tr. G.T. Dennis, Three Byzantine military treatises (1985) 1-135. See esp. On Strategy 15-17, and 36, where imperial forces are assumed to be infantry defending against cavalry. 24 B. Baldwin, “On the date of the anonymous Per‹ strathgik∞w”, BZ 81 (1988) 290-293; D. Lee and J. Shepard, “A double life: Placing the Peri Presbeon”, Byzantinoslavica 52 (1991) 15-39, here 25-30, who also question its homogeneity. 25 Maur. Strat. 2.2.7-8; cf. 11 (preface). 22

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advises generals to have more cavalry than infantry, for greater mobility and also because it can easily be converted (8.2.85), the discussion of mixed armies in Book 12 assumes a proportion of cavalry of about one third or one fourth (12A.7.9-12). Yet “despite the impression given by Maurikios’ Strategikon, the mobile armies of the sixth century must have been well over half infantry”.26 However, the emphasis on cavalry in the Strategikon and in Prokopios’ preface may reflect tactical priorities that shaped the actual conduct of war that would not be revealed by the mere number of troops in each kind of unit. Despite the greater number of infantry troops, imperial generals may have relied mostly on cavalry in many situations. This might explain the bias in Prokopios’ preface. Let us then consider directly the testimony of the Wars. According to the Vandal War, Belisarios sailed to North Africa in 533 with 10,000 regular infantry and 5000 cavalry, 400 Erouloi, 600 allied “Massagetai”, and his own guardsmen (3.11.2-12). The regular units were detached from the field armies. We can see that cavalry represented slightly over one third of the total force. Prokopios emphasizes that only the Huns were hippotoxotai (3.11.11), and they immediately caused trouble. At Abydos two of them killed a third in a drunken brawl. Belisarios had to impale the offenders and speak to the troops in order to maintain discipline (3.12.8 ff.). Later, the Vandal king Gelimer invited them to defect, and Prokopios states that they welcomed his offer because they were unwilling allies of the Romans. Belisarios had to court them back (4.1.5-11). Still, they remained conspicuously neutral in the final battle of Trikamaron, waiting at a distance to see who would prevail. Only when the Vandals were routed did they join in the pursuit (4.2.3, 4.3.7, 4.3.16). So much for hippotoxotai in the Vandal War. Their showing hardly supports the argument in the preface for the greatness of Justinian’s wars, indeed it directly undermines it. In his account of the battles in North Africa Prokopios does not always specify which units fought on foot or from horseback and whether they used bows or spears. After the initial skirmishes at

26 Treadgold (above, n. 22) 108; cf. Haldon, Warfare (as above, n. 4) 196-197, for infantry in the Strategikon.

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Dekimon in September 533, Belisarios decided to test Gelimer’s strength with his cavalry alone, so he left the infantry in camp, saving it for a more decisive engagement (3.19.1, 3.19.11). But the Vandals were unexpectedly routed by the Roman cavalry, and so on the following day the entire army marched on Carthage (3.20.1). The battle that broke the Vandal kingdom occurred at Trikamaron in December 533. Belisarios moved out his entire army, both cavalry and infantry (4.2.1-2), but again the infantry was left behind when the Vandals advanced. The cavalry carried the day on its own (4.3.6). It seems that bows were not used, because the Vandals were using only swords and the fighting was thick and furious (4.3.9, 4.3.14). The Vandal camp was taken when the infantry arrived in the afternoon (4.3.19). It is therefore with justice that Prokopios ascribes the fall of the Vandal kingdom to a mere 5000 horsemen (4.7.20-21). But these were not hippotoxotai like those in the preface. The only such troops in that campaign were the disloyal Huns. The exact proportion of cavalry in the army led by Belisarios into Italy in 535 cannot be ascertained. It seems to have been over half.27 Repeating the events in North Africa, in early 537 an advance cavalry force accidentally precipitated a major battle near the Milvian bridge that was fought at close quarters with spears and swords (5.18). During the ensuing siege of Rome most of the gates were defended by the infantry (5.19.18). But nothing had happened so far to justify the emphasis in the preface on mounted archers. That changed in the spring of 537 with the arrival of 1600 cavalry, mostly Huns and Slavs (5.27.1). At that point Belisarios took the offensive, sending out small groups of his guardsmen with instructions to attack the Goths from a distance with their bows, and, when their arrows were exhausted, to run away and avoid engagement. These sallies were successful because the Goths had no training in archery and could neither reply in kind nor engage at close

27 The initial force consisted of 4000 regular troops and phoideratoi and 3000 Isaurians, comprising both cavalry and infantry in unknown proportions, in addition to 200 Huns and 300 Moors, probably all cavalry, as well as the guardsmen (Wars 5.5.2-4). For the estimate, see Hannestad (above, n. 2) 150. In the sixth century phoideratoi were regular units, manned primarily by barbarian recruits, but Romans were not excluded: Wars 3.11.3; cf. J. Maspero, “Foiderçtoi et Strati«tai dans l’armée byzantine au VIe siècle”, BZ 21 (1912) 97-109. They seem to have been cavalry: Grosse (above, n. 3) 283.

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quarters (5.27.3-23). Prokopios now explains the difference between Roman and Gothic arms, concluding that the latter were defeated because “nearly all the Romans as well as the allied Huns were able hippotoxotai” who could shoot backwards (5.27.19-29). This is the closest that the narrative ever comes to vindicating the preface. But we must put events in perspective: besides the Huns, it was probably only Belisarios’ guardsmen who could fight in this way. Ironically, many of them, in fact a plurality, were Huns, while the rest were recruited among the Persians, Isaurians, or other inhabitants of the empire.28 So the “Romans” who could fight like Huns turn out to be mostly Huns after all. Again the dichotomy between Romans and barbarians is blurred, and the preface is shown to identify not the predominant mode of warfare in the sixth century, but what was new, distinctive, and most ambiguous. The forays of Belisarios’ hippotoxotai, though successful, hardly defeated the Goths. They merely encouraged the Romans to bring the Goths to a real battle. That battle is among the most interesting in the Wars and the speeches that precede it set the victories of the hippotoxotai into a broader historical perspective. Prokopios relates how their success inflamed the army with the desire for a full-scale battle with the Goths. Belisarios was initially reluctant, but, as so often, yielded to his troops. His plan was to engage the Goths with his cavalry alone, because even the infantry had by then acquired horses and learned to fight from them. The foot soldiers were few and, Prokopios adds, had never shown courage in battle anyway, so Belisarios drew them up near the walls as reserves (5.28.21-22). But two of his bodyguards, Prinkipios and Tarmoutos, begged him not to scorn the infantry, “through which, we hear, the empire of the ancient Romans was so enlarged”. Its lack of distinction, they argued, was due not to cowardice but to the ignorance of its commanders, who were themselves mounted and could not lead

28 Prokopios calls them doryphoroi (probably the officers of the corps) and hypaspistai; Belisarios could maintain 7000, all cavalry (Wars 7.1.18-20; but cf. 5.28.27 for two infantry doryphoroi). For bucellarii in the sixth century, see Grosse (above, n. 3) 283-291; A.H.M. Jones, The later Roman empire, 284-602: A social, economic, and administrative survey (1986) 666-667; for their ethnic makeup, see A. Müller, “Das Heer Justinians (nach Procop und Agathias)”, Philologus 71 (1912) 101-138, here 118; for Gothic weapons, H. Wolfram, History of the Goths, tr. T.J. Dunlap (2nd ed., 1988) 302-306.

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infantry properly. The two bodyguards, both foot soldiers, offered to lead the infantry in the battle with the Goths (5.28.23-27). Belisarios, at first reluctant, again yielded to pressure. Nevertheless, he positioned the infantry behind the lines, so that it would not throw the army into confusion in the event that it was routed, and also in order to support the cavalry in case of a general rout. But his confidence in the cavalry was misplaced: after killing many Goths with its arrows, it was finally overwhelmed by the sheer number of enemy soldiers when the fighting came close. The rout spread to the infantry, with the exception of Prinkipios, Tarmoutos, and a few of their men, who continued the fight to the end, allowing the rest of the army to escape. Prokopios makes a point of praising their valor and prowess (5.29.39-44). The Wars leaves no doubt that the Roman infantry had atrophied. Belisarios’ strategies were based almost exclusively on cavalry, and it is assumed by scholars that he had “infected Prokopios with his attitude”.29 And yet the siege of Rome, the only place in the Wars where the skills of the hippotoxotai are showcased, reveal that while Scythian tactics could annoy the Goths, cavalry was ultimately unable to defeat their greater numbers in combat (5.29.36). The speech of the guardsmen, along with the bravery of their force, make us wonder whether a properly trained and led infantry could defeat a much larger force of barbarians. Perhaps the views of Prinkipios and Tarmoutos regarding the infantry armies of Republican Rome were also Prokopios’ views,30 since he surely knew at least as well as they that Rome had acquired its empire through its legions. And many passages in the Wars suggest that Prokopios had grave doubts about Scythian warfare, both tactical and strategic. Before considering the evidence for infantry warfare, it is worth looking at a curious incident from a later passage of the Gothic War which

M. Whitby, “Recruitment in Roman Armies from Justinian to Heraclius (ca. 565-615)”, in The Byzantine and early Islamic Near East vol. III: States, resources and armies, ed. Av. Cameron (1995) 61-124, here 71 n. 34; Mazzucchi (above, n. 21) 131 (“termini entusastici”); W.E. Kaegi, “Procopius the Military Historian”, BF 15 (1990) 53-85, here 69-72. 30 So too Haldon, Warfare (as above, n. 4) 194, 342 n. 13; for the reliance on cavalry in the sixth and early seventh centuries, see 195-196. 29

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identifies Prokopios as a partisan of antiquity and a potential reformer of later Roman military practices. The symbolic importance of this incident is signaled by the speech given by Prokopios himself, the only one that he ascribes to himself in direct discourse in the entire Wars and the only occasion on which he intervenes as a historical agent in the Gothic War. Specifically, he draws on his knowledge of history to restore a military practice of the ancient Romans. In 539 Belisarios was besieging Auximum and the Goths were setting ambuscades against soldiers that he sent out to attack Gothic foragers on the hillside next to the city. The Romans on the plain could see what was about to happen but could not warn their comrades in time. At that point Prokopios, “who wrote this history”, approached the frustrated general and suggested that he revive the trumpet signals of “the Roman army of old”, a practice that had fallen into desuetude through “ignorance” (6.23.23-28). The plan worked and the Romans were able to protect their skirmishers from Gothic traps (6.23.38-39).31 The passages of the Wars that we are about to consider demonstrate that Prokopios regarded infantry as the most effective means of defeating barbarian forces, particularly cavalry. Battles in Syria, Lazike, North Africa, and Italy showed that ancient modes of warfare continued to be viable and effective. Thus Prokopios’ misgivings seem to go beyond the occasional treachery of mercenaries like the Huns courted by Gelimer. In the spring of 531 Belisarios was pressured by his troops to join battle with a retreating Persian army near Kallinikos (1.18). Battles on the eastern frontier tended to begin with exchanges of arrows, though it seems from the Wars that these never resolved the issue.32 This was true of the battle of Kallinikos. Prokopios notes that when the sky cleared the battle was still undecided (1.18.31-35). But when the Persians charged, the Roman cavalry fled because its allied Saracen cavalry retreated— possibly with treacherous intent—and also because the Romans were

31 See L. R. Cresci, “Ancora sulla m¤mhsiw in Procopio”, RFIC 114 (1986) 448-457, here 456-457, who cites the parallel of Polyb. 10.43-47. 32 Wars 1.14.35-37, 2.8.7-15, 2.13.19-22, 2.17.14-16, 2.26.23-30. For the campaign of 531, see G. Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, 502-532 (1998) chapter 9, who upholds Prokopios’ account over the official propaganda found in Malalas.

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tired from the march and hungry from fasting for Easter (1.18.35-37). Only part of the infantry held its ground. Belisarios fell back to those units, dismounted, and commanded his men to do the same. Once again the battle became fierce, even though the strength of the two sides was not equal. For they were on foot and few in number and fighting against the whole Persian cavalry. And yet the enemy could neither rout them nor otherwise overpower them. For they stood close to one another, massed compactly in a small space at all times, barricaded behind a rigid wall of shields and shooting at the Persians with greater ease than the latter shot at them. The barbarians often returned to the fray after having given up, trying to break up the formation and scatter it to pieces, but again they would retreat without any success. For their horses were disturbed by the clashing of the shields and reared up, throwing themselves and their riders into confusion. Both sides kept this up until it became late in the day (1.18.41-48). Prokopios emphasizes the fierceness of the Roman resistance by relating how the Persian general was later punished by his king for the casualties suffered by his army despite his ostensible victory (1.18.50-56). The stand at Kallinikos showed that it was possible for disciplined infantry to resist cavalry charges and even inflict heavy losses without any supporting cavalry of its own. Persian armies often consisted entirely of cavalry (1.15.15, 1.17.1). A contemporary scholar, Ioannes Lydos, assumed that all Persian armies were mounted.33 In 534 the general Solomon fought the Moors at a place called Mammes. The battle initially went badly for the Romans: their horses were terrified of the camels and a volleys of spears almost caused a rout. At that point Solomon dismounted and ordered his army to do the same: locking their shields together they held their ground in tight formation, while Solomon and 500 soldiers advanced against the Moors at a run, broke their lines, and sent them into flight (4.11.47-56). This was a major victory and Prokopios lavished considerable literary skill on it, including paired speeches in the Thucydidean manner.34

33 Ioannes Lydos, Magistracies 3.34 (ed. and tr. A.C. Bandy, Ioannes Lydus: On Powers or The Magistracies of the Roman State [1983]); for the Sasanid army, see Greatrex (above, n. 32) 52-59. 34 Kaldellis (above, n. 1) 28-32.

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In 549 Lazike was invaded by a large Persian army under the command of Chorianes, who brought with him many allied Alans (8.1.3-5). When battle was joined with the Romans and the Lazoi, the commanders of the Roman cavalry, Philegagos and Ioannes the Armenian, realizing that they were too few to bear the charge of the barbarian cavalry, especially because they doubted the power of the Lazoi, dismounted and ordered all the Romans and Lazoi to do the same. They placed everyone in as deep an infantry phalanx as possible with a front set against the enemy, and thrust out their spears toward them. The barbarians were at a loss, for they could neither charge their opponents, who were now on foot, nor break up their phalanx, because their own horses, troubled by the points of the spears and the clashing of the shields, reared up. (8.8.30-32)

There followed an exchange of arrows, in which the Persian general was killed by chance; his army lost heart and was routed (8.8.33-39). Note that by this point in the narrative it seems to be conventional wisdom that cavalry cannot defeat infantry. Prokopios adduces the fact that the Romans were on foot as an explanation of the Persians’ inability to destroy them. On the night before the battle of Busta Gallorum in 552, the general Narses sent fifty infantrymen to hold a hill and so prevent the Goths from surrounding the Romans. On the day of the battle Totila repeatedly sent units of cavalry to dislodge them, but their horses were intimidated by the compact barrier of shields and spears. By clashing their shields the Romans terrified the horses further. Prokopios devotes considerable space to the attempts of the Goths to break the formation, and praises the soldiers for their courage and steadfastness. Their phalanx proved invulnerable to the enemy’s cavalry attacks (8.29.11-28).35 How was this possible? The truth is that disciplined infantry formations cannot be broken by cavalry, for horses—being perhaps smarter H.N. Roisl, “Totila und die Schlacht dei den Busta Gallorum, Ende Juni/Anfang Juli 552”, JöB 30 (1981) 25-50, attempts to impugn the account, but is not persuasive. He states that the Gothic cavalry was repulsed only because the terrain was unfavorable (41), a belief in the superiority of cavalry refuted by the Wars. Also, Totila’s mistakes in 552 cannot be denied through rhetorical questions about his ability (44). 35

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than people in this regard—will not charge a dense line of shields and spears and shouting men. As Machiavelli wrote, “if you want to make an experiment of this, try to run a horse into a wall with whatever impetus you want”. In the second century, the historian and then legate of Cappadocia Arrian wrote the only surviving tactical order by a Roman general for the disposition of his army in battle. His Battle Formation against the Alans pits two legions against an army of horsemen and takes it for granted that his phalanx will break the enemy charge (26).36 Belisarios never used infantry like this deliberately. Yet the recurring instances of infantry success in the Wars, in conjunction with the speech and stand of Prinkipios and Tarmoutos, present us with an alternative to his military priorities. The main body of the Wars does not support the ostensible enthusiasm for mounted archery in the preface and seems instead to support the advocates of hand-to-hand Homeric warfare.

II. Infantry armies had created the Roman empire; could they not still defend it? Other contemporaries were equally troubled. The author of a dialogue On Politics devoted considerable attention to military affairs, championing infantry over cavalry and relegating the latter to secondary functions. Discussion of this work has generally focused on the theory of limited monarchy in Book 5 and ignored the fragments of Book 4 on the military, even though the latter reflect a Republican bias. The author argues that empires fall when they neglect the virtues on which they were founded, and notes that the Roman empire was created by infantry legions (4.32-40).37 These arguments were not made in a vacuum.

36 Machiavelli, The Art of War 2.95 (tr. C. Lynch [2003]); for more recent experiments, S. MacDowall, Late Roman infantryman, 236-565 AD (1994) 47-48. Arrian: Flavii Arriani quae extant omnia, ed. A. G. Roos, rev. G. Wirth, vols. I-II (1967). 37 Ed. and tr. C. M. Mazzucchi, Menae patricii cum Thoma referendario de scientia politica dialogus (1982). See A.S. Fotiou, “Dicaearchus and the mixed constitution in sixth-century Byzantium: New evidence from a treatise on ‘political science’”, Byzantion 51 (1981) 533-547, here 534: “the dialogue was written against the political realities prevalent during the reigns of the Byzantine

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Ioannes Lydos noted with disgust in his treatise On the Magistracies of the Roman State that “present-day soldiers have emulated the barbarians, and the latter the former”, so that there is little difference between them. He then states that Augustus had prohibited Romans from dressing like barbarians and was reluctant to forgive those who did (1.12). The treatise On Strategy mentioned above, now dated by some between the sixth and ninth centuries, shows affinities with this line of thinking, making us wonder whether its contents are descriptive or normative. The author recommends infantry armies supported on the flanks by cavalry, the latter consisting mostly of armored lancers, not mounted archers. He knows that this diverges from current practice and at one point says that his method of drawing up the army was “the one used by most of the ancients” (35.4-8). Contrary to what is assumed, it is doubtful that his prescriptions reflect contemporary reality at all. His infantry formations are modeled explicitly on the Macedonian phalanx of Philip and Alexander (16.31-39; cf. 24.10-36). He imitates ancient military texts, classicizes by avoiding all technical Byzantine terms, and cites numerous exempla from classical sources. His work was a guide for reform, not a statement of current practice.38 Emperors”. A. Pertusi, “I principi fondamentali della concezione del potere a Bisanzio. Per un commento al dialogo ‘Sulla scienza politica’ attribuito a Pietro Patrizio (secolo VI)”, Bullettino dell’Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo e Archivio Muratoriano 80 (1968) 1-23, here 3-4, treats the military sections in one page. C.M. Mazzucchi, “Per una rilettura del palinsesto vaticano contenente il dialogo ‘Sulla scienza politica’ del tempo di Giustiniano”, in L’imperatore Giustiniano: Storia e mito, ed. G.G. Archi (1978) 237-247, here 242, believes that they date the work to before the victories of Belisarios, presumably because it would make no sense to champion infantry then! Taking a dim view of classicism, Av. Cameron (above, n. 20) 249 n. 52 dismisses them as merely “literary... illustrations from classical literature”. For agreement on other points between the two authors, see A.S. Fotiou, “Recruitment shortages in sixth-century Byzantium”, Byzantion 58 (1988) 65-77, here 70-72. 38 Pace A. Pertusi, “Ordinamenti militari, guerre in occidente e teorie di guerra dei Bizantini (secc. VI-X)”, Settimane di Studio del Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo 15 (1968) 631-700, here 658-659, and Ravegnani (above, n. 21) 46, 66 n. 63, 91, who recognize the author’s “distorting” classicism; Haldon, Warfare (above, n. 4) passim, ignores the problems of both classicism and date. For similar problems in the Byzantine Naumachika, see J.H. Pryor, “Types of ships and their performance capabilities”, in Travel in the Byzantine World, ed. R. Macrides (2002) 33-58, here 39.

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Prokopios, Prinkipios, Tarmoutos, the admirers of Homeric combat in the preface of the Wars, the authors of On Politics and On Strategy, and perhaps also Ioannes Lydos, all wanted to conserve traditional forms of warfare. They believed that properly trained infantry was superior to cavalry, admired the manliness of hand-to-hand combat, wanted Romans to remain culturally distinct from barbarians, or, at any rate, were troubled by the reliance on mercenaries. The military policies of their government had become symbolic points of contention in what we may call the culture wars of late antiquity. The origin of the reaction may be sought in the late fourth century, when the victory of the Goths at Hadrianople forced Theodosius I to accommodate them within the territory and military structure of the empire. It is worth looking at those dissident positions in detail because they are the long-term ideological background against which Prokopios’ stance must be evaluated. We will then return to the Wars and look more closely at his argument on the effects of barbarization. It was possibly already under Theodosius that the military theorist Vegetius proposed a revival of “the principles that the builders of the Roman empire long ago observed” (preface). He lamented the decline in recruitment of native Romans and their replacement with barbarians, and insisted that “the strength of an army depends mainly on its infantry”, which can “usually defeat any number of the enemy”. Though he loved horses and even wrote a work on their grooming and health, Vegetius buttressed his preference for infantry with the historical “proof ” of the “great size of the Roman state, which always fought with legions”.39 Scholars, ever skeptical of antiquarian romanticism, have dismissed his “fanciful categories” and “flair for the past days of glory”.40 But he set out to reform, not to describe, the late Roman army. It was not necessarily idealistic to believe that “none should despair of the possibility of doing that which was done in the past” (3.10). Vegetius 2.2, 3.9; cf. 1.7, 20, 28; 2.18. T.S. Burns, Barbarians within the gates of Rome: A study of Roman military policy and the barbarians, ca. 375-425 AD (1994) 98; also W. Goffart, “The date and purpose of Vegetius’ De Re Militari”, in idem, Rome’s fall and after (1989) 45-80, here 49, 69; 72-80 for a partial defense. The text was written after 383 and before 450, but cannot be dated more precisely. The most plausible arguments in my view place it under Theodosius I. 39 40

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Also under Theodosius, Ammianus Marcellinus, an officer turned historian, scorned the provincials’ desire to commute military service to cash payments, which the state used to hire barbarians. He viewed this as opportunistic and avaricious on the part of the administration and “disastrous to the Roman state” (19.11.7, 31.4.4). Though he denounced the cruel treatment of the Goths by Valens’ corrupt officials (31.4.9-11), the savagery of the barbarians against the provincials moved him to praise the “swift and salutary efficiency” of the general Julius, who in late 378 sent secret orders to his officers to massacre all the Goths who had been admitted. The officers were all Romans, “a rare case in these times”, and so “the eastern provinces were saved from great dangers” (31.16.8). This was where Ammianus ended his work, with a clear lesson for the future. Some scholars have condemned him, at one extreme for endorsing genocide.41 If so, the charge must also be leveled against the people of Constantinople, who rose up in 400 and massacred thousands of Goths serving under Gaïnas, a general of Gothic origin and dubious ambitions,42 as well as against their bishop, Ioannes Chrysostomos, who did not condemn this act in his regular diatribes against his flock’s habits and probably approved of it. We should rank among such expressions of conservative politics Synesios’ speech On Kingship, presented before like-minded traditionalists in Constantinople in 398.43 Synesios pleads on behalf of the “ancient institutions” of the Romans “by which they won their empire” (15)—a stock phrase, it seems. History teaches that the best armies are made up of citizen-soldiers (14). Like Ammianus, Synesios condemns the granting of exemptions from military service to farmers in order to hire bar-

41 T.D. Barnes, Ammianus Marcellinus and the representation of historical reality (1998) 184-186, whose arguments here and throughout are uncharacteristically weak. For a more plausible assessment, see J.F. Matthews, The Roman empire of Ammianus (1989) 227, 471. Ammianus’ date for the event stands. His text is quoted here from J.C. Rolfe’s translation in the Loeb Classical Library (vols. I-III, 1950-1952). 42 Al. Cameron and J. Long (with L. Sherry), Barbarians and politics at the court of Arcadius (1993) 207-217. 43 For the circumstances, see P. Heather, “The anti-Scythian tirade of Synesius’ De Regno”, Phoenix 42 (1988) 152-172; Al. Cameron and Long (above, n. 42) chapter 4.

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barians, and urges the exclusive recruitment of native troops (19, 21). He calls for purifying the army and excluding barbarians from office (20). Despite claims to the contrary, his argument is not based on race. His basic notions are taken from Plato’s Republic. Soldiers must be the “guardians” of the “laws by which they were nurtured and educated, for they are the men whom Plato likened to watch-dogs” (19). Those must be excluded who do not respect the most sacred values of the ancient Romans (20). The new barbarian recruits had no commitment to the civic, moral, and philosophical consensus of Roman society. This platform had many adherents in the east and counterparts in the west, even among Christians discussing barbarians who had already converted.44 In fact, it faced no ideological opposition. No text advocated using Huns instead of citizens, bows instead of spears, cavalry instead of infantry. Those were decisions made by emperors, generals, and administrators in times of crisis, and were based on calculation, convenience, indolence, or native preference. Emperors made some symbolic concessions to Roman conservatism, for instance by banning barbarian clothing, hairstyles, and mixed marriages,45 or broadcast their views of the delicate military situation. Yet it is unlikely that the panegyrics that Themistios produced at the behest of his masters convinced anyone. It seems instead that his career at court generated hostility against him among prominent intellectuals of his day.46 Critics of imperial policy, speaking as defenders of a traditional order, used military tactics as symbols for a broader network of values that they felt were being jeopardized by short-sighted decisions. Recruitment among native subjects of the empire was one of the last vestiges of classical citizenship. The use of foreign troops threatened the social order by placing its defense in the hands of those who had less at

A. Chauvot, Opinions romaines face aux barbares au IVe siècle ap. J.-C. (1998) chapters 8-11; in brief, G.B. Ladner, “On Roman attitudes toward barbarians in late antiquity”, Viator 7 (1976) 1-26, here 21-23. 45 Chauvot (above, n. 44) 324-329. 46 P. Heather, “Themistius: A political philosopher”, in The propaganda of power: The role of panegyric in late antiquity, ed. Ma. Whitby (1998) 125-150; G. Dagron, “L’empire romain d’orient au IVe siècle et les traditions politiques de l’Hellénisme: le témoignage de Thémistius”, T&MByz 3 (1968) 1-242, esp. chapters 1-2. 44

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stake in its survival. Current scholarship, however, has taken a uniform stand against this position. Historians confidently state that “there was no meaningful alternative to the policy of appeasement”.47 Integration and adjustment were inevitable and so patriotism is dismissed as hopeless romanticism or worse. The ideas of Synesios were “feeble and irrelevant” as well as “racist”.48 Furthermore, the rejection of the conservative position is often linked to a rejection of the Roman-barbarian polarity use din our sources. Many studies have argued that the distinction can no longer be maintained in the face of considerable evidence, both textual and archaeological, which suggests that Roman and barbarian identities were socially constructed and fluid. I intend to critique this position in a separate study; only a summary may be offered here.49 Modern deconstruction of Roman identity in late antiquity involves subtle and brilliant analyses, but its exponents fail to note that its scope is limited to barbarian “successor” states, border areas, and the army, in other words to precisely those sites where identity was most likely to be contested and fluid and therefore troubling to conservative Roman authors. It leaves out of the picture the millions of Romans of the empire who established the criteria for identity in the first place. This is not to deny that Roman identity evolved over time or harbored contraditions, as happens in every group. But one will not understand current debates regarding, say, French identity by looking only at Quebec, Algeria, and Parisian graduate schools.50 Second, deconstruc-

Wolfram (above, n. 29) 137. Al. Cameron and Long (above, n. 42) 120-121 (and n. 63); cf. Burns (above, n. 40) 161-163, 221-222. 49 This project, Hellenism in Byzantium, will argue that Byzantium was the nation-state of the Romans, and a strongly unified one at that. 50 The coherence of Roman identity has been questioned in such studies as P. Amory, People and identity in Ostrogothic Italy, 489-554 (1997) and G. Greatrex, “Roman Identity in the Sixth Century”, in Ethnicity and Culture in Late Antiquity, edd. G. Greatrex and S. Mitchell (2000) 267-292, though neither quite admits that the evidence marshalled does not deal with late Roman society itself. Greatrex, for instance, relies largely on Prokopios, whose work is mainly about wars on or outside the periphery. Unable to find there any source for the coherence of Roman society, Greatrex falls back on the formal (military) criterion of “loyalty to the emperor” (268), but this excludes his chief source! What makes Prokopios a Roman despite his disloyalty to the emperor was his devotion to the 47 48

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tion accepts the ethnic terminology of our sources at face value and then goes on to demonstrate on the basis of the evidence of those same sources that identity was socially constructed. But this involves a misunderstanding of the usage of words such as genos and ethnos, which, already since classical times, had lost their “racial” signification. Genê and ethnê signified nations founded on law and custom and not fixed “essential” groups. This is not a modern discovery. A “native” army for Prokopios would simply have consisted of men who had been brought up within the empire in accordance with its laws and customs and whose patriae were within the empire. Pushed to its logical conclusion, deconstruction yields the result that the citizens of, say, Caesarea or Thessalonike were wrong to believe that there was anything fundamentally different between them and a Hun from the steppes. Besides, even if the conservative position proves to be philosophically and historically untenable, still it informs the outlook of our main sources and deserves study for that reason alone. Our conservative authors may have been idealists and their government may have done its best to preserve the integrity of the empire. But the faith in historical inevitability is more suspect than idealism. Themistios may have been right, but he was only the mouthpiece of the authorities. It is more likely that those authorities were as corrupt and incompetent as our sources imply and that they took the line of least resistance to the barbarians, than that the policies advocated by Synesios were inherently unrealistic. The study that would show what was and what was not possible in the late fourth century has not yet been written. What we do know is that, one way or another, the east weathered the storm while the west “transformed” itself out of existence. During the fifth century the eastern government either massacred its barbarian “allies”, led them to destroy each other, drove them out, or assimilated them to what Synesios would have called “its own laws and customs”. By ca. 510 its armies again consisted mainly of native troops under the command of the political authorities.51 Even “internal barbarians” like the Isaurians had been suppressed. idea of the Roman commonwealth, something most barbarians in the army lacked. 51 Grosse (above, n. 3) 277-280; Treadgold (above, n. 22) 13-15, 164-165; for the east in general, idem, A history of the Byzantine state and society (1997) 172; for native recruitment in Egypt, Maspero (above, n. 27) 104-106, though this is

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This development, which Synesios would have hailed as a vindication, has not received much attention. Discussions of the aftermath of Hadrianople shift their focus to the west after ca. 400, where appeasement did become inevitable. In Prokopios’ Wars we witness the gradual rebarbarization of the eastern armies. Let us begin with numerical data. At Daras in 530 Belisarios commanded 25,000 troops, including only 1500 Huns and Erouloi (1.13.19-23). At Kallinikos the following year he led an army of 20,000 men, including a large force of Saracens, but no other foreign units (1.18.5). The invasion of North Africa involved some 16,000 soldiers, of whom only 1000 were Huns and Erouloi (3.11.11). The proportion of barbarians increased steadily thereafter, as did the ethnic variety of allied nations. This was particularly true of the reinforcements sent to Italy in the late 530s, e.g., 1600 Huns, Slavs, and Antai in 537 (5.27.2), 5000 Romans and 2000 Erouloi under Narses in 538 (6.13.17). In 545 Belisarios pleaded for reinforcements, requesting his guards “as well as a multitude of Huns and other barbarians” (7.12.10; cf. 7.13.20-25). In 542 he led an army in the east that included Armenians, Goths, Erouloi, Vandals, and Moors (2.21.5). When Narses invaded Italy in 552 he had, in addition to a large, albeit unspecified force of regular Roman soldiers, over 5500 Lombards and 3000 Erouloi, “large numbers of Huns”, “many Persian deserters”, and 400 Gepids (8.26.10-13). Noting this rise in the employment of barbarians, one historian ascribed it to the plague of the early 540s, when the empire was engaged on many fronts and desperately in need of recruits. It seems, however, that the effect of the plague has been overestimated.52 Prokopios at any of limited importance: J.L. Teall, “The barbarians in Justinian’s armies,” Speculum 40 (1965) 294-322, here 313-314; cf. 296-300, for the preponderance of native troops in the early part of Justinian”s reign. The employment of barbarians was also criticized by the fifth-century historian Priskos of Panion: R.C. Blockley, The fragmentary classicising historians of the later Roman empire: Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus and Malchus, vol. I (1981) 58. 52 See Teall (above, n. 51); cf. J. Durliat, “La peste du VIe siècle: pour un nouvel examen des sources byzantines”, in Hommes et richesses dans l’empire byzantine vol. I: IVe-VIIe siècle, ed. G. Dagron (1989) 107-119, and D.C. Stathakopoulos, Famine and pestilence in the late Roman and early Byzantine empire: A systematic survey of subsistence crises and epidemics (2004) on the plague, though they do not examine the military aspect. That is reexamined by

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rate was aware of the changes that had occurred by mid-century. On occasion he comments derisively, albeit indirectly, on the ethnic composition of imperial armies, particularly the one led by Narses in 552. First, he makes the Goth Usdrilas, “an exceptionally capable warrior” commanding Ariminum, abuse the Romans for leading “a mixed hoard of barbarians with which to ruin a land that in no way belongs to you” (8.28.2). He then makes Totila call Narses’ army a mishmash of foreign nations—Huns, Lombards, Erouloi—who were not loyal to the empire (8.30.17-18).53 These words may be ascribed to speakers in the text, but ultimately they are the historian’s own invention. It is ironic that they should be placed in the mouths of barbarians leaders. Though the imperial forces prevailed in Italy, the Gothic accusations were not without merit. At the battle of Busta Gallorum Narses placed the “Lombards and the nation of the Erouloi and all the other barbarians” in the center of his line, ordering them to dismount and fight on foot lest they flee or betray him in battle (8.31.5). In the event, they fought as bravely as the Romans and Prokopios praises them equally (8.32.11-12). But that is not the relationship a general should have with his troops. And after the battle the prediction of Usdrilas was brought to pass by the Lombards, who began to set fire to buildings and rape women who had taken refuge in churches. Narses had to pay them off and send them home prematurely and under guard to prevent further damage (8.33.1-2). This was not an army of which to be proud. Prokopios was sensitive to all the problems caused by the use of barbarians. First was their disloyalty and savagery. We have seen the lawless behavior of the Huns during the North African campaign and their treasonous negotiations with Gelimer. Prokopios directs our attention to their brutality again in the Gothic War, when he has Belisarios warn the

Whitby (above, n. 29) 92-103, who attributes no significant manpower shortages to the plague (see 83-84, for recruitment during peacetime). Whitby’s discussion of barbarian allies, however, is unpersuasive (103-110): he dismisses the undeniable evidence for increase during the reign, and disingenuously assumes that groups should not be classified as barbarian so long as they lived on Roman territory. Prokopios certainly did not think so, nor for that matter did Synesios, Ammianus, et al. It seems that Prokopios did not even consider the Isaurians to be fully Roman: Wars 7.6.2. 53 Cf. Galgacus in Tac. Agr. 32.

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inhabitants of Naples that he would not be able to restrain the violence of the Huns should the city fall to him by storm (5.9.27). True enough, in his account of the city’s capture the historian echoes the general’s exact words when he says that the Huns surpassed all others in the slaughter (5.10.29), an event noted widely by contemporaries.54 The theme of brutality and disloyalty recurs in the Gothic War, all the way to the very end, when Narses finally captured Rome and “the barbarians in the Roman army treated everyone whom they chanced upon as they entered the city as an enemy” (8.34.4). Such episodes compelled the historian to treat the propaganda of liberation with considerable cynicism. The Roman cause was not served by unleashing the fury of barbarians upon the empire’s former and future subjects—upon the city of Rome no less.55 Prokopios was troubled by other complications. The need to hire barbarians harmed the empire’s defenses. According to the Secret History, Justinian frequently sent letters to the generals of Thrace and Illyricum forbidding them from attacking the Huns who were plundering those provinces because he wanted to use them as allies “against the Goths, perhaps, or against some other enemy” (21.26). Prokopios here attributes the need for mercenaries to the multiple wars waged by Justinian, even managing a snide reference to his abundance of enemies. Beside the plague, whose impact cannot be gauged precisely, the primary strain on recruitment was due to the multiplication of armies necessary for the conquest, pacification, and defense of new provinces. By the time the final book of the Wars was published, Justinian had created four new field armies, for Africa, Italy, Spain, and Armenia, totaling 50,000 troops. Few of those would have come from the new provinces, at least not initially, and the old ones could probably not provide enough recruits.56 Hence the continual need for barbarian recruits. So Justinian allowed Huns to plunder the empire’s actual provinces in order to use

PLRE III 196 (Belisarius). C.F. Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides on the labors of war: Belisarius and Brasidas in the field”, TAPhA 130 (2000) 149-187. 56 Treadgold (above, n. 22) 60; for the inability to recruit in Italy, J.H.W.G. Liebeschuetz, “The Romans demilitarized: The evidence of Procopius”, SCI 15 (1996) 230-239. Agathias also believed that the new armies drained existing reserves: 5.13.7-8. 54 55

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them for the reconquest of its former provinces, which exposed the latter as well to the savagery of his new “allies”. Such was the logic of imperialism in the sixth century. The past, however, taught a more ominous lesson about barbarians allies, which Prokopios, one of the first historians of the decline and fall of the western empire, did not overlook. On the first page of the Gothic War he outlines the history of the abolition of the empire in the west. He does not present us there with hordes of barbarians bursting through the frontiers. He focuses instead on the misguided “alliances” that the Romans made with them, suggesting that fault lay with imperial policymakers. He identifies alliances as the most important cause of “those things that the Romans suffered at the hands of Alaric and Attila” (5.1.3). In general, “to the degree that the power of the barbarians among them became stronger, just so did the standing of the Roman soldiers decline, and under the fair name of an alliance they were oppressed and tyrannized by the newcomers” (5.1.4). This verdict on the fall of the west contains an implicit warning against the current policies of the eastern empire. Justinian’s increasing reliance on barbarians and the decline of traditional infantry warfare suggested that the empire had entered a new phase of barbarization. Had Prokopios read the Strategikon of Maurikios, written fifty years later, he would have especially noted its instructions that generals should issue “tents of the Avar type”, draw up battle lines like Turks rather than Romans, and train using the “Scythian and Alan drills”, among similar recommendations. “Simplifying the matter slightly”, one scholar has concluded from this treatise that ca. 600 the Romans had Avar-style cavalry, Gothic infantry, and Avaro-Slavic light troops.57 Prokopios’ suggestion that Rome gradually yielded to the barbarians under the cover of an alliance would have a distinguished future. I cannot say with certainty that it was taken from him by Machiavelli, though the latter did read the Wars and even noted the significance of at least one passage that has evaded the attention of modern historians.58

57

Maur. Strat. 1.2, 2.1, 6.1-2; Pertusi (above, n. 38) 684, perhaps too simpli-

fied. 58 Machiavelli, Discourses on Livy 2.8.2 (tr. H.C. Mansfield and N. Tarcov [1996]). This passage will be discussed in a separate study.

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Machiavelli likewise viewed the fall of the western empire as a gradual process whose origin lay in the short-sighted policies of the government, which was often acting from a position of strength. The formulation in The Prince sounds like an exact paraphrase of Prokopios’ verdict, quoted above. If one considers the first cause of the ruin of the Roman empire, one will find it to have begun only with the hiring of Goths, because from that beginning the forces of the Roman empire began to weaken, and all the virtue that was taken from it was given to them.59 Though reacting to different circumstances and prompted by a novel philosophical agenda, Machiavelli deployed a cultural code that would have been familiar to the conservatives of the post-Theodosian era. This was due to his use of Vegetius,60 as well as because his philosophy called for citizen armies like those of Republican Rome. Machiavelli laid out his reform of military orders in his dialogue on The Art of War, where a number of familiar arguments are given to Fabrizio Colonna. “The sinew of armies”, he says, “without any doubt is the infantry” (1.82). His description of Roman weapons ends with another familiar remark, repeated throughout the dialogue to justify the choice of model: “with these arms. . . my Romans occupied the entire world” (2.23), and “the Roman infantries defeated innumerable cavalrymen” (2.46; cf. 2.38).61 Fabrizio goes on to offer a lengthy explanation for this, and, as we saw, his analysis of equine psychology echoes the accounts of infantry victories in the Wars. Medieval examples could no doubt be found to complement the evidence of Prokopios.62 59 Machiavelli, The Prince ch. 13 (tr. H.C. Mansfield [1985]). For Theodosius I, who “defeated the Goths gloriously” before taking them into service, see idem, Florentine Histories 1.1 (tr. L.F. Banfield and H.C. Mansfield [1988]). For a modern version of the same position, see C.R. Whittaker, Frontiers of the Roman empire: A social and economic study (1994) 251. 60 L.A. Burd, “Le fonti letterarie di Machiavelli nell’Arte della guerra”, Atti della R. Accademia dei Lincei,5 Classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche 4 (1896) 187-261. 61 Cf. Machiavelli, Discourses on Livy 2.18. 62 See the Battle of the Standard in Henry of Huntingdon, The history of the English people, 1000-1154, 4.9 (tr. D. Greenway [1996] 72). Fabrizio is not the mouthpiece of Machiavelli, whose agenda is more complex than the summary given above. “Cavalry” and “infantry” have for him a philosophical meaning that

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Machiavelli’s heir was the historian Edward Gibbon, who consciously turned the Florentine’s political philosophy into a history of the fall of Rome. Despite the occasional rhetoric drawn from some ancient sources, the reader will not find in his work a deluge of barbarian hordes pouring over the frontiers intent on destroying classical civilization. Gibbon knew that the northern barbarians were neither sufficiently savage, nor sufficiently refined, to entertain such aspiring ideas of destruction and revenge. The shepherds of Scythia and Germany had been educated in the armies of the empire, whose discipline they acquired, and whose weaknesses they invaded: with the familiar use of the Latin tongue, they had learned to reverence the name and titles of Rome.63

The problem was not that Rome was destroyed by the barbarians, but that it came to rely on them. Just as “the active virtues of society were discouraged. . . the feeble policy of Constantine and his successors armed and instructed, for the ruin of the empire, the rude valor of the barbarian mercenaries”.64 Virtue was neglected by peaceful subjects; their ancient valor and love of glory was corrupted by luxury and finally destroyed by otherworldly aspirations. By the time of Justinian “the transcends warfare. His opposition to mercenaries was shaped by the history of the Roman empire, but his military reforms were only an aspect of his wider attack against the Christian order. See H.C. Mansfield, Machiavelli’s virtue (1996) 120 and chapter 8; for his place in the history of republicanism, F. Gilbert, “Machiavelli: The renaissance of the art of war”, in Makers of modern strategy from Machiavelli to the nuclear age, ed. P. Paret (1986) 11-31. 63 Edward Gibbon, The history of the decline and fall of the Roman empire, ed. D. Womersley, vols. I-III (1994) chapter 71, 1068-1069. Historians of late antiquity often neglect the Machiavellian origins of Gibbon’s enterprise. See J.G.A. Pocock, “Between Machiavelli and Hume: Gibbon as civic humanist and philosophical historian”, Edward Gibbon and the decline and fall of the Roman empire, edd. G.W. Bowersock, J. Clive, and S.R. Graubard (1977) 103-119. For example, the “golden age” of the second century AD and the “five good emperors” are often traced to Gibbon and Montesquieu (e.g., by M. Meckler, “The beginning of the Historia Augusta”, Historia 43 [1996] 364-375, here 367), but cf. Machiavelli, Discourses on Livy 1.10. 64 Gibbon, Decline and fall (as above, n. 63), “General observations on the fall of the Roman empire in the west” at 514.

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want of national spirit was supplied by the precarious faith and disorderly service of barbarian mercenaries”,65 a thesis for which Gibbon could and did find evidence in Prokopios. As a Greek historian Prokopios was concerned about the threat of barbarism, but reversed the usual polarity because he felt that under Justinian barbarization was an internal problem. This was a thesis that he pursued in parallel directions. In the Secret History, for example, he tried to show that the imperial court had become indistinguishable from an oriental despotism and that Justinian was “a barbarian in his speech and dress and manner of thinking” (14.2).66 I have tried to show here that this line of thinking affected the way in which he wrote military history. It was not so much the barbarians themselves that worried him. While he loathed Chosroes and probably disliked the Persians, he seems on the whole to have admired Gothic rulers such as Theoderic, Amalasuntha, and Totila, more so in fact than most or even all the Roman emperors whom he discusses in his work. It is therefore fitting that we should conclude by looking at the very last pages of the Wars, for the end of the war in Italy in 552 offered Prokopios the perfect opportunity to highlight his views about the relative honor of cavalry versus infantry warfare in pointed contrast to the irony of his preface, as well as again to praise the martial valor of the Goths who resisted Justinian’s wars of aggression. After the battle of Busta Gallorum the Goths elected the warrior Teia to replace Totila as their king. Outmaneuvered by Narses, Teia was forced to engage the Romans at Mons Lactarius near Naples. The Goths were the first to set aside their horses and take a stand on foot, forming a deep phalanx with a close front, and when the Romans saw this they too set aside their horses, and all arrayed themselves in this same way. And here I will write of a battle of great note and of a man’s virtue that was, I believe, not inferior to the virtue of any of those who are called heroes, namely, that which Teia displayed on the present occasion. (8.35.19-20)

65 66

Gibbon, Decline and fall (as above, n. 63) chapter 42, 687. Kaldellis (above, n. 1) passim.

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Prokopios’ account of the ensuing battle focuses almost exclusively on the heroic deeds of the Gothic king, as he fought against all with spear and shield. The other Goths were no less furious in their struggle against the Romans, and continued to fight for days after the glorious death of their new king. No one is praised as highly in the Wars for martial prowess as the Goths who fought at Mons Lactarius. Prokopios compares Teia to the heroes of old—an obvious reference to Homer— and more than one modern reader has referred to the battle as Homeric.67 At the very end of the Wars Prokopios again undermines the stance that he had assumed in his preface and reveals himself among the admirers of Homeric warfare. His praise for Teia’s noble death was fundamentally aesthetic, going beyond any of the strategic reasons that he could adduce for infantry warfare. Nothing attests more eloquently to the attraction that Homeric ideals continued to exert in the sixth century AD. The Ohio State University

Anthony Kaldellis

E.g., J.B. Bury, History of the later Roman empire from the death of Theodosius I to the death of Justinian vols. I-II (1923; reprint, 1958), II 273; Pertusi (above, n. 38) 649 n. 22. 67