The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus 9781474277228, 9781474277242, 9781474277259

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

Bloomsbury Advances in Semiotics Semiotics has complemented linguistics by expanding its scope beyond the phoneme and the sentence to include texts and discourse, and their rhetorical, performative, and ideological functions. It has brought into focus the multimodality of human communication. Advances in Semiotics publishes original works in the field demonstrating robust scholarship, intellectual creativity, and clarity of exposition. These works apply semiotic approaches to linguistics and non-verbal productions, social institutions and discourses, embodied cognition and communication, and the new virtual realities that have been ushered in by the Internet. It also is inclusive of publications in relevant domains such as socio-semiotics, evolutionary semiotics, game theory, cultural and literary studies, human–computer interactions, and the challenging new dimensions of human networking afforded by social websites. Series Editor: Paul Bouissac is Professor Emeritus at the University of Toronto (Victoria College), Canada. He is a world-renowned figure in semiotics and a pioneer of circus studies. He runs the SemiotiX Bulletin [www.semioticon.com/semiotix] which has a global readership. Titles in the Series: A Buddhist Theory of Semiotics, Fabio Rambelli Computable Bodies, Josh Berson Critical Semiotics, Gary Genosko Introduction to Peircean Visual Semiotics, Tony Jappy Semiotics and Pragmatics of Stage Improvisation, Domenico Pietropaolo Semiotics of Drink and Drinking, Paul Manning Semiotics of Happiness, Ashley Frawley Semiotics of Religion, Robert Yelle The Language of War Monuments, David Machin and Gill Abousnnouga The Semiotics of Clowns and Clowning, Paul Bouissac The Semiotics of Che Guevara, Maria-Carolina Cambre The Semiotics of Emoji, Marcel Danesi The Semiotics of Light and Shadows, Piotr Sadowski The Semiotics of X, Jamin Pelkey The Visual Language of Comics, Neil Cohn

The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus Elina Pyy

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2018 Paperback edition first published 2019 Copyright © Elina Pyy, 2018 Elina Pyy has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. vii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover images (centre, then clockwise from top): Poster by Wettach © Getty Images/ swim ink 2 llc, Vintage Illustration © Getty Images/Popperfoto, Bust © iStock/diane39, Story of Caesar © Getty Images/DEA/A. DAGLI ORTI, Statue © iStock/Crisfotolux, Gold coin with eagle © Getty Images/De Agostini/A. De Gregorio, Macro Leaves © iStock/portishead1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4742-7722-8 PB: 978-1-3501-2667-1 ePDF: 978-1-4742-7725-9 ePub: 978-1-4742-7723-5 Series: Bloomsbury Advances in Semiotics Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

Contents List of Figures Acknowledgements 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Introduction Man of Many Faces: Appropriations of Augustus through the Ages Pater patriae, Pax Americana: Augustus’ Empire in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater Augustus the Tyrant: Ancient History, Modern Anxieties Augustus in Historical Fiction Augustus on Screen Conclusion: What’s in a Name? Semiotics of “Caesar Augustus”

Notes Bibliography Index

vi vii 1 27 53 79 109 143 169 180 199 206

Figures 2.1 Silver Denarius of Augustus from Colonia Patricia, Spain, 19 BC © The Trustees of the British Museum 3.1 Bronze “Meroë Head” of Augustus, 27 BC to 25 BC © The Trustees of the British Museum 5.1 First-century marble portrait bust of Augustus © The Trustees of the British Museum 6.1 Octavian from HBO’s Rome © HBO 2005

28 54 110 165

Acknowledgements Writing this book has been a long, compelling, and at times challenging process with which I have been fortunate to get help and assistance from many wise and encouraging people. First and foremost, I want to thank the Kone Foundation for funding my research for the past two and a half years, thus making it possible for me to work as a full-time researcher. My most heartfelt thanks to the organizers and the participants of the Auguste à travers les âges (2014) conference – Professor Paul Bouissac in particular, who gave me the idea and encouragement for this book, and without whose support this project would never have got started. I am in great debt of the School of Classics, University of St Andrews, and of each and every colleague there with whom I discussed this project during my stay in Scotland, and who offered me their insight and help. In Finland, my colleagues and friends across different disciplines have been of great help to this project not only because of their expertise in most various topics, but also because of the peer support and encouragement they have offered me. In particular, I thank Dr Reima Välimäki for taking the time to read a former version of a part of this book, as well as Paula Rajala and Dr Maijastina Kahlos for pointing me to the right direction in my search for source material. Last but not least, I want to express my greatest gratitude to my family and my closest friends, who have patiently put up with my endless monologues about Augustus for the past three years, as well as with the inexcusable neglect and stress on my part during the last six months of the writing process. I imagine they must be at least as happy as I am that Semiotics of Caesar Augustus has finally come to a conclusion. In particular, my unending gratitude and respect go to my partner Tim Dieltiens, who not only understands and supports but indeed cherishes my obsession, and who has welcomed Augustus into our family in a way I could not have imagined possible.

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Introduction

On September 23, 63 BC, Gaius Octavius, scion of the Octavii family, was born on Palatium, Rome. On August 19, AD 14, he died in Nola as Imperator Caesar divi filius Augustus, the sovereign ruler of one of the most powerful empires in the history of humankind. What happened between these dates is a question that has fascinated scholars, artists, and their audiences for over two millennia, and created an immeasurable number of interpretations about the life, person, career and achievement of Caesar Augustus. Among these interpretations, there are no two alike. One of the best-known and the most ambiguous characters in ancient history, Augustus is a prime example of a historical figure who is reconstructed and reinvented every time his story is told. Different representations of the emperor differ from one another to such an extent that it is sometimes difficult to believe they really are depictions of the same historical character. Depending on the context, Octavian-Augustus might appear either as a power hungry opportunist or as an insightful political reformer, as a calm and considerate ruler or as an egocentric tyrant. What is necessary to acknowledge is that any version of Augustus that one comes across in a literary work (ancient or modern, poetic or scientific) is first and foremost a fabrication. Accounts of his life are literary reconstructions of a historical figure and, as such, works of fiction. In a sense, they cannot be anything else, as the past is always a set of stories constructed by contemporary discourses. The historical “truth” (an illusion as it is) slips from the modern reader’s grasp and the “real” Augustus (a fiction greater still) ends up being at best a combination of different authors’ viewpoints and interpretations. It is impossible to tear down all the layers of legend, and to reach the man behind the myth. For the purposes of this book, it is also unnecessary. Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is based on my firm belief that, while one cannot grasp Augustus as a historical figure, it is no reason to give up on talking about him. In effect, this book celebrates all the talking about him that has been done in the past

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half a century or so. Instead of Augustus himself, it puts in the limelight the different meanings and significances given to the princeps. Instead of trying to write yet another master narrative about his life and achievement, it digs deeper in the different readings of the emperor, and calls attention to the “many faces” of Augustus in literature and in popular culture. As such, Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is, of course, yet another interpretation of the age-old topic. It offers one reading of Caesar Augustus—my own—and hands it over to the reader, not to be taken at face value but to be assessed, reworked and revised. Methodologically, Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is a combined study of semiotics and classical reception studies—it is based on the hypothesis that representations and readings of Augustus, appearing over and over again in the course of history, reveal more about the circumstances, the atmosphere, and the “spirit” of their time of production than about Augustus himself. Drawing from my background in classical studies, I look into select sources from the latter part of the twentieth century and from the turn of the millennium, asking why, 2,000 years after his death, Augustus continues to be relevant to modern discourses of power, humanity, tyranny and peace.

(Re)reading Rome: Semiotics and Classics

In Mankiewicz’ “Julius Caesar,” all the characters are wearing fringes. Some have them curly, some straggly, some tufted, some oily, all have them well combed, and the bald are not admitted, although there are plenty to be found in Roman history. Those who have little hair have not been let off for all that, and the hairdresser—the king-pin of the film—has still managed to produce one last lock which duly reaches the top of the forehead, one of those Roman foreheads, whose smallness has at all times indicated a specific mixture of selfrighteousness, virtue and conquest. —R. Barthes, Mythologies In his essay “Les Romains au cinéma,” Roland Barthes looked at Julius Caesar (1953), one of the first large-scale Hollywood screen representations of Roman history. In his brief essay, Barthes’ focus is on meanings and significances given to hairdos. His gaze is perceptive as ever: through seemingly small and insignificant detail, he is able to penetrate the essence of Roman-ness in modern

Introduction

3

imagination. Barthes’ idea of the intrinsic and the embedded significances of “the Roman forehead” and its associations with virtue, control and imperial power, enables him to scrutinize and explain the complex sign system by which antiquity is utilized to evoke emotions and to create meanings in the mind of the modern viewer. “Les Romains au cinéma” is an example of the ways in which semiotic approach can be effectively utilized in classical reception studies. Be that as it may, surprisingly few attempts to marry the theoretical background of semiotics to classical studies have been made in the five decades that have passed since the publication of Mythologies. Nor have other intellectual movements, born in the wake of structuralism in the latter part of the twentieth century, left a strong mark in the mainstream of classical scholarship.1 Naturally, this is not something of which the majority of classicists are unaware—the issue has been repetitively raised and discussed since the 1980s. In 1983, John Peradotto accused classics for being a famously and deplorably nontheoretical discipline. In Peradotto’s opinion, classical philology has “relentlessly and—successfully resisted the inroads of current methodological concern arising out of ongoing philosophical reflection and interdisciplinary dialogue.”2 It is somewhat perplexing that over thirty years later, this still holds true to many branches of classical scholarship. Methods of sociology and gender studies have had an impact on many classical scholars whose research deals with social history, identity issues or minority studies. Be that as it may, the “hard core” of classics (classical philology and literary studies) still appears to be, for the most part, averse to theoretical considerations. This seems somewhat counterintuitive, considering that classics is an inherently intersectional discipline, open to dialogue with other fields, and classical scholars are traditionally accustomed to making use of archaeology, art history, and historical studies. As John Sullivan observantly points out, “it is at the points of intersection with other disciplines that classics has recently made most progress, or at least has generated the liveliest debate.”3 This inherent interdisciplinary nature of classics notwithstanding, most classicists still appear to shy away from theoretical considerations born in the wake of structuralism and stick to the traditional methods of source criticism in their research. A notable exception is classical reception studies, a branch that, for the past twenty years, has been a growing trend in the field of classics. Reception theory—or Rezeptionsästhetic, as introduced by Oswald Jauss in the late 1960s and developed further in terms of classics by Charles Martindale in the early 1990s—introduced various methods of literary, film and media studies to

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classics.4 Yet, intertwining ancient and modern in the field of classical reception studies has not led to a widespread interest in theoretical contemplation among the broader community of classicists. Paradoxically, semiotics appears to be the most dreaded nemesis of theoryphobic classical scholars. Peradotto went as far as to define semiotics as a “special object of revulsion”; he spoke of “suspicion or reserve among classicists,” even of “a conspiracy of silence” when it comes to the study of structure, code, and langue.5 Once again, it is in the field of classical philology where this resentment can be most clearly perceived even today. Whereas the semiotic approach has been utilized to the great benefit of the study of classical art and visual culture, in the field of classical literature, there has not been widespread support for this sort of theoretical approach.6 This seems somehow distorted, studies of language and literature being exactly the fields that, in other disciplines, have been revolutionized in the aftermath of semiotics, structuralism and deconstruction.7 So what seems to be the problem? Why do many classicists so relentlessly refuse to embrace the theoretical tradition that other fields of humanities have long since made their own? There are multiple explanations. On the one hand, it has been suggested that the conflicted relationship between classics and semiotics derives from these disciplines’ very different approaches towards historicism, subjectivity and ideology. As Peradotto argues, classics resents semiotics precisely because the latter tends to make ideology explicit— according to him, semiotics “cannot avoid unmasking the process, to which language is ever open, of naturalizing what is historical and arbitrary, and of essentializing the contingent.”8 Classics, in turn, is a discipline that is well known for suffering from a centuries-old “objectivity fetish”—a deep-rooted belief that through a meticulous process of source criticism it is possible to achieve an objective interpretation of the past. The idea is not widely and unanimously accepted by the classical community; many scholars have been quick to point out its shortcomings. Skinner, for one, has criticized the essentialist tradition of classics for holding the discipline back, as it commits itself to a “positivistic belief in objective, verifiable truths.”9 Martindale, too, calls for more awareness and relativism, questioning the “fairly positivistic forms of historical inquiry, the attempt through the accumulation of supposedly factual data to establish the-past-as-it-really-was.”10 Indeed, the von-Rankean ideals or empiricism and objectivity seem to stick deep in the tradition of classics—and not for the better. Moreover, it is not classical philologists alone but historians too, who often seem to suffer from the ideological aftermath of the von-Rankean tradition. As DuBois states,

Introduction

5

[s]elf-criticism is not the traditional stance of the cultural historian, who often sees himself as a “self ” having unmediated access to another culture ... He works within a tradition of historiography seemingly innocent of interests and motives; thus he finds no epistemological or methodological obstacles to the application of common sense to culture.11

This is provocatively put of course—however, when she criticizes the discipline for the lack of self-criticism and for what could be called epistemological naïveté, DuBois seems to be onto something. Another possible reason for the suspicion towards semiotics among mainstream classical scholarship is closely connected to the aforementioned— that is, classics’ and semiotics’ different takes on language. Classics is an inherently diachronic science. Arguably, this is why some classicists might feel that a semiotic approach inevitably undermines and downplays the value of their traditional field of expertise and interest: “concrete, actual, conscious, intended, individual, literary utterance”—in short, parole.12 Classical scholarship traditionally perceives the language as a representation of things, “as mere instrument, constituted wholly by an autonomous subject, in no sense constituting that subject.”13 This was pointed out as early as 1970 by Barthes, who in his S/Z criticized philological research for declaring each text to be univocal, possessing one “true” or canonical meaning.14 He argued that by following this research tradition, the philologists “banish the simultaneous, secondary meaning to the void of critical lucubrations.”15 For structuralists and deconstrutionists, the impossibility of establishing a single meaning for the text derived from the need to strictly separate the text from the author: the text was no more (and no less) than the interplay of signs, whose stability and rerference, as far as extrinsic meaning went, was shifting and dubious, because of the nature of language in general and literary language in particular.16

Classical philology, for its part, has a long and strong tradition of emphasizing source criticism, the historical context, even the personal history of the author, in its interpretation of ancient texts. This inherent difference in the ways in which classical philology and semiotics approach the study of language and representation, naturally, is a rather hefty barrier between them. Clear as the gap between these two scholarly traditions is, there is a great deal to be gained from overcoming it. As many scholars have suggested, theoretical approaches of semiotics could greatly profit the classicists if we gave them a chance. They can help us detect and understand interconnections between

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seemingly different signs and phenomena in our sources. As Barthes pointed out, the traditional shortcoming of philology is to analyze texts out of their context of production and interpretation—however, in classical studies that tend to combine philology and history, the contextual background has always been valued. Here, semiotics can come to the scholar’s aid. As Louise Hitchcock states, a more theoretical approach to classics requires us to see the past “not simply as isolated texts, events, or categories of objects and monuments, but as interconnected aspects of culture that both impact and are impacted by social life in the past and the present.”17 In particular, classical reception studies has embraced the intertextual idea that “the text cannot exist as an hermeneutic or self-sufficient or closed system, since it is permeated with references, quotations, allusions and other influences, and has set up a dialogue with them.”18 In other words, every cultural text takes part in a more encompassing system of codes, in which it operates in relation to other texts. Furthermore, while there is a lot to be gained from the marriage between classics and semiotics, there is arguably very little to be lost. The historicism treasured by classicists need not necessarily be sacrificed to the study of an ahistorical, synchronic system.19 Moreover, as Leonard points out, the necessity of historicism along with dangers and merits of appropriating the past are questions “which should be central to classicists of all methodological persuasions.”20 After all, there is no inherent conflict or contradiction between classics and semiotics—or if you will, between the past and its interpretation. As Thomas Sebeok has pointed out, referring to John Archibald Wheeler’s rendition of the “Copenhagen interpretation,” the past is theory, or yet another system of signs; it “has no existence except in the record of the present.” At a semiotic level we make the past as well as the present and the future.21

Thus, we classicists are semioticians, whether we acknowledge it or not. The choice that remains to be made is whether we want to be self-aware semioticians and develop our skills in interpreting both the classical past and the modern perceptions of it—or whether we want to be stuck in the tradition of “historical amnesia” that refuses and denies obvious interdisciplinary opportunities.22 This book is an attempt to take the first of these options. It applies methods of semiotic analysis to the study of classical reception, focusing on a particular historical figure that, in many modern contexts, can be considered to embody the ideas of Roman-ness—emperor Augustus. Semiotics of Caesar Augustus examines representations of Augustus in postmodernist novel and in historical

Introduction

7

fiction, as well as in film and television, focusing on how the figure of the emperor is continuously reinvented, and how he becomes a sign for varying values and ideas. Through these interpretative lenses, I aim to illuminate the relationship between the classical past and the modern imagination in the period reaching from the 1960s to the early twenty-first century. My starting point in the conducting of this research has been a firm belief that semiotics and classical reception studies are, or ought to be, intrinsically linked and natural allies. Classical reception is first and foremost an act of communication—communication between the past and the present, between the classical text and the modern reader who comes to rewrite it. Classical reception by its very nature posits itself in opposition to historical positivism that classics have been criticized for. It contests the idea that “classics are something fixed, whose boundaries can be shown, and whose essential nature we can understand on its own terms.”23 Jauss, when he first introduced the proposed paradigm shift, expressed a hope that it would become a method that (unlike structuralism in its strictest sense) could acknowledge the historicity of the texts, while also allowing for the “aesthetic response of readers in the present.”24 To his mind, the meaning of the text was “a yielded truth—and not a given one—that was realized in discussion and consensus with others.”25 Instead of the author’s dictatorial power over the text, or the reader’s insistence on a universalizing reading, there would be a communication that would enable the text to be rewritten and to spring to life in different temporal and cultural contexts. This is the basic communication notion that underlies classical reception studies even today; as Batstone beautifully puts it, reception “occurs where the text and the reader meet and is simultaneously constitutive of both.”26 Semiotics, of course, is by its very nature a science profoundly invested in the sphere of communication. It is based on the notion that the world consists of relationships between things, and that no thing has significance by itself but only achieves one in relation to another.27 The Saussurean idea of language as structure considers langue one of the most basic communications systems; it is a root system that brings about all semiotic phenomena. Barthes famously stated that [language, in the Saussurean sense of langue] is at the same time a social institution and a system of values ... the individual cannot by himself either create or modify it; it is essentially a collective contract which one must accept in its entirety if one wishes to communicate.28

Therefore, while semiotics is based on the idea of shared systems of signs, it also calls into question the collective nature of language and, along with it,

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the possibility of communication altogether. While a shared understanding is never a self-evident matter (if even an achievable goal), it is a presumption starting from which one must operate in the hopes of communicating with another. David Sless has aptly defined sharing as an illusion or as a contract we sign to “against our better knowledge”: as he puts it, “communication is based not on the clear evidence of shared understanding but on the belief of shared understanding.”29 The sharing notion is crucial to this study as it underlies a principle that guides my reading and analysis throughout the book: the pivotal role of the relationship between the author and the reader in the creating of the meaning of the text. Before the breakthrough of academic postmodernism, traditional scholarship in its celebration of individualism used to enforce the idea of “the transmission notion” of communication, according to which the author wields all the power over the text: his role is active and defining, whereas the reader only passively receives the text.30 From this followed, logically, that the text was considered to be entirely the product of the author and that it therefore could provide an access to his personal experience and thoughts.31 Nowadays, most academics would consider this sort of an idea deficient and naïve—however, it had to be deliberately torn down by structuralist and deconstructionist critics who in their works aimed at the suppression of individual authorship.32 What followed was a new intellectual approach to the study of literary communication, enforced and made famous especially by Barthes and Foucault, who in their works grandiloquently announced the “death of the author.”33 According to this principle, the individual author is not a creator of something original but rather a mediator who selects and organizes various discourses and ideas.34 The theory aimed at empowering the reader, providing him with the power to create the meaning of the text. In S/Z and in The Pleasure of the Text Barthes came up with the idea of the classification of literature as readerly (lisible) and writerly (scriptible); in the latter, the reader is the one who activates the meanings of the text, creates new ones and thus, through the process of deconstructing, writes the text anew.35 This idea is central to my reading of cultural texts discussing Caesar Augustus, produced as late as 2,000 years after his death. Barthes’ theory designated that the author loses power over his work as soon as he hands it out to the other to read; as the reader projects his own preconceptions on to the text, he claims the text as his own and thus, by creating a “reading,” rewrites it.36 A similar idea is also the grounding principle of classical reception studies, as Martindale formulated it in Redeeming the Text: the author

Introduction

9

can never control the reception of his work.37 Actually, the work does not exist in itself—it only becomes something when it is read, and something new each time. The observer’s method of observing contains an inherent bias which impacts the text that is being perceived; “any observer is bound to create something of what he observes.”38 This so-called “beholder’s share” is, from a classical scholar’s viewpoint, a liberating thought, since while it prevents the meaning of even canonic literary works to be set in stone, it also opens up endless opportunities for ancient texts to spring to life over and over again in different contexts.39 As Barthes states, [a] work is eternal not because it imposes a single meaning on different men, but because it suggests different meanings to a single man, speaking the same symbolic language in all ages: the work proposes, man disposes.40

The above quotation encapsulates my theoretical starting point in Semiotics of Caesar Augustus, and provides the lens through which I aim the many faces of Augustus in modern literature and popular culture. When scrutinizing the multiple representations of the princeps on page or on screen, it is necessary to continuously stress and keep in mind that no “true” or “real” Augustus exists (or ever did exist); there are multiple Augusti that exist simultaneously and travel in time, none of which is more “real” than the other, all of them being readers’ constructions created in the course of centuries and still being reconstructed every time these stories are told. The relationship between the author and the reader brings me to another, closely related and important issue that guides my analysis: the question of power. Inevitably, controlling meaning is wielding power, and therefore the construction and the reading of the text is always to some extent a negotiation of the power relationship between the (constructed) author and his (constructed) reader.41 As Sullivan puts it, [i]f knowledge is power, then mastery of the definition of knowledge would confer even greater power. Who controls the language controls the forms of thinking about politics (and everything else) in privileging certain terms over others.42

The same idea is expressed by Sless when he notes that “the use of texts as a site for ideological struggle has as its object the control of meaning.”43 The relationship between the author and the reader, therefore, is as far from innocent as can be; it is inevitably a complicated social, cultural and political affair, an ongoing struggle and negotiation over meaning and definition.44

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Therefore, an attempt to wield power over the meaning of the text, to impose one’s own reading on others, or to claim in an absolutist manner that one’s reading is the same as everyone else’s can be provocatively described as an act of semiotic tyranny, despotism. It is an attempt to deprive others of their interpretative power and to control the shapes of the discourse and those of the world. This idea is crucial to my analysis, particularly so when it comes to the representation of Augustus in the highly self-aware and self-reflective postmodernist literature written in the latter part of the twentieth century. In the case of Augustus, a good example of the inseparable connection between politics, ideology, power and classical reception is Italian fascism in the 1930s. Mussolini’s Italy was branded as the “new Rome”—and from its most grandiose expressions (such as architectural building programs and public parades) to the tiniest details (Augustus’ face on celebratory francobolli), it became obvious that it was namely the Augustan Rome, the city of the Golden Age, that this Italy imitated—or rather, reproduced.45 This “New Rome” with its abundant visual imagery manifested the interactive nature of this semiotic interplay. Notably, while the fascists exploited Augustus to define the new regime, simultaneously their reading of the princeps was imposed on the audience and inevitably ended up shaping people’s ideas of ancient Rome. The communication of the political and the ideological message required that Mussolini’s regime validated its own reading of the Augustan Rome by effectively devalidating and erasing all the competing readings. This is only one, and a rather extreme, example of a situation where political power and semiotics are blatantly intertwined, but it is important to keep in mind that the phenomenon is always present when we are dealing with cultural texts and their interpretations. The relationship between meaning and power is an essential aspect of communication, and important for every author and reader to be aware of—naturally, this concerns the academic world/academia too, if not in particular.46 The author of any text, academic research included, can easily end up forcing his reading on others, by constructing vague and imaginary deputy readers through which he can claim that his reading is “a truth universally acknowledged.” This is where a more profound understanding of semiotics and postmodernist power discourses can come to classicists’ aid, if welcomed. The relationship between the author and the reader, and the delicate discourse of power between the two are the methodological starting points of my analysis in Semiotics of Caesar Augustus, and they guide my discussion throughout this book. Whereas classical reception studies has often perceptively called attention

Introduction

11

to the socio-cultural factors behind modern readings of classical texts, it has generally paid considerably less attention to the two-way street of communication and power in the reconstruction and reassessment of the classics. Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is, therefore, an attempt to bridge the tradition of classical reception studies with theoretical considerations of semiotics. In this manner, I strive to add our understanding of the use and reuse of classical past, as well as to illuminate the reasons behind the durable fame and fascination of one of the iconic figures in Roman history.

Classical Sources: Ground for Interpretation While Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is a study focused on the semiotic significance of the first emperor in the latter part of the twentieth century, it is of course necessary to acknowledge the omnipresent influence of classical tradition when studying the modern world, and the recent past. Roman imperial literature, written in Latin and Greek in the first, second and third centuries AD, forms the basis on which all modern interpretations of Augustus are in one way or another built. Naturally, modern authors who look at Augustus from the distance of two millennia have very different motives for talking about him than Romans who wrote in his lifetime or shortly after. Moreover, it is crucial to note that the literary and cultural discourses of modern day and classical antiquity naturally differ considerably from each other. Therefore, it would be ignorant and unfair to treat modern readings of Augustus—such as historical novels, films, or popular television shows—simply as pastiches of Suetonius’, Tacitus’, or Dio’s Roman history. Yet, it is safe to say that the durable influence of these Roman classics can be clearly observed in all modern cultural texts that deal with Caesar Augustus, especially in the sort of typecasting and characterconstructing that they engaged. Therefore, it is worthwhile to take a closer look at the classical sources, before I proceed to discuss their readings in the past decades in more depth. Compared to many other periods of time in premodern Europe, the Augustan era and the subsequent imperial age stand out in the amount of surviving literary material. Most of the Roman literature that survives to this day can be dated to the imperial period, and much of it to the first century of the Principate. To some extent, this can be explained by the manuscript tradition—by the circulation and transmission of ancient texts in the post-classical period. The prestigious status that Augustan poetry, in particular, enjoyed in late antiquity, in the Middle Ages

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

and in the early modern period led to a widespread copying of the manuscripts, which ensured the survival of many of the works—if not in their entirety, in significant fragments.47 Moreover, it should be noted that the Augustan period was a rather productive era in the first place when it comes to literature, both poetry and prose. The functioning patronage system and the thriving literary circles of the capital created ideal circumstances for literary pursuits and, to some extent, can be used to explain the great number of sources produced in this period.48 Neither of these of course were Augustan inventions; however, compared to the chaotic situation the civil war, the relative peace and stability under the Principate enabled the Roman literary and cultural elite to focus on the arts with a greater energy and freedom than before. Furthermore, one of the reasons for the thriving literary culture was the civil war itself—the need to work through the collective trauma is something that marks most of the early Augustan literature, poetry in particular. In the works of Virgil and Horace, the most established poets of the Augustan period, longing for peace and unity can be observed as an overarching theme. Obviously, this affects their interpretations of Augustus himself, who appears first and foremost as the harbinger of peace and stability. The Augustan poets’ exaggerated descriptions of Augustus’ pax Romana, and of his empire that reaches over the known world have greatly influenced many of the modern readers and authors. However, they are best understood as reactions to the chaos and violence that had been tearing the Roman society apart for decades and that Octavian-Augustus put a stop to. What is most important to notice is that in these depictions, the emperor’s persona is mostly utilized to bring up and emphasize the themes of peace and unity, rather than the other way around. Thus, these poems are among the earliest examples of the ways in which Augustus’ character is reconstructed for certain ideological purposes, and how it is deliberately used to reflect the spirit of a certain era. The great number and the wide range of surviving sources means that there are many literary testimonies, reaching from Augustus’ own day to the late antiquity, that either implicitly or expressis verbis comment on the emperor, on his character and on his achievements. How they comment on him, and how reliable the modern reader can consider their descriptions to be, is a whole other discussion. The academic debate concerning the putative freedom and independence of the Augustan authors, the censorship (and the self-censorship) under the Principate, and the dissonant voices within Augustan literature has lasted for decades and gone through many waves and paradigm shifts. From the debate concerning the alleged “Augustanism” and “anti-Augustanism” in the

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sources of the period, it has moved on to a more general understanding of an interactive and vivid literary culture where influences and ideas traveled from patrons to poets and back, and where no set-in-stone “Augustan ideology” for or against which one would necessarily have had to act can be detected. Barbara Levick phrases the issue perceptively when she states that what contemporary architects, artists, poets and historians made of Augustus was intimately connected with his own view of himself, but at the same time the image was refracted through their own experience and perceptions, and varied from one medium to another ... There was a series of mirrors: Augustus’ own conception was picked up, re-presented and packaged, and picked up again by the princeps.49

Therefore, the attempt to make a clear-cut division between “pro-” and “antiAugustan” authors is a difficult (and useless, one could argue) task. A skeptical attitude towards the reign of Augustus that can be detected in many sources was probably sometimes due to nostalgic longing for the days of the old Republic, at other times an expression of general aversion towards institutional monarchy. And sometimes, it could have arisen from discontent with Augustus’ politics, career or person in particular. In a similar manner, the reasons behind a positive attitude towards the first emperor can vary greatly from author to author. In every case, however, they are inseparably connected to the particular sociopolitical background and to the atmosphere of the writing period. Whereas many historians under the Principate belonged to the old senatorial class that the Augustan revolution had deprived of much of its power and privileges, there were others, hailing from the lower classes whom the new regime had provided with unforeseen opportunities. It is important to keep these factors in mind when reading the Roman historiography, as they are potential reasons behind the Roman historians’ assessment of Augustus. As Emilio Gabba puts it, “divergent historical interpretations of Augustus’ person and career derive from divergent political attitudes.”50 However, one should not over-emphasize the classical authors’ individual past and experiences as a background for their works—or rather, for the ways we tend to read them today. Notably, the different political factions, grudges and gratitudes notwithstanding, there are very few Roman authors whose interpretation of Augustus and his regime would be unequivocally positive or negative. Even the authors favorable to Augustus usually acknowledge the questionable actions by which he made himself an emperor, and discuss those without a need to sugar coat the past. Similarly, even the most skeptical of

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

historians usually acknowledge the unquestionable benefits of the new regime— at the very least they consider the Principate a bare necessity and an option preferable to an endless civil war. The Roman historians’ multifaceted depictions of the reign of Augustus are where his ambiguity as a historical figure can be clearly observed. In this book, the classical sources that I most often refer to are Roman historiography dating from the early Augustan period to the early third century AD. This is because these appear to be the sources that have most strongly influenced modern representations of Augustus, and that are repeatedly rewritten and interpreted in the cultural texts of the mid- and late twentieth century. The most positive and sympathetic depiction of Augustus can be found in the emperor’s biography, a fragmentary work by Augustus’ court historian Nicolaus of Damascus, written in the late 20s BC. Nicolaus’ Augustus is a wise and considerate ruler, the bringer of peace and the guarantee of stability. He is a clement princeps whose empire stands for human ideals and brings wellbeing for all its subjects.51 Another Augustan author writing in Greek, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, is more reserved in his praise of the emperor and usually refrains from directly commenting on his person—however, Dionysius too depicts the Roman Empire as having reached its high point under the rule of Augustus, whose regime now cultivates the Greek cultural influence and the rich classical tradition.52 Dionysius’ and Nicolaus’ accounts of Augustus’ reign differ considerably from the more pessimistic and cynical tone of Livy. The most eminent and the best-known of the Latin historians, Livy sees the Republican history as a gradual decline of Roman virtue. The traumas of the civil war can be well observed in this work; however, despite some allegedly Republican nuances in the Ab urbe condita, Livy still represents the reign of Augustus as the potential cure for the disease of the body politic.53 The princeps appears in a positive light because he offered a solution to the social, political and moral degradation of the Roman people. Yet, the tone is very different from Nicolaus of Damascus’ praising style. Thus, it is important to notice that already in the days of Augustus, there were multiple different and competitive readings of his reign and his achievements. After the death of Augustus, in a new political atmosphere and environment, the interpretations of the first princeps become more varying and even more contradictory. To a great extent this is due to the tendency of later imperial authors to utilize Augustus and his Principate to comment on their own contemporary political environment—either to compare the current situation to that of the Augustan reign, or to explain the present by the recent past. Notably, most often

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a positive reading of the princeps seems to have served these purposes better than a negative one. As Gabba has pointed out, the positive idea of Augustus as a good emperor remained both politically and historiographically relevant, since it satisfied the longing for order and peace of the provincial upper classes, in particular.54 In the early Christian era, this idea remained useful because it helped the Christian authors to represent the age of Augustus as part of a divine plan—as the reign that created the ideal circumstances for the birth of Christ.55 These, combined with the rather scandalous and tarnished image of other JulioClaudian emperors, are a few of the historically important factors behind the relatively positive image that Augustus still maintains in most of the modern interpretations of his reign. Within the limits of this introduction, and considering the scope of this book, it is unnecessary to go into further detail examining the motives and factors behind individual Roman authors’ depictions of Augustus. It is important, however, to emphasize a few recurring themes, created and developed by Roman historians that, in the course of centuries, seem to have become inseparable parts of Augustus’ public image and can still be observed in the late-twentieth-century representations of him. These are, in particular, his ambiguity, the theatrical and performative nature of his character, and the basic duality that marks it. Among the most influential authors when it comes to “typecasting” Augustus are Greek historians Appian (first half of the second century AD) and Cassius Dio (late second/early third century AD). To these imperial authors, Augustus’ reign itself seems to have little importance, and it is used primarily to mirror the contemporary situation and to find points of comparison in the past.56 Appian and Dio do not mollify Octavian’s lack of scruple during the civil war period; however, it does not prevent them from giving a generally positive account of Augustus’ Principate. Therefore, the strong divide between Octavian and Augustus—the bipolar idea of his life that actually marks most of the modern representations of him—is, if not entirely created, then at least greatly enforced by the works of these authors.57 Another theme that seems to dominate in modern narratives of Augustus is closely related to this—that of necessity. The conception that Octavian’s actions during the civil war were due to necessity, and that only after Actium, when that necessity was lifted, he “became himself ” is especially evident in Dio’s Roman history. The aftermath of this idea is greater than it would seem at first sight. As Gabba perceptively notes, in Dio’s work, the standard division of the princeps’ life into two phases is carried further and placed in the context of an overall historical vision.58 As I will further explain in the following chapters, this is an idea that has immensely influenced the modern readings of Octavian-Augustus.

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

Another crucial theme that marks many of the modern representations of the first emperor is the juxtaposition between the Republic and the empire— or “freedom” and “peace”—that is embodied in his person. For the most part, this theme seems to be based on the works of Tacitus and Suetonius, who lived and wrote under the Nerva-Antonine dynasty, and whose interpretations of the reign of Augustus have had (and continue to have) a powerful impact on the Western cultural narratives henceforth. These historians’ attitudes towards the Julio-Claudian emperors in general are rather critical: the dynasty established by Augustus is depicted as morally degenerate, despotic and often cruel, a pitiable end to the political freedom that Romans of the past used to cherish. Augustus’ rule is represented as the beginning of one-man rule that per se can never be a preferable political solution—yet, it is understood as a sheer necessity and as the only way out of the civil war. The curtailment of liberty as a price to be paid for the stability of the state is a crucial theme in Tacitus’ Annales, in particular.59 This is a matter that many modern authors of historical fiction, in particular, seem to pick up and develop further, as I will show in Chapter 5. The third important and recurring theme that the modern authors seem to have picked up from the works of Roman historians, is the attempt to “humanize” the emperor by looking into his everyday personal life. Suetonius’ De Vita Caesarum, and Dio’s Roman history, in particular, have had a major impact on the representations of the emperor in literature and on screen, due to their seemingly never-ending selection of scandalous rumors, and amusing anecdotes and to their (historically untenable but entertaining) analysis of the emperor’s character. Understandably, Suetonius’ and Dio’s stories are fruitful material for fiction writers in any period, as they attempt to “reveal” the human being behind Augustus’ political façade, and to represent the emperor as a somewhat relatable and understandable character. Nevertheless, as Levick notes, despite this attempt, Octavian-Augustus often comes off as “a dull figure,” with “no signs of any vivid personality” and “no poignant story that takes the hearer to the heart of the man.”60 Levick makes a valuable point—although it is, of course, her personal reading of Augustus as a literary character, I am inclined to agree with it. There is indeed something ungraspable and unrelatable about Octavian-Augustus. A tefloncoated emperor as he appears in the Roman sources does not easily show traces of genuineness and humanity, no matter how much his family affairs are stressed or his daily life described. This is probably one of the reasons behind the success of the fictional autobiographies of Octavian-Augustus. It would seem that the modern storytellers—novelists, screenwriters, and directors—build on the

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anecdotes told by Suetonius and Dio, trying their best to fill the void that can be observed in the classical texts. They are trying to create a character who could be more than an empty face of power and to whom the modern reader could relate. To what extent they are successful in this attempt is naturally for the reader to decide; in the forthcoming chapters I will offer some of my own thoughts on the subject. What is crucial to notice, when looking at the classical background of the Augustus-character, is that the many faces of the emperor that one comes across in modern sources are not only modeled after other Romans’ words and interpretations of him—in effect, they are largely shaped by the image constructed by Augustus himself. Augustus’ self-representation is a widely studied topic and it is hardly possible to give a full account of the research tradition within the limits of this introduction. Nevertheless, in order to understand the many faces of the emperor and the multiple, sometimes contradictory meanings given to him in modern times, it is important to acknowledge that this ambiguity is in large part based on the cultural texts created and circulated by the Augustan regime itself, not only on those produced by “outsiders” or later generations. From the fragmentary mentions in the works of many other Roman authors, we know that Caesar Augustus wrote his memoirs.61 The autobiography, or at least most of it, is estimated to have been composed before the end of the 20s BC—that is, in the post-civil war atmosphere and in the very early phase of the Principate.62 As Anton Powell points out, this was a particular time when the Principate had already been established and relative stability of the state restored; however, memories of violence and chaos were fresh in the minds of the Roman people, along with the fear that history might repeat itself.63 Therefore, it is most likely that the object of the princeps’ work was to explain some of the decisions he had had to make during the civil war and to lay down his own version of the story that he knew future generations would rewrite over and over again. Considering how crucial this period was in terms of determining the direction that the new regime would take, it is an immeasurable loss that the work does not exist anymore. Naturally, even if Augustus’ story told in his own words existed, it would be yet another construction, as lacking in objectivity and as far (if not farther) from the historical “truth” as any other—but its influence on any subsequent version could not be undermined. As it is, the loss of the work is perhaps as significant as its survival would have been. Especially in the field of historical fiction, one can observe the authors’ tendency to write Augustus’ memoir for him, to put their own words in the emperor’s mouth and to imagine how the emperor would have perceived his own life and achievements. The

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

authorial power of Augustus over his memoirs is claimed by novelists, who offer their own reading of his life as the one he himself might have told. Despite the lack of Augustus’ memoirs, there is another, highly significant literary source where the princeps’ own voice can be heard. In his old age, Caesar Augustus wrote a piece of work known as Res Gestae Divi Augusti—a record of his career, his achievements and his services to the state. The work is much more formal in style than any autobiography, and instead of providing information about the emperor’s private life, it is entirely focused on his public career. The significance of the Res Gestae can be observed in the fact that many copies carved in stone were erected all over the empire so that provincial subjects too could learn about the favors done for them by the princeps. Judging by its official status and its circulation, it can be assumed that Augustus intended the Res Gestae as a reliable record addressed to urbi et orbi, as well as to the posterity—a record that could, by its authoritative origin, stand against “false” stories and speculations that were bound to be circulated about his reign. This of course is a prime example of an imperialistic, autocratic attitude towards meaning and definition; by offering his own version of the events of his life as a “master narrative,” Augustus is determinately imposing his interpretation on his subjects, attempting to nullify and invalidate other, competing or contradictory versions. Obviously, the Res Gestae is as far from being an objective historical record as any work could be, even if there are few actual untruths in it. It is highly biased and has been criticized by historians for leaving the uncomfortable parts of Octavian-Augustus’ career out. Levick, for one, describes the works as a piece of “ego-ridden prose” and gives it credit for its “virtuosity in misrepresentation”— omission and implication are the grounding principles of the tactic by which the author misguides the reader.64 Moreover, the composition of the work as highly thematic makes it sometimes difficult for the reader to observe the chronological sequence of events and to perceive the cause-and-consequence relationships between them. This deliberately detaches Augustus’ actions from their historical context.65 It is a clever rhetorical tactic that makes the princeps’ achievement appear as omnipresent and eternal as the Rome that he stands for, as synchronic rather than diachronic. In the Res Gestae, Augustus associates himself primarily with three concepts— peace, freedom and prosperity. As the restorer of the Republic, he is the one who has freed the Roman people from tyranny and oppression of competing political factions (the fact that he himself was a leader of one such faction is

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conveniently left out).66 As the champion of the civil war, he has brought peace and stability to the people of Rome; as a conqueror of the known world he has extended the Roman civilization and peace to all the conquered peoples.67 As a generous father of his country, he has paid from his own pocket over and over again for the Roman people’s bread and circuses, saving no expense.68 All this he has done acting within the limits of the constitution, respecting the authority of the Republican political institutions and never claiming any unlawful status or power for himself.69 There is a curious conflict between the false modesty of the Res Gestae, and Augustus’ self-representation in the visual material of the period. The massive Augustan building programs celebrated the grandeur of the Golden Age, and exploited Rome’s mythological past to create a new imperial identity—their purpose was to make Rome appear simultaneously as age-old and as brand new, to make the people perceive the city through the emperor’s eyes and to guide their ideas about the past and the present.70 Whereas in the Res Gestae, the emperor avoids claiming the position of a dictator or a king, in much of the visual imagery of his day, he is not far from playing a god.71 The association between the princeps and his protective deity Apollo, in particular, was a crucial part of the visual language of the Augustan regime—in particular, it was lavishly celebrated on the Palatine hill, where the new temple of Apollo stood.72 The most outstanding expression of this association was doubtless the statue of the emperor, holding the attributes of the god situated in the Palatine library.73 The conflict between Augustus’ literary and visual testimonies is yet another example of the ambiguity of his character and about the contradictory interpretations that can be made about it. It is of course important to note that when we talk about Augustus’ “self-representation,” we are actually talking about a very heterogeneous group of sources created or designated by the Augustan government, or the Augustan elite. The princeps himself is not directly behind each and every monument of the era; many public building projects for instance were carried out by wealthy individuals and associates of the emperor. Even when we are looking at the sources decreed or paid for by Augustus himself, it is impossible to say anything definitive about how much they actually reflect Augustus’ own ideas of himself. Be that as it may, to some extent it can be taken for granted that in Augustan Rome, every significant piece of public art or architecture was at least run by and approved by the emperor—therefore, it seems that the conflicting and contradictory representations of Augustus and his reign were something that the princeps himself, if not deliberately encouraged, at least tolerated. And it is easy

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

to see why: with the help of these multiple readings and interpretations, Augustus was able to travel between different concepts and images, to change from one role to another depending on the occasion and perhaps, to escape the simplistic judgement of the posterity. He could represent himself simultaneously as a creator of something entirely new and as the guardian of ancient ways and morals. He was a champion of the civil war and the warrantor of peace. He had saved the Republic by abolishing it indefinitely. As the harbinger of the Golden Age he was “the end of history” and the beginning of the future—yet, the connection with the past and its re-reading were the building blocks on which his authority rested. Observed from the distance of two millennia, the ways in which the Augustan government manipulated people’s ideas by leaving plenty of room for interpretation still seem ingenious and highly effective. As Levick points out, the polymorphous “self ” that Augustus represented depended on medium, on circumstances and on audience: [n]ot only could Augustus readily change his position, but he might adopt a single position that could be interpreted simultaneously in more than one way ... [a]nxious subjects could place him each on the spot of his own choice, making his own Principate.74

One is reminded of Barthes’ definition of the eternal text that does not impose a single meaning on different men, but “suggests different meanings to a single man,” depending on the circumstances and the context but speaking the same symbolic language in all ages.75 Despite the autocratic and imperialistic tone of his Res Gestae, Augustus’ empire as a whole is a highly writerly text that obtains new meanings as it gets reconstructed by new readers. The ingenious interplay between Augustus himself as the author and his audience as empowered readers makes sure that the princeps will never be definitively defined. He is not a clearcut figure who would go down in history books as a good or a bad ruler, as a tyrant or as a champion of the people. He goes down as an ineffable chameleon who travels back and forth between different definitions, who is everything and nothing, and who therefore is reinvented time after time depending on the needs and the circumstances of the period in question.

Augustus in the Postmodern World In November 2014, I took part in a conference organized in Académie royale de Belgique, and titled “Auguste à travers les âges: réceptions, relectures et

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appropriations de la figure du premier empereur romain.” The conference celebrated the bi-millennia of Caesar Augustus’ death by inviting presentations in varied fields of humanities that looked into the meanings and interpretations of the first emperor after his own time. That conference marked the beginning of this book project. I remember being impressed and intrigued by the papers presented by colleagues whose expertise reached from ancient history to media studies and semiotics, and from the classical era to the postmodern period. I became convinced that, 2,000 years after his death, the first emperor’s significance in the world is anything but waning, and that there are many aspects about the reception and reuse of ancient history and classical past that can be observed as being embodied in the case of Caesar Augustus. As I write these words, my conviction is no longer based on a mere hunch, but I can state, relying on my research and investigation, that the first emperor of Rome has indeed turned out to be a particularly suitable object of a semiotic classical reception study—and that if anything, we need to talk more about his memory and his aftermath. First of all, Caesar Augustus is undoubtedly one of the best-known and the most complex figures of Roman history, surpassed in fame perhaps only by Julius Caesar and Cleopatra. Two thousand years after his death, we repeatedly come across him in literature, television, cinema and visual arts. Augustus’ strong presence in the modern world is indisputable—yet the things he stands for, or the sorts of ideas that are communicated through him, have rarely been questioned let alone academically disputed. Maria Wyke’s research on the significance of Julius Caesar to American political and popular culture have shown us the necessity and the value of academic research that focuses on the appropriation of classical figures in the modern world.76 With her perceptive analysis of the modern appropriations of Caesar, Wyke shows how we can better understand the ideological, cultural and political currents of the present day by looking at how modernity treats iconic figures from antiquity. On a deep-rooted and partially unconscious level, Roman history is still considered to form the basis of “Western” culture. The events and developments of the Roman empire are repeatedly (and somewhat anachronistically) used to reflect socio-political and cultural phenomena in American and European societies—this is a matter I will discuss in further detail in Chapter 3. Therefore, the use, reuse and abuse of the Roman past can work as a rather accurate barometer when we want to understand the self-perceptions of modern societies. Moreover, Caesar Augustus is not only one of the most significant characters of Roman history, but a prime example of an influential historical figure whose semiotic importance is at its greatest in times of cultural or ideological turmoil.

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

What marks characters like him is that they are often simultaneously very wellknown and ambiguous in reputation—due to these characteristics, each period reinvents them based on the values and ideals of the time. In the course of the centuries, Augustus is both consciously and unconsciously made to stand for most varying ideas, values and phenomena. The latter part of the twentieth century was certainly such a time. This period was marked, on the one hand, by the collective trauma of World War II that in a sense can be understood as having been a unifying experience for the East and the West. On the other hand, it was a time of juxtapositions—of a great political and ideological divide between Soviet Russia and the United States, of tense and bipolar global politics, and of ideological fragmentation within Western societies themselves. Ever accelerating technological progress, nuclear crises, the oil crisis, and “the space age” all contributed to creating the defining anxieties of this post-war period. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that increasing insecurity and instability can be considered the most defining characteristics of the latter part of the twentieth century. Together, they brought about postmodernist skepticism. Due to the multiplicity of values and ideas, there is not one single Augustus to be found in the sources from this period—rather, we are dealing with “the many faces of the emperor”, produced for most varying ideological purposes. On the one hand, in the bipolar world of the cold war-period, the character of Augustus offered a means to discuss flammable themes such as tyranny, oppression and revolution—this will become particularly evident in Chapter 5, where I look into the roles given to the emperor in historical fiction of this period. On the other hand, Augustus seems to be used as a symbol of the “Golden Age”: concordia, happiness and common wellbeing. Furthermore, in the world of constant and seemingly unending ideological battles, the first emperor could also become a sign for the so-called “end of history,” the final close of political strife and disruption. The aforementioned juxtaposition between Republic and empire, and between freedom and peace, that marks the Roman historians’ readings of Augustus, is clearly present in these postmodern polemics. Therefore, by examining the significances of Augustus in diverse cultural texts from the 1960s, the 1970s and the 1980s, we can better understand how the discourses of power, liberty, oppression and humanity operated in the cold war Western world. The cornerstone of my analysis in Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. Published in 1965, Vonnegut’s novel is a representative piece of early postmodernist fiction, while also being a prime

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example of modern appropriations of the classical past. As an author, Vonnegut is best known for his razor-sharp social criticism, for his cynicism towards the modern, Western way of life and for his tireless endorsement of humanism.77 In God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, the author discusses these familiar themes, making use of the Roman past. He exploits the historical ambiguity of Augustus and utilizes the many faces of the emperor—Augustus the moralist, Augustus the tyrant, Augustus the idealist, and Augustus the pater patriae—to ridicule populist political rhetorics, and to expose the fragility of the consumerist society. Semiotics of Caesar Augustus aims at understanding the significance of Augustus to Vonnegut’s postmodern prose—what is the additional value that the first emperor can offer to the author’s social criticism and to his authorial voice? Why is it namely Augustus that Vonnegut finds to be an apt sign and symbol for so many phenomena in the American postmodern society? I compare Vonnegut’s representation of Augustus to another work of postmodern literature, Christoph Ransmayr’s Die letzte Welt (1988). The Austrian author’s critically acclaimed novel can be best described as a piece of postmodernist dystopian fiction. It discusses various aspects of tyranny and political oppression through an imaginary character of “Caesar Augustus.” Vonnegut and Ransmayr’s different literary styles and cultural backgrounds provide a prolific starting point for a comparative analysis of their works, and for an examination of the multiple meanings given to Augustus in the postmodernist literary discourse. What is characteristic of both of these novels is how they distance Augustus from his original historical context, and utilize him to discuss topical, current and often complex and distressing phenomena of the modern world. Yet this relationship is naturally a two-way street; while Augustus is used to denote certain elements of the modern culture, the roles in which he appears simultaneously invite the reader to reconsider his character, and to shape his earlier preconceptions about him. Whereas postmodernist literature has its own ways and motives for reconstructing some sides of Augustus’ character, the versions of the princeps that one comes across in historical fiction, film or television from the same period are often strikingly different. Naturally, they are equally worthy of attention— when it comes to culturally constructed meanings for iconic historical figures, popular art forms that find their way in people’s living rooms and reach a wider audience can often be the most informative source group imaginable. This is why, in addition to the postmodern novel, this book takes a look at the representations and appropriations of the emperor in historical fiction and in screen representations from the late twentieth and the early twenty-first century.

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

From the 1960s to the end of 1980s, a number of historical novels about the Roman civil war period and about the Julio-Claudian imperial dynasty were written—the works of John Williams, Allan Massie, Elisabeth Dored and François Fontaine are the best known and central to my analysis. These works followed in the footsteps of Robert Graves’ bestselling novel I, Claudius (1934) and manifested the ongoing fascination about ancient Rome in the Western world. With the exception of Williams’ Augustus, which was rewarded the esteemed National Book Award in 1973, these novels were not considered great literary masterpieces on their publication—this is hardly surprising, as historical fiction in general suffers a rather poor reputation among critics. Nevertheless, the significance of these books to the modern imagination when it comes to constructing an idea of ancient Rome and Augustus himself cannot be underestimated. The mere fact that there was (and still is) a wide demand for historical fiction about Augustan Rome, means that the princeps’ story held relevance to Western audiences in the late twentieth century and that it had something to offer to the modern reader. Moreover, the fact that these versions of Augustus’ story differ from each other considerably opens up many new intriguing questions that I will further analyze in Chapter 5. The works of historical fiction about Augustus, in turn, served as models for the many large-scale screen productions dealing with Roman history. From Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra (1965) to BBC’s smash-hit series I, Claudius (1976), twentieth-century films and television series utilized narrative techniques adopted from historical novels in order to deconstruct and familiarize the character of Augustus. They sought the human being behind the public figure and emphasized the contrast between the emperor’s political success and his private tragedies (often at the expense of historical accuracy). Due to their popularity, these dramas had a powerful impact on the ways in which modern viewers perceived, and continue to perceive, this crucial period in Roman history—and on the ways we read Augustus in particular. What is particularly intriguing is that this fascination for Augustus, and the rebranding of his character in television and cinema, is by no means a phenomenon of the past. After a few slow decades in the latter part of the twentieth century, screen representations of Roman history enjoyed renewed popularity at the turn of the millennium. HBO’s Rome is the best example of a large-scale historical drama which, due to its worldwide popularity, has achieved a similar sort of power in shaping modern viewers’ ideas of Augustus in the twenty-first century as I, Claudius did in the 1970s. Other, less popular but culturally significant versions of the princeps’ story are Hallmark Entertainment’s miniseries

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Cleopatra (1999), ABC’s Empire (2005), and the Lux Vide/RAI collaboration Imperium: Augustus (2003). When one aims at understanding the place and the significance of Caesar Augustus in the modern world, it is absolutely crucial to take these sorts of representations into consideration.78 One of the purposes of Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is to show that academics do not own and cannot control Augustus’ memory. What Augustus stands for is not only something to be argued among classicists in academic journals, but something that is decided by novelists, journalists, producers, and audiences outside the field of classical studies. This book is my attempt to narrow the gap between antiquity and the modern world, and between scholars and laymen, and to make the classics more approachable to the wider public. In a sense, it is an invitation to the reader, be they from within or outside the academia, to participate in the writing of the story of Caesar Augustus, to help define and explain this historical figure whose presence can still be strongly sensed in the currents of Western popular culture. My focus in this book is strongly on the decades reaching from the 1960s until the turn of the millennium. This of course means that Semiotics of Caesar Augustus is a study on cultural history—a relatively recent history, from Augustus’ point of view, but history nonetheless. In 2017, the bipolar juxtapositions of the cold war period are seemingly in the past, but the increasing insecurity and uncertainties of the world are not any less present than they were some decades ago. While Europe struggles to keep the Union from falling apart, and the United States faces the unpredictable politics of its newly elected president, the Western world is, once again, divided—and, again, we find ourselves at a crucial crossroads when it comes to defining the values we stand for. The unstable and unpredictable situation in the global politics, the unsustainable economic growth and the looming eco-catastrophe are just a few examples of the most pressing anxieties that the global citizen has to face today. Throw in global terrorism, alarming expressions of xenophobia and the rise of extremist movements in many European countries, and it becomes clear that in many ways it is a world of almost intolerable insecurity that we live in at the present time. At the same time, it is a world of ever accelerating technological progress, where artificial intelligence’s overtaking of the human brain, or humankind’s populating of outer space no longer sound like plotlines from a 1970s science fiction novel but are, indeed, future scenarios to be taken seriously. In an atmosphere such as this, Kurt Vonnegut’s trademark tendency to turn absurd dystopian science fiction into a celebration of and a cry for humanity seems more far-sighted than he himself probably knew back in the 1960s. Moreover, in an atmosphere such as this, the unstable and chameleon-like character of Caesar Augustus, the

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus

obscure champion of the Western world, seems more topical than ever. Who does Augustus represent, and what are the ideas that he stands for, in a world of seemingly irreconcilable juxtapositions and ideological fragmentation? In 2014, the world celebrated the bi-millennia of Caesar Augustus’ death. As time goes by, the historical Augustus slips further from our grasp. In the twentyfirst century, fewer and fewer people are profoundly familiar with the classical tradition and ancient history. This inevitably leads to collision and intermingling between different signs of antiquity, and to confusion in their interpretation. In some cases, it is justifiable to ask to what extent we can distinguish the semiotic significance of Augustus from that of Julius Caesar, for example. Moreover, there are instances where the name or the face of Augustus is no more than a reference to “Rome” or “antiquity” in general. In modern literature, film, media and visual arts, “Augustus” often translates as “Rome”—up to the point where it is sometimes strikingly difficult to separate the attributes of Rome from those of Augustus, and vice versa. For instance, when we read Barthes’ analysis of the lock of hair on “the Roman forehead”—a sign of power and virtue—how many of us unconsciously think of Augustus? It is worth our while to ponder how many of the modern readers might have this vague and unidentified image in the back of our minds, an image of Augustus pontifex, or Augustus of Prima Porta, as a visualization of what we understand by ancient Rome. Moreover, it is worthwhile to ask how many modern readers are aware that it is namely the Julio-Claudian lock that they think of—or whether it actually matters if they are? This indissoluble semiotic link between Augustus and Rome is something that must be considered if we wish to understand either of the two. It is vital to acknowledge that whenever we are talking about Augustus, we are talking about the ancient Rome and all the connotations that come with it—the link between Augustus and Rome creates an unending chain of associations and shifting meanings. Semiotics of Caesar Augustus attempts to bring some clarity into this web of meanings. It is an attempt to illuminate the reasons behind the ongoing fascination of Caesar Augustus, and to examine the relationship between the classical past and the modern imagination. The aim is to scrutinize who owns, or attempts to control, the emperor’s memory in modern cultural discourses and ideological polemics—and what do we still need Augustus for, two millennia after his death.

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Man of Many Faces: Appropriations of Augustus through the Ages

While Silenus, to whom the gods paid very little attention, was jesting thus, Octavian entered, changing colour continually, like a chameleon, turning now pale now red; one moment his expression was gloomy, sombre, and overcast, the next he unbent and showed all the charms of Aphrodite and the Graces. Moreover in the glances of his eyes he was fain to resemble mighty Helios, for he preferred that none who approached should be able to meet his gaze. “Good heavens!” exclaimed Silenus, “what a changeable monster is this! What mischief will he do us?” —Julian, The Caesars1

Augustus’ Ambivalence, from Ancient to Modern Times The above quotation is from emperor Julian’s satirical work The Caesars, written in AD 362. In this work, Julian depicts an imaginary meeting of the former emperors of Rome, and their competition as to which of them is the greatest. The quoted passage encapsulates the quality of Augustus that can be considered the most characteristic of him in both ancient and modern sources: his ambiguity. The changeable, unpredictable, even threateningly unstable image of the emperor is what marks him and what makes his person so difficult to grasp and so inviting for later reconstructions. This can be clearly observed in the works of Roman historians who lived and wrote in the period between Augustus and Julian. In the accounts of Suetonius, Tacitus, Dio, Appian and Plutarch, it is strikingly difficult to find a coherent, unified view of Augustus. This chapter digs deeper into the famous ambivalence of the emperor, examining in particular how this representation of Augustus seems to travel

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Figure 2.1 Silver Denarius of Augustus from Colonia Patricia, Spain, 19 BC © The Trustees of the British Museum.

in time. I look into the continuous presence of Caesar Augustus in Western culture, and at the ways in which he has been reproduced and made to stand for most multiple phenomena, depending on the historical, ideological and political context. My analysis is strongly based on one representative piece

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of early postmodern fiction—Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, or Pearls Before Swine. Published in the United States in 1965, it is one of the lesser known among Vonnegut’s works. However, as a highly perceptive and entertaining satiric novel, it opens a window into US culture in the period of early postmodernism—a time that was marked by a gradual cultural transition from the post-war era towards a new, information-saturated society and world culture. I look into the ways in which the author utilizes the memory of Augustus, and how he uses him to communicate issues and concerns topical to his own day. Thus, I attempt to scrutinize the complex relationship between the classical past and the postmodern period. Who is the Augustus that we can see in the novel, and how does he relate to the figure familiar to us from Roman literary sources? What is he good for in this new cultural environment? As an introductory chapter, this chapter also underlies the following sections of the book, where the representations of Augustus in different literary sources and on screen will be continuously compared to and contrasted with those of Vonnegut. As the representation of Augustus in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater is often highly reminiscent of classical Roman authors’ depictions of him, I will begin this chapter by discussing the few recurring topoi from ancient literature that seem to direct and shape modern readings of the princeps. These are themes to which I will return throughout this book, in an attempt to understand how they are played out in modern cultural discourses and adapted to the particular circumstances of the late twentieth century. As noted in the introduction, the relative temporal closeness of Roman historical sources to Augustus’ reign notwithstanding, they cannot be considered “reliable” historical documents (if there can ever be such a thing) in the sense that they would relate recorded history in an objective manner. Roman historiography is a genre that is particularly charged with moral and political overtones and agendas.2 Moreover, when it comes to depicting an individual character, the unreliability is often to some extent due to exemplarity and characterization, narrative techniques typical of ancient historiography.3 This means that instead of attempting to offer an accurate account of a certain historical figure, the author simplifies them into a representative of certain virtues or vices, or makes them the embodiment of an entire social or cultural group. Naturally, depictions of the emperors are particularly challenging in this respect: the need to represent the princeps as “extraordinary” afforded Roman authors many opportunities to fabricate the past.4 This tendency often led authors to reconstruct entire conversations and speeches of historical figures, a matter that, from an ancient historian’s viewpoint, did not cause an insurmountable methodological obstacle.

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Therefore, Roman historians’ accounts of Augustus’ life are best approached as works of art and fiction—and as the founding texts for certain literary archetypes that live on in modern representations of the emperor. One of the central themes in Roman authors’ depictions of Augustus—and the one where the influence of classical sources on modern cultural texts can be perhaps most clearly observed—is the strong divide in Octavian-Augustus’ character, caused by the change in his status after 31 BC. The end of the civil war splits his life in two halves, and in ancient literature the change in his character reflects this dramatic break. In many ancient accounts, the reader can detect a striking incongruity between the young Octavian and the emperor Augustus, one of them an unscrupulous survivor of the civil wars and the other, the harbinger of peace and prosperity.5 A few examples should suffice to demonstrate this contradiction. In their depictions of the civil war period, the later imperial historians are not too kind to the young Octavian—on the contrary, they often depict him as a power hungry and blatant usurper, quite different from the aged Augustus that he was to become. According to the rumors, Octavian’s first consulship in 43 BC was based on the threat of violence against the senate. Suetonius states: He usurped the consulship in the twentieth year of his age, leading his legions against the city as if it were that of an enemy, and sending messengers to demand the office for him in the name of his army; and when the Senate hesitated, his centurion, Cornelius, leader of the deputation, throwing back his cloak and showing the hilt of his sword, did not hesitate to say in the House, “This will make him consul, if you do not.”6

Cassius Dio, writing some hundred years later, recalls the same story, and adds that after being granted the consulship under exceptional circumstances, To the senate he showed gratitude, but it was all fictitious and assumed for he was accepting as if it were a favor received from their willing hands what he had attained by applying force to them.7

On several occasions, it is implied that Octavian did not recoil from violence and brutality when rising to the pinnacle of power. Suetonius, Tacitus, and Dio Cassius all relate a rumor according to which he single-handedly got rid of Hirtius and Pansa, consuls of the year 43 BC. Suetonius states: As Hirtius lost his life in battle during this war, and Pansa shortly afterwards from a wound, the rumour spread that he had caused the death of both, in order that after Antony had been put to flight and the state bereft of its consuls, he

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might gain sole control of the victorious armies ... Aquilius Niger adds to this that Augustus himself slew the other consul Hirtius amid the confusion of the battle.8

This story is an example of the sort of slanderous gossip that was circulated during the civil war period and that the later imperial historians repeated, as it helped them to emphasize the corruption of the time. It is a prime example of the sort of scandalous storytelling that has made Suetonius so popular among modern readers and ensured his great influence on the screen representations of Augustus in the twentieth and the twenty-first century. Often it seems that the modern reader, when given freedom to pick what he will out of the ancient sources, is inclined to pick the juiciest parts and to use those as the basis of any representation in his rewriting of the story. Likewise, whenever a new film or a television drama dealing with ancient history is released, the critics seem to be quick to point out how it is “misrepresenting” the past, reveling in sex and violence. However, it is worth noting that while the enormous emphasis put on the scandalous aspects of Roman culture in many modern representations might provide a rather one-sided reading of the past, this one-sided reading is firmly based on similar “misrepresentation” in the Roman sources. The “truth” that the critics seem to be calling for is somewhere beyond the modern reader’s grasp— or actually, is not, since the past that these sources describe only really exists as a combination of different reconstructions created by them. Whatever one thinks of the means by which Octavian rose to power, his climbing the ladder of success was at any rate swift, violent and unlawful in the light of Republican political institutions. Consul at the age of nineteen, he achieved his powers relying on the armed force of his legions and on the name and authority of the late Julius Caesar—not on democratic procedures or lawful institutions. And his reputation does not get better as the Roman authors’ recollections of the civil war proceed. After the formation of the second triumvirate in 43 BC, his actions are recounted as having become even more unscrupulous and cruel. His vengeful and merciless conduct towards prisoners, both after the battle of Philippi in 42 BC and after the capture of Perusia in 40 BC is repeatedly recorded in the ancient sources. According to Dio, after his victory over Julius Antonius in Perusia, Octavian slaughtered three hundred knights and senators at the altar of deified Julius Caesar, and that the city itself was destroyed by fire.9 As for the most infamous act of the triumvirate, the proscriptions of the year 43 BC, when members of Roman nobility were listed to be executed in cold blood, appears as a crucial point of character-description in many modern representations of Augustus. When it comes to this problematic topic, Roman

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authors are divided as to who to blame. Whereas Appian and Dio are sympathetic to Octavian’s actions and describe him as merely going along with Antony and Lepidus’ plans,10 Suetonius represents him as the merciless front man of the massacre. He claims that though he opposed his colleagues for some time and tried to prevent a proscription, yet when it was begun, he carried it through with greater severity than either of them. For while they could often times be moved by personal influence and entreaties, he alone was most insistent that no one should be spared.11

Suetonius gives the impression that Octavian’s bloodlust overcame him as the proscriptions proceeded, and adds that he “declared that he had consented to end the proscription only on condition that he was allowed a free hand for the future.”12 An example of the opposite interpretation can be found in Dio’s Roman history, where the author states that But Caesar seems to have taken part in the business merely because of his sharing the authority, since he himself had no need at all to kill a large number; for he was not naturally cruel and had been brought up in his father’s ways ... A proof of this is that from the time he broke off his joint rulership with his colleagues and held the power alone he no longer did anything of the sort. And even at this time he not only refrained from destroying many but actually saved a very large number.13

Suetonius’ and Dio’s different accounts of the proscriptions make manifest the diversity and variety of interpretations within the Roman sources—especially when it comes to the most controversial and morally ambiguous chapters in Octavian-Augustus’ story. Whereas Suetonius emphasizes the young Octavian’s nature as a cold-hearted and calculating political player, Dio aims at explaining his actions by relating them to the conduct of Augustus later on in his reign. This is significant when it comes to the representation of the events in many modern sources, especially in historical fiction: while Dio stresses the divide and duality between the young triumvir and the mature emperor, he also implies that the princeps’ “true,” gentle and moderate nature was always there—it was only after securing his power that Augustus could truly “become himself ” and refrain from violence. These two different ways of dealing with the topic, as presented by Suetonius and Dio, set an example to the modern authors’ interpretations of the events. In order to examine the duality of Octavian-Augustus’ character more closely, it is useful to take a look at the accounts that discuss Octavian’s relationship to

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power in the period of the civil war, and to compare it to depictions of his later reign. When Roman authors describe Octavian in the triumviral period, they often create an impression either of a power hungry maniac, or a highly selfconscious, ruthless manipulator. A good example is the case of Antony’s will. According to the well-known story, Octavian managed to turn the Senate and the Roman people against Antony by revealing the questionable, unpatriotic contents of his will to the public. The will was held secure and secret by the Vestal virgins, and Dio describes its seizure as lawless, stating that Caesar became still more violently enraged and did not shrink from searching for the document, seizing it, and then carrying it into the senate and later into the assembly, and reading it.14

This is just one example of the many occasions in which Octavian’s hunger for power is depicted as driving his actions. Tacitus describes how the youngster eliminated his political rivals one by one, in order to rise to the pinnacle of power. According to the author, Pompey was betrayed by the simulacrum of a peace, Lepidus by the shadow of a friendship: then Antony, lured by the Tarentine and Brundisian treaties and a marriage with his sister, had paid with life the penalty of that delusive connexion. After that there had been undoubtedly peace, but peace with bloodshed.15

In the depictions of the civil war period, Octavian thus appears as a man who cares little about anyone or anything besides his personal power. However, after securing that power, he seems to become an entirely different person, if we are to believe the accounts of the ancient authors. Whereas Octavian, as a civil war general, did everything he could to become the unquestionable ruler of the state, Augustus the emperor appears to have done all in his power not to appear as such a person. Time and again in his Res Gestae he emphasizes that he never sought any unlawful position within the state, and that he repeatedly turned down the dictatorship offered to him by the senate.16 A similar impression is given by Suetonius who relates that: When the people did their best to force the dictatorship upon him, he knelt down, threw off his toga from his shoulders and with bare breast begged them not to insist. He always shrank from the title of Lord as reproachful and insulting ... He would not suffer himself to be called Sire even by his children or his grandchildren either in jest or in earnest, and he forbade them to use such flattering terms even among themselves.17

This change in Suetonius’ ways of representing Augustus’ tactics seems natural and reflects the princeps’ twofold nature in the work. After securing his dominion

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over the state, Suetonius’ Augustus no longer has to compete for power; instead, he aims at justifying his position by representing it as belonging to the continuity of venerable Republican traditions. It is, however, noteworthy that in this respect Augustus differs from the later Roman emperors, depictions of whom we find in these very same sources. Unlike Tiberius, Caligula, or Nero, Augustus is never depicted as a ruler who, after gaining sole power, becomes blinded by it. Instead of giving way to arrogance and violence, he is described as doing exactly the opposite. In Roman historiographic sources, the red-handed survivor of the civil wars becomes a just and solid ruler who strives to erase the memory of his bloody past. We are told that during his long reign, Augustus “did not get blindly enraged at those who had injured him, and that he kept faith even with those who were unworthy of it,”18 and that “very few situations had been treated by force, and then only in the interests of general tranquillity.”19 These sorts of depictions are somewhat perplexing, when one recalls the same authors’ depictions of the young Octavian’s cruelty and arrogance. Dio offers an example of the controversial rhetoric around Octavian-Augustus when he states that: If any of them remembered his former deeds in the course of the civil wars, they attributed them to the pressure of circumstances, and they thought it fair to seek for his real disposition in what he did after he was in undisputed possession of the supreme power; for this afforded in truth a mighty contrast. Anybody who examines his acts in detail can establish this fact; but summing them all up briefly, I may state that he put an end to all the factional discord, transferred the government in a way to give it the greatest power, and vastly strengthened it. Therefore, even if an occasional deed of violence did occur, as is apt to happen in extraordinary situations, one might more justly blame the circumstances themselves than him.20

Therefore, the Roman authors depict the violent sides of Octavian-Augustus’ character as fading away as his grip of power grows increasingly more secure. Furthermore, whereas Octavian is occasionally blamed for greed, extravagance and embezzlement of public funds,21 Augustus seems to throw his money away with abandon, handing out donations, taking care of the grain supply, carrying out public building programs and arranging magnificent games and races.22 Respectively, whereas Octavian is said to have been hated by many,23 Augustus, on the contrary, appears to be loved by most. Suetonius states that it may readily be imagined how much he was beloved because of his admirable conduct ... on his return from a province they received him not only with prayers and good wishes, but with songs.24

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The clearest expression of the Roman people’s affection towards their princeps is, of course, the honorary title of pater patriae which “the whole body of citizens with a sudden unanimous impulse proffered him” in 2 BC.25 The relationship of mutual love and respect between Augustus and his “children” is what the emperor himself seems to have wanted posterity to remember him by: it is the closing argument of his Res Gestae Divi Augusti, where he represents it as the crown jewel of his political career.26 The young Octavian had indeed come a long way since the bloody days of the civil war—so far, in effect, that for the modern reader of the twenty-first century it can sometimes be a challenge to identify the two as one and the same person. This duality that marks the character of Augustus is certainly what makes him such a prolific object of literary appropriations and reconstructions in any given period. Part of the modern reader’s readerly power is that he can pick and choose whichever version of the historical character suits him best, and develop it further in his own writing. Moreover, it is crucial to notice that a certain level of ambiguity is also something that the emperor himself—quite deliberately, one might suspect— attributed to his literary testimony. Judging by his Res Gestae one derives the impression that Augustus was a man comfortable with many masks—from that of a military leader to that of a civil magistrate, or a religious authority. Furthermore, it would seem that these masks were such an integral part of his public persona that, especially from a distance of 2,000 years, it is often impossible to know whether he is in character or not. This constant role-playing is something to which Roman historians call attention. On many occasions in the ancient sources, Augustus’ life is represented as a sort of a spectacle, a magnificent show written and directed by the emperor himself. An outstanding example can be found in Dio’s (highly imaginative) depiction of Augustus’ speech to the senate, whereby he “restored” the Republic and gave his power back to the patres. The author describes the stunned senators’ reactions thus: While Caesar was reading this address, varied feelings took possession of the senators. A few of them knew his real intention and consequently kept applauding him enthusiastically; of the rest, some were suspicious of his words, while others believed them, and therefore both classes marvelled equally, the one at his cunning and the other at his decision, and both were displeased, the former at his scheming and the latter at his change of mind ... For, on the one hand, those who believed he had spoken the truth could not show their pleasure ... those who wished to do so being restrained by their fear and the others by their hopes ... and those, on the other hand, who did not believe it did

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus not dare accuse him and expose his insincerity, some because they were afraid and others because they did not care to do so. Hence all the doubters either were compelled to believe him or else pretended that they did. As for praising him, some had not the courage and others were unwilling; on the contrary, but while he was reading and afterwards, they kept shouting out, begging for a monarchical government and urging every argument in its favor, until they forced him as it was made to appear, to assume autocratic power.27

Dio’s interpretation of this famous event creates an impression of an elaborate show, a carefully rehearsed dance between the princeps and the senate. The passage sheds some light on the question as to how the later imperial authors might have viewed Augustus’ autocracy. As has often been noted, Augustus’ idea of res publica restituta was at best an illusion and at worst a poorly concealed lie. What has been given less attention is the fact that, in effect, this is how some Roman authors appear to have observed Augustus’ entire reign: as a carefully constructed show of which all parties were aware but which they silently approved of and “played along.” The matter has been discussed among others by Levick, who emphasizes the theatricality of Augustus’ politics—a tradition that became a deep-rooted part of the ways in which the imperial “Roman Republic” functioned in the following centuries.28 This “playing of the Republic,” notably, appears as an interactive performance between the princeps and his subjects, not merely as a political deception forced on the people by their ruler. Thus, it is crucial to note that the construction of reality is not something that only happens on the pages of books (ancient or modern); in a sense, Augustus’ entire reign can be observed as a cultural text (or as a series of texts) created and shaped by those to whom it was addressed. The idea of Augustus as a highly self-conscious producer of images and interpretations can be observed even in some depictions of the triumviral period. Suetonius emphasizes Augustus’ constant role-playing by telling of the exclusive dinner parties organized by Octavian, known by the name of the “banquet of the twelve gods.” At these events, the guests appeared in the guise of gods and goddesses, while he himself was made up to represent Apollo, as was charged not merely in letters of Antony, who spitefully gives the names of all the guests, but also in these anonymous lines, which everyone knows: “As soon as that table of rascals had secured a choragus and Mallia saw six gods and six goddesses, while Caesar impiously plays the false rôle of Apollo and feasts amid novel debaucheries of the gods; then all the deities turned their faces from the earth and Jupiter himself fled from his golden throne.”29

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The rhetorical effect of this story is not in the least diminished because its historical reliability cannot be verified. By this anecdote the author implies that already in the civil war period, Octavian was doing what he continued to do and learned to master later on—that is, playing the god, controlling the script and confusing the audience with his multiple roles. Or this is at least what the author seems to want his reader to believe. At the end, most Roman historians appeared to consider Augustus’ whole life as a highly self-reflexive form of theater.30 Suetonius famously ends his work Divus Augustus by depicting the aged emperor on his deathbed: calling in his friends, and asking whether it seemed to them that he had played the comedy of life fitly, he added the tag: “Since well I’ve played my part, all clap your hands and from the stage dismiss me with applause.”31

Dio, for his part, relates that and, by asking them for their applause, after the manner of the comic actors, as if at the close of a mime, he ridiculed most tellingly the whole life of man.32

Thus, in Roman historians’ accounts, Augustus’ life appears as a carefully planned show written and directed by the princeps himself—but only up to a certain point, because in the end the aged emperor seems to understand that the final power over the meaning of his life lies with the audience. One wonders if it was indeed the ambiguity in Octavian-Augustus’ character that made Roman historians portray him as a highly self-aware actor attempting to control his own story. Perhaps the multiple sides of the emperor’s persona made sense only if understood as masks, as roles, as something false and “unreal”—however, this way of thinking is per se deceptive, as it implies that there is some underlying “real” Augustus to be discovered. At any rate, whereas Augustus’ ambivalent nature gave free rein to writers, both ancient and modern, to reconstruct and interpret the princeps’ character, there was at the same time something unpredictable, uncomfortable and even threatening about this ambiguity, as shown by the passages quoted in this chapter. As emperor Julian put it, over 300 years after Augustus’ time, “what a changeable monster is this? What mischief will he do us?”

Rewriting Rome: Vonnegut’s American Dream Understanding the long tradition of appropriating Augustus’ memory is crucial when attempting to study how the image of the princeps is utilized in modern literature and popular culture. The ambiguity of the modern Augustus reflects

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the ambiguity of the historical Augustus, as the authors of the twentieth century build firmly on the ground established by Roman writers—usually in a deliberate and self-conscious manner. Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr Rosewater is an example of a literary work that is highly aware of its classical background. Overall, the novel is extremely self-reflexive and ironic both towards the historical tradition of rewriting Augustus’ story and towards itself as an attempt to do so. As such, it is a piece of early postmodernist fiction par excellence. In his analysis of the past—especially of the attempts to produce a reliable account of it—Vonnegut ridicules the entire process of writing, speaking and creating meanings. God Bless You, Mr Rosewater is a novel filled with loose ends and open meanings, and it actively invites the reader to think, to contemplate and to create the meaning for the entire, seemingly trifling, little story. It is, however, important to note that to Vonnegut, postmodern irony and cynicism did not mean the utter and complete denial of values, morals and social responsibility. Throughout his career, Vonnegut was known as a critic of Western culture and lifestyle in the late twentieth century. Due to his sharp social criticism, he has been rightly described as “one of the most socially responsible writers of his generation.”33 In his novels, Vonnegut reproaches the political corruption, the moral hypocrisy, and the consumerism that have taken over the Western world—and often does so with surreal and absurdist overtones.34 Demoralized by World War II, Vonnegut discusses and examines human nature in his works—its dark and desperate aspects, in particular. His first-hand experience of the bombing of Dresden in 1945 seems to have left a deep mark on his literary style. Repeatedly in his novels, the reader can observe the author experimenting with the question of how to record and rewrite history, how to relate a story that is too traumatic for words to express. This makes his works a fascinating, yet at the same time a challenging read. As a truly postmodernist author, Vonnegut appears to emphasize the responsibility of the reader over that of the author—he cares little if his message is “understood” in a certain way, and quite often, he leaves a lot of room for context-sensitive interpretation. Nevertheless, amongst this overwhelming relativism, one can observe the existence of one essential value—that is, humanism penetrates through the gloominess and the cynicism of Vonnegut’s prose. Despite the dark melancholy of his works, Vonnegut is an incurable humanist who has confidence in the power of human empathy.35 Or, at any rate, this is what he appears to try to convince himself of in his many novels.

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God Bless You, Mr Rosewater is Vonnegut’s fifth novel, published four years before the bestseller Slaughterhouse Five.36 It is a satiric overview of American society in the 1950s—and of human nature in general.37 The conflict between greed and generosity is a central theme in the novel, and it is interwoven with the tragedy of measuring human value by material criteria. The novel depicts a society that is ideologically and spiritually dead and that values money above everything else. In this dystopia, wealth holds intrinsic value. It is less important what property stands for or what one can do with it—the crucial thing is to have it. The United States depicted in the novel is a class society—as the author puts it, the “savage and stupid and entirely inappropriate and unnecessary and humorless American class system”38—where the distinction between people is based on wealth.39 Vonnegut’s Americans are what they own, and little else— for this reason, God Bless You, Mr Rosewater has sometimes been characterized as a manifesto against ruthless individualism and “laissez-faire capitalism” in the United States.40 Examining Vonnegut’s novel as a mere manifesto of leftwing social criticism would, however, be a crude simplification of the work. When one scratches the surface of God Bless You Mr Rosewater, it appears that Vonnegut utilizes his critique of greed and capitalism to discuss a more essential philosophical question: the value of human beings in general, the meaning of existence. His “radical socialism” becomes radical humanism—or rather, the distinction between the two is blurred and dissolved. In God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, members of the elite are filthy rich—most of them having earned their fortunes by quasi-criminal means—but at the same time they are ideologically poor, morally crippled and deeply anxious. Nor are poor people any better than the elite. Everybody is selfish, everybody is unhappy and everybody is a ruthless opportunist.41 Anything else is just considered madness. Besides the moral corruption, what is common to the rich and the poor is that they really have no purpose—when machines take care of all the work, and the only job left for humans is to consume, people feel useless.42 The poor feel useless because they cannot consume, and the rich feel useless because they can never consume enough. In the end, as Robert Hipkiss puts it, “the vacuity of their lives is about the same.”43 These people, whom the protagonist Eliot Rosewater calls “discarded Americans,”44 have absolutely no ideological capital and therefore, they feel insecure and rootless—they despise the government, despise themselves and mistrust their friends and neighbors. Intriguingly, in this depressing situation the author repetitively makes allusions to Roman history. For him, the decay of American society seems to mirror all the

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previous failures of democratic governance in the history of humankind—the most notable being the fall of the Roman Republic. Indisputably, there are many qualities in the situation depicted in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater that bring to mind the Rome of the civil war period. The abundant consumerism, people’s lack of trust in their leaders, the trauma caused by great wars in past decades, the idea that people are both useless and replaceable and, in particular, the ambiguous concept of “moral decay”—these are all phenomena that in both Roman and modern historiography have often been associated with the last decades of the Roman Republic.45 Classical scholars cannot help but think of Rome when the author expresses his anxiety about “what wars do to us, what cities do to us, what big, simple ideas do to us, what tremendous misunderstandings, mistakes, accidents and catastrophes do to us.”46 Besides money, another central theme in this novel is freedom. Donald Morse has described God Bless You, Mr Rosewater as a meditation upon “the collision of the two conflicting American Dreams,” one based on freedom and the other on wealth.47 This is a perceptive notion, and it further explains Vonnegut’s use of Rome as a historical analogue in the novel. It has been pointed out that many of the values and ideals on which the political system of the United States was built derived from Roman political and philosophical discourse.48 Robert Ferguson, who has studied eighteenth-century Americans’ identifications with Rome, perceptively states that for early Americans, the history of the Roman Republic “furnished pictures for ordering reality.”49 Particularly crucial in this process was the “isolated interpretation of high-sounding words that could be re-cast for the purposes of their patriotic mission.”50 “Freedom” was among the most popular of the abstract nouns that were utilized to construct an ideological basis for the nation. This is naturally one of the most ambiguous concepts possible and, therefore, has been extremely popular in the construction of all sorts of values and ideologies. In any given period, the use of the term “freedom” demonstrates how the construction of meanings and associations is inseparably connected to the discourses of power, and how the discourses of power are inscribed in the culturally shared systems of codes. Controlling the meaning of a certain word, and making the word an ideological guideline for a larger group of people is wielding absolute power over those people. Thus, unsurprisingly, the attractively vague concept of “freedom” has been dear to all Republican governments in the history of humankind and, paradoxically, also to many autocratic ones (Augustus’ reign being the prime example). In the case of the United States of America, it is important to note that “freedom” was a characteristically Roman obsession. The connotations that the

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English word obtained from the eighteenth century onwards in the American context were strongly influenced by contemporary readings of Roman political and rhetorical literature and its endorsement of libertas.51 In Roman political thinking, the trauma of the regal period was long-lasting—for centuries after the Principate had been firmly established, Romans feared the idea of autocracy, and associated freedom with Republican government.52 This is why, in Roman political struggles, it was common to accuse one’s opponents of pursuing kingship—and it is also why Augustus, after establishing his Principate, preferred to represent it as res publica restituta.53 Libertas was the battle-cry of the Republic, which is exactly why the term is also all-pervasive in the Augustan regime’s self-representation. Nevertheless, as has often been pointed out, the “freedom” of the Roman Republic was a highly relative and debateable matter. In the Republican period, the political system was ruled by a small and extremely wealthy aristocracy—freedom, power and influence were based, in the first place, on birth and, in the second, on wealth.54 As the Republic drew to a close, the latter became increasingly important. During the last century BC, the illusion of political freedom was crushed as power shifted from the senate and into the hands of individual generals. The power of these men—Marius, Sulla, Pompey, Caesar, Antony, Octavian—depended on the army—and the army could be bought by money.55 Therefore, the conflict and collision between “the dream of freedom” and “the dream of wealth,” that are crucial to the society depicted in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, can be considered essentially a Roman phenomenon.56 More importantly, they were the defining characteristics of the Rome that Caesar Augustus was born in. Studied against this background, it is not overly surprising that the character of Augustus appears in this novel both implicitly and explicitly. From the very beginning of the novel, it is evident that the author is intrigued by the historical connections between the Roman Republic and the modern United States. With subtle allusions to Roman history here and there, Vonnegut reconstructs ancient Rome as an historical analog to contemporary America, and flirts with the idea of the impending downfall of the American democracy and social system.

(Mis)reading Augustus: Senator Rosewater’s “Golden Age of Rome” In the second chapter of God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, the link between the Roman Republic and the United States is made explicit in a speech given by

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Senator Lister Rosewater. Senator Rosewater is something of a caricature; the author depicts him as a stereotypical conservative right-wing patriot—and a passionate one at that.57 He is a man who is determined to save the nation, and in order to do so, he is prepared to root out the weeds. The Senator has no sympathy for weaklings; this is made clear when he rallies his party members behind his new, progressive economic program. He begins by stating that I should like to speak of the Emperor Octavian, of Caesar Augustus, as he came to be known. This great humanitarian, and he was a humanitarian in the profoundest sense of the word, took command of the Roman Empire in a degenerate period strikingly like our own. Harlotry, divorce, alcoholism, liberalism, homosexuality, pornography, abortion, venality, murder, labor racketeering, juvenile delinquency, cowardice, atheism, extortion, slander, and theft were the height of fashion. Rome was a paradise for gangsters, perverts, and the lazy working man, just as America is now.58

Then he goes on for a while, listing all sorts of calamities, and blaming both liberals and conservatives for doing nothing about the situation. And then, the Senator gets to the point: That was the Rome that Caesar Augustus came home to, after defeating those two sex maniacs, Antony and Cleopatra, in the great sea battle of Actium ... And what methods did Caesar Augustus use to put this disorderly house in order? He did what we are so often told we must never, ever, do, what we are told will never, ever, work: he wrote morals into law, and he enforced those unenforceable laws with a police force that was cruel and unsmiling. He made it illegal for a Roman to behave like a pig. Do you hear me? It became illegal! ... Did it work? You bet your boots it did! Pigs miraculously disappeared! And what do we call the period that followed this now-unthinkable oppression? Nothing more nor less, friends and neighbors, than “The Golden Age of Rome.”59

It would seem that Senator Rosewater is referring to Augustus’ famous marriage laws, the lex Iulia de maritandis ordinibus and the lex Iulia de adulteriis coercendis, launched in 18 BC and complemented with the lex Papia Poppaea in AD 9. The purpose of these edicts was to encourage marriage and procreation among the Roman elite, as well as to root out adultery.60 The laws were remarkably unpopular, and apparently rather ineffective—a matter that has been disputed among classical scholars for decades.61 The questionable reputation of leges Iuliae, however, does not prevent Senator Rosewater from utilizing this ancient piece of legislation as a weapon in his own political mission. The Senator believes that the problem with the United States

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lies with the general immorality, liberalism, indolence and— horror of horrors— “labor racketeering.” He is convinced that these moral and social problems can be fixed by economic means and, in particular, by means of a “carrot and a stick” approach. This carrot and this stick, as he explains, stand for the free enterprise system that needs to be revived and enforced. In summation: he said, I see two alternatives before us. We can write morals into law, and enforce those morals harshly, or we can return to a true Free Enterprise System, which has the sink-or-swim justice of Caesar Augustus built into it. I emphatically favor the latter alternative. We must be hard, for we must become again a nation of swimmers, with the sinkers quietly disposing of themselves. I have spoken of another hard time in ancient history. In case you have forgotten the name of it, I shall refresh your memory: “The Golden Age of Rome,” friends and neighbors, “The Golden Age of Rome.”62

This speech, which Peter Reed has described as “a classic expression of rightwing paranoia,” is an outstanding example of misleading rhetoric.63 Even though it is full of historical inaccuracies and unsustainable conclusions—“alternative facts,” as some nowadays might describe them—the passion and the simplicity make it, if not convincing, at least impressive and memorable. This is what the effect of the speech is based on; it is a sentimentalist and manipulative attempt at a master narrative, the impact of which is wholly dependent on the emotional, rather than rational, response on the part of the audience. What Senator Rosewater is trying to do is to convince his party members of the necessity for a more radical economic agenda, in the name of common wellbeing. He believes that the solution to the nation’s problems lies with the free enterprise system— he does not see, or will not believe, that it is exactly the dominion of money, along with the ideological poverty, that is consuming the people. Vonnegut represents Lister Rosewater as an archetype of a cold-blooded politician, whom Todd Davis perceptively describes as “social Darwinist.”64 The Senator has no sympathy for the weak; he is prepared to let them sink, in order to re-create “a nation of swimmers”—and for this purpose, he harnesses the memory of Augustus. Notably, the light in which Senator Rosewater represents the emperor is somewhat unconventional. He stresses Augustus’ role as a stern and uncompromising pater patriae who, with a strong and steady hand, purged Roman society of moral corruption. Senator Rosewater depicts Augustus as a merciless dictator who did not shirk violence in order to set things straight. He claims—without any reference, naturally—that under Augustus’ rule, Romans

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caught acting like pigs were “strung up by their thumbs, thrown down wells, and fed to lions.”65 The bizarreness of Senator Rosewater’s reading becomes evident when we recall the representations of Augustus in most Roman historiographic sources. As I aimed to demonstrate above, this sort of image of the emperor is something that we do not very often come across in ancient sources. Augustus himself naturally wanted to appear as the harbinger of peace and stability—a first citizen rather than an autocrat, let alone a tyrant. This is evident from his Res Gestae, a work that consists mainly of lists of his benefactions. The emperor counts the donations he has made for the Roman people, and the public buildings and the festivals he has paid for.66 As for his many wars, Augustus depicts himself as a merciful winner, stating that I undertook many civil and foreign wars by land and sea throughout the world, and as victor I spared the lives of all citizens who asked for mercy. When foreign peoples could safely be pardoned I preferred to preserve rather than to exterminate them.67

and that In my sixth and seventh consulships, after I had extinguished civil wars, and at a time when with universal consent I was in complete control of affairs, I transferred the Republic from my power to the dominion of the Senate and people of Rome ... After this time I excelled all in influence, although I possessed no more official power than others who were my colleagues in the several magistracies.68

Therefore, in his own words, Augustus appears first and foremost as a great civil leader—the first citizen, who is wary of tyranny and avoids the excessive use of force. As for the works of others, it is the young Octavian who, in the accounts of Suetonius, Tacitus and Dio, becomes the scapegoat and the surrogate victim for the emperor. The unscrupulous civil war general forms a strong contrast to the calm and considerate emperor, and ends up ultimately highlighting his virtuousness by comparison. And, even though the Roman authors are not blind to Augustus’ shortcomings, they rarely directly accuse him of despotism. This is partly due to the blatant tyranny of Augustus’ JulioClaudian successors and partly to the fact that in the history of the Republic, the mantle of a tyrant belonged to Julius Caesar.69 Hence, to Roman historians, Augustus was not a despot because in retrospect, he was still better than both his predecessors and his successors—and definitely better than his younger self.

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A great deal could be said about censorship, self-censorship and freedom of speech in the Roman Principate, and about how these matters might have influenced historians’ readings of Augustus. These issues will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 4. However, for the time being it is important to note that the positive image of Augustus as emperor might, at least to some extent, be due to the fact that he really was a great stabilizer and, compared to some of his successors, he most certainly was a great civil leader as well. After all, he did restore peace in the collapsing society, and he did put an end to the suicidal competition of the Roman elite, if only by winning the game. It was in order to maintain that peace that Roman authors decided to excuse some of the bloodier acts of the emperor and instead to emphasize his clementia. Among ancient historians, the consensus seems to be that brutal deeds are required to end civil wars; and it was no secret that even after Actium Augustus had to get rid of certain people in order to establish a solid base for society.70 But these elements of his past are usually either downplayed or explained and justified in most of the imperial sources.71 Senator Rosewater, however, has a different agenda. For his purposes, it is particularly suitable to emphasize Augustus’ role as a stern dictator, concerned with the morals of his people. This way, he can effortlessly associate himself with the princeps, while offering a similar age of peace and prosperity. Moreover, by emphasizing the “cruel and unsmiling” police force of Augustus, Rosewater makes his own method—the free enterprise system—seem like a rather humane way of creating wellbeing for all. He makes it seem that he shares the goals and pursuits of Augustus and admires his accomplishments, but that he can do better—establish a Golden Age for the United States with less violence, only by means of economic adjustments. Thus, we can observe in Senator Rosewater’s speech both the negative and the positive connotations of Augustus, and how he is used to stand for two very different things. On the one hand, Augustus appears as a savior of the people, as the benefactor of the state and as the greatest Roman ruler of all time. On the other, the senator deliberately associates Augustus’ reign with violence and tyranny—and in so doing, engages with a cunning rhetorical play that helps him to enhance his own reputation. On the surface, Rosewater’s notion concerning Augustus’ strict and stern policies denotes his admiration of the princeps. Examined in the context of what is to follow, however, the Senator also seems to express his contempt and his moral judgement of this tyranny. Senator Rosewater represents Augustus as the greatest ruler and as the best politician in history—merely to show that he himself is, in fact, better. In comparison

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to Augustus’ sadistic police force, reminiscent of the twentieth-century fascist and communist dictatorships, his free enterprise system does not seem like a monstrous vehicle of capitalism that breeds inequality and suffering—it appears as a humane approach to a pressing social problem. While it is argued that Augustus solved the problem in a manner suitable to his day and age, it is also implied that Senator Rosewater is a gentle ruler from a more civilized era who can solve it with more humanity. What the reader can see at play here is the juxtaposition between freedom and slavery, a theme that seems to be a recurring and crucial part of the Western reconstructions of Augustus in the cold war period, and that clearly connects the ancient past with the contemporary political atmosphere. In this web of significances that is simultaneously subtle and blatant, the reader can observe an idea that was, in a sense, all-pervasive in American rightwing rhetoric throughout the twentieth century. It is a conviction that absolute economic freedom and an unbridled mass market, while criticized by some as destructive forces that ransack the illusion of equal opportunities, are in effect the cornerstones of humanism—at any rate, they are a better solution than state control that inevitably leads to tyranny and oppression (as witnessed in Soviet Russia and its satellites). What is important here is that in order to mask this rather outworn political rhetoric, Senator Rosewater turns to the remote past. He takes the Roman Principate (the antonym of the Republic and its libertas) and exploits its reputation as a corrupt, violent, oppressive tyranny. Even a less wellversed member of the audience would have a vague idea of Roman emperors as bloodthirsty lunatics (without realizing it, they would be thinking of Caligula, Nero or Commodus), and this is the association that the Senator counts on and cultivates. The simplified message that he offers to his party members is as follows: Augustus equals Rome, and Rome, in turn, equals a long-gone empire that was magnificent in its day but that, being unable to combine freedom with wellbeing, turned into a tyranny. However, the United States, with its liberal capitalism and its free enterprise system, has a chance of becoming a new and improved version of Rome—a combination of the libertas of the Republic and the moral standards of the Augustan era. Thus, in order to depict his agenda as modern, humane, and characteristically Western, and himself as a savior of his nation, Senator Rosewater harnesses Roman history and the memory of Augustus to his use, distorting it shamelessly. In this brief but telling passage the author offers us a textbook example of the ways in which ancient history can be exploited and fabricated in modern ideological polemics. Moreover, he gives a prime example of an attempt at an imperialistic

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and tyrannical reading of a cultural text, closely connected to an attempt to gain political power. Senator Rosewater’s simplistic exploitation of Augustus, and his near-violent attempt to impose his reading on everyone else are tools with which he seeks to deprive his audience of their interpretative powers, and to offer them his own master narrative instead—a narrative that benefits his political agenda. This is one of the very first occasions on which Vonnegut calls for the reader’s awareness, and underlines the fluidity of meaning—and, intriguingly, he does so by retelling the story of Caesar Augustus.

Who Cares about Augustus? Vonnegut’s Double Exploitation of the princeps This, however, is not where the exploitation of Augustus ends in this novel. Vonnegut is famous for his ability to utilize different narrative levels in order to evoke emotions and encourage criticism in the reader. In this novel, as Reed points out, three important voices can be heard: besides the dialogue between Lister and Eliot Rosewater, there is an implicit authorial voice that balances out the two.72 Furthermore, even in the episodes where the authorial voice cannot be clearly detected—as in the case of Senator Rosewater’s speech—its presence can be felt, often with an ironic, contemptuous or disparaging overtone. Vonnegut’s third-person narrator, although external, is far from being unopinionated, neutral or omniscient, and his gaze constantly hovers over the monologs and the dialogs of the narrative. However, at no point in the novel does Vonnegut explicitly express the feelings of the narrator, but leaves it for the reader to create meaning and make what he will out of it. In a similar manner, the meaning and significance of Caesar Augustus for the book as a whole is never explicitly explained, but remains for the reader to determine. The workings of this third narrative level can be clearly observed in Senator Rosewater’s speech. As argued above, the Senator distorts and misinterprets Roman history to suit his own purposes. The problem with his speech is that he does so too strongly and too blatantly, which undermines his credibility. In his speech, the political agenda comes first and historical accuracy takes second place—this is evident to anyone with the slightest knowledge of Roman history, and it is what makes the Senator’s speech seem more than a little ridiculous (one cannot help but think of some of the attention-seeking political Tweets of recent times). Lister Rosewater describes the Rome of the late Republic as “a paradise for gangsters, perverts, and the lazy working man.”73 He claims that “no

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decent woman was safe on any street, even at high noon.”74 He blames Roman liberals for loving the barbarians so much that they “wanted to open all the gates, have all the soldiers lay their weapons down, and let the barbarians come in.”75 He calls Antony and Cleopatra “those two sex maniacs”76 and, finally, he asserts that as a result of Augustus’ sink-or-swim justice, “[p]igs miraculously disappeared.”77 These sorts of striking simplifications and misreadings are where we can hear Vonnegut’s authorial voice. On the surface, it seems as though the narrator is merely repeating the Senator’s words, and offering the reader a record of his actions. However, in the emphasized simplicities that the Senator pours out, we can observe a sarcastic and contemptuous voice of the externalized narrator. Evidently, the purpose of this speech is to paint an unflattering picture of Senator Rosewater and to make the reader despise him.78 He is a narrow-minded patriot and a ruthless opportunist, and the narrator wants us to dislike him.79 What is of importance, is that in order to make the reader dislike Senator Rosewater, the narrator underlines his misinterpretation of Augustus. His deliberate misappropriation of Roman history and the absoluteness of his naïve and mistaken conclusions show Lister Rosewater in an unflattering light; moreover, his unsustainable facts and his mistaken reading of history cast a shadow of doubt over his sincerity in all other matters too and, in particular, over his political agenda. The narrator seems to ask if this is really the kind of ignorance and vulgarity that we have to witness in the highest echelons of society. Are these the men who rule the nation, and if so, is it any wonder that the country is in the state that it is in? The narrator appears to count on the reader’s understanding that Rosewater’s interpretation of Augustus is mistaken; this is the basic presupposition implicit in the text, without which the entire episode remains hollow, robbed of its intertextual power and sarcastic overtones. In a sense, this sort of attitude on the part of the narrator towards the reader can be considered as condescending, patronizing and somewhat insulting. After all, the narrator’s agenda is not much better concealed than that of Senator Rosewater’s—upon realizing this, the reader feels belittled and manipulated. This, of course, is most likely a highly deliberate choice on the part of the author. Once again, Vonnegut is challenging the reader to think, to feel and to interpret. The feeling of being “led on” that the episode creates is firmly in keeping with the content of the chapter and the entire novel. The reader is prompted to realize that it is he who ultimately creates the meaning of the text, and that he is expected to defend that power against the attempts of whichever party tries to take it away.

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What is particularly intriguing is that in this rhetorical game that plays on the reader’s expectations and on his previous knowledge about the past, Augustus himself becomes a hollow image. Notably, what is common to Senator Rosewater and to the externalized narrator is that neither of them really cares about Augustus per se. In the situation in which we find ourselves in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, the historical Augustus does not matter—he is only important as a face of multiple ideas and value systems. In this game, both sides use Augustus as a weapon, but neither side is really interested in him. With this clever narratological play, Vonnegut shows us that there is no past independent of the present; that history is always someone’s reading, and usually motivated by a questionable agenda. He implies that our lives, our political systems and our ideologies—indeed our whole present—are based on interpretations about the past. And it is telling that nothing gets this message through to the reader as efficiently as the double-exploitation of Caesar Augustus, the marble face so well-known to all. One derives the impression that it matters little who he is or what he did—what matters is what we make of him, and what we can persuade other people to believe. In this way, power is an inseparable part of Augustus’ person in the modern period too, even if he is merely used as a tool for attaining it. It would appear that power comes to power as money comes to money, and as an unquestionably authoritative figure, Augustus can be efficiently exploited in modern power battles over the people’s minds. From this brief analysis of Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, we can make a few observations concerning the significance and the value of Augustus in modern ideological polemics. It appears that due to Augustus’ ambiguity as a historical person, his semiotic importance as a sign and a symbol is at its highest in times of cultural or ideological turmoil. In the United States, the 1960s were such a time—it was a decade defined by tension between the East and the West, and by increasing insecurity and instability. In this bipolar world, the character of Augustus offered a means to discuss themes of social and political order, cultural revolution, liberty and humanity. Moreover, Vonnegut’s appropriations of Augustus not only offer us a glimpse into his idea of the United States in this crucial period, but they also show us how the character of Augustus can be reconstructed in multiple ways in the same historical context and by the same author, even by the same reader, according to different circumstances, concerns, and motivation. It is worthwhile to ponder more closely the particular role of the first Roman emperor in these kinds of modern discourses: namely, why is it Augustus that Vonnegut chooses as a sign and a symbol in his novel? Why is it him and not

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someone else that the author utilizes to discuss issues topical to his contemporary society? Is there something about Augustus that makes him a particularly good target for the appropriations of history and for the rewritings of the past? If there is, it must be his incredible posthumous fame. Augustus is one of the best-known characters in Roman history. He has been written about more than anyone else but, as I pointed out above, we have very little reliable information concerning him as a person. Practically no “anti-Augustan” sources from the civil war period survive, and as for the literary sources that do survive, it is difficult to find the man behind the myth in them. As I observed earlier in this chapter, Roman authors tend to simplify Augustus into an idea, emphasizing the ambiguity and theatricality of his persona—whether he is a power-hungry political usurper, or a great and considerate ruler, or a harbinger of peace and prosperity, these multiple masks worn by the emperor remove the historical figure from our view. I suggest that it is this ambiguity of Caesar Augustus that makes him a particularly good weapon in political and ideological debates in any given period. It is the main reason why the exploitation and the rewriting of Augustus’ story has continued for decades, for centuries and for millennia. With every new appropriation of his memory, the legend of Augustus expands and it becomes more difficult to find the man behind the myth. If some person is for 2,000 years associated with terms such as “Golden Age,” and “pax Romana,” how could we possibly think that we could find the historical person under these layers of legend? Why should we? Kurt Vonnegut’s solution is characteristically cynical: he does not even try. In God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, Vonnegut treats Augustus as he has so often been treated: As a marble face that can be taped over any ideology to increase its authority. This is why, while the novel is cynical concerning the future of the human race, it is also deeply pessimistic concerning the value and the significance of the past. God Bless You, Mr Rosewater is a depiction of a world where people do not understand the past and do not care about it, other than as a weapon for their own power-hungry purposes. They will not learn from the past, and end up repeating the same “misunderstandings, mistakes, accidents and catastrophes,” creating an unending circle of social inequality and ideological poverty. And nothing gets this message through to the reader as efficiently as the author’s blatant appropriation of the memory of Augustus. At the same time, however, it is possible to read God Bless You, Mr Rosewater as a novel with a most perceptive and most liberating understanding about the relationship between the past and the present: the two are inseparably

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and irreversibly connected, as they are ultimately nothing but constructions created here and now, and anew by each reader. This might also be the reason for Vonnegut’s choice of Augustus as a side character and as the symbol for ancient Rome in his novel—who else, one might ask, is better suited to underlining the ambiguity and fluidity of historical narratives? In effect, the multiple appropriations of Augustus in the novel, and Senator Rosewater’s desire to rewrite his story, in particular, seem quite fitting concerning the princeps’ own actions when he was alive. If anything, the first Roman emperor was a great reconstructor of the past. The ways in which the visual and literary material from the Augustan period changed the Roman people’s perception of their history were remarkable. The skilful fabrication of the legendary past, the careful reconstruction of Republican history—if there is one person in the history of humankind who can be said to have rewritten the past to suit his own purposes, it is Augustus.80 Examined in this light, it seems fitting that Augustus, in turn, is chosen to be a face and a symbol for so many different ideas in modern ideological polemics. In a sense, the modern reader can appreciate the irony of Augustus being continuously reinvented, reconstructed and ideologically exploited. “We are what we pretend to be,” a phrase coined by Kurt Vonnegut in his novel Mother Night,81 is particularly telling when it comes to the aftermath of Augustus. Ultimately, it appears that the princeps’ obsessive role-playing caught up on him—from a distance of two millennia, his multiple masks are all that remains, and the man behind them remains hollow. Moreover, even Augustus’ power over the script has now largely disappeared; over the course of centuries, other people have obtained authorial power over his memory, and the emperor has become a captive of his ever-changing roles. It is important to note that at least in part, this reinventing of the emperor is based on Augustus’ own literary legacy. As I mentioned earlier, his Res Gestae consists mostly of lists—lists of donations, lists of buildings, and lists of wars. It is difficult to find any trace of a personality in it; the Augustus that we see in these lines is unapproachable and devoid of character. Naturally, this is largely due to the formal nature of the document—doubtless, had the emperor’s autobiography survived to our day, the historical Augustus would have more substance, and the modern Augustus, too, would have turned out quite different. But as it is, Augustus’ literary testimony invites the authors and the readers of the posterity to fill in the meaning and to invent the man that is absent from the Res Gestae. Basically, Augustus himself hands material to be exploited and distorted over to later generations. He lived a remarkable life, worth remembering—however,

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at the end, the way the princeps represents it can be summarized in a couplet written by Eliot Rosewater in his moment of depression and lunacy: Many, many good things I have bought! Many, many bad things I have fought!82

It would seem that as usual, the irony was not lost on Vonnegut.

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Pater patriae, Pax Americana: Augustus’ Empire in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater

For this service of mine I was named Augustus by decree of the senate, and the door-posts of my house were publicly wreathed with bay leaves and a civic crown was fixed over my door and a golden shield was set in the Curia Julia, which, as attested by the inscription thereon, was given me by the senate and people of Rome on account of my courage, clemency, justice and piety ... In my thirteenth consulship the senate, the equestrian order and the whole people of Rome gave me the title of Father of my Country, and resolved that this should be inscribed in the porch of my house and in the Curia Julia and in the Forum Augustum below the chariot which had been set there in my honour by decree of the senate. —Res Gestae Divi Augusti1 Not alone for these reasons did the Romans greatly miss him, but also because by combining monarchy with democracy he preserved their freedom for them and at the same time established order and security, so that they were free alike from the license of a democracy and from the insolence of a tyranny, living at once in a liberty of moderation and in a monarchy without terrors; they were subjects of royalty, yet not slaves, and citizens of a democracy, yet without discord. —Cassius Dio2 “I look at these people, these Americans,” Eliot went on, “and I realize that they can’t even care about themselves anymore—because they have no use ... America does not even need these people for war—not any more ... I am going to love these discarded Americans, even though they’re useless and unattractive. That is going to be my work of art.” —K. Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr Rosewater

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The Age of Insecurity: Why Did the Twentieth Century Need Augustus?

Figure 3.1 Bronze “Meroë Head” of Augustus, 27 BC to 25 BC © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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“Empire” is doubtless one of the concepts that is usually associated with Caesar Augustus, yet what the term actually stands for, and how its modern connotations differ from the ancient ones is a rather complicated issue. The word derives from the Latin root imperium which, in its original context in the Roman Republican political system, simply meant power to command or to rule. In the modern world, the term is loaded with ideological and political overtones—the contexts in which it has been used during the past two millennia inevitably impact on the connotations of the concept today, sometimes on a deeply subconscious level. Without attempting to offer a full analysis of the historical factors that influence our reading of the word, it seems safe to claim that the term wields simultaneously very positive and very negative significances, and that the reading depends greatly, if not entirely, on the context and on the motives of the interpreter. What most people would probably agree on, independent of the context, is that the word “empire” clearly and unequivocally implies power. It implies the overpowering will of one organization or agent over other agents, on whom it forces its cultural, economic or political rules and premises. Whether this is considered a good or a bad thing is a much more complex and multifaceted question. On the one hand, terms such as “business empire,” “music empire” or “fashion empire” recur in modern Western media parlance, and they usually come with positive connotations—in these cases, an “empire” is something desirable that has been built, it is implied, with devotion, passion, and hard work. It is something worth pursuing. On the other hand, “empire” in its more politicized senses often has grim and negative resonances. One only has to look at some of the most popular fantasy and science fiction screenings of the twentieth century to notice that “empire” comes with implications of violent despotism, tyranny, and oppression of freedom (George Lucas’ Star Wars franchise perhaps being the most obvious example). The idea of a merciless and omnipotent empire that devours everything around it like a hungry vulture sticks deep in the Western imagination. The idea has naturally been influenced by several historical periods; the age of expeditions and the conquest of the New World, the nineteenth-century era of imperialism and colonialism, the fascist utopias of the World War II period, and the cold war rivalry between the American empire and the Soviet empire. These are all cultural texts that influence our reading of the Roman empire, and that are influenced by our ideas of ancient Rome. Whereas many Roman authors from the imperial period associate Augustus’ reign primarily with concepts such as stability, peace and order, the modern reader who is all too familiar with the

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downsides of empires cannot help but wonder about the other side of the story: about the lived experiences of those conquered by the might of Rome and about the oppression of political opposition at home. In short, the question of whether an empire without loss of freedom is ever an attainable goal is something that is continuously present when one thinks about unquestionable superpowers in the history of humankind. Whereas the theme of tyranny is unavoidable and will be further discussed in the following chapter, this chapter deals with the representations of Augustus and his empire which are for the most part positive and hopeful. I will argue that in an atmosphere of political instability and cultural turmoil, Augustus could in effect be used as a sign of peace and stability. To people strained by the great wars of recent decades, and by seemingly unending political opposition and tension, his empire could stand for the final victory, for the end of struggle and, perhaps, for something for which it might be worth sacrificing a little bit of freedom. Unsurprisingly, this is how Augustus himself wanted to be seen by posterity, judging by his Res Gestae Divi Augusti. In the closing statement of his work, Augustus emphasizes as his defining qualities his virtus, pietas, iustitia and clementia, virtues collectively recognized by the Roman people. These concepts clearly speak the language of righteousness and stability—yet, as they are extremely abstract and even vague, they are prime examples of terms that are re-defined every time they are spoken of. In a sense, this makes them ideal tools for political rhetoric, as they can be twisted and re-defined with multiple varying purposes in mind. Augustus’ need to represent his empire as the harbinger of peace and stability is understandable, considering the chaos of the civil wars from which the new regime arose and in contrast to which it defined itself. In this sense, little has changed in 2,000 years: abstract nouns such as stability, security, freedom, peace, and order are essential and topical in all societies that are going through major changes or recovering from a political, military, or economic crisis. They were certainly both highly equivocal and particularly attractive in the Western world of the cold war period. As I pointed out in the introductory chapter, the decades from the 1950s to the 1990s were defined, first, by the trauma caused by World War II, secondly, by the bipolar and tense global politics, and, thirdly, by the ever-accelerating rate of technological progress and availability of information. These were the basic factors behind the insecurity and uncertainty that brought about postmodernist skepticism in the arts and in academia and made people question “the basic truths” and the traditional master narratives about the world.

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However, and paradoxically, at the same time the age of insecurity also created a great demand for totalizing explanations that would, besides explaining the past, aid an understanding of the present situation and perhaps predict the uncertain future. In the decades from the 1960s to the 1990s, while academic discourse and art criticism for the most part abandoned “absolute truths” and turned to petits récits, many historians and political analysts, on the contrary, were tempted by the cyclic views of history, and by the idea of the “end of history.” Augustus, of course, is the perfect symbol for these ideas. As the man who created order out of chaos and turned a divided mess into a somewhat stable empire, he stands for everything that is certain and unquestionable—if one chooses to believe in such things. The significance of ancient Rome to Western political discourse and to the ways in which both Europeans and Americans have been accustomed to think about concepts such as justice, peace, and empire has been discussed repeatedly by cultural historians, political analysts, and classical scholars. For the purposes of this book, the most crucial aspect of this debate is the proposed analog between the Roman past and the modern present when it comes to the relationship between Republic and empire—the complex relationship that no other historical character embodies better than Caesar Augustus. Chapter 2 touched on this topic, in its examination of Kurt Vonnegut’s double exploitation of Augustus’ memory in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. Now, it is worth digging a little deeper into the appropriations of antiquity, and Rome in particular, in modern historico-political polemics. The tendency to look for precedents in antiquity to better understand Western civilization, its ways of functioning, and its potential future has its roots in premodern Europe—however, in its modern form, the debate can be considered to have been started by Oswald Spengler in his famous study Der Untergang des Abendlandes (1923). In his work, Spengler argued that antiquity, instead of being observed as a preliminary stage to the modern era, should be considered an autonomous historical entity that is completely suitable for comparison with the historical trajectory of the West. This comparison, he believed, would reveal that the two share the same stages of cultural and political development—thus, the future of Western civilization might be foretold by studying the later stages of the Roman Empire.3 Spengler’s view of history conforms to the principles of what can be described as a historical evolutionary theory. He believed that, as Simon Kiessling DeCourcy puts it, “all high cultures ultimately undergo the same biological process of birth, childhood, youth, bloom, old age and death—and finally a period of downfall and demise.”4 Whereas the peak of any civilization,

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according to this definition, is the classical period, “rationalist civilization in a universal, peace-preserving empire,” the downfall and decay, for its part, means “the age of Caesarism, i.e. bureaucratic, absolute and universal one-man rule over subjects deprived of any political power, identity and rights.”5 There is a strong sense of fate and inevitability in this reading of history—as regrettable an idea as tyranny and despotism that “Caesarism” inevitably stood for was, Spengler’s interpretation was based on a conviction that it was a natural outcome of human communal development. Spengler’s theory can easily be criticized for lacking a full understanding of and consideration for particular historical circumstances, as well as for overlooking the cause-and-effect relationship between historical events. Despite its evident lack of context-sensitivity, the work had a major impact on Western readings of the Roman past and the modern present in the course of the twentieth century. In the following decades, other European and American theorists and historians— Arnold Toynbee and Amaury De Riencourt being the most significant among them—developed Spengler’s ideas further, defending the idea of the Roman past as a mirror to the history of the West. As I pointed out in the previous chapter, the United States, in particular, has a long tradition of understanding its past and its political institutions in relation to Roman history. Ever since the American independence struggle against monarchic and imperialist Britain, the political culture of the United States was strongly defined in terms of the Roman Republic—the founders of the young nation identified with the champions of the Republic, and the Republican virtues became the highest ideals in the construction of national identity.6 This deep-rooted tradition is, of course, one of the most important reasons why ancient Rome seems to emerge recurrently in American political rhetoric, when looking for precedents and points of comparison in the past for various contemporary phenomena. As Wyke perceptively points out, when discussing the topos of Caesarianism in the American political discourse, “the Roman past has continually been represented and consumed as America’s future, especially at times of political or social crisis.”7 One such time of crisis was, of course, the latter part of the twentieth century. In the decades following World War II, the analogous relationship between ancient Rome and the contemporary United States was pointed out and discussed over and over again. Considering the fear and the paranoia that marked the political atmosphere of the time, not to mention the imperial rivalry, the arms race, and the ideological opposition between the United States and the Soviet Union, this is hardly surprising. The fall of the Roman Republic as a grim tale

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about the death of freedom on the one hand, and the idea of the Roman empire as an overpowering global power on the other, was particularly well suited to the discourse of the day, and offered endless opportunities for political rhetoric.8 Moreover, the new power balance between Europe and the United States, brought about by the end of World War II, created ideal circumstances for comparisons made between the Roman and the American empires. DeCourcy Kiessling compares the post-war United States to the Roman Republic in its heyday, “a superpower gradually attributing to itself the role of a universal peacemaker and guarantor of international stability, prosperity and peace.”9 In this new global setting, the role of Europe, the former power player in the field, was to be subordinated in military and political respects to the United States, just as the Greek city states had been to the omnipotent Roman Republic in its age of expansion.10 The long-maintained power balance had shifted, and it remained for the new overpowering empire to protect its European allies from the “evil” in the world, and to ensure the Pax Americana within its sphere of influence.11 This reading was prominent in the Western world in the cold war period; a particularly influential version of it was presented by Amaury de Riencourt in his work The Coming Caesars (1975). In his work, de Riencourt argued for a cyclical vision of history, strongly formulated on the basis of Spengler’s earlier interpretation. What was characteristically alarming and pessimistic about his reading was that, according to him, the similar power balance and relationship between Europe and America that had once existed between Greece and Rome would inevitably lead to a similar political development of the latter’s empire. He observed that “[fo]r the ancient and the modern civilizations the consequence was (or now would be) loss of liberty, centralization, and the arrival of Caesarism.”12 According to de Riencourt’s reading, slow, gradual, and largely unconscious development of the American empire would ultimately end in the complete suppression of political freedom, in a lawless and autocratic government and, eventually—as the most pessimistic imaginable end of history—in a nuclear holocaust.13 In these sorts of readings, it is easy to observe the negative and threatening connotations that “empire” represented in the post-war Western world. The cyclical understanding of the past and the idea that history is to repeat itself went hand in hand with the juxtaposition between the free, virtuous Republic and the oppressive, corrupt empire.14 In her study about cold war representations of ancient Rome, Margaret Malamud shows how American political rhetoric, in particular, was strongly structured around the trope of freedom versus slavery—the United States identified with the Roman Republic, and observed its enemies (fascist and

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communist regimes alike) as evil empires or “slave states.”15 This identification can be considered to have started immediately after World War II, as already in the 1940s, Truman’s political rhetoric imposed a juxtaposition between freedom and tyranny. As the Cold War continued, the juxtaposition grew more stark and simplistic, and the “enemies” became amalgamated into one “overriding totalitarianism,” a shapeless and threatening idea of an oppressive empire.16 As Wyke, too, has pointed out, “Nazi Germany and the Stalinist Soviet Union were frequently conflated as totalitarian regimes ... in order to place them polemically in opposition to the liberal, constitutional governments of the West.”17 This sort of enemy profiling can be particularly clearly observed in the screen representations of antiquity from the mid-twentieth century. In Hollywood epics such as Quo Vadis (1951) and Ben-Hur (1959), Rome appears as a militaristic tyranny that can easily stand for Nazi Germany, for fascist Italy, or for the Stalinist Soviet Union—on a conceptual level, the threatening idea of an “empire” becomes a dangerous enemy of the “free world.”18 Mankiewicz’ Julius Caesar (1953), too, falls within this category, as it depicts the impending doom of a freedom-preserving Republic in the hands of a would-be tyrant Julius Caesar, and ultimately, the well-deserved death of the usurper in the hands of Republican liberators.19 While the associations between Caesar’s despotic oneman rule and Stalinist Soviet Russia come quick and easy, the film can also, and simultaneously, be read as a warning to the free republics of the world about the despotism that lurks around the corner. Therefore, in these Hollywood historical epics released in the mid-twentieth century, the juxtaposition between “good Republic” and “evil empire” is always present—but, depending on the reading, it can either work as a confirmation and enforcement of the juxtaposition between the “free world” and “slave states,” or it can be utilized to blur that juxtaposition, and to remind the reader that even the most virtuous of republics are not immune to the threat of tyranny and imperialism.20 Concern about the “decline” of American Republican virtue, and the impending doom of the West were topics which, in the political rhetoric of the cold war period, were easily adaptable for varying purposes—and hence, maintained their popularity throughout the century. Frequently, these themes were underlined by a comparison with ancient Rome. As Wyke, in her highly perceptive and fascinating study Caesar in the USA (2012), has shown, accusations of “Caesarism” already had their roots in Roosevelt’s day, and from Eisenhower’s presidential terms on and up to the “imperial presidency” of Nixon, this was a recurring topos in American political discourse.21 The question of whether the executive powers of the president of the United States were within

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safe and constitutional limits, or whether they could escalate into a dictatorship, was repeatedly discussed through allusions to Rome.22 Unsurprisingly, accusations of Caesarism have most commonly appeared in exceptional political circumstances, when a particular crisis in foreign politics has made the president use his executive powers and take decisive action—one of the best examples is Johnson’s policy in the Vietnam War shortly after Kennedy’s death.23 The cold war period, of course, can be observed as an extended era of “exceptional circumstances,” as a seemingly endless series of conflicts and crises that provided American presidents with “almost royal prerogatives in the field of foreign affairs.”24 Thus, it is hardly surprising that the Roman Republic and its fall remained topical themes in the Western imagination during the decades reaching from the 1950s to the 1990s. Regardless of its heightened and almost overpowering influence in global politics, the United States continued to shun the idea of an empire and, true to the nation’s origins and to its foundation myth, instead identified with the Roman Republic. Despite the longing for a strong leadership in the age of insecurity, the public and the media were quick to condemn all potential would-be Caesars. This paradoxical relationship to power and freedom is something that strongly marks the political discourse of the West in the cold war period. As Wyke aptly puts it, the disjointed political ideologies of the time become evident in the pride in revolutionary beginnings and fear of revolutionary endings; revulsion from foreign dictators and attraction to general-presidents; support of both democratic government and demagogic illegality; distaste for imperialism and embrace of global dominance.25

In this web of controversial and paradoxical meanings and significances, ancient Rome could just as well function as a symbol for the tyrannical slavery of communist dictatorships, as it could be used as a warning of the impending doom of the West. At the start of the twenty-first century, Rome as a political metaphor enjoyed renewed popularity. The events of 9/11 created exceptional circumstances in global politics; the ensuing wars in Afghanistan and Iraq made many people, especially in Europe but also in the United States, condemn President Bush’s actions as alarmingly imperialist, and the president himself as a new Caesar, in an attempt to destroy the Republic.26 The deployment of the analogy between the Roman late Republic and the United States became entrenched in popular political discourse about the Bush presidency; moreover, labeling the president as the modern-day Caesar allowed his critics to identify with the champions of

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the Republic—either with the founding fathers of the United States, or with the Catos and Ciceros of the Roman past (for many purposes, these stood more or less for one and the same thing).27 Bush himself clearly seems to have identified as a champion of the Pax Americana against the “axis of evil.”28 Making full use of the rhetoric of Republican freedom, he denied accusations of imperialism, representing the United States as a “liberating” power rather than an imperial one.29 One can hear echoes of the false modesty of Augustus’ Res Gestae in his words, as Bush claimed, during his presidential campaign in 1999 that “[w]e may be the only great power in history that had the chance [of becoming an empire], and refused—preferring greatness to power, and justice to glory.”30 Notably, this sort of political rhetoric and twisting of terms is something on which Augustus’ self-representation was strongly based; in the context of the twenty-first century, it shows how the fine line between “liberation” and “oppression” (mostly dependent on the reading) is a crucial factor in empires’ self-justification and image-construction. Moreover, it clearly denotes that an idea of an authoritatively ruled and militaristic world power was at least as uncomfortable a thought in the Western world at the beginning of the new millennium as it was in Rome 2,000 years ago. In 2017, the United States again faces a situation where discussion concerning presidential authority and the Republican identity is likely to take a new turn. At the start of the year, Donald Trump was sworn in as the forty-fifth president of the United States, and while there is much speculation, no one yet knows how authoritarian a president he will turn out to be. During his presidential campaign, Trump manifested a strong liking for autocratic leadership based on individual charisma and assertiveness; throughout the campaign and his presidency so far, he has sought to represent himself as “the One” who can respond to the needs of a crisis-struck society, and “make America great again.” Notably, this very slogan strongly echoes the Augustan ideals of restoration and reformation—the characteristically Augustan attempt to combine the old with the new by disguising the reform of the political system in the cloak of tradition and continuity. This is not to say that Trump’s term would witness a subversion of the political system, or that his presidency would necessarily mark any significant change in the role of president—what it does imply, instead, is that the rhetoric stemming from the Roman past is likely to be revived in American political discourse in the upcoming years. Presumably, ancient Rome as a historical analog to modern-day America is far from being played out, and we have not seen the last of the comparison.

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The continuous relevance of ancient Rome to American political discourse and cultural identity is undeniable, and it obviously impacts strongly on the ways in which the topic has been dealt with in popular culture, film, and media for the past six decades or so. However, when we think of the interactive relationship between the Roman past and the present, it is worth stopping for a moment to ask whether these sorts of historical analogies are useful in increasing our understanding of one or the other. Yes, admittedly, as Kiessling DeCourcy has noted, there is a possibility that at some point in the future, the United States will lack the capacity to cope with the burdens of mounting social polarization, increasing political tension and overstretched international responsibility—and hence resort to more repressive, authoritarian political practices ... structurally resembling those once embraced by the Republican Rome.31

But even if something like this were to happen, it will happen because of particular contemporary reasons and circumstances—and whereas those circumstances might to some extent be influenced by modern ideas and interpretations of ancient precedents, they are not “destined” to occur because of something that came about two millennia ago. More likely, the circumstances are created by our readings of the past. To put it other way: it is quite possible that the history of Rome and the history of the West follow the same trajectories—but would they, if we had never heard about the fate of the Roman Republic and about that of the Roman empire? The past and the present continuously construct each other in cultural texts and discourses. History repeats itself, because we keep rewriting it that way, and because we keep constructing our ideas of the present on the basis of our historical narratives. This is not to say that all historical analogues between ancient Rome and the modern West are utterly futile or harmful. Admittedly, the comparisons between the two can to some extent greatly enrich the discussion of the relationship between the past and the present—as Wyke argues, Rome can “open up to modern political debate a raised vantage point, an altered perspective, a new vocabulary, greater candor, heightened seriousness, and, even, a wider audience of ‘ordinary.’”32 This is a good and important point; however, what is equally important to acknowledge is the interactive relationship between the past and the present that is at play in this politico-historical discourse. The “Roman Republic” and the “Roman empire,” as they exist in the speeches of politicians, in the headlines of newspapers or even on the pages of history books, are not “real” or existing entities that can be grasped and used as points of comparison in modern polemics. They do not, in fact, exist at all in the present but are

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recreated and reconstructed from the viewpoint and for the purposes of the modern reader every time they are talked about. As Malamud aptly puts it, anyone who utilizes ancient Rome to comment on contemporary political concerns, “creates his own history of Rome,” thus reconstructing the past for current purposes.33 And this is exactly why, as I will argue throughout this book, “[r]epresentations of the Roman past tell us little about the ‘real’ Rome but a lot about the prevailing attitudes and perspectives of the times when the representations were made.”34 Just as the Roman past impacts the ways one sees the political events and environment of the modern world, in a similar way what happens in the world today, affects our reading of the Roman past. There is nothing wrong with this, as it is the most natural interaction imaginable—but it is essential for us, as readers of these cultural texts, to be aware of it—to be aware of our responsibility as readers, as active creators of the past and the present. Intriguingly, in this historico-political discourse built on the comparison between ancient Rome and the modern West, Augustus has been largely absent as a character. While many US presidents have been accused of playing the part of a modern-day Caesar, none seem to have been labeled as a new Augustus. To some extent, this seems natural and understandable—as Julius Caesar in modern narratives can in a sense be taken to signify a somewhat “unfinished achievement,” he is an ideal historical analog for someone who is accused for pursuing exceptional executive powers but who does not quite succeed in the autocratic attempt. Caesar stands on the brink of single rule, Augustus is way beyond. Moreover, while Caesar usually stands for the ambitious usurper who brought about the ultimate downfall of the Republic, Augustus is, from the simplistic “good Republic–bad empire” viewpoint, a much more complicated character. As the founder of an empire which on the one hand was undeniably autocratic but on the other, enjoyed relative stability and peace, he does not fit in well with the idea of a diabolic empire that oppresses the people and stifles the freedom of its subjects. It is easy to blame Julius Caesar for destroying the Republic, and the later Julio-Claudian emperors such as Caligula and Nero for corrupting the empire, but Augustus is a trickier target for criticism. He stands between Republic and empire, bringing together “the best of both worlds,” and having considerably more positive renown than either his great predecessor or his successors. This, of course, is an idea firmly based on the Augustan regime’s successful self-representation. The idea of the Augustan “Golden Age,” that ended the civil wars but preceded the downfall of the empire has been so well promoted for 2,000 years, that it still sticks deep in the Western imagination. Perhaps, in a

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different political atmosphere, Augustus would be a perfect tool for those who would openly argue for the benefits of autocracy. However, in today’s world, considering the deep-rooted fear of tyranny and despotism in the Western imagination, the character goes badly together with the political ideology that identifies with the Republic and shuns the idea of an empire. Thus, I suggest that in the political rhetoric of the twentieth and the early twenty-first century, Augustus is not present because Augustus is simply not that useful. In this chapter, I look further into the readings of Augustus in Kurt Vonnegut’s God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, one of the few literary representations of the princeps from the twentieth century where he is clearly used as a point of comparison for cold war America. In his novel, Vonnegut solves the problem, considering Augustus’ complexity in terms of the Republic/Empire divide by clearly distinguishing between the two sides of the emperor: Augustus the tyrant and Augustus the benevolent pater patriae. This chapter deals with the latter. I will suggest that through the character of Eliot Rosewater, the author creates an archetype of an autocratic ruler whose relationship to his subjects is that of a loving father’s to his children. By over-emphasizing and exaggerating this role, Vonnegut is able to represent his Rosewater-Augustus as an opposite to the threatening Caesar-character familiar from the American political rhetoric—in an overly positive sense, he appears as the “end of history” and as the end of struggle.

God Bless you, princeps: Eliot Rosewater as pater patriae In God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, Kurt Vonnegut makes full use of the complexity and the occasional paradox of the historical analog between ancient Rome and modern-day America. As noted in Chapter 2, he absurdly exaggerates and satirizes the ways in which the Roman past can be completely reconstructed for the purposes of modern political and ideological polemics. At the start of the novel, Eliot Rosewater gives a cynical summary of how the American capitalist system came to be, and how it came to be an extremely unequal and unjust society, wrapped in the cloak of an equal-opportunity Republic. He states that [e] pluribus unum is surely an ironic motto to inscribe on the currency of this utopia gone bust, for every grotesquely rich American represents property, privileges, and pleasures that have been denied the many. An even more instructive motto, in the light of history made by the Noah Rosewaters, might be: Grab much too much, or you’ll get nothing at all.35

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The association between the Roman Republic and the United States is ever present and implied, even before Senator Rosewater, in his speech about Augustus’ Golden Age, makes it evident in Chapter 2. On this occasion, the central theme of the novel, money, is one of the factors that are used to make the connection. When discussing the comparison between these two time periods, Kiessling DeCourcy has emphasized the economic factors, pointing out that, in addition to their unquestionable power in foreign affairs and global politics, what is common to the Roman Republic and the United States is that both can be observed as being periods of time with “excessive financial speculation and mounting social polarization.”36 This forms the basis of Vonnegut’s comparison between the two, and is one of the underlying themes in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. In the depressing situation in which the reader finds himself in this novel, the protagonist, Eliot Rosewater, appears as a Messiah-like savior. Eliot is an heir to the Rosewater Foundation and to his father’s political legacy—despite seeming like “a chronic drunk” and “a chronic lunatic,”37 he is actually the only one who truly understands the fatal state of society. Certain of his mission, Eliot begins his one-man struggle against the “savage and stupid and entirely inappropriate ... American class system,” where a handful of corrupt people control “all that was worth controlling.”38 The tragedy of Eliot’s mission is that he is in no state to make an actual change: suffering simultaneously from a serious drink problem and from deeply dysfunctional family relationships, he is himself just as lost as any other character in the book, looking for a meaning and purpose where there is none to be found. Thus, Eliot drifts from one course of action to another, desperately trying to shake off his rich man’s guilt and to ease his fellow humans’ purposeless existence. With a laconic perceptiveness he himself describes himself as “a drunkard, a Utopian dreamer, a tinhorn saint, an aimless fool.”39 Yet, there is nothing cynical about Eliot and his mission—if anything, his confidence in humankind is unwavering, a matter that per se labels him as a crazy person in the eyes of the surrounding society. Eliot’s mental health, or the lack of it, is a crucial issue throughout the novel, as it seems to trouble everyone apart from him. By emphasizing a contrast between the protagonists’ own experience and other people’s readings of him, the author invites the reader to ponder and contemplate who actually is crazy, Rosewater or the society that produced him and condemns him. This issue is very typical of early postmodernist prose—it is particularly characteristic of novels that engage in one way or another with social or political criticism. Bran Nicol, who examines the phenomenon in the case of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, describes the suffocating environment of the postmodernist novel as a “world where the sane

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are regarded as mad and the collective madness of war and the military approach to it appears sane.”40 This is also the situation in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater— with the exception that in place of war, the decisive factor is money. Instead of the battlefield, the environment that Eliot is acting in relation to and against is the suffocating capitalist system that breeds human greed and wilts empathy. The fact that Eliot wants to share his wealth with those who are less fortunate makes people around him doubt his sanity, and his ability to function as the head of the Rosewater Foundation. In a society that values money above everything else, Eliot, with his belief in the intrinsic value of human beings, appears to be mentally disturbed. By leaving the question of the protagonists’ mental health unanswered, Vonnegut stresses the reader’s responsibility and power to fill in the meaning, to decide for himself whether it is Eliot who is seriously ill, or his surroundings, or both. In any case, Eliot Rosewater represents a new Western type of protagonist— with his sympathetic antiheroic qualities and attributes, he cannot be characterized as a traditional exemplary hero but perhaps rather as a white knight of naïveté. Hipkiss perceptively characterizes him as “[a] guilty innocent with a desire to save the world,” and “a familiar American type, at once admirable for his good heart and dangerous for his wrongheadedness.”41 In terms of postmodern literary criticism, Eliot could also be read as an “absurd hero”—a protagonist who battles his incomprehensible environment and struggles to define his own existence within it. This kind of l’homme absurde is, as David Galloway puts it, a sympathetic “knight” in search of order and value in the universe that denies the existence of both.42 The absurdity of the hero is grounded in his rejection of nihilism, in his desperate attempt to affirm “the humanity of man.”43 This is altogether a very Vonnegutesque idea, something that can be considered the backbone of many of his most popular novels, God Bless You, Mr Rosewater and Breakfast of Champions being probably the best examples. The idea of the absurd was strongly present in modernist literature, where it emerged as an attack against naturalism and the feeling of the “real.” Galloway examines Camus’ Le mythe de Sisyphe as the model and archetype of the absurd hero, stating that “faced with a world in which man’s painful Odyssey seems meaningless, Camus determines to find a source of meaning which will deny nihilism while avoiding recourse to traditional absolutes.”44 Postmodernist literature, although often accused of overpowering cynicism, did not forsake this optimistic idea of the absurd: in the latter part of the twentieth century, it was a tempting starting point for many authors who sought to overcome or develop the ideals of modernist aesthetics. The refusal of “traditional absolutes,” after

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all, realigns itself with the rejection of master narratives and thus, “the absurd” provided the authors of the new era with a useful vocabulary of rebellion. However, in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, the theme of the absurd seems to be developed further according to the ideal that underplays meaning and values form over content. Vonnegut’s postmodern absurd hero is not looking for inherent meaning in his hostile universe—what matters to him is not the significance of his mission but the mission itself. As Leslie Fiedler has put it, the hero in the late twentieth century is not a man “struggling to fulfill some revealed or inherited view of himself and his destiny,” but rather, a man “learning that it is the struggle itself which is his definition.”45 This idea comes through loud and clear in the character of Eliot Rosewater who lives and breathes his desperate and obscure mission, shaping and constructing his identity on its basis, even though for most of the time he does not seem to be quite sure of what the mission is. Therefore, the fluidity of meaning, the fragility of identity, and the performative nature of “character” are crucial themes in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. Throughout the book, Eliot Rosewater is at pains to decide what role to perform, and what mask to wear to best suffer his insufferable environment. In this behavior, one can observe a narrative feature very typical of Vonnegut, that is, the occupational role-playing that ultimately transforms the character—“we are what we pretend to be.”46 Both Eliot Rosewater and his father are deeply involved in this practice throughout the novel. By his choice of roles, Eliot attempts to annul and balance out those played by his father—however, in this patricidal attempt, he comes to mirror him in many respects. As Hipkiss notes, Eliot is actually only “the simplistic liberal counterpart to his father Lister’s simplistic conservatism.”47 In a manner of typecasting typical to him, Vonnegut constructs the two Rosewaters as one another’s antonyms, yet inseparably bound to each other—it is left for the reader to decide, which of them is right and which one crazy, or whether both are actually both. The fatal and obsessive role-playing connects Eliot’s story with that of Caesar Augustus. Although Augustus is explicitly mentioned only in Senator Rosewater’s speech in Chapter 2, he is constantly present thereafter, throughout the narrative. Intriguingly, the masks that Eliot Rosewater tries on (with varying success) are very much those of Augustus. In his absurd quest for humanity and empathy, he acts out the roles of Augustus the benefactor, Augustus the pater patriae, and Augustus the moral leader. Again, Eliot’s actions appear to reflect those of his father, and in this case especially Senator Rosewater’s speech about Augustus. With his own reading and his own performance of Augustus, Eliot

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questions his father’s interpretation of the past and offers an alternative reading of the emperor for the reader to consider. Therefore, Eliot’s performance as an Augustus-like character is strongly modelled on his father’s example as he, too, seeks to appear as the princeps reincarnated. As I mentioned above, Vonnegut deliberately represents Senator Rosewater as an archetype of a cold-blooded politician who is more than ready to sacrifice the weak in order to create “a nation of swimmers”—in this, he believes he is following in the footsteps of Caesar Augustus. In the latter part of the novel, it becomes clear that the Senator does not only speak of himself as the American Augustus but acts accordingly. Fittingly, the “Augustan mask” that Lister Rosewater is most comfortable wearing is that of Augustus the moralist. In his speech in Chapter 2, the Senator asserts that when it comes to moral questions, he prefers economic adjustments to a strict legislative control. However, by Chapter 6, he seems to have decided that Augustus had it right in the first place, writing morals into a law. This is the first we hear of the “Rosewater Law”—an edict that makes the possession of obscene materials a federal offense. The law is supposed to purge the state of immorality, and the Senator considers it his legislative masterpiece. In his characteristically laconic manner, the narrator states that “it was a masterpiece because it actually defined obscenity.”48 A reference to Augustus’ infamous leges Iuliae, that carried the princeps’ name, is obvious. These legislative acts made Augustus’ fame not only as a political leader but also as a moral one—a stern father figure who did not hesitate to interfere with the private lives of his cocitizens. By making Senator Lister Rosewater follow in Augustus’ footsteps, Vonnegut strengthens the reader’s impression of him as a narrow-minded puritan with an imperialist approach to meaning and definition, and with serious problems of interpreting the past. The Senator seems to see the past as a series of exempla (good and bad) that are directly applicable to the current situation, and from which he can pick and choose those that suit his purposes. Moreover, he appears to consider it self-evident that his reading of the past is the true and right one, and therefore can be imposed on others in the form of laws, edicts and moral codes. In this particular case, when it comes to the Rosewater Law, Lister Rosewater has come up with an idea that he can cure the nation of its moral sickness using a 2,000-year old medicine—a medicine that did not even work 2,000 years ago. He sincerely believes that he is the man who can effortlessly distinguish between the decent and the indecent, and who has a right to enforce his own interpretation by the letter of law:

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The Semiotics of Caesar Augustus Other people say, “Oh, how can you recognize it, how can you tell it from art and all that?” I’ve written the key into law! The difference between pornography and art is bodily hair!49

Again, the Senator’s naïve and simplistic faith in absolute truths and master narratives makes him appear in a somewhat ridiculous light. To anyone who is not familiar with the Julian Laws the episode concerning the Rosewater Law may appear merely as a humorous parody of puritanical fundamentalism, and as a banally exaggerated representation of the illusion that law can have power over morals. A reader who is familiar with Augustus’ attempt to control adultery and fornication by legislation, and who remembers the Senator’s identification with the emperor in Chapter 2, on the other hand, is likely to read the episode differently. He would notice that underneath the political satire taking place here, what is also at hand is a discourse on power and a struggle over meaning that are actually very serious matters. Once again, Senator Rosewater is writing his own, strikingly autocratic and despotic, version of Augustus as someone whose word is final and whose understanding of the world is the correct one. Moreover, he is acting it out—this time, instead of playing the role of the champion of the people and the savior of the economy, he is performing as a stern pater patriae who rules over the people both with the letter of law and with his own virtuous example. Thus, again, while emphasizing Lister Rosewater’s short-sightedness, the author relies on the reader’s familiarity with Augustus. It is not necessary to be familiar with the princeps’ story in order to enjoy the novel, but it definitely adds another layer to God Bless You, Mr Rosewater—one that is deeply invested in discussing the use and abuse of power over meaning and definition. By introducing the Rosewater Law, a moralizing edict that carries the Senator’s own name and thus makes him the face and figurehead of moral control, the author is able to evoke one “face of Augustus” in the modern imagination. He makes Senator Rosewater pick up the despotic qualities associated with Augustus’ reign—the moralism and the absolutism—and turn them into his political guidelines. He makes the Senator read and interpret Augustus as an autocrat who not only controls the empire but also seeks power over the people’s minds. It matters little whether or not this representation does justice to the historical Augustus. For an enjoyment of the reading experience, it does not even matter whether or not the reader is able to recognize Augustus behind Rosewater’s actions. Nevertheless, if he does recognize him, the episode is most likely to affect his idea about the emperor, too, not just his idea about Senator Rosewater.

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Again, the author is actually doing the same thing as he has Lister Rosewater do—reconstructing an image of Augustus that suits him best and exploiting it to steer and shape the thoughts of the reader. This, however, is just one of many readings of Augustus that the author offers us. Vonnegut restores the reader’s faith in power and responsibility as he introduces another side of the princeps, quite contrary to that played by Senator Rosewater, and quite impossible to harmoniously combine with it. Being the exact opposite of his father in many respects, Eliot Rosewater, as is to be expected, renounces all sorts of attempts at moral control, as he makes manifest by the unconventional manner in which he leads his life. Eliot’s only guidelines in life are love, truth and compassion—he does not expect anything from anyone but strives to love everyone even-handedly regardless of their thoughts and actions. However, in his attempt to spread this love around, Eliot wears various masks, and attempts numerous strategies all of which are, in the first place, completely averse to those of his father and, in the second place, strikingly Augustan. His first attempt is somewhat conventional for a guilty millionaire of his position—he decides to become a patron of the arts. At the start of the novel, it briefly seems that Eliot is able to battle his alcoholism and his looming madness; he enters psychotherapy and focuses his energy on spreading goodwill through the Rosewater Foundation. He is particularly enthusiastic about the arts and the sciences; he builds the new headquarters of the foundation in New York City, proclaiming them “the headquarters for all the beautiful, compassionate and scientific things he hoped to do.” The author relates that Rosewater dollars fought cancer and mental illness and race prejudice and police brutality and countless other miseries, encouraged college professors to look for truth, bought beauty at any price.50

This is a fairly stereotypical image of a cultural benefactor, a wealthy and civilized patron of arts, and it is based on the very best of classical models. It surely reminds the reader of the cultural revival of the Augustan period, and of the princeps himself positively showering money on high and low art forms alike, supporting poets and funding public games and races. However, there is something unquestionably naïve about Eliot’s approach to the matter. The abstract ideals that he believes in—love, truth and beauty—are, to him, unquestionable and tangible matters. Instead of being personal and context-bound constructions, he believes them to be something collectively shared and within his grasp with the flash of his check book. This uncritical positivism ultimately turns out to be the reason why Eliot fails miserably in his attempt to wear the hat of the patron

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of arts. When one of his poet protégés, to whom he has whimsically written an enormous check begs him for guidelines or directions, Eliot drives him to tears by his inflexibility. He denies being his patron at all, claiming to be “a fellowAmerican who’s paying you money to find out what the truth is.” “You go tell the truth, by God,” he states, “and if you need any more money to tell more truth, you just come back to me.”51 Eliot’s deep resentment of authoritative figures and of predetermined meaning, stemming from his distorted relationship with his father, makes him ridicule his position as a patron of arts. Unlike his father, Eliot simply cannot claim dictatorial power over meaning and definition, he cannot order the truth he wants to hear because he idealistically believes there is a “real” truth out there to be found. The idea of prescribing meaning to a work of art makes him anxious and unsettled. As Eliot begins to sink back into his madness and alcoholism, he realizes the futility of his actions. As a result, he becomes deeply disillusioned about his role as a cultural benefactor. “You can safely ignore the arts and sciences,” he argues, “They never helped anybody.”52 Vonnegut playfully comments on the postmodernist discourse about the relationship between art and “reality.” Whereas art can be seen to construct the lived experiences of its audience, to Eliot, conversely, art appears as an artificial construction, not “true” enough. This is why he decides to forsake the arts altogether and focus on reality: in a strikingly Augustan manner, Eliot Rosewater decides to pursue the world as his poem. One day, in a blast of drunken rage that borders on being psychotic, he simply disappears, before reappearing where it all began—Rosewater County, the promised land of his family where his ancestors made their fortune. Calling his wife from a payphone in the middle of this Indiana wasteland, he proclaims his new plan, his new role: “I’m going to love these discarded Americans ... That is going to be my work of art.”53 This decision, which could be considered “the absurd moment” in the plotline, is described by Eliot himself as if scales had fallen from his eyes. His therapist, on the other hand, refers to it as “his Destination,” while his wife Sylvia thinks he “had at last gone irrevocably bananas.”54 Intriguingly, like his father, Eliot Rosewater attempts to take on the role of the pater patriae—in this case, the patria being, quite literally “the Town of Rosewater, The Township of Rosewater, the County of Rosewater, the State of Indiana.”55 In this strange and surreal microcosm, he begins his mission of curing the sick and sickening society. However, whereas to Lister Rosewater, the role of the pater patriae means strict and patronizing moral control, to Eliot it means quite the opposite. He wants to be the kind of pater that Cassius Dio

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depicted when speaking of Augustus—one who “should love their subjects as they would their children.”56 His own father, as is to be expected, is sickened and confused by this sort of a definition. In Senator Rosewater’s view, his son is “a man who stands on a street corner with a roll of toilet paper, and written on each square are the words ‘I love you’.”57 As the Senator sees it, by his unconditional love, Eliot robs the word of its meaning, ending up offending those that he is actually supposed to love—that is, his nearest and dearest. According to Lister, it was a perfectly good word—until Eliot got hold of it. It’s spoiled for me now. Eliot did to the word love what the Russians did to the word democracy. If Eliot is going to love everybody, no matter what they are, no matter what they do, then those of us who love particular people for particular reasons had better find ourselves a new word.58

To Senator Rosewater, meaning is based on differentiation, as the society and the world in general should be. He is anxious and afraid because Eliot has torn down his safe and certain readings of the world and deprived him of the power over meaning. His son’s redefinition of love shakes the foundations of Lister’s worldview and drives him to the brink of rage. It remains for the reader to choose which definition to prefer—the ultimate power over the meaning of love rests with the interpreter, as the author utilizes the characters of the two Rosewaters to offer him two very different perspectives on the matter. Eliot Rosewater’s revolutionary take on love and his utter repudiation of moralism are what guide his performance in the role of pater patriae. Soon after settling in Rosewater County, Eliot starts throwing “lavish banquets for morons, perverts, starvelings and the unemployed.”59 He listens tirelessly “to the misshapen fears and dreams of people who, by almost anyone’s standards, would have been better off dead, gave them love and trifling sums of money.”60 After eventually driving his wife away (suffering from overactive social consciousness, she is institutionalized for samaritrophia), Eliot becomes even more radicalized. He moves out of his house and into a filthy little office space and sets up an emergency phone line over which he offers support and understanding for the unhappy people of Rosewater County around the clock. The narrator tells that his voice on the phone was “vastly paternal—as humane as the lowest note of a cello.”61 Thus, in his own manner, Eliot becomes the father of his people—but not a father like his own, who passes judgements and punishments over his children, but a father whose only goal is to keep the children alive and ease their

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suffering in the insufferable world. As he himself ironically puts it, “if I’m not a Church, and I still want to keep people from killing themselves, I must be the Government ... Or the Community Chest.”62 In effect, to the miserable people of Rosewater County he is both, and more. For without Eliot himself noticing it, his position as the pater patriae of the town of Rosewater gradually endows him with authority and influence that surpasses that of lawful institutions. Little by little, Eliot’s high ethical stature turns him into the moral leader of the people—up to the point where he embodies all the functions of the institutions that are supposed to take care of people’s wellbeing. He becomes the benevolent princeps who, by his mere existence, makes the Republic unnecessary. Gradually, the people of Rosewater learn not to turn to disappointing public institutions in their agony—they turn only to Eliot, who has come to stand for the structures of the whole of society. This position is ritually confirmed as one of the women of the town asks Eliot to baptize her newborn twins, due to his high moral stature and authority. With this gesture, Eliot Rosewater becomes the high priest of the town of Rosewater. In addition to being the economic and the emotional sounding board of the people, he is now also the spiritual leader of this strange microcosm that he has made his own. Thus, with his role as the pontifex maximus of this suffering community, Eliot finally absorbs in his person all the significant roles of the leader—all the roles of Augustus. Against his will, he becomes the unquestionable and autocratic moral leader that his father in vain longs to be. This, of course, is highly ironic. While battling against inequality, Eliot Rosewater becomes the unquestionable “One,” the leader and the object of worship in Rosewater County. The ferocity with which Eliot resents this position is inflamed by his hatred of authoritative figures. He does not want to be admired, worshipped or singled out. But he cannot fight it. The unhappy, unloved and neglected people of the town of Rosewater treat him as their savior—as one of them, Diana Moon Glampers, puts it, Oh, Mr Rosewater, there should be a big statue of you in the middle of this town—made out of diamonds and gold, and precious rubies beyond price, and pure uranimum. You with your great name and your fine education and your money and the nice manners your mother taught you ... you could have been so high and mighty in this world, that when you looked down on the plain, dumb, ordinary people of poor old Rosewater County, we would look like bugs.63

Another member of the community, town drunk Delbert Peach, tells Eliot how he has foreseen the forthcoming apotheosis of their savior; he claims that

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I dreamed the angels had come down from the sky, and carried you up, and set you down next to Sweet Jesus Himself ... It’ll happen sometime. And the weeping and wailing in this town, you’ll hear it up there.64

Vonnegut takes the ironic intertextual allusions to the ancient past to yet another level as he plays around with an idea of deification that will be Eliot’s fate in his successful performance as pater patriae. Mr Peach’s idea seems to be that if one manages to love unconditionally, as Eliot has, then one should expect (and accept) unconditional love from one’s subjects in return. The Augustus-like overtones of Eliot’s role as the worshipped father of his country strengthen towards the end of the story, when he, anxious and distressed by all the adoration, finally makes up his mind to leave Rosewater County—to “give it back from his own power to that of the people,” if you will. For it turns out, unsurprisingly, that the miserable people of the town of Rosewater have neither interest in governing themselves, nor the capacity to do so. Without Eliot’s autocratic protection, they are sure to sink back into meaninglessness and purposelessness of their lives. The co-dependent relationship between the people and their leader—a power structure that is not based on any legally defined status or use of force but rather on an emotional bond—is made evident as the desperate people feebly try to think of how to show their gratitude. The external narrator states that there are plans for “parades and signs and flags and flowers,” “a firemen’s parade, a demonstration with placards saying the things that most needed saying, a triumphal arch of water from fire hoses.”65 But in the end, there is “no one to organize such a thing, to lead.”66 Without anyone noticing, the entire functioning of the town has been personalized and embodied in one man. It makes little difference that the man in question never asked for such a privileged position; his autocracy has rendered the people inept and impotent. Without their First Citizen, their princeps, the people of Rosewater are lost, bound to fall back to the meaninglessness of their lives that the One for a short while was able to lift. In a sense, Eliot Rosewater appears as a caricature of the “American emperor” discussed above. In this microcosm and parallel reality that is the town of Rosewater, he exemplifies the benefits and the inevitable downsides of autocratic rule in a situation where democratic rule is no longer possible, due to the people’s inability or unwillingness to govern themselves. No definite conclusions about the matter are offered, however; it remains for the reader to decide what this obscure social experiment “means,” or what it does or does not make manifest. Eliot’s final desperate attempt to “restore the Republic” takes place at the very end of the novel and it is what, actually, makes him the father of Rosewater

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County in a very tangible manner. One of the central Augustan themes—dynastic succession—is an overarching theme in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, too. It is related that the presidency of the Rosewater Foundation is designed to pass from father to son or, in the absence of a direct heir, to the closest living relative. Should Eliot prove to be insane, the Foundation and its 87,472,033 dollars and 61 cents would change hands and go over to distant relatives in Rhode Island. The mere thought of this is a living nightmare for Lister Rosewater, who—in a very Augustan manner—cannot stand the idea of seeing his legacy wasted by an incapable heir, a son who, against all odds, has grown into a “chronic drunk” and a “chronic lunatic.” He grieves that Eliot has not been able to produce a child, a saner heir to the Foundation. “If only there had been a child!” the Senator sighs, over and over again, “If only! If only!”67 At the end of the novel, Eliot finds a way to resolve his father’s problem in a way that to Senator Rosewater appears worse than he could ever have imagined. Threatened by a lawsuit by the Rhode Island Rosewaters, facing a trial where his mental health is to be examined, Eliot makes a drastic decision. The cult of personality that has evolved around him in the town of Rosewater has led fifty-seven women to claim that Eliot is the father of their newborn babies. Upon hearing this, Eliot single-handedly and immediately declares it to be true. He makes the children Rosewaters, his legitimate heirs with rightful and equal claims to the Foundation. This act, which shatters the dynasty, divides up the family fortune and puts an end to Eliot’s guilt, can only be described as a “restoration of the Republic”—and a successful one for that matter. Eliot Rosewater, therefore, truly becomes the alter ego of Augustus in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. One by one, he tries on different roles of Augustus, to no good end. After giving his support to arts and sciences, after throwing money at people and listening to their worries, Eliot is to find out that all these actions do nothing but make him a god in the eyes of the unhappy people. His final solution is to destroy the whole ideology of what he understands by e pluribus unum, to replace the One by the many and to let go of the source of his power— his money. It could very well be argued that Eliot’s selfless, undiscriminating and somewhat naïve approach to the immense social problems that he is trying to solve actually contradicts the example of Augustus. And, like that of his father’s, so it does. After all, Eliot Rosewater has no clear political agenda, no plan for the future, and very little hope for it. All he has is his rich man’s guilt, his sense of duty and his utopian dreams. As Hipkiss states, Eliot feels “a dreadful guilt for the failures of American idealism” and “morally responsible for the failure

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of the American dream.”68 In this sense, he of course is not a serious or realistic archetype of a political agent but rather an embodiment of the anxiety bred by the competitive capitalist society. Thus, Eliot and Lister Rosewater both appear as “failed Augusti”; one the anarchist, the other the conservative, but both equally lost with their interpretation of the past. Nevertheless, I would argue that in his protagonist, Vonnegut represents one very important aspect of the character of Augustus in the modern world— the hope of stability and the end of struggle, the hope that “history” (which is nothing more than tiresome violence and oppression) might come to a timely end. Like the Romans of the civil war period, the neglected and despised people of Rosewater County are tired of fighting for their purposeless lives, exhausted by looking for a meaning in it all. They simply want to cuddle up on their father’s lap, and have him take care of everything for them. Freedom, it seems, is a small price to pay for purpose. Moreover, it is clear that in his attempt to leave his mark on the world, Eliot Rosewater both reflects and surpasses the attempts of his father to do so. Whereas in their enthusiasm to change the course of history and in their devotion to their cause, the two Rosewaters resemble each other greatly, their readings of the past are very different. Examined in relation to Lister Rosewater’s performance as Augustus the moralist, Eliot appears as “the other side of Augustus” and as an antithesis to his father.69 In these two caricatures, we can observe the two popular ways of looking at Caesar Augustus in the modern world—the two exaggerated and unrealistic reconstructions. Whereas Eliot is a benevolent pater patriae and a reluctant king, Lister is a delusional tyrant seeking power over the minds of the people. Vonnegut’s way of constructing the characters of these two antiheroes shows the relevance and the use of Augustus in modern ideological polemics. In good and bad, the first emperor can be used as a model for and an archetype of a modern politician—and a modern human being. In these kinds of literary reconstructions, historical events or facts about the emperor hold little significance; to Vonnegut, Augustus’ renown is far more important.

4

Augustus the Tyrant: Ancient History, Modern Anxieties

The dictatorship was offered to me by both senate and people in my absence and when I was at Rome in the consulship of Marcus Marcellus and Lucius Arruntius, but I refused it ... At that time the consulship was also offered to me, to be held each year for the rest of my life, and I refused it. —Res Gestae Divi Augusti1 [T]he Senate and people of Rome agreed that I should be appointed supervisor of laws and morals without a colleague and with supreme power, but I would not accept any office inconsistent with the custom of our ancestors. —Res Gestae Divi Augusti 2 Eliot was a Fire Lieutenant. He could easily have been Captain or Chief, since he was a devoted and skilfull fireman, and had given the Fire Department six new engines besides. It was at his own insistence that he held no rank higher than Lieutenant. —K. Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr Rosewater3

Rewriting the Past, Creating the Despot? Augustus’ Autocracy in Ancient and Modern Texts In a jungle of shifting meanings, contradictory readings and various interpretative lenses, “tyranny” is certainly no less ambiguous a concept than “empire.” The term can be used in many varying contexts and be utilized to imply various differing ideas, but stripped to its very core, in a political sense, tyranny can be defined as autocracy charged with negative connotations. It is the absolute and often oppressive rule of one person or a group over others. Despite the ambiguity of

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the term, or perhaps because of it, it is one of the most commonly used concepts in the political and ideological discourses of the twentieth century. As noted in the previous chapter, the fear of despotism is deeply rooted in the Western imagination, and in the aftermath of World War II, the juxtaposition between “the free world” and “slave states” was something that structured the political rhetoric of the cold war period. Autocracy or a single-party system was, from a Western perspective, often considered to mark the death of political liberty and freedom of thought. As already pointed out above, ancient history provided a great many precedents and points of comparison that influenced the formation and development of these sorts of ideas. One of these points of comparison was the Roman Principate, established by Caesar Augustus. There is no disputing the fact that the Roman state, in the shape it took during the period reaching from 27 BC to AD 14, was an autocracy, a oneman rule that maintained its Republican institutions and ways of functioning in name only. Technically, Augustus’ exceptional executive powers were confirmed and handed to him by the “Republic”—they were legally based on the offices he held and in which he was elected by the senate. However, the mere fact that the princeps was allowed to hold them repeatedly and simultaneously was per se a violation of the Republican tradition, and something that would nowadays be described as “unconstitutional.” In theory, Augustus was no more than a princeps, “the first citizen,” or “the first among his equals.” In practice, he was the ultimate decision-maker in all political, religious, social and economic matters. In his Roman history, Cassius Dio relates that in the year of his tenth consulship, they freed him from all compulsion of the laws, in order, as I have stated, that he might be in reality independent supreme both over himself and the laws and so might do everything he wished and refrain from doing anything he did not wish.4

On another occasion, Dio states that in reality Caesar himself was destined to have absolute control of all matters for all time, because he was not only master of the funds ... but also commanded the soldiers. At all events, when his ten-year period came to an end, there was voted to him another five years, then five more, after that ten, and again another ten, and then ten for the fifth time, so that by the succession of ten-year periods he continued to be sole ruler for life ... In this way the power of both people and senate passed entirely into the hands of Augustus, and from his time there was, strictly speaking, a monarch.5

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In practice, and increasingly so towards the end of his reign, Augustus did not need to rely on his public offices in order to maintain his powers. He ruled over the senate and the people by the means of his auctoritas, which was not only based on the support of his legions but also on his carefully constructed reputation as the uniting force of the divided nation. Besides the support of the army, it was the loyalty of the Roman people that was crucial in Augustus’ establishing and maintaining his exceptional position and his powers over the senate. As the emperor himself repeatedly lets it be known in his Res Gestae, his generosity towards the plebs knew no limits; over and over again he gifted money to them, personally took care of the grain supply and threw magnificent games and races. All this seems to be part of an attempt to represent the princeps’ autocratic position as a righteous, if not strictly lawful, matter: the way Augustus represents it, he achieved his supreme powers as a gift from the Roman people, in return for his many favors to them. Tacitus states that, after laying down his triumviral title and proclaiming himself a simple consul content with tribunician authority to safeguard the commons, he first conciliated the army by gratuities, the populace by cheapened corn, the world by the amenities of peace, then step by step began to make his ascent and to unite in his own person the functions of the senate, the magistracy, and the legislature ... It was thus an altered world, and of the old, unspoilt Roman character not a trace lingered. Equality was an outworn creed, and all eyes looked to the mandate of the sovereign.6

Thus, in Rome of the day, everything revolved around Augustus. He was the supreme military commander, the pontifex maximus, the chief executive and, from AD 2 onwards, pater patriae (an honorary title that, without carrying any legal power, clearly denoted his moral leadership). His single rule is undisputable—but it is another question entirely as to the point at which this single rule came to equal despotism. Roman authors’ accounts of the putative tyranny of Augustus’ reign vary greatly, which is understandable considering the different political motives and starting points behind their works. In general, amongst the other Julio-Claudian emperors (most of whom are depicted in a very unflattering manner) Augustus stands out as a positive exemplum.7 This, however, does not mean that there would be no dissonant voices or accusations of despotism when it comes to his reign. Being the first emperor and the reformer of the political system, Augustus and his regime quite naturally were compared to the Republic—and in this comparison, the restriction of political freedom, of course, was something that could not go unnoticed.

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Tacitus is one of the Roman historians who repeatedly laments the death of libertas under the new regime. When describing the reign of Augustus, he states that [o]pposition there was none: the boldest spirits had succumbed on stricken fields or by proscription-lists; while the rest of the nobility found a cheerful acceptance of slavery the smoothest road to wealth and office, and, as they had thriven on revolution, stood now for the new order and safety in preference to the old order and adventure.8

Tacitus explains the relative peace of the Augustan period by the natural generational gap between the “new men of Rome” and the older generation who had witnessed the civil war. He states that “the younger men had been born after the victory of Actium; most even of the elder generation, during the civil wars; few indeed were left who had seen the Republic.”9 Tacitus creates an impression of the Augustan stability being based on the elimination of the princeps’ enemies, and on the natural exit of those who could have made unflattering comparison between the contemporary situation and the days of Republican freedom. To exaggerate a little, according to Tacitus’ reading, Romans under the reign of Augustus were content, but only because they did not know better. It is true that many of Octavian’s political adversaries had been eliminated in the course of the civil wars, which made the establishment of the new regime possible. As for the survivors who had sympathized with the opposing side, most of them seem to have been willing to accept the princeps’ pardon and to collaborate with the new regime. Horace, one of the poets closest to the emperor, had fought against him at Philippi, a matter of which he openly speaks in his works.10 Livy, too, is reported to have had Republican sympathies which, Tacitus tells, mostly amused the emperor.11 Even Augustus’ wife Livia had been born and married to old patrician families that had fought against Octavian in the Perusian conflict in 42 BC. Understandably, none of this mattered: if Octavian had eliminated all the citizens who had at some point opposed him, he would have had very few people to rule over. Thus, concordia was the battle cry of the new regime; it seems that in general, Augustus was keen to forgive and to forget and, apart from a few exceptions, so were his socalled enemies. Be that as it may, Tacitus’ claim that the political opposition was completely non-existent in the Augustan period does not quite hold true in the light of other literary sources. Both Dio and Suetonius relate conspiracies against the

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emperor’s life, throughout the course of his reign. Suetonius, for instance, states that [a]fter this he nipped in the bud at various times several outbreaks, attempts at revolution, and conspiracies, which were betrayed before they became formidable ... for even men of the lowest condition conspired against him and imperilled his safety.12

We have very few details about these attempts to overthrow the Principate. It is unclear how common or how well organized they were. What seems likely, at any rate, is that violent conspiracies were, in a sense, echoes of the civil war era. In the early days of Augustus’ reign, there was no certainty about the lasting power of his rule. The Roman Republic had gone through a long period of revolutions and counter-revolutions, a time when armed violence was considered a solution to every issue. Caesar’s death in particular set a precedent for tyrannicide as a valid course of political action. We do not know if the conspiracies against Augustus’ life were due to principled hatred of kingship and the old aristocracy’s difficulties of adjusting to the new regime, or whether they were attempts to establish a new monarch in his place. The underlying reasons remain unknown, as these conspiracies were quietly quelled before they managed to cause an actual threat to the stability of Augustus’ regime.13 Suppressing attempted violent conspiracies of course is one thing; restricting freedom of speech is quite another. Whether or not the princeps could be publicly criticized is a matter relatively little discussed in ancient literature. According to Tacitus, slander and libel began to be punished in AD 6; this happened under the existing law against “diminishing the majesty of the Roman people.”14 Whether or not this meant the end of free speech in the Principate has been debated among classical scholars.15 There are very few surviving historical sources that document people being punished for speaking their minds in Augustan Rome. It is likely that while Augustus’ government might technically have been “open to criticism,” it did not have to take much of it, due to self-censorship and the caution of citizens. In his Divus Augustus, Suetonius relates that As he was speaking in the senate someone said to him: “I did not understand,” and another: “I would contradict you if I had an opportunity.” Several times when he was rushing from the House in anger at the excessive bickering of the disputants, some shouted after him: “Senators ought to have the right of speaking their mind on public affairs.” ... Yet for all that no one suffered for his freedom of speech or insolence.16

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Tacitus, for his part, relates that as Augustus grew older and his reign inevitably drew close to its end, some people started to weigh their options, to speak against the autocracy, and to “discuss the blessings of freedom.”17 Later on, when depicting the state of affairs immediately after the emperor’s death, he adds that Then tongues became busy with Augustus himself. Most men were struck by trivial points—that one day should have been the first of his sovereignty and the last of his life ... Much, too, was said of the number of his consulates (in which he had equalled the combined totals of Valerius Corvus and Caius Marius), his tribunician power unbroken for thirty-seven years, his title of Imperator twentyone times earned, and his other honours, multiplied or new.18

While “revealing” the underlying discontent with the monarchic features of Augustus’ reign, Tacitus also implies that it was possible to speak of such matters without being dragged away by the emperor’s police force in the dead of night. Doubtless, it was not a good idea to stand on street corners attacking the princeps—however, by the end of his life Augustus appears to have been so secure in his position, that the paranoid overreacting typical of his successors (and of many modern dictatorships) was not necessary. Therefore it appears that while Augustus’ Principate was certainly an autocracy, by any modern definition, it was not perhaps a “tyranny.” Compared to the days of the Republic, political freedom was of course curtailed, and up to a point peace and stability were ensured by suppressing violent forms of opposition. As Cassius Dio puts it, “it is impossible for a man to guide so great a city from democracy to monarchy and make the change without bloodshed.”19 However, arbitrary persecution of the political opposition, or paranoid witch hunts that mark the modern-day idea of a dictatorial state, are absent from all the sources depicting Augustus’ reign. A cynical reader would, of course, point out that this fairly positive image must be due to censorship or self-censorship of the Roman historians who worked under the Principate.20 However, it is sufficient to take a look at the imperial authors’ depictions of the corruption and despotism of Augustus’ successors to notice that criticizing a former emperor, at least, was certainly not out of the question; and there is a difference between the image of the first emperor and the following Julio-Claudian dynasty. Nevertheless, a couple of incidents which occurred during Augustus’ reign have cast a shadow of tyranny over his Principate, and have had a remarkable impact on the ways in which the emperor is perceived in some of the modern readings of his story. Perhaps the best known and most infamous example of the princeps’ arbitrary use of his executive powers took place in AD 2, when

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he exiled his daughter Julia on the island of Pandateria. The official reason was Julia’s adulterous lifestyle which violated Augustus’ moral legislation; however, the literary sources are remarkably vague about the incident, and it is likely that the underlying reasons were political. Pliny states that Julia’s exile was due to adulterium filiae et consiliae parricidae—thus, there is reason to suspect that Julia might have had connections to a conspiracy against the emperor.21 At any rate, Augustus’ reaction implies that the incident was serious, as permanent exile was one of the harshest punishments of the day. Scandals in the imperial household, however, did not end with Julia’s exile. A few years later, her fate was shared by her son, Agrippa Postumus, and in AD 8, it was her daughter, Julia the younger’s turn to be exiled. At the same time as the younger Julia’s exile, Augustus also exiled Ovid, one of the most popular and celebrated poets of the time. Ovid’s case is one of the most mysterious events that took place during Augustus’ reign, and its causes remain unknown to this day. In the poet’s own famous words, the punishment was due to carmen et error, whatever that might mean.22 It has been assumed that it was perhaps the audacious tone of the Ars Amatoria that was considered offensive to the emperor’s moral legislation—but since the work was already published in AD 2, the emperor’s reaction would in that case have been rather delayed, which makes the theory somewhat implausible. In this case, just as with the exiles of Augustus’ family members, the literary sources tend to create doubt as much as shedding light on events. This naturally provides modern fiction authors with almost unlimited opportunities to write the story anew; Ovid’s mysterious exile and its significance to the whole of Augustus’ reign are crucial topics especially in Christoph Ransmayr’s Der letzte Welt, and in François Fontaine’s Le sang des Césars, which will be further discussed later in this book. Nevertheless, it seems evident that the beginning of the first century AD was a particularly difficult period of Augustus’ reign, and it cast a shadow on the remaining years of his rule. Roman historians tend to condemn the emperor’s actions as overreaction or as wanton use of power; in particular, his decision to exile his daughter was considered by many to have been a case of the tyrant’s paranoia. According to Dio, the princeps was also considered to be off the mark by his contemporaries: The people urged Augustus very strongly to restore his daughter from exile, but he answered that fire should sooner mix with water than she should be restored. And the people threw many firebrands into the Tiber; and though at the time they accomplished nothing, yet later on they brought such pressure to bear that she was at least brought from the island to the mainland.23

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The idea of the aged emperor as a man of principle who was particularly hard on his nearest and dearest, is also confirmed by Seneca the Younger, who in his philosophical treatises speaks of Augustus’ devotion to the state and of his longing for rest and leisure, and states that [f]orced to pit arms first against his countrymen, then against his colleagues, and lastly against his relatives, he shed blood on land and sea.24

Therefore, Roman authors’ depictions mix contempt with understanding, and necessity with violent whimsy when describing the later years of Augustus’ reign. The overall positive depictions of the princeps and of the peace and prosperity brought about by his regime are contested by these accounts of absolutism, violence and extrajudicial use of power. From these few examples we can observe that concepts such as “tyranny,” “despotism” or “freedom of speech” are very relative and difficult to grasp when it comes to the age of Augustus, and any comparisons with the modern world inevitably seem confusing and anachronistic. What is important to remember is that Augustus’ Principate was a period when Romans themselves, after five centuries of living under the Republic, and the last of these being in the midst of civil wars, were adjusting to the new regime and trying to define what it actually was. Attempts to map onto the Augustan era our predefined ideas concerning monarchies or tyrannies are, therefore, unlikely to shed light on our understanding of the characteristics of Augustan Rome as a particular period of time. Be that as it may, it is easy to understand why the events of the later years of Augustus’ rule, in particular, have made some modern readers interpret and reconstruct his regime as an archetype and a historical model of monarchic despotism. This chapter looks further into those readings.

The Two Rosewaters, the Two Tyrants? Two Sides of Augustus the Autocrat In God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, one of the overarching themes is the tension and conflict between the One and the many—the basic inequality that is so deeprooted in the culture and society that it is taken as something axiomatic and selfevident. The embodiment of this juxtaposition between the One and the many is the Rosewater Foundation, an institution that, along with its 87,472,033 dollars and 61 cents is autocratically managed by one man, and the leadership of which passes in a dynastic manner from father to son. Through the characters of Lister

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and Eliot Rosewater, who struggle both with their complicated family affairs and with the running of their Rosewater empire, Vonnegut discusses the themes of privilege, leadership and inequality. Repeatedly, the author returns to the troubling theme of e pluribus unum, the slogan of the Republic and the mantra which ironically, as pointed out by Eliot, expresses the juxtaposition between the One and the many. Even though Augustus does not explicitly appear in the novel other than as Senator Rosewater’s self-proclaimed political paragon, the historical analog between the Roman past and the American present keeps him constantly present, hovering in the background as the author discusses the fine line between the economic and the political power, and between auctoritas and tyranny. From the very beginning of the novel, it is made clear that the Rosewaters’ political influence is based on their family’s fortune, and that fortune, for its part, is based on generations of fraud and embezzlement, on seizing the moment and grabbing “much too much.” In this case, the wealth and power of the One has indeed come at the expense of the many. As one might expect, the two Rosewaters’ attitudes to their extraordinary position differ greatly, reflecting Vonnegut’s characterization of them throughout the book. Lister and Eliot Rosewater are constructed as caricatures and as examples of two different ways of dealing with the unlimited power and influence handed to them—on the one hand, a paranoid and hostile attempt to guard the privileged position, and on the other, an obsessive attempt to deny it, masking it as something else. Senator Lister Rosewater stands for the first of these models. He never questions the moral basis of his privileged position, and appears to take it as natural, if not even well-deserved. Whenever he feels that that position might be endangered, or could be further advanced, he is eager to do whatever he can to increase his own power and that of his family. His speech concerning Caesar Augustus in Chapter 2 is a good example of this. The Senator reacts swiftly to the dissolution within the party following the election of Eisenhower, trying to make sure that the newly found unity is shaped on his terms, with him as its figurehead. In short, Senator Rosewater appears as a caricature of an opportunist politician who is favored by the unequal political system and who knows how to make the most of it. One derives an impression that in ideal circumstances, he could well become one of modern-day America’s “would-be Caesars,” discussed in the previous chapter. In Chapters 2 and 3, I repeatedly referred to Senator Rosewater’s autocratic and imperialist approach to meaning. In his speech to his party members, he

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forces his interpretation of Augustan Rome on his audience as the one true reading of the past. Later, he goes positively Augustan with his “Rosewater Law,” a moral edict imitating the Augustan leges Iuliae that violently claims the right to define and control “obscenity.” In both cases, the Senator’s appropriation of meaning and significance is designed to increase his political power—but it is, in effect, this very act of appropriation that is more alarming and more clearly bespeaks his tyrannical and imperialist tendencies. This sort of attempt to control meaning is something that marks Senator Rosewater’s politics and his self-representation more generally. In effect, Lister Rosewater deliberately reconstructs a story of his family, a story that he uses to boost his authority and his credibility. For the Senator’s political power is not only dependent on his fortune but also on his birth, and on his status as an Indiana representative. The reader is told that he has spent nearly the whole of his adult life in the Congress of the United States, teaching morals, first as a Representative from the district whose heart is Rosewater County, and then as Senator from Indiana. That he is or ever was an Indiana person is a tenuous political fiction ... The family visited the socalled “home” in Rosewater County very briefly every year, just long enough to reinvigorate the lie that it was home.25

The factitious connection between the Senator and his ancestors, on which his claims to power are based, and the political fiction that he weaves in order to enforce that association are further expressions of his attempts to shape reality into his own reading. If one chooses to read Caesar Augustus as the paragon of Senator Rosewater, it is particularly easy on this occasion: the sort of reconstruction of the past, the present, and the self that Lister Rosewater engages with, is a very Augustan political tool (in particular, one is reminded of Octavian’s obsessive self-fashioning in terms of the Iulii family). Lister Rosewater’s obsessive attempt to rewrite reality and to claim power over its meaning is such an essential part of him that it remains unclear to the reader whether his role as a narrow-minded, stern patriot, too, is anything more than a mask the purpose of which is to serve his pursuit of power. It remains uncertain whether the reading of the world that the Senator feeds his audience—an idea of society as a constant battlefield where weaklings, liberals, communists, and perverts lurk behind every corner—is something he sincerely believes in, or whether it is an interpretation that he chooses to enforce because in the current socio-political situation it benefits him. Little does it matter, of course—“we are what we pretend to be,” and as in the case of both Augustus and Senator

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Rosewater, masks worn for long enough are eventually hard if not impossible to remove. At any rate, so strong is Lister Rosewater’s confidence in the power of his reading of the world that he does not feel the slightest need to court the little people or to fish for individual votes. When the town drunk Mr. Peach from Rosewater County points out to him that “[f]or a man who depends on the votes of the ordinary common people, Senator, you certainly can say mean things to them,”26 the Senator can barely be bothered to acknowledge the complaint. He states that [i]f you have [voted], you’ve probably voted for me. Most people do, even though I never flattered the people of Indiana in my life, not even in time of war. And do you know why they vote for me? Inside of every American, I don’t care how decayed, is a scrawny, twanging old futz like me, who hates crooks and weaklings even more than I do.27

Senator Rosewater firmly believes that he is the people’s man whether the people like him or not. He can openly despise them, and they can despise him—this does not endanger the status quo and the existing power balance in the least because, fundamentally, the Senator is convinced that his reading of the reality is unquestionable and indisputable, the same as everyone else’s. This is exactly why Eliot, who challenges his authorial power over meaning and definition, so disturbs him. Power over meaning is entirely what Lister Rosewater’s authority and power are based on—more so than on his fortune or his birth. As is fitting to the theme of God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, in this respect too the father and the son appear simultaneously as polar opposites and as confusingly similar. Although Eliot Rosewater’s approach to his privileged position could not be further away from that of his father, his personal struggle revolves strongly around the same issues: the power over meaning and definition, both of himself and of the world around him. In the previous chapter, I read Eliot as the “absurd hero” of Vonnegut’s novel: desperately, he tries to withdraw from the society that he finds void of meaning, and to refuse his predetermined role in it. Unlike Senator Rosewater, who likes to appear as the spokesman of the people, Eliot wants to give a voice to the people themselves. He firmly avoids giving any moral or political advice to anybody, he is confusingly unopinionated and as such, a striking parallel to his father. Nevertheless, the more fiercely Eliot Rosewater tries to escape his position as the One, the more persistently it seems to haunt him. If anything, his role

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as the protective father of Rosewater County highlights the fact that he stands above the rest—in the words of Diana Moon Glampers, “so high and mighty in this world, that when you looked down on the plain, dumb, ordinary people of poor old Rosewater County, we would look like bugs.”28 On another occasion, Ms Moon Glampers makes it explicit how indispensable Eliot has become to the town of Rosewater. Speaking on behalf, Eliot to stay, she claims that You’re my church group! You’re my everything! You’re my government. You’re my husband. You’re my friends.29

This adulation makes Eliot incredibly uncomfortable, but since he does not have his father’s natural talent and inclination for controlling people’s minds, he cannot alter the way they think of him. Eliot thinks that the Rosewater people’s reading of him is mistaken but he has no power over their minds. Against his will, he becomes the indisputable leader of the people, the One who rules over them with his clemency and authority—but rules over them nonetheless. And it is not just the little people whom Eliot has come to save whose reading of him he cannot control. In his mission to save Rosewater County, one can observe a familiar tension and friction between a self-proclaimed monarch and the wealthy aristocracy. For whereas Eliot is loved and admired by the poor people, he is viewed unfavorably by the upper middle class. And their interpretation of his reign is indeed quite different from that of Eliot’s adoring subjects. The division between the poor people and the well-to-do is made evident as soon as Eliot arrives in the land of his forefathers. His work as a good Samaritan focuses on the town of Rosewater, which is struggling with poverty and unemployment. The narrator relates that apart from a few public buildings, built by Eliot’s family, it is all “shithouses, shacks, alcoholism, ignorance, idiocy and perversion.”30 The town of Rosewater, thus, represents the poor city plebs who Eliot has come to save, and it is to this that he directs all his interest and enthusiasm. Outside the town, near the Rosewater Saw Company, there is a suburban area called Avondale. It is a community of well-to-do engineers, accountants and administrators who work for the Rosewater industry, who “did all that needed doing and lived in a defensive circle of expensive ranch homes.”31 The narrator calls them “social-climbing technocrats” and “the clean people of Avondale.”32 And, whereas the town of Rosewater represents the miserable poor in need of a savior, Avondale stands for the oligarchic aristocracy highly suspicious of one.

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As much as the Avondalean aristocracy resents the idea of the One, they are well aware of Eliot’s status as a Rosewater, and hence acknowledge his superiority. As the narrator relates, “Eliot stood in relation to the clean people of Avondale as a constitutional monarch ... [he] could not tell them what to do—but he was surely the King, and Avondale knew it.”33

To begin with, the people of Avondale seek to benefit from Eliot’s special position by forging an alliance with him. In a very bourgeois manner, they send their new king gifts, invites, embassies, little notes of respect and affection. However, from the outset it becomes clear that a bond between the autocrat and the aristocracy is not to be. Eliot is not in the least interested in the well-to-do people; he rejects their approaches and requires his wife to “receive all prosperous visitors with an air of shallow, absent-minded cordiality.”34 His only interest lies in the meaningless and unsatisfactory lives of the poor; the equally meaningless and unsatisfactory lives of the rich leave him cold. At first, the people of Avondale tolerate the neglect of their new monarch. They are able to do so because, after all, they consider the hierarchy natural and believe it might be in their interests too. But then, the story takes an unexpected turn. The reader is told that the King and the Queen got the Rosewater family crystal, silver and gold out of the dank vaults of the Rosewater County National Bank, began to throw lavish banquets for morons, perverts, starvelings and the unemployed.35

Eliot’s rejection of the Avondalians’ friendship is one thing; his alliance with the amorphous mass of the poor and the unfortunate is another. Suddenly, the people of Avondale feel their interests endangered. For them, Eliot shows his true face as a demagogue, a populist, a flatterer of the mob. To them, his generosity and good-heartedness are nothing more than a political maneuver aimed at strengthening his position as the One—and directly targeted against the current ruling class. Little by little, the “Republican Avondale” becomes sadistic about the “royalist Rosewaters.”36 They become openly hostile towards Eliot and Sylvia, and take great pleasure in their eventual misfortune and downfall: Avondale’s clammy respect for the monarchy turned to incredulous contempt, and then to savagery ... The voices of Avondale acquired the tone of bandsaws cutting galvanized tin when discussing the King and the Queen, as though a tyranny had been overthrown. Avondale was no longer a settlement of rising young executives. It was peopled by vigorous members of the true ruling class.37

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This is another reading of Eliot Rosewater and, while it is as unfair and one-sided as Diana Moon Glampers’ blind adulation, it is just as valid and as impossible for Eliot to control or change. In the eyes of Avondale, he unintentionally and unwillingly comes to represent a self-interested autocrat and a flatterer of the mob, who stands in opposition to a Republican oligarchy that endangers his single rule. Thus, the control over meaning and definition, and the control over one’s of image and aftermath, are crucial issues in God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. At the end of the novel, these themes come together in an episode where the author gives Eliot a chance to reflect on his own renown and reputation as an ex-king of the town of Rosewater. In Chapter 13, Eliot finally decides to leave town, anxious and tired of the roles that he is made play and the continuous misinterpretations of his actions on the part of both his protégés and his critics. His plan, however, is cut short as he suffers a psychotic breakdown on the way and ends up being institutionalized. A year later, Eliot comes to his senses again. He realizes that he has spent an entire year in an Indiana mental institution, awake and functioning—yet he has no memory of the past months. Anxiously, he turns to his father, asking him about the town of Rosewater and how the people are doing. The Senator, unsurprisingly, has little consolation for his son. His advice, however, aptly encapsulates the pressing anxiety that haunts both Rosewaters and which gradually grows into the underlying theme of the novel. “Don’t play God to the people,” the Senator says, or they will slobber all over you, take you for everything they can get, break commandments just for the fun of being forgiven—and revile you when you are gone ... Oh hell—they love you, they hate you, they laugh at you, they make up new lies about you every day. They run around like chickens with their heads cut off, just as though you really were God, and one day walked away.38

Considering Senator Rosewater’s imperialist approach to meaning, and his solid conviction that he can force a meaning on the world, this seems a pessimistic notion. Again, one cannot help but think of his political paragon Augustus, whose renown and legacy could very much be summarized in these words. It seems that after all the struggles and hardships that his family and the Rosewater Foundation have faced, Lister Rosewater’s faith in his own omnipotence is wavering. This is understandable, since he is now in danger of losing his entire empire because of his son’s lunacy, a circumstance that he really cannot control. Intriguingly, in this situation, the feeling of powerlessness is what is common to the two Rosewaters. Whereas Lister has no control over Eliot’s sickness or the downfall of his legacy, Eliot has no control over the minds and words of

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the people of his beloved Rosewater County. Thus, the ending of the novel goes deeper in examining the limits of an omnipotent autocrat’s powers and in showing that the power over meaning is, after all, the basest and the most unreachable form of power. It is beyond a human being’s means to control his renown or reputation, no matter how authoritarian or influential he is or has been. Paradoxically, it is often the most influential and significant people, those who in their day have had the most power to shape the world, who are torn to pieces and reconstructed in the most brutal manner after they are gone—as can be seen in the multiple different readings of Augustus’ reign. Thus, God Bless You, Mr Rosewater is fundamentally a novel about power over meaning, about the power to shape the world by making one’s own reading of it a view that is universally accepted by all. Of course, this sort of power is always an illusion, as both Rosewaters come to realize. The story takes place in the United States in the 1950s, but it could just as well occur in ancient Rome, or any other place and time. The Roman empire as a historical parallel to modernday America in general, and the character of Caesar Augustus, in particular, are constantly present in the narrative, even though Augustus explicitly appears only briefly in the plot. The author continuously associates and identifies Senator Rosewater, and through him, Eliot, with Augustus, not only to represent the two different sides of an autocrat, but also to discuss the theme that I argue is the most important lesson we can learn from history—the realization that any historical figure is ultimately a work of fiction, created by posterity. This is certainly the impression one derives from the multifaceted figure of Augustus in the modern world. One might be able to control an empire, the Mediterranean, entire armies and the morals of a people, but one can never control people’s minds and hence create one’s own public image. Even unlimited power is limited when it comes to meaning, and that is something that even a monarch has to accept. Eliot Rosewater accepts it as he lets go of his Messianic mission to save the people of Rosewater. His father accepts it as he loses control over the future of the Rosewater empire. For neither of them does this revelation bring great relief or fulfillment.

The Last World: Augustus and the Power of Words The struggle for power—and power over meaning, in particular—is a central theme in another postmodern piece of literature where Augustus appears as an important side character. Christoph Ransmayr’s Der letzte Welt, translated as The Last World, in Germany in 1988, is a captivating postmodern fairytale, a

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depiction of a dystopian fantasy world where the needs of an individual self clash violently with dominating power structures. The events date to an unspecified period in the twentieth century, but the story takes place in an imaginary empire called Rome that is ruled by an autocratic dictator, Caesar Augustus. What The Last World has in common with God Bless You, Mr Rosewater is that the character of Augustus does not hold center stage in either novel, yet in both of them he is omnipresent, written between the lines and constantly hovering in the background. The protagonist of The Last World is a man named Cotta, a Roman who escapes from the capital and travels to the deserted village of Tomi on the Black Sea in search of the exiled poet Ovid and his supposedly destroyed masterpiece, the Metamorphoses. Thus, the novel is constructed around a recorded historical event—the mysterious exile of Ovid in AD 8—however, the author uses considerable license in dealing with it. In effect, he rewrites the past entirely, ending up with a new story that is only loosely based on Roman history. In terms of style and genre, The Last World escapes definitions; it combines elements of magical realism with those of historical fantasy and the classic European travel journal. This is what makes Ransmayr’s work an exemplary piece of postmodernist fiction, and underlines the fluidity of meaning that is the defining element in the novel. After all, genre itself, as Charles Newman points out, is a way of signifying meaning in advance; therefore, disrupting the narrative and mixing the genres as Ransmayr does, is an appointed challenge to this imperialist attempt.39 As genre disintegrates, the traditional power balance between the author and the reader is challenged and the reader is invited to create the meaning of the work for himself.40 Perhaps the most prominent and defining feature of Ransmayr’s work is its strong reluctance to negotiate the relationships between the past and the present, and between the real and the imagined worlds. In The Last World, history is constantly present, as the Roman past—with its famous characters and memorable events—penetrates the modern world, and the two eventually end up rewriting one another. This sort of interplay between the past and the present creates a strong impression that recorded history wields little if any significance; there is no past and no future as everything takes place and is present in the moment of the narrative.41 It is a beautiful example of the sort of postmodernist fiction that is marked by “the disappearance of a sense of history,” and by “a perpetual present in which the memory of tradition is gone.”42 With its overlapping historical periods and surreal and magical elements, Ransmayr’s work attempts to construct the world anew, and to make the reader

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question the “basic truths” about it. As is characteristic of postmodernist literature, it does not seek to inform the reader about reality but rather to constitute it, not to transcribe but to construct. The novel creates an aesthetic world that exists separately from the real world and does not necessarily correspond to it.43 This is what The Last World does brilliantly; with its supernatural elements and magical transformations, the story not only blurs the line between the past and the present but also between the real and the imagined, calling the entire concept of “real” into question. In Ransmayr’s novel, the vanishing of the line that separates the possible from the impossible draws attention to the impossibility of prescribing a meaning through distinction in general. In all these small details, Ransmayr’s novel pays homage to the poet who was perhaps the most subversive of the Roman authors in his day, and who becomes a central character in the novel: Ovid. Umberto Eco has perceptively noted that “every period has its own postmodernism.” More than a stylistic category, what we label as “postmodernism” and consider to be a product of the twentieth century, can be observed as an attitude which underlies cultural production in every historical period.44 As for Augustan Rome, I would argue that the postmodernist spirit is best manifested in the controversial poetry of Ovid. It is hardly surprising that it is Ovid’s Metamorphoses, an epic that celebrates constant change and the fluidity of meaning, that Ransmayr chooses to retell in his own work. Like the Roman poet, he refuses the great Augustan master narrative, and disrupts the genre, dividing the story into a number of petits récits—fragmented narratives which do not attempt to present an overarching “truth” but offer a qualified, limited “truth” instead.45 In The Last World, Cotta rewrites Ovid’s Metamorphoses, collecting different versions and stories from the villagers in Tomi. While being consistently contradictory with each other, each of these tales represents a different side to the poet’s view of “reality.” Thus, it is implied that ultimately, there is no truth and no reality, only different readings of both. In a rather Derridean manner, the author appears to denote that any truth is always a sort of fiction, reading is always a form of misreading, and understanding is always a form of misunderstanding.46 This interplay between understanding and misunderstanding is a theme that is interwoven in the narrative of The Last World, and it is actually what constitutes action in the novel. In Ransmayr’s reading, Ovid’s mysterious exile is essentially due to a misunderstanding. Whereas the Roman literary sources tend to represent the decision as the emperor’s own, with little involvement from the senate, Ransmayr for his part decides to strip Augustus of power and responsibility and stresses the fortuitous nature of the act. In The Last World, the

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case of Ovid is brought to the emperor by his administrative staff who represent a massive and tangled web of bureaucracy, “the apparatus.” As it happens, when an administrator approaches the princeps, explaining the suspicious elements of the poet’s life and work, Augustus is engaged in admiring his pet rhinoceros through the window of his palace. The author relates that Without a word, with just an abrupt, curt motion of his hand, hardly more vigorous than if he were shaking off a housefly, Augustus interrupted the informant and then sank back again to gaze at the rhinoceros. A cursory motion of his hand. That was enough. The court needed neither complete sentences nor final judgements. In their council chambers, at their desks, and in the filing rooms of the archives, they now had a sign. Whatever was lacking for a final judgement could be appended with no difficulty ... Just as the image of the poet and the content of his works had been disfigured and transformed on their way upward, so now the sign from the emperor, the deeply engraved memory of a cursory motion of His hand, was sent on its way back downward and subjected to the same laws of distortion.47

In all its absurdity, this episode reveals the process on which the entire bureaucratic dictatorship of Caesar Augustus is based: the task of creating a meaning, interpreting a sign and laying down definitions. What follows the divine gesture of the emperor’s hand is an intense debate among the representatives of “the apparatus” about what it actually means: As so often in the history of executive action, this time too it was left to the fantasy and imaginative powers of subordinates to construe and execute the will of the emperor, who was not particularly interested in this or similar cases of no consequence. A motion of the hand. The sign was passed on and sank only very slowly through the levels of government. By way of precaution, the apparatus embraced all interpretations.48

Finally, after exhausting every possible interpretation, the apparatus passes the power of reading the emperor’s sign down to a single judge. In a hurry to take his lunch break, he quickly and perfunctorily reads it, passes a sentence and dictates it to “an apathetic clerk” who carries out the ruling. Therefore, in The Last World, Ovid’s exile is less due to the emperor’s power to command than to the reader’s power to interpret. Ransmayr’s version of the well-known story is not just witty mockery of the arbitrariness of a bureaucratic dictatorship and its wanton use of power; more importantly, it is a discussion about the relationship between a sign and its referent, and about the power struggle that is inscribed in the process of semiosis.

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This power play between the producer of the sign and its interpreter is a theme that is constantly at play in the novel, and which strongly impacts on the representation and reading of Augustus in it. This emphasis on the relationship between the author and the reader is fitting, as The Last World is fundamentally a novel that is obsessed with storytelling. The main setting of the story, the village of Tomi, is a desolate remote coastal town by the Black Sea; it is “pressed hard by both sea and mountains, trapped tight in its customs, in the torments of cold, poverty, and hard work,” “stripped of hope.”49 In this barren and isolated corner of the world, the lives of its inhabitants revolve around telling and rewriting stories. First, there is Ovid, the exile from Rome who settled in the village to rewrite his masterpiece, the Metamorphoses, which he is told to have burnt before leaving Rome.50 After the poet’s mysterious disappearance from Tomi comes Cotta, a Roman obsessed with Ovid’s work and fate who makes it his challenge to collect and recompose the destroyed poem fragment by fragment and to render the unfinished epic complete. In this task, he gets help from the strange inhabitants of the village—among others, Arachne the deaf-mute weaver who depicts Ovid’s stories in the tapestries she makes, and Echo the village whore who compulsively repeats everything that is said to her and can only speak in her own words when relating tales from the Metamorphoses. Paradoxically, while they think they are telling Cotta what they know about Ovid’s lost masterpiece, what they actually are doing is living out those stories in their own lives, and thus rewriting the work. Perhaps better than any other character in the work, Cotta himself comes to represent the conflict between authorial and readerly authority and power. On the one hand, his relationship to Ovid is marked by worshipping and adulation; without questioning the authority of the poet, he is constantly rereading Ovid’s poetry, trying to make sense of it. On the other hand, while doing so, by collecting, assembling and reconstructing the poem out of fragments, he creates the work anew. It is a prime example of the situation where “the author is first a reader,” or, in other words, “at any moment, the reader is ready to turn into a writer.”51 Cotta’s task, as he himself defines it, is to “take possession of the work and lay it once more in the hands of Rome”—thus, by paying homage to Ovid he actually robs the poet of his poem, making it his own.52 In his attempt to escape the tyranny of Augustan Rome and to reconstruct the frames of his existence, Cotta takes on the mantle of the “absurd hero.” From the beginning of the novel to its end, the The Last World is marked by a celebration of the absurd, “the belief that human experience is fragmented, irritating, apparently unredeemable.”53 It is in terms of this experience that the

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protagonist defines himself. Cotta, just like Eliot Rosewater, can be defined as “a sympathetic ‘knight’ in search of order and value.”54 He is painstakingly conscious of the agonizing absolutes of Augustan Rome, and his desperate mission to make sense of the world through Ovid’s poetry can be observed as his one-man rebellion against this imperialist tyranny that forces its reading of “reality” on its subjects. By searching the Metamorphoses, and by rewriting the work, Cotta reclaims his readerly power of which Augustus’ dictatorship has robbed him. As such, he not only appears as a symbol for political resistance but also, as an absurd hero should, as a symbol for hope that the world is not what it is claimed to be.55 The fact that the author keeps details about the past, the characteristics and the personal situation of the protagonist to a minimum strengthens the impression that Cotta appears first and foremost as a face for the power struggle over meaning and definition. As the story moves on, the process of transformation—metamorphosis, if you will—that Cotta goes through becomes more evident. The initial shocking recognition of the meaninglessness of the universe is followed by the absurd hero’s attempt to live the apparent conflict between his inner voice and the “reality.” Finally, he finds peace and is able to reach reconciliation with the world, when he “recognizes his own absurdity” and understands that it is the struggle itself, not the solution, that is his definition.56 These steps are defined by Galloway as the main stages in the development of the “absurd”—notably, they are the same ones that can be observed in Eliot Rosewater’s character development. To Cotta, the final absurd moment of liberation takes place when he realizes that the poem that he has been looking for and the “reality” which surrounds him are actually indistinguishable from one another. In the parallel universe of Tomi, where the villagers act out and live Ovid’s poetry, literature comes alive and speaks of its own coming into being in varying voices. As the author relates, “[t]he inhabitants had been transformed into stones, or into birds, wolves, and empty echoes.”57 The pieces of Ovid’s poetry that Cotta has been collecting “were the town of iron’s memory”; “[n]ot only past lives of the town of iron, but future destinies as well.”58 The assimilation between the representation and the actual event is developed up to the point where it is impossible to tell the two apart. Instead of consuming the representation as if it was real, The Last World depicts the people of Tomi consuming their lived reality as if it was a (specific) work of art.59 The microcosm of Tomi is their poem, over which they strive to gain and maintain their power of meaning and definition—much like Eliot Rosewater’s Rosewater County or Caesar Augustus’ empire.

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Christopher Butler defines the postmodernist deconstructor as someone who wishes to show “how a previously trusted relationship, like this one between language and the world, will go astray.”60 This is precisely what Ransmayr does with his depiction of the Ovidian Tomi and of Cotta, who slowly realizes and accepts this. As the villagers turn into stones, wolves or birds, the reader’s attention is drawn not only to the fictionality of the story but also to that of reality.61 At the end, Cotta’s acceptance of the absurd, surreal, artificial nature of the universe makes him give up his search for the Metamorphoses—a poem which is, in fact, all around him all the time. He understands that in the grips of time, writing itself is a meaningless act, “at best a game for madmen”: Books mildewed, burned, turned to ashes and dust. Cairns toppled back down the slopes as formless rubble, and even letters chiseled in basalt vanished under the patience of slugs. Reality, once discovered, no longer needed recording.62

Therefore, The Last World is a beautifully written and perceptive story about the construction of “reality” by means of language, literature and art. The novel’s inherent concern about the functions of language, and its underlying idea that we do not live in “reality” but in our representations and interpretations of it makes it an intriguing source for semiotic study, and also connects it thematically with the otherwise quite different God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. Because of the emphasis put on the active role of the reader, the question of power is also one of the main themes in the novel. Fittingly, this is where we get back to Augustus again. In The Last World, “Caesar Augustus” appears as an archetype of a sole ruler, a dictator and a tyrant. He is the unquestionable One who rules over the many, and the entire state appears to be embodied in his person. The author calls him “the Exalted One in their midst” and “the world’s mightiest and most inaccessible man”; he states that “the frenzy there in the stadiums, the howl of docile submission—one man alone could lay claim to that: Augustus, Emperor and Hero of the World.”63 In addition to ruling over the people’s lives, he seeks to control their minds, safeguarding “the sacredness of family and the precious jewel of decorum.”64 Thus, in a truly dictatorial and imperialist manner, Augustus manufactures and controls reality in a similar manner that a poet composes his work. Rome is his poem, the empire his work of art. At the fringes of this empire, Tomi can only be defined in respect of Rome; in its self-reflexivity and its irrationality, the Ovidian Tomi is an antithesis to Augustan Rome—a postmodern “attack on rationality” and an attack on Augustus’ dictatorial and absolutist view of reality.65

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Of course, the violent appropriation of the power over meaning is a reflection and a manifestation of Augustus’ tyrannical rule in other aspects as well. Just as in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, in The Last World the autocrat’s power is juxtaposed with that of the old ruling class, the upper class oligarchy. But whereas in Vonnegut’s pseudo-empire that is Rosewater County, the aristocracy is strong enough to resent the king, in Rasmayr’s novel they have been domesticated and suppressed, and are firmly under the emperor’s heel. In effect, with their docile existence they confirm Augustus’ position as the supreme ruler. The author describes them as members not simply of society but of the society of power, families whose pomp and luxury—safeguarded by dogs, glass-studded walls, armed sentries, and barbed-wire barricades—reflected the splendor of the emperor.66

Furthermore, the barbed-wire barricades around the homes of the high and mighty are only the first glimpse of the violence, danger and rebellion that underlie Augustus’ reign. With a rather transparent defamiliarization technique, the author provides this “Augustan Rome” with all the characteristics of twentieth-century fascist and socialist dictatorships, from the curtailing of free speech to the uncontrollable violence of a secret police. The most intriguing detail, when it comes to the control of meaning and interpretation, is the invisible bureaucratic spying mechanism on which the Augustan regime is based, “an apparatus of whispers, dossier entries, hints, and recommendations.”67 It seems that, ultimately, the emperor himself is also victim to this monstrous bureaucratic defining machine. The narrator relates that [a]mong its many functions, it was assigned the task of gradually awakening Augustus to matters he had failed to hear or see ... every morning, the apparatus constructed and interpreted a view of reality for its sovereign lord.68

Thus, in this bureaucratic dystopia, the impersonal state takes possession of all meaning and significance, continuously determining what is “true” and “real” and laying down definitions that impact people’s lives and deaths, as in the case of Ovid. It is explicitly pointed out how inflexible this system is, since “whereas the anger might have been allayed and dissipated, the apparatus was not to be placated, nor could it be shut down.”69 The underlying resistance and rebellion, natural by-products of an oppressive tyranny, also strongly echo the modern anxieties of the latter part of the twentieth century. In The Last World, there are references to “radical underground groups who struck from the labyrinth of the catacombs,” and to a separatist movement

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in Sicily that is violently nipped in the bud.70 Besides those who actively fight against Augustus’ tyranny, there are those who take great risks in trying to escape from it. It is told that before his departure from Rome, Cotta was loosely connected to a secret society that used to gather to read Ovid’s forbidden works.71 His decision to leave Rome using a forged passport makes him a fugitive of the state. And it is told that there are many others like him who are willing to trade the certainties of Augustan Rome for the insecurity and irrationality of the peripheria. The narrator describes them as the fringes of the society—malcontents, the outlawed opposition, and all those who either wanted to leave Augustus’ capital on their own, without first being forced to, or had done so long ago.72

The fugitives are looking for a “life free from supervision”; they are escaping the state’s apparatus of power, the omnipresent surveillance, the forest of flags and the monotone bawling of patriotic slogans. Many of them were also fleeing the daft, or simply the boredom of a citizenship whose every ludicrous duty was prescribed.73

The author paints an agonizing picture of individuals who, in order to maintain or reclaim their individuality and their readerly power, are willing to risk losing their lives: They fled bureaucrats and police patrols, disappearing at last into the wilderness, dying of exhaustion or under the battering blows of some atavistic culture that had of course been overrun by the emperor’s armies at some point but had never come under their control ... No land would have been vast enough, no sea broad enough, and no mountain range desolate enough to protect a runaway exile from the wrath and justice of Rome.74

The narrator creates an impression of an omnipotent and all-consuming empire that is not satisfied with dictating and controlling every move and thought of its subjects at home but spreads out in an imperialist way, attempting to make the whole known world the emperor’s poem. Obviously, this representation is not intended so much as an interpretation of the historical Augustan Rome as an analysis and criticism of the ideology of empire in general. Ransmayr exaggerates and emphasizes the tyrannical and imperialist aspects of Augustus’ reign in a dramatic manner—in effect, his reading of “Augustus” and “Rome” recalls that of Senator Rosewater’s in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater. And, as in the case of God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, here too this rhetoric encourages the reader to reconsider the underlying motives behind the representation. If the author is

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not talking about the historical Augustus, what is it that he is talking about? And, whatever it is, why is it specifically Augustan Rome that he uses to talk about it? In the case of The Last World, the most glaringly obvious explanation would be that the author is using Augustus—the best-known pretender of democracy in the history of humankind—to discuss comparable phenomena in the modern world. One thinks of the fascist and the socialist dictatorships of the twentieth century, of the ideology of absolutism, and of the violent crushing of freedom under the flag of democracy that dominated European thinking in the latter part of the twentieth century. The Last World was published in 1988, only a year before the Berlin Wall came down and the dissolution of the Soviet Union started with the revolutions in its satellite states. When one reads about the “border guards” and the “sharpshooters up in the watchtowers” in this “Augustan dictatorship,”75 it is difficult not to think of a connection between the novel and the sociopolitical background. At first sight, it would seem that the author is engaged with a not very carefully disguised defamiliarization technique, common when a traumatic or controversial topic is considered to hit too close to home with the audience. However, Ransmayr seems to be quite aware of the possibility of this reading, and it would appear that in a way, he actually challenges it. In Chapter 3, the narrator depicts the elite Romans’ discomfort with Ovid’s poetry even before his exile. It is known in Rome that this controversial poet, who moves in the most fashionable literary and cultural circles of the capital, has a keen eye for observing his environment and the sharp wit to comment on it. This leads the people he associates with to suspect that the poet is not merely observing reality but rewriting it in his would-be masterpiece. People become suspicious as they assume that Ovid is writing “a roman a clef about Roman society.” It is told that Not that he was now actually writing such a book, but one reason people in Rome gradually began to mistrust, avoid, and finally hate the poet was the sudden and terrifying knowledge that he could write it.76

The theme is discussed further in the episode that takes place upon the publication of Ovid’s controversial play about the Greek king, Midas. The play about the greedy king is a smash hit; however, it is soon accused of being politically controversial and finally closed down. Ovid himself responds to the criticism, claiming that [h]e had in fact never attempted to dramatize Roman reality by trite analogy. The suppression of the piece could therefore have nothing to do with him, but rather with a false interpretation of his work77

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With subtle irony, Ransmayr takes on the mantle of the postmodernist author worn by Ovid, denying any apparent political connotations of his work, as well as its putative connections to the surrounding society and culture. However, like his “Ovid,” he has only very limited power to do so—in the end, the author must accept that if it seems to be so to the reader, it is so to the reader, and the mere thought that it could be, might sometimes be enough to cause unexpected consequences. Ultimately, it seems that if there is one central theme that Augustus’ character and his dictatorship serve in The Last World it is, indeed, the question relating to meaning and significance. The overarching theme in the novel is the constant change and fluidity of meaning—this is the message of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, it is communicated through the transformation processes of the villagers of Tomi, and it is the manifesto that Cotta finds in Naso’s deserted house written in banners among the ruins: “Nothing retains its form.”78 The only constant in the world is change, and there is nothing a human being can do to control it—one lives in a “world that, try as you might, you could not hold on to and keep as it once was. Things came, and things went.”79 Tomi, a remote little village at the edges of the empire, is an exemplary manifestation of this insecurity, irrationality and constant fluidity of meaning. It is noteworthy that all the inhabitants of Tomi are immigrants, exiles, or other passers-by, who have strayed into the town by accident and who will mysteriously leave it in the course of time.80 They celebrate with their lives, as Ovid with his poetry, the liminality that makes up the world. It is told that “[i]n these mountains, the world faded”;81 that “[b]eneath the colossal mass of these mountains, nothing that was not itself of rock possessed solidity or meaning.”82 The author calls Tomi “some middle world where the laws of logic no longer seemed valid,” and conveys the protagonist’s feeling that “the border between reality and dream was perhaps lost forever.”83 The character of Augustus, by contrast, appears as a stern antithesis to all this. Whereas Tomi embraces the concepts of liminality and insecurity, Augustan Rome denies them altogether. Augustus’ Rome stands for continuity, eternity, stability and certainty. The author emphasizes this by drawing attention to the fact that after the death of the emperor, his successor, Tiberius, refuses to change a single edict by the former ruler, turning Rome into a museum of Augustus’ achievements.84 This only strengthens the impression that in the world of The Last World, Augustus and his empire stand for continuity and stability—as such, they of course symbolize a battle that is lost from the very beginning. Augustus’ Rome is the world of truth, and one truth only, it is the unquestionable “realm

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of necessity and reason.”85 The narrator speaks of “Rome’s world of rationality— clear reason that found expression in every palace of the capital, in every rank of soldiers in battle,” juxtaposed with “nothing but a collection of empty sentences and phrases” that Cotta encounters in Tomi.86 Perplexed by this juxtaposition, Cotta is left hovering “between the imperial, indisputable reality of Rome and the incomprehensible mysteries of the town of iron.”87 His absurd quest—the struggle that defines him—is to reconcile these two conflicted readings of the world, and to solve “the tormenting conflict between Rome’s reason and the Black Sea’s incomprehensible realities.”88 In this attempt, Cotta begins to observe Tomi not only as the antithesis to Rome, but as “a wretched relic,” as a shadow of its past, and as an imaginative and magical reflection of Rome as it was in the past, before “under the rule of Emperor Augustus it was trimmed to reason and transformed into mere duty, into obedience and loyalty to the state.”89 In this scenario of his, the poet Ovid appears as a symbol of rebellion, as a voice of insecurity, instability and magic. Cotta considers Ovid’s poetry as a last representative of the waning creative energy, denounced in the empire of bureaucrats and magistrates.90 He worships the poet as someone who, with his subversive stories “freed his world of human beings, of their rules and regulations.”91 To Cotta, Ovid’s commitment to change and fluidity of meaning, in fact, appears as the underlying reason for his exile. After all, for an emperor who stands for stability and continuity, what could possibly be a worse insult than a work such as the Metamorphoses? The narrator calls Ovid’s masterpiece “a project that had degenerated into an exposé of and insult to Rome: Metamorphoses” and “the work of an enemy of the state, an affront to Rome, the document of a deranged mind.”92 It is related that [i]n the capital city of Emperor Augustus, the very title of the book had been presumptuous, a provocation to Rome, where every edifice was a monument to authority, invoking the stability, the permanence, and the immutability of power. Naso had named his book Metamorphoses, transformations, and paid for it with the Black Sea.93

This reading of Augustus and his reign appears to stand in stark contrast to the representations of many of the Roman historians discussed earlier in this book. As I have attempted to show, in the canon of Roman literature, it is usually Augustus’ chameleon-like nature, his constant changeability, that marks him. His transformations from a teenage boy into a ruthless young triumvir, and from the champion of the civil war into an absolutist autocrat manifest a fluidity and changeability with which few historical figures can compete. Moreover, his

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multiple masks—those of a general, an administrator, a high priest and a pater patriae—denote the ease with which Augustus could rebrand himself according to the circumstances and the situation. Nor did he transform just himself—he transformed Rome as well, turning it from a free but divided Republic into a stable autocratic empire, and representing it as a combination of the two. Augustus’ ability to flirt with the imagery of eternity, continuity and stability, while actually altering the entire basis of society is unparalleled in history. It therefore seems significant that the reading of Augustus and what he stands for in Ransmayr’s postmodernist fantasy, written 2,000 years later, is so remarkably different. In Ransmayr’s novel, Augustus is associated with stability and immutability, even obsessively so. The novel focuses on one side of the princeps’ character, perhaps the aspect that is best known in the modern world—the aged emperor who has established his position as the ruler of the state. Ransmayr takes this character and seasons it with qualities typical of modern dictatorships and tyrannies. The result is the least flattering possible: an old autocrat secure in his position and unwilling to change, yet possessing the violent qualities associated with Augustus’ civil war past. One gets the idea that in The Last World, the exemplar for dictatorship could be anyone, and that perhaps the main reason it is Augustus is that he is sufficiently distant as a character for the modern reader to cope with. Be that as it may, it is also possible to read The Last World with a critical eye to this simplistic representation. When one scratches the surface of the narrative, it appears that the characters of Augustus and Ovid—who at the outset appear as polar opposites—have more in common than may at first seem. In effect, the interpretation of Ovid as a poet of fluidity, insecurity and constant change is seriously questioned at the beginning of the book, when Cotta first arrives at the poet’s deserted dwelling in Tomi. In the midst of the ruins, he encounters an inscription announcing the completion of the poet’s mysterious masterpiece—it is in fact a free translation of the finishing words of the actual Metamorphoses, published in AD 8, and it reads as follows: I have completed a work that will withstand fire and iron even the wrath of god and all-consuming time whenever it will let death now come having only my body

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within its power and end my life but through this work I will live on and lift myself high above the stars and my name will be indestructible.94

For a poet whom Cotta considers a representative of change and uncertainty, these words, literally carved in stone, seem oddly grandiose and obsessed with endurance, stability, and eternity. Moreover, the narrator’s notion that “Cotta knew only one man in all the world capable of such a vision”95 appears to be deliberately confusing, since it is nearly impossible to not think of another. Both in form and content, literary testament of Ransmayr’s Ovid echoes the aims and style of Caesar Augustus who famously had his own Res Gestae carved in stone and transported around the empire in order to preserve the record of his achievements. The reader—at least this reader— begins to wonder whether the two characters in The Last World actually are so different after all. This feeling is strengthened by the outright admiration and worship with which Cotta showers his hero. His unquestioned idolization of the poet makes it seem as though the protagonist is still looking for absolute truths and for someone to hand them over to him—in a sense, he is escaping from one autocrat into the arms of another. While he is unwilling to let Augustus rule over his life, he is more than willing to let Ovid (or actually, his construction of the poet) rule over his mind. Cotta happily grants the poet the role of the only authority allowed to prescribe a meaning, as he contemplates that every thread of this web of speculations and expectations always led back to the man who surrounded his work with all these riddles and secrets—not only making the truth hidden behind them that much more precious, but also placing that truth beyond all criticism and control.96

Who else can do that but an emperor and a tyrant? Is this sort of an imperialist and autocratic approach to meaning not exactly the thing by which Augustus the despot is characterized throughout the novel and for which he is repeatedly condemned? The assimilation of the two characters is not likely to be an accident on the author’s part. More likely, it is a way of commenting on the manner in which Cotta himself rewrites and distorts the memory of the poet he so admires—a “crime” that, if it is a crime indeed, we are all guilty of.

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This reconstruction of memory and the unlimited power of the posterity to prescribe meaning on the past are, as I pointed out in the introduction, the most crucial issues in my attempt to study the meaning of Caesar Augustus in the modern world. In The Last World, Ransmayr blurs the line between the characters of Augustus and Ovid by showing that, in the end, neither of them has any control over their renown. For, ultimately, when thinking about the disgrace and downfall of Ovid, Cotta comes to realize that nothing indeed retains its form—everything in the world is subject to change, to the rotting effect of time that will eventually wear out even stone and memory.97 Moreover, the exiled poet who is celebrated as the symbol of resistance to the almighty emperor98 actually has to go through the same tragedy that awaits Emperor Augustus himself: to become a reconstruction, “a myth among myths,”99 a nearly unrecognizable a character in the stories that people tell about him after he is gone. This is the exact same thing that Eliot Rosewater comes to realize and that finally makes him hand over his empire. Like Eliot, Ovid stands for a rebellion against the prescribed and predetermined shapes of the world. And like the people of Rosewater, the people of Rome use their hero’s fame for their own varying purposes; they glorify him as the symbol of rebellion yet care little for his current circumstances. As the narrator states, “famous, broken victim of dictatorial cruelty could prove much more useful to the goals of the resistance than a reprieved, or worse, a happy man.”100 For the resistance, it is only a good thing that Ovid is out of the picture, as it enables them to reconstruct him entirely, to turn him into exactly what they want him to be—a powerful weapon hurled against the emperor. With the combined characters of Augustus and Ovid, The Last World becomes a strikingly perceptive analysis of the inevitable post-mortem reconstruction of a person. The narrator relates that Once he was banned from Rome, Naso existed in a limbo between life and death, in a state whose every token of existence was like a memorial statue, frozen in motion at the moment the emperor’s words of banishment had reached it. And so to his enemies the poet was a petrified symbol of the justice of Roman law ... to his supporters he was the innocent victim of power. Where for one party the memory of Naso was kept alive as a warning against the stupidity and futility of any resistance to the emperor’s rule, for the other it served as a revolutionary icon to be held high, an exemplary life that demonstrated how just and necessary such resistance was ... Under the blows of politics, Naso’s fate shattered into many myths, but however many interpretations of his exile there were, they all remained chips in the propaganda games played by those struggling for power ... needing therefore to be neither proved nor reconciled in some fashion with the facts of exile and of Naso’s real life.101

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Moreover, after he is considered dead in Rome, the situation gets out of hand. Now the Augustan government also joins in the game and, fearing that Ovid will become the martyr that the resistance has tried to make him, decides to publicly honor the poet as the “son of Rome.”102 It is told that after the supposed death of the poet, anyone could make use of his memory as he or she pleased without fear of ever being contradicted by a note passed from the prison of his exile, by his return or pardon.103

As in the case of God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, in Ransmayr’s dystopian fairytale, too, the final absurd moment and liberation are achieved with the realization and acceptance of one’s inability to wield absolute power over meaning and significance. The democratic right of anyone to interpret and prescribe meaning is the antithesis of semiotic tyranny—but it makes the object of interpretation prey to all kinds of agendas he is unaware of and cannot control. The above quotation is a masterful depiction of the cruel fate that awaits every memorable character, and it aptly encapsulates the fate of Caesar Augustus in the modern world. Like any tyrant who attempts to wield power over the ever-changing shapes of the world, over meaning, reading, and definition, Augustus is a victim of his own game—doomed to be re-read and reconstructed indefinitely, metamorphosing over and over again and adopting new forms.

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[T]he business of writing requires the author to abstract himself from the self that lived these experiences, and to construct a figure ... the self you write is never quite the self that lived. —“Augustus: A Novel” (Massie’s and Williams’ books have the same title)1 All these works seem to me now to have one thing in common: they are lies. There are no untruths in any of them, and there are few errors of fact; but they are lies ... I read and wrote of a man whom I hardly know. Strain as I might, I can hardly see him now; and when I glimpse him, he recedes in a mist, eluding my most searching gaze. I wonder, if he saw me now, would he recognize what he has become? Would he recognize the caricature that all men become of themselves? —J. Williams, Augustus: A Novel2

Historical fiction: Meaning Set in Stone? I have attempted to show how postmodernist literature in the latter part of the twentieth century created new meanings and found new uses for Caesar Augustus, sometimes reflecting, at other times contrasting the ancient Roman sources’ readings of him. These uses and interpretations were, of course, highly dependent on the particular socio-political circumstances of the period of writing—on the one hand, those of the United States in the 1960s and on the other, those of cold war Europe in the late 1980s. In both of these case studies, the relationship between the author and the reader, and the power over meaning and definition emerge as crucial themes. Augustus’ character comes to stand both for the imperialist and tyrannical attempt to control the ways we read the world and for the experience of powerlessness upon realizing the impossibility

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Figure 5.1 First-century marble portrait bust of Augustus © The Trustees of the British Museum.

of that attempt. The ways in which Vonnegut and Ransmayr deconstruct their narratives and invite the reader to participate in the process of creating meaning are decidedly postmodernist and can to some extent be considered as reactions to the surrounding world of political instability and cultural fragmentation. Their novels are prime examples of the artistic rebellion that Newman considered as “an intellectual attack upon the atomized, passive and indifferent mass culture.”3 In Western democracies in the latter part of the twentieth century, uncertainty in the face of the quantity and incoherence of information led to a celebration of skepticism and the relativity of ideas.4 This was particularly evident in “high” art forms, of which the two novels discussed in this book are good examples. This development naturally did not concern nearly all of the art and literature created in the decades that are nowadays defined as “the postmodern period.”

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While many writers and novelists were experimenting with disruptive and incoherent forms of prose, others continued to embrace the more traditional narrative forms. Historical fiction is a literary genre that for the most part seems to have evaded the great paradigm shifts of the twentieth century and remained more or less committed to the ideals of literary realism. Of course, this is a somewhat crude generalization, as there are also notable exceptions— the most famous one perhaps being Eco’s Name of the Rose, a work that brilliantly explores the opportunities and the semiotic levels of the historical novel. The exceptions, however, have not had a major impact on the genre as a whole.5 In most works belonging to the category of “historical fiction,” there are few traces of the main defining elements of postmodernist, deconstructionist reading—general distrust of totalizing explanations and skepticism about the ability of any text—science, art or historical narrative—to describe the world accurately.6 For a postmodernist, culture (and hence history too) is made out of perpetually competing and contradictory stories.7 These narratives are never innocent but always partial, selective, and rhetorical. Instead of a universal, overarching “truth,” they offer a qualified, limited “truth,” one relative to a particular situation.8 Historical fiction, however, perhaps more than other genres, seems to shun this sort of relativism and embrace master narratives instead, aiming at “explaining” the past by means of art. Even if a historical novel does not claim to offer a “true” or overarching interpretation of the past, it still rarely engages with narrative techniques that would draw attention to the text’s own status as a fictional construct, such as metafiction of disrupted narrative.9 In the very traditional manner of literary realism, historical fiction more often than not tends to hide the frames involved in fiction, rather than to emphasize them.10 The reasons for this are difficult to grasp, since naturally the genre is wide and heterogeneous. One generalizing explanation, however, may be found in its close connection to academic historical studies. As I pointed out in the introduction to this book, the diachronic nature of historical studies, and the long-since expired but persistent von-Rankean idea of history as objective narrating and “revealing” of the past have for decades been a hindrance in the development of the relationship between history and semiotics. An affection for master narratives used to mark historical studies until very late in the twentieth century and, even as the academic practice in the field is gradually changing and adopting new theoretical premises, most of the fiction authors who make use of the past have not felt the need to do the same. In some cases, the more traditional approach to form and content works. In most, however, it seems to

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result in a sort of historical naïveté, where either the past is blatantly exoticized and otherized, or the author tries to universalize the human experience by overlooking particular socio-cultural and historical contexts. At any rate, it would appear that the author of historical fiction cannot win, as long as he insists on providing an overarching Great Story about the past. I have no doubt that my own, rather opinionated authorial voice can be heard in these observations; nor am I trying to conceal it. As a historian and a classicist, I have always found myself to be somewhat suspicious and prejudiced about historical fiction as a genre. I, therefore, admit to having felt a little uncomfortable when I first realized that, when studying meanings and significances of Caesar Augustus in the postmodern world, this is a group of cultural texts that cannot and should not be passed over in silence. Although Augustus probably loses the battle for fame in popular culture to Julius Caesar, Mark Antony, and Cleopatra, there is still a surprising number of works of fiction written about him, and focusing on him, from the latter part of the twentieth century. In this chapter, I take a closer look at four of them—John Williams’ Augustus: A Novel (1971), “Augustus: A Novel” (Massie’s and Williams’ books have the same title), Elisabeth Dored’s Jeg elsket Tiberius (1959) and François Fontaine’s Le sang des Césars (1989). Written over a period from the 1960s to the 1980s, in different cultural contexts and in three different languages, they form a truly intriguing point of comparison to Vonnegut and Ransmayr’s postmodernist novels, when it comes to the representation and interpretation of the first princeps. All four novels examined in this chapter are strongly based on a couple of early forerunners in the field: Robert Graves’ I, Claudius (1934) and Günther Birkenfeld’s Augustus (1935). While these works enjoyed great popularity in the years preceding World War II, after the war, fictional biographies of Caesar Augustus disappeared from the scene for some twenty years. At the turn of the 1950s and the 1960s, when the post-war depression had turned into a new, thriving era in the arts and entertainment industry, the Western world witnessed renewed interest in the Roman past. This classics boom was marked by the first large-scale screen representations such as Ben-Hur, Julius Caesar and Cleopatra. This is also when Caesar Augustus again began to appear on the pages of fictional novels about the Roman civil war era. Whereas the popularity of these books was never anything comparable to the volume and circulation of Hollywood epic blockbusters, in their own way they speak for the renewed interest in Roman antiquity during this period. Of the novels examined here, Norwegian Elisabeth Dored’s Jeg elsket Tiberius was the first to appear in 1959. In terms of narrative style and form, it could

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perhaps be described as the most traditional and conservative of them all. There is only one narrator, Augustus’ exiled daughter Julia, who takes on simultaneously the role of an omniscient external narrator and that of an internal one involved in the events. These two appear at times almost as two different characters. Julia describes without difficulty the private thoughts and feelings of other people, as well as events in which she has not personally taken part. At the same time, her viewpoint is strongly subjective and guided by her own personal experience. The incongruity between the externalized and the internalized narrating voices is something that the author never attempts to dissolve—yet the choice does not seem to be deliberately disruptive, nor does it call attention to the fictional nature of the work. In short, Jeg elsket Tiberius aims at representing its version of Augustus’ story as the “truth,” told in the authoritative voice of an internalized narrator. Perhaps the most confusing part of the entire novel in this respect is the afterword written in the author’s own voice and name. In a short chapter of a few pages, Dored explains her motivation behind the book and, intriguingly, opens up her understanding about Augustus’ reign. She admits that the guiding principle of her work has been the attempt to “reveal” the real Augustus and to tear down the “traditional” figure of the emperor constructed by modern historiography.11 The author is convinced that the fairly positive idea of Augustus as a good ruler is a distorted one resulting from mistaken interpretations and reconstructions by the post-classical world. The most puzzling—and, for the purposes of this book, the most intriguing—aspect of Dored’s highly unacademic reading is her tendency to derive her conclusions about ancient history directly from the contemporary socio-political context. This is made very clear and evident in the afterword. The reason why Jeg elsket Tiberius paints a picture of Augustus as a ruthless tyrant is that, studied in the light of twentieth-century European dictatorships, an autocrat must needs be a tyrant. Dored explains that her own time has shown her entire generation what a dictatorship truly means, and that her interpretation of Augustus’ reign directly reflects those experiences.12 While this sort of a confused historical analysis is in no way methodologically tenable, it conveniently allows the author to disregard the positive accounts of Augustus in ancient sources as pure imperial propaganda. Since no literary or artistic freedom can exist under a dictatorship—Pasternak’s persecution and Hitler’s court historians are explicitly mentioned as examples13—the Roman accounts of Augustus that depict him as a reasonable or benevolent ruler must inevitably be read as another example of the violent oppression of free speech under a tyranny. Dored’s adamancy, her historical naïveté, and her way of using the Augustan Rome as an unquestionable analog for twentieth-century European dictatorships

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makes Jeg elsket Tiberius a valuable source in my attempt to understand the meanings given to Caesar Augustus in varying modern socio-political contexts. Without the slightest expression of doubt, the author observes a direct link between the world she lives in and the Roman past. To her, Augustus becomes an earlier form of an age-old and timeless phenomenon—a sort of a proto-tyrant. The image of this proto-tyrant is, however, firmly based on the example of contemporary tyrants. Paradoxically, while the author considers modern dictators as updated versions of Augustus, her Augustus is actually nothing but a Hitler, a Stalin, a Mao or a Ceausescu reborn. All in all, Jeg elsket Tiberius is a prime example of a historical novel that uses the present to explain the past, without realizing how the two construct each other. It is an attempt to treat the trauma of recent history by looking for answers in a remote time. The same phenomenon can be observed to some extent in the Scottish author Alan Massie’s Augustus, published in the UK in 1986—almost thirty years after Dored’s work. Massie’s Augustus, too, can be characterized as a rather traditional piece of historical fiction in the sense that it aims to offer the reader a master narrative, one true and revealing story of the past that makes all the previous versions of it unnecessary. It does so by adopting the most authoritative narrative voice imaginable—that of Caesar Augustus himself. The author deliberately disguises the nature of his novel as a work of fiction by representing it as a longlost autobiography of the princeps. To convince the reader of its authenticity, he includes two “editorial forewords” by the imaginary editor of the manuscript, Aeneas Fraser-Graham.14 In one of them, it is stated that [m]y purpose here is merely to guide the reader ignorant of the labyrinth of the Roman History, or whose knowledge of it is derived only from inadequate and frequently ridiculous representations of the Grandeur that was Rome offered by the Kinema and the BBC.15

As the BBC reference is presumably a reference to I, Claudius, this is a rare occasion where one modern representation of Augustus directly comments on another. Massie’s novel straightforwardly attacks the previous, “competing” and mutually contradicting readings of the Roman past, ranking itself above them in authority and truthfulness. As for Massie’s own authorial persona, it is entirely overshadowed as he represents himself merely as the translator of the original Latin text. All this, of course, is first and foremost a playful narratological gimmick to pique the reader’s interest—presumably, at no point does the author sincerely believe that his audience believes the story. Nevertheless, it is important to notice that in this

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way, the novelist conceals his own narrating voice, his author’s persona and the motives behind his work in an ostensible cloak of objectivity. The connection and interaction between the author and the reader are made impossible as the author hides from view, thus attempting to retain complete power over the meaning of the text. The message is clear: these are the words of emperor Augustus himself. There is nothing to interpret and nothing to question, only the emperor’s story as it really was—as Massie ends his pompous foreword, princeps ipse loquatur. Nevertheless, what occasionally adds a much-needed touch of historical relativism to it is the way the author implies that Augustus’ own version of his life might still be yet another reconstruction, and not necessarily the absolute truth. This is made evident in the aged Augustus’ realization that the business of writing [an autobiography] requires the author to abstract himself from the self that lived these experiences, and to construct a figure ... [T]he self you write is never quite the self that lived.16

Later on, at the end of the novel he returns to this topic, observing of his younger self that “[t]hat young man now seems impossibly remote to me. Trying to remember his feelings is like trying to understand an historical character.”17 This representation of Augustus’ story as his own work of art reflects the idea of history as yet another set of codes that one interprets and reads in the light of the present situation. Even though the author does not discuss the point further, or ponder the relationship between the past and the present, the fact and the fiction, and the real and the imagined in more detail, this notion adds a refreshing touch of skeptcism and relativism to what otherwise appears as an all-encompassing story of the past “as it really was.”18 Of the four novels that I discuss in this chapter, the works of Dored and Massie can be characterized as stylistically the most conventional and as the most committed to the idea of a historical master narrative. This is mostly due to the absolutist and authorial narrating voices in their works; whereas Dored’s Julia and Massie’s Augustus are not really to be questioned at any point, François Fontaine’s Le sang des Césars and John Williams’ Augustus, on the contrary, make use of several, mutually conflicting and ambivalent narrating voices. This alone is enough to add a stronger sense of relativism to their works and to imply that the authors consider Augustus’ story as a set of conflicting versions, experiences and interpretations rather than as an absolute and overarching truth. The most important difference between Williams’ and Fontaine’s novels is that whereas Williams’ work is all about Augustus, in Fontaine’s, he only appears for the first 200 pages or so. Le sang des Césars, as the name implies, is more

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about the aftermath of Augustus and about the struggles of the Julio-Claudian dynasty than about the princeps himself. This can also be observed in the choice of internal narrators. In Fontaine’s novel, Augustus’ story is told by his family members and close associates; however, at no point does Augustus himself speak. His thoughts, feelings and plans for the empire only reach the reader as secondhand information, passed on by the people around him, and clouded by their personal ambitions and motives. The fact that Augustus’ own narrative voice is deliberately absent from the work means that Fontaine’s princeps remains a distant figure whom no one really knows—the modern reader least of all. While the emperor is the central character around whom all the action revolves, he is simultaneously obscured and pushed into the background. Therefore, Fontaine’s novel strengthens the idea of Augustus as an ungraspable historical figure whose story appears first and foremost as a reconstruction by multiple other people and as a combination of different versions and viewpoints. In this sense, Le sang des Césars appears to be a novel that is more aware of its own status as a fictional construct than those of Dored and Massie. By emphasizing the status of his work as a fiction and a reconstruction, the author seems to imply that that is what history actually always is. In his book Augustus: A Novel, John Williams employs a similar narratological strategy in the first two parts of the work. Making use of multiple internalized narrating voices, he combines fictional letters with journal notes and administrative records. In the third and final part of the book the author gives a voice to Augustus himself. The incongruities and contradictions between different narrators’ accounts of the same historical events work particularly well as a narrative tool, and season the plotline with a certain tension and complexity—a good example is Augustus’ own recollection of his reaction upon hearing of Caesar’s death, which is very different from the version of the same events related by Salvidienus Rufus.19 In this manner, the novel continuously calls the existence of historical “truth” into question. Furthermore, Williams’ internal narrators repeatedly point out the nature of their writing as a work of fiction, and seem to acknowledge that posterity might read their words in a manner different from what they intend. Thus, the author insightfully makes the most of the interplay between his internalized narrators and their projected readers, separated from each other by thousands of years. The struggle for power over the text’s meaning and significance is a crucial factor in this interaction. A case in point is Williams’ Julia who, in her exile filled with solitude and indifference, still finds it painful to let go of the authorial

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power over her work, and struggles to release her text to be reconstructed by the Other—even if this Other, paradoxically, is herself: For even now, as I write these first words in this journal, and as I know that they are written to be read only by that strangest of all readers, myself.20

The author’s estrangement from herself and her construction of two different personas, the author and the reader, recalls Massie’s aged Augustus’ selfcontemplation. Although Williams makes use of the same internalized narrator character as Dored, for instance, his literary style therefore is considerably more contemporary and colored by relativism. The relativism and uncertainty are not diminished in the third and final part of Williams’ novel where Augustus speaks for himself in his own voice. In the emperor’s fictitious letter to his court historian Nicolaus of Damascus, he sums up his life—or rather, his own perception of it. But even Augustus’ own interpretation does not appear as a “final truth” that would reconcile the previous narrators’ different versions of the events and “set the story straight.” There is no master narrative offered to the reader on a silver plate—rather, Augustus’ final words draw attention to the subjectivity of his reading and to the inadequacy of any individual’s perception of himself. The part where the aged emperor discusses the many literary works written about his life is particularly telling, not only when it comes to the topic of reconstructing the princeps in the modern world but also when it comes to the power of literature to depict the human experience altogether. Augustus concludes that There are no untruths in any of them, and there are few errors of fact; but they are lies ... I read and wrote of a man whom I hardly know. Strain as I might, I can hardly see him now; and when I glimpse him, he recedes in a mist, eluding my most searching gaze. I wonder, if he saw me now, would he recognize what he has become? Would he recognize the caricature that all men become of themselves? ... [J]ust as the acts of my life have done, so these words must conceal at least as much truth as they display; the truth will lie somewhere beneath these graven words, in the dense stone which they will encircle.21

This remark strongly echoes and recalls Ransmayr’s skeptical way of dealing with the written word in The Last World. The idea that everything in the world— meaning and significance in particular—is subject to constant change, is evident in both. Horace’s idea of literature as aere perennius, durable against the strains of time, is at best an illusion and at worst, a lie. The written word is no less perishable or changeable than an inscription cut in stone, because the text, in any given form, will always be reread, reconstructed and given new meanings by

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its reader. Thus the text dies and is born anew over and over again, but the idea of “originality” or “reliability” is authorial self-deception at best. This sort of a relativist approach to the world and to the text makes the reader wonder if anything really matters. If time devours everything, and the meaning is subject to constant change, if the author loses the text the minute he hands it over to the world, is there a point in writing anything? One comes to the basic issue at the root of semiotics: is human communication ever possible? Is the illusion of sharing enough for us to operate in the system of signs where one man’s sign and interpretant are necessarily never quite the same as another’s? In Williams’ Augustus, this gradually emerges as the main theme, overshadowing the story of the emperor’s life. This is evident in the laconic “it does not matter,” a phrase that is repeated on different occasions throughout the book and becomes the defining mantra of the work.22 The multiple, ambivalent and conflicting readings of the emperor’s life all come to be of the same worth and value, as the modern reader of the novel is bound to write a story and a version of his own in the process of reading.

Augustus the Actor, Augustus the Poet One of the first things that one notices when looking into representations of Augustus in historical fiction is the heavy influence of classical tradition. The four novelists discussed in this chapter clearly know their classics (Suetonius, Tacitus and Dio in particular), since in all of their works, the different roles played by the emperor are strongly modeled after the Roman authors’ accounts of him. The duality of Octavian-Augustus’ character, in particular, is a characteristic that historical fiction picks up and develops further. The remarkable divide between the ruthless and power-hungry Octavian and the calm and considerate (but none the less crafty and calculating) Augustus is clearly present in all of the four novels discussed in this chapter. This approach is most pronounced in Massie’s Augustus, a novel that entirely revolves around the princeps’ character development and that is even structurally divided in pre- and post-Actium parts. In these two parts, the character of the protagonist reflects the general atmosphere and political ambience of the time depicted. Whereas the first half focuses on the struggle and achievement, the second gives room to a more profound self-reflection on Augustus’ part. In his preface to the book, the external narrator and the fictitious editor Dr FraserGraham notes that

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book I is self-confident, exhilarating, a story of a triumph, Book II much darker ... The Emperor broods reflectively over the course of his life, seeks out its meaning and attempts to marshal his philosophy.23

Thus, Massie’s Augustus stresses the dramatic change that took place not only in Octavian’s life but also in his character after his conquest of Antony and Cleopatra in 31 BC. When looking back, the princeps claims that his “youth died” in that year, and that is indeed how the novel makes it seem.24 In the second part of the book, Augustus seems quite different from his younger self—calmer and more considerate, but also weary and somewhat bitter.25 Thus, Massie’s work makes the basic duality of Augustus’ life the defining factor of his character and personality. In a sense, Octavian-Augustus comes to stand for the inevitability of change that marks the human experience, and for the tragic notion that, even while one can sometimes control the events of one’s life, one can never fully control the mark they leave and the changes they engender in the self. It is notable that in historical fiction, the transformation of Octavian into Augustus does not happen swiftly or suddenly, but the change is gradual and due to a few significant events. This is of course because modern novelists, benefitting from their freedom of interpretation, are able freely to emphasize and reconstruct certain events of Octavian-Augustus’ life, turning them into important watershed moments in his character development. The death of Julius Caesar, in particular, appears as a decisive moment of this kind—Williams and Massie, in particular, depict it as a turning point where the young Octavian is forced to choose his path and after which he is never quite the same again. In Williams’ Augustus, from the moment Octavian receives the news of his greatuncle’s death, he radiates authority and determination that he did not previously possess.26 The episode marks his sudden and early maturation—thrown into the world of politics, Octavian has to reach manhood quickly and before his time. In a fictitious journal note, one of his early allies and friends, Salvidienus Rufus, observes that Octavian has changed ... he has become contained, withdrawn, almost secretive ... I no longer know him. Is it grief for his uncle that will not leave him? Is it that grief which has hardened into ambition? Or is it something else that I cannot name? A cold sadness has come over him and draws him apart from us.27

Williams’ Augustus paints a picture of Octavian as a confused youngster who after Caesar’s murder is still slightly lost on the path he is about to take but who, nonetheless, for the first time in his life, has a sense of purpose and aims at a goal

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of his own—in short, he feels alive. This idea is later put into words by the aged Augustus himself in his recollection of that day: I knew that I had changed, that I was someone other than I had been; I knew my destiny, and I could not speak to them [his friends] of it.28

The same, near-mystical sense of purpose is expressed in Massie’s Augustus, where the emperor states that [w]hen he died, I was horrified, chilled by fear and the manner of his death; but when I fully realized that he had been removed, my heart expanded, I felt elated, I saw the world open before me.29

Thus, in the genre of historical fiction, Caesar’s death often marks Octavian’s birth as a plenipotentiary political agent. It is the first of the decisive moments that bring about the changes in his character and which will eventually lead to the metamorphosis that has puzzled contemporary Romans and later generations alike—the transformation of an ambitious and arrogant political upstart into the ineffable and inexplicable sole ruler of the Western world. If Caesar’s death and the battle of Actium are represented as the crucial milestones on Octavian’s way towards sole rule, then another critical period in his life as depicted in historical fiction is the midterm of his rule. The period of fifteen years or so was marked by the deaths of many of Augustus’ closest friends and allies—most importantly, Agrippa in 12 BC and Horace in 8 BC—and culminated in the exile of Julia in AD 2. In the historical novels that are under scrutiny here, this phase serves as a turning point that leads Augustus from the height of his power towards a lonely and bitter old age. In Williams’ Augustus, the emperor is depicted as taking Agrippa’s death particularly hard, withdrawing from the public eye for days. It is related, in the narrative voice of Julia, that [w]hen he emerged, he appeared to be years older; and he spoke with an indifferent gentleness that he had never had before. With the death of Marcus Agrippa, there was a death within him.30

Massie’s Augustus too represents this time as a critical period in the emperor’s life and in the development of his character, describing the autumn of his life as “[t]wenty years of chilling isolation.”31 Later in this chapter, I will examine in more detail the ways in which historical fiction aims at “humanizing” the emperor, trying to bring him closer to the modern reader and perhaps make him more relatable. For now, however, it is sufficient to note that all of the novels discussed in this chapter represent Augustus’ old age as somewhat pitiable in its loneliness, bitterness and indifference. Whereas Williams’ and Massie’s ways of

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reading the emperor’s losses and their profound effect on him have been noted above, it is Dored who takes this interpretation farthest in the afterword to her novel. In her own authorial voice, she makes a rather universalizing statement as she claims that it is indeed impossible not to feel pity for the old emperor, lonely and desolated as he appears, caught in the web of power of his own making.32 Dored’s manner of assuming that the reading and the response of her projected reader is axiomatically the same as her own is somewhat essentializing and patronizing; however, her statement is another strong argument for the popularity of the reading that, in the world of the twentieth century, tended to cast the aged Augustus in the role of a tragic hero, lonely and unsatisfied with the power for which he had sacrificed all. This sort of reading was doubtless to some extent fostered by deep-rooted ideas concerning the stages of a dramatic narrative and the moral dimensions of a story that sit deep in the Western storytelling tradition. A Faustian idea that a person simply cannot have everything, that a cause is always followed by a consequence, and in the end there must be a price too heavy to pay for astonishing success is what marks these depictions of Augustus’ bitter and lonely old age. Even though this idea is not expressed just as expressis verbis by the other three novelists, Dored is certainly not alone in having it. The tension and the anxiety that marks Augustus’ reign from its midterm on, is notable in all the works examined here. It is made evident by the stress laid on conspiracies against the emperor’s life, on strained familial relationships and on the overall gloom that seems to have beset Augustus’ empire in those years. In Fontaine’s Le sang des Césars, this gloomy atmosphere is particularly strong since the story only commences after Julia’s exile. The Principate depicted in the novel is grim and severe, marked by the emperor’s persecution of his alleged enemies and by his infamous attempts to control the people’s morals.33 On the other hand, Augustus’ tyrannical paranoia is no surprise, as all the people in his innermost circle are incessantly conniving behind his back, assuming that he is senile and waiting for his death. In Williams’ and Massie’s novels, Augustus’ turning into a “more bitter and more private”34 person seems to go hand in hand with his growing indifference and nihilism. In Williams’ Augustus, in an almost Vonnegutesque manner, the aged emperor expresses his doubts about “brutish, ignorant and unkind” humankind where the rich and the poor are equally corrupt.35 This Augustus has little faith in the lasting power of his empire, or in his countrymen’s ability to maintain the peace for which he has struggled.36 However, as seems to be the recurring theme of the novel, “it does not matter.” In the end, Williams’ Augustus

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considers his life and achievement to have been for nothing, and confesses to taking “some ironic pleasure in the knowledge of the triviality into which our lives have finally descended.”37 Similarly, Massie’s emperor summarizes the anxiety and the indifference of old age when he notes that I am an old man, trapped in a corner between the walls of achievement and death … and what, I ask, does it signify?38

What does it signify? What does all this—power, achievement, empire, death— ultimately mean? What is the worth of an empire, if all things must in the end be swallowed up in death? Why would one dedicate one’s only life to a mission that sooner or later is doomed to fail? With these sorts of questions Williams’ and Massie’s novels take their interpretations of Augustus’ life to an almost metaphysical level. In their works, Augustus appears as a man who has achieved everything that can be achieved, and everything he has dedicated his life to. He stands for unquestionable power and success; however, his story is used to raise a question of whether power and success really are anything to strive for. At the same time, these novels utilize the princeps as a sign for a somehow oddly universalized human experience, contemplating the significance and value of all human achievement. If time takes its toll, does anything really hold relevance? Historical fiction that interprets and reconstructs the story of Caesar Augustus therefore seems to be modeled largely after the themes and stereotypes of Roman historiographic writing—but with an accentuated sense of hindsight. What might seem self-evident but is crucial to point out is that these works, written in the latter part of the twentieth century, are of course greatly marked by their authors’ and readers’ awareness of the lasting impact and cultural influence of the life and work of Caesar Augustus. They are written for the modern reader who is aware of the historical importance of Julius Caesar’s death, reaching through centuries, and who knows exactly what came of the youth who received word of his murder in 44 BC. Up to a point, this explains the strong sense of destiny and drama that novelists use to season certain events, as well as the accentuated stress laid on the pivotal change in Octavian’s character. It is hindsight—the privilege of the modern reader—that makes Williams’ Augustus, for instance, state that [i]t was destiny that seized me that afternoon at Apollonia nearly sixty years ago, and I chose not to avoid its embrace.39

From the outset, the modern reader is expected to attribute particular significance to certain events in Octavian-Augustus’ life, even before reading about them in the book—and novelists, being aware of this in a way that differs from the

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awareness their ancient Roman counterparts would have had, make use of it, encouraging and inviting a certain kind of a reading from their audience. As crucial an aspect of Augustus’ public image as his metamorphosis from Octavian to Augustus is the idea that he is an actor with many masks—these two can actually be considered as complementary aspects of his nature as a chameleonlike character, and they both reach modern historical fiction from the canon of Roman imperial literature. In the first two chapters of this book I discussed in more detail Roman authors’ representations of Augustus as a changeable chameleon whose unpredictability and ambiguity were sometimes depicted as borderline threatening. When examining twentieth-century historical fiction, it is intriguing to notice how tenable this understanding of the princeps seems to be, and how smoothly it travels in time. In all four of the historical novels that I have discussed here, the reader encounters an interpretation of Augustus as an actor of multiple roles—and a masterful one at that. Dored, Williams, Massie and Fontaine all refer to Suetonius’ famous anecdote concerning Augustus on his deathbed, a story where the emperor demands applause for a comedy well played. Whereas Fontaine repeats Suetonius’ scene almost word for word, others refer to it with several allusions throughout their narratives. Williams, for instance, depicts the aged emperor reflecting on his life with strikingly theatrical metaphors. His Augustus concludes that, whereas a young man sees his life as an epic adventure, and a middle-aged one as a tragedy directed by fate, an old man, if he plays his assigned role properly, must see life as a comedy, for his triumphs and failures merge, and one is no more the occasion for pride or shame than the other ... Like any poor, pitiable shell of an actor, he comes to see that he has played so many parts that there no longer is himself.40

With this variation of Suetonius’ theme, the novel suggests a reading according to which the emperor’s “real” nature is ultimately as great a mystery to himself as it is to his contemporaries and to posterity. Williams’ Augustus is lost in the web of different roles he has played, and he acknowledges the irony of no longer recognizing himself. The idea of the self as a construction of one’s own making and of one’s environment is developed further in Massie’s Augustus, where the narrator calls attention to Augustus’ responsibility for what he has become and what he appears to be. At the end of the novel, the old emperor admits that [w]e are what our actions have made us ... I am what I feel, and I know in my bones that I have been formed by experience and my own deeds. True, I have been driven on by my native genius; but I have made myself by what I have done, and stand responsible for it.41

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In a sense, these words are another way of phrasing the issue pondered in both Williams’ and Vonnegut’s works: is an actor of many roles eventually and inevitably transformed into what he plays? Is there a “true,” or a “real” version of him to be found, buried deep within himself and inaccessible to others, or is he merely “an empty shell,” an imaginary construct and a pretender of reality? Or is this not what everyone is? Once again, it is easy to be reminded of Kurt Vonnegut’s motto that marks his readings of Augustus in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater: “we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful of what we pretend to be.” In the genre of historical fiction, as in Vonnegut’s stylistically rather different novel, Augustus appears to function as a suitable example of someone who is the master of disguise and deception but who eventually loses himself in the role. It is a whole other question whether this is to be considered as a failure and as a proof of his “inauthenticity,” or whether it pinpoints the brutally honest realization that there is nothing underlying or “real” in anyone beyond the performance—that the “self ” per se is an illusion and a lie. The most triumphant role of the princeps, however, is the one in which he completely and irreversibly assimilates himself with the state that he serves. As I speculated earlier, the face and name of Augustus in the modern world could sometimes be simply taken to stand for ancient Rome in general. In historical fiction from the 1950s to the 1980s, this signifier–signified relationship can be clearly observed. The novels of Dored, Williams, Massie, and Fontaine enforce and cultivate the association between the princeps and his Rome, and imply that it was, indeed, the fundamental basis of his achievement and the reason for the stability of his Principate—in the true autocratic spirit of l’Etat, c’est moi. The inseparable connection between Augustus and Rome is expressed, for instance, in Le sang des Césars, when the narrator claims that [a]vec Octave une race nouvelle etait apparue, celle de l’Etat fait homme, du Gouvernement personnalisé, de l’esprit public incarné ... Auguste est l’alpha et l’omega de toute histoire instituionelle et morale de Rome.42

Williams puts it in other words as he has Augustus’ Nicolaus of Damascus state that “Octavius Caesar is Rome; and that, perhaps, is the tragedy of his life.”43 The indissoluble link between Augustus and Rome marks these historical novels’ understanding of the princeps and his self-representation. “Self-representation” might seem like an odd choice of words here, since the historical Augustus himself naturally has little power over the twentieth-century novelists’ readings of him (even if they are somewhat based on his own words in the Res Gestae). The reason I use it is to draw attention to another crucial matter

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that marks the four novels examined here: the role of authorial power when it comes to playing different parts and wearing multiple masks. I suggested above that the way historical fiction depicts it, the stability of Augustus’ Principate was largely due to the assimilation between the princeps and the state. It is crucial to take notice that in none of these four novels is this assimilation represented as accidental—on the contrary, the sense of deliberate planning is emphasized. In the novels written in the latter part of the twentieth century, Augustus appears as a skilled and versatile actor comparable to the one we find in Roman historiography—but in addition to that, in modern historical fiction, he is also the director and the scriptwriter of the show. All the different roles he plays— as Williams lists them, that of a soldier, a scholar, an administrator, a priest, and even a mortal god44—seem to serve different purposes, slowly making him irreplaceable in all spheres of society. This is how Augustus is depicted as making the political life of Rome his stage and as coming to own that stage. In these novels, his self-representation is read and represented as deliberate mythmaking and storytelling that is planned in detail in advance—the “restoration of the Republic” being the crown jewel, of course. Fontaine and Dored, whose general impression of Augustus is less than flattering, particularly emphasize the ways in which the princeps steers and controls the minds of his countrymen—not by force, but by weaving a subtle web of significances based on culturally shared codes. This system of codes derives, in particular, from the distant past of Rome, from its age-old myths and legends.45 In this manner, the emperor utilizes the past to shape the future and cultural identity, with his own person firmly at the center and associated with all that is good and valuable in the vaguely defined “Roman culture.” Therefore, once we look beyond the surface of “conventional” historical fiction, matters of authorial power and semiotic significance actually appear to emerge as rather crucial themes. So crucial, in effect, that I believe my analysis of the phenomenon could benefit from a comparison with Ransmayr’s The Last World, discussed as an example of postmodernist literary discourse in the previous chapter. In Ransmayr’s dystopian tale the world operates in a bipolar way, and the protagonist is caught between the absolute certainties of Augustus’ Rome and the incessant change and fluidity of the remote and liminal Tomis. Thus, on a deeper level of interpretation, “Caesar Augustus’” tyranny stands for a despotic and imperialist approach to meaning, for an attempt to impose one’s reading of the world on others. In Williams’ Augustus, the reader comes across the very same idea, in the journal of the exiled Julia who writes to herself, to make sense of her past. On the small, remote island, in her liminal position

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between existence and non-existence, separated and estranged from everything that used to matter, nothing holds significance anymore. This experience stands in stern contrast to Julia’s previous life. As she states, “[i]n the world from which I came, all was power; and everything mattered.”46 The relationship between meaning and power emerges as the central theme of Williams’ Augustus. It is implied that, stripped to the very core, the pursuit of political power, a mission to which Augustus sacrifices his whole life (and those of others) is nothing more than an attempt to control meanings that people assign to things. This is the underlying reason why terms such as “tyranny” and “dictatorship” carry such frightening connotations and have come to signify such uttermost evil in the diction of Western democracies. Absolute control over the reading of the world, the unquestionable power to prescribe meaning to it, is the ultimate form of suppressing liberty and dialog. Placing one man above others is, in the end, establishing one story as the True and Great one; it is an attempt to amalgamate both authorial and readerly power in one and the same person. This idea, which appears to be the underlying theme of Williams’ novel, is also noticeable, although less explicitly expressed, in Massie’s Augustus. The most important thing that these two, otherwise stylistically quite different works of historical fiction, have in common, is the way in which they both tend to represent Rome—or even more comprehensively, the world—as a literary work attempted at by Augustus. Just as in The Last World, the remote Tomi was its inhabitants’ poem and their work of art, in these works of historical fiction, it is the empire that is Augustus’ masterpiece. Fittingly, it is his self-assessing of this work in his old age that is the most difficult task in his life. Whereas Massie’s Augustus states of Virgil that He thought of Italy and of Rome’s mission as I did; I was born to make his words flesh,47

Williams’ Augustus in a likely manner admits that the world was my poem ... I undertook the task of ordering its parts into a whole.48

Most importantly, Williams’ Augustus openly admits that in this attempt he has been led on first and foremost by his love of power which is ultimately nothing more than a desperate attempt to control meaning in the chaotic world. He speaks of his love of power as the most fundamental, the most basic form of love, stating that

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It is the power that the philosopher has over the disembodied mind of his reader, the power that the poet has over the living mind and heart of his listener ... I have begun to see that it is this kind of love that has impelled me through the years, though it has been necessary for me to conceal the fact from myself as well as from others.49

Thus, in Williams’ analysis, authorial power and political power melt into one and, in the aged Augustus’ reflections of his life, are indeed inseparable. In a sense, this seems like the most honest assessment anyone could make of his life. Hand in hand with this confession, however, goes Augustus’ realization that this can never be an attainable goal. A politician no more than a poet can control the reception of his work—the final power lies in the hands of the reader. This idea is expressed in confusingly similar words in the novels of Massie and Williams—and in both cases, it is done in a narrative voice belonging to one of the most authoritative poets of the Western poetic canon. In Massie’s novel, it is Virgil who instructs Augustus with his doubts about the establishment of his empire: The finished poem is never as good as the poem that was not written; and yet it must be set down as though it were. Every start contains the seed of a new failure, but that is no excuse for not starting.50

In Williams’ novel, in turn, it is Horace who guides Maecenas, admitting that the end that I discover at last is not the end that I conceived at first. For every solution entails new choices, and every choice made poses new problems to which solutions must be found, and so on and on. Deep in his heart, the poet is always surprised at where his poem has gone.51

These are apt reflections on the painful yet inevitable difference between what is planned and what is realized. At the same time, they are a reminder of how the power of the author over his work is limited within the limits of composition. Through the poetic metaphor, Virgil and Horace’s notions also comment on a deeper, more painstaking issue that Augustus is faced with in his old age: even if one is content with one’s text, and even if it turns out exactly as planned, the author has no power over the text beyond its release. Time will take its toll, and future generations will obtain power over the meaning of the work. As soon as the poet, or the playwright, or the director, or the emperor, has an audience, he loses the autocracy that he used to hold over his work of art. The message appears to be the same as in The Last World, discussed in the previous chapter: writing, reading, and constructing a meaning is by nature a democratic process, where there is no

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room for single power. This is the aged Augustus’ bitter realization in Williams’ novel—the understanding that sacrificing one’s life in a pursuit of power is a futile quest leading at best to a hollow victory. But, as he laconically states when contemplating the future demise of the empire he has built, “it does not matter.”52

Last Man Standing: Augustus the Model Politician or Augustus the Usurper? My aim in this chapter is to scrutinize how the multiple roles of Augustus familiar from Roman historiography have influenced twentieth-century historical fiction and how, on the other hand, contemporary cultural and political discourses might have encouraged modern novelists to emphasize certain aspects of his story and to downplay others. While ambiguity and changeability remain the main defining qualities of the princeps in the genre of historical fiction, it is worthwhile to take a look at the potential motives behind this representation. Does the significance of historical fiction lie in its entertainment value, or are there particular contemporary ideas or anxieties that these novels seek to communicate through the character of Caesar Augustus? The tendency to use the Roman past as an historical analog for the Western world (especially for the modern-day America), which I discussed in Chapter 3, is of course a crucial background for the representations of Augustus in any source group from the latter part of the twentieth century. The juxtaposition between Republic and empire (or democracy and despotism), in particular, seems to be something that marks the modern representations of Augustus— unsurprisingly, one might say, since the transition from one to the other can be observed as being embodied in the character of the princeps. It is crucial to notice that while it is most often Julius Caesar who is turned into a warning of the dangers of dictatorship, it is Augustus who actually finished the job and put the Republic in the past for good, while pretending to restore it. In this sense, whereas Caesar might stand for a political ambition that forms a fatal threat to democracy—a wake-up call to all “free” societies—Augustus stands for the situation where it is already too late to stop the train. I suggest this is one of the main reasons for the popularity of Augustus as a topic in historical fiction written from the 1960s to the 1980s—and for his appearance as such an ambivalent character there. Being indisputably one of the most successful politicians in history, Augustus stands for success and achievement; however, at the same time, he is the embodiment of the autocratic

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spirit that finally succeeded in overthrowing the Republic. On many occasions, it seems that the novelists examined in this chapter cannot quite make up their minds about Augustus. Even in Dored’s novel, where he is constructed as the despicable archetype of a tyrant, the narrator seems reluctantly to admire the skill and subtlety with which he was able to rise to the pinnacle of power. Respectively, even in the most positive and compassionate representations of him (those of Williams and Massie), it is unquestionable that Augustus stands for the end of freedom as Rome had known it. Of course, this bipolar attitude towards Augustus is not just a characteristic of historical fiction—because of the ambiguity of the character, it marks Roman historical sources and modern academic studies alike. In the genre of fiction, however, the phenomenon appears to be emphasized even more, due to the endless opportunities for the development of drama that this juxtaposition offers. In the midst of political turmoil and cultural uncertainties of the twentieth century, it seems unclear, to the novelists dealing with Augustus, whether he should appear as a model for outstanding political and tactical skills, or as a grim embodiment of the evil empire that stifles freedom for good. Perhaps it is a combination of these two that ought to be the greatest cause of alarm and fascination. What is truly threatening about the character of Augustus is not only the way he stands for autocracy, but the way he stands for autocracy born out of democracy—and born without a violent revolution or coup d’état. In a sense, the princeps embodies the idea of a single man leading the sleepwalking people on until it is too late to change the course of events. His ability to transform the state entirely while ostensibly respecting Republican institutions and disguising his actions as lawful procedures was, for understandable historical reasons, extremely troubling for the Western world in the mid- and late twentieth century. How deliberate and calculated this process appears to be on Augustus’ part is something on which the interpretations of the four novels differ considerably. In Williams’ Augustus, Octavian seems to be playing it by ear after Caesar’s murder; he is acting instinctively and fumbling in the dark in a political game still unknown to him. In Massie’s Augustus, on the contrary, he already appears as a surprisingly ready and self-confident politician at a young age, and seems to have his plans for the future already laid out.53 Already when forming the triumvirate, he is secretly nursing a hope of turning his newly adopted name “Caesar” into more than a name, “perhaps—more than a King.”54 This sense of ambition and deliberate planning is even more strongly emphasized in Jeg elsket Tiberius. In Dored’s reading, the young Octavian takes his position as Caesar’s heir as a self-

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evident matter, expecting nothing but exceptional grandeur from his future.55 From the very beginning, the establishment of monarchy is part of his plans: the narrator compares the people of Rome to bunches of grapes that Octavian is gathering, planning on storing them safely in the “steady vault of his autocracy.”56 Despite the differences, it is noteworthy that in all of these novels the personal qualities that enable Octavian to abuse the democratic system are strongly determined by modern, Western standards, and that they are, notably, what are often considered as admirable qualities in a successful politician. His patience, calculation and the combination of assertiveness and flexibility could just as well create a good and considerate ruler as a self-absorbed tyrant (in OctavianAugustus’ case, of course, they eventually create both). Perplexingly, what makes Augustus the worst nightmare of the “free world,” also makes him an admirable political player judging by modern standards. This further strengthens the potential link between ancient Rome and the modern Western world. The readerly response that these works of historical fiction seem to encourage and invite is a simultaneous admiration and fear in the face of young Octavian. It is implied that drawn as we are to characters like this, we are not safe from the threat that they pose to our freedom. In a sense, Octavian as he appears in historical fiction, recalls in many ways the modern-day “would-be-Caesars” discussed by Wyke—except that he is, to the reader’s horror, successful in his pursuit of sole power. Octavian’s cunning and skill are made evident in the way he turns his position as an underdog into an advantage. Dored, Williams, Massie and Fontaine all emphasize Octavian’s youth, a quality that was viewed dimly in Roman Republican politics and repeatedly made his opponents underestimate him. This is one of the themes that they pick up directly from Roman historiographic tradition; Suetonius, for instance, reports Octavian’s irritation at being undermined by those who “called him a boy.”57 Williams, in particular, makes the most of this theme. In his novel, both the Republicans and the Caesarians repeatedly underestimate Octavian as a political player, which enables him to advance his plans openly without being viewed as a serious threat.58 In the volatile situation following Caesar’s death, he is extremely cautious and patient. First playing the part of a naïve and sensitive youngster, then of a devoted Republican and a law-abiding citizen, he deceives Rome’s most renowned statesmen into giving his actions a lawful mandate and providing him with the necessary military support.59 It is only after his victory in Mutina that Octavian considers it safe to reveal his true colors, to disobey the Senate and to demand respect from his peers.60

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These events are familiar to us from Roman historiography. In historical fiction, especially in the novels of Williams and Massie, they are dramatized and represented as evidence of Octavian’s supreme political intellect and chameleonlike grace which enables him to adapt to any situation. He is patient enough to wait while his position is uncertain; but as soon as he has enough legions behind him, he does not hesitate to command. Unsurprisingly, this does not make him appear a very sympathetic character—yet there is something about his instinctive manner of acting that evokes as much awe and respect as fear and suspicion. In the novels of Dored, Williams, Massie, and Fontaine, the young triumvir is the master of pretence, a blatant liar and a convincing actor—and this is what his success is based on. From an outstanding and ambitious politician there is a just small step to being a self-absorbed autocrat—at least if one is to believe the readings in the genre of historical fiction. From the novels discussed in this chapter, one derives the impression that whereas Octavian’s cunning and calculation earn him his exceptional position, he uses these same characteristics in his role as an omnipotent autocrat. Unlike in Roman historiography, in modern historical fiction Augustus’ ruthlessness does not seem to diminish significantly after he secures power; however, neither do his tactical skills or his farsightedness. This is most explicitly expressed by Fontaine, who describes the princeps as “diaboliquement rusé.”61 He denies the common misconception that the emperor’s success could be due to divine favor or super-human qualities, and explains it solely by his “exceptionnel sang-froid” and his “sens aigu du possible.”62 Williams’ Julia both blames and admires her father for “that cold efficiency of his”; and even Massie’s Augustus himself admits that what he considers to be an asset, others might see as his “coldness of heart.”63 Thus, the ability to see an opportunity where others do not and, more importantly, the courage to reach it when others might not dare, are the characteristic features of the princeps in these works. Augustus’ ruthlessness is most evident in Jeg elsket Tiberius, where his every action is targeted either at gaining more power or at retaining it, and there is nothing he would not dare to do to achieve his goal. Dored’s reading of the episode concerning Antony’s will is a good example of her way of rewriting the details of ancient history to enforce her unflattering reading of OctavianAugustus. In the Roman historical sources, details about how Octavian obtained the will that turned out to be a pivotal document in his propaganda war against Antony are either vague, lacking, or contradictory. In Dored’s version, Octavian not only breaks into the temple of Vesta by force and single-handedly steals the

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will but, in order to ensure it serves his purpose, presents a fake version to the people of Rome, written by himself.64 This is a prime example of the ways he is depicted throughout the novel as claiming power over the reading of the world, leading the sleepwalking people on, and thus bending democracy to his will. Moreover, in Dored’s reading, this does not change after Octavian secures his power: as Augustus, he rewrites the truth time after time with the help of his lawyers, disguising his violent and illegal actions in a cloak of lawfulness.65 The princeps’ inflexible and absolutist attitude is justified by his conviction of his own righteousness and by his practical, cynical approach to power. Dored’s Augustus believes he is doing the right thing, and cares little for his contemporaries’ assessment, or for posterity. As a reply to his daughter’s accusations, he claims that whereas his work benefits everybody, he expects no gratitude from anybody.66 This side of the princeps obviously strengthens the idea that he is a tyrant and a dictator—but, intriguingly, also that he is a dictator who now is powerful enough not to care about contempt in which he may be held. This Augustus appears as a tyrant who is viewed with contempt in his power, but who does not care how he is labeled. Notably, he recalls the character of Lister Rosewater in God Bless You, Mr Rosewater, whose conviction of the correctness of his own reading of the world is so strong that he does not feel any need to try and convince anyone else. For these characters, it is clear that sooner or later, others will see the “truth” that they have known for so long. This is not the case in all of the novels examined here. Whereas Dored and Fontaine seem to have no problem in representing Augustus as an ancient version of a modern dictator who, after establishing his autocracy has little need to pretend otherwise, Williams and Massie, on the other hand, go to great trouble to understand the viewpoint of such a leader, and to offer him a chance for self-explanation. As noted earlier, control over meaning is the underlying thread in their novels. In Williams’ Augustus the issue of authorial power is raised by depicting the empire as the princeps’ work of art that inevitably slips through his fingers. In Massie’s novel, for its part, the theme is evident in form as well as in content: the composition of the work as Augustus’ autobiography per se implies the emperor’s attempt to control posterity’s readings of him. The most problematic episodes, of course, are those concerning his multiple sins in the civil wars and the means through which he gained the sole rule. In Massie’s Augustus, the emperor repeatedly returns to the topic of the proscriptions of 43 BC, as if to convince either himself or the reader of the necessity of the slaughter. While admitting that what he did back then was a crime, and that his “name is stained with the blood,” he refuses to regret the actions he took, driven by

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the pure motive of “reason of state.”67 Augustus’ final word on the subject make evident both his guilt and his self-righteousness, as he claims that “[d]uty can be a harsh task-mistress,” and that “I cannot put my private conscience above my duty to Rome.”68 Thus, it is always for Rome that Augustus is represented as twisting the truth and spilling blood, never for himself. Time and again the deplorable state of the Republic before his time is emphasized, to make it clear that what he has done was not only right, but the only solution to a crisis that would otherwise have destroyed the state.69 It is notable how, in Massie’s Augustus’ representation of his career, the emperor appears to emphasize one value over others: practicality. His tone is more defiant than apologetic, when he claims his new social and political order must first and foremost “reflect realities.”70 His guideline, which he wishes to pass on to his successors, is to “[b]eware the idealist,” and he does not hide his disdain of the nostalgic sentimentalists of the Republican period.71 Moreover, Massie’s Augustus makes it clear that he has no illusions about how politics works, or about the inadequacy of some of his own actions: I have been in politics long enough to know that there are no solutions, solutions don’t exist, it isn’t a political term, it’s just one damned thing after another.72

The self-reflexive, even self-explanatory, tone of Williams’ and Massie’s emperors is most evident in the ways in which both of these novels retell the Res Gestae Divi Augusti. In Williams’ Augustus, the princeps’ last letter to Nicolaus of Damascus is, in terms of themes and content, clearly modeled after the Res Gestae. Augustus contemplates his achievements and the work he has done for Rome—he takes credit for restoring stability at home and for strengthening the borders of the empire, and he does not forget to point out the many administrative and legal reforms that he believes have benefitted the people.73 In these remarks, Augustus’ narrative voice imitates the emperor’s literary testament in great detail. The allusion is even more thinly concealed in Massie’s Augustus where, in the latter part of the novel, the emperor marches through the most relevant passages of his Res Gestae chapter by chapter, commenting on it and explaining himself.74 The most problematic, obviously, are the passages where he argues for his position as head of state. As in Augustus’ own Res Gestae, in Massie’s novel too, the reader can observe the emperor’s attempt to justify his rule by convincing the reader that he is indeed a lawful Republican father of the state and not a tyrant or a despot. He compares the democracy of Rome to the Parthian monarchy, stating that [w]hen I restored the Republic, I was entrusted with its care and management by my fellow-senators.75

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On another occasion, he emphasizes that all my powers rested firmly on regular laws passed in the Senate. They in no way offended the principles of the Republic, and, as I have already observed, on several subsequent occasions, I declined the dictatorship.76

These passages echo almost word for word Augustus’ claims concerning the legality of his power in the Res Gestae. Thus, in these works of historical fiction, the emphasis of Augustus’ self-explanation quite naturally is on the lawful basis of the monarchy he has established, which he seeks to represent as a solution beneficial to the entire patria and the people.77 Nevertheless, even though Massie and Williams give the emperor a voice of his own and an opportunity to explain himself, it seems that their authorial voices are not necessarily always in line with that of Augustus’ own. When reading their retelling of the Res Gestae Divi Augusti, one might wonder whether it is the projected reader or indeed himself that the aged emperor is trying to convince, when he claims that [n]o great state can allow absolute liberty, because such liberty in fact threatens to destroy liberty. It breeds fear, dissension, unbridled ambition78

and that liberty is only good when it is obedient to the law ... No state can exist without an organizing intelligence.79

In the end, it remains for the reader to decide what to believe. What can be stated for certain is that in the way Massie, in particular, represents Augustus, it seems that the emperor is all but indifferent to the judgement of posterity and to the countless subsequent readings of his life and work. How, then, does this need for self-reflection and self-justification fit with the idea of Augustus as a proto-dictator in the world of the twentieth century? At first glance, the compulsive need to explain his actions that marks the character in two out of these four novels weakens Augustus’ authority as an omnipotent autocrat who wields sole power over meaning—it is a clear sign that he cares about the judgement of posterity after all. By acknowledging the readerly power of posterity, Williams’ and Massie’s Augustus lets go of some of his authorial power in constructing his version of Rome. He admits that his truth is relative and can be understood in different ways; that his story can also be told in other words. This realization seems to cause the aged emperor distress and anxiety towards the end of his life. However, it is necessary to point out that at the same time, this very same characteristic of Augustus’ can also be used to polish his public image and to

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represent him as a model politician, indeed as an admirably upright human being. The most blatant example of this is a brief mention in Massie’s “editor’s foreword,” where his external narrator and fictitious classical scholar Aeneas Fraser-Graham directly compares Augustus’ self-representation to a couple of most infamous politicians of the latter part of the twentieth century. Dr Fraser-Graham states that one has only to read memoirs of modern political sinners such as ex-President Nixon or ex-Premier Wilson, whose confessions never rise beyond their own justification, to admire the flinty dignity with which Augustus refuses to deny the truth.80

The author allows himself this anachronism in order to represent Caesar Augustus as a moral yardstick for modern “political sinners”—for all those twentieth century would-be Caesars who could not dream of reaching the level of sincerity that Augustus stands for. This is perhaps the most striking example in this entire book of the ways in which Augustus could be utilized in the context of the modern world—it is certainly the most direct comparison between the Roman past and the Western present that I have been able to find. The author’s need to reconstruct Augustus as an ideal, dignified, sincere politician denotes his conviction that there is a need for this kind of a moral exemplum in his contemporary world. For educational or inspirational purposes, the novel recreates a romantic and unrealistic idea of the Roman past and juxtaposes it with corrupt modernity. If a Roman emperor, the unquestionable autocrat and the champion of the civil war, has integrity and enough backbone to admit his sins and his shortcomings, what is the excuse of liars such as Nixon and Wilson? Thus, in Massie’s reading of the princeps, Augustus’ crimes actually end up improving his public image. Paradoxically, the emperor becomes more than a model politician—he becomes a symbol of the imaginary “uncorrupted” period of time, the antiquity where even tyrants and dictators at least had the guts to admit to their sins.

Familiarizing the Emperor At the start of this chapter, I admitted having for most of my life had a somewhat complicated relationship with the genre of historical fiction. It is probably fair to admit that not only is this because of the genre’s innate lack of relativism—it is also partly due to the way it relates to academic historical studies. One of the particular characteristics of historical fiction is quite naturally the author’s unlimited power to imagine the effects of recorded historical events on recorded historical people, to relate their feelings, thoughts, and reactions. This

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sentimental filter through which the past is observed is what makes historical novels a somewhat uncomfortable read for many historians, myself included. Nevertheless, I suggest there is a more profound, underlying reason for academic historians’ discomfort than simply the fact that the novelists’ inventions are considered “untrue” or unverified. After all, is it not namely this sort of reimagining of the past that underlines the fact that history is always someone’s reconstruction and someone’s story? The difference between a historian and a novelist is the novelist’s unlimited freedom to make the most of this; with no need to justify himself, he takes advantage of his artistic freedom and conveys his own interpretation of the past, sometimes down to the detailed depiction of feelings and emotions of historical figures. For the historian, who is embroiled in source criticism and his preoccupation with subjectivity, this might appear as a direct insult, or at the very least it might make it difficult to enjoy the novel. In Augustus’ case, his exceptional and eventful life obviously provides the novelists with endless opportunities to put their interpretative skills to good use. Moreover, the gaps in the historical sources written about him provide even greater opportunities. Although we have plentiful information concerning Augustus’ political career (and his family affairs too), Roman literary sources are of little help when one wishes to study the private persona and character of the emperor. In Chapter 2, I criticized Augustus’ own Res Gestae for being devoid of character; with its focus firmly on the princeps’ achievements, it deliberately hides the human being from view. Needless to say, the work is not alone in this respect; Suetonius’ De vita Caesarum and Dio’s Roman history aside, Roman authors pay little attention to Augustus’ innermost character—not to mention his feelings or his emotions. This is hardly surprising, of course, due as it is to the requirements of the genre and to the aims of these works. In Roman historiography, the emperor’s political achievements are understandably considered more important than his personal relationship with his daughter, for instance. This lack of information concerning the private thoughts and feelings of the emperor is a problem that historical fiction written in the latter part of the twentieth century makes its business to solve. In a lively manner, all four novels that I have discussed in this chapter construct a vivid image of Augustus’ private life, providing him with characteristics that are sometimes sympathetic, at other times off-putting, and that frequently appear to serve a purpose of making this distant character somehow understandable and relatable to the modern reader. This phenomenon is the strongest in the works of Williams and Massie, where one can hear Augustus’ own narrative voice, but it is strongly present also in the less flattering accounts of Dored and Fontaine.

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As noted earlier in this chapter, in all of the four novels, despite their differing attitudes towards Augustus’ reign, the princeps comes off as a somewhat tragic character. It is implied that power and success as great as his never come for free, and that their price can usually be found in the field of private life and family affairs. This of course, could be criticized for being a somewhat condescending and essentializing reading; without questioning the absolutism of their interpretation, the authors take their own culturally bound ideas of the world and of the human experience and apply them to ancient Rome, without criticism or consideration for the particular contemporary value systems or for the historical context. Be that as it may, it is a prevalent way of reading in these novels, and one that actually greatly influences their representations of Augustus in all areas of his life. A crucial part of this reading is the deep-rooted idea that the princeps sacrificed everyone around him at the altar of politics and Rome. In the most cynical depictions, such as Fontaine’s, those closest to the emperor exist only to be used by him. Fontaine’s Julia notes without much bitterness that it is impossible for her father to love anyone besides the state, his love-child.81 The emperor’s possessive affection of his family and friends is emphasized again later, when it is stated that [il] aime avec force et sincerité ceux qui servent ce dessein, mais il ne peut aimer que ceux-la et pour le temps où ils servent.82

This thought appears recurrently in the other three novels too. In Dored’s version, Julia suffers bitterly for being a political tool in her father’s game, and she is not the only one. Agrippa too, expresses his frustration at playing the part of Augustus’ right-hand man whose fate is to be constantly used and manipulated by the princeps. He complains bitterly about having dedicated his entire life to Augustus, and doubts if he has ever meant anything to him other than as a stepping stone to power.83 As I pointed out earlier, a few remarkable events in particular in Augustus’ life seem to have marked him as particularly cold-hearted, calculating and opportunistic in the eyes of the modern readers (or at least, in the eyes of these modern authors). The first of these took place during the civil war, with the treaty of Brundisium in 40 BC. Octavian’s decision to seal the treaty with Antony by marrying his sister Octavia off to him caused consternation among ancient Roman historians. According to the depictions, of Appian, Plutarch and Dio, while Octavia was a faultless wife, Antony in turn was a terrible husband, an incurable drunkard and a womanizer.84 It is implied that the marriage was

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doomed and that Octavian knew this all too well when giving his virtuous sister away. In modern historical fiction, the episode is often treated as a prime example of Octavian’s tendency to put his own political advantage before the happiness of those closest to him. Dored’s Julia considers the marriage as a manifestation of her father’s cold-heartedness and cruelty.85 Massie’s Augustus, for his part, wrestles with his conscience when looking back on the incident. He states that “I knew I was doing wrong, and yet it was what had to be done,” “not for myself ... For Rome. For the whole world.”86 When the aged emperor looks back on the final fallout between himself and Antony, and on Octavia’s role as a failed mediator, he admits to having felt terrible guilt for putting his faultless sister in such a position.87 Thus, whereas Dored’s novel simply represents Augustus as a cold-hearted monster who sacrifices those closest to him with ease in order to gain more power, Massie’s reading of the same event attempts to show another aspect of the incident. Again, in his version, Augustus’ actions are not explained or justified further; but the pity, grief and guilt that the emperor is shown to feel years afterwards contribute to Massie’s depiction of a tragic character. The same theme that is evident in the Octavia incident is developed further in another episode which, in the works of historical fiction, is without a doubt the nadir of Augustus’ tragic family life: the exile of Julia. In all four novels Julia’s tragic fate becomes one of the main events that structure the plotline; it is connected to everything, and is repeatedly referred to as if to make it an indissoluble component of the princeps’ identity. In Williams’ and Fontaine’s works, Julia is one of the internal narrators who appears most frequently; in Dored’s novel, she is the only one. The popularity of the story, presumably, is largely due to the drama and the surprise element that it contains, as well as to the cloud of mystery around the entire incident. Since the reasons for Julia’s exile remain obscure, the authors have complete freedom to interpret the event as they wish and to rewrite this part of Roman history as they choose. Unsurprisingly, this means that in just the four novels discussed in this chapter, the reader comes across several different versions of the story. In Williams’ version, Augustus sacrifices his daughter to reveal a violent conspiracy with which she is connected and, although Julia herself seems to be innocent, sends her away to prevent the collapse of the state into another civil war.88 In Fontaine’s version, it is implied that Julia was an active participant in a conspiracy which threatened the emperor’s life, even if she is reluctant to admit this, even to herself.89 Dored, for her part, in her attempt to underline the tyranny of Augustus’ reign, depicts Julia as an innocent victim and blames her exile on Livia’s treachery and malevolence and on Augustus’ love of power.90

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Julia’s tragic fate is probably the episode where the emperor’s personal feelings and emotions become most apparent in these novels. Moreover— perhaps because the tragic fate of losing a child is considered to be a universally relatable human experience—it is the episode where one can most clearly observe these novels’ attempts to make Augustus appear human behind his public façade, and even to encourage the modern reader to relate to him. Again, the attempt clearly lacks historical relativism and sensitivity to particular cultural circumstances; however, it is intriguing to see how determined the novelists seem to be to make the emperor appear something other than a hollow embodiment of power. The greatest tragedy of Augustus’ life is elaborately underlaid by emphasizing the warm and affectionate relationship between the princeps and his daughter when all was still well. Williams stresses the deep, even mad love that Augustus feels for his only daughter; he represents Julia as the only thing that the emperor cares for as deeply as he cares for the state—or, tragically enough, almost as much.91 The connection between Julia and Rome is evident also in the other three novels. In all of them, the two are depicted as the two things unconditionally loved by the emperor, and as the two things between which he has to choose. Dored’s Augustus speaks of Julia and Rome as his two daughters, and of not knowing which of the two has caused him more trouble and grief.92 In Williams’ Augustus, the emperor repeatedly refers to Julia as his “little Rome,” and finally ends up completely assimilating the two, stating that “[t]he fate of one may be the fate of the other.”93 In effect, by creating an indissoluble link between Julia and Rome, these works of historical fiction make the greatest sacrifice of the emperor’s life— exiling his only child in order to protect the stability of the state—appear as a rather straightforward and calculated choice of one over the other. Augustus received the title of pater patriae, the father of the country, in AD 2, soon after Julia’s exile. In Williams’ novel, he looks back on this honor and cynically states that “I exchanged one daughter for another, and the adoptive daughter acknowledged that exchange.”94 Julia’s exile, then, is represented as a Sophie’s choice for Augustus, and fittingly, one that he never gets over. He cannot regret choosing Rome over Julia, yet he can never completely forgive himself for doing so. However, it is made clear in these novels that, no matter how mercilessly the princeps might sacrifice everyone around him, he is himself the greatest sacrifice he makes at the altar of Rome. This is explicitly stated by Agrippa in his bitter speech to Julia in Jeg elsket Tiberius.95 It is also repeatedly implied in Williams’

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Augustus, where the aged emperor admits to having been a mere instrument of the order he has established.96 The same idea is expressed in Le sang des Césars, too, as the narrator points out that despite all, nobody could or should accuse Augustus of egoism, considering the passion and devotion with which the emperor has given himself entirely to Rome.97 Obviously, this sacrifice comes at the expense of Augustus’ personal happiness, and this is what ultimately labels him as a tragic hero in these works of historical fiction.98 The realization of the immensity of his sacrifice is probably best expressed in Massie’s Augustus, when the old emperor looks back on his great achievement, the end of the civil war and his triple triumph in 29 BC. He states that [w]ar and politics had eaten up the youth I had never had leisure to enjoy ... I had thrown away my youth only for this vain show of power ... a sense of waste, futility, of a life as barren and infertile as the desert, swept over me.99

Yet, knowing the depth of his sacrifice, Augustus cannot bring himself to regret his choice. It is his destiny, after all, that he has decided not to ignore. Although in these novels, there is never a doubt in Augustus’ mind about whether or not he has followed the right path, he is undeniably a rather melancholic and tragic character towards the end of his life. This is, of course, a rather usual pattern in the Western literary tradition: an archetype of a tragic warrior who fulfils his destiny but loses himself in the process. In a sense, it can be considered the polar opposite of the kind of an absurd hero that Eliot Rosewater and Ransmayr’s Cotta represent—a hero who forfeits his destiny and rebels against the predetermined meanings of the world. It would appear that all of the novelists discussed here utilize Augustus to convey a very culturally bound message about the price of success and power. By doing this, they also attempt to construct Augustus as a more humane character—if not relatable to the modern reader, then at least someone whom the reader can empathize with. The heavy price of success is perhaps most explicitly stated in Massie’s Augustus, where the old emperor admits that [p]arts of me are dead. They don’t feel a thing. A moral numbness. Yes, sometimes, I’ve had to cultivate that. But we all kill part of ourselves.100

Williams raises exactly the same theme in his work, having Augustus reminisce about the civil war, and about the suicide of his friend Salvidienus Rufus. The emperor states that “[p]erhaps we all died then, when we were young.”101

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The Faustian idea that an extraordinarily successful individual would have to make a deal with the devil and sacrifice his immortal soul or the goodness of his heart can be heard loud and clear in these mid- and late-twentieth-century interpretations of Augustus. There is undoubtedly something very romantic about the tragedy of a great man who buys his empire with the lives of his nearest and dearest—and with his own life. In the character of Augustus as it is represented in historical fiction, public and private are not conflicted but complementary: Caesar Augustus the Roman emperor signifies success and stability. Success and stability require sacrifices. Sacrifices cause suffering. Hence, Augustus’ private side as a lonely and tragic warrior and his public image as the successful ruler of the Roman world are not that far away from each other—actually, they are just two sides of the same coin, dependent on one another. In the foreword to the second half of the book, Massie’s fictitious editor Aeneas Fraser-Graham claims that “this greatest of Romans felt himself to be in so many respects unfulfilled, even a failure.”102 Most striking in Massie’s depiction is that his Augustus seems somehow to have very little trust in his own power to shape his fate, in spite of his powers to shape the world. He blames the Fates for destroying his joy in living but considers this to be an apt punishment for his own crimes.103 In the same powerless and laconic tone he states that [w]hom the Gods love die young, and I am old. Fortune and misfortune rattle against each other throughout my life like dice in a box, they fall to the table as capriciously.104

In this final statement, Augustus seems to give up on pursuing the basest form of power to which he has dedicated his whole life—the power over meaning. In retrospect, he cannot understand his life, and there is little hope in his words about posterity making sense of it either. The realization that his powers to shape anything, even his own life and aftermath, are limited, is the defining characteristic of Williams’ aged emperor too. He considers his life a sad comedy over which he wields very little power compared to fate and the chance. He is lonely, worn out by the struggle, alone and isolated.105 After all, it seems that this moment—the giving up of power and the pursuit of it—is the most tragic, cathartic and defining moment in the tragic hero’s life. When discussing Augustus’ story as represented in these novels and its connections to the Western storytelling tradition, it is of course worth noting that there is more than a touch of American dream in the Augustus of historical fiction—an inexperienced youngster who makes his name and his fame starting from scratch, without money, political support or military power, relying

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only on the name of his famous great-uncle. Of course, this is far from being the whole story; yet it is what these authors, writing from their own cultural perspectives choose to convey. The great sacrifices that Augustus was willing to make, together with his skill and intelligence, in a sense make him a very traditional Western hero. Yet, the great paradox about his character is that while this champion of the Western world may appear as an ideal politician whose skill and achievement evoke admiration and awe, at the same time his ruthlessness, nerve, and his mere achievement are represented as somehow threatening and frightening. All in all, the character of Augustus in historical fiction appears to embody the controversial and conflicted emotions towards the concept of “empire” in the Western world of the mid- and late twentieth century—it, like him, is simultaneously something irresistibly fascinating, and utterly to be condemned.

6

Augustus on Screen

In any study dealing with the cultural constructions of meaning in the Western world in the twentieth century, the power and significance of the film and media industry cannot be over-emphasized. The decades following World War II witnessed a boom in the film industry that came to mark Western cultural memory and identity profoundly. Movies were an independent art form that reflected and commented on the literary traditions of the previous decades, but also recreated and constructed cultural narratives of their own. The power of Hollywood in the shaping of the modern imagination and the Western identity has been immense, as it has been in the shaping of modern audiences’ ideas of the past. Television, for its part, can be considered one of most important cultural revolutions of the twentieth century. Compared to cinema, it took the democratic approach to art and entertainment to the next level. The fact that almost anybody could enjoy movies in the privacy of their own home profoundly shaped the idea about the nature of art. While the oversupply of entertainment and its easy accessibility on the one hand brought about postmodern cynicism concerning the “consumption” of art, and deepened the gap between the “high” and “low” art forms, on the other hand, television can be considered to have been the greatest democraticizing force in Western popular culture before the age of the internet. Paradoxically, while television created a false illusion of a “universal” experience (an idea of everyone watching the same live feed at the same time in their own homes), it also had a great part in the development of the ever-accelerating and fast-paced information society and in the disintegration of culture due to the increasing amount of information.1 Due to their massive success, wide distribution, and easy accessibility both cinema and television were able to reach millions of people in a relatively short time decades before the age of the internet. Therefore, their importance for the construction of cultural ideas, and for the development of entire structures of

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codes, cannot be underestimated. Rightly and deservedly, screen representations have now had a crucial position in semiotic studies for decades.2 When examining modern reconstructions of Caesar Augustus, I have stressed the importance of the relationship between the author and the reader, and of the negotiation of a balance of power between the two. I have attempted to show how the meanings given to Augustus in postmodern literary culture are defined at least as much by the audience as they are by the authors of the works in question. The fact that the modern reader does not merely passively receive the images constructed by the author (ancient or modern) is exactly what enables the emperor to travel in time and to find a new sounding board in a cultural environment very different from his own. In other words, the survival of Augustus is dependent on the ways each generation creates multiple new Augusti, modeled after the socio-political atmosphere, the personal experiences of the reader, and his previous ideas about the Roman past. Naturally, this principle applies as much, if not more so, to screen representations of Augustus as it does to literature. When it comes to the relationship between the author and the reader or viewer, and to the negotiation of power in creating the meaning of the text, film and television series can be tricky objects of study. On the one hand, they have sometimes been characterized as art forms where the viewpoint of the director is dominant, and his authorial power over meaning of the work almost autocratic and imperialist. This is because camera work determines the audience’s experience, dictating what is important and what is not. As Susan Sontag notes, “the camera is an absolute dictator,” and the viewer only ever sees what he is allowed to see— unlike in theater, where the audience’s gaze is free to wander and select what to focus on.3 The author’s attempt at controlling his audience’s experience and interpretation is something that the art of moviemaking has in common with the traditional art of fiction writing—in the realistic novel of the nineteenth century, a prime example of the “readerly” text, the limits of the narrative set frames to the reader’s experience. Be that as it may, whereas in literature, the simplistic distinction between readerly and writerly texts is not always easy (let alone productive) to make, in screen art the situation is also more complex than may at first appear. Without going into detail about the kinds of films that deliberately disrupt the narrative and challenge the director’s viewpoint and authorial power, it could be argued that in more “conventional” movies and television screenings too, despite the director’s omnipotent gaze, the interpretative power over the meaning of the work is still largely in the eye of the beholder. The vision and the intention of the screenwriter, or the director, are never quite the same as what

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the viewer makes out of the work. Actually, this interaction between the director and the audience can be considered a prerequisite for screen art’s coming into existence. As Sless puts it, “[t]elevision programmes are made by their creators, producers and performers, but a programme only really exists as a process of communication when it is watched or ‘consumed’ by the audience.”4 This interaction and negotiation of power relationships between the author and the reader is of primary importance when looking into the meanings given to Caesar Augustus in film and television. In this chapter, I look at screen representations of the first emperor dating from the 1960s to the early twenty-first century. I discuss the many faces of Augustus in film and television in respect of the literary works examined in the previous chapters. When it comes to comparing the literary and screen representations in different genres, it is important to notice how the distinction between “high” and “popular” art—ostensible as it is—is at play here and easily impacts one’s reading. In a sense, the mere volume and distribution of screen representations gives them more authority in shaping our ideas of the past. It is a plausible argument that Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra, for instance, has had a deeper impact on the Western cultural imagination in terms of Roman history than Ransmayr’s The Last World, and that for this reason alone, it wields a greater influence over ideas of Augustus in the Western world of today. However, it is also important to note that the interpretations of the past represented in movies and television series are always built on the literary tradition and its different readings of history—beginning with Roman historians and reaching through two millennia to our own day. What can be observed in the screen representations about Roman history is that they rarely seem to invent anything entirely new—rather, they recycle and retell interpretations of Augustus that one can find in literary sources, thus enforcing those readings and making them familiar to a wider audience. Particularly clear is the connection between films, television series and historical novels; they often seem to utilize very similar narrative techniques to “deconstruct” and “familiarize” the historical figure of the first emperor. What is characteristic of these art forms is that they seek the human being behind the public figure, emphasizing the contrast between Augustus’ political success and his private tragedies (sometimes at the expense of historical accuracy). In this sense, they can be considered to belong to the same essentializing narrative tradition of utilizing the ancient past to understand and explain the human experience in the contemporary world. The first part of this chapter deals with two hugely popular screen productions that find their topics in ancient Rome, Joseph Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra (1963)

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and the BBC’s television adaptation of Robert Graves’ I, Claudius (1976). These productions are very different in genre, one being a large-scale Hollywood epic focusing on the fates of a few central characters, and the other a rather long television series with a wide time frame and a massive cast. Due to their popularity, both of them, however, had a powerful impact on the ways in which the modern audience perceived (and continue to perceive) this crucial period in Roman history—and on the meanings we still give to Augustus today. In both of them, Octavian/Augustus is a side character, utilized to reflect certain qualities of other characters or of the Roman state and culture in general. This offers a useful starting point for an analysis about the semiotic link between Augustus and Rome in the modern imagination. I compare these productions with a third, less popular screen representation of Augustus, British Granada Television’s mini-series The Caesars (1968). Released in roughly the same period as Cleopatra and I, Claudius, its approach to Roman history was very different. Filmed entirely in black and white, with a plotline that was almost directly adopted from the Roman historical sources, the series follows more in the footsteps of the Shakespearean than the Hollywood tradition. This makes it an intriguing parallel and a point of comparison for Cleopatra and I, Claudius, neither of which is lacking in drama, pathos or sentimentalism. In the second part of this chapter, I take a leap from the mid-twentieth century to the turn of the millennium, and compare the aforementioned works with four television productions from the early twenty-first century: Cleopatra (1999), Imperium: Augustus (2003), Empire (2005), and Rome (2005–2007). While out of these, only HBO’s Rome has received worldwide popularity and critical acclaim, the mere existence of these works and the number of screen representations of Augustus’ story speak for the renewed interest in the princeps at the turn of the millennium. My analysis of this “new wave of Caesar Augustus” offers a point of comparison to the phenomenon in the postmodern period, and paves the way for a discussion about what the future might have in store for the emperor.

From Cleopatra to Claudius: Bringing Augustus to the Masses Joseph Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra is one of the most lavish, expensive and grandiose historical dramas ever made. It was a spectacle upon its release in 1963, and it remains so to this day, over half a century later. With this movie, Mankiewicz took a step away from the strictly Shakespearean approach with which he had

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experimented ten years before with his adaptation of Julius Caesar (1953). While the main events of the script were based on Roman historical sources, Cleopatra invested in drama and interpretation—with camera angles and close-ups, the emotional turmoil of the queen was captured and cultivated to a whole new level, unforeseen in adaptations of the classical past.5 In terms of theme and genre, Mankiewicz’s Hollywood epic followed in the footsteps of blockbusters Ben-Hur and Spartacus; however, its reception among the critics was not as favorable. Commercially, too, the movie was a huge disappointment to Twentieth Century Fox—despite being the highestearning movie of 1963, it failed to recoup the sums of money invested.6 The negative reception of the film notwithstanding, Cleopatra quickly gained, and has maintained, cult status in Hollywood history—not least due to Elizabeth Taylor’s magnetic performance in the title role, and to Taylor and Burton’s scandalous affair which was sparked during the production. All in all, Cleopatra might not be the best, most historically accurate or even artistically creative screen representation of Roman history—but it is certainly one of the most influential when it comes to shaping ideas of the Roman civil war in the Western imagination. It is the charismatic character of Cleopatra that largely holds the movie together from beginning to the end. The Romans are all peripheral characters, as the narrative is strongly dominated by the viewpoint of the queen—an intriguing interpretative element, considering that this is a viewpoint that is lacking from all the historical sources known to us. In comparison to Cleopatra, every other character in the movie (perhaps with the exception of Burton’s Antony) is completely overshadowed—and arguably no other more so than Roddy McDowall’s Octavian. Due to Cleopatra’s dominant viewpoint, Octavian understandably appears as the villain of the movie. He is represented as the merciless persecutor of the queen and as the snake in Cleopatra and Antony’s paradise. Moreover, it is not just Octavian’s actions that mark him out as a dislikeable character, but also, and more importantly, the way the film represents his nature and his character. Mankiewicz’s Octavian comes across as an arrogant and inexperienced youngster who seems to take his position as Caesar’s heir as a self-evident matter. Not only does he call himself Caesar when addressing the senate; he claims to be him, thus completely erasing any distinction between himself and his political paragon. “I had inherited the name,” he claims, “I made it mine.” Octavian’s attempt to claim power over meaning and definition, and to control his countrymen’s readings of himself for his own political advantage is therefore made evident in Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra.

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Octavian’s self-representation is, in Cleopatra, strongly contrasted with the director’s view of him. With several little details in his manner and his behavior, the story aims to denote how different from his heroic predecessor Octavian really is. Nowhere is this as evident as in the big battle scenes; when it is his time to play Caesar, Octavian reveals his “true” nature as a sickly boy and spends most of the time feeling ill in his tent or in his cabin. Therefore, the script of Cleopatra selects historical details about the young Octavian that reinforce a reading of him as an arrogant weakling whose success is mostly due to a lucky accident and to other people’s mistakes. This interpretation stands in stark contrast to most literary representations of him. While Octavian’s physical weakness is mentioned by most of the Roman sources, the dominant reading in all of them is that his success was due to his tactical skills, his ruthlessness and his ability to keep a low profile when needed. As noted in the previous chapter, this is also the reading conveyed by the modern fictional accounts of him, even the least flattering ones. Mankiewicz’s Octavian, instead, is something completely different: a ruffian and a populist, a cheap demagogue and an agitator who does not seek to avoid drawing attention to himself in a very melodramatic manner. Most intriguingly, this gives him an edge that is usually lacking from his calm and calculating character in many literary sources. Where Cleopatra is in line both with the ancient sources and with the fictional literary accounts about Octavian, however, is the way it represents the young triumvir as a masterfully skilled manipulator of other people’s minds and actions. The best example is probably the scene in the movie where the triumvirs are dividing the empire between themselves. With subtle hints, dramatic pauses and scanty dialogue the director shows Octavian getting exactly what he wants, while keeping Antony under the impression that he is willingly giving it to him. Octavian as a diabolic puppet master who has a natural skill for steering the minds of both his allies and his enemies is something that is clearly evident in the genre of historical fiction, too, as noted in the previous chapter. In a sense, Cleopatra can be observed as belonging to the same narrative tradition of reading ancient Rome as Williams’ and Massie’s novels about Augustus. Since the movie precedes them both, it is not overly bold to assume that Mankiewicz’s reading, as widely distributed as it was, had some sort of an impact on the ways these novels dealt with the Roman sources and constructed the character of Octavian. Another factor relating to Octavian’s character that one can easily find in the historical novels of Dored, Williams, Massie, and Fontaine, is the young triumvir’s ambition and hunger for power. In the latter half of the film, Cleopatra repeatedly warns Antony about Octavian’s ambition. This is something that

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Antony himself finally comes to realize, but when he does, the enemy has already become too powerful to be defeated. With a great deal of foresight, Antony claims that Octavian is led by his intense longing to “rule the Roman world as emperor and god.” Thus, Octavian’s character is, in Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra, strongly constructed as a reflection of the emperor that he will become, and all his actions and his character traits appear to derive from his certainty and his obsession about his destiny. What distinguishes Cleopatra from the other epic Hollywood spectacles about ancient Rome produced in the mid-twentieth century—Ben-Hur, Quo Vadis, Spartacus, and Julius Caesar—is that it does not seem to fit well in with the ideological spirit of the time. In Cleopatra, the juxtaposition between the virtuous Republic and the evil empire as a historical analog to the competition between the “free” world of the West and the fascist/communist dictatorships is not so clearly at play, as it is in these other movies. In Mankiewicz’s reading, the Roman Republic has already drawn its last breath. The empire is to come, and the question at hand is merely whether it is Rome or Alexandria that gets to play the caput mundi. This is evident in Cleopatra’s dreams of combining the might of Rome and Egypt, a dream that she first wishes to bring to fruition through an alliance with Julius Caesar and, after his death, with Mark Antony. And while Octavian does everything he can to represent himself to the senate and the people of Rome as a polar opposite to the royalism of Cleopatra’s Egypt, it is clear to the viewer that he is merely fishing for their support to carry through his own plans—plans that also inevitably include a monarchy and an empire. Thus, if one is to read the Hollywood spectacles of ancient history as cold war allegories, one could conclude that Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra to some extent questions the “freedom” and the democratic spirit of the Western world as well as its dictatorial enemies. The ideology of the movie largely revolves around the inevitable demise of the Republican spirit and it observes the world as a battlefield of empires, not as a negotiation between freedom and slavery. In the final episode of the movie, where Octavian looks down on the gold-adorned body of the queen, the viewer might have the impression that it matters little which one of the two is the winner and which the loser. In the place of an Oriental kingdom there will be a Western empire—but it remains vague and unclear what the difference between the two will be in the end. BBC’s I, Claudius differs from Cleopatra—and from most of the fictional portraits of Augustus—as it depicts only the aged emperor, and leaves the young triumvir almost completely undiscussed. The series was a big hit for the BBC on its release in 1976. Despite its relatively modest budget (the costs were cut down

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by filming almost all the scenes in a studio), it enjoyed great popularity and quickly achieved a cult following not only in Britain, but in the canon of Western popular culture more generally. The television series surpassed Robert Graves’ novel of the same name in popularity, and it is probably not an exaggeration to claim that it has been one of the most influential individual works of screen art to shape European and American audiences’ ideas about Roman antiquity in the past forty years. This obviously means that I, Claudius has also had a great impact on how modern Western audiences in the latter part of the twentieth century came to think of emperor Augustus—regardless of the fact that in the series, Augustus is very much a peripheral character and does not have a significant role in most of the plot lines. He features in the first four episodes, in each of them for less than a half of the entire fifty-minute duration of an episode. Augustus’ role as a peripheral character is naturally due to the setting of the series; the story is told in the internalized narrating voice of emperor Claudius, who reminisces about his life and his family’s fortunes. Since the show is from the outset more focused on the later events of the Julio-Claudian era, Augustus’ role is to be first and foremost an observer whose adventures are already behind him. The most significant factor that affects the representation of the emperor in the series is that, since the events take place in a political atmosphere where monarchy is already a fait accompli, Augustus’ exceptional position needs no justification but is taken for granted. The young Octavian and his struggles in the civil war are never discussed other than in passing. In I, Claudius, Augustus’ reformation of the body politic is complete and, apart from some unrealistic nostalgia for the days of the Republic, he receives neither praise nor blame for it. Notably, because Augustus’ struggles in the civil war are pushed to the background, his authority is also lacking in I, Claudius. The aged emperor appears as a sympathetic and pitiable fool who has lost his touch with the reality of politics and is mercilessly misled and manipulated by people around him. Much like in Fontaine’s Le sang des Césars, those closest to Augustus are incessantly plotting around him and waiting for his death. It is much as the princeps himself states in the first episode, “I’m supposed to rule an empire and I can’t even rule my own family.” Already in episode two it is implied that the emperor is losing his grip due to old age. Everyone in Rome apart from Augustus appears to be aware of Julia’s scandalous lifestyle. And it is not just the emperor’s daughter who makes a mockery of his marriage laws—they appear to be the laughing stock of the entire court and the people. Livia, who appears as the arch-villain in the

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series, manipulates her husband as she pleases, ridiculing his obliviousness and sentimentality. Hence, the immeasurable power achieved by the emperor as the pater patriae and as the head of the state is tragically juxtaposed with his lack of authority in his family. As the emperor himself states, “[t]here are places in the world where they’ve made a god out of me, but my own family have made me a fool.” Therefore, the aged Augustus as he is represented in I, Claudius is emasculated and stripped of his powers—but also, and perhaps more importantly, of his ambitions. It is crucial to note that Augustus appears not just as a weakened old lion; first and foremost he appears as a man who has achieved everything that there is to be achieved and who therefore does not care about the struggle for power anymore. His interests still lie in keeping the empire as stable as possible, but—much as in Massie’s and Williams’ novels—he is not crushed by the realization that those hopes might be futile. The nonchalant attitude to life that the emperor presents reminds me of the “ironic pleasure” that Williams’ Augustus took in the “triviality” into which his life had descended. It would appear to me that I, Claudius represents the same idea by constructing Augustus as an archetype of an old man rather than as an archetype of a ruler—an old man who, due to his age and experience, can see the meaninglessness of the conniving and plotting that is going on around him. Arguably, there is something safe and comforting in the complete depoliticizing of Augustus’ character in I, Claudius—paradoxically, in the agonizing web of betrayal, murder and conniving that the series presents, the only setting where the viewer feels at ease is when joining Augustus in one of his gardens for a short afternoon promenade. One gets an impression that once again, the emperor has gone through one of his metamorphoses, transforming himself from a red-handed champion of the civil war and the rigorous autocrat into a benevolent grandfather who, admittedly, is a little bit out of touch with reality but whose company is preferable to anyone else’s in the series. Be that as it may, what makes Augustus a great deal less sympathetic a character in I, Claudius is his lack of responsibility—a characteristic that is not so apparent in the literary depictions of the emperor. In all of the historical novels discussed in the previous chapter Augustus, even at his most tyrannical, takes responsibility for his actions and admits to having sinned, even if only for necessity. In I, Claudius, however, the situation is represented as quite different: for so great is the emperor’s obliviousness that he is able to fool himself into believing that he truly is a “Republican at heart,” and one who longs to be a private citizen again. In the first episode he actually plans to retire and to return

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his powers to the senate, believing that thus the Republic would restore its old forms—this story is familiar to us from Dio’s Roman history, and it is referred to in Massie’s Augustus, too. Although the attempt is not successful, it seems to be sincere, and even after it is over, Augustus does not let go of his naïve dream of the old Republic. He never admits to having given it the fatal blow himself, or to having had his own political ambitions as his guiding principle. In episode four, the emperor states that [i]t was never my intention to rule for so long but … I don’t know, things, they just didn’t work out. I kept wanting to retire ... I don’t know. It just never happened. So many things turn out different from the way you hoped.

Thus, Augustus as he appears in I, Claudius, is an oblivious old man, buffeted by twists of fate, and granted neither glory nor blame for revolutionizing and reforming the Roman state forever. Both his success and his crimes are passed by in silence, as his achievement appears as such an axiomatic fact that few people around him can appreciate it or even consider the alternatives. When we compare I, Claudius to the only other television drama about the same topic, the British Granada Television’s ‘The Caesars’, released eight years earlier, it is perplexing to see how entirely different the reading of the emperor appears to be. In The Caesars, Augustus seems to be an ideal head of state: a calm, considerate and authoritative figure who is never driven on by private emotion and whose first priority is always to maintain the stability of the empire. “I take most things calmly,” he notes about his approaching death, and this, indeed, seems to be his defining feature throughout the story. Unlike the oblivious Augustus in I, Claudius, the emperor in The Caesars takes full responsibility for the actions that made him the first citizen—yet, much as in the works of historical fiction discussed in the previous chapter, he never apologizes for them. Until his last breath, Augustus’ faith in one-man rule and in its power to save Rome from the chaos of the Republic never wavers. As in the novels of Williams and Massie, he justifies his sole power as a necessity. He confidently claims that I put an end to 60 years of civil war. The Romans no longer wanted a democracy, they wanted good government, stability, order, peace.

While admitting that the price of this stability has been absolute rule by one man, he pragmatically adds that “it’s the best thing for them, they’ll soon get used to it.” Thus, the part that Augustus plays in The Caesars is that of a gentle but firm pater patriae who guides his reckless and disobedient children lovingly, but if necessary, by force.

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As calm and considerate a ruler as Augustus is in this series, The Caesars also shows the downside of power. The narrative makes clear that maintaining his exceptional position requires determination and at times even cruelty— Augustus does not let anything stand between himself and his plans for the empire. “Do you know how Augustus made himself emperor and kept himself emperor?” Livia asks the hesitant Tiberius, “by killing every other possible emperor.” Unlike in I, Claudius, in this version, Augustus holds all the cards and does not flinch even from the most violent action to keep control of the ship of state. Neither does he flinch from difficult decisions when they relate to him. Actually, in The Caesars, Augustus is a much more complex and multifaceted character than in either Cleopatra or in I, Claudius. On the one hand, he comes across as a rather self-centered character who enjoys his power; on the other, he never hesitates to put Rome’s cause before his own. The best example is the issue of succession. In the series, Augustus is consistently represented as concerned about the continuation of his dynastic line. As is the case in many modernday reconstructions of the princeps, in The Caesars, too, Augustus wishes to see his own bloodline in power and therefore resents the idea of Tiberius as a successor. Important as this is to the emperor, in the end it is not as important as the stability of the state. In The Caesars, Augustus himself decides to have his exiled grandson Agrippa Postumus killed upon recognizing the youth’s violent nature. Knowing that if Postumus were to succeed him, the risk of civil war would be at hand again, Augustus removes the last remaining heir linked to him by blood. This is a good example of his devotion to the cause of Rome. In The Caesars, again much like in the novels of William and Massie, Augustus seems to be prepared to sacrifice everything, including his soul and his conscience, at the altar of Rome. Thus, Augustus as a tragic warrior is anything but absent from The Caesars; as in many other fictional portrayals of the emperor, the role seems to go hand in hand with the idea of him as a successful ruler. In the last years of his life, the aged emperor appears weary and somewhat cynical, due to the sacrifices and the struggle that have worn him out. Yet, unlike in I, Claudius, he is not without cares, oblivious, or delusional but perfectly in control of the situation and motivated to fight for the empire until his last breath. And when that time comes, it is in the proper Suetonian manner that The Caesars represents Augustus’ passing; the emperor surrounded by his court, asking for applause and waiting for the death mask to be placed upon his face as the one last mask to be worn. Moreover, it is implied that the curtain does not fall a minute too early. When Tiberius asks

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Livia about Augustus’ illness, she answers laconically that “He’s worn out. Tired to death.” The Caesars, therefore, represents Augustus as a worn-out warrior, a ruler who has deliberately and knowingly dedicated his life to the pursuit of power and order. Even though the series takes fewer liberties in its interpretation of the ancient sources than I, Claudius, and does not revel in drama quite as much, it is still a very characteristic portrayal of the first emperor. Along with the two more popular screen representations of the same time, it is certainly one of the productions whose role in conveying Roman historians’ controversial image of Octavian-Augustus to the masses at the turn of the 1960s and the 1970s cannot be undermined. Taken together, a comparative reading of the screen representations of Augustus produced in the mid-twentieth century appears to provide a more incongruous image of the emperor than any literary sources previously examined in this book. Arguably, this is because whereas many of the literary representations of Augustus deal with his life as a whole, movies and television shows tend to focus either on the young Octavian, or on the aged Augustus. This means that the ambiguity and the change that mark the character in literary representations is pushed to the background in screen versions, and Augustus— whether as a young triumvir or as an aged emperor—appears as a rather clear-cut and even one-dimensional character. The readings of the princeps in Cleopatra and in I, Claudius, for instance, are so strikingly different that if one did not know, it would be difficult to believe they deal with the same historical figure.7 Thus, when studied together and compared to each other, the screen representations of Octavian-Augustus underline the duality of the princeps’ character, but when read individually, they tend to reduce the ambiguity that marks most depictions of him from antiquity onwards. Although the different approaches in reading and representing the emperor between literary and screen representations are intriguing and, in a sense, might reflect the different expectations of the audiences of these art forms, this observation still does not answer the underlying question behind these sources: why Augustus? Why, from the 1950s until the 1970s did so many screen representations of Roman history see daylight, and why are many of them set at the end of the Roman Republic, or the Augustan period? One of the crucial reasons behind the Hollywood epics in the 1950s is doubtless the abovementioned association between the Roman past and the modern present that Malamud and Kiessling DeCourcy argue for. It is undeniable that the combined fear and fascination of the idea of an empire offered a valuable historical analog

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that the producers of these films could use when dealing with the political tensions and ideological divisions of the cold war era. Nevertheless, there are also exceptions to this pattern. As I have already noted, Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra does not fit so well with the hypothesis, with its representation of the world where the decay of the Roman Republic is underlined, the empire is an inevitable future scenario, and the plotline revolves around the fight over who is to rule it. Neither does The Caesars really conform to the simplistic juxtaposition between a good Republic and an evil empire, as it depicts Augustus as a wise and benevolent ruler and his reign as the best possible option for a state mauled by civil wars. These productions, therefore seem to have another, or at least an additional motive for their portrayal of Octavian-Augustus’ story. I, Claudius, on the other hand, can certainly be read as a morally charged depiction of the horrifying corruption of the Roman empire. Moreover, Augustus’ weak and feeble leadership, as well as his family’s incessant struggle over the dynastic succession underlines the dangers of one-man rule when compared to a democratic government. However, in this version too, the longed-for Republic is at most a naïve dream of those unable to deal with the contemporary political situation and who hope to find an easy solution in an outdated and defunct system—such as Augustus himself, ironically. For all others, empire is a fait accompli, and while it might not be the best possible way to govern, the bloody struggle of the later Republic is seriously never represented as any better an option. In effect, it would seem that while the ideological background and the historical analog should not be ruled out, another reason for the scandalous depiction of the Roman empire in I, Claudius might quite simply be the entertainment value of the topic, and the much-needed opportunity it offered for escapism. The BBC, of course, has always had the noble aim not just to entertain but also to educate (which is one of the reasons for its strong tradition in historical dramas). I, Claudius, however, based as it is on Suetonius and Tacitus’ most scandalous and slanderous pieces of gossip, is such a soap opera that the educational purpose of passing on information about ancient Rome can hardly be considered its primary aim. Rather, I would suggest that this ancient telenovela—a gripping tale about politics, relationships, and deception— functioned as a sort of a classical daydream for contemporary viewers. Earlier, I referred to the postmodern period in Western Europe and in the United States as the “age of insecurity.” Whereas postmodernist art and literary criticism reacted to the world’s pressing uncertainties with heightened cynicism, many mainstream art forms such as cinema and television sought respite in exoticism,

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fantasy, and in the distant past. In the late 1970s, the oil crisis had struck the Western world hard, and in Europe, Britain in particular was sliding towards an economic depression and a socio-political crisis of which no one could then know the severity. In the era of economic uncertainty, political juxtapositions and cultural fragmentation, the television and film industry came to serve one of their most important purposes: instead of conveying information, they offered an escape from the anxiety-provoking contemporary world. In the case of 1960s and 1970s screen representations of Caesar Augustus, escape was to be found in the distant Roman past. Whereas I, Claudius, invites the viewer to be outraged at the moral corruption of Augustan Rome, Cleopatra, for its part, provides a glimmering story of love, death, and power that the viewer can safely enjoy without having to draw uncomfortable parallels with his current socio-political circumstances. This is not in any way surprising, considering the many things that antiquity has to offer to the dream factories of the entertainment industry. The allure of ancient history lies not just in the fact that it contains a seemingly endless array of scandalous and tragic stories—it also lies in the fact that those tragedies happened so long ago that the modern viewer need not trouble himself further about them after the credits roll. If he chooses not to read them as historical analogies for contemporary circumstances, he can completely distance himself from those events and avoid the anxiety that is the natural side-effect of any screen representations relating to tragedies in the recent past or the present. Death, violence, betrayal and conniving are alienated into something that happened 2,000 years ago and that the audience has no power whatsoever to change. This is why the modern viewer can gaze upon the death of Cleopatra without much grief or anxiety—any feelings he might have are in a sense secondhand emotions that provide a safe and entertaining way to deal with the anxiety about the world. Thus, my reading, which emphasizes the exoticizing and othering elements of these screen productions does not rule out the possibility that at the same time, they all were more or less involved with a defamiliarization technique that attempted to disguise contemporary issues in the cloak of history. On the contrary, this is most likely the case. But in the end, it is up to the viewer to decide how he sees these stories, and how he constructs their meaning in the context of the contemporary world. While in mid- and late-twentieth century Europe and the United States, some viewers certainly read the screen representation of Augustus’ story as historical analogs and as points of comparison to the Western world of their own times, others probably saw them as an opportunity to lose

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oneself in the dramatic portrayal of the Roman past for a few hours at least. Hence, the final power over the meaning of the text resides with the reader, and this is as true for screen representations of Augustus’ life as it is for literary versions of his life. It would appear that the potential roles played by the emperor are as numerous in the minds of modern audiences as they are in Roman historians’ reconstructions. While for one, Augustus might stand for an evil empire and imperialist tyranny, to another, he signifies stability and peace—and for a third person, he might simply offer a few hours’ respite from “reality” in the darkness of the movie theater.

Augustus in Our Living Rooms: Television Productions in the Twenty-First Century After the 1970s, the popularity of screen representations of ancient history declined, disappearing almost completely for a few decades. Hollywood epics of the ancient world had already fallen from popularity in the mid-1960s, after the commercial failure of Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra which ended up almost bankrupting Twentieth Century Fox. Television, on both sides of the Atlantic, soon followed suit. Ancient Rome did not return to prominence on screen until towards the end of the millennium. In 1999, the end of the Roman Republic was brought back to television with an American-German collaboration Cleopatra, a three-episode miniseries for television, produced by Hallmark Entertainment. Modeled after Mankiewicz’s Hollywood classic, it relates a more detailed version of the queen’s story starting from her acquaintance with Julius Caesar and ending with her death. Cleopatra received some award nominations for costume design and visual effects (as ancient epoch screenings tend to do), but otherwise it did not achieve much popularity either with the viewers or with the critics. This is not overly surprising: after all, as a reading of Roman history, the series does not really add anything new to a story that had already been told many times before, and its additional value to the tradition of reconstructing the classical past remains negligible. Rupert Graves gives a fine performance as Octavian, who does not come off as a very amiable character. As in the case of Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra, the dominant viewpoint of the queen means that Octavian is cast as the villain of the story—driven on by his hunger for power and by his self-confidence as Caesar’s rightful heir, he does everything in his power to get rid of those who stand in his way. Octavian’s special target is Cleopatra’s infant son, Caesarion, whom

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he attempts to have murdered immediately after finding out that the child is Caesar’s son. This is a made-up plot with no historical records to support it, but it does fit nicely with the idea of the ambitious youngster as the villain of the story. Moreover, even though Octavian stays loyal to Caesar for as long as he lives, it is made clear that he pities his great-uncle for being used by Cleopatra, and goes as far as to connive with the Republican conspirators in order to get rid of the queen. Therefore, Cleopatra takes some notable liberties in its reconstruction of the events of the Roman civil war, in order to cast the players in the drama as unequivocally good or bad, as victims or villains. In the name of drama, it leaves many historically important factors out completely—for instance, the second triumvirate does not appear to have existed at all, and the entire civil war is depicted as a fight between Octavian and Antony. These historical inaccuracies generally work to Octavian’s disadvantage, adding to his image as a cruel and conniving coward. A good example is the battle of Philippi, where Antony and Octavian’s combined forces defeated the Republican army of Brutus and Cassius. In Cleopatra, it is Antony alone who is present at the battle, whereas Octavian has Brutus murdered in the secrecy of his home. Afterwards, he proudly presents the severed head to Antony, who openly despises his cruelty, considering him a butcher and an unworthy heir to Caesar’s legacy. Thus, the reading of the Roman past as represented in Cleopatra clearly falls into the category of screen representations that depict the young Octavian as a conniving and power-hungry political player, and pay no attention to his future role as Augustus the emperor. It is worth noting that in many twentieth-century screen representations of Augustus, it is his role as a peripheral character that determines the light in which he appears. When the viewpoint of the narrative is dominated by someone else—be it his enemies, as in the two Cleopatras, or his family members, as in I, Claudius—the emphasis is naturally on those sides of Augustus’ ambiguous character that best define him in relation to the protagonists of the story. There are, however, a couple of screenings at the beginning of the twentyfirst century where Octavian-Augustus appears as the main character and where his own experience and viewpoint are dominant. Empire (ABC, 2005) is a miniseries that focuses on the growing pains of the young Octavian’s (played by Santiago Cabrera) in the year of Julius Caesar’s death. A television movie Imperium: Augustus (Lux Vide/RAI 2003), for its part, shows Augustus (Peter O’Toole, Benjamin Sadler) as an old man, looking back on the significant events of his life and career. Neither of these productions received a very enthusiastic

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reception from the critics upon their release; nevertheless, for the purposes of this study they are very valuable, being the only two screen representations from twenty-first century that focus entirely on Augustus. These series make the link between historical fiction and television entertainment particularly evident; both productions seem to be strongly influenced not only by Graves’ I, Claudius but also by Williams’ or Massie’s fictional biographies of the emperor. In Empire, the young Octavian appears as an immature and frivolous youngster who is chosen by Caesar to “save the dream of Rome” but who has little faith in himself or in his destiny. The historical inaccuracy of the series is remarkable, and on many occasions, Empire freely rewrites historical events in the name of drama and entertainment. Octavian’s romance with a rebellious Vestal virgin Camene, or his bond with a virtuous gladiator Tyrannus are not the least disturbing fictitious plot twists in the show. Moreover, the entire end of the civil war is omitted as the series ends abruptly with a made-up battle between Antony and Octavian’s forces. In general, Empire appears to be more of a television drama vaguely based on ancient history than a screen representation of recorded historical events. Throughout the series, Octavian’s journey to manhood and into accepting his “predestined” role is depicted strongly in relation and in comparison to Julius Caesar. Octavian’s immense task of filling Caesar’s boots—and his uncertainty as to whether it is something that he wants to do in the first place—is a recurring theme, and it is something that the series seems to pick up from the genre of historical fiction. Just as in the novels of Dored, Williams, Massie and Fontaine, the question of whether the name of Caesar makes him one, is repeatedly raised—and left unanswered. Even if one ignores the blatant re-imagining of the historical events and focuses on character development in the series, it appears that Empire might have benefitted from another season—as it is, the young Octavian’s move towards accepting his political responsibility is very sudden. The way he turns from “a spoiled patrician brat,” and “an empty vain boy who expects the world handed to him” into a competent and ambitious politician makes the character appear highly implausible. Out of nowhere, the young Octavian introduces the idea of an all-encompassing Roman Empire to his fellow Caesareans, who remain stunned and mesmerized, as if the thought had never occurred to anyone before. Moreover, the way he confidently demands the entire state with all its provinces under his own command fits awkwardly the character that the viewer has come to know. A series that is first and foremost intended as light television drama and not as an educational film, naturally does not have to comply with

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all historically recorded “facts.” Nevertheless, if the purpose of Empire is to focus on an individual character’s growing-up process, it unfortunately fails in this attempt too—at least judging by my personal viewing experience, the character of Octavian seriously lacks psychological depth and is difficult for the viewer to relate to. It is a valid and an intriguing question as to who this series is targeted at. While enthusiasts of Roman history are likely to be vexed by the implausible plot twists and the sometimes barely recognizable historical characters, those who are not so intrigued by the twists and turns of the late Republic might, in turn, find the setting for the otherwise fascinating adventure/action/romance plot difficult to relate to. Empire, it seems, is a prime example of a historical television series that tries to have it all—doubtful about the entertainment value of the original story, it seems, the screenwriters and producers have seasoned the plot with gladiators, dungeons, lusty Vestals and grisly murder attempts that have nothing to do with the story related by the Roman historians. What one perhaps can take from the confusing experience of watching Empire is the confirmation that the story of Augustus still seems to hold some entertainment value at the start of the new millennium—and that it is a story even more flexible and adaptable than it may have seemed, turning effortlessly into an action-adventure film about a young hero’s growing pains. The outset is completely different in Imperium: Augustus. In this BritishItalian collaboration the emperor appears as an old man reminiscing about his life, much in the same manner as in Massie’s Augustus. The story is told partly in Augustus’ own narrating voice, partly in his conversations with his daughter Julia, and partly in lengthy flashbacks. These different narrative levels keep the flow in the plot going and make the film an entertaining watch, even for a viewer already familiar with the events. The young Octavian, present in Augustus’ flashbacks, is a somewhat naïve idealist, an innocent and virtuous youngster obsessed with his destiny. From Julius Caesar, he has inherited his dream of creating a “new Rome,” “the end of all wars ... [p]eace and justice for everyone.” As one might expect, the old Augustus, on the contrary, is more practicalminded—yet, he has not let go of his dream of a Rome that would be more than a state, indeed “the hope of the civilized world.” Peace and order are the goals to which he has dedicated his life and for which he is still striving. And nor has this been in vain: Augustan Rome is represented, for the most part, as a stable community of content citizens, and the emperor himself is presented as a good and reasonable ruler. As Livia attests, Augustus has “managed to keep balance between the two souls of Rome, the senate and the people.” For this

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Augustus, peace is a bigger and more important struggle than war, which in a sense typecasts him as an ideal politician in the same way as the most flattering episodes in Williams’ and Massie’s novels. However, like those works of historical fiction, Imperium: Augustus also shows the other side of the story, making it clear not all in the empire are happy about the way they are governed. The film discusses in detail the speculated conspiracy of AD 2, organized and led by Iullus Antonius, the late Mark Antony’s son and Julia’s lover. Whereas Roman historical sources do not offer much information about the incident, it has, as noted earlier, a central role in all of the historical novels discussed in the previous chapter. Most probably modeled after these literary sources, Imperium: Augustus utilizes this putative conspiracy of young Roman nobles to embody and personify the “resistance” against Augustus. The dissonant voices within the Principate accuse Augustus of having destroyed the Republic, eliminated his enemies and stolen the wealth of the nobles. The conspirators consider him a tyrant who is not content with all the power he wields already, but who now attempts to control people’s morals and private lives too. Thus, Imperium gives a voice to both ways of reading Augustus. By presenting these two contradicting interpretations of his reign, the film invites the viewer to make up his mind and pass his own judgement on posterity. The two opposite and contradictory ways of reading are again clearly present when it comes to the representation of Augustus as a tragic character, tormented by his own mission. Like Williams’ Augustus, the old emperor is presented as loving and family-oriented—however, there is no doubt that he considers himself, like everyone else, to be a willing victim of the Roman state. There is nothing and no one he would not sacrifice to maintain the stability of his empire; as the emperor himself puts it, “weakness is not allowed, no matter how much pain there is for me or for others.” This interpretation does not convince Julia who comes to represent the other way of reading Augustus’ self-sacrifice and devotion. She strongly questions her father’s altruistic gentleness, and blames him for disguising his own agenda and his lust of power in the cloak of fate. In one of her final comments to her father, she tells him, “You conquered the world but you lost your soul.” It seems that there are moments when Augustus wishes that he had not followed his destiny and had instead remained a private citizen. In particular, the bloodshed in the proscriptions is something that the princeps does not seem to be able to wash off his hands. Nonetheless, in the end he is prepared to live with a guilty conscience, for the sake of empire and the state. When looking back, the aged Augustus considers the sins he has committed as the inevitable

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price that had to be paid for Rome. Just as in historical fiction, omnipotent and non-negotiable necessity is what justifies Augustus’ maltreatment of other people: “I am doing what I believe is right” he states, “for the Rome that will live after me.” Again, the movie does not aggressively force one or the other reading on the viewer. It remains for the audience to decide whether Augustus’ sacrifice has been worth it. Therefore, studied in comparison with the works of historical fiction discussed in the previous chapter, Imperium’s portrayal of Octavian-Augustus seems quite stereotypical. A reasonable ruler able to resist the allure of dictatorship on the one hand, a tragic and lonely character on the other, the Augustus shown in the film is so similar to the one we find in Williams’ and Massie’s novels, that it seems justifiable to speak of a modern Augustus archetype. These representations seem to confirm Augustus’ wish of having “played his part well” in the comedy of life. Even though they do not shirk criticism of some morally questionable choices of his career, in general all of these representations seem to be of one mind that, considering the circumstances, Augustus did as well as anyone could have done with the cards that were dealt to him. It is a whole other question whether this matters at all, and whether the obsessive struggle for power, peace, and empire was worth it. Intriguingly, just like the aforementioned historical novels, Imperium, too lays stress on the triviality and meaninglessness of life—even the life of a man like Augustus. Perhaps the most moving moment of the entire show is the old emperor’s realization that even a man with all the power in the world is powerless in the face of time that will eventually consume all. In this respect, Imperium closely resembles Williams’ Augustus in his contemplation of the worth of his achievement. As a final comment on his exceptional life, Augustus states that “I have done all I could do. I can control nothing. I am master of nothing.” The stress laid on human liminality and on the inadequate powers of any individual to control his fate, his renown or his reception by posterity gives the movie a touch of refreshing relativism while also connecting it with a discourse about the power over meaning and interpretation. Political power, it is implied, is after all a temporary and limited privilege. The world is constructed in the words and stories of other people, and those stories remain beyond the grasp of even the most powerful autocrat. Besides raising the issue of the relationship between the individual self and the surrounding world, Augustus’ realization of his own liminality and powerlessness at the end of the movie also seems to reflect the ideological agenda behind this particular production. It should be pointed out that Imperium: Augustus is part

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of Lux Vide’s series of historical television dramas, which all have an openly Christian overtone and background agenda. Even though this is not blatantly highlighted in the movie, and does not greatly impact the portrayal of historical events, it comes through in the old emperor’s realization of his mortality and his powerlessness. It is an intriguing notion that, in addition to so many different ideas, values and issues that can be and have been communicated through the character of Augustus, he also seems to be a fitting and valuable tool for the communication of a Christian religious worldview in the early twenty-first century. Of course, it is crucial to note that ever since late antiquity, Augustus has always been one of the favorite emperors of Christian authors. The early Christian tendency to glorify Augustus’ reign and represent it as creating ideal circumstances for the birth of Christ, has had a considerable impact on the flattering readings of the princeps in the modern Western world. Compared to his Julio-Claudian successors who came to stand for the moral corruption of pagan Rome and for the persecution of Christians (Quo Vadis is naturally the best manifestation of this reading), Augustus was usually read as the benevolent ruler of the civilized world, whose death marked the end of an era and the arrival of the “true” divine king, Jesus Christ. Examined against this background, Imperium: Augustus’s representation of the emperor appears in a more intriguing light still. Ultimately, it seems that in the modern world, it is difficult to find an ideology or a viewpoint that is not able to make use of Augustus’ character and his story in one way or another. The ambiguous reputation of the princeps means that most differing political, religious, and cultural movements can use him to communicate most diverse messages, and to offer their reading of the world to the audience. It is another question how likely these messages are to be misinterpreted and reconstructed by the receiver, as undeniably, when it comes to Augustus, the room for interpretation is endless. There is one other television series produced in the early years of the twentyfirst century that I have not so far referred to in this chapter, not because it lacks importance with regard to the present study, but rather the opposite. The American-British-Italian co-production Rome (HBO/BBC/RAI 2005– 2007) was, upon its release, the first large-scale, big-budget television series about ancient Rome since I, Claudius. After the dry spell of several decades in classical topics on screen, the series was a gamble on the producers’ part. The audience’s expectations were probably also set high as the show was prominently advertised before the pilot was aired—Rome, however, succeeded in fulfilling and at times even exceeding the expectations. The show’s reception amongst

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film critics was, for the most part positive, and it received several nominations and awards, including four Emmy Awards in 2006. Despite some inevitable complaints about implausible plot twists and made-up narratives, Rome also managed to please the highly critical academic audience. The show’s success is not too surprising, considering the amount of devotion and careful planning invested in it; compared to Empire or Imperium: Augustus, HBO’s Rome gives due respect to ancient Rome as a cultural entity of its own. Attention is paid to the smallest details in costume and interior design, and the screenwriters did their research to get the historical details right (even though they occasionally still decided to disregard some of them). Despite its success and critical acclaim, Rome’s fate, however, was to be cancelled after two seasons, immensely expensive as it was to the production companies. This inevitably left its mark on season two. As the show was originally intended to run for several more seasons, the final episodes are very fast-paced and packed full of action, as they attempt to cram the entire end of the civil war into a very limited amount of time. Due to its worldwide popularity, Rome achieved a similar sort of power in shaping modern viewers’ ideas of Augustus in the twenty-first century as I, Claudius did in the 1970s. Octavian (Max Pirkis, Simon Woods) is one of the central characters in the series. In season one his importance for the plot is not yet particularly significant; nonetheless, he is almost constantly present, lurking in the background, eavesdropping on conversations, or taking minor parts in them. The teenage Octavian, played by Max Pirkis, appears as an arrogant yet insecure young man. His evident immaturity aside, from the very first episode onwards, it is implied that his strategic and tactical skills are outstanding and that he outwits many of the more experienced politicians in cunning and calculation. Thus, Rome follows in the footsteps of the Roman authors and the modern novelists who depict Octavian’s success in the civil war as being due to his exceptional combination of intelligence and nerve. In Rome, the difference between Octavian and many other Republican politicians is that the youngster somehow instinctively seems to understand the needs of the Roman people, not just the senate and the nobles. In episode nine, Julius Caesar asks his nephew for his opinion on how to balance the state after defeating Pompey in Pharsalia. Octavian advises him to invest in public construction projects, to create work for the people and to renew the senate in order to secure political loyalties. His answer—besides revealing the Caesarean populist ideology that posits itself in opposition to the old aristocracy—appears to summarize the cornerstones of the Augustan regime. Therefore, from the

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Figure 6.1 Octavian from HBO’s Rome © HBO 2005.

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very beginning, the young Octavian appears as a very “ready” and enlightened politician whose character clearly reflects his future. The beginning of season two is a clear turning point in Octavian’s character. In the opening episode, after Julius Caesar’s death, he is attempting to take his position as the head of the household (the historical inaccuracy, Octavian actually being away from Rome at the time of the murder, is passed by in silence). The viewer is given the impression that he is by far the most skilled and the most far-sighted agent in the field of the Republican politics. In the general chaos following the murder, he seems to be the only figure who is able to keep calm and push negotiations with the conspirators. Moreover, his ambition is slowly awakening too. In episode two, he secretly confesses to his sister that The Republic is on the brink of an abyss. Antony ... is a destructive brute. The Senate is weak and cowardly, and the plebs are roiling in want and anger. Rome is in need of new leadership. I can provide that leadership.

As the events of the show accelerate first towards the conflict of Mutina, then to the formation of the second triumvirate, and eventually to the battle of Philippi. Octavian gets to put his skills as a diabolic puppet-master and a strategist to a good use. He manipulates both Cicero and Antony, getting exactly what he wants from them (from Cicero, a consulship; from Antony, the provinces he needs), and makes them feel that they themselves are benefiting by acceding to his wishes. As noted earlier, this phenomenon is particularly emphasized in Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra and in William’s Augustus. The classic theme, the misjudgement and underestimation of Octavian on his political adversaries’ part is thus clearly present in Rome, too. The patres are foolish enough to think that the youth’s ambition can be sated by flattering him with a little money and power. It is only later that the depth of Octavian’s game is revealed, and the Roman Republic comes to admit, in the voice of its most esteemed spokesman Cicero, that it has been “outmanoeuvred by a child.” In effect, the way Rome represents it, the entire civil war from Caesar’s death to the battle of Actium is Octavian’s story; it is an elaborate show written, directed and performed by him, and of which he maintains total control. When the conflict with Antony grows towards the end of the 30s BC, it is Octavian who actively breeds the discord. He starts the final fallout by driving Antony away from Rome and to his provinces. He sends Octavia and Atia to Egypt as mediators, only to have them turned down by Antony. And it is he who brings about the final battle at Actium by attacking his ex-colleague in the senate with a speech that oozes “Augustan” patriotic and moralist rhetoric. True to

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the representations of Augustus both in the Roman historical sources and in the works of historical fiction, he is again worshipping his highest goddess, Necessity. In Octavian’s rhetoric, civil war is not a choice but a heavy duty that he generously accepts and takes on as a representative of tota Italia (as worded in the Res Gestae). Simon Woods’ performance as Octavian in season two of Rome is minimalistic, convincing and positively bone-chilling. He captures masterfully one of the many faces of the princeps’ that we come across in the literary sources—that of an ice-cold, unemotional criminal mastermind whose charisma lies in his impervious determination and intelligence. Gradually, the teenage boy’s discomfort and awkwardness turns into calculating cruelty and cold efficiency that greatly unsettle everyone around him. Octavia, who is depicted as the person closest to him, repeatedly accuses her brother of manipulation and hypocrisy. Octavian’s arch-enemy Cleopatra considers him a human monster and, in her last words blames him for having “a rotten soul.” Antony, for his part, claims that “[h]e loves nobody and nobody loves him.” In this representation of Octavian, one can observe an idea popular in the modern world of politics: that it must be impossible to achieve such power and success without being somehow fundamentally corrupt or emotionally cold—a borderline sociopath. In the last episode of Rome, where Octavian has reached the pinnacle of his achievements, it is subtly implied that he can momentarily see himself through the eyes of other people. There is a rare glimpse of humanity in him as he realizes that over the years he has gradually alienated everyone around him; now he is the unquestionable winner towards whom nobody feels real affection and who nonchalantly takes notice of it. Yet, to take a line from Williams’ novel, “it does not matter.” As Margaret Toscano puts it, in his analysis of HBO’s Rome, Octavian might have bought imperial power at the price of ruthless monstrosity; however, [t]hough he realizes that they see him as cold and heartless, he accepts this as the price of ruling, trained as he is in philosophy.8

To Octavian, as he is represented in Rome, power does wield meaning and significance, and eventually, it turns to be the only thing that does. To him, no sacrifice is too big and no scheme too immoral when it comes to securing his sole rule. Moreover, as Rome repeatedly emphasizes, it is not only political power but power over the people’s minds that Octavian is pursuing. His success is largely based on his natural talent for reconstructing reality. This becomes evident in his war-mongering, and is manifested again after Actium, when he relates his own version of the events to the senate and the people of Rome. On this occasion,

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even his mother Atia is stunned by his nerve. She states that “[h]e wasn’t like that as a child, he was a good honest boy. I don’t know what happened.” This, perhaps, is a question around which the entire plot of HBO’s Rome revolves. What was it that happened in those few chaotic decades that turned an introverted son of a noble Roman family into a monstrous monarch and ruler of the known world? This is a question that, after having been laid to rest for a few decades at the end of the twentieth century, again seemed to fascinate storytellers in the film and television industry at the start of the new millennium. In many respects, the representation of the young Octavian in HBO’s Rome recalls and reflects those of the 1960s and 1970s screen productions. Whereas his appearance as a ruthless and cunning triumvir clearly reminds the viewer of Mankiewicz’s Cleopatra, there is, however, more than a hint of Augustus in him already. He is a diabolically skilful tactician and manipulator as well as a blatant liar—yet he is never depicted as a great military leader, nor as a charismatic people’s hero like Julius Caesar or Mark Antony. Whereas the way he is represented could not be further from the foolish old Augustus depicted in I, Claudius, it is strikingly reminiscent of the aged emperor in The Caesars. It would appear that in the world of the early twenty-first century, HBO’s Rome and its representation of Octavian largely reflects the spirit of the era and the hardened tastes of television audiences. Due to the ruthless conniving, unspeakable nerve, and a complete lack of conscience that the show depicts, HBO’s Rome can, in a sense, be read as a historical forerunner and a prelude to the next decade’s Western favorites: House of Cards, Boardwalk Empire, and The West Wing. Thus, it seems that on top of everything else, Octavian-Augustus can function as an archetype and as an historical analog for the twenty-first-century Western villain-hero: a borderline sociopathic alpha male, who eliminates without the blink of an eye anyone who stands in his way—and while he is at it, those who happen to find out where the bodies are buried.

7

Conclusion: What’s in a Name? Semiotics of “Caesar Augustus”

[W]hat should be in that “Caesar”? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name. Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well. Weigh them, it is as heavy. Conjure with ’em, “Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar.” —W. Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2

And when Caesar had actually carried out his promises, the name Augustus was at length bestowed upon him by the senate and by the people. For when they wished to call him by some distinctive title, and men were proposing one title and another and urging its selection, Caesar was exceedingly desirous of being called Romulus, but when he perceived that this caused him to be suspected of desiring the kingship, he desisted from his efforts to obtain it, and took the title of “Augustus,” signifying that he was more than human; for all the most precious and sacred objects are termed augusta. —Cassius Dio1

In the autumn of 2015, I had just moved to St Andrews, Scotland. As I walked down the aisle in a local supermarket, browsing through the range of British products that all seemed exotic to me, excited about familiarizing myself with the local way of life, I suddenly realized that I was faced with Caesar Augustus. This time, he had taken a shape of a beer bottle—to be more specific, a Lager/ IPA hybrid produced by Williams Bros. Brewing Company, a local Scottish brewery. On their webpage, Williams Bros. describes the product called “Caesar Augustus” thus:

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This Lager/IPA hybrid is a revolution in refreshment and flavour. All the crisp clean notes of the finest lager but with the discreet bitter finish of a well-balanced IPA. It’s not confused about what it wants to be, it’s just the best of both worlds.2

In the past few years, I have gone through countless ancient and modern representations of Caesar Augustus, trying to understand his significance for modern Western culture and his representation in different cultural texts. After all, and out of all the sources that I have examined, I still believe this to be the most concise and the most expressive definition of his character, as well as the most ingenious appropriation of his memory and aftermath. With “Caesar Augustus” (a very decent beer, by the by), Williams Bros. Brewing Company is able to penetrate the diverse cultural readings of Augustus, to successfully exploit them in their brand-construction and, in three short lines, to summarize what he stands for and how the modern consumer is likely to understand him. After having spent nearly 90,000 words attempting to do the same, I cannot but wholeheartedly congratulate the copywriter who phrased the text (in the process of writing this book, I actually tried to identify and find this person, but unfortunately I was not successful). The message that the beer bottle on the shelf at a local Tesco tried to convey, seemed to be something along the lines of “Cannot choose? Think outside the box, make your own rules, go and have both!” This, of course, was just another, more exciting way to formulate the underlying message which, in its simplicity was “this is both a lager and an IPA.” Arguably, it is a piece of information that could have been communicated with countless other metaphors, allegories and associations. The fact that Williams Bros. had decided to communicate it namely through Caesar Augustus, bespeaks the lasting impact and the communicational value of the princeps in the modern culture. Notably, there is no picture of Augustus on the label, nor a laurel wreath, nor a classical column, nor any other visual attribute that might immediately put the consumer in the mind of ancient Rome. The mere name of Caesar Augustus is considered enough for the potential customer to arrive at the conclusion that this product is something a little different, something ambiguous and difficult to define but, at the same time, ingenious and innovative. Just the name. Two words. I will end this book by digging a little deeper into the semiotic power of those two words. So far I have been examining the meanings and significances given to the first Roman emperor in particular source groups, in particular texts and contexts; now, it is time to detach Augustus from those specific contexts and to look into his very name and into the embedded meanings that it holds. I believe this is necessary for our understanding of Caesar Augustus in the

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modern world, since not only are names determined by our understanding of their interpretants, but what we call things inevitably shapes our ideas about things themselves. An individual personal name can be considered one of the most basic semiotic signs. It is, like any word, an arbitrarily chosen symbol the reading of which is based on the idea of a culturally shared system of signs. On the one hand, a personal name is intended to signify a certain individual, and to tell him apart from other individuals. On the other hand, few people have a name that no one else has held before (this is even more true for the Roman world, where the number of first names was very limited, and the family name immediately associated its holder with the deeds of his forefathers). Therefore, to some extent, a name always brings with it associations that are connected to its previous, or other contemporary, holders. And while it is impossible to fully control these associations, to some extent it is possible to deliberately use a name to construct an image and to convey messages about the person to whom it refers. Therefore, choosing a name can be considered an incredibly important act of wielding semiotic power. The fact that this power is limited does not mean that it may not be considerable. It is intriguing how strongly the life of Caesar Augustus seems to have revolved around names, both those used about him by others and those claimed by himself. Augustus, who enjoys the reputation of a masterful reconstructor of reality and a conveyer of messages, was fittingly also a man of many names. He was born as Gaius Octavius, with a cognomen “Thurinus” (after his father, who received the name for his successful quashing of a slave revolt in Thurii).3 In 44 BC, upon his adoption by the late Julius Caesar, he became Gaius Julius Caesar, and in an attempt to assimilate himself with the authoritative figure of Caesar, dropped “Octavius” from his name. In 27 BC, after indefinitely quelling the civil war and appeasing the state, he was voted the name of Augustus by the Roman senate; after this he was officially known as Imperator Caesar divi filius Augustus. The modern world knows him as “Caesar Augustus” or “Augustus Caesar”; “Emperor Augustus” is not uncommon either. The names by which Caesar Augustus nowadays goes are more telling than it may seem at first sight. Obviously, the reasons for the shortened version of his official name are first and foremost practical: in an everyday conversation it is convenient to have a name that is a little more concise than Augustus’ official title—a title that, presumably, is not too familiar to most people in the twenty-first century. Nevertheless, there seems to be more to it. I suggest that the combination of “Caesar” and “Augustus” aptly and tellingly encapsulates the

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dual and ambiguous nature of the princeps that marks the twentieth and twentyfirst century readings and representations of him. In the 2,000 years that have passed since the death of Augustus, “Caesar” has come to stand for unquestionable power, authority and autocracy. The most obvious manifestation of this is the Russian term czar that derives from the personal name “Caesar” and that came to be an honorary title of one of the most powerful human beings in the world, the autocrat of imperial Russia. It was as early as in the fifteenth century, after Constantinople had lost its position as the head of Eastern Europe, that claims about Moscow’s position as the “third Rome” originated. The idea of the czar of Russia as an heir to the legacy of the Roman emperors, and of Moscow itself as Rome reborn are early examples of an imperialist atmosphere and agenda that were justified by the alleged connection to ancient Rome. Whereas many of the Indo-European languages derive their word for an autocrat from the Latin term imperator (also one of Augustus’ honorary titles), in some, for example in North Germanic languages (kejsare, kejser, keiser), the word can be traced directly back to the Roman cognomen “Caesar.” In my native language, Finnish, I have all my life been using keisari to signify an autocratic ruler—which might be one of the reasons why I easily associate more authority and “royalism” with the personal name “Caesar” than my anglophone colleagues for instance might. In the Roman context, it was Octavian-Augustus who, by his adoption of Caesar’s name and by his subsequent political sovereignty, was for the most part responsible for creating this embedded significance of the word. It was he who turned the name from a cognomen into a title, and made it stand for the political power and authority with which it is associated today. The arbitrary process by which some words come to wield certain meanings is contemplated in an aptly named television series from the 1960s that I discussed in the previous chapter—The Caesars. In a private conversation with Emperor Augustus, his stepson and successor Tiberius refers to the term as “a family name that has come to mean not king but more than king, a great ruler.” He points out that “if things had gone differently, a different name might have taken on that meaning.” This is a clear intertextual allusion to Shakespeare’s famous lines quoted above, at the beginning of this chapter. Tiberius’ comment seeks to draw attention to the same issue as Cassius’ speech—that “Caesar” is a word and an arbitrarily chosen symbol that signifies members of a certain family, but that wields, or should wield, no other significance beyond that. This is of course true. Without the historical background, the mere word is empty; it is only Julius Caesar’s and Augustus’

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achievements that make Caesar more than a word, even “more than a king.” And this is what Augustus himself seems to be aware of, although in The Caesars, he wastes no energy in considering the alternative scenarios. “Things did not go differently,” is his brusque answer to Tiberius’ notion. Again, the Shakespearean spirit can be clearly observed in his words. Augustus needs not speculate about what could have been, for always is he Caesar and “Caesar” will always stand for his achievements. It is crucial to note that “Caesar,” however, does not just signify authority and monarchic power, as I have attempted to show in this study. Also—and in the Roman Republican context more importantly—it stands for a cult of personality, and for political ambition that threatens the stability of the state. And ambition, of course, as anyone familiar with their classics knows, is “a grievous fault, and grievously hath Caesar answered it.” In the modern world, this connotation of the name is still clearly present in expressions such as “would-be-Caesar,” or “Caesarism.” In this book, I have repeatedly referred to Maria Wyke’s perceptive study of the meanings of Julius Caesar in modern American political culture. Wyke shows convincingly how the mere name of Caesar, in a volatile political situation, is often enough to accuse one’s political opponents of an ego-ridden and unconstitutional pursuit of power or to hint at the impending doom of the democratic system. Therefore, when we speak of “Caesar Augustus,” it is not only his authoritative and sovereign status that is implicit in the name but also, I suggest, his less flattering civil war background. While “Caesar” makes explicit Augustus’ status as a powerful ruler, it also implies the questionable methods and the ego-centred motivation with which he achieved that status. As many modern cultural texts make explicit, Augustus’ identification with Julius Caesar was the single most important factor by which he was able to achieve the authority and the status he needed in the bloody power battle of the late Republic. In John Williams’ critically acclaimed novel Augustus, it is the princeps’ friend and ally Gaius Cilnius Maecenas who, when looking back on the days of the civil war, admits that “[w]e had no money ... we had no authority ... we had no power ... We had a name.”4 In the second season of HBO’s Rome, the same idea is made explicit in episode five, as Cicero praises the young commander for his triumphant victory in the battle of Mutina. He applauds the youngster as the hero of the Republic, and adds that “Caesar himself ” could not have achieved a finer victory. Octavian, however, is not flattered by this notion. In a chilling manner characteristic of Simon Woods’ interpretation of the youngster, he reminds the other that “I am Caesar himself. Technically speaking.”

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Therefore, the modern reconstructions of Caesar Augustus circulate and enforce the idea that is already made evident in the ancient Roman sources: that Octavian’s persistent and determinate identification with Julius Caesar was the most important factor in his construction of his personal brand under the Republic and, indeed, what enabled him to climb the ladder of power and success. Considering the complex reputation of Julius Caesar and the politically and ideologically charged nature of his name, this identification and assimilation was, however, a double-edged sword. Whereas it formed the ground and the basis for Octavian’s authority, in the eyes of some people, it also inevitably marked him as a violent usurper and as a would-be-king similar to his famous great-uncle. As I have attempted to show in this book, this sort of a reading of Octavian-Augustus is still strongly present in the world of today. Even though it is far from being the only reading of him, it exists and, depending on the context, can be used at any time to attack whoever is “modern Caesar” of the day. The case of “Caesar” therefore makes it evident that whenever one is making use of a name that belongs to someone else, it is impossible to identify only with the positive associations that follow from it. The less flattering ones are always present as well, for those who choose to listen and to look for them. The situation is quite different when it comes to the other part of the princeps’ name, “Augustus.” This was an honorary name that was brand new when it was bestowed on Octavian in 27 BC. Unlike his other names, this one was neither inherited nor chosen by the princeps himself—it was voted for him by the senate after the civil war, as a particular honor and a title to be used on all official occasions. According to Roman historians, however, it was not the name that the princeps himself would have preferred. Both Suetonius and Dio relate that Octavian, in fact, was hoping to be named “Romulus,” after the legendary first king and the founder of Rome.5 This is an intriguing notion, as it seems ill-suited to the false modesty and Republicanism on which Octavian’s selfrepresentation was otherwise based. On the other hand, the fascination about the distant legendary past was also one of the most important factor’s of the “brand” of the Augustan regime—surely, the name of the first king would have helped the ruler underline the nature of his reign as the new “Golden Age,” and to represent it simultaneously as a new beginning and as the nation’s return to its roots. Nevertheless, that was not to be. The senate insisted on “Augustus,” and the princeps complied. In his novel Augustus, Alan Massie refers to this incident, and states, in the voice of Maecenas, that “[y]ou content yourself with Augustus, it’s a lovely name, with all the right associations.”6

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What, then, are these right and lovely associations? As pointed out by Cassius Dio in the quotation at the start of this chapter, “Augustus” meant not just “esteemed” and “dignified”; it also had strong religious overtones. Suetonius explains that sacred places too, and those in which anything is consecrated by augural rites are called “august” (augusta), from the increase (auctus) in dignity, or front movements or feeding of the birds (avium gestus gustuve), as Ennius also shows when he writes: “After by augury august illustrious Rome had been founded.”7

“Augustus,” therefore, was intended to immediately evoke an association of something sacred, and to link the princeps with the divine sphere. Therefore, the name also reinforced the idea of Augustus as favored by the gods (his Actian Apollo, in particular), as respectful of them and, perhaps, as one day becoming one of them. He was already the son of a god, the deified Julius Caesar. It is more than likely that at the point when he received his new name, the Roman people expected him, too, to be deified after his death. Therefore, “Augustus” was a name that marked the princeps as something larger than life and as more sacred than an ordinary mortal—as something greater than a king. Moreover, Suetonius states that the senate preferred the name “Augustus” because it was new. It seems that whereas Augustus’ own self-representation was strongly focused on combining the past with the future, and by simultaneously looking back and forward, the senate, for its part, was more strongly futureoriented. It is probable that some were afraid of the monarchic connotations of “Romulus.” It is also possible that in the aftermath of the civil war, the idea of something completely new was refreshing and hope-inducing. At any rate, the fact that “Augustus” was a name that had not been held by anyone else before, means that it became a name completely and indefinitely defined by the first princeps. It seems that due to the happy occasion on which it was bestowed, and to the democratic manner in which this was done, the name “Augustus” came to be strongly associated with the positive interpretations of the first emperor’s reign: it came to mark authority, stability, calm and order, the end of war and violence, as well as the “democratic” and “conversational” operational modes of the Principate. After all, the name was an exceptional honor voted for the princeps by the senate—simultaneously an expression of the Roman people’s gratitude towards their champion, and a confirmation of his sovereign status. “Augustus” could not be a tyrant’s name—not then and not afterwards. It was unequivocally that of a clement father of his country; this explains the fascination and the

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popularity of the name among the later Roman emperors. Obtaining the name of the first princeps was a subtle yet clear way of identifying with this great and virtuous predecessor; as Levick points out, “the very title brought back its first holder—and a tacit admonition about correspondingly good conduct.”8 Whereas “Caesar” is a personal name that has been turned into a noun and a title, the same cannot be said about “Augustus.” In many languages, the name (and different variations of it) can be used as a personal name. In addition to this, the word of course signifies the eighth month of the year and, as an adjective, is nearly synonymous with “venerable” or “dignified.” Nevertheless, in the modern world, it is not popular as a common noun or title comparable to “Caesar.” In effect, I would argue that the most common use for the word is still the same as two millennia ago: in its most typical usage, “Augustus” explicitly refers to first holder of the name, to the historical character of Caesar Augustus. Therefore, “Caesar Augustus,” the name by which we nowadays refer to the first Roman emperor, implies simultaneously the civil war background and the imperial future of this historical figure. It creates an impression of him on the one hand, as an ambitious Republican usurper and, on the other, as the peace-bringing emperor, as the appeaser of chaos and as a symbol of stability and continuity. In other words, the name bespeaks the two roles of Augustus, the incongruity between which can be considered the most defining aspect of his character in ancient as well as in modern sources. The basic duality that marks Augustus’ character in practically all representations of him, is embodied in those words. Therefore, when Williams Bros. Brewing Company wants to represent their lager/IPA hybrid as “not confused about what it wants to be,” “just the best of both worlds,” they could not have chosen a better name with which to communicate this message than that of Caesar Augustus. I started this research with certain expectations and preconceptions about the representation of Augustus in the modern world. I thought that by looking into different source groups and cultural texts from the latter part of the twentieth century—the postmodernist novel, historical fiction, film and television—I would be able to detect multiple different interpretations of Caesar Augustus that would stand for the different, defining concepts of this period: tyranny, empire, peace, war, and insecurity. And I did indeed, as I hope I have shown in the previous chapters. The many faces of Augustus—the tyrant, the pater patriae, the end of history, the revolutionary—are there to be found, and they are utilized to communicate most varying ideological messages, from the othering of the enemy as a dictatorial “slave state” to prophesying about the impending doom of Western democracies. They are utilized to call for humanity in the midst of a

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world where it seems to have little value, and they help the modern reader deal with the overwhelming cynicism and trauma that the insecurities of the world, and the great wars from Vietnam to Afghanistan, have caused. Nevertheless, whereas Augustus, due to the ambiguity of his character, can be and has been used for all of these purposes, at the end, this is not what I find the most important or defining notion about his role in the modern world. To me, what seems the most important and troubling is that, while Augustus can be turned into a face and a symbol for practically any ideology or emotion in the modern context, he is not very convincing in any of the roles imposed on him. This is exactly because of the ungraspable and ambivalent nature of his character. I would argue that for anyone who is familiar with the many faces of Augustus, and who has studied different cultural texts that reconstruct the princeps, it is impossible to forget the fluidity of meaning that surrounds him, or to take him seriously in any specifically determined role. Whatever he is made stand for, I at least cannot help but think that he could just as well be turned into a representative of a completely opposite message and ideology. Augustus is simply not a clear-cut historical figure—by his very nature, his life story and his self-definition, he stands “in between” things: between the Republic and the empire, between the past and the future, between peace and war, and between old and new. This is why the character of Julius Caesar, for instance, is more suitable for a historical analog between the past and the present. Whereas Caesar can easily be labeled as a Republican usurper and a would-be king, Augustus is such too—but he is also the good and reasonable emperor. In the world of Caesar Augustus, black and white do not exist, and this is why I do not find him a convincing representative of any specific ideology or agenda. Personally, out of a fear of endless misunderstandings, I would never recommend using Caesar Augustus for branding purposes— unless the message one wants to convey is namely that of ambiguity, as in the case of Williams Bros. Brewing Company. Thus, what I do find Augustus to be a perfect sign for, however, is the basic methodological problem around which this book is constructed —the uncontrollable fluidity and ambiguity of meaning, the power over definition and interpretation, and the relationship between the author and the reader in the creating of meaning. In the history of humankind, there are few people who could be praised or blamed for having reconstructed the past and the present as blatantly and as successfully as Caesar Augustus. He was not only a natural born actor who tried on different masks and mastered different roles depending on how they benefitted his pursuit of power—he was also a talented storyteller

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and the director of one of the most magnificent shows in history, a show that came to be known as “the fall and restoration of the Roman Republic.” Notably, it was not only contemporary Romans on whom Augustus sought to impose his reading of the “reality”; in addition to reconstructing the past, he attempted to impact the interpretations of posterity. His magnificent building projects, his widely distributed Res Gestae Divi Augusti, and his lost autobiography are manifestations of this autocratic attempt to claim power over meaning and to control his audience’s readings of him. Caesar Augustus indeed seems to have made the world his poem, and in an imperialist manner he is still, 2,000 years after his death, attempting to claim authorial power over its meaning. This is the main theme that the postmodernist novels of Kurt Vonnegut and Christoph Ransmayr raise with the character of Caesar Augustus. In their works, these novelists create an image of Augustus the tyrant whose tyranny, ultimately, is the basest form of tyranny—a control over meaning and the power over people’s minds. The same idea can be observed as being present in historical fiction from the mid- and late twentieth century, as well as in the screen representations of the emperor. In these modern readings of Augustus, political power is represented as a metaphor for the semiotic power over meaning and significance that Augustus comes to represent. The attempt to wield power over the reader’s mind and to control meaning is, however, doomed to fail. While Augustus comes to stand for the imperialist attempt to control the readings of his own life, he simultaneously comes to signify and exemplify the impossibility of doing so. The multiple masks of the princeps, and the parts he plays mean that the image that posterity is to construct of him is necessarily a mosaic of different, competing and controversial readings. Augustus’ self-representation, while it is imperialist and absolutist in one sense, is also incredibly vague and multifaceted. Because of his attempt to combine “the best of both worlds,” future generations have almost unlimited power to read and reconstruct him according to their contemporary motives and agenda. Thus, Augustus remains a constantly changeable chameleon whose incredible post-mortem fame is based as much on the fluidity of his character as on his political and cultural achievement. All things considered, at the end of this research project, if I was to describe the reception and the reconstruction of Caesar Augustus in the twentieth century in one word, I would not be able to think of a better one than “Metamorphoses.” At the end, a thread of continuous change and instability is what goes through all modern reconstructions of the princeps and his life. Ironically, in a world of political juxtapositions and insecurities, of economic uncertainty and cultural

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fragmentation, in an atmosphere where postmodernist cynicism and an everaccelerating and increasing flood of information causes constant feelings of rootlessness, Augustus is not sought out as a symbol for eternity, continuity and stability as I thought he would be when I started writing this book. Instead, in each and every representation of the princeps, it becomes clear how even the most unquestionable world dominion cannot change the fact that power over meaning and definition always slips through one’s fingers and the world obtains forms that one cannot control. Words fade, stone crumbles, images painted on a page or on screen get reviewed and re-read endlessly. Ultimately, there is no “real” or “true” self behind the multiple masks of the emperor—however, in the repeated words of John Williams, even that “does not matter.”

Notes Chapter 1 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

On the early use of Lévi-Straussian structuralism in the study of Graeco-Roman myths, see Sullivan 1994, 3–4. Peradotto 1989 [orig. 1983], 189. Sullivan 1994, 2. See e.g. Martindale and Thomas 2006; Lowe and Shahabudin 2009. Peradotto 1989, 180, 183, 186. Hitchcock 2008, 33. Moreover, as Sullivan argues, semiotic concerns can be observed as being strongly present in a variety of the very sources that classical philologists study: the writings of Plato, Aristotle, and Roman Stoics, for instance, can be easily connected with the interests of semioticians of today. Sullivan 1994, 15. Peradotto 1989, 194–195. Skinner 1989, 201–202; see also Nimis 1984. Martindale 2006, 2. DuBois 1991, 26. Peradotto 1989, 186; on the “classicizing gaze,” see also Porter 2005, 48–51. Peradotto 1989, 186–187. Barthes 1974 [orig. 1970]. Barthes 1974 [transl. Miller, orig. 1970], 7. Sullivan 1994, 8–9. Hitchcock 2008, xiv. Sullivan 1994, 9–10. This is a crucial idea in Kristevan intertextuality, that challenged the structuralist idea of “nothing outside the text.” Peradotto 1989, 186. Leonard 2005, 229. Sebeok 2001 [1st edition 1994], 38. See also Hitchcock 2008, xiv. Martindale 2006, 2. Martindale 2006, 4. Originally in Segers 1979–1980, 86. Martindale 2006, 4. Originally in Segers 1979–1980, 86. Batstone 2006, 17.

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27 See e.g. Nicol 2009, 7; Hawkes 1977, 17–18. While the Lévi-Straussian structuralism considered these relationships often as oppositional and hierarchic, Derrida’s deconstruction developed this thought further, questioning the hierarchy and suggesting that apparent oppositions always imply and are dependent on one another. Butler 2002, 19–20; Hawkes 1977, 37. On Lévi Strauss’ idea of structuralism in linguistics, see e.g. Lévi-Strauss 196, 31–51. 28 Barthes 1968, 14. 29 Sless 1986, 19, 26, 29. 30 See Sless 1986, 18. 31 Sless 1986, 29. 32 See e.g. Hawkes 1977, 62; Sless 1986, 67; Butler 2002, 6–7. 33 See Sullivan 1994, 8. 34 Nicol 2009, 44; Butler 2002, 23–24. 35 Barthes 1974 [orig.1970], 4–5; Barthes 1975 [orig. 1973], 9–10. Fort further analysis of the theory, see e.g. Hawkes 1977, 114, 142; Nicol 2009, 44; Butler 2002, 24. 36 Sless 1986, 36–37. 37 Martindale 1993, 3–4. 38 Hawkes 1977, 17. 39 Sless 1986, 36–37. 40 Barthes 1966, 51 (transl. T. Hawkes, in Hawkes 1977, 157). 41 Butler defines the relationship between discourse and power as the single most important postmodernist ethical argument. Butler 2002, 44. 42 Sullivan 1994, 17. 43 Sless 1986, 108, 110, 113. 44 Hawkes 1977, 110. 45 For further analysis of the “Augustan” elements in the visual self-representation of fascist Italy, and of the utilization of “the myth of Rome,” see e.g. Whittam 1995, 85–88; Falasca-Zamponi 1997, 90–95. 46 Sless 1986, 58. 47 For studies of the reception of the Roman war epics in the medieval and the early modern period, see Farrell and Putnam 2010, 121–250; Heslin 2005, 1–55. 48 These factors naturally overlapped, since the literary groups were dependent on the patrons’ support. The first readings of a work in progress were often given by the poet himself to a small group of friends and associates. When the completed work was performed in a public reading, the audience was more heterogeneous, and the reading was usually performed by a professional actor. Quinn 1982, 83–88 See also La Penna 2006; Johnson 2000, 2010. 49 Levick 2010, 254. 50 Gabba 1984, 82 51 See e.g. Gabba 1984, 62–63.

182 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78

Notes See Fox 1996, 55; Mehl 2011 [2001], 115; Wiater 2011, 103–105, Pyy 2015, 40–41. Mustakallio and Pyy 2015, 155–165. Gabba 1984, 63. Gabba 1984, 63; Levick 2010, 301; for the positive, yet vague and generic treatment of Augustus in the later Antiquity, see e.g. Historia Augusta: Claud. 2.3. Gabba 1984, 71. Gabba 1984, 70, 72 Gabba 1984, 72. Gabba 1984, 77, 83. Levick 2010, 305. See Yavetz 1990, 30; Levick 2010, 306. For a detailed introduction of these testimonia, see Smith 2009, 1–14. For further analysis on Augustus’ memoirs and its significance, see Bringmann and Wiegandt 2008, esp.191–215. Powell 2009, 173. Powell 2009, 173. Levick 2010, 221, 224. Levick 2010, 230. Aug. RG 1, 2. Aug. RG 3, 13, 26–27, 28–33. Aug. RG 15–18, 22–23. Aug. RG 5, 6, 34. For further analysis, see Zanker 1987, Galinsky 1996, 215–219, Levick 211–213, 219. See Zanker 1987, 42–60. Galinsky 1996, 215–219. Levick 2010, 204; see Hor. Epist. 1.3.17; Serv. Ecl. 4.10. Levick 2010, 202, 309, 311. Barthes 1966, 51 (transl. T. Hawkes, in Hawkes 1977, 157). Wyke 2006, 2007, 2012. Davis 2006; Klinkowitz 2009, 40; Tally 2011, 4–10. Another valuable source group in the new millennium are video and console games dealing with Roman antiquity. Since these have gained greater prominence and popularity only in the early 2000s, they fall outside the scope of this book; for further discussion, see e.g. Lowe’s, Ghita’s and Andrikopoulos’ articles on the topic.

Chapter 2 1

παίζοντος ἔτι τοιαῦτα τοῦ Σειληνοῦ καὶ τῶν θεῶν οὐ σφόδρα προσεχόντων αὐτῷ, Ὀκταβιανὸς ἐπεισέρχεται πολλὰ ἀμείβων, ὥσπερ οἱ χαμαιλέοντες, χρώματα καὶ νῦν μὲν ὠχριῶν, αὖθις δὲ ἐρυθρὸς γινόμενος, εἶτα μέλας καὶ ζοφώδης καὶ συννεφής·

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ἀνίετο δ᾿ αὖθις εἰς ἈφροδίτηνB καὶ Χάριτας, εἶναί τε ἤθελε τὰς βολὰς τῶν ὀμμάτων ὁποῖός ἐστιν ὁ μέγας Ἥλιος· οὐδένα γάρ οἱ τῶν ἀπαντώντων ἀντιβλέπειν ἠξίου. καὶ ὁ Σειληνός, Βαβαί, ἔφη, τοῦ παντοδαποῦ τούτου θηρίου· τί ποτ᾿ ἄρα δεινὸν ἡμᾶς ἐργάσεται Jul. Caes. 309 A-B. Translation of The Caesars by W. Cave Wright, Loeb Classical Library. For further discussion on this multifaceted topic, see e.g. Mehl 2011, 98–198; ... Connolly 2009; Marincola 2009. For further discussion on the exemplary tradition in Roman historiography, and a few case studies, see Chaplin 2000; Roller 2004; Roller 2009, 214–230. On characterization and “typecasting” in the genre, see Vasaly 2009, 245–260; Pitcher 2011; Levene 2011, 285. Vout 2009, 261–275. This duality of Augustus’ character and its roots in Roman historiography has been discussed e.g. by Gabba; see Gabba 1984. Consulatum vicesimo aetatis anno invasit, admotis hostiliter ad urbem legionibus, missisque qui sibi nomine exercitus deposcerent; cum quidem cunctante senatu Cornelius centurio, princeps legationis, reiecto sagulo ostendens gladii capulum, non dubitasset in curia dicere: Hic faciet, si vos non feceritis. Suet. Aug. 26; for comparison, see also Dio 46.39-46. τῇ δὲ δὴ γερουσίᾳ χάριν μέν που, πλαστῶς δὲ δὴ καὶ προσποιητῶς, ἔσχεν: ἃ γὰρ βιασάμενός σφας εὕρητο, ταῦθ᾽ ὡς καὶ παρ᾽ ἑκόντων αὐτῶν εἰληφὼς ἐν εὐεργεσίας μέρει δῆθεν. Dio 46.27.1. Hoc bello cum Hirtius in acie, Pansa paulo post ex vulnere perissent, rumor increbruit ambos opera eius occisos, ut Antonio fugato, re publica consulibus orbata, solus victores exercitus occuparet ... Adicit his Aquilius Niger, alterum e consulibus Hirtium in pugnae tumultu ab ipso interemptum. Suet. Aug. 11. Translation of The Twelve Caesars by J.C. Rolfe, Loeb Classical Library. Suetonius also claims that on the same occasion Octavian hired assassins to kill Antony but that the plot was discovered before it was carried out. Suet. Aug. 10 (Nicolaus of Damascus, however, claims that this story was vicious slandering and Antony’s attempt to make Octavian appear culpable.) See also Tac. Ann. 1.10. Dio 48.14, see also Suet. Aug. 15. Concerning Philippi, see Suet. Aug. 13. See Plut. Ant. 20–21. Appian is not as enthusiastic an apologist of Octavian as Plutarch and Dio; however, he too places most of the blame on Antony, especially when it comes to the murder of Cicero. App. BC 4.12, 4.19-20. restitit quidem aliquandiu collegis ne qua fieret proscriptio, sed inceptam utroque acerbius exercuit. Namque illis in multorum saepe personam per gratiam et preces exorabilibus, solus magno opere contendit ne cui parceretur ... Suet. Aug. 27. hunc a diverso professum, ita modum se proscribendi statuisse, ut omnia sibi reliquerit libera. Suet. Aug. 27. ταῦτα δὲ ἐπράττετο μὲν ὑπό τε τοῦ Λεπίδου καὶ ὑπὸ τοῦ Ἀντωνίου μάλιστα— ἐδόκει δὲ καὶ ὑπὸ τοῦ Καίσαρος κατὰ τὴν τῆς δυναστείας κοινωνίαν γίγνεσθαι, ἐπεὶ

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Notes αὐτός γε οὐδέν τι συχνοὺς ἀποκτεῖναι ἐδεήθη: τῇ τε γὰρ φύσει οὐκ ὠμὸς ἦν, καὶ ἐν τοῖς τοῦ πατρὸς ἤθεσιν ἐνετέθραπτο ... σημεῖον δὲ ὅτι, ἀφ᾽ οὗ τῆς τε πρὸς ἐκείνους συναρχίας ἀπηλλάγη καὶ τὸ κράτος μόνος ἔσχεν, οὐδὲν ἔτι τοιοῦτον ἔπραξεν. Dio 47.7.1, 47.7.2-3. Translation of Dio’s Roman History by E. Cary, Loeb Classical Library. κἀκ τούτου περιοργὴς ἔτι καὶ μᾶλλον γενόμενος οὐκ ὤκνησεν οὔτ᾽ ἀναζητῆσαι αὐτὰς οὔτε λαβεῖν οὔτε ἔς τε τὸ βουλευτήριον καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο καὶ ἐς ἐκκλησίαν ἐσκομίσαι καὶ ἀναγνῶναι. Dio 50.3.4. sed Pompeium imagine pacis, sed Lepidum specie amicitiae deceptos; post Antonium, Tarentino Brundisinoque foedere et nuptiis sororis inlectum, subdolae adfinitatis poenas morte exsolvisse. pacem sine dubio post haec, verum cruentam. Tac. Ann. 1.10. See Aug. RG 5, 6, 34. Dictaturam magna vi offerente populo genu nixus deiecta ab umeris toga nudo pectore deprecatus est. Domini appellationem ut maledictum et obprobrium semper exhorruit ... dominumque se posthac appellari ne a liberis quidem aut nepotibus suis vel serio vel ioco passus est atque eius modi blanditias etiam inter ipsos prohibuit. Suet. Aug. 52–53. ταῦτά τε οὖν αὐτοῦ ἀνεμιμνήσκοντο, καὶ ὅτι καὶ τοῖς λυπήσασί τι αὐτὸν οὐκ ἀκρατῶς ὠργίζετο, τήν τε πίστιν καὶ πρὸς τοὺς οὐκ ἀξίους αὐτῆς ἐτήρει. Dio 56.43.3. pauca admodum vi tractata quo ceteris quies esset. Tac. Ann. 9. εἰ γάρ τινες καὶ τῶν προτέρων τῶν ἐν τοῖς ἐμφυλίοις πολέμοις γενομένων ἐμνημόνευον, ἐκεῖνα μὲν τῇ τῶν πραγμάτων ἀνάγκῃ ἀνετίθεσαν, τὴν δὲ δὴ γνώμην αὐτοῦ ἐξ οὗ τὸ κράτος ἀναμφίλογον ἔσχεν ἐξετάζειν ἠξίουν: πλεῖστον γὰρ δὴ τὸ διάφορον ὡς ἀληθῶς παρέσχετο. καὶ τοῦτο μὲν καθ᾽ ἕκαστον ἄν τις τῶν πραχθέντων ἐπεξιὼν ἀκριβώσειε: κεφάλαιον δὲ ἐφ᾽ ἅπασιν αὐτοῖς γράφω ὅτι τό τε στασιάζον πᾶν ἔπαυσε καὶ τὸ πολίτευμα πρός τε τὸ κράτιστον μετεκόσμησε καὶ ἰσχυρῶς ἐκράτυνεν, ὥστε εἰ καὶ βιαιότερόν τι, οἷα ἐν τοῖς παραλόγοις φιλεῖ συμβαίνειν, ἐπράχθη, δικαιότερον ἄν τινα αὐτὰ τὰ πράγματα ἢ ἐκεῖνον αἰτιάσασθαι. Dio 56.44.1-2. See Suet. Aug. 70. See Aug. RG 15–18, 22–23; Dio 53.2, 56.43, Suet. Aug. 41, 43. On Augustus’ generosity towards the Roman people in his will, see Tac. Ann. 8, Suet. Aug. 101. Suetonius tells that while he was triumvir, Octavian incurred general detestation for many of his decisions and actions. Suet. Aug. 27; see also Tac. Ann. 10. Pro quibus meritis quanto opere dilectus sit, facile est aestimare ... Revertentem ex provincia non solum faustis ominibus, sed et modulatis carminibus prosequebantur. Suet. Aug. 57. Suet. Aug. 58; see also Dio 53.18.

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26 Aug. RG 35. 27 τοιαῦτα τοῦ Καίσαρος ἀναλέγοντος ποικίλον τι πάθος τοὺς βουλευτὰς κατελάμβανεν. ὀλίγοι μὲν γὰρ τήν τε διάνοιαν αὐτοῦ ᾔδεσαν κἀκ τούτου καὶ συνεσπούδαζον αὐτῷ: τῶν δ᾽ ἄλλων οἱ μὲν ὑπώπτευον τὰ λεγόμενα οἱ δὲ ἐπίστευόν σφισι, καὶ διὰ ταῦτα καὶ ἐθαύμαζον ὁμοίως ἀμφότεροι, οἱ μὲν τὴν περιτέχνησιν αὐτοῦ οἱ δὲ τὴν γνώμην, καὶ ἤχθοντο οἱ μὲν τῇ πραγματείᾳ αὐτοῦ οἱ δὲ τῇ μετανοίᾳ ... οὔτε γὰρ πιστεύσαντες ἀληθῶς αὐτὰ λέγεσθαι χαίρειν ἐδύναντο, οὔθ᾽ οἱ βουλόμενοι τοῦτο διὰ τὸ δέος, οὔθ᾽ οἱ ἕτεροι διὰ τὰς ἐλπίδας: οὔτ᾽ ἀπιστήσαντες διαβαλεῖν τε αὐτὸν καὶ ἐλέγξαι ἐτόλμων, οἱ μὲν ὅτι ἐφοβοῦντο, οἱ δ᾽ ὅτι οὐκ ἐβούλοντο. ὅθενπερ καὶ πιστεύειν αὐτῷ πάντες οἱ μὲν ἠναγκάζοντο οἱ δὲ ἐπλάττοντο. καὶ ἐπαινεῖν αὐτὸν οἱ μὲν οὐκ ἐθάρσουν οἱ δ᾽ οὐκ ἤθελον, ἀλλὰ πολλὰ μὲν καὶ μεταξὺ ἀναγιγνώσκοντος αὐτοῦ διεβόων πολλὰ δὲ καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο, μοναρχεῖσθαί τε δεόμενοι καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐς τοῦτο φέροντα ἐπιλέγοντες, μέχρις οὗ κατηνάγκασαν δῆθεν αὐτὸν αὐταρχῆσαι. Dio 53.11.1-4. 28 Levick 2010, 205. 29 deorum dearumque habitu discubuisse convivas et ipsum pro Apolline ornatum non Antoni modo epistulae singulorum nomina amarissime enumerantis exprobrant, sed et sine auctore notissimi versus: Cum primum istorum conduxit mensa choragum,/ Sexque deos vidit Mallia sexque deas,/Impia dum Phoebi Caesar mendacia ludit,/ Dum nova divorum cenat adulteria:/Omnia se a terris tunc numina declinarunt,/ Fugit et auratos Iuppiter ipse thronos. Suet. Aug. 70. 30 As Levick points out, it is certainly “an interesting choice” that in his house on the Palatine, the emperor had a room decorated as a stage, with theater masks on the walls. Levick 2010, 312. 31 admissos amicos percontatus, ecquid iis videretur mimum vitae commode transegisse, adiecit et clausulam: εὶ δέ τι Ἐπεὶ δὲ πάνυ καλῶς πέπαισται, δότε κρότον Καὶ πάντες ἡμᾶς μετὰ χαρᾶς προπέμψατε. Suet. Aug. 99.1. See also Tac. Ann. 9. 32 κρότον δὲ δή τινα παρ᾽ αὐτῶν ὁμοίως τοῖς γελωτοποιοῖς, ὡς καὶ ἐπὶ μίμου τινὸς τελευτῇ, αἰτήσας καὶ πάμπανυ πάντα τὸν τῶν ἀνθρώπων βίον διέσκωψε. Dio 56.30.4. 33 Vonnegut’s works have sometimes been criticized for his discernible social vision and his moralist attitude. However, as Davis argues, the core of Vonnegut’s “postmodern activism” is not a promotion of social reform but rather, “the physical and emotional care of humanity.” Davis 2006, 4–7, 9–10. See also Hipkiss 1984, 43–44. 34 Hipkiss describes the author as “the remorseful Absurdist.” Hipkiss 1984, 73. 35 This characteristic trait of Vonnegut’s works is aptly phrased by Davis, who speaks of his “persistent belief in the best humanity might aspire to, while laughing at the ridiculousness of such a thought.” Davis 2013, 248. Vonnegut has been considered a leading voice against postmodern amoralism; he is deeply concerned with

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37 38 39 40 41

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43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Notes crises and conflicts that decrease the value of humanity. For further analysis on Vonnegut’s postmodern humanism, see Davis 2006, 25–36, 2013, 241. On his relationship to postmodernism in general, see Davis 2006, 6, 14–25; Klinkowitz 2009, 40; Tally 2011, 4–10. Davis argues that God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater is a novel central to Vonnegut’s idea of postmodern humanism, because it shows how “the purposes often taken up by humanity are mere fabrications.” Davis 2006, 74. For further analysis of the experimental style and structure of the novel, see Reed 1990, 109. As Klinkowitz notes, the novel was written at the crucial junctures in Vonnegut’s life and career; it introduces many of the themes and the narrative elements that are central in his later novels such as Slaughterhouse Five, Breakfast of Champions and Jailbird. Klinkowitz 2009, 49, 56. Reed, too, considers this novel to be particularly close to “the mainstream of Vonnegut’s work,” due to the centrality of the theme of social injustice of economic systems in it. Reed 1990, 109. Tally 2011, 17. On Vonnegut’s way of dealing with tragic and traumatizing topics with humor, see Klinkowitz 2009, 4; Davis 2013, 245; Scholes 1990. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 6. On this “aristocracy of money,” see Reed 1990, 112. Tally 2011, 61; see also Hipkiss 1984, 49, 62. As Klinkowitz puts it, “a world equally bleak whether rich or poor.” For further analysis of this particular aspect of the novel, see Klinkowitz 2009, 48–49; Reed 1990, 113. Klinkowitz considers this feeling of uselessness a crucial element of Vonnegut’s canon, and a feature that can be observed already in his first four novels. God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater is significant for the establishment and development of this theme. See Klinkowitz 2009, 45; see also Reed 1990, 120. For further analysis on this theme in Vonnegut’s works in general, see Hipkiss 1984, 48–49; Davis 2013, 243. Hipkiss 1984, 50. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 27. For further discussion, see Lintott’s comprehensive analysis of methodological problems in detecting these sorts of phenomena in Roman history: Lintott 1994. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 11. Morse 2003, 64. On Vonnegut’s ways of dealing with the ambiguity of the American Dream, see also Hipkiss 1984, 50–51. See e.g. Ferguson 2004, 172–197; Sellers 2014; Briggs 2007, 282–285, in particular. Ferguson 2004, 173. Ferguson 2004, 177. For the definition of “freedom” in late-eighteenth-century American political culture, see Ferguson 2004, 51–83. See e.g. Glinister 2006, 23–27.

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53 On the concept of adfectatio regni, see Smith 2006. The question of what the Romans understood by the “restoration” of the Republic has been much disputed— for the most recent comprehensive study on this topic, see Hurlet et al. 2009. 54 On the problems of defining the Roman Republican ruling class, see Hölkeskamp 2010, 76–97. 55 See e.g. Tatum 2010; von Ungern-Sternberg 2014, 78–98. 56 This theme, and making the illusion of freedom visible, is central in many of Vonnegut’s works. See e.g. Hipkiss 1984, 55. 57 With his enthusiastic promotion of the free enterprise system, Senator Lister Rosewater’s character echoes (in more than name) Senator Barry Goldwater, famous for his economic liberalism in the 1960s—however, Vonnegut also represents Rosewater as a more general embodiment of radical Republicanism in the political struggles of the early 1960s. For further analysis, see e.g. Reed 1990, 72. 58 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 17. 59 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 17–18. 60 It has, however, been questioned whether these really were the primary aims of the Julian Laws. Wallace-Hadrill, for one, has argued that the actual practical purpose of Augustus’ marriage laws was to stabilize the transmission of property and social status from generation to generation among well-to-do Roman families. WallaceHadrill 2009. 61 See e.g. P. Csillag 1976; Raditsa 1980; Rawson 1986: 33–35; Evans Grubbs 2002: 83–87. 62 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 18–19. 63 Reed 1990, 117. 64 Davis 2006, 72. 65 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 18. 66 See Aug. RG 5, 15–23. 67 Bella terra et mari ciuilia externaque toto in orbe terrarum suscepi uictorque omnibus ueniam petentibus ciuibus peperci. Externas gentes, quibus tuto ignosci potuit, conseruare quam excidere malui Aug. RG 3.1-2. Translation of the Res Gestae Divi Augusti by Brunt and Moore 1967. 68 In consulatu sexto et septimo, bella ubi ciuilia exstinxeram per consensum uniuersorum potitus rerum omnium, rem publicam ex mea potestate in senatus populique Romani arbitrium transtuli ... Post id tempus praestiti omnibus dignitate, potestatis autem nihilo amplius habui quam qui fuerunt mihi quoque in magistratu conlegae. Aug. RG 34.1, 34.3 (transl. Brunt and Moore 1967). See also Aug. RG 5–6, where Augustus explains why he repeatedly turned down the dictatorship when it was offered to him by the Senate. 69 For a detailed discussion, see Gildenhard 2006. 70 See e.g. Suet. Aug. 19.

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71 In the visual material of the Augustan period, too, the emphasis is put on Augustus’ victories in foreign wars, whereas his success in the civil war is often passed over in silence. Zanker 1987, 85–90; Wyke 1992, 117–121; Gurval 1995, 4–6. 72 Reed 1990, 110. 73 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 17. 74 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 17. 75 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 17. 76 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 17. 77 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 18. 78 Davis 2006, 72. 79 The author does not, however, represent the Senator as the absolute villain in the novel, but rather as a character who complements the strengths and weaknesses of the other protagonist, Eliot Rosewater. As Hipkiss states, it is shown that “pride and self-reliance are virtues just as much as are self-sacrifice, sympathy and cooperation, and that the two sets of virtues are often opposed to each one another.” For further analysis, see Hipkiss 1984, 69–70; Reed 1990, 117. 80 See e.g. Zanker 1987, 171–216; Toher 1990. 81 Vonnegut 2009 (orig. published 1961). 82 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 10.

Chapter 3 1

2

3 4 5 6

Quo pro merito meo senatus consulto Augustus appellatus sum et laureis postes aedium mearum vestiti publice coronaque civica super ianuam meam fixa est et clupeus aureus in curia Iulia positus, quem mihi senatum populumque Romanum dare virtutis clementiaeque et iustitiae et pietatis caussa testatum est per eius clupei inscriptionem ... Tertium decimum consulatum cum gerebam, senatus et equester ordo populusque Romanus universus appellavit me patrem patriae, idque in vestibulo aedium mearum inscribendum et in curia Iulia et in foro Aug. Sub quadrigis quae mihi ex s. c. positae sunt censuit. Transl. Brunt and Moore 1967. διά τε οὖν ταῦτα, καὶ ὅτι τὴν μοναρχίαν τῇ δημοκρατίᾳ μίξας τό τε ἐλεύθερόν σφισιν ἐτήρησε καὶ τὸ κόσμιον τό τε ἀσφαλὲς προσπαρεσκεύασεν, ὥστ᾽ ἔξω μὲν τοῦ δημοκρατικοῦ θράσους ἔξω δὲ καὶ τῶν τυραννικῶν ὕβρεων ὄντας ἔν τε ἐλευθερίᾳ σώφρονι καὶ ἐν μοναρχίᾳ ἀδεεῖ ζῆν, βασιλευομένους τε ἄνευ δουλείας καὶ δημοκρατουμένους ἄνευ διχοστασίας, δεινῶς αὐτὸν ἐπόθουν. See Kiessling DeCourcy 2016, 2–4. Kiessling DeCourcy 2016, 2. Kiessling DeCourcy 2016, 2. See e.g. Wyke 2012, 1, 176.

Notes 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31

189

Wyke 2012, 131. Wyke 2012, 177. Kiessling DeCourcy 2016, 12. Kiessling DeCourcy 2016, 12. Kiessling DeCourcy 2016, 15. De Riencourt 1957, 330–331. Noted and discussed further by Wyke in Wyke 2012, 176–178. Wyke 2012, 176. Malamud 2008, 3. Malamud 2008, 209–210. Malamud 2008, 209. Wyke 2012, 150. Malamud 2008, 209, 224. Wyke 2012, 139, 147–148. This kind of a reading is most obviously present in Howard Fast’s novel Spartacus (1951). Fast was known for his socialist sympathies and, as Malamud points out, even though the epic movie based on his novel was considerably modified to fit the atmosphere of cold-war America, the book itself is distinctly critical of the decay of the American Republican spirit, the criticism that is disguised in the cloak of ancient Rome. Spartacus depicts a Roman empire that has lost all touch with its Republican ideals and origins, and become a corrupt, cruel and despotic empire on its way to certain ruin. In Fast’s reading, this was largely due to the capitalism and consumerism that produced slavery; his intention seems to be to communicate the message that the United States too “had lost touch with its earlier Republican values. The old virtues and practices that had once defined American society ... had disappeared.” Malamud 2008, 217. Wyke 2012, 133. Wyke 2012, 133–134, 168, 176–178. Wyke 2012, 189. Wyke 2012, 191. Wyke 2012, 166. Wyke 2012, 209, 211–213; Johnson 2006, 244. Wyke 2012, 204–205, 215. Pax Americana, as defined by Bush in “Rebuilding America’s Defenses: Strategies, Forces, and Resources for a New Century,” published on the PNAC website in September 2002; further discussion in Wyke 2012, 208. In a White House press conference in April 2004; see Wyke 2012, 218. A speech in Simi Valley, California, on November 19, 1999; discussed further in Wyke 2012, 208 and Ferguson 2005, 6–7. Kissling 2016, 14.

190 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Notes Wyke 2012, 206. Malamud 2009, 4. Malamud 2008, 4. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 6. Kiessling DeCourcy 2016, 114. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 16. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 6. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 7. Nicol 2009, 86. Hipkiss 1984, 49. On the problems of reading Eliot as a moral exemplum, see Tally 2011, 70–72; Klinkowitz 2009, 48. Galloway 1966, 172. Galloway 1966, 18. Galloway 1966, 14. Fiedler 1960, 79. This narrative technique as a repeating pattern in Vonnegut’s works is analysed in Hipkiss 1984, 46–47. Hipkiss 1984, 51, see also 62. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 59. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 59. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 10. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 54. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 7. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 27. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 24, 35. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 26. τήν τε τοῦ αὐτοκράτορος πρόσρησιν διὰ παντὸς οὐ μόνον οἱ νικήσαντές τινας ἀλλὰ καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι πάντες, πρὸς δήλωσιν τῆς αὐτοτελοῦς σφων ἐξουσίας, ἀντὶ τῆς τοῦ βασιλέως τοῦ τε δικτάτορος ἐπικλήσεως ἔχουσιν. Dio 53.18.3. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 76. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 53. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 31. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 31. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 47. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 62–63. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 49. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 129. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 139, 146. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 146. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 36, 58.

Notes

191

68 Hipkiss 1984, 53; Reed 1990, 113. For further analysis of this “crisis of conscience” as a defining quality in Vonnegut’s works, see also Hipkiss 1984, 63. 69 See e.g. Reed 1990, 117–118. This kind of juxtaposing of characters is a typical element in Vonnegut’s novels; see Hipkiss 1984, 69.

Chapter 4 1

2

3 4

5

6

7 8

9

Dictaturam et apsenti et praesenti mihi delatam et a populo et a senatu, M. Marcello et L. Arruntio consulibus non recepi ... Consulatum quoque tum annuum et perpetuum mihi delatum non recepi. Transl. Brunt and Moore 1967. senatu populoque Romano consentientibus ut curator legum et morum summa potestate solus crearer, nullum magistratum contra morem maiorum delatum recepi. Transl. Brunt and Moore 1967. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 44. πάσης αὐτὸν τῆς τῶν νόμων ἀνάγκης ἀπήλλαξαν, ἵν᾽, ὥσπερ εἴρηταί μοι, καὶ αὐτοτελὴς ὄντως καὶ αὐτοκράτωρ καὶ ἑαυτοῦ καὶ τῶν νόμων πάντα τε ὅσα βούλοιτο ποιοίη καὶ πάνθ᾽ ὅσα ἀβουλοίη μὴ πράττῃ. Dio 53.28.2. ταῦτα μὲν οὕτω τότε ὥς γε εἰπεῖν διετάχθη: τῷ γὰρ ἔργῳ καὶ πάντων καὶ διὰ παντὸς αὐτὸς ὁ Καῖσαρ, ἅτε καὶ τῶν χρημάτων κυριεύων ῾λόγῳ μὲν γὰρ τὰ δημόσια ἀπὸ τῶν ἐκείνου ἀπεκέκριτο, ἔργῳ δὲ καὶ ταῦτα πρὸς τὴν γνώμην αὐτοῦ ἀνηλίσκετὀ καὶ τῶν στρατιωτῶν κρατῶν, αὐταρχήσειν ἔμελλε. τῆς γοῦν δεκαετίας ἐξελθούσης ἄλλα ἔτη πέντε, εἶτα πέντε, καὶ μετὰ τοῦτο δέκα καὶ ἕτερα αὖθις δέκα καὶ ἄλλα δέκα, πεμπτάκις αὐτῷ ἐψηφίσθη, ὥστε τῇ τῶν δεκετηρίδων διαδοχῇ διὰ βίου αὐτὸν μοναρχῆσαι ... οὕτω μὲν δὴ τό τε τοῦ δήμου καὶ τὸ τῆς γερουσίας κράτος πᾶν ἐς τὸν Αὔγουστον μετέστη, καὶ ἀπ᾽ αὐτοῦ καὶ ἀκριβὴς μοναρχία κατέστη: μοναρχία γάρ, εἰ καὶ τὰμάλιστα καὶ δύο καὶ τρεῖς ἅμα τὸ κῦρός ποτε ἔσχον, ἀληθέστατα ἂν νομίζοιτο. Dio 53.16.1-2, 53.17.1; see also Dio 52.1. posito triumviri nomine consulem se ferens et ad tuendam plebem tribunicio iure contentum, ubi militem donis, populum annona, cunctos dulcedine otii pellexit, insurgere paulatim, munia senatus magistratuum legum in se trahere ... Igitur verso civitatis statu nihil usquam prisci et integri moris: omnes exuta aequalitate iussa principis aspectare ... Tac. Ann. 1.2, 1.4. As Vout points out, criticizing the former emperor could also serve the purpose of making the standing ruler shine by comparison. Vout 2009, 261–275. nullo adversante, cum ferocissimi per acies aut proscriptione cecidissent, ceteri nobilium, quanto quis servitio promptior, opibus et honoribus extollerentur ac novis ex rebus aucti, tuta et praesentia quam vetera et periculosa mallent. Tac. Ann. 1.2. iuniores post Actiacam victoriam, etiam senes plerique inter bella civium nati: quotus quisque reliquus qui rem publicam vidisset? Tac. Ann. 1.3.

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10 Hor. Carm. 2.7, 3.4.26, Hor. Epist. 2.2.46-49. 11 Tac. Ann. 3.34. 12 Tumultus posthac et rerum novarum initia coniurationesque complures, prius quam invalescerent indicio detectas ... Nam ne ultimae quidem sortis hominum conspiratione et periculo caruit. Suet. Aug. 19. 13 Dio 55.13-21 (see also Suet. Aug. 35). 14 nam legem maiestatis reduxerat, cui nomen apud veteres idem, sed alia in iudicium veniebant, si quis proditione exercitum aut plebem seditionibus, denique male gesta re publica maiestatem populi Romani minuisset.Tac. Ann. 1.72.4. 15 See Levick 2010, 275. 16 In senatu verba facienti dictum est: “Non intellexi,” et ab alio: “Contra dicerem tibi, si locum haberem.” Interdum ob immodicas disceptantium altercationes e curia per iram se proripienti quidam ingesserunt licere oportere senatoribus de re p. loqui ... Nec ideo libertas aut contumacia fraudi cuiquam fuit. Suet. Aug. 54. 17 pauci bona libertatis in cassum disserere, Tac. Ann. 4 18 Multus hinc ipso de Augusto sermo, plerisque vana mirantibus quod idem dies accepti quondam imperii princeps et vitae supremus ... numerus etiam consulatuum celebrabatur, quo Valerium Corvum et C. Marium simul aequaverat; continuata per septem et triginta annos tribunicia potestas, nomen inperatoris semel atque vicies partum aliaque honorum multiplicata aut nova. Tac. Ann. 1.9. 19 ὐ γὰρ ἔστι πόλιν τηλικαύτην ἐκ δημοκρατίας πρὸς μοναρχίαν ἄγοντα ἀναιμωτὶ μεταστῆσαι, Dio 55.21.4. 20 For studies on “propaganda” and censorship in the Roman Principate, see Weber and Zimmermann 2003; Dominik et al. 2009; Powell 1992; Ahl 1984. 21 Plin. NH 7.45.149. This reading is reinforced by the fact that Julia’s multiple lovers, who included significant members of the Augustan elite, were executed on the same occasion. For further discussion, see Ferrill 1980; Fantham 2006, 79–133; Braccesi 2012. 22 Perdiderint cum me duo crimina, carmen et error,/alterius facti culpa silenda mihi:/ nam non sum tanti, renovem ut tua vulnera, Caesar. Ov. Tr.2.207-209. For analysis and discussion concerning the possible reasons for and the background behind Ovid’s exile, see e.g. Goold 1983; Claassen 1987; Johnson 2015. 23 Dio 55.13; see also 56.32. 24 Cum civibus primum, deinde eum collegis, novissime eum adfinibus coactus armis decernere mari terraque sanguinem fudit. Sen. de brev. 4.5. Translation by J.W. Basore, Loeb Classical Library. 25 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 7–9. 26 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 132. 27 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 132. 28 Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 49.

Notes 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

193

Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 151. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 30. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 30. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 30–31. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 30–31. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 31. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 31. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 32. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 31–32. Vonnegut 1992 (orig. 1965), 163–164. Newman 1985, 113. Newman 1985, 114. Notably, this is a narrative element that Kurt Vonnegut also used to play with; in Slaughterhouse Five, the perpetual present is the defining feature of Trafalmadore, and it is the way in which Billy Pilgrim deals with his traumatic experiences. Butler 2002, 110. See Nicol 2009, 21, 34; Butler 2002, 69. Nicol 2009, 14. Nicol 2009, 12. See Butler 2002, 21. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 54. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 55. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 6. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 88. See Newman 1985, 10–11; Hawkes 1977, 142. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 128. Galloway 1966, vii. Galloway 1966, 12–13, 172. Galloway 1966, 20. Galloway 1966, 10, 13, 16. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 218. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 206, 218. See Nicol 2009, 5. Butler 2002, 18. As Nicol states, “fiction is fictional, but no more so than reality.” Nicol 2009, 39. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 219. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 34, 44, 97. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 51. Butler 2002, 60; see also Nicol 2009, 18–23 and Newman 1985, 22. Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 44.

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67 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 51. 68 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 51. 69 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 52. 70 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 95, 104. 71 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 72. 72 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 94. 73 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 93. 74 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 94, 140. 75 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 108. 76 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 41. 77 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 43. 78 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 9. 79 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 197. 80 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 195. 81 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 32. 82 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 143. 83 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 167. 84 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 101. 85 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 219. 86 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 167, see also 11, 92. 87 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 175. 88 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 184. 89 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 70. 90 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 70–71. 91 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 219. 92 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 51, 52. 93 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 33. 94 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 38. 95 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 38. 96 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 41. 97 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 83–84. 98 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 95–96. 99 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 96. 100 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 96. 101 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 97. 102 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 108. 103 Ransmayr 1990 [orig. 1988], 103.

Notes

195

Chapter 5 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Massie 1986, 24. Williams 1971, 279. Newman 1985, 5. Newman 1985, 6–10, Butler 2002, 13. For further discussion on the relationship between postmodernism, history, and fiction, see e.g. Wesseling 1991, 2–14, 117–150; Polack 2016, 59–76; 159–172. Butler 2002, 13, 17. Butler 2002, 29. Nicol 2009, 12, 14; Butler 2002, 14. See Nicol 2009, 16, 35; Butler 2002, 64, 73. See Wesseling 1991, 74–88, 119–120. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 406–407. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 407. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 406. Massie 1986, 18–21, 203–207. Massie 1986, 19. Massie 1986, 24. Massie 1986, 307. For further discussion of the burden of “authenticity” in historical fiction, see Polack 2016, 77–100, Wesseling 1991, 120–134. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 21–22, 282. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 152. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 279, 281. See Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 232–233, 272, 310. Massie 1986, 19. Massie 1986, 173. Massie 1986, 152. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 24–25. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 54. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 282. Massie 1986, 214. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 231. Massie 1986, 377. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 423. See e.g. Fontaine 1989, 22. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 252. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 282–283. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 295–298; Massie 1986, 212

196

Notes

37 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 275, 290. 38 Massie 1986, 210. 39 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 283; see also 282, 284. Compare with Massie 1987 [orig. 1986] 71–109. 40 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 284–285. 41 Massie 1986, 354. 42 Fontaine 1989, 55. 43 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 247. 44 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 185, 287. 45 See e.g. Fontaine 1989, 19–20; Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 169–170; 172–174. 46 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 206. 47 Massie 1986, 93. 48 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 295. 49 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 306. 50 Massie 1986, 231. 51 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 40. 52 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 310. 53 Massie 1986, 28, 33. 54 Massie 1986, 78, 82–83. 55 Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 10. 56 Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 16. 57 Suet. Aug. 12. 58 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 32–33, 35, 44–45; see also Massie1986, 37. 59 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 34, 38–39; for a comparison, see also 51–53, 62; Massie 1986, 38. 60 See e.g. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 68. 61 Fontaine 1989, 71. 62 Fontaine 1989, 19. 63 Massie 1986, 89; Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 230–231. 64 Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 44–45. 65 Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 339, 360. 66 Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 114. 67 Massie 1986, 308, 77. 68 Massie 1986, 81, 178–179. 69 See e.g. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 62–63, 108; Massie 1986, 26, 69–70, 124, 182. 70 See Massie 1986, 227. 71 Massie 1986, 183. 72 Massie 1986, 225. 73 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 278, 298, 310; see also earlier 114–115. 74 Massie 1986, 212–221.

Notes 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

197

Massie 1986, 286. Massie 1986, 270. See also Massie 1986, 151. Massie 1986, 262. Massie 1986, 321. Massie 1986, 204. Fontaine 1989, 28. Fontaine 1989, 55, see also 15. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 165–166. See e.g. App. BC 5.64, 5.66, Dio 48.31.3, Plut. Ant. 31. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 20–21. Massie 1986, 110–111. Massie 1986, 144. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 271. Fontaome 1989, 160. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 360–377, 382. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 95, 173–174. Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 287–288; the same theme can be observed in Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 150, 180. 93 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 163, 272. Moreover, the emperor admits that “I wished my Rome to become the potentiality that I saw in her. In the end, they both betrayed me; but I cannot love them the less for that.” Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 307. 94 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 306. 95 Dored 1961 [orig. 1959], 171. 96 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 277. As Livia puts it, in her letter to Tiberius, “[o]ur futures are more important than our selves,” Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 233. 97 Fontaine 1989, 55. 98 See e.g. Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 204, Massie 1986, 349. 99 Massie 1986, 223. 100 Massie 1986, 325. 101 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 248. Later on, the theme is revisited in a letter written by Nicolaus of Damascus, who ends his text on a pessimistic note stating that “I do not believe that Rome can endure the death of Octavius Caesar, and I do not believe that Octavius Caesar can endure the death of his soul.” Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 249. 102 Massie 1986, 19, see also 274. 103 Massie 1986, 308. 104 Massie 1986, 274. 105 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 247–248.

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Chapter 6 1 For a more profound discussion on the cultural effects and on the collective experience of television broadcasting, see Baughman 1992, 30–115. 2 For a couple of pervasive and encompassing studies, see, e.g. Danesi 2002; Nöth 1997. 3 Sontag 2009 (orig. 1961), 243–244. 4 Sless 1986, 111. 5 See Bronfen 2012. 6 See Bronfen 2012, 25–27. 7 Technically speaking, they do not of course—the civil war Octavian and the late reigning Augustus are decades apart and cannot be expected to form any sort of a uniform entity when put together. As Massie’s aged Augustus notes, his younger self seems an unrelatable and distant historical character, whose mind and thoughts he can no longer grasp. 8 Toscano 2012, 132.

Chapter 7 1 ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ τῷ ἔργῳ αὐτὰ ἐπετέλεσεν, οὕτω δὴ καὶ τὸ τοῦ Αὐγούστου ὄνομα καὶ παρὰ τῆς βουλῆς καὶ παρὰ τοῦ δήμου ἐπέθετο. βουληθέντων γάρ σφων ἰδίως πως αὐτὸν προσειπεῖν, καὶ τῶν μὲν τὸ τῶν δὲ τὸ καὶ ἐσηγουμένων καὶ αἱρουμένων, ὁ Καῖσαρ ἐπεθύμει μὲν ἰσχυρῶς Ῥωμύλος ὀνομασθῆναι, αἰσθόμενος δὲ ὅτι ὑποπτεύεται ἐκ τούτου τῆς βασιλείας ἐπιθυμεῖν, οὐκέτ᾽ αὐτοῦ ἀντεποιήσατο, ἀλλὰ Αὔγουστος ὡς καὶ πλεῖόν τι ἢ κατὰ ἀνθρώπους ὢν ἐπεκλήθη: πάντα γὰρ τὰ ἐντιμότατα καὶ τὰ ἱερώτατα αὔγουστα προσαγορεύεται. 2 See http://www.williamsbrosbrew.com/beer/caesar-augustus, read on the May 1, 2017. 3 Suet. Aug. 7. 4 Williams 2003 [orig. 1971], 48. 5 Suet. Aug. 7; Dio 53.16. 6 Massie 1987 [orig. 1986], 235. 7 —loca quoque religiosa et in quibus augurato quid consecratur augusta dicantur, ab auctu vel ab avium gestu gustuve, sicut etiam Ennius docet scribens: Augusto augurio postquam incluta condita Roma est. Suet. Aug. 7. 8 Levick 2010, 299.

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Index Note: Page references with letter ‘n’ followed by locators denote note numbers. absolutism of Augustus 16, 33–4, 43–6, 64–5, 70, 79–86, 94, 96–105, 113–14, 121, 124, 128–36, 152–3, 157, 161, 187 n.68 the political concept 55–62, 65, 79–80, 113–14, 189 n.20 “semiotic absolutism” 7, 10, 18, 40, 46–7, 69–70, 72, 87–8, 92–4, 96, 98–100, 106–8, 109–10, 125–8, 134, 144, 161, 178 absurd 25, 38, 67–8, 72, 89, 97–9, 104, 108, 140, 185 n.34 Actium 15, 30, 42, 45, 82, 118, 120, 166–7 Afghanistan 61, 177 Agrippa, Marcus 120, 137, 139–40 Agrippa Postumus 85, 153 American dream 37, 76–7, 141, 186 n.47 Antonius, Iullus 161 Antonius, Julius 31 Antonius, Marcus fictional character 42, 138, 147–9, 157–8, 166–8 historical figure 30, 32–3, 36, 41, 48, 112, 119, 131, 137, 160, 165, 183 n.8, 183 n.10 Apollo 19, 36, 175 Appian 15, 27, 32, 137, 183 n.10 autocracy. See absolutism Barthes, Roland 2–3, 5–9, 20, 26, 180 n.14, 180 n.15, 181 n.28, 181 n.35, 181 n.40, 182 n.75 the BBC 24, 114, 146, 149, 155, 163 Ben-Hur 60, 112, 147, 149 Birkenfeld, Günther 112 Burton, Richard 147 Bush, George W. 61–2, 189 n.28

Cabrera, Santiago 158 Caesar, Julius fictional character 116, 119, 157–9, 163, 166, 168 the film 2, 60, 112, 147, 149 historical figure 21, 26, 31, 44, 64, 112, 122, 128, 142, 171–5, 177 the play 169 Caesar Augustus (beer) 169–70, 176–7 Caesarism 58–61, 130, 135, 173–4, 177 The Caesars 146, 152–5, 168, 172–3 Caligula 34, 46, 64 Camus, Albert 67 capitalism 39, 46, 65–7, 77, 189 n.20 censorship 12, 45, 83–4, 192 n.20 Christianity 15, 163 Cicero, Marcus Tullius fictional character 166, 173 historical figure 62, 183 n.10 civil war, Roman 12, 14–17, 19–20, 24, 30– 5, 37, 40, 44–5, 50, 56, 65, 77, 82–3, 86, 104–5, 112, 132, 135, 137–8, 140, 147, 150–3, 155, 158–9, 164–7, 171, 173–6, 188 n.71, 198 n.7 classical reception studies 2–11, 21, 181 n.47 Cleopatra fictional character 42, 147–9, 156–8, 167 the film 24, 145–50, 153–8, 166, 168 historical figure 21, 48, 112, 119 the miniseries 25, 157–8 cold war 22, 25, 46, 55–6, 59–61, 65, 80, 109, 149, 155 Commodus 46 communication 7–11, 118, 145, 163, 170 communism 46, 59–61, 88, 149. See also socialism consumerism 38, 40, 189 n.20

Index deconstruction 4–5, 8, 99, 111, 181 n.27 defamiliarization 100–2, 105, 113–14, 130, 149, 154–7 de Riencourt, Amaury 58–9, 189 n.12 Derrida, Jacques 95, 181 n.27 despotism. See absolutism diachronic/synchronic 5–6, 18, 111 Dio Cassius 11, 15–17, 27, 30–7, 44, 53, 72–3, 80, 82–5, 118, 136–7, 152, 169, 174–5, 183 n.6, 183 n.7, 183 n.9, 183 n.10, 184 n.13, 184 n.14, 184 n.18, 184 n.20, 184 n.22, 185 n.27, 185 n.32, 190 n.56, 191 n.4, 191 n.5, 192 n.13, 192 n.19, 192 n.23, 197 n.84, 198 n.5 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 14 duality, of Augustus 15, 32–5, 118–19, 154, 176, 183 n.5

207

Hitler, Adolf 113–14 Hollywood 2, 60, 112, 143, 146–9, 154, 157 Horatius, Quintus fictional character 127 historical figure 12, 82, 117, 120 humanism 23, 38–9, 46, 67–8, 176–7, 185 n.33, 185–6 n.35 I, Claudius the novel 24, 112, 159 the television series 24, 114, 146–56, 158–9, 163–4, 168 Imperium the Latin term 55 the television series 25, 146, 158–64 internet 149 Iraq 61

Eco, Umberto 95, 111 Eisenhower, Dwight D. 60, 87 empire. See also Republic the television series 25, 146, 158–60, 163 empiricism 4 end of history 20, 22, 56, 57, 59, 65, 77, 176 epistemology 5 essentialism 4, 121, 137, 145 European Union 25 exemplarity 29, 67, 69, 81, 103, 105, 135, 183 n.3, 190 n.41

Jauss, Oswald 3, 7 Johnson, Lyndon B. 61 Julia the elder fictional character 113, 115–17, 120–1, 125–6, 131, 137–9, 150, 160–1 historical figure 85, 120, 139, 192 n.21 Julia the younger 85 Julian, the emperor 27, 37 Julio-Claudian dynasty 15–16, 24, 26, 44, 64, 81, 84, 116, 150, 163

familiarization 16, 24, 120, 135–42, 145 fascism 10, 46, 55, 59–60, 100–2, 149, 181 n.45 Foucault, Michel 8

langue/parole 4–5, 7–8 leges Iuliae 42, 69–70, 85, 88, 150, 187 n.60 Lepidus, Marcus Aemilius 32–3 Livia (Julia Augusta) fictional character 138, 150–1, 153–4, 158, 197 n.96 historical figure 82 Livius, Titus 14, 82

Golden Age 10, 19–20, 22, 41–5, 50, 64, 66, 174 Graves, Robert 24, 112, 146, 150, 159 Graves, Rupert 157 Heller, Joseph 66 historicism 4–7 historiography modern 3–6, 57–9, 111–13, 136 Roman 11–17, 27, 29–37, 40, 44–5, 80– 6, 104–5, 113, 122–5, 128, 130–1, 137–8, 174–5, 183 n.3, 183 n.5

Kennedy, John F. 61

Maecenas, Gaius Cilnius 127, 173–4 Mankiewicz, Joseph 2, 24, 60, 145–9, 155, 157, 166, 168 master narrative 2, 18, 43, 47, 56, 68, 70, 95, 111–12, 114–15, 117, 126 McDowall, Roddy 147 memoirs of Augustus 17–18, 51, 114, 132, 178, 182 n.61

208

Index

modernism (literary style) 67 monarchy 13, 36, 53, 58, 80, 83–6, 90–3, 130–4, 149–50, 168, 173–5 Mussolini, Benito 10 Mutina 130, 166, 173 Nazi Germany 60 Nero 34, 46, 64 Nerva-Antonine dynasty 16 Nicolaus of Damascus 14, 117, 124, 133, 183 n.8, 197 n.101 Nixon, Richard 60, 135 Octavia 137–8, 166–7 opposition to Augustus’ reign 56, 81–6 O’Toole, Peter 158 Ovidius, Publius fictional character 94–108 historical figure 85, 94–5, 192 n.22 pater patriae 23, 35, 43, 53, 65, 68, 70, 72–5, 77, 81, 105, 139, 151–2, 176 Pax Americana 53, 59, 62, 189 n.28 pax Romana 12, 50 Perusia 31, 82 petits récits 57, 95, 111 Philippi 31, 82, 159, 166, 183 n.9 Pirkis, Max 165 Plutarch 27, 137, 183 n.10 Pompey, Gaius (Magnus) 33, 41, 165 populism 23, 91, 148, 165 positivism 4, 7, 71 postmodernism literary style 8–10, 22–3, 38, 66–8, 72, 93–5, 99, 103, 105, 109–11, 125–6, 144, 155, 178, 181 n.41, 185 n.33, 186 n.35, 195 n.5 time period 21–2, 29, 56, 110, 143, 146, 155–6, 178–9 Prima Porta, the statue of 26 proscriptions 32–3, 82, 132–3, 161

Republic Roman 13–14, 16, 18–20, 31, 34–6, 40–1, 44, 46–7, 55, 60, 63–4, 80–6, 105, 128–30, 133–4, 149–52, 154–5, 157–61, 164–6, 173–4, 176–8, 187 n.53, 187 n.54 vs. empire trope 16, 22, 46, 55–65, 101–2, 128–30, 142, 149, 154–5, 177, 189 n.20 restoration of 18, 35–6, 41, 75–6, 128, 133, 151–2 Roman, as a model for American 21, 40–1, 45–9, 58–9, 61–3, 66, 189 n.20 Res Gestae Divi Augusti 18–20, 33, 35, 44, 51, 53, 56, 62, 79, 81, 106, 124, 133–4, 136, 167, 178, 187 n.67 Rome as interpretant to “Augustus” 18, 26, 46, 51, 124, 146, 170 the television series 24, 146, 163–8, 173 Roosevelt, Franklin D. 60

Quo Vadis 60, 149, 163

Sadler, Benjamin 158 second triumvirate 31, 33, 36, 129, 158, 166 self-representation of Augustus 17–20, 41, 62, 124–5, 135, 147–8, 174–5, 181 n.45 Shakespeare, William 146, 169, 172–3 sharing notion 7–8, 118 skepticism 22, 56, 110–11, 115, 117 socialism 39, 100–2, 189 n.20. See also communism Sontag, Susan 144, 198 n.3 Soviet Union 22, 46, 55, 58, 60, 102 Spengler, Oswald 57–9 Stalin, Joseph 114 structuralism 3–5, 7–8, 180 n.1, 181 n.27 Suetonius, Gaius 11, 16–17, 27, 30–4, 36–7, 44, 82–3, 118, 123, 130, 136, 155, 174–5, 183 n.8, 184 n.23

von Ranke, Leopold 4, 111 reader, the power of 8–11, 35, 38, 47–8, 73, 92–3, 96–8, 101, 116–18, 126–8, 134, 144–5 relativism 4, 38, 111, 115, 117, 135, 139, 162

Tacitus, Publius 11, 16, 27, 30, 33, 44, 81–4, 118, 155 Taylor, Elizabeth 147 terror attack of 9/11 61 theatricality, of Augustus 35–7, 68–9, 88–9, 104–5, 123–5

Index Tiberius fictional character 103, 153, 172–3, 197 n.96 historical figure 34 Toynbee, Arnold 58 tragic hero, Augustus as 121–2, 137–41, 153–4, 160–1 transmission notion 8 Truman, Harry S. 60 Trump, Donald 62 tyranny. See absolutism Vergilius, Publius fictional character 126–7 historical figure 12

209

video games 182 n.78 Vietnam 61, 177 Wilson, Harold 135 Woods, Simon 164, 167, 173 World War II 22, 38, 55–6, 58–60, 80, 112, 143 Wyke, Maria 21, 58, 60–1, 63, 130, 173, 182 n.76, 190 n.32, 193 n.71, 195 n.6, 195 n.7, 195 n.8, 195 n.12, 195 n.13, 195 n.17, 195 n.19, 195 nn.21–30