Greek Narratives of the Roman Empire Under the Severans: Cassius Dio, Philostratus and Herodian Book 9781107062726, 2014019436

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GREEK NARRATIVES OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE UNDER THE SEVERANS

The political instability of the Severan Period (ad 193–235) destroyed the High Imperial consensus about the Roman past and caused both rulers and subjects constantly to re-imagine and re-narrate both recent events and the larger shape of Greco-Roman history and cultural identity. This book examines the narratives put out by the new dynasty, and how the literary elite responded with divergent visions of their own. It focuses on four long Greek narrative texts from the period (by Cassius Dio, Philostratus and Herodian), each of which constructs its own version of the empire, each defined by different Greek and Roman elements and each differently affected by dynastic change, especially that from Antonine to Severan. Innovative theories of narrative are used to produce new readings of these works that bring political, literary and cultural perspectives together in a unified presentation of the Severan era as a distinctive historical moment. adam m. kemezis is Associate Professor in the Department of History and Classics, University of Alberta.

GREEK CULTURE IN THE ROMAN WORLD Editors s u s a n e . a l c o c k , Brown University j a s´ e l s n e r , Corpus Christi College, Oxford s i m o n g o l d h i l l , University of Cambridge m i c h a e l s q u i r e , King’s College London The Greek culture of the Roman Empire offers a rich field of study. Extraordinary insights can be gained into processes of multicultural contact and exchange, political and ideological conflict, and the creativity of a changing, polyglot empire. During this period, many fundamental elements of Western society were being set in place: from the rise of Christianity, to an influential system of education, to long-lived artistic canons. This series is the first to focus on the response of Greek culture to its Roman imperial setting as a significant phenomenon in its own right. To this end, it will publish original and innovative research in the art, archaeology, epigraphy, history, philosophy, religion and literature of the empire, with an emphasis on Greek material.

Recent titles in the series The Maeander Valley: A Historical Geography from Antiquity to Byzantium Peter Thonemann Greece and the Augustan Cultural Revolution A J. S. Spawforth Rethinking the Gods: Philosophical Readings of Religion in the Post-Hellenistic Period Peter Van Nuffelen Saints and Symposiasts: The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture Jason König The Social World of Intellectuals in the Roman Empire: Sophists, Philosophers, and Christians Kendra Eshleman Religion and Identity in Porphyry of Tyre: The Limits of Hellenism in Late Antiquity Aaron Johnson Syrian Identity in the Greco-Roman World Nathaniel J. Andrade The Sense of Sight in Rabbinic Culture: Jewish Ways of Seeing in Late Antiquity Rachel Neis Roman Phrygia: Culture and Society Peter Thonemann Homer in Stone: The Tabulae Iliacae in their Roman Context David Petrain Man and Animal in Severan Rome:The Literary Imagination of Claudius Aelianus Steven D. Smith Reading Fiction with Lucian: Fakes, Freaks and Hyperreality Karen ní Mheallaigh Greek Narratives of the Roman Empire under the Severans: Cassius Dio, Philostratus and Herodian Adam M. Kemezis

GREEK NARRATIVES OF T H E RO M A N E M P I R E UNDER THE SEVERANS Cassius Dio, Philostratus and Herodian

ADAM M. KEMEZIS

University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge. It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107062726 © Adam M. Kemezis 2014 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2014 Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays, St Ives plc A catalog record for this publication is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data Kemezis, Adam M., 1977– author. Greek narratives of the Roman Empire under the Severans : Cassius Dio, Philostratus and Herodian / Adam M. Kemezis. pages cm. – (Greek culture in the Roman world) isbn 978-1-107-06272-6 (hardback) 1. Greek prose literature. 2. Rome – History – Severans, 193–235. 3. Cassius Dio Cocceianus. 4. Herodian. 5. Philostratus, the Athenian, active 2nd century – 3rd century. I. Title. pa3256.k46 2014 9370 .07–dc23 2014019436 isbn 978-1-107-06272-6 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of urls for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

For my mother, Sarah

Contents

page viii

Acknowledgements Note on texts and translations

x

1. Introduction

1

2. From Antonine to Severan

30

3. Cassius Dio: the last annalist

90

4. Philostratus’ Apollonius: Hellenic perfection on an imperial stage

150

5. Philostratus’ Sophists: Hellas’ Antonine Golden Age

196

6. Herodian: a dysfunctional Rome

227

7. Conclusion: from “Severan” to “third-century”

273

Appendix 1. The date of composition of Dio’s history 2. The dates and addressees of Philostratus’ Apollonius and Sophists 3. The date, scope and author of Herodian’s history Bibliography Index

282 294 298 309 335

vii

Acknowledgements

This book began about ten years ago when David Potter suggested to me that Cassius Dio would be a good author to look at for a Ph.D. field exam. My largest debt remains to him, for the good counsel and instruction he offered throughout the subsequent dissertation process, for his continued support and friendship, and for the uncounted times in the revision process when some insight of his from years before has found its way back into my memory, with enlightening results. The generous and astute contributions that Sarah Ahbel-Rappe, Susan Alcock, Bruce Frier, Jim Porter and Ray van Dam made to that dissertation are still felt everywhere in this book. My thanks go out once again to my other professors, fellow-students and friends from that time, for their wisdom and companionship. In the time that I have been revising the book and preparing it for publication, my debts of gratitude have increased much. The process has been eased immeasurably by the patience and cordial professionalism of Michael Sharp and his colleagues at Cambridge University Press. I am heavily indebted also to the series editors and the anonymous readers for their trenchant and salutary comments. Many friends and colleagues were generous with their time in reading or discussing various parts of the project at different times, or with bibliographical suggestions and answers to questions, especially Rob Chenault, Matthew Clark, Kendra Eshleman, Kris Fletcher, Alain Gowing, Dina Guth, Patrick Hogan, Julie Langford, Jared Secord, and the several members of the History & Classics Department writing group at the University of Alberta. Roshan Abraham, Christopher Jones, Susann Lusnia, Andrew Scott and Joel Ward were kind enough to share with me or permit me to use not-yet-published work. Michael May and the staff of the University of Alberta libraries have provided unfailing succor in my hour of bibliographical need. Needless to say, the errors, omissions and infelicities that may be found in what follows are entirely my own, and persist in spite of the best efforts of those just mentioned. viii

Acknowledgements

ix

Most of this book was written or revised in Edmonton, where the faculty and staff of the History and Classics Department of the University of Alberta proved to be the most welcoming set of people a new scholar could ask for. I can’t imagine where I’d be without the fellowship of my colleagues, the inspiration of my students and the conviviality of the Thursday Underground Support Group. To all of my family for their love, understanding and spiritual support, to Sarah Miller, my mother, to whom this book is dedicated, for encouraging my intellectual activities by her words and example my whole life, and to Liz Czach for being all one could wish for in a wife, a friend and a sympathetic colleague, I will never cease to be grateful, and I can never be grateful enough.

Note on texts and translations

The four texts that are the main subject of this book are each in its different way textually problematic, and a brief explanation is in order of the texts I have followed and the ways I have cited them. The most complex problem is presented by Cassius Dio, above all because the text of his latter books has mostly had to be reconstructed from quotations and epitomes. This is admirably done in the edition of U. P. Boissevain (1898), but that work’s formidable scholarly authority comes at the expense of convenience: Dio is an exceedingly awkward author to cite. For all citations from the fragmentary books, I have included afterwards in parentheses the source of the fragments as follows: (Xiph.) – Xiphilinus; (EV) – Excerpta Valesiana; (Zon.) – Zonaras; (EM) – Excerpta Maiana; (EU) – Excerpta Ursiniana; (PP) – Peter the Patrician. In addition, it is usually necessary to cite two book numbers, because Boissevain (and following him Cary in the Loeb edition) used a different system of numbers and divisions from all previous editions, while preserving the old chapter and section numbers even where his re-ordering of passages or moving of book-divisions had disrupted the sequence of the chapters. This means that in many instances the Boissevain book number by itself does not uniquely identify a passage: his Book 62, for instance, contains two sections numbered “1,” neither of which is at the beginning. Given this, and since many references in earlier scholarship still use the old numbering system, I have cited passages using first Boissevain’s book number, then the traditional number in brackets, which can be found at the top of the right-hand page in Boissevain, or in the margin of Cary. Lastly, there are a few instances in which due to transpositions of fragments and typographical errors, a given passage is exceedingly difficult to locate in Cary’s Loeb: for those I have given volume and page numbers as well. I apologize for the inelegance. Neither of Philostratus’ longer works has received a proper critical edition since Kayser’s unsatisfactory 1870–1 Teubner, though in the case of the Apollonius, one is now in progress, edited by G. J. Boter. At present, for the x

Note on texts and translations

xi

Apollonius, C. P. Jones’ 2005 Loeb represents an important advance, and I have used it, with some exceptions that are noted. For the Sophists, I have used Kayser faute de mieux. Herodian, by contrast, has received a remarkable amount of editorial attention for such an otherwise neglected author, perhaps because he has many more manuscript cruxes than the other texts. I have used the most recent Teubner edition, Lucarini’s of 2005, but with reference also to the editions of Mendelssohn (1883), Stavenhagen (1922) and Whittaker (1969). Details are noted where appropriate. For other authors I have generally used the most recently available Oxford or Teubner editions. However, since the physical format of several of these editions is quite different, I have preferred to use the “Loeb page” as a standard unit of textlength, regardless of what edition I have consulted when quoting or citing the author in question. Translations are my own except where otherwise noted, and in general I have emphasized clear and accurate expression over stylistic fidelity to the original.

chapter 1

Introduction

What moderns call the fourth dynasty of the Roman monarchy began with Septimius Severus’ accession in 193 and ended in 235 when his great-nephew Alexander Severus was overthrown and killed. There was thus a generation born in the 160s whose longer-lived representatives experienced the entire era as adults. Their experience of imperial politics was entirely unlike that of their parents and grandparents, who had lived through the ninety-five years (97–192) from Nerva’s accession to Commodus’ death. In that earlier period, six Roman emperors had reigned, not counting subordinates who never attained sole rule. All but the last had died of natural causes and passed on the throne to his chosen successor. The Severan period lasted less than half as long, but in that time seven men were recognized in Rome as principal emperor. Only one of them, Septimius Severus, died of natural causes, and contemporaries speculated freely that his son and successor tried his best to hasten that death.1 In that same interval there occurred two civil wars and a string of palace coups and overthrows of favorites and pretenders. The Antonine era had seen highly disruptive epidemics and barbarian raids, but the monarchy had been an element of stability, at least on the symbolic level. In the Severan period, by contrast, high politics was a realm of turbulence and periodic chaos. In a culture where all historiography was political narrative, the Severan generation would have lived through far more history, as they defined it, than had any generation in memory, and it would make a far more interesting story than had the preceding century. That said, politics is not the only field in which the present is connected to the past, and the generation just mentioned might easily have identified continuities, political and otherwise, that managed to co-exist with the

1

See Dio 77.[76].15.2 (Xiph.); Hdn. 3.15.2 for Caracalla’s possible role in the death of Severus. Both treat the matter as uncertain, but Dio reports as fact two earlier unsuccessful attempts by Caracalla on his father’s life (Dio 77.[76].14 [Xiph.]).

1

2

Introduction

appearance of chaotic change.2 The Mediterranean core regions of the empire were if anything more free of external military threats than they had been under Marcus Aurelius. By the 220s, new and more powerful enemies were starting to emerge, especially in the shape of Sassanid Persia, but that change had yet to manifest itself in ways that registered widely in most parts of the Roman Empire. The political unity of the empire remained unquestioned; there was still one principal emperor at a time, located mostly in Rome. If Septimius and Caracalla had spent a lot of time with the army, so had Trajan and Marcus. The ruling classes at the imperial and local levels were still able to pass on what they saw, demographic realities notwithstanding, as their inherited class prerogatives. Even if turnover among the elite was relatively high, the new arrivals came from only a few rungs down the ladder, and could generally be assimilated into the shared elite culture based, above all, on a Greco-Roman literate education.3 Even at the end of the 230s, a socially marginal figure like Maximinus Thrax still seemed like the exception as emperor, and the aristocrats who overthrew him still thought of themselves as the norm. On an economic and cultural level, what change was occurring was incremental and less noticeable. Perhaps urban elites could sense that the civic life of their communities was slowing down, and that surplus wealth no longer flowed as it used to into euergetic largesse.4 Nonetheless, this was a time of limited communications and rudimentary statistics. One’s particular region would have had its own problems at some times and not at others, and people might have projected those problems onto their views of the empire as a whole, but that had always been the case. Even if there really were a reduction in the overall average, that would not automatically result in people’s accurately perceiving that global fact and incorporating it into their view of imperial history.5 The “growth” of Christianity is even harder 2 3

4

5

For contemporary perceptions of these continuities, see Potter 1990, 3–18. For the demographic turnover of provincial elites, especially in the east, see Zuiderhoek 2011. For continuity and change within the imperial elite from the Severan period through the third century, see Mennen 2011. The economic dimensions of the “third-century crisis” remain a subject of considerable dispute, as does the question of when such a crisis began, if it existed. Duncan-Jones 2004 sets forth a considerable number of quantitative indices for economic disruption over the course of the third century. In some of these cases, notably those related to settlement density as determined by archaeological survey, evidence for change of some kind goes back to the first decades of the century; in others, such as those related to coinage, the problems do not become evident until the 250s or later. For the need to consider regional perspective in any assessment of an empire-wide crisis, see Witschel 2004. For the quantitative evidence of reduced levels of euergetism, see Zuiderhoek 2009, 18–22. The epidemic of the 160s may in reality have been an empire-wide event capable of serving as a turning point for a grand-historical narrative, but it says much about ancient ideas of history that we have little evidence of contemporaries using it for that purpose.

Introduction

3

to pin down as a perceived cultural phenomenon, and we should not assume that contemporaries would have attributed particular significance to what we in retrospect think of as the causes of that religion’s eventual triumph. Much, in short, remained the same, but did people remark its failure to change or consider whether in future it might do so? There was a prestigious genre of literature devoted to narrating the vicissitudes of war and high politics, but there was no analogous privileged mode by which to describe the phenomena nowadays explored by social, economic and cultural historians. That absence (as it seems to us) did not of course prevent people from noticing such changes or from communicating what they noticed through the whole array of textual and other media at their disposal, even if that communication was not their sole or explicit objective, and neither have scholars been slow to find ways of bringing the resulting discourse to light. The Severan era is fruitful ground for exploring the tension between these two different kinds of change, precisely because it is a moment when this odd disconnect emerges between instability in politics and relative stability elsewhere. Modern scholarship has thus found the period a little difficult to place. For political historians, it is typically the start of a narrative that extends through the third century and often on into late antiquity.6 In literary studies, especially of Greek, it is typically seen as the end of a narrative that began in the early 1st century ad.7 A body of recent scholarship, to which this book is intended to contribute, has looked at the Severan years as a selfcontained period in which political change needs to be viewed alongside continuities elsewhere.8 Particular attention has been paid to imperial selfpresentation, to how the various emperors articulated relationships between themselves, their people, their predecessors and the gods: on the whole the focus has been more on non-literary than on literary sources.9 This book will draw very heavily on this work, especially in Chapter 2. The 6

7

8 9

As seen in the divisions in large-scale serial histories of the empire, which tend to begin a volume in either 180 or 193 and run up to a variety of later points, e.g. Christol 1997; Carrié and Rousselle 1999; Strobel 2001; Potter 2004; Bowman, Garnsey and Cameron 2005; Ando 2012. Thus such foundational studies of the “Second Sophistic” as Swain 1996, Schmitz 1997 and Whitmarsh 2001, for all their methodological diversity, agree tacitly or otherwise on a periodization of roughly ad 50–250. This is in no small part due to the continuing influence of Philostratus’ presentation of the Second Sophistic, for which see Chapter 5. Surviving Latin literature from the period is exiguous enough to make periodization something of a non-issue: Conte 1999 in fact falls back on political events as a structuring device, but the result is that one chapter of twenty-eight pages (593–620) suffices to cover more than a century from 193 to 306. For the broad cultural perspective, see the various essays in Swain, Harrison and Elsner 2007. Considering only the last seven years, significant monographs include Cordovana 2007b; Handy 2009; Lichtenberger 2011; Rowan 2012; Langford 2013 and Lusnia forthcoming, as well as the essays in Swain, Harrison and Elsner 2007 and Faust and Leitmeir 2011 and two recent books on Elagabalus (Arrizabalaga y Prado 2010 and Icks 2012).

4

Introduction

main body of the book, however, aims in some sense to make this scholarly exercise reflexive by looking at the historiographical texts that have always been privileged as sources of facts about the Severan period and using them to consider how contemporaries approached the same problems of change and continuity that present themselves to moderns. The texts in question are the political-historical works of Cassius Dio and Herodian, as well as the two long narrative works of Philostratus, the Apollonius and the Sophists. Taken together, I argue, these constitute a re-emergence, in highly innovative and diverse forms, of critical narrative discourse on the recent past, a type of literature that had found little scope under the Antonines. This re-emergence came about because political events rendered unviable the consensus view of the political past that had prevailed under that earlier dynasty. To understand the significance of political narratives for broader cultural history, we need to examine the role they played in the ideology and workings of Roman monarchical government. After all, one might suppose, in a society of limited communications, great linguistic and cultural diversity and conservative agrarian social structures, that people not directly involved in the ups and downs of high politics at the imperial center would take little cognizance of them. Nonetheless, there is ample evidence from inscriptions, art and literature that at least the elites of the empire, and those non-elites who participated in urban culture, did indeed register these events. They did so in media ranging from civic architecture to sub-literary prophecy, speaking from all kinds of perspectives to all kinds of audiences.10 What is most important for our immediate purposes, however, is how in imperial political culture the past functioned as a means of communication between the emperor and his various constituencies of subjects. Many recent studies of the Roman monarchy have stressed the ideological importance of expressions of broad consensus.11 From Augustus’ time on, the validity of the emperor’s rule rested heavily on repeated demonstrations of enthusiastic assent by his various groups of subjects, from the Senate through the equestrian order and the citizen communities of Italy to the provinces and the frontier armies. He was acclaimed not simply with loyalty as the holder of a political office, but with gratitude and veneration as the guarantor of peace and prosperity, the embodiment of divine providence and the exemplar of his society’s cardinal virtues. The point is not whether these expressions reflected genuinely held 10 11

For imperial history in Sibylline prophecy, see Potter 1990, esp. 132–40. For local communities incorporating imperial narratives in their architectural environment, see Revell 2009, 103–7. Important contributions here include Ando 2000; Rowe 2002; Lobur 2008. Cordovana 2007b explicitly uses Severan Africa as a case study of such models. For the personal ethical status of emperors as a key component of their self-presentation, see Noreña 2011.

Introduction

5

beliefs. What mattered was that people integrated the emperor into their collective identities, into how they defined their own communities, their personal roles within them and their collective needs and aspirations. The emperor’s need for these expressions of consensus gave his subjects a critically important avenue of ideological communication through which to respond to his initiatives and seek recognition of their own various agendas. Narrative was an essential component of that communication. Part of what emperors needed consensus approval of was their own version of their personal and dynastic histories and the significance of those stories within the larger history of the Roman people. Augustus’ various modes of selfpresentation, as classicizing avatar of Apollo, as righteous exponent of traditional morality or as populist representative of tota Italia all make sense only if one accepts a series of historical narratives. These include recent events in which Octavian was directly concerned, such as the career and death of Julius Caesar and the founding of the Second Triumvirate, but also the story of more distant eras, the virtuous early years of Rome succeeded by a period of moral decline that Augustus reversed. Augustus wanted to emphasize both those aspects of his rule that preserved Rome’s continuing identity as an imagined community and those that emphasized progress, expanded horizons and new achievements. Narrative served to delineate key elements of continuity and change in the new monarchy. These stories are told by Augustus himself, in the Res Gestae and the architecture of his forum, but they were repeated and commented on by his subjects, from Virgil and Livy through the communities whose public discourse survives in epigraphic form. Once again, these expressions did not need to be sincere to be significant. Even if one reads in them subversion or covert dissent, the Augustan narrative remains dominant even as the object of negative reaction. After Philippi and Actium, there was no affirmative way to deploy an equally powerful alternative. Later changes of dynasty would call forth additions to this foundational narrative, most notably Trajan’s story of how he redeemed Rome from the tyranny and corruption of the Flavians and later Julio-Claudians. The literature of that period artificially emphasizes the idea of Domitian’s death as a watershed, and virtually the whole Tacitean corpus can be read as a comment on the narrative put forth by the optimus princeps.12 The critical point for the emperor was not so much that people should believe the factual truth of these narratives, although evidently that was useful, but rather that they should spontaneously repeat and augment them, that they should incorporate his version of events into how they defined their 12

On Domitian’s death as an artificial watershed in literature, see Coleman 1990.

6

Introduction

own world and their place in it. To be the emperor’s loyal subject was to have a memory of suffering with him under previous bad rulers, or being rescued by him from their tyranny, and that memory needed to be uniform or at least compatible across all sorts of status, class and ethnic lines within imperial society. By the reigns of Antoninus and Marcus, as I will argue in the next chapter, the key consensus narrative was in fact a completed story, in which a series of peaceful transitions of power from one ostensibly virtuous ruler to the next gave the impression of a present free from the forces of historical change, and a world where history had all but ended with Augustus. The Severan emperors spent the whole of their era trying to achieve this sort of consensus acceptance of a narrative. They never succeeded, and the literary works studied in this book are a testament to their failure. Septimius Severus was a skilled propagandist, but he found it very difficult to put forth a consistent and generally acceptable version of his own rise to power, or of the future dynastic stability that his various possible successors would represent. Those successors in turn had still harder tasks that they approached in most cases less competently than Septimius. By the 220s, the empire had fallen into a pattern in which the emperor was an adolescent cipher, and the various interest groups that held power around his throne were finding it harder and harder to construct an ideologically adequate narrative of how he got there. The principal narrative works of Dio and Philostratus are all products of this late phase, while Herodian’s work was produced during a still later period when the cycle of boy-emperors had gone through its last iteration with Gordian III. Their works are thus in dialogue with three decades of constantly changing dynastic propaganda, and they all parallel the emperors’ own efforts to relate recent history to the larger narrative of the Roman world. What is new and remarkable is that, where the literature of other periods of the Principate had largely worked within the same overall consensus narratives as the rulers, even when authors questioned and subverted them, each of these four narratives differs greatly in its basic premises from those put forth by any emperor, and from the other three narratives under study. It is not that they reflect widely differing ideologies or segments of society. All four author-narrators (the distinction between constructed and historical authors is a point to which I will return) present themselves as members of a unified imperial elite that saw itself as an organic continuation of cultural traditions going back into the archaic pasts of Greece and Rome, although in practice it was defined according to norms laid down in the second century. They all still operate within an ideology of imperial consensus whose roots can be traced back to Augustus. There are thus many things on which they do

Introduction

7

not disagree, either with one another or their rulers. None of these narratives will meaningfully question the appropriateness of placing all political and cultural power in the hands of a classically educated elite; nor the essential primacy and self-sufficiency of the dominant Greek and Roman traditions of the empire’s Mediterranean core in answering all important cultural questions, and the need for other influences to be subordinated or translated into a Greco-Roman idiom; nor the necessity, permanence and, at least as an ideal, the beneficence of the Roman imperial system as the political guarantor of social and cultural order.13 On the whole, the emperors’ ideological agendas were also relatively traditional, and the parties in the various conflicts differed little in what they wished to do with the empire once they gained control of it.14 We are still far from the ideologically fragmented world of the later third and fourth centuries. Nonetheless a crack is emerging in the edifice of imperial elite unity. For all that these authors and their rulers agreed on, they disagreed on the significance of recent historical events, and how those events were to be integrated into a larger story. To understand why this is, one must realize how large a role political stability played in Antonine consensus ideology, and how much it supported even aspects of that ideology that had little explicitly to do with imperial politics. Marcus and his immediate predecessors presented themselves as virtuous figures who were fully integrated into a beneficently ordered social, economic and cultural landscape based on the elite cultural assumptions I have just identified as persisting in Severan narratives. Their unbroken sequence of peaceful successions, accompanied by constant expressions of political consensus, guaranteed that order, but also represented and affirmed it. Subscribing to the consensus surrounding the ruler implied accepting the ruler’s claim to guarantee a beneficent order, which in turn implied agreeing that such an order existed. Since the series of relatively peaceful successions was a demonstrable fact that was easy to affirm, it could do a lot of ideological work by standing in for the larger order of things.15 Having everything seem right in the political sphere made the entire system seem more right, and, crucially, provided a narrative to explain that rightness, as a product of the process of expansion and political stabilization that 13

14 15

The one apparently explicit exception to the second point is that Philostratus has Apollonius insist repeatedly on the Indian origin of his teachings. This point will be discussed fully in Chapter 4, but it suffices for now to stress that those teachings contain little or nothing that contemporary readers would have recognized as genuinely alien to the dominant traditions in which they lived. Caracalla’s military posturing and Elagabalus’ religious activities are partial exceptions, but less so than the literary tradition would suggest, for which see Chapter 2. Some political unrest was associated with the succession to Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus, but never to a degree that created real difficulties for a consensus narrative.

8

Introduction

supposedly ended when Augustus created the existing monarchical state. In the decades after 180, however, that appearance of rightness became ever less sustainable, much as emperors tried to preserve it. The claim of political stability was too much at odds with observable reality to serve as a supporting explanation for anything. It is not that there was a widespread sense of complete crisis: it was still possible, indeed often desirable, to assert that the basic order of things was functioning, but it was no longer possible to use political events as proof of that claim. So what did one use instead? The four narratives examined in this book represent four different answers. They are all still invested in consensus imperial ideology as it existed in the late second century (the period that all the narrators present as their own youth), even though the political circumstances that gave that ideology narrative coherence are gone. Thus their shared focal point is the idealized status of the Antonine age. They all agree that Marcus was an ideal emperor, and they all state (or in the case of the Philostratean works imply) that the current regimes are failing to meet his standard. In some cases, they do suggest, explicitly or implicitly, how this situation might be remedied, but what is of more interest is how they construct literary worlds in which some other element fulfils the function that political stability used to, namely that of providing a narrative of how change and continuity affect the existing order. The significant differences are in the selection of the key elements, and the kinds of story that can be built around them. It will be the task of this book to illuminate those differences.

Literature and methodology After the next chapter, which deals with the narratives put out by the various emperors, the core of this book consists of four chapters, one each on the historical works of Dio and Herodian, and one each on Philostratus’ Apollonius and Sophists. In each case, I will be asking how the text constructs the Roman Empire as a narrative world, and how in each world political change, especially that from the Antonine to Severan dynasties, manifests itself and relates to change or continuity in cultural structures. This question leads on to a larger one, namely how the Antonine-Severan dynastic change affected the cultural landscape of the Roman Empire, or at least its urban and elite segments. That second question is very much a historical one, relating to a reality outside the texts. This is not a “literary” study in the sense that my overall aim is not to produce a poetics of Severan historiography, nor to place these works within the development of the historiographical or any other

Literature and methodology

9

genre.16 Nonethless, my methods will be mostly literary ones, including at times poetic and formal analysis. As will be evident from my language to this point, this is to be a study not of authors but of narratives, and those narratives will be spoken of as creating different Roman empires rather than differently reflecting a single external one. Thus in this book, ancient histories and other non-fiction works will be read “as fiction” in the restricted sense that I will focus on those literary characteristics that are shared by historical and fictional narratives. This is no longer in itself an innovative or unorthodox stance, nor is it an ideological choice based on any conviction of mine that the past is radically unknowable or unreal, or that traditional historical methodologies are inadequate to apprehend it. As already noted, this book aims to answer historical questions about how people in the past understood and conceived of their own past and present. My methodology has been chosen as the one most suitable to the particular historical problem posed by the literature addressed in this study. That problem, in its broadest terms, is as follows. All these texts, simply by their existence as critical narratives of the imperial Roman past, are instances of the same phenomenon, the cultural effect of dynastic political change. For most of the second century after Tacitus and Suetonius, Roman literature in either language all but ceased to produce large-scale narratives of the postAugustan period.17 In the 220s to 240s, we see several such narratives emerge, all ambitious and innovative in form. It is an easy intuitive leap to connect this emergence to the new political instability of the period, and Chapter 2 will argue for making that leap. It is more difficult to get at the specifics of what each work has to tell us about political and cultural change. None of them gives an adequate explicit account of how recent events have altered the world-view of the author and his peers. This is hardly surprising: ancient historians are above all concerned with events and never pay as much 16

17

Whitmarsh 2011, 5–12 cautions sensibly against over-reliance on cultural-historical events to explain literary phenomena, in his case the emergence of the Greek novel. In my case, the phenomena relate specifically to representation of the historical past and are spread over works from several different genres. Many of the specific textual features that I will be examining would certainly repay a more strictly literary analysis (in terms of intertextuality, for instance), but their commonalities and simultaneous appearance still seem better explained by historical means. A point that will be further argued in Chapter 2, but see also Kemezis 2010. For a different but fruitful approach to the question of changing perceptions of the past, see Grethlein 2010, who uses concepts adapted from Koselleck 1985a and examines how the past is used to understand contingency in the present and form expectations for the future. He posits “developmental” approaches as one of four possibilities (the others being exemplarity, tradition and the force of chance) that are used (or not used) to varying degrees in different cultural-historical contexts. In his terms, my contention would be that developmental approaches are largely absent under the Antonines and become again common under the Severans.

10

Introduction

attention to structural factors as their modern heirs would wish. Cassius Dio does have some valuable analysis, Herodian considerably less, and Philostratus scarcely any at all. But one cannot conclude from this either that Dio’s explicit statements represent a complete account of how his own times affected him, or that Philostratus’ comparative reticence means he and people like him were relatively unaffected by those same times. One cannot narrate events without at least implicitly describing the structures within which they take place.18 The problem for a modern interpreter is how to talk about that description in four such different narrative works. For reasons that will be discussed presently, traditional methodologies that focus on the views of authors as historical individuals are not well suited to the task, hence the need to look at these texts as literary narratives. The last few decades of scholarship have hugely expanded the number of available methodologies, mostly by employing various forms of rhetorical analysis. This study is heavily indebted to these methodological advances, and my standard approach throughout will be to examine the structure of narratives, the function of various elements within them and the techniques employed by narrators to gain authority for their material.19 The particular methodologies involved will vary from text to text according to what aspects of the narrative are most relevant to my overall historical question, i.e. which aspects best reveal, explicitly or otherwise, the effects of dynastic change. For Dio and Herodian, for instance, I will pay rather more attention to issues of formal generic structure than with either of the Philostratean texts. Cultural geography will be a major part of my analysis of the Apollonius and of Herodian, but considerably less for Dio or the Sophists. None of my readings will be based primarily on intertextuality or word-and-sentence-level stylistics,

18 19

As argued by Koselleck 1985b. The notion that the structure of a historical narrative is a key part of its meaning is of course a key insight of Hayden White, and my own readings will be heavily indebted to his typologies of plots and rhetorical tropes (e.g. White 1973, 1–42), especially throughout Chapter 2 and in my characterization of Dio’s and Herodian’s contemporary narratives as tragic and ironic respectively. I do not, however, apply his methodology of viewing types of narrative as reflecting sharp ideological differences. This is because in my view the literate elites of high empire operated in a far narrower ideological space than the nineteenth-century Europeans who are White’s primary subjects. As will be outlined below (pp. 21–2), I do not read any of these narratives as substantially departing from the dominant imperial ideology based on explicit consensus regarding Roman monarchical rule and the primacy of traditional Greco-Roman elite culture in its various forms. The diversity of narrative views reflects not ideological fragmentation, but differences of emphasis as to how to read recent history within a broadly shared ideological framework. Thus where ironic readings of Tacitus, such as Henderson 1989 and O’Gorman 2000, see him as a destabilizing critique of imperial ideology as such, my own reading of Herodian, while also basically deconstructive, sees him as critiquing not the ideology, but the claims that various recent emperors based on it.

Literature and methodology

11

and metaliterary analysis will be relatively scarce.20 This is not because there are not interesting things these approaches can tell us about these texts. If my aim were a complete account of the rhetorical objectives and functioning of the texts in themselves, I would use more of these techniques, and more fully. Since I am instead using them as instances of a particular historical phenomenon, I have chosen those aspects of the texts in which that phenomenon is most present. To give a more elaborate statement of what that phenomenon is, and thus what the overall thesis of this book is, I am arguing that political change under the Severans expanded a discursive space that under the Antonines had been rather restrictive, so that people found new ways of using narrative to talk about and imagine how the political history of the Roman world functioned and affected them. This comes through in different aspects of the different texts under study, hence the eclectic nature of my methodology. One concept that I will be employing in all four cases, however, is that of narrative worlds. The key common element in these narratives is that they create a version of the Roman Empire in which the narrated events take place, which can be viewed as a “world,” a narrative construct influenced but not determined by external reality as perceived by readers. While one routinely speaks of “the world of the Iliad,” or “the world of Dickens,” the idea of literature as world-building has been explored more fully in ways that can fruitfully be applied to factual narratives. Narrative “worlds” or “storyworlds” are, in David Herman’s formulation “global mental representations enabling interpreters to draw inferences about items and occurrences either explicitly or implicitly included in a narrative.”21 Making sense of even simple narratives requires far more information than we are explicitly given by the narrator. We need to make assumptions and inferences in order to establish everything from causality to characterization to ethical judgements, and we do this not by separately interrogating every gap in our explicit information, but by building a general model of “how things work” within this narrative. As Herman puts it “interpreters attempt to reconstruct not just what happened – who did what to or with whom, for how long, how often and in what order – but also the surrounding context or environment 20

21

All of these approaches have been applied in exemplary fashion to Tacitus. For a metaliterary approach, see above all Sailor 2008; for stylistics, Henderson 1989 and O’Gorman 2000; for intertextuality, various of the essays in Woodman 2009 and Miller and Woodman 2010. Herman 2002, 9–22 explains his concept of the storyworld (quoted material on p. 10), and the rest of the book argues for a new form of narratology based around it. While Herman’s approach draws heavily on cognitive linguistics, and thus speaks of “mental representations” located in the minds of readers, he seldom speaks in terms of different types of readers, and in practice the representations function as properties of texts that apply to a constructed ideal reader.

12

Introduction

embedding existents, their attributes and the actions and events in which they are more or less centrally involved.”22 This reconstructing is done based both on readers’ knowledge of the external world and on cues in the text itself. It is these cues, combined with whatever intended audience we construct, that allow us to speak of a given literary work as having its own storyworld. That world will relate differently to external reality in different works and genres. A “realistic” novel in a contemporary setting will incorporate more of the readers’ own world into its storyworld than a science-fiction novel set on another planet, but both remain autonomous fictional creations. Even in the most ostensibly realistic of novels, characters do not act quite like people around us, if only because they have all kinds of personal circumstances that have no direct analogues in a given reader’s experience and must be imaginatively reconstructed from the text. Similarly, even the most bizarre sci-fi planets are in many of their mundane aspects uncannily similar to Earth, if only because no text could describe an infinity of differences, and readers will tend to fill in the gaps using data from their own world.23 Most importantly for our purposes, literary worlds that correspond to historical times and places are not complete and transparent models of them. Jane Austen and the late-twentieth-century historical novelist Patrick O’Brian both describe England around 1800, but Austen’s world (or worlds) is defined above all by the social conventions governing women’s search for suitable husbands, while O’Brian’s is dominated by the naval aspects of the Napoleonic wars.24 The wars exist in Austen’s world, and husband-seeking women exist in O’Brian’s, and on occasion they affect the plot, but far less textual work is done establishing them, and the text does not rely heavily on them for its meaning. The difference in this case is an obvious function of plot and genre. To look within a single genre, the earlynineteenth-century Paris of Hugo’s Les Misérables is far more fully defined in topographical and historical terms than that of Stendhal’s The Red and the Black, a stylistic choice that stems from the works’ different rhetorical aims, but this does not in itself make the first a better or even a more realistic novel than the second.25 In all four cases, the different techniques of worldbuilding allow the narratives to assign very different meanings to given times and places while still maintaining a similar degree of correspondence 22 23 24 25

Herman 2002, 13. According to what Ryan 1991, 48–60 calls the “principle of minimal departure.” I owe this example to Ruth Scodel. For a discussion of the different relationships different fictional worlds can have to reality, see Ronen 1994, 122–30, from whom I take the example of Stendhal’s Paris.

Literature and methodology

13

between the narrative world and historical reality. Another important concept is that worlds are characterized not only by the elements that exist in them, but the modalities that govern these elements and determine “the way things work” there. These delineate what in a given world is physically possible, normatively obligatory, aesthetically valued, customary, believed and so forth, and what is not, either for people in general or for individual characters.26 As will be clear from the examples just given, the concept of storyworlds is most often applied to modern prose fiction. Literary theorists first started using it precisely as a way of theorizing the distinctive semantic properties of fiction.27 Nonetheless, the processes through which texts build worlds are not by any means restricted to novels. They take place in non-fictional texts and can be studied using the same tools as their novelistic counterparts. This is all the more true of ancient historical writing, since it consists mostly of linear narratives focusing around a relatively few discrete actors, be they individuals or collectivities such as “the Athenians.” Assuming one accepts that narrative structure is not inherent in historical events, but is imposed on them by the people describing them, then the phenomena associated with historical narratives, such as the worlds they create, are properties of the narratives themselves.28 Readers of Tacitus use textual cues and their knowledge of the external world to reconstruct his version of Julio-Claudian Rome, which elements are present and significant, what is possible, permissible and desirable and so forth, in ways similar to those used by readers of I, Claudius, and the worlds of the two texts are distinct but analogous. In constructing and evaluating those worlds, readers will conceive of their relationship to reality differently according to the generic conventions governing ancient historiography and twentieth-century historical fiction. Non-fictional historical works claim a unique closeness between their textually created worlds and the world of external reality. That claim works differently at different times and places according to the generic conventions 26

27

28

This scheme is fully articulated by Doležel 1998, 113–32. For him, the elements of a fictional world are ordered according to four modalities, which he conceives as categories of formal logical operators that can be always true, sometimes true or never true. The categories are the “alethic” (laws of logic and nature according to which things are necessary, possible or impossible); “deontic” (norms according to which things are obligatory, permissible or forbidden); “axiological” (value systems according to which things are good, indifferent or bad); and “epistemic” (knowledge systems according to which things are known, believed or unknown). These modalities can be either “codexal,” meaning they apply to the world in general, or “subjective,” applying only to a given character. The idea of “possible worlds” has its roots in modal logic and philosophy of language, and began in the 1980s and 1990s to be used by literary theorists who wanted a semantic approach to the logic of fictional texts. Important works in this tradition include Pavel 1986; Ryan 1991; Ronen 1994; Doležel 1998. For influential formulations of the idea that narrative structure is not inherent in events, see White 1980 and Ankersmit 1983, 79–95.

14

Introduction

and disciplinary practices operating, as well as to readers’ epistemological or ontological ideas of external reality.29 But neither in Severan Rome nor in our own time do readers unproblematically accept the claim that the worlds of text and reality are identical. Granted that it is possible to speak of historiographical narratives as generating narrative worlds, why is it useful to do so in this instance?30 My overall contention is that the political changes in those periods caused people to re-imagine not only the recent period in which those changes took place, but their entire past and the ways in which it was manifested in the present. This effect makes itself felt in all sorts of aspects of the texts in question, not just those that address contemporary history directly, or through some discrete figure such as metaphor or irony. In many cases I need to make interpretive claims about texts as a whole, without necessarily claiming to give a full account of the text’s rhetorical functioning and objectives. Thus while traditional rhetorical analysis will be constantly present, the concept of narrative worlds creates a useful category into which to fit all of the somewhat disparate textual elements that are relevant to my project, and it allows me to explore now those texts expand the range of Roman political discourse in ways that go beyond their specific rhetorical purposes. To speak concretely of one of the texts, Philostratus’ Apollonius has, on the explicit level, the least of any of these texts to say about Roman history. Its content and rhetorical objectives embrace a wide range of topics to do with Greek religion and culture, but I contend that it still has a good deal to tell us about how historical change, and specifically Roman dynastic history, was perceived under the Severans. To make this argument, I certainly look at the several sections of the work in which Roman emperors are directly involved, but these do not give the entire picture. Aspects of the text 29

30

Doležel 2010, 33–9 posits a distinction between fictional and historical worlds that appears more absolute than what is employed here. However, the differences that Doležel sees should be construed not as two fundamentally different kinds of world-making, but two different sets of rules, dictated by genre and cultural practice, for carrying out basically the same literary operation. Thus not all Doležel says about historiography would apply to its pre-modern forms (as he acknowledges, 135 n.14). It is not clear how Doležel’s scheme would account for ancient historians’ willingness to invent speeches and characters. More fundamentally, Doležel’s emphasis on “the freedom of the fiction maker and the constraints imposed on the historian” (39) does not sufficiently acknowledge how culturally contingent historical practice is, nor explain why novelists are so often willing to accept the “constraints” of historical research in an effort to make their fictions “accurate.” Reimer 2002 represents to my knowledge the only extended use of narrative-worlds methodology on any of my main texts, in his case the Apollonius. See methodological remarks at 23–44. He focuses on very different historical questions to mine, mostly regarding the status of magic and miracle-working. His objective is to use the Apollonius (and the NT Acts) to illuminate the socio-cultural realities represented in the texts, and as such he emphasizes the “realism” of the Apollonius considerably more than I do here.

Literature and methodology

15

including its cultural geography and its narratological structure are also influenced by the phenomenon. My reading of the text as a whole can be formulated in narrative-worlds terms as follows: “the Apollonius creates a world in which Apollonius acquired wisdom in India, led a revival of Hellenic cultural activity in Greece and played key roles in the rise and the fall of the Flavian dynasty, a world in which (for him at least), these things were all possible, allowed, and praiseworthy, and in which a certain kind of narrator finds out about and communicates all these things in a certain way.” One might approach the text by treating each of the statements in quotes as a separate assertion about the real world, to be judged on its own rhetorical terms. The approach used here is rather to treat the text as a single rhetorical assertion, that its world is the real world in which readers live, an assertion that the text in turn undercuts with fairly evident fictional irony. The fact that such a narrative world was imagined and accessible in the 220s but not (so I would argue) in the 170s is the critical historical reality that I aim to illuminate. To be sure, that act of imagination served many rhetorical purposes, mostly related to Greek paideia and religion, and that purpose is part of its reality; it would be a sterile exercise to catalog the products of people’s historical imagination without then asking what use they made of those products. For all of the texts I read, I aim to give readings of the whole text that will add to the specialist literature on that author and deepen our understanding of his literary creations. I have for this reason indulged in many extended readings of episodes from Dio and Philostratus that have little explicit relationship to Severan history, although I trust their relevance becomes clear in the course of my argument. Nonetheless, I would not claim in any of these cases that what I am talking about is the sole or even necessarily the principal rhetorical objective of the text. I am certainly not indifferent to the question of what the Apollonius as a whole is about, but neither would I assert that it is wholly or mostly about Roman political history, and that Chapter 4 of this book is a comprehensive reading of the text. I do claim that the Apollonius has more to say about that subject than has generally been supposed, that it has certain key commonalities with Dio’s and Herodian’s political histories, and that it adds to the possible ways that readers could imagine what the Roman Empire was and how it functioned. These new discursive possibilities are in the first instance linked to the Apollonius’ overall rhetorical project, but they are not inseparable from it. The world of the Apollonius created possibilities for others to adapt it to tell different stories about the political roles of different sorts of religious figures, though once again the full implications are beyond my

16

Introduction

scope here. The utility of my approach is (I hope) most clear in the case of a text such as the Apollonius, where truth-claims are problematic and the Roman-historical content difficult to isolate from other material. But the same point applies to more straightforwardly historiographical works. In the case of Herodian, for instance, the text’s overall ideological agenda is hard to grasp and perhaps none too coherent; what he is asserting and why is perhaps less interesting than the way he does it, by constructing a world in which customary assumptions about what is possible, natural and communicable are systematically deconstructed. Such a vision could serve many different rhetorical masters, and its existence within mid-third-century discourse about the recent past is perhaps more significant than what any one author chose to do with it.

Authors and history Keeping this larger discursive picture in mind, this book will still primarily be not a study of disembodied fragments of discourse, but of four particular narratives by three authors with their own relationships to the overall social and cultural milieu, and it remains to give some impression of them, and of the overall shape of the book. My next chapter will focus not on historians but on emperors. The circumstances under which the Severan dynasty came to power required the new emperors to have a different relationship to the Roman past than had Commodus, Marcus or Antoninus, who inherited the throne from biological or adoptive fathers whose memories they had every reason to cherish. Septimius especially needed to find a narrative to promote for his new dynasty, and to make connections with worthy predecessors. Each of his four immediate successors came to the throne under sudden and violent circumstances that required explanation and invited new narratives and uses of the past. One recurring question was how to present the dynasty’s relationship to the Antonines. Septimius had tapped into the authority of Marcus and his predecessors very directly, by bare-facedly inventing an adoption of himself by Marcus, thus denying at least on one level that any dynastic change had taken place. It is unlikely that many people believed this literally, but neither could they simply refuse to deal with the assertion. The emperor and his audience still had to figure out between themselves exactly what it meant. The same applied to each of his successors, including Macrinus, who had to decide whether the elimination of Caracalla should mean the end of the Severan age. I treat these imperial efforts as the starting point for the general reassessment of past narratives by their subjects.

Authors and history

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My object is not so much to examine how given individual events, such as reign-changes, were explicitly treated by any of these authors, nor how specific imperial propaganda initiatives were received. Rather, I will consider the whole structure and content of the various historical works to see how authors deal more generally with the issues of continuity and change that had exercised emperors and their image-makers for the decades down to the 220s. In particular I will be asking how a given literary narrative deals with the historical watershed that separated the contemporary Roman world from that of Marcus. This will raise political questions regarding the ideological basis of the Severan dynasty. The emperors were more anxious than ever to locate both positive change and positive continuity in their own persons, and all three authors are equally anxious to locate it elsewhere. Beyond the immediate dynastic question, however, there is also the question of cultural change. Even though ancient historiography largely restricted itself to the narrative of warfare and high politics, all three of these authors were aware that change happened in the cultural sphere as well. The nature of Romanness and the defining features of imperial culture altered greatly over the course of the second century as provincial elites became integrated into the central power structure, thus remaking both its character and their own. When a dynasty of Africans and Syrians took the throne, that cultural change manifested itself on the highest political stage. When our three authors try to locate the important elements that vary or persist in the political narrative of the day, they are also defining what are for them the key new and old components of Roman identity. Furthermore, since they all write in Greek, the effectively dominant literary language of the empire, all three are also addressing the relationship between Greek and Roman pasts and cultural identities. Cassius Dio is our most obvious representative of the synthesized imperial culture that the decades of Antonine rule had produced in the upper echelons of Greco-Roman society.31 He was born in the mid-160s and lived through at least most of the reign of Alexander. His family, at least on his father’s side, was from Nicaea in Bithynia, but we do not know whether he was born there or how much of his youth was spent there.32 However, the 31 32

For Dio as an example of Greek-Roman cultural dynamics in his time, see Madsen 2009, 124–5. Although Dio’s references to Nicaea as his patris have usually been read as meaning he was born there, the inference is not certain, and Hose 1994, 359 makes a cogent case for Dio’s being born and spending much of his youth in Rome. The notion that Cassius Dio used the name “Cocceianus” and was perhaps related to Dio Chrysostom is likely based on confusion in the Byzantine scholarly tradition. See on this point Gowing 1990, though not accepted by e.g. Schmidt 1997, 2592. For Dio’s attitude to Nicaea as evinced by his work, see p. 289 below.

18

Introduction

defining element of his identity, as he presents it in his work, is his membership in the Roman senatorial order. Unlike Tacitus, Pollio or Sallust, to name a few more frequently cited exemplars of senatorial historiography, Cassius Dio was born into the ordo. His father, Cassius Apronianus, governed several provinces and was probably a consul late in the reign of Commodus.33 Dio himself served twice as consul, for the first time probably around 200, and again in 229, and his work gives details of several administrative posts he held in the 220s. His main literary product is singularly appropriate to this career and background: it is a Greek-language example of a specifically Roman genre, the senatorial annalistic history. Its 80 books, of which we have 26 in more or less complete form and substantial excerpts and summaries of many others, deal with events from Romulus’ time down to ad 229, and show a closer engagement with the Latin historical tradition, both on formal and thematic levels, than any previous Greek-language account of Roman history. Dio is the first author we know of since Livy to create a full-scale narrative linking his own time to the entire course of both Republican and Imperial history.34 His view of the contemporary scene embodies the Severan aristocrat’s nostalgia for the Antonine age. He famously claims (72.[71].36.4 [EV]) that after the death of Marcus, the empire moves from an age of gold to one of iron and rust. His history, which he appears to have conceived in the late 190s and produced over the following three decades, aims to put both the current and the previous dynasty in a larger perspective, and in particular to stress the continuity of Roman governmental forms, going back to Augustus and ultimately to the Republic. Dio’s approach to what he sees as the decline going on around him is to write a kind of history in which elements of political theory and static description are integrated into overall narrative. The effect is to highlight the contrast between the contingent world of rulers and events on the one hand, and on the other what Dio posits as the constant underlying realities. For him, the Antonine era was the time when the surface reality of day-to-day events was most closely in touch with the deeper political meaning of the Roman state as established by Augustus. In his own time the relationship has become ever more strained, and Dio’s narrative recasts Severan nostalgia as a product of that strain. The same nostalgia, otherwise directed, can be seen in the works of Philostratus, a man whom Dio probably knew at least slightly, but whose 33 34

For the father’s career, see Barnes 1984, 242. While both Appian and Velleius do have accounts of events in both the republic and the postAugustan Principate, in both cases one side of the divide is narrated in far less detail than the other.

Authors and history

19

narrative perspective on the Severan era is very different.35 The two authors are near-exact contemporaries, Philostratus was also born in the 160s, apparently on Lemnos. The works that will be examined in depth in this book seem to date from the 220s.36 He is a hard man to fit into generic categories: he is not usually looked at as a historian, but calling him a biographer would entirely exclude such works as the Heroicus and Gymnasticus, and belies how different his two “biographical” works are from each other. Those two works, the Apollonius and the Sophists, will be considered in Chapters 4 and 5 respectively.37 While neither one would meet any formal definition of ancient historiography, and Philostratus would not have thought of himself as working in the same genre as Thucydides, each in its own way represents a very unusual form of narrative of the Roman Empire. The works both deal with idealized figures who embody Hellenic cultural or religious phenomena. The Apollonius is a highly fantastic account of the adventures of Apollonius of Tyana, a first-century ad religious celebrity who, while he really existed, cannot in real life have very closely resembled the transformative historical actor portrayed by Philostratus. The Sophists is a series of anecdotal and doxographical accounts of public performers of extempore declamations. Neither of these works has been ignored by scholars, but they have generally been either read separately as evidence for rather different phenomena, or read along with the non-narrative works into an overall picture of Philostratus as an author and of his agenda within the world of the Second Sophistic, the cultural milieu to which he gave a name.38 I will highlight here several shared features of the two works that would have made them stand out to contemporaries as a new departure from the cultural norms laid down in the second century. The first is simply their subject matter: both works make claims for the importance of their subject that would have struck contemporaries as radical, or at least eccentric. More striking, however, is how Philostratus advances those claims by placing his subjects within narratives that take place against a background of concrete Roman political events and characters. Thus the phenomenon, very unusual in pagan literature, of narratives in which Roman emperors and the Roman power structure have a major but still peripheral role. The main characters and the cultural questions 35 36 37

38

For the likelihood of Dio and Philostratus being acquainted, see Moscovich 2004. For the dating of Philostratus’ works and their attribution, see Appendix §2. Both of Philostratus’ quasi-biographical works will here be referred to by the one-word titles of convenience, and in references by the initials VA and VS. It should be noted that Philostratus himself never speaks of his own works as bioi, and that he appears to envision a non-biographical title for the Apollonius. For further details, see p. 158 below. The separate bibliographies will be addressed in the respective chapters. For the latter, synthetic, approach, see Anderson 1986; Billault 2000 and the introductory essays in Bowie and Elsner 2009.

20

Introduction

they address are presented as Greek, and the two works together set forth a grand narrative in which Hellenic culture is revived from a dormant state by Apollonius and then sees a flourishing embodied and promoted by the Sophists, which reaches its peak with the figure of Herodes Atticus. Where Dio used the Greek language in a work whose form and content are essentially Roman, Philostratus constructs a Roman background against which to explore questions of Hellenic identity that Greek authors of the previous century had tended to deal with by projecting their discourse back into a world before or outside of Roman domination. For Philostratus, the story of Hellenic civilization is not to be told in a Periclean setting, but in an Antonine one, except that in his version the mid-second century is the age not of the Antonines but of Herodes. His own time, into which the Sophists reaches, is similarly not the Severan era, but rather a late extension of Herodes’ influence, in which the third and fourth generation of the great man’s students maintain the glory that he created. Dynastic change is thus occluded, but the continuity that Philostratus postulates is very different from that asserted by the emperors, and as such represents as much of a departure as does Dio’s flat dismissal of the official line. Herodian is a more shadowy figure than either Dio or Philostratus, and this is a reflection of the kind of history he writes. We have no meaningful knowledge of his geographical origins or social status, and even the time at which he is writing is hard to pin down, although the late 240s seems to be the likeliest option, making him at least ten years younger than the other two authors. Our lack of knowledge stems from his own reticence. Dio and Philostratus both develop quite complex authorial personae in order to identify themselves more closely with whatever elements of Greco-Roman culture they present in their narratives as central. Herodian, by contrast, is a self-effacing narrator who seems deliberately to avoid any identification with specific elements of the world outside his text. He is the author of an eight-book history of the emperors from Commodus to Gordian III, and that is all that he is. That history is, in its way, the most radical and pessimistic of the three being considered here. It is explicitly an orthodox history with none of the formal innovations or unexpected cultural stances that would immediately have struck readers of Philostratus and Dio. For Herodian, however, the formal neatness of his work serves only to provide a contrast with its content, which is profoundly chaotic, not only in the sense that a great many wars and upheavals take place, but also in the confusion and misdirection that afflict Herodian’s characters. His world is a nightmarish place in which characters good and bad alike are usually powerless to dictate the course of events, and have their expectations and intentions

Authors and history

21

defeated at every turn not by the intentions of more astute characters, but by a general refusal of the world to function according to understood rules. Herodian presents this chaos as a specifically post-Antonine, or rather postMarcus, phenomenon. The rules that no longer apply are the rules of Marcus’ time, and within the world of Herodian’s narrative the rupture with that time is complete. The only element of continuity is the very form of that narrative. Where Herodian’s characters are irretrievably cut off from the idealized past, Herodian himself can still produce literature that adheres to the canons of that past, and the pleasure that his readers derive from that literature is their only link to that better world. In finding a historical context for this material, the traditional method has been to concentrate on the author. Such approaches read texts as expressions of the opinions and outlook of the historical individuals who wrote them. These individual traits are relevant to the wider society inasmuch as one can discern, both from explicit statements and from external prosopographical data, the socio-cultural characteristics that the author shared with his peers and readers. Such approaches have already been profitably applied to Dio and to Philostratus, while Herodian simply does not give us enough information about himself to allow them much scope.39 In a study of these three authors together, however, this essentially biographical method can only give an incomplete picture. This is because the personal backgrounds and explicitly stated opinions of the authors do not actually differ very widely, so that any study based on those aspects might properly account for similarities in their texts, but not for the differences, although it is those differences that are the more interesting. We have already noted the basic ideological commonalities these men shared with one another and with their rulers. All three wrote in Greek, had personal and family connections to the eastern half of the empire and had experience of the imperial court and administration.40 They all value Hellenic cultural heritage, at least to the extent of writing in Atticizing Greek, but they have also fully internalized the political and social order created by the Roman 39

40

For Dio, see Millar 1964, for Philostratus, Anderson 1986, supplemented by Flinterman 1995, 15–26. Whittaker 1969, esp. lxxi–lxxxii represents the best that can be done with Herodian in this respect. Hose 1994 reads Florus, Appian and Dio, along with the various fragmentary historians of the second century, as case studies in the assimilation of provincial elites into the Roman power structure and their progressively closer identification with the empire. All of these statements are in Herodian’s case conjectural. His authorial persona appears perhaps somewhat less exalted than Dio or Philostratus (he does not sound like a senator and does not claim personal acquaintance with the royal family), but his views would have been congenial to either man. Thus Whittaker 1969, lxxx–lxxxii imagines him as a “retired civil servant” writing for the entertainment of his social superiors, nostalgic members of Antonine senatorial families.

22

Introduction

Empire. They all take monarchical government for granted but prefer emperors to maintain a respectful relationship with their elite subjects. They all venerate Marcus, tolerate Septimius Severus and execrate Elagabalus. Naturally there are differences of degree and emphasis, but on the whole similarities predominate. These three authors are as similar in background as were Arrian, Appian and Pausanias in the time of their great-grandparents, and if anything more similar in their explicit opinions. Nonetheless, they write profoundly different narratives from one another, and from anything that the earlier three authors could have written. The difference lies not in the opinions they express about high politics, but in the way that they conceive of the relationships between those political events and the wider world centered around themselves. Each text’s world is based on different assumptions about what the key defining characteristics of Romanness are, and about how these characteristics have changed between the idealized past and the imperfect present. Each work has its own conception of the relationship of rulers to ruled, Greek to Roman and author to subject matter. Their works do not usually contradict one another on points of fact, but if one were to read them each as an argument for a given thesis and assume that ideal readers were supposed to give full assent to that thesis, then it is difficult to imagine one person assenting to all four. Traditional approaches do generally make that assumption, and thus we would get a scenario in which the elite is fragmented into “Dio people” who identified with the Senate, as opposed to “Philostratus people” who identified with Hellenic heritage, or “Herodian people” who were alienated from both. These fissures would have to be mapped on to the relatively small differences in social background between the three men, so that Dio writes primarily for his fellow senators, Philostratus for cultural professionals, and Herodian presumably for other faceless ciphers masquerading as minor bureaucrats.41 To some extent this may actually have been the authors’ conscious intent, and I do indeed contend that these texts demonstrate the fragmentation of a previously ideologically unified elite. Still, in a case like this, an author-based approach tends toward reductionism and determinism, as if any two people who fit into the same sociocultural categories would agree on the same narrative. There is, however, good reason to suppose that Dio exaggerates the extent to which all senators 41

In the case of Dio, scholars in fact disagree markedly concerning the social and cultural status of his intended readership. Gowing 1992, 292–3; Hose 1994, 420–4 and Potter 2011, 331–4 see Dio’s fellow senators as primary addressees. At the other extreme, Aalders 1986, 290–1 sees Dio’s readership as monoglot provincial Greeks.

Authors and history

23

would agree with his arguments, and that the same is true for Philostratus and sophists.42 And after all, most potential readers were neither senators nor sophists. How can we use these texts to explore anything but the restricted social circles of their authors? It is for this reason that this will be a study not of authors, but of narratives, and it will concentrate mainly on the internal dynamics of literary works rather than the immediate circumstances of their composition. I will therefore be referring to such literary constructs as implied authors and ideal audiences, and to historical narrators on the page rather than to historians in external reality. This sacrifices a certain apparent clarity – it is more straightforward to write about what real people did and thought – but gains in breadth and complexity. Instead of looking for the dogmatically held opinions of one man, I am trying to sketch the range of cultural possibilities available to any reader of the time. Like everyone at all times, the inhabitants of the Severan empire created all kinds of narratives to make sense of changing circumstances and to define the identity categories into which they placed themselves and one another.43 They did so within a set of discourses, parameters for defining what kinds of knowledge and communication were possible and authoritative in a given cultural setting. These parameters were limited but dynamic; thus the literary texts we will be reading both reflect existing discourses, and also add to them incrementally. By creating literary worlds, they suggest new ways for their readers to understand their own worlds. Thus it is not a question of readers fully and consciously agreeing with any theses put forth by the various authors. The authors do indeed propound such theses, and to varying degrees they personally believed them and wished their readers to do likewise. But the cultural significance of a work is not limited to the sum total of people whom it persuades to believe a given proposition. Even if most readers of Dio’s history did not completely and in all circumstances share his senatorial viewpoint, they could nonetheless incorporate it partially and in some circumstances into the narratives that they themselves constructed of all sorts of events. At other times, for other purposes, the same readers might identify more with Philostratus’ narrative of Hellenic culture-heroes, without being critically troubled by the logical 42

43

Specifically, Dio tends to present his version of the senatorial ethos as more universal than it really was, for which see Kemezis 2012, also Molinier Arbò 2009, while Philostratus claims that the Sophists describes all the significant practitioners in the empire, whereas in fact it includes a relatively narrow selection, most of them linked pedagogically to Herodes Atticus and thus to himself, for which see Eshleman 2012, 125–48. A neat encapsulation of the difference between these two complementary approaches to the past can be seen in the approaches of respectively Grethlein 2010 (emphasizing the phenomenology of time) and Gehrke 2010 (using a model derived from ethno-sociology).

24

Introduction

inconsistency that we might see between the two stances. Their choice in doing so would be constrained by any number of social and cultural factors specific to given individuals, but it would be a mistake to read these texts or authors as representing discrete and exclusive schools of thought or segments of society. The methodology outlined in the previous section also suits the problem in that it allows for a parallel reading of four texts that have significant formal differences. This is a work of cultural rather than strictly political history, but I am asking political questions about how people conceived of their rulers and the history they generated. All four texts, I contend, make significant political statements, but clearly they do it in very different ways. From a generic point of view, Dio is a competent representative of orthodox historiography, and provides copious, accurate and perceptive information about the emperors of his time.44 Herodian is still writing in the same genre, but is distinctly less competent according to traditional criteria: a great deal of his content is inaccurate or vague, and what little analysis he gives of events is often superficial and banal.45 Philostratus, on the other hand, is in an entirely different realm. Both of his long narrative works deal primarily with figures from outside the world of high politics. The Sophists is factually accurate where it can be checked, but is dominated by anecdotes and gossip.46 The Apollonius is not even factually accurate; on the contrary, large parts of it are marked as fiction, some of it fantastic or absurd in nature.47 If I were concerned only with explicit statements about or portrayals of significant political events and figures, then I would inevitably have far more to say about Dio than about Philostratus, and there would be no way to discuss the two on anything like equal terms. Indeed even within the corpus of Dio, I would naturally discuss primarily the last few books, which describe contemporary events, whereas in fact my chapter on him will deal primarily with earlier books. What all four of these works share, and what I aim to emphasize, is that they are narratives of the Roman Empire. They all incorporate its geographical and chronological structures into their own, and emperors and senators figure as prominent characters. These elements are evidently more front and center in Dio and Herodian, 44 45

46 47

The best survey of Dio’s work by traditional criteria remains Millar 1964. For a somewhat more sanguine view than Millar’s, see Reinhold 1986. Hohl 1954; 1956 are representative of earlier negative characterizations of Herodian. Whittaker 1969 in his introduction and Piper 1976 offer muted defenses that underscore rather than refute the deficiencies mentioned above. Swain 1991 argues for an optimistic approach to factual data in the Sophists. The question of fictionality in the Apollonius will be addressed fully in Chapter 4.

Authors and history

25

but they remain significant for Philostratus. Indeed, their presence in Philostratus’ writings is particularly marked, because they do not really need to be there. Greek authors of the imperial period can and often do discuss religious and cultural issues without any reference to the contemporary Roman political scene or its narrative history. It is worth asking why Philostratus has done otherwise, and in particular why he has done so in narrative form. None of this is to dispute the privileged place that formal historiography rightly holds as a means of talking about and learning about the past. We evidently need factually accurate reports of historical events, and people in antiquity did as well. The original readers of Dio, Herodian and Philostratus would have read them through different generic lenses and processed their narratives accordingly. When in search of accurate facts about political history, they would have resorted much more to Dio and Herodian than Philostratus. For the same reason, my next chapter, on emperors, will cite Dio constantly and confidently, Herodian frequently but tentatively and Philostratus hardly at all. Nonetheless, what we know and say about the past is not confined to discrete factual assertions that we believe to be true, nor is it manifested only through the discourses of academically rigorous history. Future cultural historians who explore early twenty-first-century Americans’ view of their own recent past will naturally consult works of history written at the time, and news media of various sorts, but this will not, one supposes, be the end of their inquiry. They will also look at how the recent past is portrayed in period dramas and novels, how historical and generational change manifests itself in ostensibly apolitical forms of entertainment, how people in everyday situations talk about the past in relation to the present and future and about changes in the world around them. Seen from such a broad perspective, my scope is quite modest, being confined to a few explicitly narrative works of elite literature, even if some of them do not fall within the genre of “serious” historiography.48 This emphasis on texts rather than authors applies also to a crucial aspect of the cultural milieu under study, namely the relative status of Greek and Roman identity. Although this book deals almost entirely with texts in Greek, it is not intended as a study of what a pre-defined population of “Greeks” thought of a “Roman” world external to their own identity. 48

Goldhill 2012 argues that for some cultures, critical-historiographical approaches to the past, even if they exist, are inherently unrepresentative of the prevailing attitude toward the past; he links classical and imperial-era Greek culture in this respect, although employing a sharper distinction between Greek and Latin cultural practice than that used here.

26

Introduction

Another reason for focusing on texts rather than authors is that authors have individual identities that lead one into essentializing questions. Was Dio a Greek or a Roman? Was Philostratus in some sense more Greek than Dio? Should one speak of bifurcated identities (“Romanized Greeks”?) or of separate political and cultural identities? Such questions have all the problems already associated with author-based approaches, and they employ spuriously simple language to conceal complex issues of definition, which is why they generate definite but contradictory answers depending on the scholar asking them.49 Once again, the point here is not the personal identities of any three more or less representative individuals, but rather what their texts can tell us about existing and changing discourses of identity. These narratives give us a glimpse of the options that were open to people of widely varying backgrounds from all over the empire as they constructed their own identities relative to the narrative of high politics that ostensibly unified them all as the emperor’s subjects. Therefore, in the literary analysis that follows, I have as much as possible avoided labeling elements of a text as “Greek” or “Roman” based on preexisting definitions of those categories. Rather I have treated cultural identities as variables that will function differently in each separate narrative world, and asked how readers are invited to construct categories including “Greek” and “Roman,” but also any number of local identities or regional ethnicities. This is a somewhat artificial critical stance. Readers would not have come to these texts as blank slates. They had pre-existing cultural identities, to which they applied the labels “Greek” and “Roman” with a deceptive simplicity. If asked whether they were Hellenes, all of our authors would have said “yes,” and so would most of their readers. Still, we are not justified in “taking Greekness for granted,” and assuming that our authors, even when they discuss Roman subjects, are still speaking as Greeks to Greeks about peculiarly Greek cultural problems. This is because we do not really know what the “yes” referred to above would mean, or whether it meant the same thing to different people. Was “Greek” a geographic, ethnic, linguistic or class category? How did it co-exist with whatever other labels people might apply to themselves?

49

Thus on the question of Dio’s identity, Palm 1959, 81–2 confidently pronounces him “durch und durch Römer” while Millar 1964, 191 claims that he “took as his own the political and national tradition of the Roman state, while retaining unimpaired the cultural outlook of the Greek world into which he was born,” and for Swain 1996, 404–5, “Being Roman to Dio meant possessing major political status . . . Culturally and spiritually there is no reason to think that Dio would have seen himself as anything other than Greek.”

Authors and history

27

These are not posed as insoluble questions. They do have common-sense answers that apply a good deal of the time, but if we take those answers a priori and apply them rigidly, we will lose key details of what these texts have to say. This is all the more true in a study of how people perceived historical change. We started with the question of how people related the political and dynastic turmoil of the third century to their own lives. These political events were the most obvious kind of change afoot, but they were not the only kind. We have already noticed above how Roman identity was affected by the integration of provincial elites into the imperial structure.50 As being Roman came to mean different things, so people related differently to Roman history and to the various other cultural categories available to them. Much of the foundational scholarship on the Greek world in the imperial period posits an artificially static picture of Greeks continuing to “adapt” to Roman domination two and three centuries after initial conquest.51 By the Severan period, it no longer makes sense to describe cultural processes in the eastern half of the empire in terms of “adaptation” or “assimilation.” Being part of the Roman world had ceased to be an externally imposed circumstance to which one had to react. It was an integral component of one’s self-definition, and no more separable from one’s overall identity than Greekness or the various local affinities that all Greek-speakers also possessed.52 By the 220s, it was possible for a senator of Bithynian stock writing in Greek to claim in essence that he was more Roman than the emperor, in the sense that he better exemplified the positive terms of the discourses by which Romanness was constructed. In part this was because the Severans, especially Caracalla and Elagabalus, were different from previous generations of emperors, but it was also because Cassius Dio was different from previous generations of senators. These differences had emerged in various forms over the course of the second century, which was, let us remember, the time of such culturally ambiguous figures as Favorinus, Lucian and 50 51

52

For a survey of this topic with particular emphasis on Greek-speaking easterners, see Madsen 2013. Stated explicitly by Woolf 1994 and implicit in the arguments of Swain 1996, among others. As Revell 2009, 4 notes, such approaches are attractive in part as a corrective to earlier developmental models of Romanization. Recent more diachronic approaches include Madsen 2009 (relating specifically to Bithynia-Pontus); Andrade 2013 (Syria) and Sartre 2013. There were indeed many regions of the Roman empire, notably Syria and eastern Anatolia, where Greek cultural influence, especially as represented by the polis model of urbanism, increased in parallel with Roman rule in the first two centuries ad. For Syria, see Millar 1993; Sartre 2005, 151–88 and now Andrade 2013, 125–241. Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 17–28 discusses the difficulty (and questionable utility) of distinguishing between “Romanization” and “Hellenization” in the case of Italy down to the Augustan era.

28

Introduction

Apuleius. It had been a long time since Greeks were Greeks and Romans were Romans. This emphatically does not mean that Easterners were “Romanized” in the sense of becoming functionally indistinguishable from their Western counterparts, or becoming anything that a Republican senator would have recognized as Roman. What it means is that the diverse urban and elite populations of the empire developed a shared discursive space within which Easterners and Westerners could communicate meaningfully (in Latin or in Greek) about what it meant to be an inhabitant of the Roman oikoumenē.53 Crucial elements included one’s relationship to the emperor, one’s selfdefinition relative to external peoples, one’s place in the imperially and divinely ordained social hierarchy and one’s recognition of literate education and its aesthetic trappings as a mark of cultural prestige.54 A Gaul might have disagreed with a Syrian about how these various things worked, but they would know they were talking about the same things, and it would be a question of disagreement rather than incomprehension. From this discursive space emerged the expressions of empire-wide consensus on which monarchical ideology rested. All of the narratives studied in this book function within this space and try to account for change within it. Dio and his readers surely knew that his claim of superior Romanness could not have been made in earlier generations. They also knew that political life under the Severans was very different from what it had been under the Antonines. The “cultural question” of this book is how they related those two bits of knowledge. To what extent did Roman dynastic history, however one chose to interpret it, shape people’s narratives of their own identity and how they got to be that way? Conversely, how did one’s view of one’s rulers change if they were seen as part of a cultural narrative that served as the basis for one’s own identity? These are ultimately Roman questions, of which Greek questions are a subset. All inhabitants of the empire, East and West, identified with a range of multiple identities that they arranged in different hierarchies and integrated variously into the discursive space outlined above. It was a world of hyphenated Romans with multiple patriae. When Dio, Philostratus and Herodian address the relationship of global 53

54

Recent scholarship has propounded a wide variety of discursive models for understanding the cultural changes wrought by Roman imperialism. See e.g. Hingley 2005 (using globalization); WallaceHadrill 2008 (using multilingualism); Revell 2009 (using structuration and agency) and Andrade 2013 (on Syria specifically), each with ample reference to earlier literature. While none of these models is used exclusively here, my approach shares their overall premise that Greek, Roman and local identities are complex discursive constructions that cannot be fully isolated from one another. On the emperor as a factor in discourses of imperialism at the local level, see Revell 2009, 80–109.

Authors and history

29

historical narratives to people’s local identities, they are not speaking only to Greeks concerned with the maintenance of Hellenic heritage. Their audience ranged from Aramaic speakers in Syria to Athenian local chauvinists to Latin-speaking Westerners both at the time and in later antiquity.55 It should also in our time include anyone interested in the changing nature of what it meant to be a Roman and a Greek as the High Empire gave way to Late Antiquity. 55

For Herodian’s Latin readers in Late Antiquity, see p. 269 below.

chapter 2

From Antonine to Severan

The Constitutio Antoniniana of 212, the decree by which Roman citizenship was extended to almost all free inhabitants of the empire, suggests an air of enlightened humanity that seems uncharacteristic of the emperor for whom it is named. Contemporary historians tend to present Antoninus Caracalla as a deranged character who is interested in his subjects only as objects of violent oppression. At first glance there seems to be a disconnect between the social and intellectual trends embodied in the decree and the unedifying political narrative of the individual Severan emperors.1 However, our two chief pieces of evidence for the act both testify to its distinctly Severan characteristics, and especially to how emperors and subjects alike sought constantly to re-evaluate the existing narratives of the recent past. The first of those pieces of evidence is the surviving text of the decree itself, as partially transmitted on a papyrus.2 The emperor begins by expressing his gratitude to the gods for preserving him. Exactly what they have preserved him from is not explicit: a few crucial words are missing from the text, but they cannot have given much detail. Readers are meant already to know what bad thing is being referred to, and the most likely possibility is the recent violent events within the imperial family.3 At his death in 211, 1

2

3

Thus the arguments of Honoré 2002 passim, but summarized at 24–5, 84–5, who makes the decree the brainchild of jurists rather than the emperor. Williams 1979, also using stylistic criteria, though in less depth than Honoré, reaches the entirely opposite conclusion, that the Constitutio is an impulsive personal gesture of Caracalla’s. Garnsey 2004 and Ando 2012, 52–7, 76–99 in their examinations of the social and legal significance of the edict, place less emphasis on its motivation. For readings in terms of pragmatic politics and imperial ideology, see Christol 1997, 38–9; Potter 2004, 138–9. Buraselis 2007 represents the most thorough attempt to integrate the decree into a wider “Severan” ideology, though his reading of key texts differs from that followed here. The papyrus in question is P. Giss. 40.1, for which see Oliver 1989, 495–505. It has been argued that the papyrus text is not Caracalla’s citizenship-decree, but relates to a considerably smaller-scale action. See Sherwin-White 1973, 286–7; Wolff 1976, esp. 193–209, with counter-argument in Oliver 1978. The missing words in question are at the beginning of the fourth line. For the various readings, see Oliver 1989, 503. Caracalla uses some feminine singular noun to refer to whatever it is that the gods have saved him from, and the most likely suggestions are ἐπιβουλή or συμφορά. Since there seems to be no further elaboration on the circumstances, it is not certain from the document that Geta’s

30

From Antonine to Severan

31

Severus left his two sons, who were already notorious rivals, as joint heirs to the empire, perhaps with the idea that their equal powers would create a balance and preserve peace. The arrangement just gave their mutual hatred a larger and more public stage on which to play out. That December, Caracalla took the decisive step of a coup, in which he put to death his brother, along with the latter’s advisors, friends and dependants, allegedly thousands in number. The pretext that Caracalla gave first to the army and then to the Senate and the population at large was that he had forestalled a plot of Geta’s against him, and it is to this that the citizenship decree would seem to refer.4 The decree goes on to explain that Caracalla’s gratitude to the gods, and his desire to respond in an appropriately grand style, motivates him in the act about to be described. The emperor’s wish is to bring the people of his empire into the temples of the gods, and a mass distribution of citizenship strikes him as the best way to achieve this. The surviving portion of the decree ends with Caracalla’s observations that the population ought already to have partaken in his victory, and that the grandeur of the Roman people will by his actions be increased. This edict should be read in the context of a general re-evaluation of recent history that the events of 212 had brought on. For Septimius Severus’ entire reign, and especially in its last phase after 208–9, when Geta was elevated to Augustus, his sons had been portrayed together as symbols of promised continuity.5 Severus could offer his subjects a future dynasty in the shape of two brothers whose harmonious relationship would ensure that the empire was not again subject to the kind of civil discord that had brought Septimius himself to power. The security and the harmony were themselves meant to be continuations of the Antonine dynasty, into which

4 5

“conspiracy” is the peril in question, and several alternatives have been canvassed (surveyed by Buraselis 2007, 1n.; Rowan 2012, 126–8). The question is bound up with whether one accepts the traditional date of early 212 for the decree rather than a later one. Millar 1962 raises valid objections to several of the reasons then put forward for accepting the traditional date, but the balance of evidence, based on the use of Aurelius-nomenclature, still inclines to a date some time in 212 (see Gilliam 1965, the objections of Rubin 1975b notwithstanding; some date in 212 is accepted by Garnsey 2004; Potter 2004, 138; Hekster 2008, 45–9 and Ando 2012, 57). Accepting the date does not absolutely require one to accept that the papyrus refers to Geta, but it is difficult to think of another event in 212 that (a) was so well known as to need no introduction; (b) consisted primarily of personal danger to Caracalla and (c) could be characterized as a “victory” (l. 10). The burden of proof would seem to be on those who argue for some event other than Geta’s death. For the pretext, see Dio 78.[77].3.1 (EV); HA Carc. 2.6,11. For the number, see Dio 78.[77].4.1 (EV). For the concordia within the Severan family as expressing a broader ideological message for the empire, see Amit 1962, 153–9; Rubin 1976. Rowan 2012, 93 notes the prominence of the theme in provincially generated coins and sculpture. The inscriptional and coin evidence for Geta is surveyed by Kemmers 2011, who speculatively reconstructs factional politics behind the changes in relative prominence of the two brothers. For the uncertainty surrounding the date of Geta’s promotion to Augustus, see Birley 1988, 218.

32

From Antonine to Severan

Septimius had retroactively adopted himself, and which remained the symbol of a stable peace that had been interrupted only briefly by the “rebellions” of Julianus, Niger and Albinus. This story of concord and continuity had been told time and again over two decades in all sorts of media, and had become the officially recognized way of thinking about where the empire was coming from and where it was headed. In 212, a new version of history was put forth. Instead of two brothers peacefully continuing a dynasty stretching back to Nerva and forward into the infinite future, there was a story of crisis and triumph, in which the true emperor is preserved by the gods from the forces of evil as represented by his brother. Caracalla had more to explain than just the act of murdering Geta. That act was followed by the wholesale eradication of his name and image from the public space of the empire, and from many private spaces as well, leaving in many cases an erasure or blank spot to ensure that people remembered to forget.6 This entailed a re-evaluation of everything the Severan dynasty had claimed about itself: the empire still abounded in dynastic portraits that had showed Septimius’ two sons as representatives of a doubly reassured future. Now they had to be re-read as prefigurations of the recent existential conflict between the two. Was one meant to assume that actually Geta had been wicked all along, and that Caracalla was purifying a past that was tainted by his brother’s presence in it? The citizenship decree is in part an explanation to the population of how they should place themselves in this story. Instead of the emperor living in a relationship of fraternal concord that reflects his subjects’ harmony, he now exists in a much more violent world of perils to be met and, with the gods’ help, triumphed over. His subjects are now meant to share in his perils and his triumphs, and to this end he is placing himself and them in a relationship of beneficence and gratitude that parallels that of the gods to him. And, crucially, that narrative brings with it a reconsideration of Roman identity. Caracalla defines his addressees as “my people” (τοὺς ἐμοὺς ἀνθρώπους) and the logic of his proclamation is that “his people” means everyone who accepts his version of events and the relationships of piety and gratitude on which his decree is based.7 Caracalla is creating a narrative world and defining Romans as the people who live in that world. Juridical facts in the 6

7

For the unusual thoroughness of Caracalla’s condemnation of Geta’s name, see De Jong 2007 and now the monograph treatment of Krüpe 2011. Krüpe (15) notes that out of a data set of 970 documents showing memory sanctions against 120 individuals from the mid-republic to late antiquity, more than a third of the total referred to Geta, and this included papyri that were at least ten years old at the time of the erasure. For the sanctions against Plautilla that occurred at the same time, see Varner 2001, 80–3. Gleason 2011 considers the larger cultural ramifications of memory sanctions in this period. See Ando 2000, 395 for Caracalla wanting to produce as large as possible a display of consensus as an act of piety.

From Antonine to Severan

33

real world are to be altered to conform to that narrative world, as is personal nomenclature, given that the millions of new citizens will have “Aurelius” as their nomen, in honor of their benefactor. Cassius Dio’s view of the citizenship decree is, unsurprisingly, very different. For him, the political events of late 211–212 are a horrible massacre. As best we can reconstruct Dio’s text, he moved from a detailed description of Caracalla’s coup, with much naming of and identifying with its victims, to general remarks on the new ruler’s character, then to an account of his peculiar obsession with Alexander the Great. This obsession, and his general mania for all things military, led to his spending a great deal of money on soldiers, and correspondingly exacting taxes and tributes of all kinds from the civilian population. Dio lists the citizenship decree among these exactions, because in his view Caracalla’s motivation was to increase the number of people liable to inheritance taxes (78.[77].9.5 [EV]). Dio thus integrates this specious piece of magnanimity into his larger story of how Caracalla and the Severan dynasty more generally show favor to the army and become alienated from the same elite with whom the Antonines had so diligently sought consensus. Dio’s version also entails a redefinition of Roman identity. Dio is defining the Romans not as the people who enjoyed Caracalla’s beneficence, but as the victims of his avarice, and as the people on whom he turned his back to engage in military-historical fantasies. And by that definition, the most Roman people of all turn out to be the senatorial elite to which Dio belongs. The list of Caracalla’s fiscal sins is prefaced with the observation that the emperor “stripped, spoiled and wore down all other people [i.e. other than soldiers], and senators not the least.” The items on the list are mostly things that fell heaviest on the richest, at least in the first instance: the citizenship decree is in fact somewhat out of place, in that senators would by definition have been unaffected by it. They were affected by increased inheritance and manumission taxes, and it is only in mentioning these that Dio adds, with very tendentious reasoning, that the taxes were the real reason for the citizenship decree.8 For Dio, the decree allows him to include the larger population on the side of the senatorial elite in their story of progressive alienation from the emperors. The existence of diverse and competing narratives was not of course a new phenomenon in Roman history. What makes the Severan age stand out in this respect is, first, the number of such narratives and the speed with which they changed to accommodate new political circumstances and, 8

Ando 2000, 395 points out that Caracalla had other means at his disposal of extracting money from non-citizen provincials.

34

From Antonine to Severan

second, the contrast between this dynasty and the Antonines, who, at least until Commodus, had been remarkable for the stability and homogeneity of their approach to the recent past. In these respects it is the emperors who led the way, and this chapter will be exploring the different kinds of narratives that Romans of the late second and early third century received from their rulers, or generated in response to them. This emphasis on top-down dissemination of historical interpretations and response from the bottom up is the result to some extent of the nature of our evidence. It is imperial self-presentation and propaganda, as discerned from inscriptions, public art, coins and the accounts of contemporary historians, that give us most of our examples of how the past was interpreted. However, this is not entirely accidental by any means: emperors were mostly the ones who began the process of re-interpreting the past, because they were the immediate agents of the political change that made the re-interpretation necessary. In particular, at a time of frequent reign-changes and power shifts, each new regime had to set out its position relative to its predecessor, and produce an official version of how the current state of affairs came about, which was to a considerable extent dictated by what sort of a ruler the current emperor meant to be.

The “true Aurelii” According to the Historia Augusta, when the future emperor Gordian I was a young man, he wrote a thirty-book epic called the Antoniniad, on the reigns of Antoninus and Marcus.9 This is very unlikely to be true, but it is worth considering what such a work might have looked like. Its first portions would surely have been petrifyingly dull. After all, Antoninus Pius reigned for twenty-three years and managed never to leave Italy in that time. His successor Marcus, however, would furnish considerably more promising material. Within two years of his accession, a major Roman defeat on the eastern frontier would usher in the first of a series of wars that would last up to and past the emperor’s death in 180.10 These wars would see, for the first time in living memory, hostile external forces reaching the empire’s peaceful core provinces. Add to this a major epidemic, the mildly scandalous reign and death of Lucius Verus and the abortive but still frightening coup of Avidius Cassius. The contrast is considerable, and is 9

10

HA Gord. 3.3. It comes at the start of a highly improbable list of Gordian’s achievements as a senator, which in turn is part of the author’s ongoing play with whether Gordian used the name “Antonius” or “Antoninus.” For the wars, see Birley 1987, esp. 140–83, with Strobel 1994, 1317–24 for the Parthian wars and Kovács 2009, 181–263 for the northern.

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not restricted to material fit for an epic. For modern social and economic historians, there are also the possible demographic disruption of the plague and the changes in the nature of the governing class brought about by the frontier wars.11 In many important respects, then, the reigns of Antoninus and Marcus differed considerably from each other, with the latter far more characterized by violence and instability. This makes it all the more surprising that people in the years immediately afterwards seem to have considered them basically similar, and if anything to have idealized Marcus’ more than Antoninus’. When the HA author, writing two hundred years after the fact, merges the two reigns into the potential subject of a single epic, he is following a long tradition, of which all three of our main authors are a part. Cassius Dio famously records Marcus’ death as the end of an age of gold.12 While he does not specify what characteristics made the age golden, it is reasonable to suppose that most of them were equally present in the reign of Antoninus, if not more so. Herodian’s opening account of Marcus (1.2–3) does make him into an oddly isolated figure, but the setting suggests something of a timeless, almost fairy-tale, past. Readers are not asked to consider Antoninus at all, but if they do so, there is every reason to suppose that they would have projected the virtues of Marcus’ reign back into his predecessor’s. Philostratus, as we shall see, deliberately avoids the use of emperors’ reigns as an ordering principle, but his Sophists is focused around a figure, Herodes Atticus, who neatly straddles the boundary between Antoninus and Marcus. All these men are using Marcus’ reign as shorthand for an earlier and better world that lasted into their lifetimes but continued back well into the previous decades. Their ancestors who actually wrote under the Antonines seem to have felt much the same. It is very difficult to find a second-century author who sees any change over time occurring between the reigns of Antoninus and Marcus. This is in part because we have no surviving contemporary historians, even in fragmentary form. The impression one gets from historiography after Tacitus, in either language, is that large-scale narratives did not include recent events. The various wars did create scope for monographic histories that, while doubtless highly adulatory, offered little opportunity 11

12

The nature and effect of the Antonine plague has a considerable bibliography of its own: the two main positions are recently represented by Scheidel 2002 and Bruun 2007. For the wars of Marcus’ reign as changing the composition of the Antonine governing class, see Syme 1988a: 683–7. Dio 72.[71].36.4 (EV). See also HA Macr. 7.7, where the author claims to know a poem on the Antonine dynasty, which starts with Antoninus Pius, then has Marcus as the only Antonine who represented an improvement on his predecessor, while all the other Antonini (Verus, Commodus, Caracalla, Diadumenianus) down to Elagabalus are each more degenerate than the last.

36

From Antonine to Severan

for considering the present as part of any larger narrative. I have argued elsewhere that second-century authors after Tacitus and Suetonius tend overwhelmingly to exclude the present and the post-Augustan past from the world of narrative causality and contingency.13 This way of thinking is implicit in the way Lucian’s and Fronto’s descriptions of contemporary histories restrict themselves to accounts of wars as isolated events without any place in a greater causal chain, or any causal relationship to the lives of the author or audience.14 This kind of history, while it deals with contemporary events, has many generic features that ancient authors associated more with the history of long-ago events. The non-narrative status of the present is explicit in the works of the principal surviving historians of the period, notably Florus and Appian, whose histories stop largely or completely with Augustus as both founder of the Roman monarchy and completer of Rome’s conquest of the Mediterranean, and Arrian, who writes about the distant past in narrative form, but about the present only in static descriptive works. Many other Antonine authors display a similar unwillingness to come up with grand narratives into which to integrate the stories of their own lives and the world in which they take place. A notable surviving autobiographical text of the period, Lucian’s Dream, is remarkable for its complete lack of any information to link its author to external temporal reality. Lucian’s journey toward paideia is a personal one, not linked to any larger story in the world around him. It is not that Lucian occludes the present: in other contexts, such as the Demonax or Peregrinus, he is happy to engage with specific personalities and affairs of his time, but he consistently avoids giving them a larger narrative context.15 For all that Fronto talks to his royal correspondents about their predecessors Trajan and Hadrian, it is never with the sense of distinguishing an old era from a new one, or of marking out change over time, but rather of laying down positive and negative exempla whose value and applicability presumably lie in the unchanging nature of an emperor’s position.16 Fronto’s friend Aulus Gellius is fondly sentimental 13

14 15 16

In Kemezis 2010, which I summarize in this paragraph. For different approaches to the conceptual question of changes in how the past is used, see Gehrke 2010 and Grethlein 2010. On the absence of contemporary history in the second century, see also Zimmermann 1999c. For more general surveys of historiography in the second century ad, see Bowie 1970: 10–27; Zecchini 1983; Baldwin 1986; Hose 1994. Dillon 1997 finds similarities between elements of Plutarch’s thought on the Roman monarchical state and the “end of history” thesis propounded in the 1990s by Francis Fukuyama. Specifically Lucian’s How to Write History and Fronto’s Principia Historiae and Ad Verum Imp. 2.1. For treatments of Lucian as a commentator on his contemporary milieu, see Baldwin 1973; Jones 1986. See e.g. Ad Marc. Caes. 2.5.1 = Haines 1.110; De Fer. Als. 2.5 = Haines 2.9.

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37

about his student days in Herodes’ Athens, but he does not locate his experiences in any wider chronology or historical progression.17 Apparently, he thinks Athens has always been full of charming teachers and friends, and that if his children, for whom he is ostensibly writing the Attic Nights, were to study there, their experiences would be just as delightful as his own. Gellius in fact represents a stage in Latin literary history that we would very much like to know more about: he is part of all kinds of stories about the growth or decline of bilingualism in the Roman elite; the self-conscious maturity and apparent decline of pagan Latin literature and the predominance of Greek; the fusion of the empire’s two cultures in the persons of a Herodes Atticus or a Favorinus. However, none of those stories strikes him as worth telling in any explicit sense. Beyond Gellius’ self-portrait, the broader form of his work as a miscellany, when compared to earlier antiquarian works, exemplifies the peculiar timelessness of Antonine literature. In the works of authors from Varro to Suetonius, there had been an implicit explanatory narrative in which data from the past was used either to explain the state of the present and how it got that way, or to assert that in better days things used to be a certain way and have now declined.18 In this sense, even if antiquarianism did not tell an explicit story, it still established a narrative world in the linguistic and cultural realm parallel to what orthodox historiography did in the political. In Gellius, on the other hand, the miscellaneous form of the work, its conscious aesthetic of variation or poikilia, precludes any attempt by readers to construct a narrative out of the data presented. One is rather supposed to relate individually to each given artifact of the past without the mediation of a greater narrative, and perhaps to replicate the experience of the author’s spontaneous interactions with the past.19 One character in the Attic Nights who does invoke the classic Roman narrative of corruption and decline is the grammarian Domitius, who takes philosophers’ interest in grammatical minutiae to be a sign of a moribund culture, but everyone thinks he is mad.20 The more standard Antonine attitude toward the past, Greek or Roman, is to 17 18

19

20

For Gellius’ relationship to historiography, see Holford-Strevens 2003, 241–59. For Suetonius’ De Grammaticis et Rhetoribus as a cultural-historical narrative leading into the author’s own time, see Kaster 1995, xlii–xlviii. On the various time-relationships surrounding late-republican antiquarianism and Varro’s writings, see Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 213–37. For Gellius as making use of but not basically part of the Roman antiquarian tradition, see Stevenson 2004. As Gunderson 2009, 16 has it, in Gellius’ antiquarian mode, history is “not even story; it is an entry in a ledger.” For poikilia as the key aesthetic for miscellaneous works such as Gellius’ and Aelian’s, see Johnson 1997, 188–91. On the relation between form and aesthetics in Gellius more generally, see, in addition to Gunderson, Vessey 1994, 1890–904. Hogan 2009 reads Domitius as presenting contemporary culture as the corpse at a funeral.

38

From Antonine to Severan

see it as a vast array of resources that one wants to use freely, in a discrete form as free as possible from the constraints of a grand narrative. Such a narrative would only narrow the range of possible data one could use and the uses one could make of it. This is analogous to the world of historical declamation that was so popular at the time, in which the past is a separate world that is made to co-exist with the present not by causal narrative, but by imitative performance.21 In other contexts, the gap between past and present could be bridged by directly apprehending, in a sacral or sublime manner, the physical and literary monuments of old Greece.22 The point is not that the age was morbidly obsessed with the past, or that there was something incomplete or unsettling about the present that made distant ages seem more attractive.23 For the Antonines as for anyone else, the past was a means of understanding and structuring the present, of defining shared identities and establishing power relationships. What is distinctive in their case is that where we tend most often to use narrative-explanatory modes to create such relationships between past and present, they either blurred the lines between the present and the somewhat less distant past, in effect starting the narrative present with Augustus, or they avoided the narrative mode altogether in favor of mimetic practices for which events six hundred years ago were just as fit material as events within living memory. It is this that gives the age its impression of being preoccupied with the long ago to the exclusion of the here and now. Several explanations present themselves for this aspect of the Antonine mentality. The broadest and most conventional is simply that the era really was one of peace and consensus, and that people did not write or argue about the recent past because there was little material for such narratives or controversies. Contemporary sources do indeed give the impression of a harmonious world in which, as Aelius Aristides would have it, governor does not quarrel with governor, nor city with city, but “the whole inhabited world sings as one more closely than a chorus, praying in unison that this 21

22

23

This is the formulation of Webb 2006, esp. 42, who goes on to stress the political significance of declamation as creating a shared past. For a somewhat different model of performativity and authority in declamations, see Schmitz 1999. As shown by Porter 2001 in an important analysis of Pausanias and Longinus; in Porter’s view, the main narrative available to these authors is one of decline, which they strive to counteract through acts of memory. As per the much-followed argument of Bowie 1970, that the emphasis on the distant Hellenic past in imperial Greek literature is by way of compensating for the loss of Greek political independence. Older models, going back to e.g. Norden 1898, 344–9 and later typified by Perry 1955 and Van Groningen 1965, see emphasis on the distant past as a symptom of a general malaise within literary culture.

The “true Aurelii”

39

Empire may last for all time. So well are they trained by this conductorEmperor” (Rom. 29 [= Dindorf 334–5]). Even when the orator’s flattery is discounted, the metaphor shows in what way the elite members of Antonine society chose to idealize their world, and that choice must have reflected reality to some degree. The explicit halt to Roman expansion that came with Hadrian’s accession brought with it a changed definition of the Roman world, and one can imagine how contemporaries might in retrospect have backdated the end of expansion to Augustus, and conceived of Trajan as an exception to it. Thus in Hadrian’s time is revived the Augustan idea of representing the empire visually as a series of personified representations of conquered provinces. That vision has affinities with the literary structures of Florus and Appian, whose works are arranged not annalistically but as a sequence of conquest narratives in rough but overlapping chronological order.24 However, this explanation can only be carried so far. The Antonine era was not that much more tranquil than other periods of history. If Antoninus’ own reign allowed him the leisure, remarked on by Aristides, of never having to leave Italy, the same could not be said of his successor Marcus, whose troubles we have already alluded to, nor of Hadrian, whose reign saw two major Jewish revolts, both repressed with massive bloodshed, as well as difficulties in the frontier regions of Britain and Mauretania, and some unsavory succession intrigues.25 Going purely on the record of military events, it is not clear why people living in most parts of the empire under the Antonines should have felt themselves more at peace than their ancestors under the Julio-Claudians. Rome’s record against her foreign enemies was on balance worse under Marcus than under the Severans, who made lasting conquests and prevented hostile incursions into the Mediterranean basin. It remains true, however, that Antonine authors do a better job than their successors or predecessors at giving an impression of static harmony and excluding whatever elements would make that harmony seem transitory or contingent. One specific element of the “Antonine peace” really was distinctive and must have contributed to the lack of contemporary narrative, namely the nearly 100 years of peaceful transfers of power. It is not so much that there were no disputes – both ends of Hadrian’s reign were quite problematic in this respect – as that appearances were always preserved and that each of the 24 25

For the representations, see Smith 1988, 70–7. For Aristides on the stationary Antoninus, see Rom. 33 Behr. The HA (Hadr. 5.1-2) gives a picture of Hadrian coming to the throne amid multiple military crises: for context, see Birley 1997b, 80–1.

40

From Antonine to Severan

emperors from Trajan to Commodus publicly endorsed the memory of his immediate predecessor and of the whole dynasty back to Nerva. Contrast the varying degrees of posthumous disparagement directed at all the JulioClaudians except Augustus, and above all at Domitian. A change of reign was the one event that could instantly make the whole existing narrative of post-Augustan Roman history obsolete. Tacitus and his contemporaries and predecessors under the Julio-Claudians and Flavians were in part motivated to write history by the need to reconsider the recent past in light of the priorities of a new ruler.26 Arrian, on the other hand, who was born in the mid-80s, scarcely remembered what it was like to have the cast of heroes and villains abruptly reversed by an act of regicide, and felt correspondingly less need to re-interpret the events of his own lifetime. The existence of characters like Arrian, who played prestigious elite roles in both the Roman central government, the pan-Hellenic center of Athens and the provincial society of Bithynia, is a sign of another possible cause for the phenomenon of the Antonine past. It is under the Antonines that the longtime Roman practice of integrating conquered peoples into their own political elite reaches a critical point, as non-Italians come to be the norm rather than the exception in the Senate and other key constituent groups of Roman society.27 Starting even in the generation of Tacitus but all the more so later, the experience and worldview of provincials, including those from the eastern provinces, becomes a standard part of self-definition even in the society of the metropole. This affects the authors and audience for literature, especially Greek literature. Although it has been proposed that the Greek literature of the Imperial period is a response to a loss of political power due to Roman conquest, it is difficult to reconcile this with the timing of literary and historical events, since conquest happened so much earlier.28 On the other hand, it cannot be coincidental that most of the phenomena currently grouped under the heading of the “Second Sophistic” begin and increase at the same time that the Hellenophone producers and consumers of that culture become an ever larger presence in the political power structure.29 26

27

28 29

See on this point Syme 1957 for Tacitus. Coleman 1990 argues cogently that the end of the Flavian dynasty did not in fact represent the literary watershed that some contemporaries assert, but what matters more for my point here is the perception that dynastic change required one to imagine the present in a new relationship to the recent past, even if in fact the changes were not all that great. For the phenomenon as it relates to the eastern half of the empire see Alföldy 1976, 281–91; Halfmann 1979, with diachronic analysis at 71–81; Syme 1982–1989. Madsen 2009 provides a specific case study of the province of Bithynia-Pontus. Talbert 1984, 31–8 and Woolf 1994, 130–1, from very different perspectives, see less significance in these developments. The thesis originally put forth by Bowie 1970. On Greek literary developments in a specifically Flavian context, see Kemezis forthcoming.

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One might also consider how much the Latin literature of the period depends on provincials, especially such Africans as Fronto or Apuleius, even at the same time that their fellow-countrymen are coming to increased political prominence.30 What we see in the literature of the Antonine period is not straightforward Romanization, or for that matter provincialization, but rather the culture of the imperial center remaining dominant, while being redefined in terms of the many-layered identities of a new elite. Appian, from Alexandria, and Florus, probably from Spain, represent the application of this principle to Roman history. Appian represents a substantial departure from the older tradition of Greek-language history of Rome, running from Polybius through Dionysius, in which the dichotomy of Greek and Roman is foregrounded, and the author’s primary rhetorical stance is that of someone telling a Greek audience how to relate to their lords and masters.31 We have already observed the complexities of Appian’s own cultural identity. The aspect of that identity to which he alludes most in his history is neither Roman nor Greek as such, but Egyptian.32 Appian is certainly not referring here to native Egyptian ethnicity, but neither is “Egyptian” for him just a more specific way of saying “Greek.” He speaks of it rather as a provincial identity within the Roman world, and as his particular portion of the cultural heritage of that world going back to a time before the Romans unified it. He expects his audience to share his cultural outlook not because they are from the same specific place as him but rather because, like him, they are from a place that is now part of the Roman world 30 31

32

See Champlin 1980, 5–19, who sees Fronto’s conscious rejection of native Punic culture and aggressive identification with Latin as in itself a distinctive feature of him as an African. For an overview of this tradition down to Dionysius, see Pelling 2007, and for a wider exploration of the cultural landscape of Greek and provincial historiography in the first century BC, see Yarrow 2006. Dionysius does attempt to argue away the difference by claiming that Roman culture is essentially Greek, but his expectation that his thesis will be controversial (AR 1.5.1) presumes an audience for whom the Greek–Roman distinction remains relatively straightforward. Gowing 2009, looking at the continued line of Greek historians of Rome from Dionysius to Dio, notes the ways in which peculiarly Greek features continue to emerge in authors that become ever more deeply implicated in Roman culture and literature. On Appian in an Alexandrian context, see Gowing 1992, 9–16 and Bucher 2000, 444–8, both emphasizing the Acta Alexandrinorum as indicative of Alexandria’s peculiarly intractable cultural politics. In addition, Appian’s Alexandrian origin gives him the unique perspective that for him the two defining characteristics of his Roman political existence – the institution of the monarchy and the inclusion in the empire of his home provice – came into being more or less simultaneously at the time of Augustus. For residents of almost anywhere else in the Greek-speaking world, the two experiences would have been quite separate and there would have been a continuing memory of being ruled by Romans of the Republic. For the importance of the late Republican period in Greek civic selfpresentation, see Jones 2001b. There is also, however, the extended argument of Wallace-Hadrill 2008 that the coming of the monarchy brought with it a wider redefinition of provincial identities throughout the empire.

42

From Antonine to Severan

but used to have its own political existence and history. The defining characteristic of Appian and his audience is not any one identity, but rather the fact of each having a different set of identities, of which the only universally shared one is that of the imperial center, and of which it would be misleading to read any one as primary and all others as secondary. Appian is not speaking as a Roman to Romans about how “people like us” conquered the world, nor as a Greek to Greeks about how “people like us” got conquered. In the pre-Augustan period that Appian writes about, there were no “people like us,” in the sense of people with both Roman and provincial identities, and he is telling the story of how, through the operation of Roman aretē, a world came about in which such people did exist and flourish.33 The existing and flourishing are characteristic of the Antonine age, but Appian is not explaining the social phenomena themselves, he is narrating the political-military circumstances that were a necessary condition for them, and his narrative ends more than a hundred years earlier. Among the works of Appian’s older contemporary Arrian is a history of Bithynia that had to end in the 70s bc, at the death of the last Bithynian king, since conventional ancient historiography, with its exclusively political focus, could not incorporate the story of a collectivity that continued to exist even after it lost political independence. By the mid-second century, most members of the empire’s elite would have identified with some similar narrative that would also have ended some centuries before. Appian the Alexandrian, as heir to the last of these narratives to end, was uniquely well placed to make the next leap. As nation after nation is conquered and its history ends, eventually the history of the conquering people must also end when there are no more conquests to make, and the civil wars that stemmed from the conquests have resolved themselves. Although Florus does not explicitly acknowledge his provincial origins in his history, and he identifies much more explicitly with the Romans in their various conflicts, he has many elements of the same ethnic structure as Appian.34 He has more of 33

34

Bowie 1970, 12 sees Appian as adapting the tradition of universal history to a Roman context. However, as Dench 2011, 500–1 notes, Appian has markedly little to say about the history of conquered nations independent of their contact with Rome. First-century BC universal historians, Latin as well as Greek, aimed to generate a wider global perspective from which to evaluate and to a greater or lesser degree critique Roman claims to absolute world dominion. For this tradition see Momigliano 1987b, 44–6; Yarrow 2006, 124–66. Clarke 1999, 307–36 discusses how Strabo brings a rather different approach to the same problem in the context of a geographical work. On this point, see Gowing 1992, 282–3. For a source-based approach to the problem, see Hahn 1964, who traces the structural similarities back to the Elder Seneca. For a more contrastive view of the two authors, see Alonso Núñez 2006. Woolf 1996 makes illuminating contrasts on this point between eastern and western experiences, given that Greek provincials (and some other ethnicities in the

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an exclusive emphasis on people’s incorporation into the Populus Romanus, as opposed to Appian’s sense of a newer and more complex identity, but he is similar to Appian in his counting down of the peoples whose stories the Romans have brought to an end, and in placing himself and his readers in a world created by and existing outside of that process. Tacitus, by contrast, seems to have identified with no narrative other than that of the Roman people, and it was natural for him to suppose that that narrative, as expressed in the annalistic record, should continue indefinitely in some form. A last factor to be considered in the Antonine view of the past is its affinities with the ideology of the Augustan principate. Any reader of the Aeneid can see how Virgil portrays Augustus and his golden age as the end point of a long historical process. Once furor impius is bound firmly up inside the Temple of Janus (1.294–6), nobody is supposed to let it back out.35 The Augustan Forum tells a similar story, with its statuary consisting of homogenized summi viri and obscure Julians both incorporated into a highly simplified narrative of imperial expansion, and its focal point on a temple commemorating Augustus’ final settling of accounts with enemies foreign and domestic. In Zanker’s formulation, “the fusion of myth and history was realized in the creation of a timeless present. A concept of the future, in the sense of a further development, did not exist in this system. The saeculum aureum had dawned, and it was only a question of maintaining and repeating it.”36 The authority and raison d’être of the Julio-Claudian monarchy derived from Augustus’ act of setting the Republic to rights and bringing about peace and prosperity. He meant for his successors to provide more of the same, and to maintain the charismatic rule his actions had brought about. He also, as Tacitus and Dio agree, thought of the territory he bequeathed as complete. His famous testamentary advice to refrain from further conquests, accompanied by a breviarium describing a static picture of an empire filling its natural boundaries, is very much in line with the geographical picture presented by Florus and especially Appian, whose work, at least in its original conception, ended with a descriptive book analogous to Augustus’.37 It would have pleased the first princeps to know

35 36 37

eastern Mediterranean) had detailed narratives of the pre-Roman past, whereas for Gauls and other Westerners, the pre-Roman past was largely limited to their contact with and eventual conquest by the Romans. In this case, however, both Appian and Florus are describing a past akin to what Woolf describes for Gaul, and the more detailed memory of the Greek past is left to manifest itself in other forms. For another approach to the East–West distinction here, see Dench 2011. The scene in its Virgilian context is nonetheless not without ambiguities: see DeBrohun 2007, 263–9. Zanker 1988, 210–15. For the comparison of Appian to Augustus on this point, see Nicolet 1991, 183.

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From Antonine to Severan

that histories written a century and more after his death would still end with his reign. The emperors who most closely succeeded him, however, would not have given him such pleasure. Much as all of his Julio-Claudian and Flavian successors revered his memory, none of them was completely willing or able to follow his example. Either through personal inclinations, or because they came to the throne in difficult circumstances, all of these emperors tried at least partially to redefine or renegotiate the monarch’s sources of divine and human authority, although the inherited Augustan model, and the charisma that sustained it, proved extremely resilient.38 In the second century, such attempts are less in evidence, and the Antonine ruling idiom incorporates wholesale many aspects of Augustus’ rule, including his emphasis on the civilis princeps side of the monarchy and his renunciation of further expansion.39 Among these elements is the idea of the static present as a culmination and cessation of all historical processes. In certain respects, this idea worked better in an Antonine context than an Augustan one, because the Free Republic had become a more distant and sanitized memory.40 Once the alternatives to Augustus’ dubious interpretation of history had faded, it was easier to treat him as the symbol of the peaceful world he had allegedly made. Recent history could be imagined as the continued smooth operation of an Augustan regime that was to be indefinitely extended into the future. It is, for example, in the mid-second century that we see increased emphasis on a fixed canon of senatorially sanctioned divinized emperors.41 One’s imperial predecessors, like the summi viri of the Augustan Forum, are no longer successive stages in a narrative, but are instead defined in terms of one overall verdict on their reigns. If they are bad, they are forgotten and eventually cease to exist even as gaps and erasures, or at most give material for negative exempla; if they are good, they remain eternally part of a set whose defining characteristic is that its members share in an identical divine status traceable back to Augustus.42 As we will see in the next chapter, Cassius Dio considered the world of the Antonines to be 38 39 40 41 42

For the Augustan model of monarchy as a legacy to future emperors, see now the various essays and bibliography in Gibson 2013. For Hadrian’s abandonment of expansion in connection with Augustan ideology, see Ando 2000, 278, also now Potter 2013. On the Trajanic period as a watershed in the potency of the Republican past, see Gowing 2005, 132–59. For this as a Hadrianic phenomenon see Ando 2000, 36–9. Gradel 2002, 348–9 notes that after Trajan’s time, the statuses of divus and diva are restricted to actual emperors and their wives. Julius Caesar’s cult was on a different basis from those of other divi, and he lay outside of the official canon as observed by e.g. the Arval Brethren. See Gradel 2002, 262–5.

From Commodus to Severus

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the fruition in historical time of the institutional seeds planted by Augustus. His grandfather living under Marcus might well have agreed with the sentiment, but he would have conceived of it in a way that precluded his writing a narrative of it.

From Commodus to Severus For the Roman monarchy, transfers of power from father to biological son represented the triumph of hope over experience. Going back to Hesiod (WD 235), it is a sign of a well ordered universe that parents are succeeded by children who resemble them. There is an intuitive logic to the idea that if a monarch rules in an enlightened fashion, the best way to perpetuate that happy state is to have his son succeed him. Nonetheless, from Titus to Honorius, no emperor who inherited from his biological father can be said to have continued successfully in the style of his father’s rule. One of those emperors, Constantine the Great, far surpassed his father, but the others are disappointments of one kind or another, and few of them died a natural death at a ripe old age. The failure did not go un-noticed, and there is ample evidence for a discourse favoring the adoptive principle, but those arguments never translated very well into dynastic policy. No matter how good its record at producing good emperors in the second century, adoption remained a second-best solution, and there was never any doubt that if an emperor had biological sons, at least one of them was the heir apparent.43 Diocletian’s attempt to change the principle would result in a succession struggle whose eventual winner would champion heredity once again.44 Commodus was a great beneficiary of this Roman faith in the inherited excellence of emperors, but he ended up testing that faith to and beyond its limits. He created the most striking contrast with his father of any of the hereditary emperors mentioned above. A mass of moral criticism and second-guessing arose over whether Marcus had been his real father, and whether Marcus had recognized his defects and could or should have done 43

44

On the persistence of the hereditary principle even under the so-called “adoptive monarchy,” see Hekster 2002, 16–30, also Syme 1988a, 669–72 for the family relationships among the various adoptees. Claudius’ son Britannicus is an exception that proves the rule. Even though Nero had strong dynastic claims of his own as Claudius’ great-nephew and son-in-law, and a direct descendant of Augustus and Germanicus, and was able to make insinuations as to both Britannicus’ mental competence (Tac. Ann. 12.26) and the legitimacy of his parentage (Suet. Ner. 7), popular prejudice in favor of the old emperor’s natural son remained strong (Ann. 12.26, 12.41, 12.69), and he was a dangerous enough rival that Nero quickly needed to eliminate him (Ann. 13.14–15; Ner. 33). On Constantine as asserting the hereditary model over the adoptive Tetrarchic alternative, see Van Dam 2007, 88–129.

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From Antonine to Severan

anything to prevent his accession.45 The historians on whom we rely for knowledge of Commodus’ reign either hated him or drew on accounts by contemporaries who hated him.46 In their account, the last Antonine is a deplorable exception to every element of the idealized view of that dynasty that those same historians are at pains to promote. Thus they tend to make him into a completely deluded and irrational figure whose actions are guided by fantasy role-play or a desire for sensual gratification. However well Commodus may have earned the hatred, this moralizing and stereotyped discourse often fails to yield the kind of data that translates well into the idiom of a modern historian. In response to that problem, much recent scholarship on Commodus has tried to argue that Commodus’ actions represent an intelligible statement on the symbolic and ideological level, and to reconstruct what that statement might have been.47 Intelligibility in this context is not the same thing as sanity or rationality, and the object is not necessarily to rehabilitate Commodus’ reputation. Whatever ideas he had about the empire and his role in it are unlikely to strike us as enlightened, and in the cultural context in which he tried to realize them, they were a destructive failure made worse by his own paranoid cruelty. But to the extent they were a coherent set of ideas and actions, they still affected the thinking of contemporaries. Even if the elite collectively despised Commodus, their reactions to him profoundly changed the narrative of contemporary Roman history. Commodus represents the first stage of the re-imagining of the past whose end product is the historical works that are my main subject. Our sources all tend to present Commodus as entirely departing from the virtues of his father, rejecting Marcus in a way that adds unnatural impiety to his already extensive list of vices. While it is clearly true that Commodus found some aspects of his father’s example uncongenial, the complete 45

46 47

HA Marc. 19 claims to credit the general idea that Commodus was the result of an affair between his mother and a gladiator, though not the one specific and very lurid story that is actually told in detail. Although there are several other stories of Faustina’s infidelity, the only one that attaches specifically to Commodus is that of the gladiator, and Birley 1987, 224 is surely correct to see this as reflecting the son’s later behavior rather than rumors that actually surrounded the mother during her lifetime. Dio (77.[76].14.7 [Xiph.]) claims that Severus frequently criticized Marcus for not eliminating Commodus. A similar thought lies behind both the notice in the HA (Marc. 28.10) that Marcus hoped an early death would prevent his son from following in the footsteps of earlier bad emperors, and Herodian’s portrait (1.3-4) of Marcus’ deathbed worries about Commodus’ possibly being corrupted, though in neither case is Commodus’ exclusion from the succession brought up as a serious possibility. For the various biases in the historiographical tradition, see Espinosa Ruiz 1984. Important in this respect are Hekster 2002; Saldern 2003; Meyer-Zwiffelhoffer 2006 and several articles by De Ranieri 1995; 1996; 1997; 1998.

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contrast presented by our sources is artificial. As our picture of Antonine history has broadened to give more weight to prosopographical, numismatic and art-historical sources alongside the literary tradition, continuities have become apparent in areas such as administrative practices, and some of Commodus’ more apparently eccentric forms of self-presentation have been shown to have analogies with earlier emperors.48 There are also distortions in our sources on Marcus. It is important to remember that what we call “contemporary sources” are men who lived through the reigns of Marcus and Commodus but only wrote about them some decades later with much consciousness of intervening events. Their version of Marcus is a figure of nostalgia, and the aspects of him and his era that they choose to emphasize are those that would be most missed in his successors. To Dio, Herodian and the HA tradition, Marcus is remembered as a man of unique personal virtue who presided over a stable and enlightened order inherited from his predecessors. The wars and tribulations of his reign do not appear as unpleasant memories of a crisis, but are transformed into dragons to slay, opportunities for him to show off his superhuman talent, philosophical virtue and sense of duty, with some assistance from key figures of the aristocracy. Thus Dio, in his final assessment of Marcus’ career, first notes that he was beset with all kinds of undeserved public and private evils that he overcame, but can still somehow conclude that he would have enjoyed perfect blessedness (eudaimonia) were it not for his disappointment with Commodus, who defied all his father’s efforts to improve him.49 Although this selective vision of Marcus was shared by many earlier authors, the philosophical and generally irenic aspects of Marcus’ personality, and the alleged stability of his reign, were by no means the whole story. When Commodus came to construct his own story, he would use very different elements of his father’s. 48

49

For considerable elements of continuity between Marcus’ and Commodus’ regimes, see De Ranieri 1998, 397–404 and Saldern 2003, 217–63 (administrative practices); De Ranieri 2001 (ideology of rule as expressed on coins). Dio 72.[71].36.3 (Xiph.). On Dio as retrospectively idealizing the reign of Marcus in spite of its real problems, see Bering-Staschewski 1981, 8–22; Espinosa Ruiz 1982, 172–5, and with specific reference to the senate of Marcus’ reign, Kemezis 2012. On the playing down of the military problems, see HA Marc. 17.1–2; 22.1–2, where it is emphasized that Marcus was able to win all of these wars without alienating the elite through financial exactions or concessions to the army. Herodian’s brief sketch of Marcus refers several times to his military achievements (1.2.5; 1.3.5; 1.4.8) without any sense that they were responses to a real threat. Once again the exception relates to Commodus, since the dying Marcus worries (1.3.5) that tribes that respected his generalship may become more aggressive when faced with his weaker son. Given the relatively quiet state of the frontiers in Commodus’ time as opposed to Marcus’, the irony is considerable and may be intentional. Another odd exception is Epit. Caes. 16.3-4, which does express the fear that the empire might have been destroyed had divine providence not supplied it with a ruler of Marcus’ caliber.

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There are two particular narratives from Marcus’ reign that find expression under Commodus. First, that of constant threats to the empire requiring the ruler’s saving intervention, and second, that of Commodus’ own ideological importance as the representative of the future. Marcus spent his son’s whole youth in wars of one kind or another, including one abortive civil war against Avidius Cassius. For Marcus, this might have seemed like an unfortunate aberration from the more congenial world that we see in his correspondence with Fronto. But Commodus never knew the Marcus that Fronto did, and nor did the vast majority of his contemporaries. To him and them the Marcus of the 170s would have seemed like the natural role of an emperor.50 Similarly, it is easy to think of adoptive succession as the characteristic Antonine mode, and of Commodus as the unfortunate exception to that rule, but that is not how it would have struck him, nor is it how Marcus wanted it to strike contemporaries. From well before Commodus was born, the future of the new dynasty as ensured by Marcus and Faustina’s fruitful marriage was the great theme of discourse around the emperor. Their fertility signified divine providence ensuring the future well-being of the empire and the dynasty. The father’s authority relied on the son just as the son’s on the father, and the novelty of Commodus’ position as Rome’s first porphyrogennētos inevitably shaped how the heir imagined recent history and his own place in it.51 From Commodus’ vantage point, Marcus was not so much a link to the past Antonine tradition as a necessary precondition of the new order incarnated in Commodus himself. Where Marcus and his contemporaries had tried as much as possible to emphasize continuity and stability, the running motifs of Commodus’ reign, especially in its last phase, are a sense of crisis, and of a new order that will triumph over it. Neither idea was entirely Commodus’ own creation, in that the people around him did much to provide a real basis for his fears. The aristocrats, senatorial and otherwise, that had been great men in his father’s reign were quick to diagnose a new and much inferior era. Only two years after Commodus took the throne, one of his own sisters and several key figures of the previous reign were involved in an inept plot to assassinate 50 51

For war as drawing Marcus from his natural contemplative state, see e.g. HA Marc. 8.4. It is worth remembering in this context that through Faustina Commodus was, unlike Marcus, a direct biological descendant of Antoninus Pius. It is true that for the first years of Commodus’ life the picture was somewhat more complicated, until the deaths in 169 of Lucius Verus and Commodus’ younger brother Annius left Commodus the sole heir apparent. Still, even before that point the reassertion of the hereditary principle was clear even if the specific details were uncertain. See De Ranieri 1995, 331–3; Baharal 2000, 333–7; Hekster 2002, 31–9; Saldern 2003, 11–13. For the dynastic resonance of providentia deorum, see Martin 1982, 332–9 and De Ranieri 1997.

From Commodus to Severus

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him.52 They had presumably expected that Marcus’ death would lead to prominent roles for them in a quasi-regency for the teenage emperor, and were distressed when he instead gave privileged access and power to nonaristocratic cronies. Their plot sees the emergence of a new aristocratic narrative of a sudden descent from enlightened father Marcus to tyrannical son Commodus, and that narrative was confirmed when, after the plot’s debacle, Commodus started on a violent purge of the Senate, and for the rest of the 180s ceded power to a succession of favorites who became progressively more obnoxious to the survivors. It is not hard to understand how Commodus became paranoid. This conspiracy came only two years into his reign as sole emperor, and he might well have thought that Avidius Cassius back in 175 had revolted more against him, as the thirteen-year-old heir apparent, than against Marcus, whom Cassius may initially have believed was dead.53 The hostile historical tradition reads these conspiracies as reactions to Commodus’ youth or vices, but it seems unlikely he saw it that way. He would more readily have seen them as motivated by ambition and as attacks on the whole Roman order, which he had been portrayed all his life as embodying. Whereas previously the heavens had shown their providentia simply by ensuring his existence, now that quality was demonstrated by the thwarting of attempts on his life, and his subsequent violent revenge on those around him.54 Thus these domestic upheavals could serve for him as the equivalent of the foreign wars that had been his father’s great preoccupation. Although that same historical tradition portrays Commodus as abandoning his father’s Danube campaign out of laziness and desire for pleasure, the actual result seems to have been a reign 52

53

54

The most detailed account of the conspiracy, as of most aspects of the political history of Commodus’ reign, is that of Grosso 1964, 145–63. See also Hekster 2002, 50–5; Saldern 2003, 45–63; Potter 2004, 87–9. Galimberti 2010 argues that in fact within months of Commodus’ accession he was confronted by a serious conspiracy of former supporters and connections of Avidius Cassius. Galimberti relies too heavily on literal readings of unreliable literary texts, but one can imagine that many members of the Senate had been sympathetic to Cassius at the time, or became so shortly after Commodus’ accession. For Commodus as target, see Schettino 1997, 120, followed by Galimberti 2010, also Saldern 2003, 13–21. Schettino and Galimberti especially give too much credit to the HA life of Cassius in arguing for Cassius’ real objectives, but it is quite probable that Commodus would have interpreted the conspiracy as directed at himself. The more widely accepted version follows Dio (72.[71].22.2–23.2 [Xiph.]) and takes the reverse view, that Faustina was in fact enlisting Cassius as a protector of her and her son’s rights, because she feared that Marcus’ death was imminent and might lead to a coup against her. See Astarita 1983, 107–18; Martin 1982, 336–7; Birley 1987, 184–5; Syme 1988b, 701. The characterization of Cassius as a would-be regent or caretaker has its own difficulties, not least that he had living sons (see PIR2 A 1402). Still, even if one assumes that Cassius was acting in Commodus’ interests and that Commodus knew that, those actions still presuppose the existence of powerful hostile forces from whom Commodus needed protecting. On the various resonances of providentia under Commodus, see Martin 1982, 339–62.

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with considerably fewer external military crises than that of his father.55 Commodus was not called on to save the empire from barbarian invasions. Instead, the danger was from the threats and crises that surrounded his person, and it was in person that he meant to face them. The only problem, and one that would be faced by Severus as well, is that it is difficult to construct a consensus-building narrative around the gods’ personal favor toward the monarch when the result of that favor is the deaths not of barbarian enemies, but of otherwise respected members of Roman society. It is against this background that we should understand Commodus’ bizarre and self-destructive behavior in the last years of his reign. Commodus liked to play gladiator, and to work out his bloodlust in the public slaughter of exotic animals. He was by no means the only aristocrat of his time who was attracted by the frisson of the arena, but in his case as emperor, living that fantasy was necessarily part of a new self-presentation and a new narrative of Roman events. Commodus’ ultimately delusional sense of himself as a transformative force in the Roman universe and of his role as the protector and savior of the Roman order required a very different idiom from the traditional model of the Principate founded by Augustus and refined by his own Antonine predecessors, who had mediated their self-presentation through the pre-existing language of the Roman aristocracy. His project of imposing his name on the City of Rome and the months of the year tells a story not of Augustan-style renewal, but of wholesale remodelling and transformation through personal charisma.56 His various personae and performances as Hercules and as an arena fighter re-enact his triumph over the forces that threatened him as an individual and, through him, the world of his subjects.57 Unfortunately for everyone concerned, the real-life actions by which he chose to tell that story ran so counter to what people expected from an emperor that they were construed as symptoms of insanity. 55

56 57

Dio 73.[72].8 (EV) mentions conflicts on the Danube, but not apparently on the scale of the wars of the 160s, and a more serious but still manageable war in Britain. For context, see Fitz 1962, 83–9, also Saldern 2003, 77–97, who considers the wars more serious than the general scholarly consensus. On whether Commodus’ return from the Danube represented a break with his father’s plans, see Hekster 2002, 41–2; Saldern 2003, 33–44 (Marcus really had intended expansion) as against Potter 2004, 86–7 and Kovács 2009, 250–63 (expansion never really on the agenda). What does seem clear is, first, that, whatever may have been Marcus’ intentions in this one war, the course taken by Commodus falls within the parameters of Marcus’ practices in similar instances and, second, that contemporaries were struck more by Commodus’ overall reluctance to take personal command of wars than by the strategic decision to abandon this particular war. See De Ranieri 1995, also Speidel 1993 for evidence of the official promulgation in the army of the new names. Hekster 2002, 137–62 and Meyer-Zwiffelhoffer 2006, 206–7 give quite divergent readings of the popular reaction to the arena-performances. Hekster sees it as at least partly positive, whereas for Meyer-Zwiffelhoffer it is wholly negative, and is a major factor in the fall of Commodus’ regime.

From Commodus to Severus

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Whatever Commodus intended for Rome, it died with him and was never revived in the form he intended. What remained was a radically changed perception of what recent Roman history meant, and several narrative motifs that will recur again throughout the Severan period and in the works of its historians. The first was of Marcus as the idealized past, and the present as a period of deplorable regression from that ideal. For Marcus and his predecessors, the trick had been to define oneself as the continuation of a series of good things that went back into an indefinite past and were not defined relative to any one predecessor. The task of every succeeding ruler would be to articulate his position relative to the fixed point of Marcus’ reign. Then, the assassination of Commodus produced the first of many disputes over what constituted dynastic continuity. Different parts of society would interpret his death very differently, and incorporate it into different ideas of what the Antonine legacy was and how it should be continued. Lastly, while no succeeding emperor would follow in full measure Commodus’ particular obsessions with arena-fighting and promotion of self-as-eponym, he had introduced an important precedent in the tension between continuity and renewal, between the emperor as symbol of stability and the emperor as the embattled resolver of crisis. His deranged search for new ways to imagine the emperor–subject relationship would stand as an example for future emperors, insane and otherwise. The circumstances of Commodus’ death presented his successor Pertinax with tremendous difficulties in coming up with a narrative to explain them. Pertinax’ reign only lasted three months, and he never did come up with a solution to the problem of his own self-presentation. It is not obvious which of those two facts is the cause and which the effect. In either case, his attempts at a solution shed considerable light on his situation and to an extent predetermined how the Severan dynasty would be seen by the contemporary elite. On the one hand, Pertinax had both a genuine desire and a pragmatic need to emphasize his continuity with the reign of Marcus. But this was made difficult by his being implicated, directly or indirectly, in the murder of Marcus’ son and the end of his dynasty. Pertinax was an excellent choice for those who held to the senatorial narrative that idealized Marcus and abominated Commodus. He had been an honored soldier in the last years of the earlier emperor’s reign, had seen a brief period of disfavor under Commodus, but had then been rehabilitated when his military talents were needed in Britain.58 Dio and Herodian have interestingly contrasting takes on the Senate and his accession. Herodian, who does not appear to have been 58

For Pertinax’ career down to 192, see PIR2 H73 with Birley 1988, 63–7, 73–9.

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a senator and was probably too young to count as a contemporary source, has the new emperor worry that the aristocrats will disdain him for his undistinguished origins.59 For the consular eywitness Dio, however, Pertinax represents all that was best about the old age and might have been good again. His origins are briefly mentioned but only incidentally; for everyone whose opinion mattered in Dio’s world, Pertinax was the best candidate there could have been.60 In this instance Dio is probably the more reliable guide to contemporary realities, or at any rate to the view of them that emerged in the immediate wake of Pertinax’ fall. As we will see in a later chapter, Herodian’s version is part of his larger picture of the post-Marcus world as filled with misunderstanding and misdirection. In reality, the reign of Marcus was a time when talented individuals of undistinguished background rose by military service to the upper ranks of the aristocracy, and the new emperor’s birth in fact made him a characteristic member of Marcus’ elite rather than the reverse.61 Blue-blooded cavillers may have existed, but they are unlikely to have been the dominant voice. As it seemed to at least a key part of the Senate and those inclined to accept their view, Commodus’ death was a foreordained end to a catastrophic reign, and Pertinax made all the sense in the world as the continuation of what was best in the previous dynasty. To many other people, however, the whole business was considerably harder to understand. Commodus’ destructive behavior had affected few outside of his own inner circle, the senatorial elite, and their immediate dependants. The urban audience at his games may have been scandalized, but there is some evidence that he had a reasonably good reputation in the provinces, and at all events the majority of people outside Rome would have found it hard to understand why people in that city had found it necessary to kill Commodus, or what was supposed to happen next.62 Within Rome, the critical actor would turn out to be the Praetorian Guard. While Commodus was alive, he had relied heavily on their loyalty against a hostile city population, and the Praetorians were inclined on professional grounds to see it as a bad thing if an emperor was overthrown by anyone other than themselves. Many people in and out of Rome would also have failed to understand where Pertinax came from or why he should 59 60 61 62

Hdn. 2.3.1. Herodian does not refer specifically to Pertinax’ father’s being a freedman, and is extremely vague. Dio 74.[73].3.1 (Xiph.) glosses over the details, while HA (Pert. 1.1) is unabashed. For Dio’s attitude to Pertinax’ birth, see more fully Bering-Staschewski 1981, 37–46 and Kemezis 2012, 397–402. On changes to the elite brought on by the wars of Marcus’ time, see Syme 1988a. For evidence for positive memories of Commodus, see in general Hekster 2002, 163–77, with Speidel 1993 and Saldern 2003, 142–9 for the army and Clover 1988; Baldwin 1990; Marasco 1996a; Saldern 2003, 265–300 for the provinces.

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be the one to succeed. He was of course well known in the Senate, and his memory would have carried weight with the major frontier armies, since he had at various times commanded in Syria, Britain and Pannonia. Beyond those circles, however, he had no obvious elements of continuity with the previous regime. Even with Commodus dead, Marcus had numerous surviving sons-in-law and grandsons, but Pertinax was not among them.63 He had never been associated in any way with Antonine dynastic propaganda, and to those who were not current with senatorial politics or high military appointments, Pertinax would have looked like a complete and inexplicable rupture with the previous dynasty. The murky question of Pertinax’ involvement in the murder of Commodus would only have worsened the problem. Was the story of his reign one of continuity, or of a new dynasty and direction? Pertinax’ answer, as best we can reconstruct it, was to play to his strengths. The historical tradition and the non-literary evidence for his reign both show him embracing the Senate as a source of authority.64 His accession was apparently marked by some kind of ceremonial show of deference toward men whose prestige in senatorial terms might be thought to exceed his own.65 He made a series of gestures to repudiate Commodus’ alternatives to the Senate-oriented civilis princeps model of rule. Implicitly and explicitly he showed himself as an example of what senators would have considered a responsible governing stance grounded in tradition.66 Our evidence for most of these gestures comes from Rome-based historians, but one set of inscriptions indicates some of the difficulties involved in promoting this story elsewhere. Cassius Dio considered it a great point in Pertinax’ favor that he adopted the title of princeps senatus, and there are several inscriptions from

63

64

65

66

On the sons-in-law, see Pflaum 1961. Champlin 1979, in a tour de force of speculative prosopographical detective work, sees Pertinax as a “caretaker emperor” put forth by one faction in an internal struggle within the extended Antonine dynasty with the idea that he would usher in the reign of a grandson of Marcus, probably by Claudius Pompeianus. The traces of dynastic plans in Pertinax’ reign tell against this. Even if those traces do not reflect Pertinax’ own intentions, they point up the objection that a man without sons would have been a considerably better choice as a placeholder. Schöpe 2011 makes an extended argument that, on the contrary, Pertinax’ deference to the Senate, especially on the question of hereditary succession, was a clearly dangerous policy that Pertinax adopted only because he was beholden to the various political figures and constituencies who had put him on the throne and thus had limited freedom of action. Dio 74.[73].3.3 (EV) refers to Pertinax giving places on his bench to Claudius Pompeianus, Marcus’ son-in-law and the most prestigious surviving military figure of that reign, and to Acilius Glabrio, one of the very few men left with a senatorial pedigree going back to the Republic. Both Herodian (2.3.3-4) and HA (Pert. 4.10) have different versions of the tableau. For comparison of the accounts, see Kolb 1972, 47–53, with references to earlier discussions. For Pertinax’ measures, see Birley 1988, 89–95.

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all over the empire that confirm Dio’s report.67 To senators, this symbolized a resurgence of their own authority, and reinforced a view of the Senate as a protagonist in Commodus’ fall, even though the actual assassins had come from within the emperor’s inner circle. For other audiences, however, Pertinax’ title reads more like an explanation of who he was, and a narrative of how he achieved his position. The title positions the imperial office as something that is equivalent to being the most respected member of the state’s highest order. Normally, the emperor might be considered the best man of the Senate ex officio, but in a circumstance such as that after the assassination, when it is not obvious who the emperor should be, the inference is that cause and effect can be reversed, and the Senate should then select its best man according to its own criteria and make him emperor. Pertinax apparently took a message that was working well for the Senate and tried to turn it into a propaganda line for provincials. But the same inscriptions contradict the literary tradition on another crucial point. Dio and the HA praise Pertinax for not immediately trying to found a dynasty, and claim that he pointedly refused to take imperial titles for his wife and son.68 Several inscriptions, however, do in fact include references to the son as Caesar and on at least one occasion to Flavia Titiana as Augusta.69 Unless our literary sources are simply mistaken on this point, there are two possibilities. Either Pertinax told one story to the Senate and another in the provinces, or local officials took the initiative, because they assumed or reasoned that the new and unknown emperor should naturally be presented as the founder of a dynasty. Either way, it is a sign that Pertinax’ appeal to senatorial authority was not in itself sufficient. His eventual assassination was in the first instance a result of the Praetorians’ discontent with his financial regime, but it also made clear that in the short time available, the new emperor had not been able to come up with a narrative that would justify his rise to power and make his reign seem inevitable such that people would accept even those decisions they were personally unhappy with.

67 68

69

Dio 74.[73].5.1 (Xiph.), translating the title as πρόκριτος γερουσίας. See ILS 408, 409, 5842, 5845. For discussion and papyrological evidence, see Talbert 1984, 164–5. Dio 74.[73].7 (Xiph.); HA Pert. 6.9. Neither source speaks of the gesture as excluding the son from the succession, but as preventing him from being spoiled by receiving exalted honors at too young an age. HA has Pertinax say the son will receive the title when he has earned it. ILS 410; 5842, 5845. Dessau (ad 410) sees the discrepancy as the work of local officials ignorant or heedless of the emperor’s wishes. For the papyrological and numismatic evidence, see PIR2 H74 (Pertinax fils) and F444 (Flavia Titiana, wife of the emperor). See also A. R. Birley 1969, 269, who attributes the Egyptian coins and papyri to the possible influence of family connections.

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Pertinax’ brief reign added important elements to the range of narratives available to Romans as the second century ended. In particular, he gave a tragic cast to events, and introduced the idea that the Roman state was seriously, if not incurably, diseased. Dio’s closing verdict on Pertinax, written perhaps in the 220s, is that he “for all his experience of affairs, did not realize that there are some things that cannot be set right both quickly and safely (ἀδύνατόν ἐστιν ἀθρόα τινὰ ἀσφαλῶς ἐπανορθοῦσθαι), but that political restoration (πολιτικὴ κατάστασις) most particularly requires time and wisdom” (74.[73].10.3 [EV]). This bitter hindsight is the later reflex of what must at the time have been a widely shared feeling of sudden disappointment. Pertinax was not as widely loved a figure as Dio makes out, but few indeed in the Senate can have seen it as a positive development that the Praetorians saw fit to murder one emperor and impose another on them with considerably less pretense of consultation than what Pertinax had so elaborately gone through.70 Subsequent events would make it easy to idealize Pertinax and to turn him into a symbol of an old order that was beset by forces beyond its control. His story is similar in many ways to Galba’s, except that he was a more personally attractive figure than Galba, and he would come to stand not for the obsolete severity of the forgotten republic, but for a kind of good government that many people in the Severan era could still remember. Although Septimius Severus would find his name useful in the short term, his memory would prove an obstacle to establishing the narrative the new dynasty needed. Severus would prove more successful at controlling public memory of what happened next: deplorably so. It is very difficult to reconstruct the motivations or ideological stances of the various sides in the wars that followed Pertinax’ death, in part because our portraits of the various losers are heavily colored by Severus’ retrospective propaganda, and contemporary historians’ lack of independent information.71 There is only so much one can do to reconstruct how Didius Julianus, Pescennius Niger or Clodius 70

71

Dio 74.[73].12.4-5 (Xiph.) has Julianus, in marked contrast to Pertinax’ ceremonial correctness, deliver to the Senate a speech of self-praise more or less demanding confirmation of the Praetorians’ act. Herodian, who has quite elaborate treatments of Pertinax before both Praetorians and Senate, omits any mention of Julianus in the Senate. HA (Did. Jul. 3.3) does briefly say that he totumque se senatui permisit, i.e. that he asked for formal confirmation in a traditional manner, but it is not difficult to believe Dio’s basic point that the exercise was much more hollow than it had been earlier that year. Dio underlines his point by observing that, although Julianus claimed to have come to the Senate alone, soldiers were visible in the Senate chamber. The basic work on Severus as civil-war propagandist is Rubin 1980, although not all of that book’s conclusions are endorsed here. For a more recent overview incorporating a wider range of non-literary sources, see Lusnia forthcoming.

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Albinus situated themselves relative to recent events, or what kind of stories they tried to tell about themselves.72 There is nothing to suggest, however, that any of them was very different in this respect from Severus, for whom we have ample information. Given the amount of chance involved in the deaths of Commodus and then Pertinax, it seems unlikely that the main combatants were leaders of pre-existing factions, or that they represented widely divergent ideological positions.73 They were the three men who happened to be in charge of the largest pieces of the empire’s frontier armies at the crucial time, and on the whole their similarities are more notable than their differences. None was a hereditary consular, none had that distinguished a career or an obvious connection to previous regimes. Didius Julianus had a more impressive pedigree and resume than any of them, and probably not everyone despised him as much at the time as Dio did in retrospect.74 Each of them faced the same basic imperatives of convincing first one’s own armies and then the wider public that one was going to win the war, reward supporters and ensure a politically stable new order. At the same time, each had to present himself as the legitimate ruler preserving the peace by forceful means and his opponent as the aggressor who had started the war.75 Their resources for achieving these goals were qualitatively similar, but Severus predominated in quantity and strategic position. In the propaganda wars, as in the real ones, Severus appears to have remained one step ahead of his enemies. In 193, when Severus was facing a war on two fronts, he put one of them on hold by pacifying Albinus with the title of Caesar and the promise of inheritance. In 195, after defeating Niger, Severus was ready to turn on his remaining rival, and therefore deprived him of his title and began to put forward his own elder son as heir, with the notable twist that the future Caracalla received the name “Antoninus,” which Severus amplified then or later by claiming himself to have been adopted by Marcus during the latter’s lifetime.76 Albinus had no option but 72 73 74

75 76

Recent attempts to reconstruct the motivations and perspective of Albinus include Schumacher 2003 and Heil 2006. For a reconstruction of the events of 193 in terms of factional politics, see A. R. Birley 1969, with cogent counter-arguments in Graham 1974, 151–5. On similarities and contrasts in the backgrounds of the contestants, see Potter 2004, 101. Birley 1988, 96 and Leaning 1989, 551–5 both stress Julianus’ relatively strong background in terms of senatorial prestige, and Leaning’s whole article argues for the HA Did. Jul. as accurately reflecting a more positive contemporary tradition on that emperor. Molinier Arbò 2009 also notes the contrast between Dio and the HA, and links it with the different career experiences of Dio and Marius Maximus. Heil 2006 in particular stresses the need to avoid appearing to have made the first move in a civil war. Baharal 1996, 20–42 argues on the basis of art-historical evidence that Severus intended from as early as 193 to associate himself with the Antonine dynasty, although the earliest definite epigraphic and numismatic evidence comes from 195, after the defeat of Niger.

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to declare himself Augustus and start a civil war with inferior forces and little chance of victory. A notable feature of Severus’ change in image is that we know about it largely through coins and provincial inscriptions. It is only after Albinus’ final defeat in 197 that Rome-based literary sources, especially Cassius Dio, seem to take cognizance of Severus’ move into the Antonine dynasty.77 In the course of the wars, Severus played several roles at once, as the avenger and heir of Pertinax, as a military force of nature, as the chosen agent of fortune, as an enlightened senior ruler preparing to pass his mantle on to a chosen successor, as the founder of a new continuation of the Antonine dynasty, and as the new Augustus restoring a corrupt state. Not all of these roles were logically compatible. Like Pertinax, Severus made a show before the Senate of excluding his biological son from the succession in favor of Albinus while elsewhere he advertised that same son as the promise of dynastic continuity.78 During the wars, these competing narratives could apparently coexist. This has been explained on the grounds of limited information, but it seems unlikely that for more than a year the Senate remained collectively ignorant that in provinces from Mauretania to Phrygia Severus was proclaiming the future Caracalla as his heir and Marcus’.79 A likelier explanation is in the fear and confusion to which our sources testify amply. The wars of 193–7 were not remembered as a time of massive destruction and upheaval akin to the wars at the end of the Republic.80 The dominant emotion in our sources is not immediate misery, but frightened uncertainty. For Dio, it was a time when a personal enemy could suddenly become emperor, or people could be forced to side with a would-be emperor, just because he happened to control the army nearest the provinces they were stationed in.81 Herodian relates how cities that had always coexisted in more or less peaceful rivalry began to take sides in earnest, and to make irrational 77

78 79

80 81

Thus Dio 76.[75].7.4 (Xiph.), as opposed to HA Sev. 10.3, which has the announcement of Caracalla’s name coming well before the showdown with Albinus. This is an argument in favor of the HA’s main source being Marius Maximus, who would have been present with Severus’ army. For the significant absence of Julia Domna and the children from Severus’ Rome-based propaganda in 193–5, see Langford 2013, 14–17. For Severus’ different presentation before different audiences, see Ando 2000, 182–90. Ando considers it at least possible that the Senate in Rome was genuinely unaware of how Severus was portraying himself in the provinces, but by the end of 195 coins and medallions minted in Rome were identifying both Severus as divi Marci pii filius and Caracalla as Caesar. See on this point Langford 2013, 102. Thus one sees in the 190s very little evidence of specifically military events immediately leading to widespread social change in the way posited by Patterson 1993 for the late Republic. See Dio 74.[73].12.2 (Xiph.: Dio afraid because of a previous conflict with Julianus); 75.[74].9 (Xiph.: Cassius Clemens defends siding with Niger because geographical closeness gave him no choice).

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choices that would have great effects on their future political status.82 It was a time when all kinds of alternative presents and futures, and implied alternative pasts, were conceivable, and it was possible for more than one of them to come from the same source. This became much less true in 197, after Severus defeated Albinus in battle at Lyons. The battle itself was large enough and brutal enough that not even as acute a propagandist as Severus could control the memory of it as fully as he had for previous stages of the wars.83 Still, it left him as undisputed emperor in a position to set the agenda for all interpretations of the recent violence and the relationship of Roman present to past. Of the emperors discussed in this chapter, he is by far the best at manipulating his own public image. We will discuss here several strands of that image, several of the stories that Severus told or embodied: that of the war leader; that of the princeps following past examples; that of the founder of a new dynasty; and that of provincial representing the fruition of Antonine social trends. It was in the period after 197 that Severus tried to integrate these strands into a single coherent narrative. All our sources agree that he returned from battle in a vengeful mood, and that he saw the Senate especially as sympathetic to the cause of the dead Albinus.84 The most vivid, if not necessarily the most accurate, account is in Dio, and should be quoted in full: [Septimius] dismayed (ἐξέπληξεν) us especially, because he declared himself (ἑαυτὸν ἔλεγε) the son of Marcus and the brother of Commodus, and gave divine honors to Commodus, whom he had previously attacked (ὕβριζεν). He read out a speech to the Senate, praising the rigor and harshness (αὐστηρίαν τε καὶ ὠμότητα) of Sulla and Marius and Augustus, and criticizing the mildness (ἐπιείκειαν) of Pompey and Caesar, on the grounds that it had been their undoing (ὀλεθρίαν αὐτοῖς ἐκείνοις). He then gave a kind of speech of justification (ἀπολογίαν τινὰ) for Commodus, laying into

82

83

84

See Hdn. 3.2.7–9. Herodian presents the choices as “irrational” inasmuch as Niger has already suffered a major defeat, and those who take his side are motivated not by calculation of advantage but by a need to do the opposite of what the rival city is doing. It is not explained on what basis one city got to choose the likely winner and leave the other one with the long shot. On other evidence for the phenomenon of civic side-taking in the wars, see Potter 2004, 104–7; Thiel 2005. In particular there were stories that Severus’ personal conduct had shown incompetence or cowardice (Dio 76.[75].6.6–7 [Xiph.]; Hdn. 3.7.3, explicitly claiming to reject biased authorities; cf. HA Sev. 9.2), and that he had mistreated the corpse or the still-living person of Albinus (Dio 76.[75].7.3–4 (Xiph.), explicitly saying that Severus’ version differs from his own; HA Sev. 9.6, Cld. Alb. 9.2–7). For possible sources of the latter tradition, see Rubin 1980, 180–90. Dio 76.[75].7.4–8.4 (Xiph.: quoted below); Hdn. 3.8.6–7; HA Sev. 11.3–14.2. The HA account claims that Severus was particularly enraged by a resolution of the Senate commending one Clodius Celsinus, a relative of Albinus, and that it was this that caused him to rehabilitate the memory of Commodus.

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(καθαπτόμενος) the Senate for doing him wrong that was unjustified, since most of its members lived more depraved lives (αἴσχιον βιοτεύουσιν) than him.

Severus goes on to give examples, in direct speech, of the debauched habits of members of the Senate. One need not believe such a speech was actually given: the theme of an emperor reflecting on his early predecessors in power looks like Dio generating a counter-interpretation of the past as a foil to his own, and putting it in Severus’ mouth.85 Nonetheless, other sources testify to how much shock Severus’ behavior after Lyons caused, and Dio’s account manages to touch on several of the key points of Severan selfpresentation while significantly omitting others. To begin with, Severus’ reference to Sulla is curious.86 Severus seems to have been genuinely interested in him, and there is a story of Caracalla later doing honor to Sulla’s memory.87 The link is not difficult to see: the first story Severus had to tell was that of his own victory, and Sulla offered an obvious precedent. It appears that in the years shortly after Lyons Severus wrote an autobiography of sorts.88 We know little about it, even down to what language it was in, but two things seem likely. First, that its main purpose was to explain the events of the civil war, and second, that it drew in some respects on Sulla’s equally shadowy self-apologia, especially on the dictator’s much-vaunted felicitas, his special relationship with fortune, as well as perhaps the merciless attitude toward enemies alluded to in Dio’s speech.89 At perhaps about the same time, at least two histories of the wars were written. One was by Aelius Antipater, a sophist whose pupils included Philostratus, but who apparently found his calling as a literary voice for

85 86

87 88

89

For Dio’s own portrayal of Augustus as a counterpoint to Severus’ use of him, see Kemezis 2007, 282–3, also Ward 2011, 72–86. For the significance of Sulla in Dio’s presentation of civil war, see Schettino 2001, 547–51, as well as Giua 1983, 447–9, who points out that at 56.38.1, in Tiberius’ funeral oration for Augustus, that ruler is specifically contrasted with Sulla and Marius on the same point. The curious notice in HA Comm. 8.1, that when Commodus took the title Felix, it was to associate himself with Sulla’s bloodthirstiness, may reflect contemporary jokes, but it may equally well be post-Severan, or the HA author’s own idea, as almost certainly is Pescennius Niger’s alleged admiration for Marius (HA Pesc. Nig. 11.3–5). See Dio 78.[77].13.7 (EV); the association is also taken up repeatedly by the HA (Carc. 2.2; 4.10; 5.4). For full details, see Chausson 1995, who makes the link to Sulla, and argues plausibly for the work as coming out in the immediate aftermath of Albinus’ defeat, perhaps as a justification rather than a palliation of Severus’ ostentatious cruelty. Rubin 1980, 134–8 sees the autobiography as coming out in the mid-200s, as a gesture of reconciliation to the Senate after the fall of Plautianus. This dating relies heavily on the unjustified assumption that Severus’ busy schedule in the earlier years of his reign would have left him no time for writing. For some more general considerations on the autobiography, see Westall and Brenk 2011, 394–407. On Sulla’s autobiography, see Smith 2009; Thein 2009, with references.

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the new regime.90 The other work is the second of Cassius Dio’s lost early treatises. Dio’s first work had been a shorter one specifically addressing the emperor’s fortune, in the shape of portents that had prefigured his rise to power.91 Doubtless the theme of Severus as fortune’s darling also featured heavily in Dio’s second work, and in those of Antipater and many a nameless other writer. Severus is known to have publicized his own horoscope, and the story that he had married Julia Domna because her horoscope showed that she would one day be a king’s wife.92 But the emperor’s fortune was a problematic concept, and the problems with it are examples of the larger difficulties associated with civil-war memories. For the years from 193 to 197, the first objective of Severus’ propaganda had to be to secure the loyalty of his own troops, and to convince people more generally that he was going to emerge victorious. Stressing his own luckiness evidently served both of these purposes. Felicitas was long looked on as one of the key characteristics of a great commander, and attributing one’s successes to luck does not seem to have diminished their luster in Roman eyes.93 Both Marcus and Commodus had touched on the theme of their own good luck considerably.94 Most pointedly, Marcus had once made much of a providential rainstorm that saved a Roman army while campaigning north of the Danube. Severus would appropriate the motif in describing his own victory over Pescennius Niger.95

90

91

92 93

94 95

For his career, see VS 607, with Ritti 1988 and Puech 2002, 88–94. For the history, see Rubin 1980, 25–7, though Rubin’s late dating of Antipater’s work is based on his unsatisfactory dating for Severus’ autobiography. For Dio’s first work, see 73.[72].23.1 (Xiph.). The portents that Dio’s existing text gives at 75.[74].3 (Xiph.) presumably figured in that earlier work as well. As it stands, the list is in a form more condensed than one would imagine for a stand-alone treatise. While some or all of this condensation may be Xiphilinus’ work, the passage should still not be taken as evidence that Dio’s incorporated his earlier works verbatim into the history we have now. For the horoscope, see Dio 77.[76].11.1 (Xiph.); for Julia’s horoscope, see HA Sev. 3.9, repeated at Get. 3.1 and Sev. Alex. 5.4, the last time explictly attributed to Marius Maximus. E.g. Cicero (De Imp. Cn. Pomp. 10.28; 16.47–8) lists felicitas as one of the four essential assets of a great general, along with scientia rei militaris, virtus and auctoritas. Langford 2013, 63–9 makes important observations about the role of felicitas and the other Ciceronean terms in Septimius’ propaganda. Rubin 1980, 44–8 tries to derive from Cassius Dio a senatorial discourse in which fortuna or tychē is seen as a largely negative force that is opposed to virtue and allows usurpers and undesirable people in general to prosper. This distinction, however, seems to operate in a relatively small space, and we should not see senators as always exempt from whatever discourses gave fortuna and felicitas such general resonance as a theme in imperial self-presentation. On the title Felix under Commodus and after, see Van ’t Dack 1991. The incident is now the subject of a monograph, Kovács 2009. For the recurrence of the theme of providential weather in Severan accounts of the Battle of Issus and subsequent incidents, see Rubin 1980, 66–74.

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It is in comparing the two rain-miracle stories, however, that the rub becomes apparent. When Marcus Aurelius had celebrated his deliverance, it had been a clear-cut instance of the Roman army and its undisputed leader being saved as they were about to be annihilated by barbarians in a hostile country. The only point of dispute was between pagans and Christians as to whose god was responsible.96 At no point was Marcus’ personal fortune separable from that of the empire in general or specific inhabitants of it. Severus’ good fortune was a more personal thing, and as such somewhat relative. Many men had shared in it: his few close allies, who became great men under the new regime; those civilian communities that had been in a position to embrace his cause in its earlier stages; and above all the army more generally. On the other hand, there were a great many people for whom Severus’ good fortune had been nothing of the kind for themselves. In addition to the survivors or bereaved relatives from Niger’s and Albinus’ armies, there were communities such as Nicaea, Byzantium, Antioch and Beirut, that suffered official disfavor for backing the wrong side, and there were the remaining senatorial supporters of the losing contenders.97 In addition, there were many people, in the Senate and elsewhere, who had not irrevocably committed themselves to any side, but had been through five years of painful uncertainty. What seemed to Severus like fortune consistently favoring him seemed to others like an interlude of random anarchy. Different people had experienced recent events very differently, and it was going to be very hard to come up with one narrative of the wars that everyone could agree on. It was not possible simply to promote amnesty and forgiveness for the losers, or to portray the wars as a horrible experience that had fallen on everyone alike. There were too many people for whom the civil wars were basically a positive event. Marius Maximus, a senator who later wrote imperial biographies that are a major source for the Historia Augusta, happened to have been a legionary legate when Pertinax was assassinated. That gave him the chance to join the Severan faction, and 96

97

The incident is referred to at Dio 72.[71].8–10, and in the middle of this narrative Xiphilinus, in a very rare intervention, gives his own, Christianized, version of events. The event was well enough known to generate its own tradition in the Christian community within a generation afterwards. See Tertullian Apol. 5.6, Ad Scap. 4; Eusebius EH 5.5. Other than Dio, the most important pagan source is Orac. Sib. 12.194–200. For exhaustive discussion of the Christian and pagan sources, see Kovács 2009, 23–93. Potter 2004, 109–10 notes a tradition of Pertinax’ having been present at Marcus’ rain miracle, which would have given the incident all the more importance for Severus as Pertinax’ avenger. For the subsequent history of Antioch, which lost status after the war but was rehabilitated a few years later, ostensibly at the instance of Caracalla, see Ziegler 1978. For other examples of eastern cities’ different experiences depending on which side they had picked in the war, see Thiel 2005.

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Severus’ victory made his career.98 He was far from being the only one: the entire winning army shared in the pride of victory and the expectation of reward. Severus’ wartime propaganda had extolled the loyalty and unanimity of his troops, and inscriptions from after the war testify that his veterans were anything but ashamed of their role in suppressing his rivals.99 He also provided great concrete rewards, from increased pay and donatives to expanded rights of marriage and the possibility of promotion into the Praetorian Guard, which had previously been reserved for Italians and select provincials.100 He appears also to have encouraged the formation of collegia, voluntary associations within the army whose role included serving as a focus for loyalty to and worship of the reigning dynasty.101 This added up to a powerful and potentially dangerous narrative. Severus was not by background a military man, and emperors had always had a special relationship with the army, but these were the largest improvements in the status of common soldiers since Augustus’ time, and they had come as a result of the army’s willingness to back a candidate who had no claim on the throne other than their support. Severus had found it expedient during the wars to stress his military virtues and his personal and even familial relationship with the troops.102 In a civil-war context, this would encourage friends and stifle dissent in the civilian population, but its longer-term social and political implications were less positive, at least from the emperor’s point of view. Like Vespasian after 70, Severus had a Roman aristocrat’s desire to put the soldiers back on a tight leash and to restore the highly unequal class relations that had always prevailed in the military sphere, but he had had to employ a larger portion of the Roman army in longer campaigns than had Vespasian, and he was correspondingly more beholden to them. In an unintentional echo of his sometime model Sulla, he would be unable to abolish his own example. 98

99 100

101 102

On Maximus’ career, see Birley 1997a, 2694–703. The controversy over how much of Marius Maximus’ work can be reconstructed from the HA has an extensive bibliography of its own, summarized in Birley 1997a and Benario 1997. For later references and details of my own position, which is that Marius Maximus is the main source for the HA’s core factual information through the Hel., see Kemezis 2012, 407–9. Murphy 1945, 7–20 gives career inscriptions of Severus’ senior generals as well as more junior officers, and details of legions re-named to reflect “faithful service” during the civil wars. For general accounts of Severus’ military policies and relationship with the army, see Murphy 1945, 60–79; E. Birley 1969; Smith 1972; Campbell 1984, 401–13; Le Bohec 2002, 208–12 and Handy 2009, 168–230. The traditional view that Severus ended the ban on soldiers contracting matrimonium iustum has been called into question by new inscriptional evidence, for which see Eck 2011. See inscriptions in Murphy 1945, 67–76, with Le Bohec 2002, 210–11. See Langford 2013, 36–8, who shows from the distribution of coins and inscriptions that Julia’s assumption of the title mater castrorum was directed not at the military but at civilian audiences.

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While the story of Severus’ fortune bringing him through the civil wars and allowing him to reward the troops was powerful and necessary in some quarters, it was very unpalatable in others. The Roman elite had a long tradition of unease with the military power on which the empire relied. In the reigns of Commodus, Pertinax and Julianus, that unease had focused on the Praetorian Guard, and Severus had been able to claim that he was leading the comparatively uncorrupted frontier armies to avenge Pertinax. By the time the wars were over, however, the idea of the frontier armies as problem rather than solution would be fully established in many parts of the elite, even among senators whose job it was to command those armies. Severus’ supposed last injunction to his sons, to enrich the soldiers and ignore everyone else (Dio 77.[76].15.2 [Xiph.]), is unlikely to be accurate, but it well encapsulates a narrative that he was obliged to create and exploit, and which he would try in peacetime to palliate. This was done mostly by attempting to transmute the tainted glory of civil-war victory into the more readily accepted medium of foreign conquest. The second of his two Parthian wars led to the first significant expansion of Roman frontiers since Trajan, and as such might have represented a major ideological shift comparable to Hadrian’s decision eighty years earlier to abandon his predecessor’s conquests in the same area. The story of renewed Roman conquest and expansion would make occasional appearances throughout the Severan period, but our elite sources seem to indicate that, on the whole, it never sold well.103 The historical tradition generally treats the Parthian campaign as a post-civil-war propaganda move. Dio especially is anxious to emphasize Severus’ failure to capture Hatra, and argues that the new province is an expensive strategic liability.104 Ultimately, Severus never was able to come up with a convincing reconciliationist or palliative way of presenting the civil wars, and the military dimension of his career remained an obstacle to the restoration of Antonine-style consensus rule. The continued prestige of the Antonine dynasty is the second aspect of Severan self-presentation that comes through in Dio’s account of the emperor’s return from Lyons. We have already seen the problems Pertinax faced from the incompatible legacies of Marcus and Commodus. Initially it appeared that Severus would adopt the same approach Pertinax had, that of

103 104

E.g. in the Alexander-mania of Caracalla, for which see below, and the supposed intention of Maximinus (Hdn. 7.2.9) to conquer Germany all the way to the Ocean. On the Hatra campaign, see Dio 76.[75].10–12 (Xiph.). On the strategic liability, see 75.[75].3.2–3 (Xiph.).

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locating Antonine continuity not in dynastic prestige but in deference to the Senate. He was after all fighting Didius Julianus who, as part of his wooing of the Praetorian Guard, had promised to restore the memory of Commodus.105 The Praetorians may or may not have had any real affection for Commodus, but they certainly loathed Pertinax, and the dynamics of Pertinax’ assassination and Julianus’ coup both fed on and nourished the idea of Pertinax and Commodus as polar opposites who embodied two contradictory ways to tap into the authority of the Antonine dynasty. Julianus’ actions opened up an obvious counter-move for Severus, who could become Pertinax’ avenger, take his name and, along with it, the military prestige that the dead emperor had earned with the frontier armies. Evidently, this played well with the Senate also, and eased their rejection of Julianus and welcome for Severus’ initial entry to Rome in 193. Before and after making that entrance, Severus made a point of publicly humiliating the Praetorians, taking a customary oath not to kill senators, and giving Pertinax a ceremonial public funeral.106 His adoption and co-optation of Albinus, while a political necessity to keep the British legions quiet so he could deal with Niger, was also a gesture toward the memory of Pertinax, who had similarly passed over a biological son. The Senate had reason to think that Severus endorsed their view of the Antonine legacy. Dio’s account shows how complete a reversal Severus made in the later stages of the war. Dio portrays the retroactive self-adoption and the rehabilitation of Commodus less as propaganda gestures than as the emergence of Severus’ brutal side after the last and bloodiest stage of the wars, and he artificially separates them from Severus’ rejection of Albinus as heir in favor of his biological son. In fact, it is clear from inscriptions that the embrace of Marcus as father and Caracalla as heir were more or less simultaneous, and certainly complementary.107 Severus announced both in late 195 or early 196 as part of the transition from his eastern war to his final reckoning with Albinus. The naming of Caracalla as heir cannot have come as much of a surprise. Severus was in fact not significantly older than his adopted successor Albinus, and had no intention of playing Nerva to his Trajan. While passing over a biological heir might make a fine gesture to the Senate,

105 106 107

HA Did. Jul. 2.6; Hdn. 2.6.10. Dio 74.[73].12.1 (Xiph.) mentions Praetorians referring to Julianus as “Commodus.” See Dio 75[74].1.1–2 (Xiph.) (Praetorians); 2.1 (EV) (oath); 4–5 (Xiph.) (funeral). On the customary nature of the oath, see Birley 1962. See p. 56 above, though Heil 2006 makes the argument for seeing the promotion of Caracalla to Caesar as coming a few months later than the retrospective adoption.

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it would have gone against all precedent and surely endangered the boys’ lives should Albinus indeed have reached supreme power.108 The retroactive adoption into the Antonine dynasty, and the consequent restoration and deification of Commodus, were clearly more of a surprise. It is very difficult to make out what this actually meant to contemporaries. It is not clear whether Severus actually put out a detailed account describing a specific occasion in Marcus’ life when that ruler had adopted him.109 The historical tradition stresses that nobody, at least in elite circles, believed the thing in a literal sense, but such belief does not seem to have been Severus’ main objective. What was important was that there should be an officially sanctioned version of the past for ruler and ruled to use in communicating with each other, and that that past should present Severus’ career in a suitable light for his purposes. The version of events that Pertinax had put out was highly unsatisfactory. As an emperor who had come to the throne by military force and intended to found a hereditary dynasty, it would not do for Severus to portray Marcus as the last in an illustrious line of adoptive emperors, succeeded by a biological but degenerate son who was in turn replaced in a great act of liberation by the unanimously acclaimed princeps senatus. Whatever Dio might say, Severus’ gesture was not about embracing Commodus’ tyrannical governing style, but about exploiting his memory as a still-valuable strand of Antonine propaganda. By the time the historiographical tradition as we know it took shape in the 220s, Dio and his contemporaries thought of Commodus as Marcus’ only weak spot, and had conveniently forgotten that during the latter’s lifetime quite the opposite had been true, and that Marcus’ image had been heavily based on his role as a father. Severus, whose memories of Marcus were fresher and not conditioned by nostalgia, had not forgotten. For Severus, connection to the Antonine dynasty meant not a particular attitude toward the Senate, or an embrace of the role of civilis princeps, but above all continuity through dynastic succession, and the “Antonine-ness” of his regime is chiefly manifested in familial contexts. The roles Severus found for Julia Domna, Caracalla and later Geta replicate to a considerable degree those earlier played by Faustina the Younger and Commodus.110 It was after 108 109 110

For a contrasting view, that Severus saw Albinus as a potential protector for Caracalla and Geta in the event he himself was defeated by Niger, see Schumacher 2003. One supposed dream of Severus’, related at Dio 75.[74].3.1 (Xiph.), gives evidence that Severus wanted the Antonine dynasty associated with earlier stages of his career. For Julia Domna’s public image and continuity with the Antonines, see Langford 2013, esp. 14–20, along with Baharal 1992, arguing from portrait sculpture and Lusnia 1995, based primarily on coinage.

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all the son and not the father who would be called Antoninus. However dismissive senators and people in general may have been about the literal truth of Severus’ claim of adoption, it was one Severan propaganda narrative that did its job. As we will see, the Antonine name would transfer its luster to the new dynasty, and the resultant accession of authority would stand the dynasty’s later members in good stead. As Dio’s anecdote of the Senate speech illustrates, Severus’ sense of his predecessors was not confined to the Antonines, quite the contrary. The search for authority and precedents for his rule led him to re-examine the whole heritage of the Principate. An obvious comparison was to that institution’s founder, Augustus, who had several important similarities with Severus, beyond the fact of having emerged victorious from long civil wars. Both men were masters of manipulating their own public image, such that their real characters remain enigmatic; neither one was a great general, but both were very good at having subordinates win their battles for them without ceasing to be subordinate; and each in his time represented a new kind of elite Roman that was being absorbed into and transforming the older aristocracy.111 Dio’s speech is an exaggerated version of a real phenomenon, Severus’ appropriation and re-evaluation of the founder of the Roman monarchy. His other favored models were the Flavians, which was all but inevitable given the remarkable similarities between the events of 68–70 and of 192–97, though still tricky given the persistently negative memory of Domitian.112 Much of the evidence for Severus’ emulation of earlier emperors is material in nature. Severus was a builder-emperor in a way not seen since Trajan and Hadrian, and under the Principate, building was generally a retrospective exercise. If an emperor wished to make statements about his position relative to his predecessors, there was no more fitting medium than the fabric of the city of Rome.113 The idiom of monumental public architecture, of temples, arches and fora, had been established in the Augustan period, and further essays in it were necessarily in dialogue with the original.114 This link is key to understanding the most iconic monument 111 112 113

114

For an overview of Severus’ links to Augustus, see Cooley 2007 and Barnes 2008. On the specific question of monumental building, see also Gorrie 2007. Lusnia forthcoming highlights Severus’ restoration of the Temple of Vespasian in the Roman Forum and also of the Temple of Peace (129–35), in which he located the famous marble plan of the city. As Daguet-Gagey 2004 shows, the city could also be represented verbally and visually on coins, so that the symbolic importance of Severus’ relationship to the city was apparent to people who had no opportunity to actually visit the buildings. See Zanker 1988, 335–8, referring to imperial self-presentation generally, and Drinkwater 2007 for monumental architecture in Rome.

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of Severus’ reign, his triumphal arch in the Roman Forum.115 It is positioned in among and oriented towards several significant forum monuments built or restored by Augustus, but perhaps more significant is the relationship of its inscriptional and visual elements. The inscription across the top of the arch, ostensibly put there by the Senate and People, extols Septimius and his sons ob rem publicam restitutam imperiumque populi romani propagatum insignibus virtutibus eorum domi forisque (“for their restoration of the state and their extending of the rule of the Roman people by their outstanding merits both domestic and foreign”).116 That inscription is seen on the facade looking into the Forum, and is flanked by two of the arch’s four relief panels, all of which show scenes from Severus’ recent Parthian campaign.117 The imperiumque . . . propagatum part of the inscription thus has an immediate visual analogue, but that visual material in turn refers across the Forum from its northwest corner to the no-longer-extant arch in the southeast that Augustus put up to commemorate his bloodless recovery of Crassus’ Parthian standards.118 And it is Augustus that is evoked in the rest of Severus’ inscription: res publica restituta echoes the language of the Augustan age, when it asserted Augustus’ claim to have reasserted the free state.119 For Severus, in turn, the “state” in question is not the republic Augustus claimed to have restored, but the stable monarchical order that he was remembered for having brought forth out of civil war. Severus is putting forth a particular narrative of who Augustus was and asking people to read his own story in a similar fashion. More subtly but no less significantly, Severus was noted for his restoration of the buildings of earlier emperors, and for his willingness to take public

115

116

117

118 119

For all aspects of the monument, see Brilliant 1967; other discussions important for our purposes include Desnier 1993, 549–78 and Lusnia 2006. For the placement of the arch relative to other elements of the Forum, see Brilliant 1967, 85–90 and Lusnia 2011, 66–8. The inscription is ILS 425. On the inscription more generally, and its use of victory-titles, see Brilliant 1967, 91–5, arguing that the inscription omits the title “Parthicus Maximus” because it is quoting from a Senate decree relating to Severus’ first Parthian War, even though the panel sculptures, in Brilliant’s view, all refer to the second. For the identities of the cities and battles portrayed in the panels, see Brilliant 1967, 171–82, with some alternatives suggested by Rubin 1975a. Lusnia 2006, 276–83, while agreeing with Brilliant’s identifications, gives further reasons to suppose, with Rubin, that the sculptural reliefs are based on paintings commissioned in connection with Severus’ triumph. Lusnia forthcoming also notes the conscious parallels that Severus drew between his Parthian wars and those of his new great-great-grandfather Trajan. On the ideological significance of the vocabulary, if not of the specific phrase, see Hurlet and Mineo 2009; also, for its contrasting meanings from Augustus to Severus, Gowing 2005, 4–5. Elsner 2005 reads the Arch of the Argentarii as carrying on an analogous dialogue with Trajanic and Antonine monuments, though with reference to scenes of sacrifice and triumph.

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credit for doing so. Dio, who as we shall see was suspicious of all imperial efforts to appropriate the Roman past, treats this as a tawdry borrowing of other men’s glory (77.[76].16.3 [EV]). To those with less ideological control at stake, though, the restorations told an Augustan story of renewal. When Romans now saw Severus’ name on old buildings, the point was not to usurp the glory of an earlier emperor, but to act as its rejuvenated continuation. In Augustan times, there had been considerable emphasis on the corrupt and impious state of the late Republic, and any emphasis on rejuvenation naturally implies that what went before was in some way decayed. Severus would sometimes use the rhetoric of moral corruption, notably in the campaign that he seems later to have made against adultery, apparently with the aim of updating Augustus’ law on the subject, and perhaps in a real-life analogue to the speech in Dio quoted above.120 More often, however, given the positive associations of the reigns of Antoninus and Marcus, it made sense to imply not corruption and decay, but a natural cycle of ageing and renewal, with perhaps a sudden interruption in the form of the wars that brought Severus to power, and more concretely the massive fire under Commodus that had done so much to clear the field for new building. By making the monuments of past emperors new again, Severus offered Romans a narrative in which the best parts of the past two centuries could recur as part of a new era symbolized in his person. The Secular Games of 204, celebrated with a good deal more aplomb than Rome’s ninth centenary fifty years earlier under Antoninus, were an excellent opportunity to underscore this point. Not only was their whole raison d’être to celebrate generational renewal, but they invoked a rich Augustan precedent and could be stage-managed in such a way as to showcase both Severus’ restored buildings and such new marvels as the Septizodium, a towering fountain-sculpture visible from the Circus Maximus where the games’ closing ceremonies were held.121 For Appian and his contemporaries, the Principate had been a static interval that had undergone only modest and gradual changes since its inception under Augustus. Hadrian’s restorations of Augustan monuments were considerably more radical than Severus’, and doubtless saw a closer degree of personal involvement by the princeps, but Hadrian’s own history

120

121

See Dio 77.[76].16.4 (EV) with evidence from Tertullian and Ulpian discussed by Barnes 2008, 257–9. The image of Augustus as moral reformer was very much part of his ongoing legend, as demonstrated by Florus (2.33.65), who seems to view his moral legislation as a domestic achievement on a par with his military victories. For the integration of Severus’ restorations and of the Septizodium into the program of the games, see Gorrie 2002.

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was very different from Augustus’.122 He did not, like Severus, have to place himself in a narrative of civil war and restored order. By restoring the Pantheon with Agrippa’s name rather than his own, he implied that the present was an organic continuation of the Augustan era, which was kept going without interruption through processes that did not need explanation, though their proper operation still reflected credit on him.123 For Severus, on the other hand, the reigns of previous good emperors are an object of explicit re-interpretation and restoration, and thus a past distinct from the present, which was in some way lost by the civil wars and required effort to be re-connected and made new again. One element of Severus’ narrative that is missing from Dio’s portrayal of his return in 197 is the recurring theme of future dynastic permanence through the ruler’s wife and children. As has already been noted, the contrast of adoptive Antonines versus hereditary Severans is a false one, given the prominence of Commodus in Marcus’ reign. The civil wars, however, created a need for more emphatic rhetoric about the stability of the future, and as such Caracalla’s and Geta’s roles would be even larger than Commodus’. This is immediately visible in the older prince’s prominence on the triumphal arch in the Forum, commemorating a war that, although he was only nine years old at its close, served as his political debut, the occasion for his proclamation as co-Augustus.124 The rhetoric of family could resonate directly at all levels of society, without being mediated through any symbolic idiom that included the Senate or republican traditions. Dynastic politics as practiced by the Severans tended to exclude the existing elite in a way that had never been true with the Antonines. Decades later, it would seem striking to Herodian that Marcus had taken such pains to marry his daughters to the best men among the existing elite. Since these daughters were numerous, Marcus had thus bound himself to many rising stars of the Senate, and his grandchildren were still to be found in that body’s highest ranks in the early 200s, to the embarrassment of their newly minted uncle and cousin.125

122

123 124 125

For the extent of Hadrian’s rebuilding, and his retaining of original builders’ names, see HA Hadr. 19.9-12. For the link between Hadrian and Augustus, especially through the monuments on the Campus Martius, see Boatwright 1987, 33–73. Cf. Boatwright 1987, 238, characterizing Hadrian’s principate as “both a renewal of Rome’s original strength and the natural continuation of Roman destiny.” For the arch as a dynastic monument, see Lusnia 2006, 294–6. Marcus’ wisdom in choosing sons-in-law is noted among his virtues by Herodian (1.2.2), who adds not entirely accurately that the emperor chose those senators who excelled in talent rather than birth or wealth. For specifics of careers, see Pflaum 1961. The last living son-in-law of Marcus, Plautius

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The one royal wedding of Severus’ reign, by contrast, that of Caracalla to Plautilla in 202, was an exercise in isolating the imperial family from the elite. The father of the bride, Plautianus, had no social prestige outside of his connection to Severus, and Cassius Dio cannot have been the only member of the Senate with both the historical perspective and the malice to compare him in retrospect to Sejanus.126 But if the wedding was meant to consolidate the emperor’s inner circle, that did not mean it was done as a private affair: entirely the contrary. Celebrations of the wedding were integrated into the magnificent spectacle of Severus’ tenth-anniversary jubilee, which thus became as much about looking forward to the horizon of Caracalla’s reign as looking back on the years of Severus’.127 Dio remembered it as a vulgar display of Plautianus’ wealth, and indeed the prefect’s fall three years later would sound the first notes of the crisis theme that Caracalla would later promote, but the spectacle of the wedding, along with the Secular Games in 204, would still communicate a powerful message of dynastic renewal as the agent of a Roman future that would replicate all the best aspects of the past.128 The last aspect of Severus we will consider is one that Dio gives relatively little attention, but that is probably the one aspect of his personality to have most exercised modern scholars, namely his provincial and ethnic background.129 Severus was not the first emperor from outside Italy, but he was the first to show any signs of identifying with a native non-Greco-Roman culture, in his case the Punic-speaking milieu of North Africa, and by extension the wider Semitic world of the Mediterranean’s southeastern rim. Exactly what this represents in terms of Roman social and cultural history has been subject to all kinds of different interpretations depending on scholarly fashion in the last 100 years. Severus has been alternately a racially stereotyped Semite bringing about the debasement of Greco-Roman culture; the agent of the militarized peasantry in their ultimately successful struggle to

126

127 128

129

Quintillus, was put to death by Severus (Dio 77.[76].7.4 [EV]), and his surviving daughters Cornificia and Vibia Sabina were remarried to men of relatively low status. Caracalla executed both Cornificia (Dio 78.[77].16.6a (PP); Hdn. 4.6.3) and Marcus’ grandson Pompeianus (HA Carc. 3.8), as well as the surviving son of Pertinax (HA Carc. 4.8). Enough descendants of Marcus survived, however, to supply both eponymous consuls of 235, as well as a wife of Elagabalus. See Dio 77.[76].1.2 (EV) (wedding); the comparison with Sejanus occurs much earlier, during the narration of that prefect’s death at 58.14.1, and consists of noting that Sejanus was the most powerful prefect ever before Plautianus. For Septimius Severus’ decennalia and the concurrent royal wedding and Parthian triumph, see Chastagnol 1984. On the Secular Games, see Gorrie 2002. Daguet-Gagey 2006 emphasizes the contrast between the magnificent displays of 202–4 and the crises of 205–7, and points to signs of it in the epigraphic record. For a recent treatment of the cultural-political aspects of Severus’ rise, see Potter 2008.

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bring down classical aristocratic culture; and an example of the complete assimilation of provincials into the Roman administrative apparatus.130 For our purposes, how Severus met modern anthropological criteria for a given ethnicity is less important than what categories his contemporaries placed him in, regardless of his actual status or inclinations. Few people in the empire knew any better than we do what language Severus and Julia spoke when alone together, or how he reconciled various religious traditions in his own mind, but they did know a good deal about his birth and background, and there was much else that he was anxious to demonstrate. It is on the whole remarkable how little contemporary sources comment on Severus’ ethnic antecedents. Dio, Herodian and the HA tradition all have mixed to negative feelings about him generally, but their disdain is rarely expressed in terms of ethnicity. It is only the HA that mentions his peculiar accent, unpresentably provincial relatives and love of African cuisine.131 This is not to say that Severus’ Punic heritage had been erased, or that he disguised it, or that people failed to notice it. His consciousness of a wider Semitic background can be seen among other things in his marriage to Julia Domna, whose cultural prestige in orthodox Greco-Roman terms was quite low, but considerably higher in the context of Semitic religion.132 It is notable that, when Syrian cities took sides in Severus’ war against Niger, it was the Roman colony city of Beirut that backed Niger, while Tyre, with its still-influential Phoenician heritage, went for Severus. A dedicatory inscription found in Tyre but dedicated by the city of Leptis Magna to its Phoenician metropolis may date from the 190s, and be thus a recognition both of ethnic solidarity and of having both been on the right side in the recent war.133 Certainly some people in the empire were able to read Severus in an ethnically specific way, but most Romans would not have had a cultural category to account for the linguistic and religious features shared by what we call Semitic peoples. Even if one was aware of the historical fact of Phoenician colonization, that did not 130

131 132

133

For Severus as racial outsider, see Domaszewski 1909, 2.247, with influences on the biography by his student Hasebroek 1921; for the military-based class struggle, see Rostovtzeff 1957, 400–14; for the completely Romanized provincial, see Hammond 1940. See HA Sev. 19.9 (accent); 15.7 (sister); 19.8 (food). On the cultural associations of Julia’s family and the marriage, see Birley 1988, 68–73, also Levick 2007, 9–22. Julia had links to the old royal family of Emesa and the current Armenian dynasty, but Dio can still claim in a basically sympathetic death notice (79.[78].24.1) that she was “of common background” (ἐκ δημοτικοῦ γένους). See Potter 2004, 105–6, who also notes the cultural implications of Severus’ division of the province of Syria into the more Hellenized Coele-Syria and the more Semitic Syria Palaestina. The bilingual Latin–Greek inscription is published as Rey Coquais 1986, and he suggests the post-civil war date and occasion, based in part on a possibly analogous dedication from Laodicea. Based on the civic titulature alone, the Tyre inscription’s date could fall anywhere between Trajan’s reign and 198.

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translate into a set of definite characteristics distinct from those of (say) Iranians or Egyptians. The Greco-Roman mainstream of the empire may not have been able to understand Severus’ specific characteristics as an African or a Semite, but what they could understand, and identify with, was that he was a provincial who had succeeded in the metropolis. The specifics of his home province and ethnic background were less important than the fact of his having a province and a background. Severus’ relationship with his home city of Leptis Magna, and with the province of Africa more generally, are examples of a kind of Romanness not before seen in a ruler. Hadrian had been very good to his and Trajan’s home city in Spain, but his adornment of Italica is not on the scale, nor does it have the personal and dynastic resonance, of Severan Leptis. This is perhaps not surprising given that Hadrian did not spend much of his youth in the city and never visited it during his travels as emperor.134 Hadrian turned Italica into a model provincial town with amenities out of all proportion to its size and socio-economic importance, but we find there nothing comparable to Severus’ four-way arch in Leptis, whose purpose was less to embellish the town than to advertise its most famous son.135 The monuments of Leptis are clearly dynastic, as emphasized by the ubiquitous statue groups showing the emperor with his wife and sons, and in that sense they tell a story about Severus. His dynasty was a continuation of the Antonines, and by extension traced its path back to Augustus, but it simultaneously had a beginning in Leptis, and as such was involved in a complex of relationships of gratitude and patronage. Above and beyond whatever relationships Severus may have had with individual people in Leptis, his way of presenting himself as a historical figure necessitated an unusually prominent role for his birthplace. Severus, with his omens and 134

135

Dio (69.10.1) says explicitly that Hadrian never visited Italica, but enriched it considerably. The context appears to be a review of his conduct toward the cities of the empire on his travels. For his building in Italica, see García y Bellido 1964; Boatwright 2000, 162–7. See Syme 1964; Birley 1997b, 24–6, 148–9 for the relatively small amount of Hadrian’s youth he probably actually spent in Italica and a subsequent trip as emperor to Spain on which he appears not to have visited the town. He did hold a municipal magistracy there at some point in his career (HA Hadr. 19.1) and Gellius (NA 16.13) quotes an oration he delivered on behalf of the Italicenses. The content of that oration, however, appears to put Hadrian in the role of a senatorial patron somewhat bemused by the mentality of his provincial clients. Hadrian also served as municipal magistrate in his family’s ancestral home of Hadria in Picenum (HA Hadr. 19.1). For the contrast between the Spanish emperors and Severus in their promotion of their respective home towns, see Lichtenberger 2011, 128–37. For an overview of the monuments and consideration of the family sculptural groups, see Wilson 2007, 295–307, Lichtenberger 2011, 137–45 and Faust 2011. For Severan North Africa more generally as a site of imperial self-presentation and elite provincial reception, see Cordovana 2007b, also Cordovana 2012 for a reading of the complex of the Leptis forum in terms of the civil wars.

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horoscopes, was anxious for people to know that his success was the result of a lifelong relationship with fortune. Not just his crucial military victories, for which after all he could take little personal credit, but every stage of his life was filled with providential significance, and that included his birthplace and home province. The monuments are not designed simply to beautify the communities, but by their style and motifs to demonstrate the significance the town and province had acquired in the greater imperial world, thanks to the new dynastic order whose origin they had been. Similarly, Severus identified his divine good fortune with the two tutelary gods of Leptis, originally Semitic deities who in Greco-Roman contexts were identified with Hercules and Bacchus.136 These gods apparently received a splendid new temple in Rome, and were certainly incorporated prominently into the rituals of the Secular Games, notably in the coins through which the propaganda of the games reached the wider provincial audience.137 The coins proclaim the gods’ special relationship with Severus as his di patrii, but in a dynastic context that special relationship has extended to the whole empire. The cult has moved from a provincial to an imperial stage, and the fraternal relationship of Hercules and Bacchus is mirrored in the relationship between Severus’ own two sons, which in turn embodies concordia throughout the empire. Most people in the empire would not have been familiar with the meaning of these gods in their Punic context, but they would have understood the integration of cultural products from specific provincial contexts into the greater Roman fabric.138 For most people that process and the duality of identity that lay behind it, as articulated 136 137

138

For the ancestral gods of Leptis, see Birley 1988, 5 with now full treatment by Lichtenberger 2011 and Desnier 1994 for possible political implications. The temple (νεώς) is mentioned by Dio (77.[76].16.3 [EV]), but with no specifics about its location or anything else, beyond that it was very large. No archaeologically known structure in Rome can be securely identified with the temple, but for possible identification of surviving traces of the temple, see Santangeli Valenzani 1991–92, also now Rowan 2012, 67–72. For the role in the games, see Gorrie 2002, 479–80. Coins with di patrii legends are RIC Sev. 762; Carc. 76, 422; Geta 112,117. For details, see above all Lichtenberger 2011, 43–65 as well as Tocchi 1956, who argues that the gods should be assimilated to the Dioscuri, and are meant to emphasize the fraternal concord between the two princes. Arguments have been made that the passage in Dio does not refer to a temple in Rome: For Hasebroek 1921, 149–50, the temple in question is one in Leptis, but context tells against this (see Gorrie 2002, 479). Hamdoune 2009 argues that the reference is to the Septizodium, but this requires either Dio or Xiphilinus to use the word νεώς in a very broad sense for which Hamdoune does not provide parallels. Rowan 2012, 47–60 notes that there were precedents for the inclusion of patron deities in Secular Games rituals (Augustus–Apollo and Domitian–Minerva), and also that the image of Hercules, which often appears separately on Septimius’ coins, would have suggested links also with Commodus. These invocations of imperial tradition do not, however, exclude a simultaneous expression of provincial identity.

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already by Cicero, were part of their own individual life stories. Now for the first time, it was also part of the Roman political narrative at the highest level. Severus’ career path from a province through family and patronage connections to the seat of power, and the multiple layers of cultural identity that the process produced, were not something that made him strange and different from the elite contemporaries who wrote about him; on the contrary, it made him typical of them. Men like Cassius Dio, whose father had likely entered the Senate from the local elite of Bithynia, or the LemnianAthenian Philostratus, who saw his contacts at the Severan court as an extension of a wider westward trend in the Sophistic movement, understood what it meant to have a home town and a provincial culture with which one identified deeply in certain aspects of one’s life, while still seeing oneself as fully part of a greater whole that was focused on Rome and everything the imperial center meant in terms of cultural, social and political prestige.139 The fact that they portray Severus as unproblematically belonging to the empire’s cosmopolitan Greco-Roman culture is not a rejection of his provincial identity. Rather it is a recognition that Severus was like them, and that by the end of the second century, the mainstream culture of the empire was something that most people experienced simultaneously with their experience of their local milieu. To be a Roman of the High Empire was to be Roman and provincial, and in some cases Greek, all at the same time. For the first time under Severus, the emperor and the ruling dynasty shared that sense with their elite subjects. Even if they lacked the intellectual vocabulary by which modern social historians articulate such changes, contemporaries with any historical perspective cannot have failed to register that the existence of an emperor like Severus was indicative of the changing nature of what it meant to be a Roman, and narratives of periphery influencing center, for good or for ill, will be an important component of the Severan landscape.

The later Severans Septimius Severus was a master of the Roman arts of manipulating images and creating political narratives. He more or less consciously established the idiom of the new dynasty and its forms of continuity with previous eras. In doing so, he left behind an architectural and epigraphic record that has inspired much fruitful scholarship and has given us a useful counterpoint to the historiographical tradition. The same is not always true of the later members of the dynasty. Caracalla, Elagabalus and Alexander were all 139

For Dio’s relationship to Nicaea, see below, p. 289.

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young when they came to the throne, and none of them ever seems to have taken full control of the state apparatus. None of them was a builder on the scale of Septimius, and as the dynasty wears on, the epigraphic record becomes thinner. One is left with the hostile and increasingly fictionalized literary record, and one must extract as much as one can from it about the kind of empire and history these men and their handlers imagined themselves as part of. The not unnatural result is that the later Severans often seem clumsy compared to the dynasty’s founder, and to the extent they are telling coherent stories, their audience seems often to reject those stories outright. The clumsiness is not entirely an illusion, but the later Severans did inherit from their predecessors a series of narratives to accept, adapt or reject in various combinations, and the ways in which they did so critically affect the points of view of our authors at the end of the period. We saw at the beginning of this chapter how much changed with Caracalla’s accession and subsequent murder of Geta. Even Caracalla’s detractors granted him considerable intelligence and force of character, but that character was ill suited to the role his father had cast him in, as the symbol of harmonious continuity from Antonine past to distant future. Exactly how ill-suited can perhaps be summed up by Caracalla’s adult portraits, with their cropped beard and fearsome scowl. To contemporaries, the sheer nastiness of the face was less notable than the departure he made from the mild countenances and luxuriant beards that had characterized emperors for nearly a century.140 This was an abandonment of the Antonine monarchy’s most immediately recognizable trademark by a ruler whose name was meant to express continuity with that earlier dynasty.141 Caracalla seems to have thrived on narratives of crisis rather than continuity, and political theater in his reign changed from stately tableaux to flamboyant and sometimes bloody melodrama. As with Commodus, whose reign finds so many echoes in his putative nephew’s, the sense of a throne under siege begins even before Caracalla’s sole rule. Caracalla’s marriage to Plautilla had been meant to display the harmony that prevailed within Severus’ family and inner circle, but instead it exacerbated a feud that very publicly exposed the weaknesses in that concordia when Plautianus’ name and images throughout the empire were 140

141

See Nodelman 1965, 362–77 for a view, largely agreeing with Dio 78.[77].11.12 (EV) and HA Carc. 2.1–2, that Caracalla deliberately projected a harsh demeanor. For recent bibliography, see Leitmeir 2011, who sees the portraits as “heroic” rather than necessarily military. Mennen 2006 reads Caracalla’s whole self-presentation as a rejection of “dynastic” legitimation in favor of military and religious imagery, though the distinction she makes among the three is not entirely shared here.

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torn down after his fall.142 This represented a victory for Caracalla over one rival, but another would shortly emerge when Geta was made Augustus. Like Commodus, Caracalla appears to have sought out perils, real or imagined, that he could vanquish, and thus by his personal self-salvation enact the role of the empire’s protector and savior.143 But Caracalla was the shrewder of the two in terms of public image. Where Commodus had embraced the revolutionary and largely incomprehensible role of gladiator, Caracalla was attracted above all to that of soldier.144 In spite of his visual innovations and rejection of some elements of his Antonine heritage, Caracalla was telling a straightforward and even attractive story of an energetic and warlike young son taking the reins from an able father and going forth to achievements beyond the scope of what the father had done. Severus himself had started to tell this story by having his sons participate in the Parthian campaign in art and the British campaign in person. Within this militaristic idiom, Severus had placed his sons in a more or less orthodox setting enacting the traditional Roman role of emperor as war leader.145 Caracalla’s own taste would be more eclectic, and expressed less in art than in person, in visually arresting theatrical performances. This comes through most notably in his peculiar fascination with Alexander the Great, which ran to recruiting a “Macedonian phalanx” of troops fitted out in what was alleged to be armor of Alexander’s time.146 Beyond the obvious idea of 142 143

144

145

146

For the fullest consideration of Plautianus’ fall, see Daguet-Gagey 2006. Caracalla’s tendency to see himself as being saved from danger may also be reflected in his habit, documented by Rowan 2012, 110–63 of invoking the patronage of Aesculapius and other gods with medical associations. Dio 78.[77].10 (Xiph.) does mention Caracalla early in his reign experimenting with appearing as a chariot-racer, but the performance does not seem to have been as elaborate or as shocking as Commodus’. See on this point Potter 2004, 140. Several of the representations of Septimius Severus on the Forum arch in Rome have him surrounded by Caracalla and Geta; see Brilliant 1967, 188–91, 207–17. For the role of the sons in the British campaign, see Dio 77.[76].11.1 (Xiph.); Hdn. 2.14.1–2, with Birley 1988, 170–87. The campaign began with a joint consulship for the two sons in 208, and later served as a stage for Geta’s proclamation as Augustus in much the same way that the Parthian war had for Caracalla. On Caracalla as Alexander, see Dio 78.[77].7–8 (EV); Hdn. 4.8.1–2, with Espinosa Ruiz 1990 on their different literary objectives, also Castritius 1988; Buraselis 2007, 24–36 and Rowan 2012, 152–57. Baharal 1994 points out that the Alexander motif is found almost entirely in literary sources, and not in such traditional propaganda media as portraits, coins and inscriptions, which leads her to the conclusion that Caracalla’s emulation of Alexander was “a private matter” and that Caracalla “had no intention to make the matter public” (566). However, our literary sources, especially Herodian, give the distinct impression that the more performative kinds of Alexander-imitation were carried on in public, and while Baharal is certainly correct that the historiographical tradition is hostile to Caracalla, it is not clear why this hostility would lead them to over-emphasize the public nature of his eccentricities. If the point was to blacken his name, one might expect historians to portray the Alexander-fixation as a secret vice that the emperor practiced behind closed doors. Evidence that the wider public made an enduring and positive association between Caracalla and Alexander can be

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renewed expansionism reminiscent of Trajan, Caracalla seems also to have been attracted to Hellenistic models of kingship as leading by military example, sharing in the physical danger of his soldiers, as well as their labor, physical discomfort and clothing. During more northerly campaigns, in turn, he assumed the costume of troops there, including the cloak that gave him the nickname by which moderns generally know him. Dio claims that he reprised this costume again during his final Mesopotamian campaign.147 The emperor appears to have identified himself with individual campaigns such that each one required a particular visual language. It is important to stress that Caracalla’s self-presentation was not entirely based on military play-acting and overcoming crises of his own devising. We have considerable evidence for Caracalla being able to play, albeit not always with the best grace, the traditional imperial roles of dispensing justice, listening to petitioners and so forth, as well as expressing his military role through the more conventional medium of a written account of his Parthian war.148 The memory of his father remained strong and positive, above all through the queen mother Julia Domna, whose public visibility continued during her son’s reign, along with apparently considerable administrative responsibilities.149 As mother of the reigning emperor, Julia’s maternal qualities are reflected in an increasingly grandiose set of titles proclaiming her the mater of not just Caracalla and the army (both of which are attested during Septimius Severus’ lifetime), but also of the senate and of the patria. These titles were most likely devised during the brief joint reign of Caracalla and Geta.150 At that point they would have emphasized the shared familial

147

148

149 150

seen in the appearance in 221 in the Balkans of an impostor claiming to be Alexander and imitating the same aspects of the Macedonian’s behavior that Caracalla had. See Dio 80.[79].18.1–3 (Xiph.), with Millar 1964, 214–18. It is also surely significant that in the same year, Elagabalus’ cousin and eventual successor received the name of “Alexander,” presumably for its dynastic associations with his putative father, as well as the Macedonian. On the name-adoption, see Rösger 1988. On Caracalla as sharing soldiers’ hardships, see Dio 78.[77].13.1–2 (Xiph. = Cary 9.312); Hdn. 4.7.4–7. For strange costumes, see Dio 79.[78].3.3; Hdn. 4.7.3 (German costume in Germany, complete with blond wig); 4.8.2 (archaic Macedonian dress); 4.12.2 (effeminate costume in Mesopotamia, perhaps the full-length caracalla). For Caracalla in judicial and intellectual contexts, see Williams 1974; 1979, though the latter relying overly on stylistic analysis, and Meckler 1999. Caracalla’s account of the Parthian War is known from two brief mentions in Dio (79.[78].1.5; 79.[78].2). See Westall 2012, though perhaps exaggerating the extent of the work’s circulation. Dio’s emphatic statement that he, Dio, has personally encountered (ἐνέτυχον) the book suggests that he expects his readers have not. For Julia’s role and public image under Caracalla, see Ghedini 1984, 12–15; Fejfer 1985; Levick 2007, 87–106; Langford 2013, 20–2. This assumes the dating proposed by Instinsky 1942, 204–11 and supported most recently by Langford 2013, 134–6, in which the titles mater senatus et patriae are introduced, along with pia felix, during the interval between Septimius Severus’ death in February 211 and Geta’s murder in December 211. Arguments for at least the possibility of an earlier date are made by Benario 1958 and

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bond between the two brothers as analogous to the concord between the various elements of the Roman polity.151 Once there was only one brother left, Julia still represented his most visible link with the Severan saeculum in its more harmonious aspects, before the recent fratricidal violence. In effect, she allowed all elements of the Roman state to become heirs to the divine qualities of the Severan dynasty. A relief now in Warsaw that appears to show Julia with the attributes of Victoria crowning her son is evidence that she retained the symbolic responsibility for military success that her husband had claimed for her.152 But these elements of continuity were not the dominant note of Caracalla’s reign. It was the innovations and above all the military emphasis that were for most people the story of Caracalla’s reign. Unfortunately, people did not tell that story the way Caracalla meant for them to, and his would-be audiences seem consistently to have responded poorly to his various performances. The most spectacular example was on his visit to Alexandria, where he evidently hoped citizens would go along with his self-identification with their city’s founder and namesake.153 Alexandrians, whose own selfimage perhaps centered more on their notorious ungovernability and overly free way of addressing emperors, were unimpressed. Exactly what they did is not clear, but Caracalla’s subsequent rage and massacre of thousands is a concrete example of what could happen when there was a breakdown of the communication between ruler and ruled on which Roman power rested. More lasting was the impression produced on the Greco-Roman elite as a whole. Instead of inserting himself into a nexus of positive traditional associations with Roman military might, what Caracalla did was to further the impression of a growing military power at odds with the interests of the

151 152 153

followed by Kettenhofen 1979, 86–97 and Lusnia 1995, 133–5. The later dating makes better sense of the numismatic evidence (all the instances of the titles on coins fall into the brief dual reign of 211). There is one inscription (ILS 2398) that appears to refer to Severus as a living person and to Julia as mater senatus et patriae et castrorum (in that anomalous order), but if we take this (as Benario et al. do) as evidence that Julia received the titles before 211, that requires a scenario in which this one pair of dedicators anticipate by at least two years not only all other epigraphic evidence but also the mint. It seems more probable, especially given that the inscription displays several other anomalies of titulature, that the text we have reflects multiple stages of composition, the latest being after Septimius’ death. See on this point Langford 2013, 111–12. On the Warsaw relief, see Picard 1966; Ghedini 1984, 113–19; Levick 2007, 100. For the massacre at Alexandria, see Dio 78.[77].22–23 (Xiph.); Hdn. 4.9; HA Carc. 6.2–3, with the interesting story that Caracalla claimed a Ptolemaic king as precedent for the killings. Harker 2008, 133–7 argues that the violence was initiated by Alexandrian tradesmen and on a smaller scale than literary sources suggest.

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peaceable inhabitants of the imperial center.154 Measured in terms of years spent fighting and tangible results achieved, Caracalla was no greater a warrior than Marcus had been and a lesser one than his father, but his emphasis on crisis over continuity, and his presumed devaluing of all non-military activities and groups within society promoted a narrative of an empire in which the armed power was progressing from useful servant to despotic master. It was the events of Caracalla’s reign and the brief chaos that followed its end, as much as the civil wars of the 190s, that created the pervasive sense in the historiographical tradition of fear of and alienation from the military.155 Many of the narratives of Severan history play out more than once, and the long list of parallels between Commodus and Caracalla is a prime example. This list includes the predicaments faced by their successors. Macrinus’ position was in certain ways not unlike that of Pertinax, and although they ended in much the same way, the later usurper took a somewhat different approach to their shared problems. Once again, the essential problem was how to link oneself to the positive associations of a dynasty when one had come to the throne by conniving at, if not bringing about, the assassination of its reigning member. Like Pertinax, Macrinus was a man whose accession was fully comprehensible only within the worldview of his own segment of the elite, in this case the equestrian bureaucracy. We have little evidence of how Macrinus presented himself to people of his own background, because Roman culture lacked an explicit discourse of equestrian administrative identity comparable to the rich senatorial idiom that Pertinax and his later admirers could use.156 One supposes he and people like him did actually think the job of praetorian prefect was a perfectly sufficient qualification for being emperor, but, to judge from his self-presentation, he expected that most people would not agree, and that he would need to come up with some other explanation for himself.

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Davenport 2012a argues that contemporary perceptions of Caracalla were less bleak than often thought, and that modern views give too much weight to the testimony of Dio, which in Davenport’s view is unrepresentative and influenced by personal pique. While one should certainly be careful not to over-generalize regarding the “senatorial” point of view, in Caracalla’s case the parallel tradition tends very much to confirm Dio’s view (e.g. HA Carc. 3–4; Hdn. 4.6) rather than, as with Pertinax and Didius Julianus, to complicate it. For antipathy to the army as manifested in Dio, see De Blois 1997, 2660–75. For the contrary argument, see Marasco 1996b, who reads Herodian’s version of Macrinus’ letter to the Senate (5.1) as an expression of an equestrian-administrative ideology shared by Herodian and the author of Ps.-Aristides’ Eis Basilea. This ideology was, in Marasco’s view, not proclaimed publicly during Macrinus’ reign, but became prevalent during the reign of the former prefect Philip the Arab, when it was then projected back on to Macrinus. This is part of Marasco’s larger argument about Herodian’s political position, for which see p. 271 below.

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There was no question of rejecting the Severan legacy wholesale, or of taking responsibility for Caracalla’s death. The previous emperor’s personal memory was put in a sort of holding pattern, neither deified nor condemned.157 Attempts were made to shift Julia Domna quietly to the sidelines, a move that she seems to have considered resisting before assisting it by her suicide (Dio 79.[78].23). Macrinus seems to have wanted to consign Caracalla’s reign to actual oblivion, as opposed to the conspicuous absence of a damnatio, and to express continuity with the Severan dynasty in the form of the previous reign. Thus he took for himself the name not of “Antoninus,” but of “Severus,” reserving “Antoninus” for his son. Dio sees this last as a retrograde gesture pandering to the soldiers’ residual affection for Caracalla, but it can be read as a desire to rewind the narrative to the previous reign, when the name “Antoninus” was associated with a promising child heir rather than a problematic adult ruler.158 It similarly appears that Macrinus tried to revive the visual idiom of the previous decades by having himself represented with a full Marcus-style beard, although his portraiture is not consistent, and many representations of him still show him in the style of Caracalla.159 However, the aspects of continuity that would have been dearest to the hearts of the Senate are absent from Macrinus’ reign, at least at its start. The new emperor may have had enough historical perspective that he wished to avoid Pertinax’ example, or he may simply not have known or cared what stories the Senate wished to hear. Either way, he alienated the Senate by excluding them from his account of his accession, and conferring on himself titles that had traditionally been the Senate’s to bestow (Dio 79.[78].16.2). When Dio complains that Macrinus should have selected a senator for the throne rather than taking it himself, the point is not that Dio necessarily believes individual senators always

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For Macrinus’ self-presentation overall, see Scott 2008. Dio 79.[78].9.2 and 79.[78].18.3, although obviously anxious to emphasize general hatred of Caracalla, does admit that his memory was not in fact condemned. Marasco 1996b, 191–2 points out that Dio’s portrayal of general rejoicing at Caracalla’s death is difficult to square with what he says at 79.[78].15.2 about people being well disposed toward Macrinus precisely because his governing practice departed little from Caracalla’s. For “Severus,” see Dio 79.[78].16.2, and 79.[78].19.2 for “Antoninus.” This nomenclature is confirmed by inscriptions (cf. ILS 463–5, as well as the cover photo of this book), which however do not confirm the HA’s claim (Macr. 2.3; 11.2) that he took the names “Antoninus” and “Pertinax” for himself. This would seem to be more in line with the HA’s repeated plays on the nomen Antoninorum, and the pun at Sev. 14.12 on vere Pertinax, vere Severus. For portraiture and coins, see Baharal 1999. Herodian’s reference to Macrinus cultivating his beard in imitation of Marcus (5.2.3) probably stems from observation of the change in portrait style.

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make better emperors than individual equestrians.160 Rather it is that Dio treasures the precedent set by Pertinax as princeps senatus, that in the absence of an obvious successor, the Senate is the body from which and with whose ceremonial consent the new ruler is chosen, even if the actual choosing is done by persons lower down the scale. Macrinus further raised Dio’s ire, and presumably that of many like-minded senators, by the unceremonious haste with which he removed provincial governors and replaced them with his own loyalists, often without the customary regard for the seniority or dignity of the senators affected.161 In the event, however, the Senate back in Rome was the least of the problems that beset Macrinus in Syria. In particular, his version of Antonine and Severan continuity seems to have been entirely lost on the army. However much Caracalla’s style of rule may have alienated him from other elements of society, it seems to have gained him the genuine affection of the soldiers, and while Macrinus was attentive enough to their feelings to make a public show of mourning Caracalla, he also took several concrete steps that could not have been better planned to gain their contempt.162 His apparent intention to reduce the pay of future recruits, and his willingness to buy and negotiate his way out of a Parthian war after fighting an inconclusive battle were both rational responses to his insecure situation, but the contrast with Caracalla’s performances of generosity and bellicosity could not have been sharper.163 Even if currently serving soldiers were not immediately affected by the pay reduction, it still represented for them a negative development in what had until then been an optimistic narrative of increasing pay and status tied to the rise of the Severan dynasty. Macrinus’ actions suggest that he placed these same events in a very different sort of story. However unsympathetic he may have been toward the Senate, he appears to have shared their fear of encroaching military power. Dio (79.[78].36.1–3) presents him as writing letters to the Senate in which he uses the narrative of an unruly soldiery to elicit their sympathy and support. Macrinus’ misfortune was that he found himself in Syria, where he was most vulnerable to the one constituency, the army, to whom his rise made 160

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Dio 79.[78].41.2. Dio’s explicit reasoning is that if Macrinus had handed the throne on to a senatorial candidate, people would have believed his claims to have acted in self-defense rather than from ambition. This reasoning makes the parallel with Pertinax all the closer. On Dio’s rather low estimate of the actual talent of the Senate in his own generation, see Kemezis 2012, 402–5. See on this point now Davenport 2012b. Herodian’s account (4.13.7) of Macrinus weeping over Caracalla’s body immediately after the murder would seem to reflect Macrinus’ general attitude, although likely not any real specific actions, and may be based on a visual account of events circulated by him, for which see Potter 1999, 88–9. Dio 79.[78].27.1 (Parthian battle); 79.[78].29.2–3 (military pay), with Christol 1997, 47–9.

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least sense and appeared most alarming. Furthermore, Syria contained Septimius Severus’ in-laws, the one set of people best able to take advantage of that vulnerability. Difficult as Macrinus’ position was, and inept as his response appears to have been, his overthrow was still an act of considerable political skill, a fact that should be borne in mind when considering the reign of his successor. The spectacular end of Elagabalus’ reign, and the sensational stories that featured in subsequent historiography, are less relevant to our purposes here than the means by which his handlers were able to put him on the throne.164 Their coup, unlike those that raised Julianus, Macrinus and later Maximinus, was prepared at leisure, and Macrinus’ assassins were able to articulate an alternative and present a successor before rather than after doing the deed. A narrative of crisis, in the shape of Macrinus the usurper interfering with the passing on of Severan felicitas, proved more palatable than the older man’s various attempts to connect himself with earlier stages of the Antonine-Severan story. Elagabalus’ accession and reign can profitably be read not as an aberration, but as the continuation, and ultimately the failure, of techniques of self-presentation, narrative and otherwise, that had served the Severan dynasty well in the years since 193. Literary, inscriptional and material sources all reveal the persistence of key Severan motifs, in particular those of rediscovered heredity and divine protection from particular provincial cults, as well as the performative role-playing that had become so frequent under Caracalla. All of these elements are present and coexist from the very beginning. The teenage Elagabalus’ connection to his namesake god was, in the early stages, a distinct asset. His ceremonial role as priest at Emesa gave him the public stage on which soldiers first got to know him.165 It gave the youth recognition and identified him as someone with a unique relationship to the divine, but also, and crucially, it fed into the narrative that his supporters were fabricating of a hereditary link to Caracalla. At first glance, Elagabalus’ priestly role and Caracalla’s military charades seem to have little in 164

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For convenience, I will be using “Elagabalus” to refer to the emperor from 218 to 222 and “Elagabal” to refer to the Emesene god with whom he was associated. The question of whether his coup and the propaganda surrounding it were primarily the work of his grandmother Julia Maesa (as Herodian would have it) or of Gannys, Comazon and other men in her entourage (as appears from Dio) is beyond my scope here, although most of the points of detail in what follows will be taken from Herodian. For Elagabalus’ religious performances as his debut, see Hdn. 5.3.8, who gives a much more detailed account of the Emesene cult than does the parallel narrative in Dio (79.[78].31.2). It is notable that Herodian’s description of the Black Stone of Emesa comes at this point (5.3.5) and is positioned as an explanation of Elagabalus’ successful entry into the narrative. HA Macr. 9 gives an account very similar to, and probably derived from, Herodian.

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common, but one should recall that Caracalla had been assassinated while on a pilgrimage to a Syrian temple city, and had associated himself with several provincial cults over the course of his reign.166 The lack of specifically military content counted for less than the impact of the spectacle. Both Caracalla and Elagabalus were young men with a flair for theatrical performance; this similarity would have been all the more striking to soldiers who were already discontented with Macrinus, an older man with a far more restrained personal style. They were thus receptive when Elagabalus’ supporters started claiming that the youth was not only Caracalla’s cousin but his illegitimate son, and displaying pictures that highlighted supposed likenesses. This was a reprise before a different audience of Severus’ trick of appropriating a visual language and retroactively grafting family trees. In particular, the repeat performance was closely tied to the military narrative of the Severans as promoters of the soldiers’ welfare.167 This proved successful enough to win over a substantial part of the army and perhaps demoralize the rest. The subsequent battle against Macrinus, in which Elagabalus personally led his forces to victory, could only add meaning to the narrative of the new emperor as successor to the soldierly Caracalla and special favorite of the god of Emesa.168 Elagabalus’ reign needs to be understood against the background of this success, and ongoing Severan ruling practices. His would be the first of several reigns in which young emperors acted as figureheads for a sort of coalition government by the various senatorial, equestrian, court and military constituencies at the imperial center.169 The forces behind Elagabalus needed both to explain his rise to power and to redefine the role of emperor into something that, while recognizably part of the existing Roman idiom, could still be played by an adolescent who had not been raised as an heir apparent. The new emperor’s self-presentation as priest of Elagabal served this end: it had worked well during the period of the coup, and at least some of the powers in the new regime calculated it would work well in Rome as well. This was not the stroke of idiocy that one might suppose based on 166

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For the pilgrimage, see HA Carc. 6.6; Dio 79.[78].5.4, with Hekster and Kaizer 2012. The religious aspect of Caracalla’s self-presentation is fully covered by Rowan 2012, 110–63. Dirven 2007 makes the intriguing suggestion that the “priestly” costume that Elagabalus is shown wearing on coins is meant to evoke Caracalla’s military attire as well as Elagabalus’ sacerdotal role. In Herodian’s version (5.3.11) it is left to the soldiers to make the link between Elagabalus’ supposed parentage and his family’s immense wealth; once they have done so, it is they who actually approach Maesa. Dio (79.[78].32.3) has Gannys and company parade Elagabalus on the ramparts before the legionaries, referring to him as “the son of your benefactor” (εὐεργέτης). For Elagabalus’ one and only moment of military glory, see Dio 79.[78].38.4. See Potter 2008, 224–6, who points up the origins of the practice under Caracalla.

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ancient sources written in retrospect. In particular, one should not assume, as many modern accounts do, that the nature of Elagabal’s worship and the role of his priest were inherently alien and unacceptable to mainstream Roman religious culture, such that their promotion by the emperor must be explained by fanatical devotion that ran contrary to all political common sense.170 Elagabalus’ family were well-connected members of the elite with much experience of court life, and the success of their coup proves their skill at manipulating soldiers.171 The events of Elagabalus’ reign can be more convincingly reconstructed as the miscalculations of rational but fallible adults than as the personal folly of a deluded teenager. The idea of the emperor as Emesene priest continues to be present from his initial coup through the four years of his reign, becoming if anything more prominent in the last two years.172 The worship of Elagabal might have seemed like a more emphatic version of Severus’ maneuver of introducing the ancestral gods of Leptis into the Secular Games. Like Severus and like most of his subjects and the great majority of his soldiers, Elagabalus had a provincial home town, and his personal charisma could be linked to the gods of that home town at the same time that he maintained his relationship with the traditional gods of the Roman state.173 Judging from the numismatic and epigraphic evidence, Elagabalus’ “religious reforms” were more about positioning himself as a certain type of ruler than about promoting the god Elagabal for his own sake: hence we have abundant coins showing the emperor as priest and relatively few showing the stone itself.174 It looks not like evangelism, but political propaganda. As such, the emperor’s numismatic and epigraphic persona at this time still 170

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Thus Icks 2012, 60: “Whether [Elagabalus] had been brought up honouring the sun god, or whether he was a recent convert, the religious zeal which the emperor showed in honouring the deity cannot be interpreted as anything other than genuine. It is inconceivable that any ruler would impose such an ‘Oriental,’ ‘un-Roman’ god as the Emesene Elagabal on the Romans for purely political reasons.” Much is to be gained by the approach of Arrizabalaga y Prado 2010, 222–3, who treats Elagabalus’ accession to the Emesene priesthood as a conscious career choice made by a family that may still have wanted their son to pursue a political career in Rome. Arrizabalaga y Prado also treats the divine favor of Elagabal as an explanatory narrative of how his namesake became emperor, although for him the narrative is personally embraced by the emperor for psychological reasons and is opposed to the dynastic narrative of supposed descent from Caracalla. For an overview of coins with imagery related to Elagabal in the early years of the reign, see Icks 2012, 70–1. Icks goes on to emphasize (73–9) the increased prominence of sacerdotal imagery after 220, which he sees as the result of the emperor’s becoming older and less tractable. Rowan 2012, 201–13 sees less of a break at 220, and in general a less exclusive emphasis on the emperor’s sacerdotal role. For Elagabalus in the context of Severan religious self-presentation, see Rowan 2012, 164–216, who sees him as to a great extent fitting into the overall pattern of the dynasty. Lichtenberger 2011, 147–50 sees him as more of a deviation and emphasizes his displacement of traditional Roman gods. For proportions as found in hoards, see Rowan 2012, 166, who cites finds of emperor-as-priest imagery on 23% of imperial silver reverses as against less than 1% representing the Black Stone. She

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shows a consciousness of traditional imperial forms and suggests that the people who devised it wanted Elagabalus to be recognizable and acceptable to the audience as a Roman emperor, albeit one with a highly innovative sacerdotal role.175 The priestly role coexists with the narrative of descent from the Severan and Antonine dynasties, as well as with many traditional elements of the principate. Elagabalus, known at the time as Antoninus, apparently began his reign with a promise to the Senate to act in the traditions of Augustus and Marcus (Dio 80.[79].1.3). He would make plenty of appearances with a costume and manner more traditionally suited to a Roman emperor, and even Dio (80.[79].14.3) is forced to admit he did so perfectly creditably. It is the same literary sources, however, that give us our image of Elagabalus as a disastrous failure. They detail and condemn the performances by which he lived out his priestly role. These include most notably the emperor’s marriage to a Vestal Virgin, his leading of parades in which his meteorite-god “drove” a chariot, and his placement of Elagabal in symbolic and physical spaces hitherto reserved for Jupiter.176 They also accuse him of extremely transgressive sexual behavior and gender self-presentation, and it is these rather than the religious factors that are presented as the causes of his fall.177 It is not possible here to consider properly the origins or accuracy of this historiography, beyond stressing that it forms part of a counternarrative, or rather several counter-narratives, that began to emerge in the last year of Elagabalus’ reign and became dominant during that of Alexander Severus. Over the course of 221 and 222, substantial elements of the ruling elite began to promote Alexander as heir apparent, and eventually the Praetorian Guard obliged them by making him sole Augustus. This is explained in modern (and to a lesser degree ancient) historiography as a reaction to Elagabalus’ unpopularity. We should not automatically endorse this version

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does argue (176–8) that our figures may be distorted if coins portraying the stone were destroyed after 222, but it seems unlikely that any adjustment would eliminate the basic disparity between the two numbers. This is the characterization of Icks 2012, 72–8. Dio is explicit at 80.[79].11.1 that Elagabalus’ problem was not so much that he worshipped his new god strangely as that he gave him precedence over Jupiter (or, in the reading of Arrizabalaga y Prado 2010, 170–3, placed his statue physically close to that of Jupiter). All three major traditions agree that the key factor in Elagabalus’ fall was the hatred he inspired in the Praetorian Guard. This in turn is ascribed more to his sexual offenses and effeminacy than his religious practices. Most specific on the point is HA Hel. 5.1-3, but cf. Hdn. 5.8.1 and Dio 80.[79].17.1 (Xiph.). In general, our ancient sources do not bear out the modern tendency to make Elagabalus’ religious behavior the key factor in his fall, nor do they follow e.g. Rousselle 1988, 124–5 or Frey 1989, 15–27 in assuming that the sexual and religious offenses are connected through sacred prostitution or like practices. On the contrary, Dio 80.[79].11.1–2 (EV) makes an explicit distinction between Elagabalus’ religiously motivated circumcision and his sexually deviant desire to fully remove his male genitalia. For comparisons of the different literary narratives and the various forms of invective they employ, see Sommer 2004; Mader 2005 and Icks 2012, 92–122.

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of causality, and it may well be that interested parties fomented Elagabalus’ unpopularity during his lifetime and exaggerated it after his death.178 Nonethless, few emperors were as thoroughly repudiated after their deaths as Elagabalus, and much of Alexander’s self-presentation represents a conscious distancing of himself from his cousin.179 Given how similar the two youths were in age and background, differentiating them required a substantial shift of emphasis. In particular, Alexander’s reign emerges from our rather meager sources as a time when the Severan ruling idiom lost many of its distinguishing characteristics. What remains is a traditionalist style that evokes Antonine and earlier models while trying to adapt them to the very un-Antonine circumstances of a child emperor and rule by improvised and unstable coalitions of interest groups punctuated by violent coups.180 This meant in part embracing the senatorial narrative of decline and restoration. Thus the god Elagabal vanishes from the scene, and instead a remarkably prominent role is given to Jupiter, specifically Jupiter Ultor, who is to redress what are now presented as the tyrannies of the previous reign.181 Similarly, since Elagabalus is now to be condemned as alien and un-Roman, his successor avoids appealing to the narratives of provincial origin that had been part of the Severan dynastic style. Caracalla is still invoked as Alexander’s father, but both the name “Antoninus” and the performative aspects of his persona are dropped.182 There were also more concrete changes in ruling practices under Alexander. Prosopographical research suggests a renewed attention to the forms of senatorial seniority, and an unusual number of consulars from Severus’ era find themselves in prominent positions, including Cassius Dio

178 179 180 181 182

This is a thesis I intend to argue more fully in a future publication. Rowan 2012, 165–77 provides several interesting specifics regarding the memory sanctions against Elagabalus, including evidence for an unprecedented campaign against the god Elagabal. De Blois 2006 argues that scarcity of money reached a critical point under Alexander, and limited the possibilities for military action and euergetism. For Jupiter Ultor, see Rowan 2012, 223–33, who thinks it likely that Elagabal’s temple on the Palatine was rededicated to that cult. On Alexander’s coinage more generally, see also Manders 2004–5. For the paternity, see Hdn. 5.7.3, who is vague as to whether Alexander had also been presented as Caracalla’s son ever since 218, or whether the story was only put about when it became clear Elagabalus would need to be removed. Dio 80.[79].19.4, though brief and ironic, would seem to suggest the latter. The HA, which sometimes affirms explicitly that Elagabalus was Caracalla’s son (Carc. 9.2; Hel. 2.1) and is sometimes ambiguous (Macr. 6.7.; Hel. 1.4-5; 3.1), never suggests that the same might be true of Alexander. The alleged paternity is not mentioned in inscriptions until after Elagabalus’ death, on which see Icks 2012, 37. As evidence of the problematic nature of the name “Antoninus,” Rowan 2012, 175 cites several examples of inscriptions in which the damnatio against Elagabalus takes the form of erasing only that word, while leaving the rest of the nomenclature in place.

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himself.183 The prominence of the emperor’s mother and grandmother would also have harked back to Julia Domna, and by extension to the late-Antonine dynastic idiom. They were anything but the disturbing innovation they were seen as in scholarship of earlier generations.184 What this meant for the realities of power is hard to grasp. Alexander’s empire was ruled by a combination of the major political constituencies not much different from what had prevailed under Caracalla and Elagabalus, and it is probably a mistake to see the Senate as drastically improving its position within that combination. What it did gain, for the last time in its history other than a few months in 238, was a leading role in the empire’s public narrative. The 220s would be remembered, at least in some parts of the tradition, as the last years of stable rule before the onset of military anarchy.185 Much of this may be retrospective idealization. Dio is writing at the time, and he certainly is not happy with the state of things, but he did not have the benefit of hindsight from the reigns of Maximinus, Gordian III, Philip and so forth. To men who had experienced the 230s and 240s, the reign of Alexander had more than enough material for a pleasant story, and the Senate still played a prominent role in that story. For the middle decades of the third century, when people wanted to invoke an image of traditional Roman government, it would be Severan practices that they recalled, and their concrete memories would have been those of Alexander’s reign.186 The end of that reign, though, along with Dio’s pessimistic coda, indicate an important new trend in the interpretation of the Roman past: the army’s creation of an independent narrative that it was willing to take the initiative to assert.187 We have seen several times in this chapter the emergence of an aristocratic narrative of the growth of military power. The elites of the Severan period increasingly saw themselves as alienated from an army 183

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For specifics, see Syme 1971, 146–62; Potter 2004, 163–65. Davenport 2011 takes a more skeptical view, and it is indeed likely that any change under Alexander was more a matter of appearance than substance. It is also unclear how one should read Alexander’s marriage and its subsequent violent dissolution. Heil 2001, in the most recent thorough study of the evidence, cautions against assuming too aristocratic a pedigree for Sallustia Orbiana, or too prominent a political role for her father. The old thesis that the empresses’ prominence was a feature of increasing “orientalizing” of the Roman monarchy is convincingly rebutted by Kettenhofen 1979. For the numismatic selfpresentation of the various women, see Rowan 2011. On Julia Mamaea, see also Kosmetatou 2002, though her high estimate of Mamaea’s actual power is not shared here. As explicit in Victor 24.10. De Blois 2006, 46–7 points out that the future emperors Decius and Valerian were probably both consuls for the first time under Alexander. For the reign of Maximinus and the events of 238, see in general Loriot 1975 and Haegemans 2010. Haegemans presents sensible arguments against reading 235 as a sharp historical watershed, and my own concern here is only with the specific issue of how Maximinus’ elevation and relationship to the army were interpreted by literate elites.

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that was becoming greedy and unmanageable, and required propitiation through increasingly expensive gestures whose effects the civilian population felt and resented. Still, this was an aristocratic narrative, and it presupposed that the subordination of the armies was a natural state that could still be maintained, albeit at an increasingly ruinous cost. In the military coups and disorders of the 190s to 210s it was still primarily the aristocratic commanders who took the initiative, at least in their own minds. The public narrative, in which the army spontaneously acclaimed its new ruler, they could dismiss as a facade to be seen through by everyone who mattered.188 In 217, the soldiers had had excellent reasons of their own to hate Macrinus, but they had still only revolted when a faction of the aristocracy offered them a dynastic narrative to play out. In 235, when Alexander was assassinated, no such faction or narrative was present. Rather, it was enough for soldiers to decide that the young emperor’s promises of dynastic continuity did not compensate for the defeats he had incurred and seemed likely again to incur. They turned to a man who found it to his taste and advantage to be seen as one of their own, whether or not he actually had respectable equestrian antecedents.189 It is not the actual social position of Maximinus that made him something new; in status terms he was no lower born than Pertinax and came to the throne from a position perhaps no lower than Macrinus. Nonetheless, Herodian finds him profoundly alien in ways that had not been true for those emperors. This stems not from who he was but from how he seized and maintained power. Never before had a frontier army unseated a longserving emperor from an established dynasty, an emperor who appears to have been on good terms with all the other major political constituencies. They had done so, at least in Herodian’s telling, not because an ambitious aristocrat had manipulated them into furthering his agenda, but in response to an agenda of their own. This agenda consists not simply of demands for lax discipline and lavish donatives (though these are a factor) but also of a political ideology that requires an emperor who conforms to their ideas of a victorious war leader.190 The actual mechanics of Maximinus’ coup may 188 189 190

See on this point Campbell 1984, 282–7, also Birley 2007. For Maximinus’ background, see now Haegemans 2010, 149–56, with full references to earlier literature. The crucial scene in Herodian (6.8.5–7) consists of the soldiers assembling for military exercises and spontaneously proclaiming Maximinus as Augustus, which he initially refuses before enthusiastically accepting. Herodian is explicitly skeptical (6.8.5) as to whether Maximinus had planned the incident. However, the previous three pages have been devoted entirely to explaining the soldiers’ motivations for coming to dislike Alexander, and when Maximinus is introduced, all the emphasis remains on the soldiers and the reasons they admired him and thought he would make a better emperor than

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have had many similarities to earlier ones, but enough things were different that it makes Herodian tell a fundamentally different story, and that story in turn affects Herodian’s entire portrait of Maximinus. Throughout Books 7 and 8 Maximinus will remain exclusively connected with the military sphere. His relations with other parts of society will consist entirely of oppressing the population and finally provoking it to a revolt that, in Herodian’s telling, unites oppressed provincials with traditional elites. Herodian’s version is perhaps overly stark in its portrayal of the divisions between the various sides, but events do much to bear him out. The coup that brought the Severan dynasty down was a new and different sort of coup from the one that had brought it to power. For decades, the aristocracy had realized that their interests were different from those of the soldiers. It seems to be only at the end of Alexander’s reign that soldiers realized the same thing sufficiently to generate a counter-narrative of their own, one dominated by the rewarding of successful war leaders and the punishment of defeated ones.191 This story would be repeated over and over again, often simultaneously and discordantly, throughout the middle decades of the third century, and would work its way permanently into the self-image of the late Roman monarchy. This did not happen completely or all at once in 235. The reigns of Gordian III and Philip are in certain respects a return to late-Severan-style government by committee.192 However, for the rest of the third century, the language that had been innovative when Septimius Severus had devised it and integrated it into the old Antonine style would become itself the archaic object of nostalgia, except that fewer people would be interested in reviving it.

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Alexander. No mention is made of Maximinus’ own motivations, nor is the narrative ever focalized through him. Subsequently (6.9.4–5) when the troops around Alexander desert him and join Maximinus’ rebels, they are portrayed as already reluctant to fight for Alexander and easily swayed by their comrades in Maximinus’ army, but the new emperor himself takes no action beyond ordering his men to attack Alexander and promising them large financial rewards. The HA version (Mxmn. 7.4) is far briefer but ascribes the initiative either to Maximinus himself or to un-named tribuni barbari. Potter 1990, 13–14 links the deaths of Alexander, Gordian III and Philip to military defeats or failure to take personal command. See Potter 2004, 229–41.

chapter 3

Cassius Dio: the last annalist

In general, our information on the physical appearance of ancient historians is woefully inadequate. A partial exception to this rule, however, is the case of Cassius Dio. Specifically, we know that, at least into his forties, Dio retained all or most of his hair. This is known from an anecdote he tells of himself (77.[76].8.2–5 [Xiph.]). It takes place at a meeting of the Senate, when Dio and his fellow senators are hearing evidence about a plot against the Emperor Septimius Severus. As the testimony is read out, it is revealed that one of the suspects in the conspiracy is an un-named bald-headed senator. This causes a sort of subdued panic, as bald men and even those with sparse hair are terrified, while everyone else stares at them and tries to wish all suspicion off on to a given scapegoat. Eventually a suborned witness singles out a certain Baebius Marcellinus as the particular bald man in question, and Baebius is led away despite his pleas of innocence. And Dio adds that “I will not conceal what happened to me, even though it is quite absurd.” During the earlier moment of tension, our historian had felt impelled to check the top of his head with his hand, to make sure his hair was still there. This is a fine example of the kind of highly personal, even chatty, anecdote that Dio scatters throughout his contemporary narrative, which begins in his seventy-second book, during the reign of Commodus.1 Dio will tell us at different times about the cuisine of his ancestral home of Nicaea, about the frustration of being kept waiting by Caracalla while the emperor caroused, and about the expedients he and others were forced to contrive to avoid laughing at Commodus’ arena performances. All in all in the last eight books, “the events of Dio’s lifetime appear as a memoir of the governing class.”2 It is 1 2

For the larger thematic significance of the Baebius anecdote, see Gleason 2011, 54–6. For the quote, see Potter 2011, 331. For the various incidents, see 76.[75].15.3 (EV) (lake fish in Nicaea); 78.[77].17.3 (EV) (Caracalla’s rudeness); 73.[72].21.2 (Xiph.) (Commodus and laughter). Hidber 2004a stresses the unusually intrusive nature of Dio’s narrative persona overall. This feature has sometimes been criticized as a lack of objectivity or historical perspective, e.g. Schmidt 1997, 2594–6.

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a curious enough technique in itself. It is hard to think of another ancient historian of contemporary events who would step down from his pedestal in this way. Certainly neither Thucydides nor Sallust would have given us such information, though they were doubtless present at some of the events they described and had comparable emotional reactions. Dio’s anecdotal technique is all the more remarkable, however, when seen in the context of his entire work. Even if few ancient historians actually indulge in the kind of personal writing that Dio does, one can imagine why one might want to write contemporary history that way, and one can see Dio as someone who wanted to bear personal witness to the historical events of which he was a spectator. But why, if that is the case, did he find it necessary first to write seventy-one books describing the whole earlier history of Rome, events of which he had no personal experience and which he could not relate in anything like the same style? To phrase the question differently, how do Dio’s contemporary narrative, and the several other discrete narrative units into which his work is divided, function as parts of a larger whole with a single rhetorical purpose? Dio’s work, as we shall see, is unique in its scope and is in general a much more unusual literary project than moderns have usually recognized. It is a re-imagining of the entire history of the Roman people, and it emerges from the general Severan background, sketched in the last chapter, of frequently reconfigured narratives of the recent and distant past. My task in this chapter will be to place Dio in his Severan context, but my main focus in doing so will not be on his contemporary narrative. The later books will be considered, but only as part of a larger reading of the whole corpus. That reading will pay most attention to Dio’s late republican and Augustan books, as befits the unusual depth in which Dio treated those periods. This procedure may seem perverse – surely someone looking for Dio’s views on the Severan period should concentrate on his narrative of that period? There are several reasons for doing otherwise, one being that there is already much valuable scholarship on Dio as explicit witness to his own time.3 While assuredly Dio’s republican and Augustan narratives have not lacked capable interpreters, their significance as commentary on the Severan period remains to be properly explicated.4 What is still needed is an understanding of his work as a literary whole in its particular cultural context. What did it mean at this particular time and place for an author to 3 4

Of particular value are Millar 1964; Bering-Staschewski 1981; Schettino 2001; Gleason 2011. Certain sections of the work have been read in relative isolation as “paradigmatic” for Dio’s own time, notably the career of Augustus and the Maecenas speech in Book 52, for which see p.120 below.

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embark on this kind of history? How does the way he tells his story fit into Severan-era discourses of the Roman past and how one situated the contemporary world in relation to it? As we will see, Dio challenges the emperors of his time not only on their presentation of themselves, but on their interpretation of how all of Roman history works, on the origins and role of the monarch, and on the forces that drive change for good and for ill. The formal originality of Dio’s work has not always been acknowledged by modern scholarship. His techniques go well beyond the relatively constrained world of Antonine historiography as parodied by Lucian, and in a quite different direction from Appian, the most ambitious historian of the earlier age. Dio adopts a series of Roman historiographical traditions, including annalistic form and a senatorial narrative persona more generally, that had seemingly been defunct since Tacitus’ time. He then transfers these from a Latin to a Greek idiom and combines them with non-narrative devices such as political-theoretical excursuses and quasi-philosophical debates.5 The cultural implications of these formal choices will be considered at the end of the chapter, but for the moment I wish to focus on another unique feature of Dio’s text, namely its scope. His is the only work we know of from antiquity, lost or extant, to have embraced in such a detailed narrative both the entire republican period and a substantial stretch of the monarchical period.6 Other authors, most obviously Livy, had produced works that were much longer in terms of volume of text. Universal historians such as Diodorus or Nicolaus had covered a longer chronological span, thanks to the incorporation of large amounts of mythological and non-Greco-Roman material. No author, however, follows a single polity in detail through so many epochs. The literary ambition required to plan a single coherent narrative that included the careers of both Scipio Africanus and Antoninus Pius should not be understated. It is not a question simply of volume of research and composition. There are also the problems of technique 5

6

For Dio as continuing the annalistic tradition in Greek, see Flach 1973; Rich 1990, 4–5. Potter 2011, 333–4 argues that Dio writes in Greek as a conscious choice, to avoid invidious comparison with the authorized version of the past, as written by emperors in Latin. The closest competition would appear to have been Dio’s younger contemporary Asinius Quadratus (FGH 97), who covered roughly the same time span as Dio in fifteen books, thus less than a fifth of Dio’s total. For the content and scope of Quadratus’ work, see Zecchini 1998, 3014–18. Livy of course covered the reign of Augustus to some degree, but monarchical history is still distinctly subordinate to republican in the overall economy of his work, and the same is true for Appian and Florus. Velleius displays the reverse phenomenon, in that republican history is greatly compressed and attached to a more detailed narrative of the monarchical period. Dio’s roughly even balance between republican and monarchical history is not to my knowledge attested in any lost work of comparable scale. The late antique epitome tradition naturally functions very differently due to the much higher level of compression.

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and structure. How does one extract meaningful thematic or rhetorical unity in the face of such wide differences of subject matter, informational availability, political culture and so forth? It is difficult to imagine Livy describing Tiberius or Nero and still remaining the Livy we know. Similarly the particular excellences that Tacitus shows in the Annals would not likely have been suited to describing the Punic Wars. This does not mean that the authors in question could not have written about different periods than they did, only that it would have required talents different from those they display in their extant works. Assuredly Dio’s was an ambitious task, but he has not always received much credit for living up to these ambitions, or for being in any way more than the sum of his parts, which in turn have not always been highly rated. In the course of what remains the most important single analysis of Dio’s work, Fergus Millar concluded that “the long years of working through the whole of Roman history brought Dio to formulate no general historical views whatsoever . . . what he produced was a history whose justification lay simply in being itself, a continuous literary record which began at the beginning and went on as far as its author could take it.”7 Millar’s observation is based on his examination of the views on political and historical questions explicitly laid out both in Dio’s propria persona comments and in the speeches he gives to his characters, and to that extent it has much merit. Dio seldom if ever applies to any one incident the analytical acumen of a Polybius or a Thucydides, and he does not show the talent those historians do for condensing complex stretches of history into a compelling framework of causal explanation. At the detail level, Dio can indeed be conventional and sometimes downright banal, though he is not always so, and modern scholars have often unfairly censured him for failing in tasks he never attempted or contemplated.8 What is more relevant here, however, is the larger structural picture. Simply by virtue of constructing a narrative that embraced so many different eras of Roman history, Dio was inevitably faced with questions regarding the division and defining characteristics of those periods, their relationship to one another, the means by which the changes between them occurred 7

8

Millar 1964, 118, specifically challenged by Rich 1990, 5. The quoted material comes from the conclusion to Millar’s Chapter III, which aims to reconstruct Dio’s political outlook based on explicit statements in his work. It should be stressed that Millar’s book in general gives Dio considerably more credit for originality and intelligence than was common at the time it was written. Millar 1964, 73, at the start of the chapter that ends with the quotation above, compares Dio unfavorably with Polybius and Thucydides, but in a way very revealing of twentieth-century scholarly expectations of an ancient historian. Dio is said to lack either Polybius’ political-theoretical unity or Thucydides’ sensitivity to economic factors as driving historical events.

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and the ways in which these events might best be given literary form. Dio’s narrative choices constitute answers to these questions, sometimes explicit, sometimes implicit. In telling the story of the Roman people, Dio necessarily tells us what sort of story he thinks that is, and his views are by no means as conventional or superficial as his explicit statements might lead one to expect. This chapter will attempt a structural reading of Dio’s work as a whole, and will use that reading to highlight key characteristics of his narrative world. Especially important will be Dio’s periodization, the stages of change through which his world goes, and the very different ways in which it functions in different eras. The transitions to and from the late republican civil wars and the career of Octavian-Augustus, both of which receive disproportionate amounts of space in Dio’s overall economy, are crucial to understanding how he related Roman history as a whole to his contemporary situation.

Periodization and narrative modes The examination of Dio’s ideas about his own history is much hampered by the accidents of survival. Dio’s opening preface is almost entirely lost, and the one substantial fragment of it consists of rather vague claims about the historian’s wide reading, selectivity and veracity (Dio 1.2.1 (EM)). It seems likely that the preface originally contained some characterization of the entire work and specific remarks on structure, but as our text stands, we must look elsewhere for this information. The closest we have to a global statement of what Dio thought he was doing and why actually comes very late in the work, during his account of Commodus’ reign. In a relatively long aside that comes before his narrative of events leading up to that emperor’s death, Dio describes how he wrote a history of the wars that followed on that event. This work, he claims, was well received by Septimius Severus and others, which in turn inspired its author to write a history of “everything pertaining to the Romans” (73.[72].23 [Xiph.]). This passage is interesting for a great many reasons – its reference to civil wars as a spur to history, its invocation of Fortune as a patron, its almost gratuitous co-optation of Septimius Severus, of whom Dio elsewhere paints a very mixed picture – but it should not be read as Dio’s complete explanation of why he wrote. Leaving aside the question of whether any ancient historian ever gives a complete and transparent account of his motivation, this particular passage lacks so many of the conventional forms of authorial self-reference common in ancient historiography – most notably a justification of subject material – that it cannot serve as a substitute for whatever has been lost in the preface.

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Although we lack a single overall comment on periodization, what we do have are passages in which Dio marks epochs and indicates that his narrative is about to move into a new phase. There are in surviving Dio two such marked statements of a narrative watershed, both very brief: one comes shortly after Actium and the other after the death of Marcus Aurelius. Each one is followed after a certain narrative interval by a longer methodological statement about how Dio will deal with the historiographical challenges presented by the new era. The brief note after Actium runs as follows (Dio 52.1.1): These, then, were the deeds and experiences of the Romans under royal government (ἔν τε τῇ βάσιλείᾳ), under republican government (δημοκάάτίᾳ), and under dynasteiai, through seven hundred and twentyfive years. Thereafter they came once again under a properly monarchic government (μοναρχεῖσθαι αὖθις ἀκριβῶς ἤρξαντο), although Caesar [i.e. Octavian] did have an idea of laying down his arms and turning over government to the Senate and People (τὰ πράγματα τῇ τε γερουσίᾳ καὶ τῷ δήμῳ ἐπιτρἐψαι).

The critical point for our purposes is the three-part division of earlier history, and especially the distinction Dio draws between the dēmokratia of the free Republic and the late republican state of dynasteiai, which will be discussed below. Immediately after this formal break, Dio proceeds to a long set-piece debate in which Agrippa and Maecenas discuss their chief’s supposed plans to restore the Republic. Then comes a short interlude of annalistic narrative, followed by the start of Book 53, and a description of the new monarchical system of government that Augustus put in place in 27 bc. It is at the end of this long non-narrative section that Dio provides a methodological gloss on the epoch he had marked earlier. After assuring readers that the change to monarchy was certainly for the best, Dio observes that “events after this point, however, cannot be recounted (λεχθῆναι) in the same way as those before.”9 This, he explains, is due to informational problems. Important decisions are no longer taken in public or truthfully recorded, and those around the throne, who do know the truth, manipulate it so much that even information that happens to be correct cannot be recognized as such by the public. The problem for Dio is compounded by the growing size of the empire. The implications he draws for his own narrative are quite startling: 9

Dio 53.19.1–2. This is probably the most commented-on methodological passage in Dio, and is often cited for the informational problems of historians under the Principate more generally. Discussions include Gabba 1955, 325–30; Questa 1957, 38–9; Millar 1964, 37–8; Manuwald 1979, 94,105–6; Fechner 1986, 101–2; Reinhold and Swan 1990, 168; Rich 1990, 168; Freyburger-Galland 1992; Càssola 1993, 120; Hose 1994, 447; Noè 1994, 158–61; Escribano 1999, 188–9; Zimmermann 1999c, 48–51; Ando 2000, 126.

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Cassius Dio: the last annalist For these reasons I also will narrate events from this point, or as many of them as is necessary, just as they became known to the public (ὥς που καὶ δεδήμωται), whether they really happened that way or some other way (εἴτ’ ὄντως οὕτως εἴτε καὶ ἑτέρως πως ἔχει). To these, however, will be added where possible something of my own opinion (τῆς ἐμῆς δοξασίας), wherever the great amount that I have read, heard and seen (ἀνέγνων ἢ καὶ ἤκουσα ἢ καὶ εἶδον) allows me to bring up some further evidence over and above the general rumor (μᾶλλον ἢ τὸ θρυλούμενον).

This straightforward disclaimer of factual accuracy is remarkable in itself, in more ways than there is space here to consider. What is most important for our purposes is Dio’s explicit recognition that profound political changes call for a radically different kind of narrative. Whereas in other contexts Dio emphasizes the simple unity of his subject matter – “everything pertaining to the Romans” – here he draws attention to its heterogeneity. He also signals his own response to that heterogeneity. He will not flex his authorial muscles by imposing stylistic or methodological unity on his intractable material. Rather he will demonstrate his versatility by adapting to it. The second watershed comes two hundred years later, on the death of Marcus Aurelius, the one emperor whom Dio most idealizes. As he prepares to describe the reign of Commodus, Dio famously says that at that point conditions for Romans at the time ((72.[71].36.4 [EV] τῶν τε πραγμάτων τοῖς τότε ῾Ρωμαίοις) descended from a realm of gold to one of rust and iron. He adds, however, the curious thought that his own narrative does so as well (καὶ ἡμῖν νῦν καταπεσούσης τῆς ἱστορίας). This distinction should signal for us that this is more than just a statement of nostalgia for the lost Antonine age. Unless the statement is to be taken as redundant, Dio does not simply mean that he will now be describing wicked deeds instead of virtuous ones. Rather he means that his whole narrative method will be changed in a way that is distinct from, though analogous to, changes in the events he is describing. The immediately succeeding narrative makes it clear how different the events will be. Dio’s version of Commodus’ reign focuses heavily on his oppression of the aristocracy and his reliance on unsavory and corrupt favorites. It is only in the last phase of the reign, as Commodus in 192 embarks on the series of arena performances that are the backdrop to his overthrow, that Dio expands on the earlier methodological point about his narrative descending along with the political scene it described. Dio has been recounting some of the more ludicrous aspects of Commodus’ performance in the arena, including an incident wherein the emperor, dressed as Hercules, becomes thirsty and calls for chilled wine, which is brought to him in a cup shaped like a club, at which point the

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audience salutes him with a customary sympotic “toast.”10 As best we can tell from the surviving text, it is at this point that Dio cautions his readers not to suppose that he is lowering the tone of his history with such a story. However unseemly it may be, it was an action of the emperor’s that Dio personally witnessed and took part in, and he will include it on that basis alone. Furthermore, from this point on he will “take special care and narrate in detail (λεπτουργήσω καὶ λεπτολογήσω) the events of my own time, more so than previous matters” (73.[72].18.4 [Xiph.]). As with the earlier passage from Book 53, here there are new informational conditions, i.e. Dio’s status as an eyewitness, combined with the political watershed marked earlier with the “rust and iron” epigram. Unlike the earlier example, the political and informational changes have no direct causal relationship. It is coincidence that Commodus’ tyranny happened to coincide with Dio’s earliest political memories.11 In addition, the political break is not quite as complete as the introduction of the monarchy; there had after all been bad emperors before Commodus. Dio will gloss over these reservations, however. From here on out, his new mode of narration will concern itself almost exclusively with bad emperors and turmoil, so that it will seem as if Dio the eyewitness is inseparably linked to political misrule. In turn the fact that the Marcus-to-Commodus transition happens to correspond with our narrator’s own coming of age will reinforce readers’ sense of its importance as a watershed. The elaborate and parallel structures of the narrative watersheds of 27 bc and ad 180 suggest that they are not rhetorical gambits relevant only to their immediate situation, but are instead statements of real structural principles, and are intended to apply to the work as a whole. For Dio, the need to write differently about different periods is not just a problem to be overcome. It is an integral part of the kind of history he means to write. His overall rhetorical objective, whatever it may be, can be achieved only by telling one long story in several different ways, and by clearly signalling the 10

11

Dio 73.[72].18. The story of the “toast” (18.1–2) is found in the EV and in the Suda, but the subsequent apology (3–4) figures only in Xiphilinus, and it is possible that some further description of Commodus’ antics intervened between the two in Dio’s original. Even before giving us this formal notice, Dio has already begun to give us his own recollections and impressions of Commodus’ reign, especially the fall of the Condianus brothers (73.[72].6–7 [EV]), which must have happened in Dio’s late teens. In the narrative of events before his own lifetime, Dio also includes personal or privileged information where relevant. See 49.36.1–6 (Pannonia, which Octavian has just conquered, is a dreadful place, and Dio knows this because he has governed it); 68.27.3 (Xiph.) (poison-gas cavern that Trajan found in Babylonia similar to one Dio has seen in Phrygian Hierapolis); 69.1.3 (Xiph.) (Dio’s father, as governor of the province in which Trajan had died, heard a local account of his death).

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contrasts. As will be seen in the rest of this chapter, Dio follows through on his narratorial promises. The history of the Principate really will be told very differently from that of the late Republic, and that in turn is very different from what we can reconstruct of Dio’s mid- and- early-republican history. The contemporary portion is a different sort of thing altogether. These four divisions will be critical to my further analysis of Dio’s text, and I will be referring to them by the term “narrative modes.” These modes are not meant as a formal construct analogous to, say, annalistic year-structuring, nor would Dio himself, for all his self-consciouness, likely have conceived of them in quite as explicit terms as I do here.12 They are intended as a heuristic device to describe a particular feature of Dio’s text, namely the starkly different methods employed in the different divisions of his story. Although some of these differences are signalled in Dio’s explicit narratorial statements, their full extent only becomes clear on reading his narrative as a whole. Each of the four discernible modes – Republic, dynasteiai, Principate and contemporary – functions as its own domain within the overall story world.13 Each has its own modalities or rules for what sorts of events are knowable and worth telling, for what sorts of motivations and possibilities for action characters have and for what is the nature of the Roman commonwealth and its relationship to individuals. Literary techniques also differ greatly; each mode has its own way of deploying speeches, digressions, narrative asides, vivid or emotive descriptive passages and so forth. In some sense, of course, Dio’s practice is neither surprising nor new. He was far from the first historian to encounter the problem of periodization, and it would have been strange had the very real changes in Dio’s material not caused corresponding changes in his method. A brief sketch of some of Dio’s predecessors will suggest precedents for him, while at the same time making clear how unique both his problem and his solution were. In the Antonine era, several historians had narrated long stretches of republican history, most notably Appian but also Florus and Granius Licinianus. None of these figures, however, had given detailed treatments of post-Augustan history. Their key themes of imperial conquest and civil war reached a natural termination when the first princeps largely brought an end to both phenomena.14 It is notable, however, that both Appian and Florus made a 12 13

14

They also are not related to the literary modes that White 1973 adapts from Northrop Frye, which are primarily plot types. For the division of worlds into domains, see Doležel 1998, 128–32. Note that in Dio’s case, each domain calls for a quite different type of narrator, although they are all formally part of a single persona. For details of their end points, see Kemezis 2010, 307–13.

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curious decision to break chronological sequence by narrating the foreign conquests of the late Republic separately from the contemporaneous civil wars.15 That was one solution to the problem of diverse material that resisted being integrated into a literary unity. Moving outside of Roman subject matter, we can see that Arrian covered both the career of Alexander and the wars that took place after his death, but he did so in two separate works. Biographers, too, tended to stay on one or other side of the Republic– Principate divide. Suetonius, by including Julius Caesar among his Twelve, did stretch the boundary of the monarchical period, and the life of Caesar indeed contains a kind of narrative content not found in any other of the lives. Still, there is no sign that Suetonius considered going back further and integrating figures from the free Republic into his sequence. Plutarch, on the other hand, included no post-Augustan figures in his Parallel Lives. He had already covered the emperors from Augustus to Vitellius in an earlier work, but one might imagine him re-working that material in line with his new focus on comparative moral characteristics.16 Instead he seems to have thought of Roman emperors as an entirely different sort of biographical subject, about whom one said different things as part of a different literary project. The earlier Latin tradition provides a variety of approaches to questions of periodization. As best we can reconstruct the historians of the JulioClaudian and Flavian periods; they generally stuck to contemporary events without feeling any need to integrate their own time into a full-scale narrative of republican events.17 Pliny the Younger, when contemplating a historical work, assumed that one wrote on either older or contemporary subjects, but not both (Ep. 5.8.12–3). Velleius is a partial exception on a small scale, and his case is revealing. On the one hand, his narrative style in dealing with recent and contemporary events is very distinct from what he does with earlier periods. The later material is described in far greater detail and with a level of personal reminiscence that is comparable to what we see in Dio’s contemporary narrative. However, Velleius explicitly embraces the Augustan grand narrative whereby the Principate is a restored continuation

15

16

17

Florus (1.34.5) specifically justifies the chronological discontinuity on rhetorical grounds, because he does not want the virtuous aspects of the late republican period (i.e. the conquests) overshadowed by the civil wars. For comparisons of Plutarch’s aims and methodological statements in the surviving Galba and Otho with those in his later Parallel Lives, see Georgiadou 1998, also Bowersock 1998 and Stadter 2005 on the Caesars more generally. On the lost Latin historiography of this period, see Wilkes 1972; Devillers 2003.

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of the Republic, and as such he makes no formal break between the two and instead goes out of his way to emphasize continuities.18 Tacitus is the one surviving historian who is most similar to Dio in his outlook and literary form. Certainly any reader of the Annals will observe how different the Neronian books are from the Tiberian in their literary structure, general tone and prose style.19 These can be read either as the author’s developing technique or as adaptations to the personalities of his subjects. The latter view would be analogous to Dio’s narrative modes, but on a more detailed level tied to individual rulers. The changes within the Annals, however, are considerably less pronounced than what we see in Dio, and there is nothing in the surviving Histories comparable to Dio’s contemporary narrative mode. Furthermore, Tacitus’ works contain two notable unfulfilled promises – a history of Augustus’ reign and one of Nerva and Trajan. The latter especially would have called for an adulatory treatment completely alien to Tacitus’ work as we know it; one is not surprised that the work was never written. Similarly, Tacitus’ famous methodological aside at Ann. 4.33 shows how large a difference he saw between republican and monarchical historiography. He may have affected to envy those on the other side of the divide, but he was not about to cross it. Livy, on the other hand, is the one author whose problems of content and periodization were most analogous to Dio’s. Livy certainly marks watersheds, most notably at the start of his sixth book, and has changes in technique analogous to what we see in Dio, although once again there is nothing to suggest that Livy’s lost final books contained anything like the level of personal reminiscence Dio’s do.20 Livy did cross what we think of as the Republic–Principate divide by describing Augustus’ reign down to 9 bc, and he must have faced the practical informational problems to which Dio alludes in Book 53.21 Nonetheless, his case differed significantly from Dio’s. The only monarch he had to write about was a living (or perhaps recently 18 19 20

21

On this point see Gowing 2005, 34–48; 2007. See Syme 1958, 358–63, with particular attention to prose style; Sage 1990, 973–97. The opening of Book 6 is the only one of his various surviving internal prefaces that signals or implies a methodological change that is not explicitly dictated by the nature of the events being described. However, as Oakley 1997, 381–2 points out, Livy’s narrative in Book 6 reveals no real difference in his level of information relative to Book 5. Livy’s desire to present the Gallic Sack as a second founding for Rome (see 6.1.3 ab secunda origine) has led him to make a methodological assertion on which he will not follow through. The opening of Book 2 does in effect introduce the republican annalistic method of history, and might have found an echo in the final books. The openings of his third and fourth decades tend to concentrate more on the increase in the grandeur and the sheer volume of events narrated, rather than on any qualitative difference in how they will be told. On the stopping point, and on the nature of Livy’s narrative of Augustan events, see Syme 1959; Stadter 1972; Henderson 1998.

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dead and still revered) figure. Livy never described the end of a reign or a transfer of power and he, like Velleius, wrote at a time when the rhetoric of res publica restituta would inevitably shape one’s approach to the question of periodization.22 This survey could be extended back to include Dio’s earlier predecessors in his own language. One could consider Xenophon’s transition from continuing Thucydides to chronicling Aegean history more generally, or Polybius’ changes of gear from cursory earlier narrative to detailed history after 218 bc to later events in which he was personally involved. These would have suggested precedents to Dio, but none that applied specifically to his own situation or served as closely followed models. We have already seen that his chronological scope is unique among historians of Rome. His narrative modes, as I have labeled them, represent an equally unique solution, as I hope to show in the rest of this chapter. Dio’s technique of periodization is integrated into his overall rhetorical objectives such that differences and transitions among the various narrative modes do a great deal of big-picture explanatory work and in fact provide the answers to the most important questions Dio poses in his work about why the Republic fell, how Augustus restored stability and how that stability unraveled at the end of the second century. Dio often fails to give explicit answers to these questions, or provides what seem to us banal generalities. Neither does the course of his narrative make it clear how he sees the matter. As we will see later in this chapter, Dio certainly gives Octavian-Augustus great explicit credit for ending the chaos of the late Republic, but it is not self-evident from Dio’s narrative just how that ruler made the change happen. In fact, Dio’s picture of any given period tends to be quite static; he is considerably stronger in describing ongoing conditions than he is in accounting for change. Dio appears to describe several decades before Actium in one relatively unchanging manner, and then to adopt a completely different technique that applies continuously from 27 bc to ad 180. The explanation for the change is not fully stated in the methodological asides quoted above. Rather it is to be inferred from the contrast between the two modes, and as well as from the non-narrative material that comes between them. By concentrating on what makes the various different periods of Roman history different from one another, Dio

22

Our manuscripts do claim at Per. 121 that this and subsequent books were put out only after the death of Augustus, though this might be an inference of later editors or epitomators. It is not obvious why the line should be drawn at this point, since there would already have been plenty of sensitive material in Books 117–20, including the proscriptions, nor would it necessarily have been safer to write about Augustus in the early years of Tiberius’ reign than in the later years of Augustus’.

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frames and implicitly answers the questions of how change occurs and where continuity is to be located. The rest of this chapter will take us through the four principal narrative modes of Dio’s history. The first of these, the Republican, can only be examined briefly due to the fragmentary state of our evidence; nonetheless some key features emerge. These include notably a characterization of Roman successes as collective actions. The successes are furthered by extraordinary displays of virtue from individual leaders, but such displays are only possible because the overall political climate promotes heroic action in the public interest. At a point in the late second century bc that cannot be precisely determined from the surviving text, this mode gives way to the political dysfunction that Dio calls dynasteiai, a condition that will last up until Actium. In this mode collective action in the public interest ceases to be possible at all, and instead events are driven by conflicts between a very few key political figures. The political system is in effect paralyzed by a cycle of the dynasts’ ambition and their enemies’ resentment, such that dynasts can neither give effective expression to whatever personal virtues they possess, nor make constructive use of the power they are all fighting to acquire. All the dramatic action of the late Republican civil wars in fact causes little change, as the conditions described above persist. It is only Octavian’s victory that brings them to an end. However, as previously noted, Dio’s static, cyclical portrayal of the situation right up to Actium leaves us wondering how things could ever change. His answer to this question, significantly, comes not in narrative form but rather in two major non-narrative set pieces, the Agrippa–Maecenas debate of Book 52 and the political-theoretical excursus of Book 53. Major change thus comes not through Octavian’s virtue as embodied in his military victories, but rather through the system that he devised to incorporate the various elites of the empire into a monarchical government. It is this system that Dio intends the excursuses of Books 52 and 53 to describe, in a way that emphasizes its separateness from the world of narrative contingency found in the rest of his work. From the middle of Book 53 to the death of Marcus in Book 72, we enter the “Principate” mode, in which Dio will describe how the idealized system devised by Augustus was put into practice by his successors. Dio will dwell on the virtues and defects of individual rulers, but in doing so he will focus not on generalized personality characteristics, but rather on the particular elements that fulfil the requirements of Augustus’ system. In effect, Books 52–3 will lay out the standard according to which all subsequent emperors are judged. Dio will continue to emphasize the persistence of the Augustan system, its magistracies and relationships of mutual respect, and

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will make it into the one element of continuity through good emperors and bad until it reaches an ideal point under the best emperor of all, Marcus Aurelius. After his death in 180, however, the “eyewitness” mode comes into its own, and in this mode we see not simply bad emperors, but a failure of the Augustan system. The inability of the Severans to right the system stems not from their personal characteristics, but from a wider dysfunction analogous to the dynasteiai of the late Republic. It is with a pessimistic evocation of these deep structural problems that Dio ends his history in the reign of Alexander. In what follows, the principal features of each mode will be examined, but the most attention will be devoted to the late-Republican mode of dynasteiai and to the portrayal of Augustus as the man who brings it to an end. This period demands particular explanation because of the unusual amount of space Dio devotes to it; a quarter of his eighty books cover the period of Octavian-Augustus’ lifetime from 63 bc to ad 14. As many scholars have seen, this disproportionate attention is surely related to the Severan political situation. It is easy to see how the civil wars of the 190s and 210s appeared analogous to earlier disorders, and, as we have noted, Septimius Severus had made many explicit links between himself and Augustus. Dio’s own brief explanation of the genesis of his project, quoted above, implies strongly that the post-Commodan wars gave him the impulse to write history.23 I would suggest taking Dio at his word and going further. Although we cannot reconstruct the personal intentions of the historical Dio, it is possible and fruitful to read his entire history as the implied author’s response to his Severan context, one that required a full narrative of the Roman past to make its point. The great majority of that narrative covers ground that was developed more fully by earlier authors in both languages. Readers would naturally have asked what was new or original, what Dio was adding to the existing record. Dio might have given many answers, but the most interesting from our point of view relates to the Severan context. My last chapter has illustrated the increased contestation and re-interpretation of the narrative Roman past under the Severans. Dio’s technique focuses on critical aspects of this contestation. The emperors had put forth all sorts of ideas about how to divide up Roman history and what forces caused change. Was Commodus a continuation of his father or 23

It is notable that the methodological aside at 73.[72].23 (Xiph.) describes events that happened at some undefined point in the reign of Severus, but Dio contrives to place it at the one point in the Commodus narrative where the start of his writing and the outbreak of violence will seem most closely linked.

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something new? Were the Severans a new dynasty or a new generation of Antonines? Which of the emperors’ more distant predecessors should be evoked and how? How was the Republican legacy of conquest and instability to be handled? The emperors could not tell their own stories without rewriting the more distant past. The same, I will argue, holds true for Dio, but it is a very different story. Rather than emphasizing the transformative effects of particular rulers, Dio concentrates on the mechanisms through which they rule, and on the people who do the actual governing. For all that good emperors and bad emperors matter to Dio, his story remains one of himself and people like him, and I will conclude by examining how Dio puts forward himself and the senatorial order as the locus of true continuity and Romanness amid all of the tumult that he narrates.

Republic and dynasteiai A recent study of the first century after Augustus has shown how, by Tacitus’ time, what we call the Free Republic had left the realm of living memory and lost much of its symbolic potency.24 How much more must this have been the case a hundred years later? It is hard to imagine quite what a man in Dio’s position would have made of the middle Republic, and his surviving text does not help us as much as it might. The nearly 500 pages that survive from Dio’s first 35 books, covering from the regal period to 70 bc, turn out on examination to consist of a twelfth-century epitome by Zonaras and a series of short excerpts organized under the headings of “Embassies,” “Virtues and Vices” and “Pithy Sayings.” A full reconstruction and assessment of Dio’s narrative has yet to be attempted, although illuminating studies have been made of Dio’s attitude toward some key questions.25 Such an endeavor is not intended here; instead, I will highlight a few salient aspects of Dio’s Republican narrative mode that appear, judging from our fragments, to represent substantial differences from the dynasteia mode as seen in the earliest extant books. In the three-part periodization from the start of Book 52, Dio characterizes the period of the Free Republic as one of dēmokratia, as opposed to the basileia that preceded it and the dynasteiai and monarchia that follow it. Dēmokratia is consistently used by Dio, as well as Appian, to refer to what

24 25

Gowing 2005. See Fechner 1986 and Simons 2009, also the relevant sections of Hose 1994. For structural considerations, see Moscovich 1983.

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we would call the Roman Republican form of government.26 Dio clearly does not mean by this anything that a modern reader would call “democracy,” nor does he equate Rome’s political system with that of classical Athens. The key point seems to be rather that political power resides in a collectivity rather than an individual, and that decisions are made through public processes rather than through the private exercise of a ruler’s will. This political distinction is a key element of Dio’s characterization of the early and mid-Republic. During that period, Dio presents the Roman people as a viable collective actor that was generally capable of determining and pursuing its own interests rather than those of its leaders.27 The victories and expansion of the third and early- to- mid-second centuries are ascribed primarily to “the Romans,” and are analyzed in more or less “realistic” terms, such that the Romans are motivated primarily by a sense of what is expedient for their state as a whole, although more often than not they also seem to have the moral high ground. The start of the first Punic war, for instance, calls forth reasoning that is highly reminiscent of Thucydides.28 There were pretexts on either side for the war, having to do with Tarentum and Syracuse, and there was a chance event, in the shape of the Mamertines, that offered an immediate cause. But the truth, in Dio’s view, was that, given the growth of Roman power, the two peoples were no longer capable of peaceful co-existence, and were each motivated by an identical desire for increase, and by fear. Individual actors are not introduced until well after this train of reasoning is ended, and none of them before Hannibal seems to have a decisive influence or to be motivated by private concerns to bring about results that would not otherwise occur. The beginnings of the second and third Macedonian wars, the war against Antiochus III and the Achaean war are all considered through a similar lens.29 On the whole, the Romans in the third and early second centuries are portrayed as remarkably harmonious and, more importantly, such internal dissensions as exist do not exert a decisive influence on external events.30 26

27 28 29 30

See Espinosa Ruiz 1982, 79–84; Aalders 1986, 296–9; Freyburger-Galland 1997, 116–23; Kühn-Chen 2002, 195–201 for discussion of dēmokratia. For general discussion of the survival of the term well after the extinction of anything we would call a democracy, see De Ste. Croix 1981, 321–5. This is the overall thesis of Simons 2009, who attributes it to Dio’s use of Posidonius as a main source. As seen in the fragments of Book 11, along with Zonaras 8.8. On Dio and Thucydidean “realism,” see Strasburger 1977, 44–50; Hose 1994, 364–73. See Zon. 9.15–16 (Second Macedonian War); Zon. 9.19 (Antiochus); Dio 20.66 with Zon. 9.22 (Third Macedonian War); Dio 21.72 with Zon. 9.31 (Achaean War). Esp. Dio 13.52, where at the start of his narrative of the Second Punic War he refers to the homonoia of the Romans as allowing them to flourish amid a level of good fortune that would have made another

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Earlier periods of the Republic unsurprisingly see more conflict, but for Dio, the Struggle of the Orders is a rather anonymous affair based on genuine class concerns.31 A curious corollary to this emphasis on collective virtue is that it actually provides considerable opportunities for the display of individual excellence, inasmuch as one’s positive character traits allow one to do praiseworthy deeds in the service of the people as a whole. Thanks to the Excerpta Valesiana’s focus on virtues and vices, we have fragments of several character sketches of key figures from the mid-Republican period, including Fabricius, Marcellus, Scipio Africanus and Aemilius Paullus, and they are generally more idealizing than anything to be found in the complete late Republican narrative.32 Even allowing for the skewed nature of our sources, Dio seems to have given disproportionate attention to stories in which a heroic individual puts the good of the Republic before his own, such as Fabricius’ rejection of Pyrrhus’ bribe, or Paullus’ wishing that any divine disfavor consequent on his magnificent victories and triumph should strike him rather than the Republic.33 Selfishness on the part of leaders is certainly not unknown, nor is resentment of them by the populace, but it is generally the result of the individual characters of the people involved and their circumstances, rather than the prevalent and crippling condition it later becomes.34 Lastly, the fragments we have of speeches from Dio’s earlier books suggest a very different pattern from what we see in the surviving books. In the mid-republican period, speeches appear to have been more numerous and to have been arranged in more complex clusters of debate.35 Naturally,

31

32

33 34

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people reckless. This apparently came not too far before Dio’s extended and very positive character portrait of Hannibal (13.54), and Dio perhaps intended to cast the war as a contest between collective and individual excellence. See on these passages Simons 2009, 135–43. On the Struggle of the Orders, see Dio 4.17.1 (EM). This explanation does not include reference to tribunes or other popular leaders as artificially stirring up trouble, and while tribunes will certainly later be negatively portrayed as taking enthusiastic part in civil disorder (Zon. 7.15; Dio 5.22 (EM), see Fechner 1986, 206–10), it does not appear that they are manufacturing or exaggerating the popular grievances that are at the root of that disorder. See Dio 8.40 (Fabricius); 14.57.31 (Marcellus); 14.57.38 (Scipio Africanus); 20.67 (Paullus); 21.74.5 (Scipio Aemilianus). Non-Romans receiving the same treatment include Hannibal (13.54); Massinissa (15.57.50); Viriathus (22.73). Several of these receive full treatment in Simons 2009, 187–299. See Dio 9.40.34–8 (EM) (Speech of Fabricius); Zon. 9.24 (Paullus at his triumph). Thus the fate of Coriolanus (Dio 5.18.2 [EM]) is referred to his particular mixture of talents and faults, more than to the dynamics of the ongoing class struggle. The Scipios (19.63 [EV]) are the targets of general jealousy, but this seems more related to their disproportionate talents and achievements, exacerbated by the fact of their being brothers, than to a wider atmosphere of hostility to leading figures. For a discussion of Dio’s speeches generally, with considerable attention to fragmentary republican material, see Millar 1964, 78–83, although Millar’s argument that Dio’s speeches deal overwhelmingly

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their content varies, and they include the same sort of dramatic exchanges and pre-battle harangues found later in Dio, but they also include several multi-part debates over issues such as whether to restore the Tarquins, enter into war with Hannibal, destroy Carthage and so forth. It is difficult to reconstruct the content of the speeches. Our fragments from the Excerpta Maiana tend to consist of general statements that have little application to the particular situation. In this instance, however, content is less important than form. What matters for our purposes is that Dio chooses to dramatize a decision-making process based on apparently genuine deliberative oratory. There is no evidence that the speakers in these Republican debates are speaking in their own personal interests or those of men who control them, and they appear to believe more or less straightforwardly that the courses of action they advocate are in the public interest, usually for the reasons they state. It also appears that results of these debates are not pre-determined from an internal perspective, and that people act differently and positively based on reactions to speakers. Dio explicitly comments on the power of Appius Claudius, speaking against peace with Pyrrhus, to overcome the fear and favor caused by that general’s victories and bribes respectively (9.40.40 [EM]). These features of Dio’s Republican fragments are less interesting in themselves than for the contrast they make with his portrait of the later Republic. In the periodization he gives in Book 52, Dio refers to a period of dynasteiai, and he has by that point already used the word and its cognates at key political moments throughout his late Republican narrative.36 His usage

36

in generalities does not perhaps take full enough account of the bias introduced into the fragments by the compilers of the EM. It is not possible, given the uncertainty surrounding many fragments and Zonaras’ narrative, to give a definitive or exhaustive list of attested speeches in Dio’s republican books, but the following is a reasonably full sample: Arguments for and against the restoration of the Tarquins after their expulsion (Dio 3.12 [EM]; Zon. 7.12); Menenius Agrippa’s parable about the Revolt of the Body against the Belly (Dio 4.17.10–12 [EM]; Zon. 7.14); a short dramatic exchange between Coriolanus and his mother (Dio 5.18.8–12 [EM-Max. Conf.], Zon. 7.16); an address of Curtius’ before he leaps into his eponymous chasm (Dio 7.30.2–3 [EM]; Zon. 7.25); the trial of Rullianus before Papirius Cursor (Dio 8.36.1–7 [EM]); Samnite deliberations in the course of the Caudine Forks campaign (Dio 8.36.11–14 [EM]); a pre-battle speech apparently given by Laevinus before fighting Pyrrhus (Dio 9.40.14–16 [EM]); Pyrrhus’ advisors debate continuing the war, followed by speeches of Pyrrhus and Fabricius (Dio 9.40.30–38 [EM]; Zon. 8.4); Appius Claudius speaks against peace with Pyrrhus (Dio 9.40.40 [EM]; Zon. 8.4); a different Appius Claudius exhorts men before a naval battle, in indirect speech (Dio 11.43.11 [EM]); a multi-part Roman debate on whether to declare war against Hannibal and Carthage (Dio 13.55.1–9 [EM-Max. Conf.]; Zon. 8.22); remarks by Hannibal and Scipio before the Battle of the Trebia (Dio 14.57.4 [EM]; Zon. 8.23–24); a debate on giving Scipio Aemilianus a command against Carthage in spite of his youth (Dio 21.70.2–3 [Max. Conf. – John Damasc.]; Zon. 9.29); Roman debate on whether to destroy Carthage following Scipio’s victory in the third Punic war (Zon. 9.29). For full context for the use of dynasteia in Dio and earlier authors, see Martin 1979; Espinosa Ruiz 1982, 63–9; Freyburger-Galland 1996; 1997, 127–31. Also important are the discussions of Fechner

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is idiosyncratic and without full parallel in earlier authors. In effect he is combining two existing usages. The first is found particularly in Appian, who uses the word or its cognates very frequently in his narrative of the Civil Wars.37 For him it refers to one-man rule, or at most three-man rule in the case of the triumvirates, and it is always a personal attribute of the person who wields or desires it, rather than a political condition seen relative to those who live under it. Classical Greek authors, by contrast, especially Thucydides and Aristotle, use it to refer to an ongoing political condition in which a restricted group of oligarchs hold power without proper legal forms. For them it is a state under which a community lives rather than the attribute of an individual.38 Dio retains this older sense of a continuous political condition, but he still associates that state with a series of individual

37

38

1986, 154–63; Kühn-Chen 2002, 191–5 and especially Cordier 2003. For other instances, see Dio 24.83.4 (EV) (violence of Ti. Gracchus and Octavius more characteristic of dynasteia than dēmokratia); 37.22.2 (Cato the Younger sees dynasteia behind any form of political primacy); 45.11.2 (scene after Caesar’s assassination features ἐλευθερίας σχῆμα but δυναστείας ἔργα); 45.18.2 (Cicero begins ‘Philippic’ by claiming that he could endure neither dynasteia nor tyrannis); 47.39.2 (Philippi made out as a contest between supporters of dynasteia and those of isonomia). The term is used much less frequently after Book 52, but there are two significant instances from Dio’s contemporary narrative. See 76.[75].15.4 (EV), referring to Severus’ prefect Plautianus, and 78.[77].22.2 (Xiph.), referring to Theocritus, a figure from the reign of Caracalla. Earlier instances are at 5.23.3 (EM) (power of decemvirs characterized as dynasteia); 57.17.3 (Tiberius eliminates people he suspects of having prospects of dynasteia); 61.[61].10.2 (EV) (Seneca preaches hypocritically against the associates of dynastai). The instance at 63.[63].24.3, a passage from John of Antioch referring to Vindex, is more dubious. There are more than forty instances in the Civil Wars, starting with the observation at Civ.1.pr.2 that in the years after 133 there were dynasteiai much of the time (δυναστεῖαί τε ἦσαν ἤδη κατὰ πολλὰ). Unlike Dio, Appian does on at least one occasion (Civ. 4.17.134) use a cognate of dynasteia positively. The Assassins’ crime is made out to be all the worse because Caesar was δυνάστην μὲν οἷον οὐχ ἕτερον. Dio does have a similar personalized usage, but he uses it in the context of non-Roman powers, to refer either to petty rulers as opposed to grander basileis (e.g. 41.62.4 and 42.49.3, of nonRoman players in the war between Pompey and Caesar; 56.18.4, of German chieftains who join Arminius’ revolt), or to figures such as Agathocles (9.40.8) or Mithridates (36.1.1) who acquire power well in excess of what any traditional political position entitled them to. As far as I am aware, the term is never used in surviving Dio, or in Appian, to refer to Roman rule over other peoples, as it is frequently by Polybius (e.g. 1.4.1; 1.63.9; 2.2.3). At Thuc. 3.62.3 the Thebans argue that their city’s medizing should not be held against them, because it was the act of a dynasteia, an illegal government of a few, as opposed to a properly constituted oligarchic or democratic politeia. In Aristotle’s Politics, dynasteia figures in his scheme of constitutions. It is an undesirable form of oligarchy in which a small group of leading families rule without form of law: it is to oligarchy as tyranny is to monarchy and as despotism of the many is to democracy. It is a persistent and hereditary state that is the last stage of a process of concentration of wealth and consequently power within an oligarchy, rather than an exceptional circumstance dependent on one or a few persons. See Pol. 1292b10 with full elaboration at 1293a30–35. Aristotle does on occasion seem to be using dynasteia more loosely to refer to any unconstitutional seizure of power by a small group, as at 1307b5–20, when the constitution of Thurii is subverted by a small group of military leaders. Martin 1979, 238–41 makes an intriguing case that Dio’s use of dynasteia refers to commonalities Martin sees between political struggles in archaic Greek poleis and in late Republican Rome, but it appears unlikely that Dio would have had the same commonalities in mind when choosing the term.

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players who act independently. The continuous state consists not in the ongoing unconstitutional rule of one group, but in the constant and largely uninterrupted succession of individual dynasts who may not always have full control of the political process, but whose power struggles still prevent its proper operation.39 The use of dynasteia as a technical term, like the idea of narrative modes generally, is a critical construct of my own, not necessarily one Dio as author would have formulated in the same way. Nonetheless, it is based on a very conscious practice of Dio’s, namely the sharp differences between his midRepublican and late-Republican narratives. There is every reason to suppose that in a now lost book he signalled the break with a formal statement similar to those we have from his extant books. It is difficult to know when the break would have come, and the books covering the period from 146 to 69 are the worst preserved in the whole corpus.40 The word dynasteia and its cognates start to become common in fragments dealing with Gracchi, and we have Florus and Appian as witnesses that 133 was commonly seen as a watershed year, but it is possible that the formal break was later, during the careers of Marius and Sulla.41 Either way, it is crucial to realize that dynasteia as a condition does not just operate during periods where there is one identifiable individual, or a triumvirate, controlling the political process. As we shall see, it also operates in the in-between periods, such as that between Sulla’s death and the ascendancy of Pompey in the mid-60s.42 At those times, even when Rome is not subject to unconstitutional one-man rule, still the proper Republican system does not reassert itself, and power struggles between senior commanders continue to be the driving force of 39

40

41 42

Admittedly, Dio’s use of the plural in the example quoted above does suggest that dynasteiai are discrete situations presumably dependent on one dynast, but the context, in which it is compared with singular abstract-noun forms of government, suggests a continuous state where such situations operated. This is because Zonaras did not have Dio’s text at his disposal (or chose not to use it) for the years from 146 to 44 bc, and we are thus almost entirely dependent on the Constantinian Excerpta until our complete manuscripts pick up in 69 bc. The fragments are now the subject of a thorough commentary by Urso 2013. For dynasteia vocabulary and the Gracchi, see 24.83.4 (cited above) and 25.85.3 (EV) (C. Gracchus’ dynasteia makes even friends hate him). For the contrary position, see Fechner 1986, 156–7, who argues that one cannot read 52.1.1 as proposing a whole period of dynasteiai, precisely because there were in reality intervals in the years after the initial outbreak of violence in 133 when Republican government reverted to a more or less constitutional basis, and one could not identify any specific dynasts. It will be argued below that Dio’s portrayal of the early 60s contradicts Fechner’s view. Still, it is difficult to imagine how a “dynasteia without dynasts” framework could be sustained continuously across the decades from C. Gracchus’ death to the Social War, and for this reason I am uncertain that Dio followed Appian and Florus’ practice of marking a major watershed at 133.

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political events. A set of general conditions remain in place that are characteristic of the pre-Actium period as a whole and entirely different from the mid-Republic and before, and it is to these that we will now turn. Under dynasteiai, the three key aspects that were previously identified with the Republican narrative all effectively reverse themselves. Where before Dio emphasized the Romans’ unity of purpose and their effective collective action, now there is no Roman collective that can act in its own interest. Instead, all actions are seen in terms of the few dynasts. They act to extend their own power; all other actors either attach themselves to one or other dynast, or in a few cases take an oppositional stance.43 This point is expressed most simply by Dio’s comment on the formation of the First Triumvirate. As soon as Pompey, Caesar and Crassus came to an agreement, he claims, their various followers settled their differences and concentrated instead on turning their power to personal advantage.44 As Dio notes, “of the men of that time, none except Cato engaged in public business (τὰ κοινὰ ἔπραττεν) from pure motives or without some personal ambition for gain (καθαρῶς καὶ ἄνευ τινὸς ἰδίας πλεονεξίας).” Cato, and at times the Assassins, are credited with genuine patriotism, but more often the opponents of the dynasts are motivated by envious resentment (phthonos) and are capable only of thwarting the plans of individual dynasts. As we will see, Dio in this mode systematically portrays all genuinely public-spirited efforts at positive action as ineffective. The power-game aspect of the dynasteiai also has a paradoxical effect. In this mode, the moral characters of individual actors actually cease to have a determining effect on events. Under Dio’s version of dēmokratia, the Romans’ successes stemmed from their collective virtue, but that virtue found expression through individual actors, the great generals of the Republic. When they were able and virtuous, things went well; when they were incompetent or base, things went badly. Under the dynasteiai, by contrast, virtuous and base characters act more or less the same way, and it is impossible for things to go well, in the sense of the public interest being furthered. The only viable forms of action are the pursuit of power, motivated by a generic lust that is shared equally by all the dynasts, and the obstruction of that pursuit, motivated by 43

44

Lintott 1997, 2518–20 notes and deplores the domination of Dio’s narrative by power-struggles between the key figures, to the detriment of accurate and individuated portrayals of the various senatorial figures from Cicero and Cato on down. For a case-study of the years 49–46, see FreyburgerGalland, Hinard and Cordier 2002, xxxiv–xli. Dio 37.57.2–3. Note that this passage does not present the self-interested partisanship as a new phenomenon after 60. It had existed before, but what is new is that it results in generalized abuses of power as opposed to struggles against other similar parties.

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phthonos. This creates a logic from which the main characters cannot escape. Dio sees significant character differences between Caesar and Pompey, and between Antony and Octavian, but as we will see with the narrative of the Pharsalus campaign, these differences do not really affect the course of events, or cause the individuals to act much differently from one another. Any time a character is motivated by some virtue or other to act in a way that contravenes the rules of the power-struggle game, the action turns out to be ineffective. Equally, once dynasts gain power, they turn out to be unable to do anything with it, because a reaction sets in based on the phthonos of their fellows. Lastly, there is the question of rhetoric and its role. Dio’s dēmokratia mode, as we have seen, was full of genuine deliberative oratory. Under the dynasteiai, by contrast, speeches will be relatively sparse, and few if any of them will inform decisions that lead to effective action. Most of the speeches in Books 37–53 consist either of the dynasts presenting transparent lies or of figures such as Cicero making arguments that turn out to have no influence on the actual course of events. Dio’s purpose in relating these speeches is not, as before, to explain the reasoning and motivation behind key decisions. Rather he means to portray rhetoric itself, and how it functioned, what sorts of propaganda were effective, and how impotent more enlightened forms of discourse could be. At least the Latin-speaking portion of Dio’s audience would have thought of the late Republic as a golden age of political rhetoric, and even monoglot Greeks would know Cicero’s name if they knew no other Latin orator. Dio’s picture is very different, as we will see in several examples. For now it will suffice to glance briefly at Dio’s portrait of Cicero, a figure whose work he clearly knew well.45 Cicero is a figure of considerable, even exaggerated, prominence in Dio’s history, and his portrait not uniformly unsympathetic.46 Nonetheless, Dio goes out of his way to stress Cicero’s impotence and failure to have any decisive impact on events. The one moment when in reality Cicero’s rhetoric most clearly did have a decisive impact on events, the suppression of the Catilinarian conspiracy, gets little mention in Dio and no speeches.47 Dio does include a lengthy imitation of Ciceronean rhetoric, but it is not of the Catilinarians. 45

46

47

Important treatments of Dio’s Cicero include Millar 1964, 46–55 and Gowing 1992, 143–61; also Lintott 1997, 2513–9. Although all consider Dio basically hostile to Cicero, they also attest to Dio’s fascination with him. In particular, the consolation-dialogue between Cicero and Philiscus at 38.18–29 displays a degree of identification between Dio and Cicero, especially the philosopher’s suggestion (38.28.1) that Cicero write history in his retirement. On this point, see Appendix §1. Thus at Dio 37.35–6, we are told that Cicero, Caesar and Cato all delivered speeches on the punishment of Catiline’s associates, but no actual speeches are included. Dio adds at 37.42.1 that Catiline’s importance was exaggerated because of Cicero’s speeches. This may or may not be the

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Instead he much later includes a very long speech against Antony that contains material taken from several of the authentic Philippics.48 Dio’s version of the speech is if anything more futile than its real-life counterparts, and that for Dio is its purpose.

Pompey and the mid-60s One key feature of the dynasteiai-mode is that it operates continuously from the start of our surviving manuscripts of Dio, which take up in the early 60s, and start with a considerable stretch of material on the Third Mithridatic War and its various sideshows in the eastern Mediterranean. At the end of this account, Pompey is mentioned incidentally, at which point Dio makes a very abrupt transition to domestic affairs by saying that “I will now speak of how matters happened relative to him [i.e. Pompey],” after which there is a considerable excursus on the problem of piracy as it developed at this time, followed by an account of the political maneuvering that gained Pompey his command to deal with that problem.49 This political narrative gives us our first glimpse of how Dio sees Roman politics functioning at this point. The early 60s were not in reality a period that one would self-evidently characterize as anarchy or arbitrary rule. The state was operating under a revised form of Sulla’s political settlement, and there was no question of either a formal extra-constitutional government, like the Second Triumvirate, or an informal controlling junta, like the First. Nonetheless, Dio’s account in no way suggests a functioning free state of laws and public debate. On the contrary, the rise of Pompey is subject to the same kind of focus that will later be applied to the careers of Caesar and Octavian.50 As it survives to us, Book 36 begins with ten pages of military narrative in which Lucullus achieves some successes against Mithridates, but does not bring the war to a successful conclusion. The reasons for this relate to command structure. Lucullus is delayed by the need to rescue less competent subordinates; he is himself reluctant to put an end to the war that justifies his military position, and eventually he faces a mutiny shortly before a potentially

48 49 50

author’s real opinion, but it is difficult to imagine that he thought the Catilinarian conspiracy less important than the otherwise obscure senatorial debate into which he gratuitously inserts the Philippic and counter-Philippic in Books 45–6. For a list of correspondences, see Van Stekelenburg 1971, 79–87, with Gowing 1992, 238n. The wars are narrated in Dio 36.1–19, about 15 pages of Greek in the Loeb edition. The transition is at 36.20.1, with the excursus then running to 36.23.4. Note that Xiphilinus’ epitome, which begins with Book 36 of Dio, is said in its own manuscript title to be divided according to the “reigns of the Caesars,” and the first of those Caesars is not Augustus or Julius, but Pompey.

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decisive battle.51 This same theme will continue for much of the rest of the book, as it becomes clear that even Rome’s external politics are more about who will command than whom they will fight. The replacement of Lucullus and the prospect of Pompey’s new command against the pirates brings on a curious combination of paralysis in some areas, as commanders in the Mithridatic war refuse to co-operate with one another, and feverish action in others, as Metellus Creticus tries to squeeze glory and profit out of his namesake province before he is superseded by Pompey.52 It is the mention of Pompey in this context that allows Dio to return to the domestic scene, and to relate the progress of Pompey’s career, and how he obtained the naval command that has placed him over Metellus’ head. The political machinations surrounding that command give us our first fully surviving example of how public decision-making and discourse works under dynasteia, and it is not an edifying sight. What Dio gives us is an assembly-debate consisting of three speeches.53 The three speakers correspond to the three main types of actor in contemporary Roman politics as Dio sees it: the dynasts themselves, represented by Pompey; lesser men who further their own interest by serving dynasts, represented by Aulus Gabinius; and the optimate opposition, here in the person of the elder statesman Catulus. The debate consists first of Pompey declining the command, highly disingenuously, after which Gabinius proposes he be given it anyway, and a final speech by Catulus against Gabinius’ proposal proves ineffective. The first two speeches are clearly a sham, as is made clear beforehand, when Dio states that Pompey really did want the command, and that Gabinius’ motives were anything but public-spirited (36.24.4–5). Pompey’s speech (36.25) is in large part a recital of his own past victories. While these are ostensibly given as reasons why he should be excused further service, they give Gabinius an obvious opening to argue that Pompey is indispensable. Gabinius, in his turn, solemnly tells the crowd that they “must choose not what is to Pompey’s liking (τὸ τούτῳ

51 52 53

See Dio 36.8.3 and 36.12.3 (Lucullus rescues besieged colleagues); 36.3.1 and 36.16.1 (Lucullus accused of intentionally prolonging war); 36.14.2–4 (mutiny fomented by Clodius). Dio 36.17–20. The mutiny referred to above is also caused in part by the soldiers’ realization that the unpopular Lucullus is about to lose his command. The debate clearly draws in part on Cicero’s De imperio Cn. Pompei, which however addresses not Pompey’s command against the pirates in 67, but that against Mithridates in 66. For details of the correspondences, as well as references to Demosthenes, see now Rodgers 2008. Dio is making a conscious choice to make a big set-piece out of the earlier debate rather than the later; this may be to avoid having to include Cicero, who would complicate the stark representation of dynast, crony and obstructionist.

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κεχαρισμένον) but what is for the good of the city (τὸ τῇ πόλει συμφέρον)” (36.27.3). However, the optimates who oppose Gabinius and Pompey are not presented as much of an alternative. It is true that Dio concedes Catulus respect as someone who “always spoke and acted in the interests [of the Roman people].”54 The speech contains many arguments that are probably meant to sound public-spirited, especially after the hypocrisy of Pompey and the dissimulating bombast of Gabinius, but on many key points they are at odds with reality as presented elsewhere in Dio’s own narrative or his propria persona comments on the situation. Where Catulus argues from military practicalities, events prove him dead wrong. He claims that no single commander will be able to win a war against such a dispersed enemy, but in Dio’s extremely short narrative of the actual war, there will be no indication that geographical difficulties obstruct Pompey’s rapid victory.55 Similarly, his argument that several independent commanders will finish the war more decisively through competition with one another seems very weak in view of the immediately preceding external narrative of bickering and incompetence among the various eastern commanders.56 In fact, it is made clear before the debate that the optimates have no viable solution to the problem themselves, but “preferred to put up with anything whatsoever from the pirates rather than to entrust so great a command” to Pompey (36.24.1). Catulus’ more abstract arguments regarding subversion of the political system have a certain plausibility, but they do not represent any kind of solution to the problem at hand, one whose seriousness Dio has gone out of his way to underline. In a larger sense, the virtuous Catulus is just as much a part of the problem as the ambitious Pompey or the conniving Gabinius. His attitude is shared by a line, running through Cato to the Assassins, of senatorial opponents of the dynasts whose obstructionism is as reflexive and implacable as the ambition of the dynasts themselves. In the lead-up to the debate (36.24.6), Dio says that as much as Pompey wanted the command, he was anxious to avoid the envious resentment (epiphthonon) that would result from openly seeking it, which is why he went through the elaborate and 54 55

56

Dio 36.30.5. For a reading of the speech as presenting an idealized version of the Republic, see Fechner 1986, 43–8. Dio 36.35.2–36.4 (Catulus) vs. 36.37.3–5 (actual war). To the extent Dio’s spare account can be said to provide a cause for Pompey’s victory, he gives notable weight to the commander’s leniency as causing many pirates to surrender or defect. It is difficult to see such a policy emerging from the divided command structure advocated by Catulus, although Dio does not explicitly reason that way. See Dio 36.14–17 (Lucullus) and 36.18 (Metellus).

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largely ineffective charade of refusal. For the rest of Dio’s narrative down to Philippi, every time a dynast acts based on ambition (philotimia), it causes a reaction based on phthonos on the part of either the aristocracy, the people, or both. The system is almost Newtonian in its balance, except that rather than tending toward stable equilibrium, it produces a selectively paralyzed system in which, as we will see, no actions are possible other than those motivated by ambition and resentment. There is little or no opportunity for characters to serve the public interest or to apply their various excellences to wholly praiseworthy deeds. The few attempts at such action are generally ineffective. Perhaps the best example is Pompey’s celebrated surrender of his army on returning from the east in 63 (37.20.4–6). Dio is full of explicit praise for the move, which he attributes to Pompey’s recognizing the posthumous hatred Marius and Sulla had incurred, and for Pompey’s subsequent moderation in declining flattering honors that would have created phthonos. Before the book is done, however, Dio is describing (37.49–50) how Pompey’s post-war political agenda is obstructed by his enemies and senatorial optimates more generally, causing the general to conclude that “in reality he was not powerful, but had only the name and the envy resulting from his former power,” and to regret ever having given up his army. It is this lack of power, along with fear of Caesar’s potential and Crassus’ actual power, that drives Pompey to join them in the First Triumvirate.57 The creation of that coalition is thus a symptom rather than a cause of the political malaise, but it certainly does exacerbate the problem. The increasing concentration of power in the hands of fewer individuals also throws into sharper relief another feature of dynasteia, and this a paradoxical one, which is that even as those few central individuals become more and more important in sustaining the action, their actual character traits are of less significance than those of their Republican counterparts appear to have been.

Dynasteia and individual character It has been well observed that Dio, for all that his narrative relies heavily on individuals to move it along, is not actually that compelling of a character portraitist.58 While this was said in relation to the principate, it applies equally well to the late Republican period. Dio places immense, at times 57

58

Pompey’s reasons given at 37.56.4. Dio evidently sees this as analogous to the aftermath of Caesar’s assassination (see esp. 56.34 with detailed exposition in subsequent chapters) whereby the Senate refuses to give wholehearted backing to any of the major actors in the war over Mutina, which eventually drives Octavian to join Antony in the Second Triumvirate. See Reinhold and Swan 1990, 173, with the elaboration of Pelling 1997, 135–8.

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disproportionate, emphasis on Pompey, Caesar and Octavian as driving forces for events, but he does not seem especially interested in what might have been the unique psychological characteristics that made these men such important historical actors. Such key decisions as Pompey’s surrender of his army in 63, Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon or Octavian’s decision to enter the fray following his great-uncle’s assassination are all explained in terms of objective political circumstances or general moral considerations rather than anything specific to the man involved.59 This is not a failure of literary skill on Dio’s part, but rather a function of his form of narrative presentation. It is a paradoxical feature of the dynasteia-mode that in emphasizing the importance of a very few characters, it simultaneously de-emphasizes those characters’ individuality. This is because the mode imposes on its characters rules as to their behavior and motivations, and it is these rules rather than individual wills that are seen as the moving force behind events. The principals themselves are left with very little freedom of action. They can compete ruthlessly for power while employing varying degrees of dissimulation, but other forms of action are generally very ineffective. It is not that they have no character differences. Dio acknowledges differences in their characters and makes moral judgements on them, but he does not allow those differences a decisive role in the course of events. At most, individual characteristics can cause the principals to make different moves within the political game of dynasteia, but they cannot change the rules of that game for the better. Thus Pompey’s great gesture of 63 is explained in terms of rather impersonal motivations, but we might at least think Caesar would not have done the same. However, the gesture has limited effect either way: it fails to avert the jealousy and hatred of the elite, and while on one level events would of course have been different if Pompey had seized power, Dio gives us no reason to suppose that he would have done any better a job of holding it than Caesar will later do. 59

Thus at 37.20.3, Dio notes that Pompey’s surrendering of his army is all the more worthwhile because it was his deed alone and not the army’s, but his motives are explained purely in terms of reflections regarding Marius and Sulla that could have occurred to anyone, and are made to seem at least partly self-interested. The most detail Dio gives on Caesar’s motives at the start of the Civil War is at 40.60.1–2, where Caesar, after his campaigns, is seen to be afraid of falling into the hands of his enemies and thus looks for ways to prolong his command, which leads to his rapprochement with Curio and the latter’s political machinations on his behalf. The crossing into Italy and starting for Rome are mentioned briefly at 41.4.1, but Dio passes up the chance for a dramatic “alea iacta est moment” that would have emphasized Caesar’s particular boldness in taking a step at which others might have balked. Contrast Plut. Caes. 32.3–6; Suet. Div. Jul. 31–2; Appian Civ. 2.5.35, all of whom turn the crossing of the Rubicon into a vivid set-piece. See on this point Freyburger-Galland, Hinard and Cordier 2002, xxxii–xxxiii.

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The narrative of Caesar’s contrary decision in 49, the Pharsalus campaign that follows it, and his brief period of sole rule offers several important insights into the restrictions faced by Dio’s characters.60 The campaign itself takes up the whole of Book 41 of Dio, and is told in a heavily predetermined manner, with readers left in no doubt as to whose star is rising and whose is setting. In the early stages of the campaign in Italy, Pompey is consistently motivated by fear, and Dio draws a long comparison between the shameful aspect of his departure from Brindisi then and the glory of his return there in 63.61 The sense of the campaign as a foregone conclusion persists until the eve of the climactic battle.62 At that point Dio changes gear entirely and begins to stress the comparability of the two sides and how evenly matched they were. Until the very end, the battle narrative is full of elaborate parallelisms: the stakes were the same for both generals; the skill of Caesar’s army is explicitly offset by the size of Pompey’s; before the battle, both men reflect on a long string of their previous victories and Dio says that the speeches they gave were very similar in content.63 The battle-description itself is highly impressionistic, and in most cases the impressions are identical on both sides of the field. The battle begins with a somewhat absurd scene in which the identically armed soldiers in the two armies stare at each other but are reluctant to fight, thus causing both generals to sound trumpet calls. Unfortunately, the calls are the same on each side, thus further reminding the troops of the fratricidal nature of the encounter, and causing them to start crying and lamenting, until finally the less sentimental allied forces actually begin fighting.64 This sameness of description continues well past the point of simply invoking the pathetic 60

61 62

63

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Many of the same features of the text that I will be examining here are well brought out by Freyburger-Galland, Hinard and Cordier 2002, xli–xlvi. What they interpret as Dio’s tragic view of human nature, I see as a feature of this particular part of his narrative, a set of modalities that operate in only one domain of his narrative world. For Pompey’s fear, see 41.4.2; 41.6.1; 41.13.4. For the Brindisi comparison, see 41.13. There is a brief episode immediately after Caesar’s failure to take Dyrrhachium during which it is Pompey who is encouraged and Caesar dejected (41.50.4–51.1), but Dio takes advantage of some minor Caesarian successes to shift the momentum explicitly back to that side (52.2) immediately before beginning the final battle narrative. Plutarch’s parallel narratives (Pom. 60–73; Caes. 32–45) do considerably more to sustain tension thoughout and to stress Pompey’s strength and numerous chances for victory. See e.g. Pom. 64 (strength of Pompey’s army after retreat east); Caes. 39.5–40.2 (Caesar’s complete despair after Dyrrhachium). Dio 41.53.2–3 (stakes the same); 55.4 (advantages balance); 56–7 (pre-battle reflections and speeches). Millar 1964, 42–3 uses these antitheses as a prime example of Dio’s style at its most rhetorical, but there is a thematic significance to the rhetorical effect. Dio 41.58. Certain of the pathetic anecdotes in the Pharsalus narrative are clearly meant as a contrast with the later battle of Munda (43.37–8), at which the two sides are still identical, except now they are identically hardened to killing other Romans, and do so with mechanical ferocity, requring no help from allies or prompting from their commanders.

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topoi of civil war, and will extend to several anecdotes in which it is not specified which side the soldiers involved were on.65 It in fact renders the battle-description all but useless from a military point of view, since it naturally obscures whatever reasons there might have been for one side to defeat the other. Meaningful causal explanation is restricted to one clause (41.61.1): after a relatively even struggle for a while, Pompey’s forces finally give out because they are mostly “Asiatic and untrained,” a fact that Dio had previously ignored in his anxiety to illustrate the plight of Romans forced to slaughter other Romans. If one assumes that the Pharsalus narrative is an attempt at a conventional, “A leads to B leads to C” causal explanation of why Caesar won and Pompey lost, then one can only conclude that Dio is incompetent, since he so manifestly fails. But if Dio has failed to explain the causality of the battle, he has succeeded in expressing its relationship to the overall world of dynasteia in which it takes place, a world in which differences between two sides are less important than the ambient conditions that affect them both. In among the pre-battle parallel comparisons is a key statement on the point: [The two commanders] differed from each other in their intentions to the extent that Pompey desired to be second to no man, but Caesar to be the first of all, and that Pompey was anxious to receive honors from willing men, and to be pre-eminent among those who desired it, and to be liked, while it mattered to Caesar not at all if he ruled even over the unwilling, gave orders to those who hated him and honors to himself. However, as regards the deeds by which they hoped to achieve all the things that they wanted, they both acted alike, and necessarily so (ἀμφότεροι ὁμοίως καὶ ἀνάγκῃ ἐποίουν). For it was impossible for anyone to achieve those things unless he made war on his kinsmen, led foreigners against his own people, unjustly laying hands on great sums of money and murdering many people, even close friends. Thus even if they were different in their desires, still they were the same in terms of the actions by which they hoped to fulfil them (εἰ καὶ ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις διήλλαττον, ἀλλὰ ταῖς γε πράξεσι, δι’ ὧν ἀποπληρώσειν αὐτὰς ἤλπιζον, ὡμοιοῦντο). And for this reason neither would give any ground to the other, even as they put forward against each other allegations of just grievance, and in the end they came to battle. (41.54)

This is as neat a statement as can be found in Dio of the moral plight of the late Republic. In part, Dio is reacting against a tradition that sees Pharsalus 65

Dio 41.60.5–6. Immediately before this, Dio does make a distinction between the tactics of the two armies, in that Pompey’s army was weighted more toward cavalry and archers, while Caesar relied on legionary infantry, but little indication is given of how this might have decided the outcome.

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as the climactic showdown between tyranny and liberty.66 For Dio, that distinction is reserved for Philippi, a battle between dynasts and ordinary mortals.67 In a battle between two dynasts, Dio refuses to see any meaningful ideological stakes, even between two commanders who are very different. He sees many and different admirable traits in the two commanders, but there is no scope for those traits to develop into praiseworthy actions, as becomes clear in the sequel to the Pompeian wars, when we learn just how little Caesar is able to do with the power he has gained. Modern historians may be fascinated by the idea of Caesar as a reforming autocrat, and speculate as to what domestic measures he might have taken had he lived, but Dio is uninterested in the subject. In the two-and-a-half books it takes Dio to get from Pharsalus to the Ides of March, there is little material that deals with Caesar’s domestic initiatives purely for their own sake.68 About three times as much space is devoted to the ways in which Caesar celebrated his various victories and the honors and titles he accumulated.69 There is a striking contrast between the mastery that Caesar demonstrated in reaching sole power and the ineptitude he shows once he has it.70 His massive success has inspired an equally massive reaction, in which resentment at his ever-growing power and honors will inspire the plot against his life. Caesar attempts to forestall this reaction with a speech in Book 43 (§15–18) in which he stresses his benevolence, and reassures the Senate that he will enact no proscriptions or confiscations. Unlike Caesar’s 66

67

68 69

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This comes through most clearly in the statement that Pompey could not bear a superior, nor Caesar an equal. This is a version of a traditional epigram seen most prominently in Lucan 1.124–5, see also Caesar BC 1.4.4; Velleius 2.29.4; Seneca De Cons. ad Marc. 14.3 and Ep. 94.66; Florus 2.13.14. By far the most usual version, however, is the reverse of Dio’s, insisting that Pompey needed to be first and Caesar only second to none. Thus Dio seems to be simultaneously asserting that Caesar was the less democratic of the two, but denying that that fact is significant to how the battle should be assessed. Whether or not there is a common source for the one short epigram, that is emphatically not a reason to suppose that the rest of the evaluation is taken from the same source. The unified tradition clearly is that Pompey could not bear an equal (i.e. was the less democratic of the two), and Dio has intentionally reversed that and followed the reversed epigram with free composition of his own building on the point. See Rich 1989, 94. For the contrary view, that Dio has unintentionally reversed Livy’s presumed words on the subject, through a misconstruction of hic and ille, see Radicke 2003, 166. Dio makes an extended argument at 47.39 that Philippi was a real struggle between liberty and monarchy, even though the Republican side could never have prevailed in the long term. For a contrary argument, that he sees Pharsalus as the more significant, see Freyburger-Galland, Hinard and Cordier 2002, 72–3. Dio 43.25–6 and 46–51, about eight-and-a-half pages total, deal with Caesar’s political activity for 46 and 45–4 respectively. See 42.17–21 (post-Pharsalus honors in Rome); 43.14–24 (honors, triumph, games and dedications after Thapsus); 43.42–5 (further honors after Munda); 44.1–11 (further honors in 44 leading to assassination), about twenty-five pages total. The change is noted by Pelling 2006, 261, who sees Dio’s Caesar as an insufficiently astute reader of Pompey’s career.

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previous speeches, this one is to a great extent sincere. Dio fully admits Caesar’s famous clemency, and is prepared to consider it a genuine character trait. To move on from dynasteia, however, requires more than an absence of tyrannical intent, as the sequel makes clear. Starting in Book 43 and especially at the start of Book 44, Caesar goes from manipulator to dupe. Those who resent him begin to concoct ever more absurd honors for him, which in turn add to the resentment.71 Caesar is apparently oblivious to this process; his few attempts to mitigate the sting of his offensive selfpresentation are ineffectual, and the March conspiracy is made to seem just as much a foreordained conclusion as the Battle of Pharsalus. For Dio, the brief period of Caesar’s sole rule is not a break in the rules of dynasteia, or a possible exit from it. All enemies have been defeated, and an able and wellmeaning ruler is in place, but the condition persists. Figuring out how to end it is the responsibility of Caesar’s heir.

Octavian the dynast Eleven full books of Dio, about half of the fully extant text and 15 percent of the original, are devoted to the six-decade career of Octavian-Augustus.72 The disproportionate emphasis given to his period largely accounts for the uneven structure mentioned earlier in this chapter, and it is natural to suppose that any understanding of Dio’s work as a whole must take into account his view of this one towering figure. Modern scholars have not been slow to follow up this point, especially given how important Dio is as a source for the political history of Augustus’ reign. The overall sense of their work has been that Dio’s portrait is a positive one, and that he sees Octavian-Augustus as on the whole an admirable figure. Furthermore, it is most often agreed that Dio intends this portrait as a comment on the rulers of his own day, and that there are aspects of the first princeps’ rule that Dio is holding up as examples of a more enlightened form of monarchy than that practiced by the Severans.73 It is at this point that difficulties start to emerge, 71 72

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See especially Dio 44.7.3 (honors increasingly proposed in a spirit of mockery, or with the deliberate aim of arousing envy). This inelegant term seems to me necessary because “Octavian” and “Augustus” by themselves are needed to refer to those aspects of his behavior that are specific to the narrative modes of the dynasteiai and principate respectively, but one still needs some term to refer both to the historical figure, and to those aspects of him that remain constant in Dio’s portrait. The strongest version of this thesis is set forth in Reinhold and Swan 1990 and Swan 2004, 13–7; see also Giua 1983. Further discussion of my own modified view of Augustus’ paradigmatic nature can be found in Kemezis 2007. Millar 1964, 100–5 is far less ready to accept the paradigmatic thesis and prefers to see in Dio’s attitude “mixed acceptance and indignation.”

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however, since it must be acknowledged that Dio is no hagiographer and that the undeniably positive aspects of his portrait cannot be considered in isolation from the places in Dio where the hero’s character or political significance comes off as ambiguous at best. It is with this ambiguity in mind that I want to consider OctavianAugustus’ role in the scheme of narrative modes as I have laid it out. He is the only major character in Dio whose career crosses the gap between two modes, those of dynasteia and of the formal monarchy. Moreover, since that monarchy is his creation, the transition between those two modes should be in some sense his work, and this raises that main question to be addressed in this section. As I have envisioned them in this chapter, narrative modes are a distinctly static concept. To take the example of the dynasteia, the governing parameters of late Republican politics do not change significantly from at least the early 60s through the mid-40s and, as will be argued in this section, on to Actium in 31. This consistency serves as a deliberate counterpoint to the great mass of supposedly climactic and transformative events that constitute the surface reality of the period. But the problem will then arise of how one gets from one narrative mode to another. If all the players in the various wars are much the same, how can any one of them bring an end to the circular dynamic of ambition and envy? An obvious possibility is the emergence of a single transcendent and transformative figure who can escape from the operation of one set of rules and impose another. Our question then becomes: Is Dio’s Augustus such a figure? My argument in the next sections is that he is, but not in the way one might expect. Thanks to careful cultivation of Augustus’ image by that ruler and his successors, the resources lay at hand for Dio to tell the story of how providential forces selected a uniquely virtuous figure who restored all that was best about the Roman state after a long line of villains had brought it into distress, and then presided over a golden age founded on his personal excellence and divine associations. In the last chapter, we saw Septimius Severus promoting much of this image of the first emperor, and by extension of himself. This is not what Dio does. As will be argued here, Dio’s Octavian conforms largely to the rules of dynasteia, though without indulging in its worst excesses, while his Augustus lives in the same narrative domain as the emperors that follow him, and is by no means the greatest among them. The two aspects are not radically incompatible: Octavian-Augustus emerges as a credibly unified, if not very deeply drawn, character, but Dio alternately paints him in colors that blend into the two radically different backgrounds against which he is

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shown.74 As portrayed in the standard narrative sections of Dio, OctavianAugustus is the creature of his various times, not their creator. The period after Caesar’s assassination is the most complex in Dio’s narrative, in terms of the number of major players and the amount of simultaneous action. It does not lend itself easily to the tight focus on one or two key figures that had marked his treatment of the 60s and 50s. Nonetheless, it has been noted that Dio does his best to make the story into the Rise of Octavian. The heir of Caesar is given an artificial prominence during stretches of 44 and 43 when he was in reality still a secondary player, and there is considerable anticipation of the point in the next decade when the field will narrow to just him and Antony.75 Thus the new Caesar has a considerable role in determining the character of this part of the history, and there are ample opportunities to judge him in the role of aspirant to supreme power. The one thing we certainly do not see is the crusading youth of the Res gestae divi Augusti, answering the Republic’s repeated call to save her from villainous enemies. That figure will emerge only later in retrospective speeches. Here, what we get is a dynast among other dynasts. Our first introduction to Octavian as a major player comes at the start of Book 45. Julius Caesar is assassinated about halfway through the previous book, the remainder of which is dominated by two big speeches, Cicero’s in favor of an amnestydecree, and Antony’s funeral oration. After explaining several prodigies connected with the youth, which were what caused Caesar to adopt him in the first place, Dio describes how Octavian heard the news of Caesar’s death in Greece but hesitated to go into revolt (neōterizein) until informed that he was named as the dictator’s heir, from which point on he is boldness itself.76 Patriotic concerns certainly do not enter his head, and in fact Dio finds it unnecessary to supply an individual motivation at all. Octavian is striving for power because that is what one did at the time. Throughout the next thirteen years, Octavian will continue to act in the same fashion. To be sure, he will not be wicked, as dynasts go. We are told that the proscriptions were basically an idea of Antony’s and Lepidus’ for which he had little enthusiasm, although this is put down to his being young and having fewer enemies.77 It is also noted that he shared his 74 75 76 77

On the question of consistency in Dio’s portrait of Augustus, see Manuwald 1979, 273–84; Giua 1983; Rich 1989; Reinhold and Swan 1990; Noè 1994, 23–30. For details on this point, see Manuwald 1979, 66–9; Gowing 1992, 91–2, summarizing more extensive arguments. Dio 45.1–2 (prodigies and adoption); 45.3 (decision to take a public role). Dio 47.7.1–3. Dio adds that evidence for the point is that after the end of the triumvirate, Augustus never engaged in such behavior again. Gowing 1992, 257–9, 67 sees this as an example of Dio’s

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adoptive father’s lack of natural cruelty, but the inference is that, like Caesar, he is still constrained to engage in a good deal of destructive and immoral behavior. There are many whom he refrains from killing, and he manages to save a few people, but Dio’s overall account of the period still gives the impression of a dreadful situation which Octavian could do little to avoid, stop or mitigate.78 In the later stages, Dio devotes considerable space to Antony’s degeneration and brutality, which makes Octavian look better by comparison, but Octavian equally suffers when placed beside the Assassins, who, whatever the weaknesses of their own moral standing, are portrayed as genuine patriots who have real scruples about engaging in civil war.79 Dio also offers periodic summaries of the political situation in which it is made explicit that Octavian and his rivals exist on one political level, and the state as a whole exists on another, as the prize for which the dynasts compete.80 It is taken for granted that Octavian’s actions are dictated by a drive to power rather than any moral concerns. Thus when he sets about land-confiscations after Philippi (48.8), he is initially quite cavalier about expropriating from senators until he learns first that his actions are winning him little gratitude from the veterans, who think they are just getting their due, and then that he is creating in his victims resentment that cannot be

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excusing Octavian’s actions out of admiration for the Augustus he eventually becomes, citing the passage at 56.44.1–2 where after Augustus’ death those who remember the proscriptions are inclined to ascribe them to “the compulsion of circumstances” (τῇ τῶν πραγμάτων ἀνάγκῃ) and to judge him based on his subsequent behavior. However, Dio’s point is not so much that Octavian’s behavior was better, but rather that it was not indicative of his basic character, whereas for Antony it was. The inference is that at the time of the proscriptions, one could not make adequate moral judgements because everyone was compelled to behave in immoral ways regardless of character, whereas under the principate, people only commit crimes if they have vicious characters, which Augustus did not. Thus the posthumous apologists do not reason “Octavian behaved better than the others in the proscriptions, therefore he was a good man all along,” nor, like their counterparts in Tacitus (Ann. 1.9) do they claim that Octavian had purer motives (pietate erga parentem et necessitudine rei publicae). Rather they seek to exclude the period altogether from the final verdict, and Dio himself takes the occasion to comment not on the consistency of behavior but on the contrast. For our purposes here, whether or not Octavian-Augustus’ character changed meaningfully is less important than how Dio allows more or less scope for character to emerge depending on the political regime under which an individual is acting. For other readings of this passage relative to Tacitus, see Manuwald 1979, 131–67; Giua 1983. Gowing 1992 notes the contrast with Appian, who makes considerably more of the drama and pathos of the time, as opposed to Dio’s narrower focus on the political scene. This is certainly true, but Dio’s account is still considerably more vivid than that of a genuine apologist like Velleius (2.46–7) who manages to express pity for Octavian’s situation and to linger over one death only, that of Cicero, for which all the guilt is Antony’s. For the Assassins, see Dio 47.30.6 (Cassius’ humane treatment of Dolabella’s body and associates); 47.38.3 (Assassins reluctant to engage in battle because of citizen bloodshed); 47.42.3 (apparently sincere patriotic rhetoric before Philippi contrasted with Triumvirs). This respect for their public virtue would seem to be balanced by a real distaste for their ingratitude toward Caesar on a personal level: see 48.1.1. See e.g. Dio 45.11.2; 46.34.4; 47.1.1; 47.15.4; 47.39.2; 48.29.3.

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erased by military force. These two political considerations cause him to moderate his actions, but there is no indication that he was moved either by pity or by justice, which Dio clearly feels is all on the side of the landowners. Dio stays well away from the rhetorical devices whereby Octavian’s real-life propaganda turned his supporters into “the Republic” and all his enemies into “a faction.” As a dynast, Octavian faces all the limits on his scope of action that Caesar and his predecessors did. He can do little that is in the public interest, and even his external actions, such as invading Pannonia (49.36.1), are interpreted in terms of his pursuit of power on the domestic scene. He is enveloped in dissimulation, both toward political rivals and toward the public more generally. Dio extracts great pathos, for example, from the moment in 39 when Octavian and Antony become publicly reconciled with Sextus Pompey. Ordinary citizens believe in the peace and experience a mass emotional catharsis, as well as in many cases reunion with friends and relatives who had been on Sextus’ side. For the main players, however, Octavian very much included, it is made clear that they have been forced into reconciliation by their supporters, and that they will return to war at the first possible opportunity.81 On the crucial point of avoiding envy and resentment, Octavian starts poorly, in part because his task of land-confiscation puts him in a hopeless position. However, he survives the consequent reaction, in the shape of the Perusine War, and in the later stages does somewhat better. This is almost entirely due, however, to the errors of his opponent. Antony’s words and actions are made to seem pathologically self-destructive. The general’s own supporters in Rome try to conceal the extent of his failure against Parthia and even to suppress publication of his highly self-incriminating reports from Alexandria, but Octavian is usually able to make sure the truth gets out, and as a result the Roman people are considerably happier to have him.82 By the time we get to Actium, there is little doubt that Octavian is just as much master of the political and military scene as his great-uncle was before Pharsalus. Antony is morally debilitated, has lost key supporters, has demonstrated his own military fallibility in Parthia and is deluded in his own confidence (50.7). He has also lost the key battle for public opinion, 81

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For the rejoicing, see 48.37. It is made explicit at 48.36.2 that the principals came together “out of fear of each other’s forces and out of compulsion, on the one side [the triumvirs’] by the people, on the other by his supporters.” The account of the incident ends with the bald statement “So they postponed this war” (48.39.1). See Dio 49.32.1–2 (Octavian makes sure rumors of Antony’s Parthian disaster get full public play); 49.41.4 (Antony’s allies in Rome manage to suppress publication of his letters announcing gift of Roman provinces to Cleopatra’s children); 50.3.4–5 (Octavian reads Antony’s will to Senate and people, who are so indignant at its contents that nobody criticizes the illegality of Octavian’s action).

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especially on the cultural level. Dio has brought out both the “Greek” and “Eastern” strands of anti-Antonian propaganda to the extent that one cannot imagine the Roman people accepting Antony as their ruler even if he were to win at Actium.83 On the other hand, it is not clear that his opponent will fare better. The key question is whether Octavian will be able to avoid the reaction of phthonos that led to Julius Caesar’s downfall. The process by which Octavian in the late 30s created a consensus behind himself, attracted the support of tota Italia and laid the groundwork for successful one-man rule is underplayed in Dio’s account.84 The historian focuses heavily on Antony’s several self-inflicted wounds and Octavian’s competent exploitation of them, but other than that, all we see the future Augustus doing is avoiding major gaffes of his own while making popular gestures in the shape of civic improvements. Julius had done all of these things up until his final victory, and one might suspect that once Antony is no longer around to make him look good, Octavian will experience the same sudden loss of political common sense that we saw in Book 44. The speech that he gives before Actium is by no means encouraging in this respect. It is entirely focused on Antony: the first half consists of abuse of his character, while the second disparages his ability as a general and the quality of his fighting forces.85 What is missing is any reference to a future after the civil wars. Octavian does not promise future peace or prosperity, but only concludes with a final reminder to his troops of the rich plunder they will be in a position to take from their Egyptian enemies. Octavian is about as admirable as dynasts get, but that in itself shows the limitations of the species, and as of the final conquest of Egypt and Octavian’s triumph in the middle of Book 51, we have seen nothing to suggest that he is personally able to transcend those limitations. Readers know, of course, that Augustus will in fact clear the fence at which Julius fell, at least to the extent that he will live another forty years and die in bed. Furthermore, their experience of the wars of the 190s and the reign of Septimius Severus has conditioned their expectations of how Augustus’ achievements will be presented. Severus’ own programmatic use of Augustus will suggest the first princeps as builder, as founder of a dynasty, as conqueror of Eastern enemies, chastiser of miscreants, giver of Secular 83 84

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For pre-Actium propaganda as reflected in Dio, see Freyburger and Roddaz 1991, xlvi–liv. It is true that there are several passages where Octavian seems to be the object of displays of consensus, but similar incidents had occurred with several other dynasts, and there is no indication that Octavian will be able to build on the moment in a way that they had not. For details, see Lobur 2008, 37–8. Dio 50.24–6 (character); 50.27–30 (quality). On the paired speeches, see Freyburger and Roddaz 1991, xxvi–xxxi.

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Games and restorer of religious traditions. One can imagine how all of these aspects of the new ruler would contribute to ending the strife that has dominated the last twenty or so books of Dio’s narrative. Alternatively, those whose memories of the 190s and 200s are less favorable can imagine a continuation in which the problems are papered over rather than really solved, in which Augustus features as the suppressor of freedom, who faces too much opposition from resentful senators or underlings and intrigue within his own family ever to achieve a properly stable equilibrium before dying and handing the throne on to successors who are even worse. Dio’s portrait of Octavian thus far has rather suggested this latter possibility, especially when one considers the historian’s consistent refusal to make Caesar’s heir into the Republic’s champion, and how that must have contrasted with the figure promoted by post-civil-war Severan propaganda. Whether Dio makes that choice will presumably become clear quite rapidly once one sees how he handles the narrative of Augustus’ early years in sole control of the Roman Empire. It is here that Dio’s surprise comes in, however. His readers are not to get an immediate transition to this next phase of the narrative. Instead, the answer to how the state finds its way out of dynasteia will come in a non-narrative form, specifically the two large excursuses that take up nearly all of Book 52 and the first half of Book 53.

Ideal states, continuity and change Books 52 and 53 of Dio, which cover the years from 29 to 27 bc, are among the most studied in his entire corpus. This attention reflects their unique content, which should be briefly summarized before we proceed. After Book 51 has covered the immediate aftermath of Actium and provided some annalistic material for the years 30 and 29, Book 52 begins with the statement of periodization quoted earlier in this chapter, and then immediately moves on to an extraordinary scene. Octavian, we are told, contemplated at this point giving up power, and asked the advice of his two closest associates, Agrippa and Maecenas. The great bulk of the book then consists of their responses. Agrippa in a long speech favors the renunciation of power and the restoration of dēmokratia, while Maecenas in a still longer one urges the permanent establishment of monarchy and makes a series of suggestions about what institutions his master should create for the new regime. There is then a certain amount of annalistic material that finishes out Book 52 and begins Book 53 before we are in the year 27, and we get another set-piece. This one consists of Octavian giving a highly mendacious speech in the Senate pretending to renounce power. After

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the Senate unanimously demands that he remain in place, he accedes. There follows a description of how he redefined the forms and titles of the Republican government, and formulated his own monarchical role and the administrative roles that senators would hold in the new order. Then there is the methodological excursus that I have already quoted on the difficulties of finding accurate information within a monarchical state, and with that we return to the annalistic narrative, though now in what I have termed the “principate” mode. These passages have been approached from an exceedingly wide variety of critical perspectives. In particular, Maecenas’ speech has variously been interpreted as a propaganda piece addressing specific controversies of the author’s own time;86 or as an ostensibly credible dramatization of the actions and motivations of the historical Augustus.87 The first of these approaches, that relates individual parts of the speech to political circumstances of Dio’s day, has proven fruitful, but there are many aspects of the speech that it cannot account for. Similarly, the second approach runs up against problems in the many anachronisms committed by Maecenas, notably his suggestion of an empire-wide extension of citizenship.88 Nonetheless, that approach does well to insist that the speech must have a reason for being placed where it is, and a specific function within the overall narrative, as opposed to being a detachable rhetorical exercise. Located as they are, the Agrippa–Maecenas debate and the excursus of Book 53 represent in effect the centerpiece of Dio’s account of the late Republican and Augustan eras, and we have already noted the disproportionate importance that period occupies in the overall economy of Dio’s 86

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On the whole the most common position. It is usually traced back to Meyer 1891, though Meyer somewhat eccentrically read the speech as advocating absolutist monarchy in opposition to senatorial conservatism. By far the more frequent (and better supported) reading is that Maecenas’ suggestions are basically pro-senatorial relative to the realities of late Severan government, in particular that he advocates that the Senate maintain prerogatives and office-holding monopolies that were in practice gone or endangered by the 220s. For this interpretation, see Bleicken 1962; Millar 1964, 102–18; Espinosa Ruiz 1982, 302–406; Reinhold 1986, 219–21; De Blois 1995 and 1998b; Favuzzi 1996. The logical corollary, that Agrippa is in some sense a straw man, and that his arguments are not intended to be persuasive, is implicitly or explicitly endorsed in much of this scholarship. Exceptions include Berrigan 1968 and Fechner 1986, 71–86, both of whom consider Agrippa’s arguments in some sense the stronger. For more complex analyses of the relationship between the two speeches, see Espinosa Ruiz 1982, 91–122, Escribano 1999, 175–84 and Markov 2013. Originally argued by Hammond 1932, and recently again by Schmidt 1999. Steidle 1988 and Rich 1989, 98–101 both allow for dramatic verisimilitude, although acknowledging to some degree the Severan context and anachronisms. See Dio 52.19.6, τῆς πολιτείας πᾶσί σφισι μεταδοθῆναι, translated misleadingly in the Cary-Foster Loeb. Schmidt 1999, 113–14 is unconvincing in defense of the passage as referring to Augustan-era controversies.

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work. As such, they can be seen as interpretive keys to the work as a whole. Their content is, on its face, extraordinary. The Agrippa–Maecenas debate is the longest stretch of direct discourse in Dio, and one of the longest in surviving ancient historiography.89 Maecenas’ speech quickly moves out of the realm of deliberative oratory tied to a given situation, and instead ventures into that of political theory or commentary. Similarly, the description of magistracies in Book 53 is comparable to antiquarian or ethnographic digressions in other historians, but is remarkable for its length, its technical detail, and the fact that it describes not a foreign or obsolete institution but one that readers are still living under. Above all, however, there is the structural issue. These are non-narrative elements, but they are placed at a moment of critical narrative transition. Right down to Actium, we have been in the world of the dynasteiai, and we have been given no real idea how Dio will portray Octavian’s eventual escape from that condition. By Book 54, however, we will be into the “principate” mode, and Augustus will be functioning fully within it, with no real sign of how he got there. Something has happened in the interval, but neither of Dio’s standard narrative modes are capable of explaining what that something is. To do that, Dio has to go entirely outside of ordinary generic practice. The departure is not simply a matter of convenience, but reflects Dio’s view of the relationship between, on the one hand, the turbulent political drama that makes up ordinary narrative history and, on the other, what he considers to be the underlying realities of the Roman state. As we have already seen with his narrative of Pharsalus, Dio is at times quite willing to forsake detailed causal narrative in order to give an overall impression of an event’s nature and significance. Here again, how Octavian ended the anarchy of dynasteia is less important to Dio than properly understanding exactly what it was he did. This is a reflection of the Severan context: invoking Augustus’ legacy was a fairly obvious move during or just after an outbreak of civil war and political instability. But what was that legacy? What did it mean to follow Augustus’ example? For Severus, it meant imposing peace by violence and force of personality, leaving one’s mark on the physical landscape of Rome, and ensuring dynastic succession. For Dio, as we will see, it means something quite different, namely the establishment of a stable monarchical society in which the ruler has a well regulated relationship with an elite that in 89

It runs to 53 pages of Greek in the Loeb edition, plus a lacuna equivalent to one page of the manuscript. If the Philippic of Cicero at the end of Book 45 and Calenus’ reply at the start of Book 46 are taken together, they make 54 pages. Each of them by itself is longer than any other speech in surviving Dio.

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turn represents continuity with earlier Roman tradition. The non-narrative sections of Book 52 and 53 set forth Dio’s view of what meaningful historical change and continuity consist of, rather than what makes them happen. The speeches of Book 52 are introduced in a way that emphasizes their separateness from all that goes before. As argued above, the speeches in the late Republican section of Dio are generally not real deliberative oratory, but are meant to reflect the historian’s idea of what the propaganda of dynasteia was like. They therefore represent a kind of political theater that takes place on public or quasi-public occasions, and the narrator does not need to be omniscient or even uniquely well informed in order to know their contents.90 Thus when, at the start of Book 52, he finds it necessary to explain that Octavian shared his thoughts with Agrippa and Maecenas because they were his close confidants, this signals a move into a new kind of narration.91 Most of Agrippa’s speech and the start of Maecenas’ are reminiscent of the early- and mid-Republican form of deliberative oratory.92 Both men claim to be setting out the course of action that is expedient for Octavian and there is no suggestion that they are insincere, like Pompey and Gabinius, or irrelevant, like Catulus and Cicero. It would be a mistake, however, to see the debate as a genuine attempt to evaluate either the morality or the practicality of Octavian’s decision, still less of the Roman monarchy more generally. In particular, to label Dio a “monarchist” based on Maecenas’ apparent victory is to misunderstand political discourse in the high empire. In Dio’s own world, monarchy had long ceased to be something one was for or against. The practical workings and ideological basis of monarchy, however, were still very much live issues, and the speeches are more about establishing the terms of discourse than about advocating positions. On what basis is a monarchical state to be judged? What sorts of merits and defects does one associate with good and bad monarchies? 90

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This does not of course mean that the real author Dio is transmitting the contents of actual speeches. All of these speeches can be treated as Dio’s free compositions, but there is an important difference in his narratorial stance. See Hidber 2004a for the rarity of omniscient narration in Dio more generally. Dio 52.1.2. For a contrary view, that Dio must have known of a tradition of at least Agrippa advocating a relinquishing of power, see Rich 1989, 98–9. There are two other notable instances in which Dio’s narrator reports what are ostensibly private conversations to which he could not reasonably have had access: the dialogue of consolation between Cicero and Philiscus in Book 38 and Augustus and Livia’s discussion of clemency in Book 55. Both of those passages are generalized and rather abstract discussions that are clearly meant to apply outside of the immediate narrative context. On the deliberative pragmatism of the debate, see Hose 1994, 396–7. Agrippa begins his speech (52.2.1–2) with a protestation that he is advocating a course that is advantageous (ὠφέλιμος) to Octavian, and nothing in the rest of the speech suggests he has an ulterior motive. The beginning of Maecenas’ speech has been lost in a lacuna, but at 52.15.1 he claims that what he is suggesting will be “noble and useful” (καλὰ καὶ χρήσιμα) to both Octavian and “the city.”

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In a sense, the first portion of the debate is inconclusive. Agrippa suggests a series of reasons why monarchical states do not work well – citizens are unwilling to serve the state, judges give unfair decisions, royal officials must necessarily be either dangerous or incompetent – and then asserts that in “democracies” the opposite is true (Dio 52.4–9). Agrippa’s positive suggestions are very abstract, and often his reasoning is more reminiscent of idealized Athenian democracy than of the functioning Republican government as Dio imagined it.93 In particular, he has nothing to say about the specific problems of dynasteia and how one emerges from them, and in several instances Dio’s narrator has made propria persona statements that specifically contradict things Agrippa says.94 Agrippa seems strikingly ignorant of the history through which he has just lived. Maecenas will do considerably better on this score, and the first part of his speech fully reflects the realities of the late Republic as portrayed by Dio. He takes it for granted that the Republic has degenerated into mob rule (52.14.3), which is a selfevidently bad thing that needs to be suppressed. What is needed is that “true” freedom and democracy should be restored by a single ruler working in close co-operation with the upper classes and systematically excluding everyone else from decision-making. Thus a monarchy must be established, and a new hierarchical social system for it to operate within. In a further descent into realism Maecenas notes that any other course is unsafe, since they have already held power too long and made too many enemies to retire to private life.95 Agrippa’s objections to monarchy are less easily disposed of, however. He has pointed out a series of problems that are familiar from both Greek and Roman historiography: lack of patriotism in monarchical states, the alienation of the “best” people and the promotion of the “worst.” Maecenas does not argue these points away. They remain important issues throughout 93

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In particular, Agrippa’s language is very egalitarian, and he often advocates giving power to the dēmos without any suggestion of a hierarchy or a distinction between assemblies and the Senate. One is therefore somewhat taken aback when he claims (52.8.4–7) that one of the bad things about tyrants is that they appoint lower-class persons rather than aristocrats to positions of responsibility. For the “Greek” flavor of Agrippa’s suggestions, see McKechnie 1981. The most notable expressions of the narrator’s views are at 44.2 (anticipating assassination of Caesar) and 47.39.4–5 (before Philippi), both of which stress the idea that loss of internal sōphrosynē made the Republican state untenable. For Agrippa’s speech in the context of Dio’s remarks elsewhere, see Manuwald 1979, 9–12; Fechner 1986, 151–4 and Markov 2013. It seems likely that Agrippa’s statement (52.4.1) that isonomia has an “honorable name” (πρόσρημα εὐώνυμον), and is also good in reality, is meant to recall Dio’s (44.2.1) that dēmokratia has an “attractive name” (ὄνομα εὔσχημον), but in reality works terribly. Dio 52.17. To negate the obvious counter-example of Sulla, Maecenas appears to invent a tradition in which the former dictator killed himself to avoid his enemies’ revenge. See Reinhold 1988, 187.

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Dio’s narrative, especially the portions dealing with his own time. What Maecenas does instead is to assert that they can be overcome. He does this in the second and longer portion of his speech, which is explicitly prescriptive rather than argumentative. It goes methodically from topic to topic, explaining how in a monarchical state the Senate, magistracies, provincial administration, municipal administration, armies and so forth should be structured, with no explicit reference to how all of these entities currently operate as of the dramatic date of the speech. The Roman polity is treated as a blank slate, except inasmuch as magisterial offices retain their old titles and relative seniority.96 Maecenas’ ostensible task was to recommend that Octavian retain power, but he has extended this brief into a complete re-imagination of the society that Octavian should govern. This emphasis on institutions and social structures is the defining feature of the entire debate. A common misreading of Maecenas’ speech is to place it within the framework of “kingship literature,” a protreptic genre exemplified by Dio Chrysostom’s orations on kingship ostensibly addressed to Trajan.97 Those speeches focus on the ethical qualities of an idealized monarch, the idea being that the proper functioning of a monarchical state depends on the individual character of its ruler. The genre has evident links with panegyrics that idealize the ruler being praised, but in doing so allow the speaker to define what an ideal ruler should be. This is simply not what Agrippa and Maecenas are talking about. They both in fact take it for granted that Augustus is already as virtuous as a monarch could possibly be, but they neither expand at length on those virtues nor make suggestions for improvement. The debate is also meant to recall the episode in Herodotus where the Persian nobles who have just overthrown the False Smerdis debate what form of government to institute. The contrasts between the two are perhaps more revealing than their similarities, however. Herodotus has the “democrat” Otanes deliver a critique of monarchy in which the problem with monarchy is monarchs. He insists that nobody can wield absolute extra-legal power without being corrupted: he will inevitably hate and envy his subjects, rape women and 96

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On only two isolated occasions does Maecenas in his later section mention specific circumstances resulting from the civil wars. One is that the Senate has become filled with unsuitable men (52.19.1), whom Octavian should simply expel. The other is that, due to proscriptions and wars, the state has come to own a great deal of land (52.28.3), which Octavian should immediately sell. For Maecenas’ speech in this tradition, see e.g. Gabba 1955, 320–2; Reinhold 1988, 182–3; De Blois 1998b. De Blois 1994 lumps all three of the main authors studied in this book within this same “Isocratean” ideology of kingship, while Dorandi 1985 sees references in Dio to Philodemus’ Epicurean version.

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murder men.98 There is very little of this in Dio. On the contrary, Agrippa explicitly says that, knowing Octavian’s character, he prefers “to speak not of all the things a person might do if he conducted affairs badly, but of all the things that even those who manage them the best are compelled to do and to endure.”99 For him, the problem with monarchy is subjects. It is they who are fearful and jealous of the monarch, who seek personal advantage from him rather than serving the public good, who will inevitably plot against him if they have sufficient brains and position to do so. Similarly, Maecenas’ prescriptions focus overwhelmingly on the shape of the state as a whole rather than the role of the monarch specifically, and it is the elite classes of that state who are the critical element. Nowhere does Maecenas make the familiar argument that the ideal state is a monarchy governed by the one most virtuous man in the community.100 Instead he calls on Augustus to: Entrust the administration of the state to yourself and to the other best men (ἄλλοις τοῖς ἀρίστοις), so that the most intelligent men (φρονιμώτατοι) will conduct politics (ἄρχωσι), the best military men will lead the armies, while the strongest and poorest will soldier and draw pay. (52.14.3)

The specific suggestions that he goes on to make will confirm this rigidly hierarchical view. The signature characteristics of his monarchical system are its centralization and its uniformity.101 These are the two key aspects in which it departs from actual Roman practice, either in Maecenas’ time or Dio’s. Maecenas has no time for the dual system of so-called “imperial” and “senatorial” provinces, nor the pretence of local autonomy so valued by the municipal elites who did the day-to-day governing of the empire.102 As Maecenas imagines it, each class of society has its own political role to play, 98

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Hdt. 3.80. See Lateiner 1989, 181–5 for the emergence in the rest of Herodotus of concerns similar to those expressed by Otanes. Kuhlmann 2010 sees this intertextual parallel as the interpretive key to the entire debate, though his reading of the Maecenas speech as a whole is different from that given here. Dio 52.11.2. This tells against the argument of Escribano 1999, 180–4 that Agrippa’s version of monarchy stands for the tyrannical rule that Dio has known under monarchs such as Caracalla. Dio’s Caracalla is a singularly vicious individual, and the tyranny of his reign springs from his depravity. Agrippa’s monarch (who is referred to in the second person, as a possible future for Octavian) is responding to systemic imperatives that force him to behave tyrannically. Again traceable back to the Herodotean debate (3.82). Aptly characterized as “hierarchical functionalism” by De Blois 1995. At 52.30.2–10, Maecenas advocates a radical curtailment of the privileges of city governments. For Aalders 1986, 299, this is an odd exception to what he sees as Dio’s overall conformity to the norms of imperial Greek political thought as seen in e.g. Dio Chrysostom and Plutarch. Ameling 1984, 133–4 similarly sees Maecenas’ emphasis on provincial affairs (which Ameling overstates) as evidence of Dio’s “provincial” viewpoint. For our purposes here, however, the differences of perspective between Cassius Dio and other Greek authors are more important than the abstract propositions on which they agree.

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and no role is played by more than one class. Senators lead frontier armies, govern provinces and run law-courts; equestrians oversee finances and the municipal administration of Rome, including the Praetorian Guard; municipal elites maintain order in cities; soldiers, and only soldiers, fight; everyone else pays taxes and otherwise remains quiet. Social mobility exists, but on a very limited basis.103 All provinces are alike in their governing structure, and most of Italy is a province. It is system that creates the appearance of permanence by basing itself on rigid general principles, and one which is supposed to outlive and to be greater than any one monarch, even its founder. The role of the monarch in this system is in fact quite limited. He is notionally the supreme decision-maker, but the rigid hierarchy dictates who will influence and carry out those decisions.104 Almost all of Maecenas’ advice to Augustus deals with the kinds of relationships he should establish with his subjects. Regarding the principles the ruler personally should use in making decisions, the virtues he should cultivate and the vices he should avoid, he is all but silent.105 To call such a system “monarchy under an ideal princeps” is to miss the emphasis entirely.106 It is an idealized monarchy, but this is precisely because it relies as little as possible on the character of the monarch. In Agrippa’s analysis, monarchies systematically place the ruler at odds with his subjects, and thus they are unworkable regardless of the character of individual monarchs. Maecenas claims to have reversed the dynamic, such that the system binds ruler to elite, and the monarchic state can thus function well even under imperfect rulers, though naturally neither Maecenas nor Dio himself would find it rhetorically appropriate to state the point in quite those terms.107 What Maecenas’ system most requires in a monarch is a willingness to take advice from only the right people, and to let those same right people do their hierarchically specified jobs. This 103

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At 52.25.6 Maecenas says that equestrians with meritorious service records should be admitted to the Senate, but seems to envision them being by this point fairly aged and presumably not destined for full senatorial careers. Thus at 52.30.9, Maecenas says that cities should not have the right to petition the emperor directly, but only through provincial governors. At 52.37.1, Maecenas does advise that Augustus should be peaceful in his general disposition, but maintain high readiness for war if necessary. At 58.38.1, he also says that Augustus should not “make overly full use of your power” (ἀποχρήσασθαι . . . τῇ ἐξουσίᾳ), but as it turns out, this will require not heroic self-restraint but rather a rational calculation of what actions will and will not make a ruler beloved. The quotation is from Reinhold 1988, 185. Similarly, Bering-Staschewski 1981, 129–34 reads the system outlined by Maecenas as fundamentally dependent on the character of the ruler. It is this ostensible resilience that gets Dio out of the dilemma diagnosed by Adler 2012, who sees a tension between Maecenas’ faith in prescriptive solutions and Dio’s own basic pessimism about human nature, which both Maecenas and Agrippa in some measure share.

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quality might easily be found in an elderly or immature figurehead. We should recall that Dio’s history comes out of a political milieu that idealized Pertinax and was in practice willing to settle for Gordian I, Alexander Severus or Gordian III. Dio as author is not making a factual claim that this is how Roman monarchical society works, nor even a normative claim that this is exactly how it should work. He did not live in a world of open political discussion where one wrote explicit or transparently veiled pamphlets recommending specific courses of action to responsible policy-makers. His political culture was based rather on the public expression of consensus under the emperor, and political discourse consisted of the emperors and various groups within society negotiating and defining the basis for that consensus. As such, he is defining not realities or even ideals, but rather guiding principles and parameters. The senatorial and equestrian orders, the army, local elites and so forth are for Dio the irreducible constituents of the Roman state, and a certain understanding of their significance and relative statuses must be taken for granted as the starting point of political discourse and the medium through which the ruler’s virtues function. Dio is no utopian. He knows that it is impossible, and indeed undesirable, that political realities should always follow these principles strictly. There is an intentional irony in the selection of Maecenas to lay out the new monarchical system. As an equestrian who held no formal office but nevertheless wielded far more power than most senators, he is precisely the sort of person who ought not to exist under the regime he advocates.108 Exceptions will occur; they will indeed be significant, common and in some instances desirable. What is critical for Dio, however, is that they continue to be recognized as exceptions, and that “Maecenas’” principles constitute the underlying reality of Romanness. This, in Dio’s view, is how critical historical changes occur. It is not a question of a heroic figure triumphing over the forces of evil and using his transcendent virtue to make good things happen for everyone. Rather it is a question of creating the conditions under which the “best people,” as defined through discourses of class and status, have scope in public life to 108

In fact, at 55.7.4, in his obituary notice for Maecenas, Dio will make it “the greatest proof of his excellence” (μέγιστον . . . ἀρετῆς δεῖγμα) that even though he exerted such power, he did not “lose his head” (Swan 2004’s translation of ἐξεφρόνησεν, an uncommon word that Dio often uses of tyrants and over-mighty subjects), but was willing to remain an equestrian. Dio accepts the reality that monarchs will have friends who exert power outside of formal structures. What he objects to is when those friends, like Sejanus or Plautianus, either demand public honors that devalue those given to senators, or try to disrupt the formal hierarchy by carving out a place within it for themselves.

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exercise their virtues and are discouraged from indulging their vices. To be sure, Dio portrays this as a personal achievement of Augustus’, and it is based on that achievement that Dio accords him such a prominent role in his narrative. However, Dio gives us little clue how that achievement related to the personal characteristics of the ruler. Octavian the dynast has shown few signs of being a political genius capable of building empire-wide consensus. He is if anything less politically skilled than his real-life counterpart. Augustus the emperor will do somewhat better, but he will still be an imperfect figure whose individual character does not seem to match the importance Dio gives his political achievement.109 Dio’s ordinary narrative modes are inadequate to discern how the Augustan system was devised or who was personally responsible for it. This is signalled at the start of Book 52 by Dio’s retreat into fictionalizing narrative omniscience, and confirmed as a general principle in Book 53 by the excursus on informational problems under the monarchy. Perhaps it was Augustus’ own genius that was responsible, perhaps he took good counsel; Dio has no way of knowing. The historian’s role is rather to discern what the essential components of the Roman state are, and how and when they change. If Maecenas’ speech is Dio’s version of epochal change, then the discussion of magistracies in Book 53 is his version of essential continuity.110 As noted earlier, Maecenas had treated Roman political culture as a blank canvas that Augustus could fill with his uniform, centralized designs. Now, speaking in his own voice, Dio will describe the process through which Octavian re-made existing Roman institutions into a state that embodied the spirit if not the details of Maecenas’ recommendations. The relevant sections of Book 53 consist, as noted before, of a speech by Octavian, followed by audience reaction and then by the detailed discussion of institutional matters. The first two of these sections are, to say the least, unedifying. Octavian’s speech is highly reminiscent of Pompey’s feigned refusal of power in the pirate-command debate. It is full of self-praise that transparently undermines the speech’s ostensible rhetorical purpose, which is to renounce power. In addition, Octavian’s self-praise and claims to authority are based heavily on the achievements and legacy of the dead Julius.111 This does little to enlighten readers who are wondering how Octavian will avoid incurring 109 110 111

For a case study of the contrast in Dio between Augustus’ character and his achievements, see Kemezis 2007. For the two together as perceptively representing the ambiguities of Augustus’ real actions, see Freyburger-Galland 2009. See 53.7.1 (Octavian’s and Julius’ achievements listed together with no distinction); 53.8.1 (Octavian refers to Julius’ divinity).

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the phthonos that struck down his adoptive father. The reaction to the speech also recalls the rhetoric of the dynasts. Some people genuinely want Octavian to step down; others want him to remain in place; yet others are aware that the whole speech is a sham. These three groups have different motivations based on their different hopes and fears, but Dio explains logically how each of these motivations nonetheless led each group to react in the same way, with a vigorous demand for Octavian to remain in place.112 He accedes, and we are told that his first act is to double the pay of his bodyguards (53.11.5). In short, the speech and reaction are still located very much in the world of the dynasteiai, where self-interested audiences swallow the propaganda of those who hold armed power, until those audiences come under the influence of phthonos and destroy one dynast to make room for another. What comes next is different, however. As Dio details the arrangements the new Augustus made for provincial administration and for magistracies in Rome, including his own office, there will continue to be references to his mendacity, and Dio will often make distinctions between the ostensible (λόγῳ) and actual (ἔργῳ) reality of the political scene. This has led some to read this entire section through a Tacitean lens, and to see Dio as “seeking to expose the gap between appearance and reality and lay bare the true springs of men’s actions.”113 This is only true in a limited sense. For Tacitus, the falsity of the Republican forms of government was part of a pervasive mendacity that he saw as inseparable from the Roman monarchy, at any rate under the Julio-Claudians. For Dio it is otherwise. The theme of deception will be present in his portrait of the post-Augustan monarchy, but it will not be the constant motif it is for Tacitus. Nor, crucially, will it be as commonly invoked as it was during Dio’s own description of the dynasteiai.114 For Dio, honest political discourse does not die at the advent of the monarchy; it was already long dead. What is crucial in Book 53 is to read Augustus’ settlement on two levels, both within its immediate narrative context and within the 112

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Cf. Dio 38.36–47, where Julius Caesar gives a similarly bombastic and mendacious speech to justify his aggression against Ariovistus. His audience of officers, we are told, were divided in their opinions of his conduct, but all from different motives passed on his propaganda line to the troops, who in turn all accepted it regardless of their own differing attitudes. Rich 1990, 14. Rich does not make an explicit link with Tacitus, nor does he assert that the above characterization entirely explains Dio’s project. Freyburger-Galland 1992 sees considerable contrasts between Dio’s and Tacitus’ assessments of Augustus, with Dio much the more positive. To use a rough measure, the characteristic Thucydidean pairing of λόγῳ and ἔργῳ is frequent in both the dynasteiai books (36–53) and in the Principate books (54–71), but is more than twice as common in the former (41 appearances in 897 pages of extant text, or once about every 22 pages, as against 11 in 592 pages, or once every 54 pages). For a different reading, see Pelling 2006, 261–2, for whom the prevalence of deceit in the late Republican narrative is a foreshadowing of the Principate.

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larger structure of Dio’s version of Roman history.115 As a historical actor, Octavian remains in the world of dynasteiai, and as such operates through force and deception. His rearranging of the Roman magistracies, however, has consequences far beyond that initial unsavory moment. Dio repeatedly emphasizes that the settlement Augustus put in place is still functioning in his own time. His account alternates between past tenses that indicate Augustus’ actions and present tenses that indicate their ongoing validity. In some cases, Dio updates his description to reflect the provincial structure and magistrates’ responsibilities of his own day rather than Augustus’.116 Seen in the context of Dio’s own day, Augustus’ mendacity ceases to be a live issue, because in Dio’s time the monarchy is taken for granted. Thus in a single sentence the Romans’ traditional taboo against monarchical titles is referred to in the aorist (ἐμίσησαν) while the fact of their living under a monarchical government is stated in the present (βασιλεύονται).117 Similarly Dio describes how Augustus’ disingenuous practice of pretending to hold office for a limited term becomes the origin of the custom of emperors celebrating their decennalia, “which happens even today” (53.16.3). At the end of his account of the magistracies, Dio makes it explicit that while these legally established offices of the Republic persist, government now goes on according to the will of the various emperors (53.17.3). Dio envisions an audience that surely has no illusions about the monarchical state, but may be confused about how Republican forms fit into that reality. His point is not “you believe you live under legal magistracies, but in fact you live under despotism”; it is the opposite, namely “you are of course aware of the reality of monarchy, but you need also to acknowledge the symbolic significance of the magistracies.” In the excursus we are looking at, relatively little time is spent on Augustus’ duplicity. Dio gives more space and prominence to describing 115

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Cordier 2003 gives a cogent and important reading of Dio’s Caesarian narrative in similar terms, seeing a duality between Dio’s view of short-term consequences (in narrowly moral terms) and longterm consequences (more pragmatically). For Cordier, Dio has an eye on the wars of his own time and is less interesting in comparing Republic with monarchy than stable one-man-rule with chaotic one-man-rule. See Rich 1990, ad loc. for details. This looking toward the narrative present is seen throughout Dio’s work; for examples see Hidber 2004a, 197. Dio 53.17.2. Again at 53.17.5 Dio notes that emperors do not use the titles of βασιλεύς and δικτάτωρ “since once these were banished from the state” (ἐπειδήπερ ἅπαξ ἐκ τῆς πολιτείας ἐξέπεσον). Dio in his narrative of the Principate does in fact avoid the common Greek literary usage of basileus for the Roman emperor. Dio prefers αὐτοκράτωρ (= imperator), which he thinks of as a title (see 53.17.4) rather than (as it was for Augustus) a personal name. He will, however, sometimes use cognates of βασιλεύς to refer to the emperors’ status, their family, and the exercise of their office. See FreyburgerGalland 1997, 129–31.

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how the titles of old magistracies were re-applied to the offices of the new monarchical state. This is done without apparent irony and in what can only be described as loving detail.118 If the point were simply that magisterial titles are a meaningless facade, these descriptions would be shorter and very different in tone. The system of senatorial magistracies is a major preoccupation of Dio’s throughout his work. His Republican narrative contains detailed accounts of the foundation and initial functions of the various magistracies, and he frequently stops in his later books to note innovations or violations of precedent relating to them.119 One of the defining negative characteristics of his dynasteia mode is that power is wielded through entirely irregular means, so that the magistracies have no connection with the real political process. What happens in 27, in his view, is that a connection is re-established. Government of law is not restored, but one-man rule is formalized and the names of the old offices are re-applied to positions of responsibility. The offices that constitute a senatorial career are a key part of Dio’s identity in his own time and what he sees as best about his own class. This in turn represents for him a critical locus of continuity in the Roman polity, the symbolic link between present and idealized past. The cynical mendacity with which Augustus instituted these changes is for Dio an episode in the narrative past, but the link thereby created between Republic and monarchy is still a critical aspect of his present. The episode thus becomes a comment on Severan ideas of historical change. Octavian’s speech at the start of the book had stressed heredity and personal virtue as key legitimating elements of his political power. It might indeed have been Commodus or Septimius Severus speaking.120 Dio’s assertion is that Augustus, inadvertently or otherwise, established a much more meaningful form of continuity with the past by grounding his new state in the Republican magisterial system. In doing so, Augustus was able to avoid phthonos and thus end the phase of dynasteiai. Major historical change thus happens on two levels: on the level of narrative events, Octavian pulls off a deception that allows him to retain power and live to 118

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Contrast Tac. Ann. 1.3.7 eadem magistratuum vocabula, which is meant to highlight the ignorance and gullibility of the post-Actium generation who have no personal knowledge of the res publica and thus cannot properly perceive the change. On Dio’s account of Republican magistracies and their relationship to the actual exercise of power in the later Republic, see esp. Hinard 2005. For his description of their origins and development in earlier periods, see Urso 2005; Simons 2009. Octavian in fact characterizes his “renunciation” as an exemplum to be followed again if ever Rome faces similar troubles (53.7.3). This statement will reflect ironically on Severus’ use of Augustus as an example, specifically for Dio the speech Severus makes after his own final civil-war victory (76.[75].8.1–3 [Xiph.]) in which he uses Augustus as a precedent for cruel treatment of defeated enemies.

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old age; on a deeper level, however, he moves Roman history into a new phase and establishes the monarchical state that persisted into Dio’s own time. It is to Dio’s portrait of that monarchical world that we now turn.

Monarchies past and present Book 52 begins with the statement quoted earlier in this chapter, where Dio speaks of his previous narrative being what “the Romans did and experienced during seven hundred and twenty-five years under the kingship, the Republic and the dynasteiai,” and marks the Roman state’s return to monarchical government. This in effect marks the beginning of a parenthesis whose contents we have been examining, and which is formally ended halfway through Book 53. At this point Dio wraps up his account of the institutions of the new monarchy and moves into a new narrative mode, which will be used to describe the principate from the reign of Augustus through that of Marcus Aurelius, at which point a new mode of contemporary narrative will be employed. Detailed analysis of the “principate mode” for its own sake is beyond my scope here, but a few points need to be made about its relationship to Dio’s overall structure as described so far. It has often been observed that in describing the history of the monarchical state, Dio uses the careers of the successive emperors as a structuring principle as opposed to the annalistic model, which he nonetheless retains as a formal usage.121 This feature of Dio’s structure has often been characterized as a shift toward history-as-biography, but that is a considerable oversimplification.122 The crucial point is that Dio is surprisingly uninterested in much of the staple subject-matter of true biography. He has relatively little to say about the internal psychology of his emperors, neither does he dwell on the odd features of their private lives and habits that so attracted Suetonius’ attention.123 He also seems relatively unconcerned with the Plutarchan tradition of moral evaluation, or with how emperors measure up to the kinds of ethical standards one applies to one’s own peers. His focus is resolutely on their public actions. He resembles Suetonius in that he 121 122

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Rich 1990, 8–11 gives a good account of annalistic structuring in Dio’s later books; see also Swan 1987. On Dio as quasi-biographer, see Questa 1957, Ameling 1997, 2479–82 and Pelling 1997, the last with a considerably more nuanced view. Edmondson 1992, 35–9 provides illuminating structural analyses of the Julio-Claudian portions of Dio. An odd exception is the account at 77.[76].17 (Xiph.) of Septimius Severus’ daily routine, which comes as part of an obituary notice. This may signal Dio’s recognition of Severus as the last emperor to be an adult of Dio’s own social rank. The scandal-filled account of Elagabalus’ reign is in a class by itself within Dio’s narrative, due to a conscious reliance on gossip and/or pro-Alexander propaganda.

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has a somewhat standard set of questions that he asks about each emperor in turn, but Dio’s questions are narrowly restricted to political and usually public actions. What laws did this emperor make and what process did he use to make them? How did he select key advisors, and who were the prominent men of the Senate in his reign? How did he deal with political enemies? How did he comport himself in everyday intercourse with the elite? Was he extravagant or frugal in his court life and entertainments? The tenor of these questions reflects Agrippa’s and Maecenas’ considerations on kingship. We have seen how those two courtiers cast the issues of monarchical government not in terms of the individual moral character of the monarch, but rather in terms of his relations with his subjects. Similarly, the categories on which Dio evaluates his emperors have mostly to do with how they relate to and are perceived by their subjects. He is assessing Roman rulers not as men in absolute terms, but as performers in the role of emperor, as defined in the abstract by the excursuses of Books 52 and 53. This tends to obscure differences of personality between the various emperors, and what we get is not history-as-biography, but rather the story of how a succession of very different men enacted a standard set of scripts that were defined not by their personalities but by the nature of the political culture in which they lived.124 Thus the principate mode resembles dynasteia in that its rules do place restrictions on the characters, but they are much looser restrictions. Emperors are not driven by any one single dominating imperative analogous to desire for power among the dynasts, but instead have a range of categories in which they can do well or poorly. Whereas the differences between Caesar and Pompey had little impact on their actions, and their individual virtues and vices were not really able to express themselves, the differences between emperors are thrown into sharp relief, though constraints still apply. The principate for Dio is a system that allows a good emperor’s virtues to shine through, as above all in the instance of Marcus Aurelius, but it is also a resilient system to which even the worst emperors can only do so much damage. Because the background against which Dio portrays his subjects remains the same, no emperor can ever dominate Dio’s narrative as completely as Tiberius and Nero set the moral tone for the more detailed, vividly painted and psychologically penetrating versions of Tacitus. No matter how despicable Dio makes Caligula, Nero or Domitian, there are limits to how much they can define the narrative world in which they live, and these limits are to a considerable degree imposed by 124

For specifics, see Edmondson 1992, 35–55 on the various Julio-Claudian emperors, stressing the constant comparisons of emperors’ actions with Augustan and subsequent precedents.

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the nature of their internal audience, the contemporary elite. These people’s expectations and range of possible reactions do not change. For each emperor, they enact the same role which, passive as it is, still supplies a crucial element of continuity, and expresses what Dio sees as the essential nature of the Roman polity carried over from the republic by Augustus. It is that continuity that is so severely tested during Dio’s contemporary narrative, which begins over the course of Commodus’ reign. As with the principate narrative, Dio marks the change with two separate asides, of which the first is the remark we have already seen about both Roman politics and his own history descending from a realm of gold into one of iron and rust (72.[71].36.4 [EV]). The second is Dio’s assertion, apropos of Commodus’ arena performances, that from this point on he will as an eyewitness “take care and narrate in detail the events of my own time, more so than previous matters” (73.[72].18.3 [Xiph.]). What follows that promise will be an account of Commodus’ assassination and Pertinax’ ascension that is indeed more vivid and detailed than comparable incidents earlier in the narrative, and has much material that reflects Dio’s personal experience of the events, such as how impressed he was to see in the Senate Claudius Pompeianus, a leading man of Marcus’ reign who had spent most of the 180s in a political exile that Dio paints as a voluntary rejection of Commodus’ excesses.125 Although the level of detail that Dio devotes to the Commodus–Pertinax reign change cannot be continuously sustained throughout the seven books and forty years he has left, the vividness and the personal tone will recur frequently enough that the period makes a very different read from anything that has gone before.126 For the rest of his narrative, Dio will seemingly take every opportunity he can to inform us of how he personally experienced events, as we have already seen with the anecdote that opened this chapter. Thus, when Dio wants to make clear how Plautianus had come to seem more powerful than the emperor he ostensibly served, the story he tells is of how when the court was in the historian’s home city of Nicaea, the prefect, rather than his master, had first call on the best specimens of the fish for which the lake there was (and still is) known (76.[75].15.3 [EV]). The customary list of omens presaging Caracalla’s demise is not complete 125 126

Dio 74.[73].3–4. For the role of Pompeianus, see Kemezis 2012, 394–7. For consideration of Dio’s contemporary narrative stance, see Gleason 2011. Dio’s contemporary mode as described here is a rhetorical tactic, and does not necessarily reflect Dio’s actual practice; it is entirely possible (as has been argued by e.g. Barnes 1984, 253–4) that Dio’s eyewitness accounts were heavily supplemented with existing written sources, but that is not the part of his work he wants to emphasize.

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without mentioning how, after a Saturnalia banquet of the emperor’s that Dio had attended, Caracalla said goodbye to his future chronicler with a quotation from Euripides that was meant to be a polite send-off but later came to seem like a reference to impending events (79.[78].8.4–5). Dio does not emerge from these anecdotes as a privileged political insider, nor does he mean readers to see him as such.127 Dozens, even hundreds, of men at the time would have had analogous reminiscences, and the interest is never in Dio’s own behavior, which is typically either completely passive, as with the Euripides quotation, or consists of actions that express the same thing anyone else would have felt, as with the hair-checking. In fact, Dio can be frustratingly silent about his own involvement in events. Even if he was not a significant political player, he must have had some preferences in the civil wars of 193–7, and must have had friends or connections who were more deeply involved.128 None of this comes through in surviving Dio, and it seems unlikely it ever did, because the historian’s consistent stance is to bring out the passivity and inaction of senators, and how much role accident had in determining the choices of those who did have to take sides.129 The stress we saw in the principate on perception of events has now been increased and sharpened such that history often as not consists of the reactions of a narrator and audience to events they can see very well, and whose effects have great emotional impact on them, but which they cannot themselves affect in the slightest. There is no denying the changed method of narration in Dio’s contemporary books, but its significance as a narrative mode needs to be looked at in more detail. The paired asides about descent to iron and rust and about personal witness differ somewhat from the pair cited earlier in Books 52 and 53. Whereas in that case there was an obvious causal connection between the change in political state and the change in historical methodology, that is not the case later. It just so happens that the descent from gold to iron happens at roughly the same time that Dio becomes an adult witness of events, and it is unlikely that if the historian were twenty years older or 127

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See Ward 2011, 58–68 for the tension between participation and observation in Dio’s contemporary narrative. Dio does portray himself as an imperial amicus, in the sense of a member of the emperor’s entourage, and he does refer to participating in the emperor’s consilium, but as Davenport 2012a, 799–803 shows, these honors are far from exclusive and do not represent meaningful insider status. The general scholarly tendency has been to assume that Dio was to some extent a supporter of Severus, given the propagandistic writings he produced. Bering-Staschewski 1981, 50–8, however, makes a not unreasonable argument for seeing Dio as a supporter or at least sympathizer of Albinus, who then wrote pro-Severan works in an effort to rehabilitate himself. See notably on this the speech of Cassius Clemens (75.[74].9 [Xiph.]), and the remarks of Graham 1974.

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younger, he would have been able to make the same coincidence work rhetorically. Nonetheless, he is the age he is, and generational experience is a key component of what makes his contemporary mode distinctive. To understand how this works, one should first briefly consider what the “descent from gold to iron” consists of. From 180 to the end of his work in 229, Dio’s view of Roman history is an almost entirely bleak one. From Commodus on, he to one degree or another dislikes all emperors with the exceptions of Pertinax and of Alexander, the latter of whom he seems to view as too young and powerless to be judged properly. The rest are bad for much the same reasons that previous emperors were bad. It is clear that Dio’s portrait of Nero has formal links with those of Commodus and Elagabalus, and that the same is true for Domitian and Caracalla, although the personal tone and anecdotes that we find in the later emperors are of course missing in the earlier ones.130 The contemporary narrative mode does not set up any new rules of behavior for rulers. What is new is the dearth of good emperors to live up to those rules and the apparent inability of the system to recover from internal crises under the Severans as it did under the Flavians and Antonines. Dio sees a systemic problem that is independent of the personality of any one monarch. The closest we have to an explicit statement of this fact is in Dio’s assessment of the Emperor Pertinax after his assassination. “Thus died Pertinax,” says Dio, “who tried to restore everything in a short time, not realizing, for all that he was a man of great experience, that some things cannot safely be set right (ἐπανορθοῦσαι) all at once, and that of all things in the world, the reform of a state (πολιτικὴ κατάστασις) most requires time and wisdom” (74.[73].10.3 [EV]). He does not at that point elaborate on what exactly needed to be reformed, and nowhere in surviving Dio do we have an explicit argument as to what is wrong with the empire in his own times, comparable to the analytic asides he offers in his narrative of the dynasteia period. Still, two particular themes, apart from the bad characters of individual emperors, surface repeatedly in his contemporary books.131 The first is military indiscipline. One of the few straightforward judgements Dio gives on the condition of the empire as a whole, in his epilogue (80.[80].4 [EV]), is that the Eastern army is in such a rotten state that it cannot be trusted to fight the (in Dio’s view) not very fearsome Persian king Ardashir, while the army that he 130 131

See Gowing 1997; Murison 1999, 26–7. The fullest exposition of Dio’s view of the contemporary situation remains Bering-Staschewski 1981, 114–25. For a broader list of symptoms, see Reinhold and Swan 1990, 157, also Molin 2006. For military indiscipline specifically, see De Blois 1997.

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himself had commanded in Pannonia had greeted his old-fashioned discipline with a discontent verging on mutiny. Before that, Caracalla had been shown throughout his reign as a corrupter of the troops, and Macrinus’ fall was due in large part to his revoking military pay raises instituted by his predecessor.132 Other examples of poor military discipline from Dio’s contemporary narrative are too numerous to mention, but it seems clear that the problem is less any changes in the soldiers themselves, and more that the ruling classes collectively have lost the will or ability to impose a proper disciplinary regime on the army. One might say that the problem simply calls for a recovery of aristocratic nerve, except that the nature and status of the ruling class is Dio’s second great problem. For him, it is characteristic of all the emperors after Marcus, except again Pertinax and perhaps Alexander, that they promote unworthy persons to positions of high influence, which those persons invariably abuse. Commodus has first the prefect Perennis and then the freedman Cleander. Septimius Severus has Plautianus, the Sejanus to his Tiberius. Caracalla has Theocritus, the former provincial actor, commanding an army, and gives great power to the freedman Epagathus. Macrinus, who is himself a mild example of the type, ushers in Adventus, an illiterate former army scout, as consul and city prefect. Elagabalus’ chief courtiers include the former mime Comazon, the slave charioteer Hierocles and the baker’s son Zoticus.133 In nearly all of these cases Dio is following the venerable invective tradition of exaggerating the baseness of his enemies’ antecedents, but by repeating the theme he creates a genuine sense of class disgust that such people should occupy positions of power over the heads of born and bred senators such as himself. With rare exceptions, they are portrayed as acting with the rapacity, cruelty, stupidity and crudity that have always figured in the aristocrat’s stereotype of the parvenu. They also generally lack the character or personal authority to hold rebellious soldiers in line, and are more likely to corrupt soldiers with bribes in their efforts to win power. The unruly state of the army and the persistence of unworthy

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Caracalla follows up his murder of Geta by removing to the Praetorian Camp and making a bizarre speech of loyalty and devotion to his own soldiers (78.[77].3.1–2 [EV]). For Macrinus and legionary pay, see 79.[78].28.2. The rises and falls of Perennis and Cleander make up much of the first half of Book 73 (Boissevain), and the same is true for Plautianus in the last half of Book 76 and the first of Book 77. For the later characters see 78.[77].21.2 (EV) (Theocritus and Epagathus); 79.[78].14.1–2 (Adventus); 80.[79].4.1–2 (Comazon); 80.[79].15.1 (EV) (Hierocles); 80.[79].16.1–6 (EV) (Zoticus). For more details on senators who were promoted by Caracalla and disparaged by Dio, see Davenport 2012a, 803–11, and 2012b for their counterparts under Macrinus.

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incompetents in responsible positions feed off one another. They also contribute to the constant low quality of emperors. Military revolts put men on the throne like Julianus or at best Severus, and soldiers also tend to favor dynastic succession through weak child-emperors such as Elagabalus and Alexander. Similarly, the debasement of the governing elite leads to the indignity of a pettifogging lawyer like Macrinus on the throne. Such emperors in turn cannot control the army and cannot trust the senatorial elite, which causes them to indulge the soldiers and rely on lower-class favorites. In order to keep the soldiers and favorites happy, they must insult the Senate socially and oppress it financially. This diagnosis of a vicious circle is not a particularly original one. We saw in the previous chapter the growth among the aristocracy of a narrative of growing military indiscipline, and while Dio is himself a main witness to this phenomenon, he is far from the only one, and the view is ultimately only a further development of a strand of thought that had been prominent in the Roman elite ever since large professionalized armies became the norm. What is remarkable is not Dio’s analysis taken in isolation, but rather his integration of it into a greater scheme of Roman history. In the case of the contemporary narrative mode, he is able to use his previous technique of switching literary gears to highlight the generational nature of political change in his own time. By the time Dio is writing his contemporary account, in the 220s and even 230s, he is in his sixties or seventies, and as such can claim to have as long a political memory as anyone in the Senate. The implication is that if Dio’s adult political memories only begin under Commodus, there is nobody left who can really remember a properly functioning Roman state. The great men of Marcus’ reign are distant figures whom he saw only a few times if at all, and his generation never had the chance to imitate their high achievements.134 Had Dio told his story a little differently, he might have been able to emphasize his own role as a personal link with a better past. His few anecdotes of his father are the closest he comes to this, but more often he does the opposite, and stresses how different his own world is from the idealized past. Other than a brief moment at the start of Pertinax’ reign, his vivid and personal contemporary narrative technique will never be used to describe pleasant events or admirable people. He is able in this way to imply that the change from the Antonine to the Severan monarchy is on a comparable scale to that from the last period of the Republic to the reign of Augustus. 134

See on this point Kemezis 2012.

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Augustan and Severan realities When one looks at Dio’s final product in the light of the previous chapter, it becomes clear that at least the contemporary portions of his work represent an oppositional history, in that they present a counter-narrative to a foundation-and-succession story that was still part of the dynasty’s image in Alexander Severus’ reign. Even if Dio’s harshest castigation is confined to the officially disgraced Elagabalus and the embarrassing Caracalla, still Septimius Severus is made insufficiently heroic and Macrinus insufficiently villainous, and the final bleak diagnosis gives no immediate reason to suppose that Alexander’s various presumed excellences will overcome these difficulties. Fundamentally contradicting the official portrayal of a dynasty’s defining moments and treating its current representative as ineffective, as Dio does, is a different business from mocking Claudius during the reign of Nero, or Fronto telling Marcus that he never really warmed to Hadrian.135 It is difficult to believe that the contemporary portions of Dio’s history were widely circulated while both its author and a Severan emperor were still alive, and likely Dio meant for at least those books to be read only after his death.136 However, when one leaves aside the obviously tricky matter of what a historian could or could not say about the dynasty in power, there remains the question of the history as a whole. If Dio’s only aim had been to point out that the history of the Severan dynasty was not what the emperors claimed it was, then his first seventy-two books would naturally contribute little to that aim. However, the various dynastic conflicts of the 190s to 220s had seen a broader re-interpretation of the Roman past on the official level, and a work of this extraordinary scope by a public figure was necessarily a comment on that new interpretation. Starting from the premise of a parallel between the late-Republican-to-Augustan transition and the Commodus-to-Severus transition, one can see that Dio’s view of the more distant past rounds out a picture of the present that is ever more at odds with what emperors of the period had wanted to suggest. In particular, Dio’s views of continuity and transformation within Roman political life are very different from the scripts Severan emperors wrote for themselves. Considering first the continuities, we have seen how Severus promoted a view of himself as the restorer of the Roman state through appealing to

135 136

For Fronto and Hadrian, see De Fer. Als. 2.5 = Haines 2.9. For this portion of the dating question, see Appendix §1.

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selected predecessors. The concrete manifestations of this were his echoes of Augustus on such key points as monumental building and religious observances, and his adoption of the dynastic identity and personal visual idiom of the Antonines. On the level of specific actions, there was little here for Dio to object to, but the cumulative effect was an increased appropriation of the Roman past by the emperor, and a promotion of the monarch as the location of Roman continuity. When Severus wanted to give Romans a way of imagining their state reviving after troubled times, what he came up with was a reassuring picture of himself doing all the things a “Good Emperor” should do. The right to define a canon of good and bad emperors, and to evaluate the Roman past more generally, had always been contested between the Senate and the emperors themselves. Even if the emperor had always had the ultimate say, as demonstrated by Antoninus Pius’ insistence on deifying Hadrian, much had remained for the Senate, and indeed Hadrian’s uncertain posthumous reputation also testifies to this. Severus’ self-adoption into the Antonine dynasty and unilateral rehabilitation of Commodus were a considerably greater incursion on the Senate’s territory, and it is not going too far to read Dio’s history as a much-delayed reply to these actions. The act of reviving the genre of senatorial history is in itself a reassertion of rights over the past, but the key passages of Books 52 and 53 that we have explored here give further definition to that act. Where Severus had wanted to create his own set of “Good Emperor” attributes and posit it as the essential element of continuity for a revived Roman state, Dio had seen individual emperors as the key agents of instability within the greater system. Dio’s description of the Roman monarchical state locates continuity instead within institutions, of which the emperor himself only operates as part of a series of relationships defined above all by magisterial offices. Good emperors fill their role in this system correctly, but they are not its embodiment or defining feature. Bad emperors disrupt its workings but have not, until the present generation, been able to cripple it. Dio’s version of Roman history does not contradict Severus’, but it forces readers to see the dynastic narrative as part of a larger context, and gives key elements of it a very different definition when they are seen in that context. Dio has still less sympathy with those emperors, like Commodus and Caracalla, who wished to present themselves as transformative figures who would protect the Roman people from crisis and bring them into a new relationship with their rulers and with the divine. The structure of Dio’s work, with its periodic changes of gear, places the question of change in the Roman state front and center. In particular, the foundation of the

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monarchy by Octavian-Augustus is brought into sharp focus. However, he is a very different sort of transformative figure from what Dio’s contemporary rulers were promoting. The first princeps does not re-make Rome by means of any heroic qualities, be it personal virtue, the favor of fortune and the gods, or dauntless facing down of the enemies and destroyers of the state. The aspects of Augustus’ self-image that look most like a heroic saviorfigure, such as his associations with gods and with his divine father, the virtues that were inscribed on the clipeus aureus, or his supposedly god-like charismatic gaze (Suet. Div. Aug. 79), find little or no place in Dio’s portrait. Instead we get a rather workmanlike figure berating recalcitrant bachelors and commiserating with his wife over the hard-headedness of his would-be assassins. His achievement is presented in terms of his management of and accommodation with a senatorial elite that remains for Dio the defining essence of the Roman state, even if he has little admiration for their specific actions at this time. Like Caracalla at the beginning of the last chapter, however, Dio is attempting to redefine Romanness in terms of accepting a narrative. Of course, it is a very different narrative from Caracalla’s picture of an emperor bringing an expanded Roman people and their gods together in celebration of his own self-deliverance from his enemies. Dio’s is that of a people going through multiple stages and changes that redefine it while leaving in place key constants. The change that is most emphasized, and most visible in Dio’s text as it has survived, is the one from anarchy to an ordered world that Dio saw himself as having been born in. In fact, it would appear from Dio’s portrait of Marcus’ era that he sees it, and perhaps that of Antoninus, as the most complete realization of the kind of monarchy instituted by Augustus but imperfectly embodied by his more immediate successors. However much Marcus is idealized, however, individual emperors in Dio’s world are still more often a problem than a solution, and he is loath to see them as examples and agents of what defines and has defined Romanness. Faced with Caracalla’s aggressive redefinition of Romans as all of his grateful subjects, Dio’s final answer is to present as an alternative none other than himself. If the Severan age was defined by emperors with complex cultural backgrounds, Dio is an example of someone whose roots also lay elsewhere than Rome, but more within a broader Greco-Roman mainstream. He portrays himself as a hereditary senator whose Bithynian antecedents are a part of his personality, but in no way hinder him from identifying not just with the Roman political structure as narrowly defined, but with broader cultural traditions of the Roman elite that go back in a continuous line to the Republic, and have been redefined to accommodate a

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ruling class that serves a monarch and has diverse provincial origins.137 By entering into the previously Latin tradition of senatorial history-writing, and by reasserting his order’s claim to be the interpreter of the Roman past, Dio is putting forth his own story of how the truly significant aspects of Rome have changed and not changed. His model of changing Romanness as represented by the growing appropriation and adaptation of older senatorial traditions by new generations of provincial elites is an important glimpse into the distinctive mind-set of a senatorial aristocracy that would have its moments of prominence under Severus Alexander and again briefly in 238 before becoming in its turn an object of nostalgia in the more unsettled days of the mid-third century. 137

Discussions of Dio’s cultural identity have tended to impose on him the “Roman politics” vs. “Greek culture” binary, seeing him as Roman in his political consciousness but Greek on a cultural level. Scholars differ on which aspect they consider the more authentic or significant. Important discussions include Millar 1964, 174–92 and 2005; Aalders 1986; Swain 1996, 401–8; Simons 2009, 15–21.

chapter 4

Philostratus’ Apollonius: Hellenic perfection on an imperial stage

According to Felix Jacoby’s standard collection of fragmentary Greek historians, there are two historians named Philostratus. The first was apparently a Hellenistic writer on Phoenician and Indian events, and is known only from two brief references in Josephus; the second lived in the late third century ad and described the Roman–Persian wars of that period.1 Neither man is the subject of this chapter. That man, the author of the Sophists and the Apollonius, is a considerably better known author, but would never have been considered for inclusion among Jacoby’s fragmentary Greek historians, and not only because his works survive complete. There is also an objection on grounds of genre. It is not easy to say exactly what genre Philostratus should be placed in. He can be read as biographer, but also cultural critic, religious propagandist or antiquarian.2 “Historian,” however, seems clearly excluded. Historiography as conceived in antiquity was restricted to works that dealt primarily with political and military events, and our Philostratus would not have seen himself as writing in the same genre as Thucydides, or for that matter Cassius Dio. Thus his inclusion here alongside two orthodox political historians may seem incongruous. This study, however, is not strictly speaking of a genre, but rather of a cultural phenomenon as expressed in literature, and in this respect the writings of Philostratus have much in common with those of Dio and Herodian. In spite of the generic barriers mentioned here, scholarship on Philostratus has not neglected his affinities with historiography. In particular, a discussion of the question can profitably start from Ewen Bowie’s insight, in his 1970 article on “Greeks and their Past in the Second Sophistic,” that “it is in Philostratus’s Lives of the Sophists . . . that a substitute for a Greek political 1 2

They are FGH 789 and FGH 99 respectively. For the later Philostratus, see Potter 1990, 90–4; Janiszewski 2006, 109 and Jones 2011. Elsner 2009b, 5 sees in the Philostratean corpus a “systematic resistance to generic repetition.”

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and cultural history of the recent past is most clearly found.”3 Bowie immediately adds that one might say much the same about the Apollonius. As he points out, the question is the more interesting in that, after the first century bc, a conventional (in ancient terms) history of the Greek world could not exist, because Roman conquest had deprived the Greeks of a collective political existence. Such a collective existence persisted, however, in the sphere of cultural activity, although that very broad phrase for Bowie here refers to a somewhat more specific phenomenon, namely the means by which people evoked the Greek past, and especially certain favored times and places within that past. Such evocation, whether through mimesis, interpretation, narrative or claims of identity and descent, is at the heart of the modern conception of the Second Sophistic. Indeed, the name “Second Sophistic” has been applied to an exceedingly wide variety of phenomena, and would have become meaningless but for the fact that all the phenomena do have at their core certain ways of framing and approaching the Greek past. These approaches became so predominant in the High Empire that they can be detected in almost any author, monument or cultural practice one cares to look at. Thus Philostratus has a double affinity with history, both in that he narrates events of the relatively recent past and in that he participates in the larger discourse of his time about how the present relates to certain key regions of the more distant past. If we do indeed read Philostratus’ works as history without political events, then they represent something if not entirely unprecedented in antiquity, then certainly rare and innovative. Such a reading is indeed my aim in this and the succeeding chapter, though from a slightly different perspective. In particular, Bowie and subsequent treatments of Philostratus as a cultural historian have used him as a source for the entire period he described, from the late first to early third century, and have taken from him anecdotes that are read as indicative of attitudes and practices that applied more or less uniformly throughout that period.4 Such readings have made a critical contribution to our understanding of Imperial Greek culture. What is still needed is a reading of Philostratus’ major narrative works as overall narratives with coherent structures, and as products of a particular moment in changing history, i.e. the later years of the

3 4

Bowie 1970, 17. Sidebottom 2007 includes Philostratus’ Sophists and Apollonius in his survey of Severan historiography, addressing the former in a discussion of biography and the latter with novels. Both Bowersock 1969 and Anderson 1993 use the Sophists as their principal source of background information for an overall presentation of the literary and cultural scene over the course of two centuries, and neither book would be possible in its current form if Philostratus’ work did not survive. Puech 2002 attempts to achieve the same end primarily through epigraphic means.

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Severan period. It is in this spirit that I mean to look at Philostratus as a historian and a Severan author.5 In spite of generic differences, Philostratus’ project has much in common with those of the political historians Dio and Herodian. Like them, he is constructing narratives on a grand scale, both chronologically and spatially, that are set in the recent past and present of the Roman-dominated Mediterranean, and feature plenty of details of that world including its emperors and other significant political figures. The crucial difference is that these rulers are not at the center of the narrative, but are instead the supporting cast for protagonists whose significance is based on various forms of excellence that lie outside the political sphere and are markedly portrayed as “Greek” rather than “Roman.” This was not the way one usually wrote about Roman emperors, and the originality of such a narrative project is in itself characteristic of Philostratus’ time. More specifically, there is the question of historical structure. Philostratus’ heroes can force emperors out of the spotlight, but does that mean that they and the Greek cultural milieu they represent exist in a historical time that is independent of “dynastic history,” the grand narrative built up around the comings and goings of the various ruling houses and the individual good and bad rulers? Having such an independent narrative history based on cultural excellence would give Greek identity a very exceptional position among the various categories of imperial subjects. There were, to be sure, other categories of subject peoples in the empire that had such narratives. In our sources, the most obvious examples are Christians and Jews.6 In those and similar cases the question naturally arose of how such a narrative related to the dominant history that placed emperors and dynasties center stage. Various forms of apologetic writings suggested different solutions, but generally began from premises not recognized by the literate elite. What is critical in Philostratus’ case is that he is basing his narratives around various forms of Greek cultural excellence that were recognized, endorsed and indeed engaged in by the holders of political power, and that could be expressed in ways that were closely incorporated 5

6

Mine is not a “Severanist” reading in the sense meant by Whitmarsh 2007, 31–8, in that I do not see Philostratus as responding to specific propaganda initiatives from the imperial court. Whitmarsh makes valid objections to such readings, although my view of the Apollonius as in part an indirect response to generalized imperial interest in the Apollonius cult does depart from his. The Sibylline Oracles do represent narratives that incorporated Roman emperors in a way much at odds with the authorized narrative, and were at times accepted as divinely inspired by members of the literate elite. However, that negative material reads not as the alternative history of a discrete national or ethnic group, but as a perception of the central government as violent and financially exacting that was probably shared by provincials generally. See Potter 1990, 132–40.

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into the larger discursive structure of imperial power. If there really were an independent historical narrative of Greeks under Roman rule, that required a redefinition of the larger cultural mainstream in a way that was not the case for groups that could be labeled as marginal or oppositional. To understand the problems involved in constructing such a narrative, we need briefly to consider the wider picture of Greek culture in the Imperial period, and how the various forms of cultural excellence, especially the Hellenic paideia displayed by Philostratus’ heroes, manifested itself as cultural authority. Two discourses in particular are critical, which I for convenience will term those of Cultural Autonomy and of the Privileged Past. Both of these defined what forms of literature and cultural expression could generate cultural authority in the Greek-speaking world of the Roman era. Cultural Autonomy refers to the phenomenon whereby elite Greek texts of this period tend to construct an artificially strict dichotomy between on one hand the sphere of political activity, which was coded as Roman, and that of literature, language and a range of other behaviors that fell under the heading of paideia, which were coded as Hellenic. Even in the case of individuals such as Arrian and Herodes Atticus, who were prominent in both of these spheres, moderns tend to speak of a distinct line, which people at the time would have perceived, between their “political” personae as senators and administrators at the imperial level, and their “cultural” personae as authors, performers, civic benefactors and so forth in Greek cities.7 The separation is sometimes exaggerated by moderns, but it is indisputable that a lot of Greek texts and art from this period tend to avoid or minimize specific reference to contemporary political circumstances in a way markedly different from their Latin counterparts, to code their subject matter and audience as specifically Greek, and to place their texts either in a timeless setting or in the classical Greek past.8 7

8

This conception developed in large part in opposition to the thesis of Bowersock 1969, who attempted to read the Second Sophistic as fundamentally a political phenomenon. See Swain 1996, 70–1. Whitmarsh 2001, 3–4 rightly critiques Swain’s work in particular as reading imperial Greek literature in too univocal and literal a fashion. Whitmarsh also makes the key distinction (17–20) that whereas Greeks and Romans of the Imperial era did indeed construct a duality that we might most conveniently characterize as “Roman power” versus “Greek culture,” we should neither confuse that construct with objective reality nor assume that it maps exactly on to ideas of an autonomous cultural sphere that were constructed in the nineteenth century and critiqued by Foucault and others in the twentieth. An example of this phenomenon, if one were needed, can be seen in comparing the corpora of Plutarch and Dio Chrysostom with those of their contemporaries Martial and Pliny the Younger. Even allowing for generic differences, it is remarkable how many more datable and concrete references are to be found in the Latin authors, and how much more clearly the dynastic break from Domitian to Nerva/ Trajan makes itself felt. See on this point Kemezis forthcoming.

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Thus emerges the second of the two discourses mentioned above, that of the Privileged Past. While a selectively remembered past is critical to constructing any national or ethnic identity, Greeks of the Imperial period are unusual both for the specificity of the chronological range that they tend to invoke, and the depth of their identification with that distant period. When authors from Dio Chrysostom through Pausanias and Lucian refer, as they constantly do, to the Hellenic past, what they mostly mean is mainland Greece and especially Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries bc. The preference corresponds to the canonization, more marked than ever in the High Empire, of a relatively small number of classical authors, mostly Athens-based writers of Attic prose.9 Conversely, the history and literature of the Hellenistic period receive less attention, more markedly the further they get from the age of Alexander. It was common in scholarship through the mid-twentieth century to read these practices at face value, and to assume that the Greek literary world actually was apolitical and obsessed with the past, and that if Greeks had ideas about their present and its political circumstances, they expressed them by other means.10 More recent work has recognized that this cultural self-positioning had critical political implications, in the broader postFoucauldian sense. The Greek elites from their mastery of an autonomous paideia and immersion in an artificially circumscribed past acquired prestige that could be transmuted into an authority recognized both by their non-elite Hellenophone neighbors and by masters in the “Roman” realm of politics.11 Further important work has also stressed the complex and problematic nature of this authority-production. Many Second-Sophistic texts work to deconstruct their own cultural authority, and authors can position themselves in opposition or ironical counterpoint to the authoritative past and the easy equation of paideia with social prestige and mainstream cultural orthodoxy.12 9

10 11

12

For the classicizing emphasis of the Second Sophistic as a form of “intentional history,” i.e. the incorporation of the past into contemporary discourses of group self-definition, see Gehrke 2010, 30–1, and 2001 for the concept more generally. On the geographical-cultural exclusivity of the Second Sophistic canon, see now Andrade 2013, 245–60. For the linguistic practices of Atticism, Kim 2010b is an invaluable introduction. See above, p. 38. Foundational treatments are those of Swain 1996, who focuses largely on Greek self-definition relative to Romans, and Schmitz 1997, who deals with Greek elites’ authority relative to non-elites. Alcock 2002, 36–98 applies ideas of “hybrid memory” to architectural uses of the classical past. For examples of how individual authors turn knowledge of the past into authority in their own present, see Alcock 1994a on Pausanias and Vasunia 2003 on Plutarch. Goldhill 2001b and 2002; Whitmarsh 2001; and Bendlin 2011, working from different perspectives, all address the problematic nature of cultural authority in key Second-Sophistic texts.

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The cultural dynamics thus described do not rely heavily on historical narrative. They draw on history, in the shape of the selectively remembered Greek past, but it is an oddly shaped past. It consists of a narrative present of which author and reader are personally aware, but which is largely stripped of political content or anything else that would provide chronological coherence and make a unified story possible. Then there is a well-populated area in the relatively distant past that does have a political history and a grand narrative, as well as universally known canonical literary figures who can be related chronologically to one another. In between there is a large stretch of much less well travelled territory encompassing roughly the third century bc through the first century ad. When one wishes to connect the distant past with the speaker’s present, one does not generally use narrative means. Rather one interacts directly with the distant past, either through interpretation of its history and cultural products without overt reference to the present moment, or through mimesis, by replicating its cultural practices and taking on the personae of its key figures, or claiming identity with them. This last activity is most associated with the declamations of professional sophists, but can cover a much wider field of activity, from Arrian’s emulation of Xenophon through Caracalla’s play-acting as Alexander. We have already seen in Chapter 2 that this non-narrative approach to the past is part of the larger and specifically Antonine lack of contemporary narrative that affects literary historiography in both languages.13 Scholarship on Philostratus tends, as noted, to take a synchronic and anecdotal approach, which places him in much the same paradigm as is used for Lucian, Aelius Aristides and a series of other mostly Antonine-era Greek authors that represent the core canon of the modern Second Sophistic.14 In general, studies of Greek literature in this period have tended to avoid Roman dynastic periodization, and one does not hear nearly as often of “Flavian,” “Antonine” or “Severan” literature in Greek as one does of “Augustan,” “Neronian,” “Flavian” and “Trajanic” literature in Latin. It is nonetheless a characteristically Severan endeavor of Philostratus’ to give narrative form to current dynamics of past and present, and in doing so to consider the relationship of a possible autonomous Greek historical narrative with the dynastic political history of Rome. It is not my contention that 13 14

Goldhill 2012, 352 sees a greater distinction between Greek and Roman practice in this respect. See Swain 1996, 380–400. This tendency stems in part from the idea that the author of the Sophists is himself a sophist, and that one can read Philostratus as an author by means of the categories he uses to describe his subjects. See Anderson 1986, especially 1–17, Billault 2000, especially 7. While this is evidently validfor many areas ofcultural practice,it isnotnecessarilythecase inrelationto thekey issuefor ourpurposes here, that of how Philostratus imagines his relationship to the Greek and Roman past.

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Philostratus as a historical personage was earnestly committed to producing such a narrative, as a partisan of autonomous Greek culture. His personal convictions are less my concern than the imaginative possibilities he creates. The Apollonius and Sophists are above all exercises in cultural imagination, in the creation of narrative worlds. Although each one draws on factual data from the external world in which Philostratus and his readers live (the Sophists considerably more than the Apollonius), I will read them as taking place in two related but different fictional worlds, each with its own version of the relationship between culture and power and its own way of constructing that relationship in narrative-historical time and integrating historical characters into its reality. Author–narrator relationships are considerably more complicated with Philostratus than they were with Dio, and the separation of the two roles goes well beyond the formal level.15 The narrators of the Apollonius and Sophists identify themselves as Philostratus, and they lay claim to some of the biographical experiences of the external author and, crucially, to the paideia and cultural authority that many readers likely already associate with his name.16 However, each is a creature of the fictional world he describes, inasmuch as he functions within the cultural–political framework of the work in question. The Apollonius narrator lives in a world where someone like the Philostratean Apollonius once existed and where people like the Philostratean Julia Domna still revere him and want books about him. The Sophists narrator takes on himself all of the inflated prestige that he attributes to his heroes. Philostratus, as historical figure and as implied author of the two works, certainly knew that the real Apollonius had little resemblance to the literary version, and it seems unlikely that he saw his professional colleagues in quite the heroic role they fulfill in the Sophists. Philostratus the author is not trying to convince readers that cultural authority and political power really do function as they do in his writings, or even that they should. Rather he is asking them to relate his fictional worlds to their own, and to consider what the implications are for the role of Greek identity and the past on which it is constructed. 15

16

For the importance of these narratological distinctions, see Gyselinck and Demoen 2009 for the Apollonius, Schmitz 2009 for the Sophists, and Whitmarsh 2004 for the Philostratean corpus as a whole. Based both on internal references and on the content of other Philostratean works, the Apollonius and Sophists appear to be late-career works written by an old man who had already produced most of the other works of the surviving Philostratean corpus, as well as making a name for himself as a performing sophist and having a homonymous father who did the same. On the attribution of the various works in the corpus, see De Lannoy 1997 and Bowie 2009a, with references. The overall trend in recent scholarship has been to consider the great bulk of the corpus as the work of the same author as the Apollonius and the Sophists.

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The next two chapters will explore first the Apollonius and then the Sophists as unified narratives whose eponymous characters display in heroic degree certain forms of excellence that embody or stem from Greek paideia. These characters manifest that excellence within the same space and time as traditional dynastic history. Apollonius and the sophists are not, in Philostratus’ telling, footnotes to history, nor are they restricted to smallscale actions on the periphery of the empire. The former is initially active in peripheral regions but is soon able to relocate to core areas of the eastern half of the empire, and to stand on an equal footing with members of the local and central elites. The sophists are themselves members of those elites, and the individual to whom Philostratus gives most prominence, Herodes Atticus, is both a consular in Rome and the dominant figure of the local aristocracy in Athens. Both works have a geographical structure in which a climactic point of the narrative involves the key figure or figures becoming active in Rome. The heroes’ stories are in effect imposed on the dynastic past of all four of Rome’s first ruling houses, and in one sense the dynastic principle is clearly subordinate. The career of Apollonius and the rise of the sophists each have their own beginnings, developments and, in the former case, endings, that are explicitly determined by internal factors, and not by the comings and goings of imperial dynasties. The political narrative is shaped to fit them, not vice versa. Each of the chapters will begin with an overview of the narrative content of the work in question, followed by an examination of the explicit claims that Philostratus as narrator makes about that content, especially in his prefaces. There will then be an examination of the heroes’ activities, which I will read as attempts through mimesis and interpretation to transform how the world of the narrative functions in relation to the Greek past. Lastly, I will examine how each narrative presents its heroes in relationship to Roman power structures and to the political narratives into which the heroes’ activities are integrated, and will consider both texts together in light of the paradigms of dynastic thinking that operated in the Severan period. At the end of the next chapter, I will step back to view the two works as a diptych, and to examine contrasts in their relationships to Roman dynastic history. I have noted that on the explicit level Apollonius and the sophists are both independent of dynastic change, but it is suspiciously convenient that the action of the Apollonius is neatly confined to the Neronian and Flavian periods, while the rise and peak of the sophistic movement coincide largely with those of the Antonine dynasty. Chapter 5 will conclude by examining the ways in which Philostratus’ narratives assert or subvert continuities across dynastic lines, and thus what scope they leave for an autonomous Greek narrative history.

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Fiction and propaganda in the Apollonius Before one can attempt a reading of the Apollonius, one is obliged to address certain key questions about the text, and to define one’s interpretive stance. Therefore the next pages will consist of a brief methodological parenthesis, for which I ask readers’ patience. The Apollonius is an exceedingly difficult text to come to grips with. Even its title is disputed – my own usage here represents an avoidance of the problem rather than a solution to it – and that dispute arises out of a larger controversy over the correct interpretive approach to the text.17 Is the Apollonius a work of propaganda on behalf of a cult favored by the imperial family?18 An evocation of a “holy man” figure found in all kinds of ancient literary genres but most appositely in “pagan hagiographic” works such as Porphyry’s work on Plotinus and Iamblichus’ on Pythagoras?19 An apologetic work designed to present traditional Hellenic culture in the form that could best correspond to and thus refute the Christian Gospels?20 An ironic comment on the relationship of philosophical discourse to practice?21 A complex Pythagorean philosophical allegory?22 A combination of epideictic rhetoric and novelistic romance intended mainly for entertainment?23 How does Philostratus’ hero relate to the historical Apollonius, a real but poorly attested religious celebrity active in late first-century Asia Minor?24 Many of the above stated positions are compatible with others, and none of them would, if correct, entirely exclude a reading of the Apollonius such as the one proposed in this chapter. On a common-sense level, the Apollonius 17

18

19 22 23 24

In the Sophists (570), speaking of the alleged parentage of Alexander Clay-Plato, Philostratus refers to an earlier work as Τὰ ἐς Ἀπολλώνιον, evidently meaning the work on Apollonius that we now possess. Eunapius (VPS 454), however, knows it by the title of Βίος Ἀπολλωνίου, and apparently considers that title as both undisputed and the author’s own. One might note in this context that Eunapius’ contemporary Jerome thought of Tacitus as having written vitae Caesarum (Comm. in Zach. 3.14). Many modern authors favor the title In Honor of Apollonius, referring to the common ancient use of the Τὰ ἐς [blank] formula in encomium as opposed to biography proper. See Robiano 2001, 637–8, with references. Bowie 1978, 1665 notes the similarity with the Τἀ περὶ [blank] καὶ [blank] titles of Greek novels and prefers the more neutral “The book of Apollonius” vel sim. For discussion of novelistic titling conventions, see Whitmarsh 2005. The titles Sophists and Apollonius are used here in the text, while the standard abbreviations VS and VA will still be used in references. Morgan 2009 is a thorough reading of the Apollonius in the context of the Emesan cult and of the worship of Apollonius as engaged in by the Severan family. Cordovana 2012, 71–2 is the most recent example of a tradition that sees the Apollonius as expounding the Severan regime’s political ideologies more generally. See n. 29 below. 20 See n. 31 below. 21 As argued by Schirren 2005; 2009. See Praet 2009. A common verdict going back to Meyer 1917. For affinities with the more straightforward erotic romances, see Billault 2000, 105–13; Sidebottom 2007, 62–4. For discussion of the historical Apollonius, see Bowie 1978, 1671–92 and Dzielska 1986.

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is exceedingly long, complex, and varied in content, and need not, indeed almost cannot, be entirely any one of these things to the exclusion of all else. On the other hand, not all of the above possibilities can coexist. One needs at least some parameters for whether given passages can be read as marking fiction, allegory, irony, or reference to discourses not explicitly mentioned. Equally, there are a great many parts of the Apollonius that must be read differently depending on whether one believes that they really happened, or were thought by Philostratus or his readers to have done so. In short, any analysis of the Apollonius must begin from some interpretive premises. For our purposes here, therefore, two interpretive positions will apply to the rest of my argument. The first of these is that the Apollonius will be treated here as basically a work of fiction, whose key events are largely invented by Philostratus, never occurred in anything like the form he describes and were not meant to be read as fact by Philostratus’ implied readers. This fictionality, and the work’s prevailing sense of playful fantasy, do not, however, prevent the Apollonius from having serious things to say about the real world, and recent scholarship has done much to break down the false dichotomy between “serious, accurate biography” and “frivolous, novelistic fiction.”25 In particular, the opening frame narrative of the Apollonius, involving the discovery of writings by Apollonius’ follower Damis, contains several tropes reminiscent of a kind of “pseudo-documentary fiction” that seems to have been especially popular in the high Imperial period, and was used to explore what were often questions of real cultural importance.26 Throughout the rest of the text, Philostratus and his narrator are clearly much attuned to questions of fictionality, verisimilitude and narratorial trustworthiness. It is not that every contemporary reader would necessarily have picked up on these cues. There were undoubtedly different degrees of credulity, but from a methodological point of view, the attempt to explain how the bulk of the narrative content of the Apollonius could have been true, or how Philostratus himself could have believed it was true, is an interpretive blind alley.27 There is much more to be gained by assuming that Philostratus had considerable creative license, such that the episodes of his hero’s travels, encounters with Greek 25 26

27

Francis 1998 is an important article in this respect. For a fuller explication of my own reading of the frame narrative, see Kemezis 2014. For Damis as a marker of fictional discourse, and for the Apollonius’ links to novels more generally, see Bowie 1978, 1663–7; 1994. For the broader field of pseudo-documentary fiction and the tropes relating to it, see Hansen 2003 and Ní Mheallaigh 2008. Grosso 1954 represents by far the fullest exploration of this alley; for his methodological principle of giving Philostratus the greatest benefit of the smallest doubt, see e.g. 511–13. Anderson 1986, 155–97 and 2009 argues for Philostratus as working with authentic, albeit inaccurate, local and folk traditions.

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cities and especially his interactions with Roman emperors are largely the author’s own creation, supplemented by an oral and written tradition that was probably less full than Philostratus’ narrator would assert. Behind his narrator’s earnest pose, Philostratus is re-imagining Roman history as a stage for a one-man religious and cultural phenomenon. The second point is that my reading of the Apollonius does not see it primarily from the standpoint of hagiography or religious advocacy. In this sense I depart from two closely related interpretive traditions that represent probably the most common approach to the Apollonius in the past hundred years, albeit one that has been more nuanced in recent scholarship.28 The first of these, the “hagiographic” approach, is most common in New Testament studies, and links both the real and the Philostratean Apollonius to a sort of cultural archetype of “holy man” or “divine man” (θεῖος ἀνήρ), which also embraces the Gospel Jesus and subsequent Christian figures and is useful for explaining how the Jewish Messiah Jesus was translated by the Evangelists into a Gentile idiom.29 Such arguments often neglect Philostratus’ literary project entirely, but when it is considered, Philostratus is seen as either arguing for Apollonius’ inclusion in the pre-existing θεῖος ἀνήρ category, or redefining the category on the model of his hero.30 28

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As for instance with König 2009a, 92, who in an overview of mostly pagan Imperial Greek literature, places his discussion of the Apollonius (which is much shorter than that of the Sophists) in his section on “Christian Biography.” See Van Uytfanghe 2009 for the most recent and complete consideration of hagiographic approaches to the Apollonius. The concept of the θεῖος ἀνήρ is most associated with Bieler 1935, although earlier formulations existed. For a critique of the unhistorical thinking involved in this stance, see Koskenniemi 1998, also Reimer 2002, 56–9. Du Toit 1997, in an extensive study of the usage of θεῖος ἀνήρ and related terms, argues persuasively that ancient authors do not in fact use this vocabulary as technical terminology for any specific type of heroic figure. Some of his more absolute formulations have been refuted by Flinterman 2009, but Flinterman’s arguments do little to rehabilitate the θεῖος ἀνήρ thesis. He is certainly correct that there are many instances in the VA and elsewhere where the possibility is discussed of Apollonius’ being superhuman or divine, but it is easier to read this as a blurring of the standard categories of “human” and “divine” rather than an evocation of some well defined third category. Flinterman’s further argument that assimilating Apollonius to Pythagoras emphasizes his possibly superhuman nature only tends to weaken the interpretive usefulness of the supposed θεῖος ἀνήρ type. If we diagnose the presence of a θεῖος ἀνήρ in Philostratus by appeal to fourth-century-bc or earlier texts about Pythagoras, how can we meaningfully place the concept in any cultural–historical context? Can we say anything more definite than that people in antiquity often expressed admiration for remarkable people by comparing or assimilating them to gods? None of this is to deny the considerable parallels between the Apollonius and various NT books, for which see Petzke 1970, especially 63–142 on structure and 161–94 on narrative content, as well as Bowersock 1994 and Burridge 2004, especially 150–84, both incorporating the Apollonius into larger theses about the relationship betweeen the Gospels and Imperial-era narrative literature. Reimer 2002 uses the Apollonius and the NT Acts to explore the social status of miracleworking and its practitioners. For variant approaches that also see Apollonius as representative of a larger cultural type, see Francis 1995, 118–26, who concentrates on ascetic activity rather than the miracle-working that is at the core of

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The second, the “apologetic” approach, is more specific to Philostratus’ third-century context, and places the Apollonius within a discourse asserting the claims of Pythagoreanism, or traditional Greek culture more generally, against new intellectual challenges including, but not limited to, Christianity.31 This second approach has obvious affinities with the first, since a superhuman protagonist comparable to Jesus makes an excellent vehicle for religious propaganda generally and anti-Christian polemic specifically. Moreover, it is clear that readers in the decades and centuries after Philostratus wrote, most particularly Hierocles and Eunapius, did in fact read the Apollonius in both apologetic and hagiographic terms.32 Modern proponents of an apologetic reading also tend to adopt the “holy/divine man” vocabulary, though in their case usually as a link between Apollonius and later Neoplatonic heroes. Neither of these approaches is wrong in itself. Many of the discourses associated with pagan and Christian hagiography can indeed be seen in the Apollonius.33 Equally, Philostratus is clearly projecting himself into real debates that went on in Severan Rome regarding the religious status of his hero. The commonalities between the Apollonius and New Testament and Neoplatonic writings are undeniable, but scholarship has often been too ready to make the leap from undeniable commonalities to substantial identity, and to assert that Philostratus is writing basically the same sort of text about the same kind of figure for the same intellectual reasons as the other authors. This in turn makes the hagiographic and apologetic discourses primary, such that all or the great bulk of Philostratus’ content is taken to relate to it, and even those portions of the Apollonius that have no obvious parallels in other “holy man” literature are read as Philostratus expanding the boundaries of the hagiographic–apologetic sphere rather

31

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33

the θεῖος ἀνήρ tradition, and Anderson 1994, who treats the “holy man” as a social phenomenon rather than a literary construct or discourse, and has correspondingly less emphasis on the Apollonius as a self-existing narrative. Swain 1999 argues strongly for the apologetic character of the Apollonius, without seeing Christianity as necessarily the main ideological opponent. Sfameni Gasparro 2007 argues for placing Philostratus’ emphasis on mageia and goēteia with Christian–pagan apologetic discourses, although once again not to the extent of reading the Apollonius as primarily anti-Christian polemic. Boulogne 1999 does see the Apollonius as conscious counter-propaganda against the Christian Gospels, but appears to take this stance a priori rather than arguing for it. For the late-antique uses of Apollonius (almost invariably filtered through Philostratus) see Dzielska 1986, 153–84; Hanus 2000, 219–32; Hägg 2004. Hierocles was the author of a Tetrarchic-era treatise comparing Apollonius favorably to Christ; we know of it thanks to an extensive refutation of it attributed to Eusebius of Caesarea. Eunapius is known for his observation (VPS 454 = Jones T3) that a better title for Philostratus’ Apollonius would have been “A God’s Sojourn among Human Beings” (Ἐπιδημίαν ἐς ἀνθρώπους θεοῦ). For the Apollonius in the larger context of Neoplatonic biography, see Fowden 1982; Cox 1983, 17–44. Van Uytfanghe 2009 sees the Apollonius as displaying all of the four elements that he considers key markers of a “discours hagiographique.”

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than engaging in other discourses entirely. Thus the episode of Julia Domna’s supposed commission, which belongs more to the world of novels and pseudepigraphic writings than that of hagiography, is still most often read either as a reflection of actual religious controversies at her court, or as an attempt by Philostratus to gain authority for his agenda. In either case, the assumption is that Philostratus’ single aim is to magnify Apollonius and that he is using the figure of Julia to further it, rather than that he has a point to make about Julia, or about political and cultural authority more generally, and is using his narrative of Apollonius as a vehicle for that point among a great many others.34 Such a privileging of hagiographic and apologetic discourses would be justified only if they represented the bulk of a work’s content, or if they represented the part of it that was evidently of most importance to author and audience alike, and neither of these is the case with Philostratus’ Apollonius. Whatever characteristics its hero may share with other pagan holy men, the Apollonius is in key ways a different sort of narrative from the Christian Gospels or the philosophic lives cited above. In those cases, the form and the majority of the content is primarily dictated by a more or less genuine imperative to establish the exceptional spiritual status of the protagonist and to promote a specific ideological agenda built around that status.35 Philostratus’ Apollonius, however, maintains a considerably less earnest tone than any of the works to which it is usually compared, and contains a great amount of material that strongly resists interpretation in hagiographic terms. Philostratus certainly claims some kind of supernatural status for his hero, but the claims are vague and inconsistent and nowhere amount to an explicit argument for his inclusion in a pre-existing category of θεῖος ἀνήρ.36 We should rather imagine that Philostratus encountered a pre-existing controversy about Apollonius, which we will explore in more detail below. One side ascribed the sage’s miracles to transgressive magic or charlatanry, the other to some more orthodox favored relationship with the divine, be it actual divinity on Apollonius’ part, or simply extraordinary human holiness. It serves Philostratus’ purposes to take the second path, to 34 35

36

For Julia as an authority-boosting technique, see Whitmarsh 2001, 216. Van Uytfanghe 2009, 360–4 identifies in the Apollonius a common performative feature of hagiography, in which the hero’s life is presented as in itself a means of instruction and/or an object of imitation. It would seem, however, that in order to distinguish hagiography from encomium in this respect, one would need a unifying ideological agenda to focus the praise in one direction rather than simply asserting that the protagonist is exceedingly virtuous, and Van Uytfanghe does not really demonstrate the presence of such an agenda in the Apollonius. On the lack of a straightforward argument for Apollonius’ divinity, see Flinterman 1995, 60–5. For an alternative categorization of Apollonius, see Cox 1983, 34–44.

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assert a socially acceptable favored status for his hero, but that assertion is not in itself his whole purpose. Philostratus may or may not have believed that Apollonius really was in some sense divine, or have intended his readers to participate in cult activities on his behalf, but either way, it is difficult to see how these objectives are best served by spending quite so much time on his hero’s zoological preoccupations, or his philological rather than spiritual conversations with Achilles, or the moral support he gives to the Ionians confronted with Domitian’s edict calling for reduced wine production.37 It is not that these episodes are trivial or without ideological content, but they do not read as advocacy of any single focused agenda. However many parallels Apollonius’ activities may have with those of the Gospels’ Jesus or Porphyry’s Plotinus, what is crucially missing is anything comparable to the Gospel message of apocalypse and salvation or to the body of Neoplatonic teachings to which Porphyry’s and Iamblichus’ lives are explicitly protreptics. The recognizably Pythagorean content of the Apollonius is remarkably superficial given the length and artistry of the work as a whole, and Philostratus seems often to be relying on readers’ previous knowledge of Pythagoreanism rather than aiming to extend it.38 The closest to a unifying ideology is something that we might see as “Hellenism.” But while there is no question the Apollonius narrator endorses the primacy of traditional Greek culture, that does not mean that he or the author Philostratus would have considered the question in terms of a definite agenda that he was for and others, especially Christians, were categorically against.39 The author seems still to be aiming at an audience that thinks entirely within traditional Hellenic discourses. To the 37

38

39

On digressions in the Apollonius more generally, see Knoles 1981, 69–79. Animal references are legion. Apollonius is said at VA 1.20 to have the ability to communicate with animals, and at 2.12–16 we are treated to a tour de force on the intelligence and emotional sensitivity of elephants, with comparisons to bears, wolves, leopards, lions, eagles, storks, dolphins, whales and seals. The questions that Apollonius poses to Achilles at 4.16.4–6 all relate to the factual accuracy or credibility of poetic accounts of the Trojan War, and are more closely related to the milieu of the Heroicus than to any philosophical or religious strands of Homeric scholarship. See on this point Grossardt 2009 and Kim 2010a, 189–91. For the vine-edict, see VA 6.42. See on this point Anderson 1986, 134–6, who notes that “it is tempting to suspect that Philostratus has simply projected well-known details of the Pythagoras legend on to Apollonius.” For readings of the Apollonius as more deeply engaged with Pythagoreanism, see Flinterman 2009; Praet 2009. On the non-specific nature of Apollonius’ teachings, see Billault 2000, 120. The major argument of Swain 1999 is that the Apollonius represents an attempt to find a new philosophical grounding for Hellenism, which in Swain’s view was entering a crisis period in large part due to the presence on the throne of the not-fully-Hellenized members of the later Severan dynasty. There is little explicit evidence for this in the Apollonius, and Swain’s argument only works if one accepts his larger cultural– historical narrative of the period, which is based on a considerable number of speculative inferences not shared here regarding the religious and identity politics of the later members of the Severan

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extent that critiques of Greek culture appear, they are the internally generated ones that were familiar from the previous century. When ideas from other cultures are considered, it is in relation to existing Greek analogues, not on their own terms.40 Rather than defending the Greek cultural enterprise as a unit against ideological foes, Philostratus is best seen as engaging with a basically like-minded audience in a remarkable variety of cultural discourses tied together by one improbable but compelling literary character. Among the subjects thus embraced is the relationship between Roman political history and Greek cultural life, and my contention is that that aspect of the Apollonius is best explored without assuming that it must be secondary to a single unified ideological purpose.

The unlikely Apollonius Of Philostratus’ authorial choices, the first one to be considered is that of his hero. The tendency to assimilate the Apollonius to later hagiographic works sometimes gives a false impression that it is just one example of an established genre. This has obscured the counter-intuitive nature of Philostratus’ selection of subject matter, given his overall literary project and probable intended audience. It is notoriously difficult to come up with a clear picture either of the historical Apollonius or of his posthumous reputation before Philostratus got to him. However, while Apollonius was clearly a known figure with at least some cult following, philosophical pretensions and associations with the imperial family, there is much to suggest that large segments of Philostratus’ urban elite audience would have viewed him with suspicion and disdain.41 The most important pre-Philostratean witnesses are Lucian and Cassius Dio. The former, in his satirical broadside against Alexander of Abonouteichos (Alex. 5), claims that that outrageous charlatan learned his trade from a Tyanean who in turn “had been in with the notorious Apollonius (Ἀπολλωνίῳ τῷ πάνυ), and had learned his entire

40

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dynasty, and Philostratus’ likely reaction to them. Swain also seems to me to overstate the extent to which debates over the possible non-Greek origins of philosophical wisdom became more prevalent in the third century as opposed to the second. Thus Apollonius’ conversations with Indians and Ethiopians consist largely of listening to and answering their observations on Hellenic culture. Their critiques have little or no content that is specific to the national identity of the speaker (other than Herodotean or Hellenistic stereotypes), and are very much reminiscent of Lucian’s “Scythian” speakers in the Anacharsis and Toxaris. One thing Philostratus does not do is use Apollonius’ “Cappadocian” status to give him an ambivalent perspective on Greek views of the other, as Lucian does in On the Syrian Goddess, for which see Elsner 2001b with now Andrade 2013, 288–313. The most important discussion of Apollonius’ pre-Philostratean reputation is Bowie 1978; see also Raynor 1984 and Dzielska 1986, 186–9.

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routine (τὴν πᾶσαν αὐτοῦ τραγῳδίαν).” The short phrase assimilates Apollonius to a sordid world of impostors passing false cultural currency by putting on outrageous performances that undermine the prestige of characters like Lucian’s narrator, who claim to derive their authority from rigorously controlled and authenticated Hellenic paideia.42 Philostratus’ own selfpresentation is very different from Lucian’s, but his sophistic star culture relies on a similar combination of approved technique and performative élan. He would have recognized Lucian’s marginalization of Apollonius as a rhetorical gambit, but he would also have shared the real anxieties that made the gambit effective, the need to be able to distinguish the orthodox mainstream (as represented by oneself) from charismatic upstarts from the geographical and cultural periphery, especially if one’s opponents happened to be particularly vulnerable to that characterization. Cassius Dio’s reaction to Apollonius is important both for its factual content and for the testimony it gives as to the resonance Apollonius took on a hundred years after his death. The most important reference comes as Dio is describing the relationship between the emperor Caracalla and his mother (78.[77].17–18 [EV]). In Dio’s view, Julia does all the real work of governing, and still finds time to devote herself to respectable cultural pursuits, notably philosophy. Her son, on the other hand, cannot be bothered to deal with the people who run his empire, and prefers instead to engage in amateur dramatics, both by playing at charioteer behind closed doors and by striking a public pose of military austerity: he claims to live off plain soldierly food, although in fact he gorges on every sort of delicacy. This contrasting diptych is finished off with the observation that Caracalla “took such delight in magicians and charlatans (τοῖς δὲ μάγοις καὶ γόησιν οὕτως ἔχαιρεν) that he would even give praise and glory to Apollonius the Cappadocian, who lived under Domitian and was a magician and charlatan if ever there was one (γόης καὶ μάγος άκριβὴς); to this man he even built a shrine (ἡρῷον)” (78.[77].18.4 [EV]). This notice tells us two important and 42

On the subject of social exclusivity in intellectual life, see now Eshleman 2012, especially 21–66. For Lucian as defending the culture of paideia against the performances of impostors, see Francis 1995, 67–81. Bendlin 2011, 231–41 and Fields 2013 are correct, however, to caution against identifying Lucian too closely with his own narrative personae in the Alexander and Peregrinus respectively. The narrator of the Alexander in particular deconstructs himself to a considerable extent, notably by departing from Epicurean ataraxia so far as to physically assault the false prophet, by the canine (i.e. Cynical) means of biting his hand (Alex. 55, with Bendlin 239). Nonetheless, the incidental use of Apollonius to slander Alexander indicates that some large segment of the reading public would have associated him with marginality and goēteia, even if that association is not fully shared by Lucian or his ideal ironic reader. On Lucian and self-reflexive performance of Greekness, see now Andrade 2013, 261–87. On the social and cultural background of the Alexander and Peregrinus more generally, see Jones 1986, 117–48.

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contrasting things. First, it confirms Philostratus’ assertion in the preface to the Apollonius that his hero’s cult was patronized by the imperial family. Further support can be found elsewhere in Dio, where he incidentally mentions that the family had spent time at Tyana during the reign of Septimius Severus.43 Apollonius may have been a marginal figure, but he was not an obscure one, and it was not entirely unexpected that he strayed into Philostratus’ pages. The second aspect of Dio’s notice, however, makes it clear that Philostratus’ ostensible view of Apollonius was far from natural or orthodox. It is not simply that Dio shows disdain for Apollonius. The significant thing is that in doing so he also wraps him up in a series of discourses around elite identity and cultural activity. As he portrays it, Julia embodies the GrecoRoman elite myth that paideia and social class were commensurate, always united in the same degree in the same persons. Her philosophical activity is entirely assimilated to her general willingness to participate in traditionally approved public cultural activities with members of the elite, much as was the case with Marcus.44 Caracalla, on the other hand, is accused of a series of behaviors that, although all clearly negative, seem ill-assorted: what do charioteering, military play-acting, calculated rudeness to elder statesmen, pretended abstention from rich food, actual indulgence in the same, and admiration for unorthodox religious figures all have in common? It is only when contrasted with Julia and the ethos she represents that the portrait of Caracalla becomes coherent.45 Her consistent adherence to approved canons of cultural behavior shows up his penchant for attention-grabbing performative acts that devalue the activities associated with mainstream elite culture, and his embrace of roles based on alternative sources of prestige and charisma: the arena performer, the soldier and the ascetic. By taking such an

43

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45

Dio 76.[75].15.4 (EV), describing Plautianus falling ill there and Severus visiting him. It may well be that the prominence of the Apollonius-cult within the imperial family was in some way linked to the rise of Plautianus, although Caracalla’s apparent enthusiasm for it complicates such a picture, given the political opposition between the two men. The reference to her philosophical activities at 78.[77].18.3 (EV) runs as follows: “Need I add that [Julia] gave public audiences to all the most prominent people (πάντας τοὺς πρώτους), just like [Caracalla], except that with these men as well she engaged still more in philosophy (ἔτι μᾶλλον ἐφιλοσόφει), while he claimed to have no needs beyond the necessities of life, and prided himself also on this point, that he lived off the most basic of diets, although in fact there was nothing in the air and seas or on the land that we did not furnish up for him both in public and private.” Note that the circle of Julia’s philosophical friends is made to coincide as closely as possible with the senatorial establishment who are the objects of Caracalla’s contempt and deliberate rudeness. On Dio’s more general practice of using Julia as a foil to bring out the defects of the men around her, see now Mallan 2012.

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aggressive oppositional stance, and by living a debauched life that negates the moral authority implicit in that stance, Dio’s Caracalla is behaving exactly like the charlatan (γόης) that the historian accuses Apollonius of being.46 This is very similar to Lucian’s indictment of Alexander, and one would think the author of the Heroicus, Gymnasticus and Sophists more likely to share it than to refute it. Based on this exiguous but suggestive evidence, then, the pre-Philostratean Apollonius is a figure of doubtful respectability in general, and one whom Philostratus especially, and his apparent audience, might have been expected to despise in an act of negative self-definition. He clearly did have admirers at the Severan court, but Dio strongly implies that Julia and her like-minded satellites were not among them. Seen against this background, Philostratus’ project becomes an act of great rhetorical daring. He means to integrate this unpromising figure as a positive term into a whole series of discourses on Hellenic and Roman culture, and to claim for this endeavor the authority of a recently dead empress who is remembered as standing for respectable tradition and continuity with the Antonine age. It is a feat worthy of a sophist, but one who can deliver a brilliantly imaginative reassessment of his own cultural moment while keeping his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. Philostratus’ fulfillment of this rhetorical pledge starts in his prefatory remarks to the Apollonius, with the unsurprising gambit of categorically denying that his hero was ever a magician (μάγος) or a charlatan (γόης).47 This is all the more to be expected in that, in addition to what we have already seen from Lucian and Dio, there existed at the time a work on Apollonius by one Moeragenes, who appears to have called the Tyanean a μάγος, although perhaps with laudatory intent, playing up the sage’s association with non-mainstream forms of religious authority.48 Such unconventional praise will not do for Philostratus. To be useful for Philostratus’ 46

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For the broader use of γόης in political invective, see also Dio 78.[77].17.3 (EV), in which Sempronius Rufus, a eunuch who became powerful and hated at Caracalla’s court, is referred to as a γόης and a φαρμακεύς (here “poisoner”). The theme is first brought up at VA 1.2. For its persistence throughout the VA and for an explication of the term γόης in terms of various models of religious authority, see Abraham 2009, 131–47. Moeragenes’ work is mentioned only briefly and dismissively by Philostratus (VA 1.3.2 and 3.41.1), but is independently attested by Origen (Contra Celsum 6.41 = Jones T9), who gives it the title of Τὰ Ἀπολλωνίου τοῦ Τυανέως μάγου καὶ φιλοσόφου ἀπομνημονεύματα. Raynor 1984 argues convincingly that the work was not hostile to Apollonius, but rather that its praise was directed toward thaumaturgic elements of the Apollonius legend that Philostratus did not wish to emphasize. This position is strengthened by the two letters in the independent tradition (Ep. 16 and 17) in which Apollonius asserts to Euphrates that μάγος should be considered a title of praise for godly persons. Abraham 2009, 13–19 argues that Moeragenes used μάγος not in the generic sense of “magician,” but referring to a specifically Persian form of religious knowledge and practice. Marasco 2009 argues for placing Philostratus’ condemnation of μάγοι in the context of a general hostile skepticism about

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purposes, Apollonius must be rehabilitated and rescued from the discourses of marginality and cultural fraudulence in which he has become entangled. This will not be done, however, simply by sanitizing him, rationalizing those of his activities that border on the respectable and denying those that cannot be palliated. Instead, he produces an Apollonius that is a far larger and more significant figure than anyone had expected before, and whose travels and encounters allow Philostratus to use him to talk about and re-imagine a quite bewildering range of topics. In the process he will offer a very singular version of how Greekness interacts with geography, narrative history and elite identity.

Apollonian geography The details of how Philostratus does this will preoccupy us for the rest of this chapter, but the nature of these activities will be clearer if we first sketch the content of the Apollonius in historical and geographical terms, and give some idea of how Apollonius’ overall world relates to the past and present. The work begins, in Book 1, with Apollonius situated in Asia Minor and Syria at some vague point in the Julio-Claudian era. Philostratus is at great pains to portray his hero as a thoroughly Hellenic figure who was descended from the colonial founders of Tyana and spoke perfect Attic his entire life.49 By contrast, the Greek world in which the hero lives is portrayed as a very decadent one. His own region of Cappadocia is said to be thoroughly barbarian, and in Cilicia and Syria he encounters Hellenic activity only in degraded form. His teachers and elders are at best passive audiences to his excellence and at worst embarrassing impediments that he overcomes with characteristic grace (VA 1.7). It is clear that this represents a falling away from better things, as seen in the observation that the spring at Daphne (1.16.2), a location of much Hellenic significance, had become barbarian. Apollonius passes through this world doing much good, even during his period of Pythagorean silence, but desire for wisdom draws him to and beyond its periphery. The second half of Book 1 and all of Books 2 and 3 will be spent in lands that are, in Philostratus’ words, “the territory of barbarians

49

magic that Marasco sees in Severan court circles. For Moeragenes more generally, see also Bowie 1978, 1673–9, who tentatively identifies the author with an Athenian aristocrat of the Trajanic and Hadrianic period. VA 1.4. Philostratus gives no further details about these supposed colonial founders. Tyana existed as an indigenous Anatolian city at the time of Xenophon (Anab. 1.2.20, spelled Δάνα), but its history as a Greek polis would seem to date only to its Hellenistic-era refounding as “Eusebia by the Taurus,” for which see Strabo 12.2.7, with Cohen 1995, 378–9. On Roman-era aristocrats’ claims of descent from colonial founders of their cities, see Jones 2010.

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and brigands, not yet under Roman control” (βάρβαρα ἔθνη καὶ ληστρικά, ουδ᾽ὑπὸ ῾Ρωμαίοις πω ὄντα).50 For all their remoteness, however, it is in these locales that Apollonius will encounter the wisdom of the Indians, which he embraces as the truest and, paradoxically, the most Hellenic. Thus equipped with a lifetime supply of intellectual capital, Apollonius returns to the known world, and indeed to the great centers of Greekness in the Aegean basin. He will spend most of Book 4 in the most emotive locations of greater Hellas, including Athens, Sparta and the Ionian cities. His activities there do not consist of learning, since we are told that Apollonius left India knowing everything he would ever need to know. Instead, he busies himself with enacting a cultural transformation. The nature of that transformation will be explored later in this chapter, but it is important here to stress the implicit grand narrative in his activities. The Greek center in Nero’s time is evidently still subject to the same malaise that had earlier been posited for more peripheral locations such as Syria. The Athenian Dionysia has degenerated into a series of contemptible mob entertainments, and the Spartans have become luxurious and effeminate. Apollonius becomes the crucial figure in pulling Hellas off a downward path that she would appear to have been on since the end of the Classical era.51 Late in Book 4, he is drawn from this salutary pursuit to Rome, where Nero is tyrannically oppressing good people in general and philosophers in particular. In the imperial capital, he will participate in important acts of defiance toward Nero, especially confounding Nero’s chief henchman Tigellinus. The episode ends somewhat anticlimactically however, in that Apollonius leaves Musonius Rufus to be the chief representative of philosophy in its confrontation with the tyrant, while taking himself off to the western edge of the empire. His own confrontation with lawless power is yet to come. First, however, our hero will spend Book 5 traveling first in the western Mediterranean, where he continues from afar in intrigues against Nero, and then once again in Greece. There he engages not so much in the reform of cities, but rather that of individuals. His sojourn consists largely of several encounters with morally compromised characters, whom he recalls to the path of virtue and cultural respectability (5.18–23). In the last part of the

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VA 1.20.3, in the context of praising Apollonius’ courage in having ventured into such lands. See VA 4.21 (Athens); 4.27 (Sparta). For a different reading of these passages, see Bowie 1978, 1680–1, who argues that the theme of Greek degeneracy is basically alien to Philostratus’ project, but has made its way into his text from the epistolary tradition. I would agree that the theme is much less present in the Sophists, but this is evidence for Philostratus’ different objectives in the two works.

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book, Apollonius will find himself once again engaged in high politics, when he goes to Alexandria and there encounters Vespasian, who is in the process of ascending to the throne from which Nero has fallen. The new ruler will embrace Apollonius with enthusiasm, and Philostratus gives the impression that whatever there is of enlightened rule in Vespasian’s reign is the result of Apollonius’ counsel. Book 6, however, will see the Tyanean leave behind high politics and venture once more into the far periphery, this time to Ethiopia. There he will use the wisdom he has learned at the other end of the world, in India, to uphold the Hellenic way of life in the face of a disdainful critique from the local sages, whose wisdom is genuine but limited compared with their Indian counterparts (6.1–27). He will then return to Greece and thence, in Book 7, to Rome once again. All of that book and most of the next will consist of the culminating episode of the entire narrative, in which Apollonius will give his most complete and powerful cultural performance in the imperial center. He will go through several adventures before facing down the tyrant Domitian with a bravura display of charismatic magic and then another of sophistic rhetoric. The emperor is so thoroughly defeated that even if his subsequent death cannot actually be attributed to Apollonius’ actions, it still appears as a natural next step. The sage himself rounds out Book 8 with a final tour of Greece before commending his favored disciple Damis to Nerva and then vanishing forever before the new era of enlightened rule even has a chance to begin. In order to understand these journeys through space and time, it is important to consider the different ways in which Philostratus portrays the different geographical zones through which his hero passes, and how each of them is integrated into the past and present of the world in which his audience lives.52 Broadly speaking, there are three different domains in which Philostratus operates: that of the far periphery, that of the Hellenic center, and that of the imperial center. There are significant differences among the three in terms of how realistic and detailed Philostratus makes the narrative. The far periphery, the locations Apollonius visits in Parthia, India and Ethiopia, are a transparently fictional universe whose outlines are dictated by centuries-old Hellenic discourses about the edges of the world and by the few key episodes in which locations in the far east had entered

52

For cultural geography in the Apollonius, see Hanus 1995, who sees divisions analogous to those posited here, though he defines them in terms of the presence or absence of the “merveilleux,” which is abundant in the far periphery and completely absent at Rome. See also Billault 2000, 102–4 and Whitmarsh 2012. Clarke 1999, 210–44 is an illuminating discussion of how Strabo structures his Geography around the two poles of the Roman imperial center and the Greek world.

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the consciousness of the broader elite Greek world.53 There are references to ongoing conflicts with Rome, and to a few historical individuals, but they are quite generic in nature, such as a Parthian–Roman border dispute over villages in Mesopotamia that the Roman governor claims as the successor to the Seleucid kings.54 The territory through which Apollonius travels is not seen as that over which Trajan and Severus fought, let alone as a place that Philostratus’ readers might ever themselves actually have occasion to see or learn about independently. Rather it is a series of places defined by their relationship to classical Greece, especially the Greco-Persian wars, the campaigns of Alexander, and the wanderings of Hercules and Dionysus.55 They are filled with surprisingly Greek-oriented inhabitants whom one consults not so much to learn about their world as to find points of comparison with Hellas.56 Significantly, however, there is no mention of the actual Greek cities that Alexander and his successors founded in lands beyond the Euphrates, and the only ethnic Greeks Apollonius encounters are descendants of prisoners of war from Darius’ expedition.57 The persistence of Greek cultural signification reaches a whole new level when Apollonius enters the second geographical zone, that of mainland Greece and Ionia. Apollonius’ Greece is almost as otherworldly as his India. It is a world in which whatever cultural meaning a given location had at any time in the pre-Hellenistic past persists indelibly, though it may be obscured. Athens is still defined in terms of the City Dionysia and the glories of the Persian wars; one still cannot take a walk from Piraeus to the city without encountering youths anxious to discuss philosophical topics 53

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For more general Greco-Roman discourses on India, see now Parker 2008, with specific reference to the Apollonius at 288–94, also Dihle 1964 and Romm 1992, 116–20. For the Parthian phase of the Apollonius, see Jones 2001a. Attempts have been made to uphold the historicity of Apollonius’ voyage, and the accuracy of Philostratus’ account of it, for which see Puskás 1991, citing earlier literature. Generally speaking, these arguments try on shaky grounds to establish the accuracy of Philostratus’ general picture of India and then make the methodologically problematic leap of assuming that the supposedly accurate information must come from an actual journey of Apollonius. Reger 2009 sees in the Parthian–Indian portions of the Apollonius a high level of verisimilitude, as opposed to historicity, but this consists mostly of very generalized social phenomena; on the specific question of cultural and linguistic identity, he sees the “Greekness” of Apollonius’ East as a reflection of surviving Hellenistic culture in these regions. Hellenistic as opposed to Classical culture is, however, notably absent from the Greekness displayed in this narrative, as noted by Andrade 2013, 253. VA 1.38.1. For the named Parthian characters and their historical reality, see Jones 2001a, 192–3. For discussion of Alexander, Hercules and Dionysus, see Whitmarsh 2012, 464–5. See Abraham 2014 for a reading of the eastern periphery as a series of stages of Greek culture, becoming progressively more archaic and pure the further one gets from the influence of Roman imperialism. For the absence of Hellenistic foundations, see Andrade 2013, 253, who notes that the paradoxically Greek-oriented settlement of Indian sages is explicitly located beyond the farthest point of Alexander’s advance. For the prisoners, see VA 1.24.

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(VA 4.18). As we will see, however, many important features of Greekness have fallen into disuse, such that Apollonius’ work is to restore the correct system of geographical signification in which Athenians, Spartans and Ionians all properly display the characteristics their ancestors supposedly did. This is all done in a timeless and rather anonymous atmosphere. Little or no attempt is made to give a historical grounding by adding personalities or events from the Greek world of the first century ad. Apollonius certainly does interact with such characters as Dio Chrysostom, Euphrates and Scopelian, but it is remarkable that he does so almost exclusively in Roman or far-peripheral contexts.58 When traveling in Greece, Apollonius’ main interlocutors are not historical personages but anonymous stereotyped figures, such as the hierophant of Eleusis who refuses to induct him into the Mysteries. Philostratus surely could have found out the names of senior Athenian religious officials from that period, or invented probable-sounding ones, but he is not interested in rooting Apollonius’ Greek world in a history independent of the sage himself. The same author who in another work does so much to fill Antonine Hellas with memorable personalities seems here to be exaggerating the ahistorical nature of the immediately preceding age. The contrast in this respect with the Roman region is remarkable. Apollonius spends considerably longer in Roman contexts than one might expect for a figure coded so strongly as Greek, and his activities there are described in remarkably circumstantial detail.59 Nero and Domitian are not presented as interchangeable stereotype tyrants; on the contrary, Philostratus shows considerable knowledge of their reigns and characters.60 58

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An exception is Demetrius the Cynic, who is found at 4.25, where he encounters Apollonius in Corinth and promptly becomes his disciple. The story is told in two sentences, and serves as a prelude to a much longer episode in which an otherwise unknown pupil of Demetrius’ with the suspiciously apt Cynic name of Menippus is rescued by Apollonius from marrying a lamia. Later on, at 5.19, Demetrius has another brief encounter with Apollonius at Athens, in which he describes Musonius Rufus doing forced labor on Nero’s Isthmian canal. The latter episode is connected with Nero’s visit to Greece and represents something of an intrusion of the Roman cultural zone into Greece. In the case of the former episode, one might note that Corinth, as a refounded Roman colony, had a more ambiguous Hellenic signification than many other prominent cities of Achaea (see König 2001). Apollonius’ reference at 4.22.1 to the popularity of gladiatorial games at Corinth would seem to refer to this question. “Roman contexts” includes most obviously Italy and Rome itself, but also the episode in Alexandria (5.24–42), which is dominated by Apollonius’ encounter with Vespasian. For the rest of Apollonius’ visit there, Alexandria is not generally coded as a Greek location. Its inhabitants are regularly referred to as “Egyptians,” including the priest that Apollonius disputes with at 5.25. There is no mention during the visit of Alexander, the Ptolemies, the Mouseion or the Gymnasium. The one allusion to the area’s past refers to the pre-Hellenistic pharaoh Amasis, who is encountered, reincarnated as a lion, at 5.42. On the significance of Egypt in the Apollonius more generally, see now Manolaraki 2013, 258–307. For Philostratus’ accuracy with regard to Roman political history, see below, p. 181.

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The supporting cast is well developed and includes both Roman political players, such as the Neronian consul Telesinus and Domitian’s prefect Casperius Aelianus, and great literary-philosophical names, including Dio, Euphrates and Musonius Rufus. The one element signaled as obviously fictional is Apollonius himself. His activities, when not physically impossible, are improbable on all kinds of cultural grounds.61 Philostratus’ audience is unlikely to have believed that Apollonius really was a moving force behind the revolt of Vindex, or that Vespasian’s decision to take the throne was really the result of his listening to a debate between two prominent philosopher-rhetoricians and a provincial religious figure of dubious respectability. Neither does Philostratus expect them to. What he does expect them to do is consider the differences between the various domains through which Apollonius passes, and the relationship between political narrative history and the world of Greek culture and the figures that transform it.

Linking past to present The ostensible rhetorical purpose of the Apollonius, as we have already seen, is to redeem its hero’s reputation and to establish that he is entitled to an honored place within approved cultural canons, as opposed to going into the marginal categories of γόης or μάγος. This is done in part by describing the hero’s superhuman achievements in several aspects of virtue. Another key technique, however, and the one that most concerns us here, is how Philostratus places his hero in a unique and privileged position relative to both the idealized classical past and the narrative present. It is not enough for Apollonius to be divine, he must also be supremely Hellenic, in the sense of evoking the Greek past. The Apollonius underlines its particular kind of referentiality to the ancient past with its very first words, which do not mention the protagonist at all. Instead the story begins with Pythagoras, lists various aspects of his way of life, and notes the reverence they drew from his followers (VA 1.1).62 It is only after a page and a half of this material that Apollonius himself is introduced, and we are told that “Apollonius pursued activities akin to [those of Pythagoras and his followers], and he attained to 61

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See Bowie 1978, 1655–62 for the improbability of both his encounter with Vespasian and his relations with Musonius Rufus and Demetrius the Cynic. As Bowie points out, the Apollonius’ history becomes less accurate the closer it gets to the actual figure of Apollonius. Subsequent scholarship generally follows Bowie’s skepticism, with the exception of Jackson 1984 and Anderson 1986, 175–85, both operating with very different assumptions than those used here regarding Philostratus’ overall literary methods and purposes. For the ongoing theme of Apollonius’ assimilation to Pythagoras, see Flinterman 2009.

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wisdom in a way more godly than Pythagoras and also overcame tyranny. Living as he did in times that were not ancient, if not quite recent either, he is not recognized for his genuine wisdom, which he practiced in philosophical and respectable ways.”63 What is notable for our purposes is the placement in relative time. Apollonius is neither recent enough to be remembered accurately nor ancient enough for people to accord him the reverence due to the heroes of the classical past. In his discussion of Pythagoras, the narrator explicitly declined to give a philosophical genealogy of Pythagoreans, and he thereby invokes a model in which successors are redundant or inferior imitations, and straightforwardly privileges antiquity. With Apollonius, it will be different. He is not to be compared with epigones, only with the original. He is a figure of the middle distance, the gap between ancient and modern, and as such readers will have a hard time locating themselves in relation to him. Is he a fellow modern engaged in mimesis of the idealized past, or a figure directly comparable to the ancients, and thus an object of mimesis by contemporary authors and readers? This question will be answered in part over the whole course of the work by a long series of direct comparisons of Apollonius to ancient figures, some of them delivered by the narrator and some by the sage himself. The comparisons are all favorable to Apollonius, as one might expect in a work that has so many links with encomium. We have already seen that his wisdom was holier than Pythagoras’. He is also clearer in his explanations than Heraclitus, more responsible in disposing of his property than Anaxagoras or Crates, and more sensible about astronomy than Anaxagoras or Thales.64 Outside of the realm of philosophy, he is able to proceed further into India than did Alexander, and his correct reverence toward Palamedes contrasts with the injustice shown him by the Achaeans at Troy.65 Such comparisons 63

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VA 1.2.1 ἀδελφὰ γὰρ τούτοις ἐπιτηδεύσαντα Ἀπολλώνιον καὶ θειότερον ἢ ὁ Πυθαγόρας τῇ σοφίᾳ προσελθόντα τυραννίδων τε ὑπεράραντα καὶ γενόμενον κατὰ χρόνους οὔτ’ ἀρχαίους οὔτ’ αὖ νέους οὔπω οἱ ἄνθρωποι γιγνώσκουσιν ἀπὸ τῆς ἀληθινῆς σοφίας, ἣν φιλοσόφως τε καὶ ὑγιῶς ἐπήσκησεν κτλ. I have retained the punctuation of Kayser (1870–1). Jones places periods after Ἀπολλώνιον, προσελθόντα and νέους, objected to by Boter and Flinterman 2005. Both Jones and Conybeare translate the last participial clause as concessive: “Yet though he lived in times which were neither ancient nor modern . . .” (Jones). This has the advantage of syntactic consistency, since the previous three participles in the string have evident concessive force. It makes the logic unclear, however. All the other three circumstances are unambiguously positive, and make sense as reasons Apollonius should be better recognized than he is, but the same does not apply to his chronological indeterminacy. I have therefore preferred to give the last clause a causal force, since falling into a gap between the ancients and moderns could well be presented as grounds for obscurity. VA 1.9.3 (Heraclitus); 1.13.2 (Anaxagoras and Crates); 2.5 (Anaxagoras and Thales). VA 2.43 (Alexander); 4.13.2 (Palamedes). Apollonius’ passing the furthest point of Alexander’s advance forms the break between Books 2 and 3.

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are not in themselves unusual. They fit well into an overall encomiastic discourse about how moderns might surpass their exalted ancestors. What is unusual is that this successful emulation is placed within a narrative situated in Roman historical time, and indeed is portrayed as a transformative force in Roman history. This is made clearest by the most extended comparison of Apollonius with figures of the Greek past, which occurs at the start of Book 7. Philostratus begins by asserting that the experience of tyranny is the surest test for a philosopher, and goes on to list several notable instances of fifth- and fourthcentury bc Greeks who supposedly passed it nobly. He will then go back through his list and refute it, finding some fault with all the philosophers in question and asserting that Apollonius was free of those faults.66 The premise of the comparison, that the encounter with a tyrant is the greatest test of a philosopher, is somewhat odd and very much to Philostratus’ purpose. While one would of course agree that philosophers should be able to stand up to tyrants, this unique privileging of the activity means that one’s behavior in the political arena is made a primary criterion for judging intellectual status. This in turn entirely sets aside the dichotomy of the “Greek cultural” and “Roman political” spheres that is so emphasized in many modern models of Hellenic identity in the Imperial era. Engaging in Roman politics is not a sideline or a distraction for Apollonius; it is the culminating activity of his career and worthy of a two-book climactic set-piece at the end of Philostratus’ work. The significance of that encounter will be explored later in this chapter; what is important for our current purposes is how Philostratus in Book 7 constructs this prefatory comparison and the selection of examples. It is notable that although the Apollonius elsewhere brings its hero into contact with several contemporaries who also encountered tyrants, most notably Musonius Rufus and Dio Chrysostom, still the comparison-list in Book 7 includes no figure who lived after 300 bc.67 The purpose here is not only to establish Apollonius’ uniquely heroic virtue, but to place him in a unique relationship to the heroes of the past. Perhaps the most exceptional of all his traits is that he is able to exemplify the best characteristics of Greek antiquity and to introduce them into the world of contemporary politics, so as to provide a basis for a narrative of a people who lack an independent political history. 66 67

VA 7.1–3. For the literary background to the comparisons and the topos of philosopher versus tyrant more generally, see Flinterman 1995, 165–71. This is the more notable in that Antonine Greek authors continue to refer to Flavian figures as exemplars of resistance (see Marcus Med. 1.14; Lucian Pereg. 18).

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Apollonius’ unique relationship with the classical past is made explicit by these comparisons, and is a crucial element in Philostratus’ explicit rhetorical project. What is critical, however, is that his unique relationship is transformative. As Apollonius moves through the Greek, Roman and barbarian worlds, he affects the status of those locations relative to the Greek past, and in doing so becomes not just a holy man with an exceptional career, but a historical phenomenon. Our main concern here will be how that phenomenon functions in the “Roman” sphere during Apollonius’ encounter with Nero and Domitian, but it is important first to characterize the nature of the sage’s activities in the other two spheres, where he spends most of the book, and where he is portrayed as not just a cultural exemplar, but as a force for large-scale cultural change. Although Apollonius is ostensibly a spokesman for a particular kind of Pythagorean philosophy, and although he explicitly characterizes his wisdom as Indian, the main actual effect of his activities is that the entire cultural heritage of Greece manifests itself in new and better ways everywhere he goes. Apollonius’ effects are most visible, naturally, in his public activities in the Greek heartland, mostly described in Book 4. The sage visits key religious and cultural sites of memory all over Hellas, including Athens, Sparta, Olympia and Delphi, and generally finds them failing in one way or another to live up to their former greatness.68 Apollonius takes various measures to correct this degeneracy, usually in the form of verbal instruction or brief rebukes. Thus he castigates the Athenians for permitting obscene and decadent performances at the Dionysia, and the Spartans for the effeminate personal appearance of their leading men; the latter at least respond with alacrity, and re-institute their archaic customs and social system.69 Apollonius’ objective here is not a general moral reform, nor the assertion of a Pythagorean or other philosophical agenda. He does not rebuke the Athenians for drinking wine and eating meat at the Dionysia, but for behaving in a way inappropriate to the victors of Salamis. What he is interested in is proper cultural signification, in which the iconic locations of Greece still function as they supposedly always did. The result of his encounter with the Spartans sums it up neatly: we are told that thanks to Apollonius, “Sparta became like itself (ἑαυτῇ ὁμοία)”.

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See VA 4.17–22 (Athens); 4.31–3 (Sparta); 4.27–31 (Olympia); 4.24.1 (Delphi). See Cartledge and Spawforth 1989, 105–8 for this anecdote in the context of an apparent actual revival of Spartan civic life in the late first century, also Spawforth and Walker 1986, 88–96. The Athenians are rebuked at length, in direct discourse, first for celebrating Dionysiac festivals in an unseemly way, and then for being addicted to gladiatorial games (4.21–2). Their reaction is curiously not made explicit.

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In most other instances, Apollonius’ activities center around key shrines and religious locations, where he lectures the religious personnel about philosophy, but also corrects (διωρθοῦτο) them, “if in any way they had departed from the customary ways (τῶν νομιζομένων ἐξαλλάττοιεν).”70 In this respect, Apollonius curiously reverses the usual process by which one interacts with the key cultural sites of Greece. In the usual way of things, the places and events Apollonius visits are sources of Hellenic signification. People from elsewhere visit them in order to draw on that signification to become more fully Greek. Apollonius does the opposite; he travels from the periphery to the center, but once there he is not the recipient of Greekness but its giver; Olympia becomes more Greek for his having been there.71 Not only is Apollonius turning the usual economy of religious travel on its head, he is also reversing the activities of his own author. Philostratus’ all-butexplicit rhetorical aim is to take the marginally Greek figure of Apollonius and to make him a fully accredited Hellene. From an external point of view, associating him with the key points of the Greek cultural map clearly achieves this purpose, but within the world of the narrative the process works the other way round. This ability to render the world around him more Greek is not, however, restricted to deliberate performative acts carried on at key Hellenic locations. It also seems to happen almost by accident in every location Apollonius visits. The world he travels through always turns out to be more full of Hellenic significance than anyone ever imagined. This is perhaps most obvious in his Eastern travels: it has often been observed that the world he encounters beyond the frontiers is improbably Greek in nature.72 In both Babylon and Taxila, he encounters monarchs who speak Greek perfectly, and in the latter case devote leisure time to Euripides.73 The inhabitants of what ought to be the Parthian Empire are referred to as “Medes” and still consider the fifth-century bc Persian Wars as the defining moment of their history, and Alexander has the same resonance in India. The Indian sages that Apollonius 70

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VA 1.16.3 For a list of Apollonius’ interactions with shrines in Philostratus, see Billault 2000, 118–19. This emphasis on ritual procedure seems to be Philostratus’ own creation and is not found in the external tradition on Apollonius (see Bowie 1978, 1688–90). Eshleman 2012, 44 reads Apollonius’ use of holy places as a technique for regulating public access to his teachings. On Apollonius as pilgrim and his reversal of the usual economy of pilgrimage, see Elsner 1997, 25–8. On this point see most fully Flinterman 1995, 101–6, also Swain 1996, 386–7. Whitmarsh 2012, 469 argues for Apollonius as trying to avoid ethnocentrism by citing other peoples’ critiques and interpretations of Greek culture, but the very fact that other cultures’ discourses are restricted to commenting on Greek phenomena would only seem a further manifestation of ethnocentrism, albeit in the inverted form described by Romm 1992, 45–67. VA 1.32.1 (Babylon); 2.27 (King of Taxila); 2.32.1 (reading Euripides).

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has travelled so far to see appear to be oddly more interested in commenting on his culture than in telling him about their own. Homer is mentioned repeatedly in their conversations, but not a single Indian god is named. Apollonius here is not a missionary spreading Greek culture where it has never before existed. Rather, he is a catalyst who allows for the emergence of latent Hellenic tendencies that had never previously been able to gain expression. Thus the King of Taxila’s Greek nature only emerges after he is left alone with Apollonius, at which point the King abruptly switches into the Greek language and asks Apollonius to be his συμπότης, i.e. to participate in a distinctively Greek cultural practice that cannot be enacted by one person alone (VA 2.27). Although we later learn that the king has somehow received a Greek education and has access to texts of Euripides, he is still evidently starved of Greek companionship, and it is only Apollonius’ approving presence that encourages him to reveal what he seems to think of as his true nature. On other occasions, Apollonius is able to figure out that people he meets are descendants or reincarnations of figures from the Hellenic past, and to get them to behave appropriately; to discover hitherto unsuspected resemblances between customs and places in faraway countries and those in Greece; and to restore Greek identity to the descendants of Persian War prisoners still living where Darius settled them in Iran.74 Apollonius, in short, is able to discover all kinds of new sources of Greek cultural meaning and to establish new kinds of connection between the Greek past and his own present. This ability is not acquired from his education, or from any other contacts he makes within the degenerate Greek milieu of his own day. Where does it come from? Mostly it would appear to be an innate ability stemming from his quasi-divine descent and nature. However, to the extent that Apollonius acquires wisdom that is the basis of his later cultural authority, he does so not in Greece but in India. Iarchas and his fellow sages are actually able to teach Apollonius, and he will spend the rest of his career 74

Notably at VA 4.32 Apollonius comes across a man who is descended from Callicratidas, a Spartan admiral from the Peloponnesian War. The man has taken the wrong inference from this descent, and has become a merchant sailor. The Spartans have thus put him on trial because this career choice violates ancestral custom, and it is necessary for Apollonius to convince the man to enact the Spartan portion of his heritage rather than the nautical. See also 3.22 (descendant of Palamedes living in India); 4.12 (descendant of Priam needs to be expelled from Apollonius’ following); 5.42 (tame lion turns out to be a reincarnation of Herodotean Pharaoh Amasis); 2.12 (Apollonius meets aged elephant that fought for Porus against Alexander). For resemblances, see 2.43 (Indian cloak similar to Attic τρίβων); 6.6.2 (building in Ethiopia similar to one at Olympia), and several other examples at Whitmarsh 2012, 468. For the Eretrians in Cissia, see VA 1.24. The forced transplantation is mentioned at Hdt. 6.119; for the literary background to the passage, see Jones 2001a, 194–7.

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praising their customs and teachings.75 In no way, however, does this make his own activities any less Hellenic. Apollonius learns in India a form of wisdom that is not culturally specific in itself, but that gives him sufficient authority to make the Greek world more properly Greek. This constitutes a curious inversion of the customary relationship of time to geography. For someone like Pausanias, the emotive sites of Greece are places where the past has resisted change and one can by traveling in space also travel in time and become more fully Greek by engaging directly with the past. In the Apollonius, on the other hand, all of these places are in fact subject to change and decay, and they exist in a greater narrative wherein our hero is able to come along at a particular historical moment and reverse those changes. His ability to do so derives in part from his having traveled in space to India, which functions as a purely imaginary realm where the processes of change really have stopped, and one acquires a kind of wisdom that is timeless and can, when applied to sites in the Greek world, restore them to their correct relationship with their own past. One might observe that this model, in which foreign wisdom allows for the more proper expression of mainstream Greek (and eventually Roman) culture, was put forth soon after the reign of Elagabalus, who had very different ideas about how cultural practices from the periphery might transform the imperial center.76

From Tyana to Rome So far we have mostly looked at Apollonius’ movements through the Greek and far-peripheral areas of the Apollonius’ internal world. Roman power is not exactly absent from these contexts, but it is distinctly secondary. The far-eastern regions that Apollonius visits are defined as being outside of Roman control, the Parthian/Persian king that Apollonius encounters in Babylon has diplomatic relations with the governor of Syria (1.38.1), while Iarchas, the leader of the Indian sages, incorporates Roman governors as examples in his critique of Greek moral thought (3.25.1). In the distinctly Greek areas, Romans are present around the edges chiefly as anonymous stereotype authority figures who occasionally intrude, for good or ill, into a world where autonomous action by Greek communities is still the rule. The Greek communities also are spoken of in very generic terms with scarcely any historical individuals named. Thus during his youth in Cilicia, 75 76

See Elsner 1997, 29–32 for travel to India as the basis for Apollonius’ wisdom and religious authority. For dating, see Appendix §2. Morgan 2009 is an important recent discussion of the historical background of the Apollonius relative to the reign of Elagabalus.

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Apollonius is an object of lust for the province’s governor before the latter is assassinated for political reasons, on the un-named emperor’s orders.77 Shortly afterwards, however, Apollonius has nothing but praise for an imperial order that closes down the baths in Antioch as a measure of moral correction (1.16). These governors and un-named emperors have no real distinguishing characteristics that mark them as Romans, and Apollonius’ interactions with them are not that different from those with figures of civil authority that he encounters in the East beyond Rome’s frontiers. To speak broadly, until the middle of Book 4 we are in an exaggerated version of the polis-based Greek world that Plutarch or Dio Chrysostom present in their civic-political writings. Establishing correct relationships with Romans and Roman power is just one of the many tasks involved in the cultural–political world of the Hellenophone elite, and that task is thought of in terms of the correct performance of Greekness by Greeks, without there being a culturally specific right or wrong way for Romans to behave. This can be seen in such incidents as Apollonius’ rebuke of dignitaries from Ionia who have used their Roman rather than Greek nomenclature on a Panionian decree.78 Another telling example concerns the Spartans who, after undertaking the cultural reforms Apollonius had suggested, run afoul of the governor, who gets the emperor to rebuke them for “transgressing the bounds 77

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VA 1.12. Oddly, the one circumstantial detail mentioned is that the governor’s crime was to have conspired against the emperor with King Archelaus of Cappadocia. The latter is a historical figure who himself died in ad 17 while awaiting trial for plotting against Tiberius. See Tacitus Ann. 2.42. This is much earlier than any of the other datable references in the Apollonius and is chronologically very improbable, though not formally impossible. For the historical difficulties and proposed solutions, see Meyer 1917, 402–5; Graf 1984; Dzielska 1986, 34–6. It seems likely that Philostratus found it appropriate to have the representative of Roman power punished by a higher Roman power, and seized on a noted instance of abrupt imperial interference in the right part of the empire without considering the chronology thoroughly. VA 4.6. Cf. Ep. 71, which is ostensibly the letter by which Apollonius conveyed his rebuke, and is taken as genuine by Lo Cascio 1978, 38–9 and Flinterman 1995, 95. Some of the Roman names are shared by both accounts, which makes it very likely that one is directly dependent on the other, though each also contains circumstantial details not found in the other. Two points might be suggested for seeing Philostratus as prior to the independently transmitted letter. First, one might have expected an actual letter from Apollonius to refer specifically to the Panionian festival that occasioned the exchange, and to contain a statement of his refusal to take part, neither of which is included in Ep. 71. This suggests that the author and implied reader of the letter are already acquainted with the narrative details of the Philostratean account. Second, the two names given in Philostratus’ account, “Fabricius” and “Lucullus,” make a suspiciously neat pair, in that they refer to opposite exempla of Roman reactions to Greek luxury. An incongruous third name, “Lucanius,” found only in Ep. 71 (though not in all manuscripts) is easiest to explain as an addition by someone who did not understand the particular significance of the first two names. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1925, 309 does suggest an identification of the “Lucanius” in question as a Flavian-era Roman administrator. The letter contains a rather broader critique of the Ionians’ behavior than does Philostratus’ account. For the contrast, see Swain 1996, 386.

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of freedom” (4.33: ὑπὲρ τὴν ἐλευθερίαν ὑβριζόντων). They cannot decide how to remonstrate, and appeal to Apollonius as to whether they should write in angry or in contrite terms. His one-sentence answer does not seem especially helpful: “Palamedes’ discovery of letters was not only about writing, but about knowing what one ought not to write.” What it lacks in clear exposition, however, it makes up in gnomic brevity, which is of course the characteristic Spartan mode of speech. Apollonius’ point is that one should not think in terms of how one’s words will be received by outsiders, but only of whether they are appropriate to one’s Hellenic cultural role. The Spartans are apparently able to steer a sensible course between servility and contumacity, but the key thing is that they do so in proper Laconic fashion.79 The Spartan anecdote, however, comes on the cusp of a major transition in the narrative. Shortly after giving his speech in Sparta, Apollonius will take ship for Italy, and will begin the first of several episodes where he encounters Roman emperors on their own or on neutral territory. In this context, Roman power becomes something entirely different. Instead of the rather faceless governors who rule over the equally stereotyped Greek cities of the earlier narrative, Apollonius’ Roman episodes will be full of named individuals, not just emperors, but also prominent political figures and philosophers. The world he enters is not simply more Roman than the one he leaves, it is also specifically Neronian and Flavian, in that it contains abundant references to people and events that would for Philostratus’ audience have evoked a historical context much more specific than anything seen thus far in the Apollonius. Philostratus can be quite precise, if not always accurate, in speaking of the Neronian and Flavian historical background to Apollonius’ activities.80 He knows details such as Domitian’s particular devotion to Minerva; he gives correct particulars about political figures such as Casperius Aelianus, as well as Greek philosophical luminaries active in the imperial orbit, and he can portray key specific incidents such as Domitian’s attempt to suppress provincial viticulture. He can refer to culturally significant locations in Italy, 79

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Cf. earlier at VA 4.27, where Apollonius encounters the degenerate Spartan ambassadors and gently rebukes the city in a one-sentence letter that Philostratus explicitly praises as “shorter than a Spartan message” (βραχυτέραν τῆς Λακωνικῆς σκυτάλης). Bowie 1978, 1681 sees this as a specifically Philostratean touch, given that the corresponding letter in the independent tradition (Ep. 63) is considerably longer and in fact rather plodding. For comprehensive surveys, see Flinterman 1995, 130–61 and Grosso 1954, the latter being the more complete but the less judicious. André 1992 is a detailed examination of the historical detail of Philostratus’ Neronian narrative. All three stress the high level of circumstantial detail corresponding well to the historiographical and biographical traditions on the various emperors. Billault 1990 and 2000, 92–102 is less sanguine, speaking dismissively of a “présence éphémère et évanescante du vrai,” but agrees on the high level of circumstantial detail.

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such as the shrine to Diana at Aricia and a villa of Cicero’s at Cumae.81 The Roman world in which Apollonius will spend much of the second half of the book is far more than a diversion from or adjunct to his Greek theater of action. Rather it represents a key part of his significance, and it is made real in a way that would have particular resonance for Philostratus’ audience, and would have been critical to how they assessed the relationship to their own lives of the narrative as a whole. For the most part, Apollonius’ interactions with Roman emperors consist of two cases in which he resists a tyrant – first Nero and then Domitian – and one in which he intervenes at a key point in the career of a positively characterized emperor, Vespasian. The first of these is the most central to my argument and will be considered first. Dealing with a tyrant, as Philostratus tells us at the start of Book 7, is the truest test of a philosopher, and the account of the hero’s contretemps with Domitian is an episode of length and elaboration comparable to his eastern expedition. His encounter with Nero is in some sense a rehearsal for it. In both cases Apollonius is given a role far out of proportion to that reflected in any other account of that emperor’s reign; and, especially with Domitian, we are given the sense of a highly personalized conflict between the representative of tyranny on one side and of philosophy and correct cultural behavior more generally on the other. In Nero’s case, there is no personal showdown between philosopher and emperor; that job is apparently left to Musonius Rufus, but Apollonius’ role is still a critical one. First in Rome he stares down Nero’s prefect Tigellinus, who confesses himself powerless before a supernatural being like Apollonius, and then he takes out for Spain and Gaul, where he plays a key role in stirring up Vindex’ revolt, the first in the chain of events that would lead to Nero’s fall. As the narrator says, his hero “did everything but take up arms for Rome” (5.10: μονον ουχὶ ὅπλα ὑπὲρ τῆς Ῥώμης τιθέμενος). At the start of Book 7, after the excursus on all the classical figures who made inferior stands in opposition to tyranny, we are told that Apollonius set himself against the ruler of all lands and seas, and “when [Domitian’s] tyranny became harsh, stationed himself where he might be of benefit to those under his rule (παρέταττεν ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ τοῦ τῶν ἀρχομένων κέρδους).” While the story of Apollonius’ confrontation with Domitian has significant resemblances to martyr-literature and several other sub-genres of stories 81

For Aricia, see VA 4.36. Philostratus does not mention the most notable feature of the shrine, namely that its priest was always a fugitive slave who got his position by personally killing his predecessor. However, since the purpose of Apollonius’ visit is to meet with the refugee philosopher Philolaus, many in the audience may have been reminded of the place’s particular function as a sanctuary. For the villa, see VA 7.11.1, with Gowing 1998, 385–7.

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about confrontations with emperors, the power dynamics of Philostratus’ acount, and its relationship to political-dynastic history, are all but unique in Roman literature.82 What sets Apollonius apart is that he comes from outside of the power structure headed by the emperor, and relies on sources of authority entirely different from the emperor’s, but he is nonetheless able to successfully confront the emperor on the emperor’s ground, to negate his power and to have a meaningful effect on political events without compromising his claim to sources of authority outside of the political structure. Stories of resistance to ostensibly tyrannical emperors, and to their representatives, were certainly not uncommon in the Roman Empire. They included Christian martyr narratives from the New Testament Acts onward; stories about men who took oppositional stances out of philosophical conviction, whether as senators like Thrasea Paetus and Helvidius Priscus or as would-be provincial resistance figures like Proteus Peregrinus or as folktale heroes like Secundus the Silent; stories in the Acta Alexandrinorum about members of a provincial elite asserting their autonomy to the emperor’s very face; sometimes even stories about subjects taking their lives into their hands by risking a witticism at Caesar’s expense or a clever retort to some act of imperial arrogance. All of these stories proceed from the assumption that the Roman emperor is by far the greatest locus of political power and force in the world. One may defeat him from within his system by a sudden act of violence, or by appropriating his power to oneself, in a coup or civil war. One may, alternatively, confront him and win some form of moral victory on one’s own terms, by successfully maintaining one’s own integrity or asserting a form of authority superior to that of political power. This is what happens in the various types of stories mentioned above. In that event, however, the emperor’s monopoly of physical force and political power remains intact, and the course of dynastic history is unaffected. In concrete terms, the great bulk of martyr stories end with the martyr perhaps triumphing on a spiritual level but at all events dying on a physical level, and the emperor (or his representative) perhaps nonplussed but still very much on his throne.83

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For various types of confrontation-and-resistance narrative that are comparable to the Apollonius, see Koskenniemi 1991, 33–7; Flinterman 1995, 165–71. Flinterman 1995, 170 discusses a partial exception from the Acta Alexandrinorum. In Act. Alex. 8 (= P.Oxy. 1242) a certain Hermaiscus is arguing the case for Alexandria’s Greeks before Trajan in a quarrel with the city’s Jews, and during his highly confrontational address a statue of Sarapis that the Greeks have brought with them begins to sweat (8.52). This causes Trajan astonishment (ἀπεθαύμασ[ε]ν) and leads first to the gathering of crowds and then to their dispersal in panic. The intelligible portion of the papyrus stops more or less at this point, so we do not know how the story ends, and I do not share Flinterman’s view that Hermaiscus likely survives. Harker 2008, 95 notes

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Apollonius’ story is evidently different in that he survives, but there is considerably more to it than just an improbably happy ending.84 Not only does Apollonius survive, he emerges victorious on both a moral and physical level. Domitian has tried to make him an object of physical force and of patronizing clemency, and Apollonius thwarts him on both counts. Furthermore, he is able not only to maintain his autonomy in his own sphere, but to extend his influence into the emperor’s: Apollonius will prove a serious obstacle to Domitian’s exercise of power, and will ultimately contribute to his overthrow. For our purposes here, the most important aspects of this narrative are its causality (what allows Apollonius to do this?) and its cultural meaning, but before looking at those conceptual questions, we should briefly review the narrative content to illustrate what constitutes Apollonius’ victory over Domitian. Book 7 of the Apollonius begins, after the brief preface on philosophers and tyranny that has already been discussed, with a description of Domitian’s tyranny and the general fear and passivity it inspires (7.4.1–2). Apollonius, by contrast, will be consistently the active and initiating party for the rest of the narrative. He decides to take a stand against the tyrant, and does so first in the provinces, where his main activity is actually to exhort senatorial governors to resistance, as well as to encourage the future emperor Nerva by messenger (7.4–9). Domitian hears about this and intends to summon Apollonius to trial, but the latter in fact anticipates him by traveling to Italy of his own accord (7.10). In Italy he meets with various friends who try to dissuade him from confronting Domitian or to warn him of the dangers, which he consistently dismisses (7.11–22). For the second half of Book 7, Apollonius is in prison, where he consoles his fellow prisoners, resists provocateurs’ efforts to get him to incriminate himself, and has a brief interview with Domitian (7.32–3) in which he refuses to confess, thus leading the enraged emperor to make his imprisonment ever more harsh. His main confrontation with Domitian comes in Book 8, and it is here that the reversal of the usual power dynamics becomes most evident. At every stage of their confrontation, Domitian finds himself at a moral and

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without further comment that “the intervention appears to save Hermaiscus temporarily,” although in general he sees strong parallels between the Apollonius and the Acta (150–1). The Hermaiscus story is perhaps reminiscent of the many escapes Paul contrives in the NT Acts on the way to his eventual martyrdom. Hermaiscus benefits from a temporary suspension of the usual dynamics of power, whereas for Apollonius they are consistently reversed. This last is the view of Musurillo 1954, 242, who regards Philostratus’ scenes with emperors as “almost like a parody on the traditional martyr literature,” and characterizes Philostratus as a frivolous writer whose “benevolent court audiences” are interested entirely in the amusement value of the tale to the exclusion of any meaningful political reading.

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emotional disadvantage, such that on the morning before the final trial, it is the emperor and not the defendant who is too nervous to eat (8.1). Most of that trial consists of the emperor reading a series of charges, but it ends not with Apollonius as defendant asking for justice or mercy, but rather with Domitian as the suppliant, offering to dismiss the charges if Apollonius will only grant him a private audience. He appears to be trying to regain control of the situation by turning it into a demonstration of his clemency.85 The sage, having no interest in allowing him to do so, vanishes, leaving his sovereign in utter consternation and unable to function. This entire scene takes up only five pages (8.1–5). The second and much longer section of Book 8 consists of a defense speech that (so the narrator claims) Apollonius wrote but never had the chance to deliver.86 We are then told about Apollonius’ rematerialization at Puteoli in front of a rather surprised Damis and Demetrius, and his triumphant return to Greece and later Ionia (8.10–24). Shortly afterwards, we are told “the gods began to expel Domitian from his primacy over mankind.” He is assassinated by the freedman of one of his victims, an event that Apollonius is able to witness remotely from Ephesus, thanks to his closeness to the divine forces that bring it about. Nerva, on taking the throne, avows that he has gained power by the will of the gods, and of Apollonius.87 The political role Apollonius plays in this story is quite remarkable and owes little to the genres of martyr-literature mentioned above. Apollonius does not simply exist within the framework of Roman dynastic history; he is a key causal factor in it. Philostratus does not mean this as an exercise in revisionist history; and he is not trying to convince readers that the real Apollonius was a key player in the fall of the Flavian dynasty. On the contrary, it is in this political element that the fictional world of the Apollonius most markedly diverges from the world as otherwise known to his readers. In the real world, the emperor simply could not be overpowered in this way by someone from outside the military-political elite. As ever, 85

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VA 8.5.3–4. We are told that Domitian planned to question Apollonius not ἁπλῶς (“in good faith”) but rather ἐκ περιουσίας, which in context and general usage is better transated by Jones’ “from a position of advantage” than Conybeare’s “about all kinds of irrelevant matters.” The description of the emperor’s confusion after Apollonius’ disappearance actually comes at 8.9, after the text of the “defense speech.” The speech is numbered in modern editions as a single section (8.7) that is twenty-eight pages long in Jones 2005. Section 8.6 consists of the narrator’s explanation of why the speech was not given and why he has chosen to include it anyway, along with some apologia for its style. VA 8.25–7. The incident of Apollonius’ vision in Ephesus is also related by Cassius Dio 67.18.1. There is no real reason to assume that one account depends on the other: see Gabba 1955, 332–3 and Flinterman 1995, 155, who see both authors picking up on an independent tradition, as opposed to Grosso 1954, 505 who asserts that Dio’s account is based on Philostratus’.

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Philostratus’ aim is to make readers consider what it would mean for the real Roman world to resemble his fictional creation. In particular, two questions suggest themselves. First, what is different about the Apollonius world that allows Philostratus’ hero to have a political role that would be impossible in external reality? Second, what are the implications of Apollonius’ role for the Greek–Roman cultural relationship within the fiction? The first of those questions resolves itself into an alternative question. Are the qualities that allow Apollonius to overcome Domitian “superhuman” or “human”? Do they spring from his being a god, or some sort of unique quasidivine being? Or do they simply reflect a uniquely high level of human excellence?88 One must say from the outset that the answer is never made clear on an explicit level. As with the more general question of Apollonius’ divinity, the narrator maintains a studied ironic ambiguity. He will talk constantly about Apollonius’ qualities, but without maintaining a consistent position. Thus in the opening to Book 7, the narrator begins by telling us that “I must tell what he said and what he had appeared to be when he came away from his trial as the victorious party rather than the tyrant’s victim (ἑλὼν μᾶλλον τὸν τύραννον ἢ ἁλοὺς αὐτός)” (7.1). This could refer to the sort of moral victory common in martyr-literature, whereby Apollonius might give a speech and a display of heroic behavior that would make clear his righteousness and Domitian’s iniquity.89 It is only in retrospect that readers learn the full extent of Apollonius’ victory. Similarly, when he sets out on his quest, we are told that he quotes Tiresias’ words to Oedipus in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex: “I am slave not to you, but to Apollo.” One might suppose that this is the indifference of the virtuous philosopher, who can persist unchanged in the face of whatever physical harm is inflicted on him.90 Once again, we will eventually learn the truth, that Apollonius is someone on whom physical harm cannot be inflicted. He can slip out of any chains that hold him, and can transport himself body and soul away from any danger.91

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The terms “superhuman” and “human” should not be taken as equivalent to “supernatural” or “natural” in the modern sense of “including or excluding divine intervention.” It is beyond dispute that the hero of the Apollonius has a close relationship with the divine. The question is whether that relationship is simply a heightened form of that available to mortals, or whether it is on a qualitatively different basis. Thus in the context of a trial ἑλὼν and ἁλοὺς most naturally convey the specifically juridical sense of “condemn” and “be condemned” (which is how they are translated by Jones 2005), but the broader sense of “to win or lose in a contest” remains present and will prove to be a more accurate description of what Apollonius does. On this point with specific reference to Roman emperors, see e.g. Epict. 1.19, 29. See VA 7.38.2 (releases self from chains) and 8.5.4 (disappearance).

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This last might seem like an unambiguous answer to the question posed above: Apollonius is indeed a god or quasi-divine being. The problem is that if one retrospectively takes Apollonius’ divinity as a premise, then much of the content of Books 7 and 8 loses its impact or simply ceases to make sense. For example, there is the opening of Book 7, where the narrator gives the extended comparison of Apollonius with several other philosophers who also faced down tyrants, but in less impressive ways (7.1–3). The clear premise of the comparison is that Apollonius’ case is indeed comparable, that he was the same sort of being as Zeno or Plato and performed under the same conditions.92 Apollonius’ words and deeds in the narrative reflect the same ambiguity. Philostratus’ hero is entirely free from fear, doubt, conflict or suffering; he is consistently cheerful, unconcerned for his own welfare and solicitous of others’.93 Coming from a human being who is risking death, such behavior is indeed heroic. Coming from a divine or invulnerable being, however, it is merely natural, which makes for less of a good story. When Demetrius and Damis try to talk Apollonius out of confronting Domitian, they are evidently afraid for his safety. He answers them with a five-page speech (7.14) in which he asserts that his conscience will not permit him any other course. He does note in one sentence of the speech (7.14.3) that “I am taking no risks with my personal safety, and I will not be killed by the tyrant, not even if I should want to be,” but he does not explain or elaborate on this statement.94 On the contrary, the speech as a whole gives the distinct implication, first, that were it not for his conscience, his natural desire for self-preservation would lead him to flee Domitian and, second, that his listeners’ consciences ought to function the same way, if not to the same degree. Neither of these makes very much sense if Apollonius is speaking as a god to mortals: what force would his conscience have to overcome, and how could he ask a mortal to imitate him? Both Philostratus and his hero are very much aware of the ambiguity. On two separate occasions (7.17.1; 7.34.1), Apollonius points out to his accusers 92

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The parallel with controversies over the divine and human natures of Christ is evident, though most likely not conscious. Elsner 2009a looks at Apollonius in the context of an inherent tension in apologetics. On the one hand, one must assert that the figure one is venerating has a unique divine status qualitatively different from anyone else, reflecting the unique truth of which he is a part. On the other hand, one wishes to assert that he is better than similar figures, which requires him to be in some sense comparable. On Apollonius’ consistent lack of concern for his own safety, see Reimer 2002, 85–8. At 7.38, Apollonius does comfort Damis by temporarily releasing himself from his chains, which we are told convinces Damis of his divine nature. It is by no means clear, however, that the reader is meant to follow Damis, given his evident credulity and the conjuring-trick nature of the “proof.” See Kemezis 2014 for the implications for Damis’ overall reliability.

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the absurdity of trying and condemning him for being a magician (γόης). If he really is a magician, how can he be expected to submit to trial and imprisonment without simply escaping? If he in fact is tried and imprisoned, how can he be a magician? This is once again a particular case of the incongruities and absurdities seen in all works, including the Gospels, that try to integrate an ostensibly omnipotent or omniscient being into realistic narrative conventions designed for human beings.95 But in this case, the absurdity reflects perhaps less on the divinity or otherwise of the protagonist than on the “realistic” nature of the fictional world. Is Philostratus’ world basically the same as the one readers know, except that it contains a superhuman being to whom human rules regarding power relationships and the use of force do not apply? Or does this world operate by different rules, such that certain forms of excellence, if possessed in sufficient degree by human beings, allow them to overcome powers that in the real world are thought of as utterly unsurmountable? If the latter, then what are those forms of excellence, and how would they allow one to perform this feat? These questions do not have an explicit answer; the narrator and his characters are simply inconsistent, and the nature of Apollonius’ excellence is broad enough to baffle definition. For our purposes here, however, explicit answers are less important than the implicit possibilities created by the questions. One thing that is clear, however, is that Apollonius and his virtues are coded as specifically Greek, and this raises the second of the two questions posed above, regarding the cultural significance of Apollonius’ victory. Philostratus’ hero is able to use the same resources of divine wisdom that he had earlier used to transform the Greek world now to also redirect the political processes of Rome. These are two separate tasks that take place in different realms of the Apollonius world, and are united by the heroic virtue of Apollonius himself. That unity finds further expression in the overall cultural dynamics of the Domitian episode. It should be stressed that his struggle against Domitian is not portrayed exactly as the triumph of Greece over Rome, and certainly not as a rejection of Roman imperial power in itself. Domitian is not a representative of Roman domination more generally, but rather a scourge that falls on Greek and Roman alike. Philostratus’ descriptions of Domitian’s tyranny often exhibit a curious parallelism, in which the cultural elite of the Greek world are linked with 95

Eusebius’ Against Hierocles, a polemical critique of the Philostratean Apollonius as an alternative to Christ, relies heavily on objections along the lines of “if Apollonius was really all-knowing and all-powerful, why did he undergo various tedious human experiences and permit various obviously undesirable plot events to occur?”

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the senatorial elite of Rome by the common tie of Domitian’s persecution. In a passage quoted earlier, Philostratus characterizes Apollonius as taking up the struggle “for the good of the ruled” (7.3.3) and this is given a more specific definition a paragraph later. Under Domitian, “the Senate suffered amputation (ἠκρωτηριάσθη) of its most illustrious (εὐδοκιμωτάτους) members, while philosophy was so cowed (ἔπτηξεν) that people were throwing off all dignity and fleeing to the Keltoi of the West, or to the deserts of Africa and Scythia, and some were driven so far as to give speeches approving [Domitian’s] crimes (7.4.2).” The same parallel later occurs when Apollonius, in his defense speech, identifies philosophers and consulars as the two groups most likely to fall victim to Domitian’s informers (8.7.4). Apollonius’ first move had in fact been to turn provincial governors in the East against Domitian, by reminding them of the value that Roman culture had traditionally put on freedom (7.4.3). His allies for the remainder of his fight will include both those in purple-striped togas and those in philosophers’ cloaks: one character, Telesinus, plays both roles.96 In fact, whenever Apollonius engages in Roman politics, even under tyrannical regimes, it is remarkable how many of the Romans he meets are well disposed to him, from Telesinus through the praetorian prefect Casperius Aelianus and even the court clerk whom he encounters before his final confrontation.97 His enemies are few, outside of the tyrants themselves and their most notorious satellites, but those that exist are more often than not Greek, such as the Syracusan provocateur he encounters in prison, or the philosopher Euphrates.98 One can point to a couple of occasions on which Apollonius expresses political opinions that seem to have a specifically Greek slant, mostly in 96

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Telesinus recurs in both the Nero and Domitian episodes, notably at VA 4.40, where as consul he allows Apollonius to visit and live in shrines, presumably in Rome, at 7.11.4, where we learn that he has gone into exile as part of Domitian’s general attack on philosophy, and at 8.12.3, where he has a dream presaging Apollonius’ successful emergence from his confrontation with the tyrant. For the clerk, see VA 8.2.2. Aelianus has an extended encounter with Apollonius at 7.16–20, and his main role is to provide the prisoner with covert assistance and information about Domitian’s plans. Aelianus is an odd candidate for such a favorable role in that in real life he would later, after resuming his post under Nerva, lead the Praetorians in lynching the assassins of Domitian, which in turn precipitated Nerva’s adoption of Trajan (Cassius Dio 68.3.3). See Berriman and Todd 2001, 324–9 for a speculative reconstruction of Aelianus’ role, and references to more orthodox views. Philostratus makes no mention of Aelianus’ later career, and his characterization of him in an oppositional role is not generally taken seriously, though see Jones 1973. We are left with the question of why the Severan author would choose to give such a prominent role to a figure who would likely be unknown to most of his audience and unfavorably viewed by those who did know him. Philostratus is perhaps dropping a hint as to how much he intends to depart from the traditional narrative of the end of the Flavian dynasty, in which Trajan is the ultimate savior, for which see below. The anonymous Syracusan appears at VA 7.36–7, trying to gain Apollonius’ trust. There is also at 7.21.1 a military tribune who taunts Apollonius in prison, and who proves to be a native of Ephesus.

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connection with Vespasian.99 What one sees much more often, however, is that the dichotomy of Greek and Roman is recognized but temporarily superseded by a common identification as victims of tyranny. Apollonius participates in the salvation of the entire Greco-Roman world as a unit. He does so, however, by virtue of a cultural and religious excellence that is coded as entirely Greek. It is as a representative of philosophy that he claims to speak to Domitian, and in the Apollonius this is distinctly a Greek activity that some Latin speakers happen to participate in. Thus what we are seeing is not a vindication of Greek culture as a whole over Roman power, but rather a remarkable circumstance in which one truly exceptional representative of Greek culture is able to cross the line between the two and have a significant effect on the political realm without actually becoming part of it.100 In this sense, Philostratus is claiming for Greek culture not only autonomy but predominance. This predominance has a double edge, however. Apollonius is able to have the effect he does only because he comes along at a specific moment when the shared experience of tyranny has put traditional cultural dichotomies into the background. And it is only because of that moment that he is able to reach his full potential. After all, if the truest test of a philosopher is confrontation with a tyrant, then it would seem to follow that those who have the misfortune to live under good government have limited scope for philosophical greatness. It is with this consideration in mind that we should look again at Apollonius’ relationship to Roman dynastic history.

A Flavian sage? We have seen Apollonius’ unique ability to reverse Roman imperial power dynamics in his confrontation with Domitian, and this has evident implications for the project of an autonomous Greek history. For much of his career, Apollonius has existed within a narrative of Greek cultural revival that is independent of dynastic history. When in the last two books he does insert himself into that history, he in effect takes charge of it, and in doing so 99

100

The examples most often cited are VA 5.36.5, where Apollonius advises Vespasian to appoint Greekspeakers (ἑλληνίζοντας) as governors of the Greek portions of the empire (Ἑλληνικῶν) and Latinspeakers (ῥωμαΐζοντας) over their fellow Latin speakers (ὁμογλώττων καὶ συμφώνων) and 5.41, where Vespasian reverses Nero’s decree of free status for the cities of Achaea, and is rebuked in a letter from Apollonius. See Flinterman 1995, 122–4 for discussion of the former and its possible relationship to appointment practices under the Severans. For a similar conclusion see Billault 1990, although Billault is interested primarily in placing the Apollonius within the longer history of discourse about philosophy and power, and as such pays less attention to the specific political and cultural context.

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takes for himself a key role in the founding legend of the Antonine (and by extension Severan) dynasty. Are we dealing here with a straightforward, if rather far-fetched, assertion of Greek primacy, an alternate universe where Hellas has the last word? On the explicit level that is indeed the case, and the Apollonius narrator comes across as promoting the historical significance of an eccentric but recognizably orthodox form of Hellenic paideia. There are distinct suggestions, however, that the author does not mean to leave it there. While Apollonius is supremely influential at a given moment of dynastic history, he is specific to that moment and unable to function outside of it. That moment is the Flavian and to some extent the Neronian eras, and specifically certain key episodes – the last years of Nero, the civil wars and the last years and death of Domitian – that remained salient in cultural memory a century later. For someone of Philostratus’ generation, Nero and Domitian were the last emperors that had always been unproblematically “bad.” However much the memory of Commodus, Caracalla, Macrinus or even Elagabalus might be reviled, they still had a complex relationship to the current holders of power, and a significant portion of one’s audience might retain earlier positive associations with them, or might prefer to forget they had ever existed.101 Domitian and Nero, on the other hand, recalled an era before the retrospectively idealized “Antonine consensus,” a time when power dynamics were very different, and there was ostensibly a consensus of all good people against the ruling house.102 The period had a specific resonance in the Greek literary world, partly because key historical episodes (Nero’s tour of Greece, the siege of Jerusalem, Vespasian’s proclamation in Alexandria) had taken place in the eastern empire, and partly because the resistance to Nero and Domitian had a specifically philosophical component that was emphasized in later memory, and Greek or Hellenizing figures such as Dio Chrysostom, Epictetus and Musonius Rufus played prominent 101

102

It has been pointed out that the Apollonius tells the history of Nero and the Flavians in a way that highlights and exaggerates its parallels with that of Commodus and the Severans: tyrant murdered; civil war ensues; winner achieves stability and passes realm on to two sons; one son kills the other and rules tyrannically. See Koskenniemi 1991, 40–4, with references. While Severan readers would undoubtedly have made this connection to some degree, it is dangerous to pursue the correspondences too far and to infer specific policy recommendations or ideological agendas for which Philostratus may be advocating. Flinterman 1995, 217–21 has sensible cautions on this score. The case of Nero is somewhat problematic, because his Philhellenism, however eccentric, did create some number of ambivalent associations in the immediate wake of his death, for which see Alcock 1994b; Hoët-Van Cauwenberghe 2007. This is quite different, however, from the case of Severan figures whose abrupt transition from positive to negative (and sometimes back again) had taken place simultaneously in all official media and in recent memory.

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parts in the remembered narrative.103 The key figures of the age were invoked by figures as diverse as Marcus Aurelius in his Meditations (1.14) and the self-immolating philosopher Peregrinus, at least in Lucian’s hostile account of him (Pereg. 18). More immediately pertinent to the Apollonius are, on the one hand, the evidence from Cassius Dio (67.18.1) and the epistolary tradition (Ep. 21–2) of Apollonius’ association with resistance to Domitian and on the other, the pseudo-Lucianic Nero, which was likely written by the same author as the Apollonius and Sophists and features Musonius Rufus detailing the wickedness of that emperor.104 The choice of Apollonius as a hero invokes all the political resonances of the world in which he lived, and Philostratus’ work integrates his cultural status closely with that particular historical paradigm. The question then becomes whether Apollonius can function outside of that moment and the rules it entails. Can this unique and uncompromisingly individual figure continue to exert his influence over history in the Antonine world of consensus and benevolent rule? There is much to suggest that he cannot, and that Philostratus the author does not fully share his narrator’s optimism in this respect. A key episode in this respect is the encounter between Apollonius and Vespasian, in which the sage of Tyana takes the role of the prospective ruler’s philosophical advisor. This part of the Apollonius has already received much attention as part of the sub-genre of “Kingship Literature,” i.e. symbouleutic orations whose internal audience is a king or Roman emperor, and which deal with highly generalized themes of what constitutes good monarchical government.105 One is evidently tempted to read Vespasian and Domitian as a paired diptych, and to suppose that in the narrative world of the Apollonius, the role of philosophical advisor to a good ruler is an equal and balancing counterpart to that of heroic opponent of a tyrannical one.106 The two episodes clearly do form a contrasting pair, but several features of 103

104

105

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The thesis of an actual “Stoic opposition” existing at the time is most associated with MacMullen 1966, 46–94; see more recently Penwill 2003 and, for particular reference to Greek literary culture, Kemezis forthcoming. On the authorship of the Nero, see De Lannoy 1997, 2398–404, who attributes it to the author of the Apollonius and Sophists, rather than, like Bowersock 1969, 3, following the Suda, which credits it to his homonymous father. The episode is described at VA 5.27–38. For the fullest considerations of it, see Flinterman 1995, 136–45, 194–230 and Whitmarsh 2001, 227–38, also Mazza 1982. For the wider tradition of Kingship Literature in both languages, see now Noreña 2011, 37–55, with bibliography. The broader idea of the Apollonius as presenting a political-cultural paradigm directed at a particular emperor is also prominent for Göttsching 1889, 74–89 (for whom the addressee is Alexander Severus), Calderini 1940–41 (who prefers Septimius Severus) and Lenz 1964 (Caracalla). Such a reading informs much of the second half of Flinterman 1995, and is stated explicitly at 162–5.

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the Vespasian episode suggest that the advisor–ruler relationship has considerable limitations, and that for Apollonius’ purpose, it represents a distinctly subordinate or even illusory alternative to resisting tyrants. First, there is the content of the episode, and its cast of characters. Vespasian’s reaction to Apollonius is portrayed in extremely positive terms, but not without a sense of ironic unreality. The future emperor himself is an unlikely candidate for the role of the philosophically enlightened ruler. His posthumous reputation was not uniformly negative, but after all the discussion of philosophical resistance to Nero, Philostratus’ readers, at least those who knew enough history to have a specific sense of Vespasian, would surely have thought of him as the future persecutor of Helvidius Priscus and founder of a dynasty in which philosophers positioned themselves as persecuted and oppositional figures. Unlike Nero or Domitian, Vespasian is acting a stereotyped part that is at odds with the historical tradition on his character. The audience knows that the episode at Alexandria is a moment, largely contingent on the crisis resulting from Nero’s tyranny. Vespasian will not continue to consult Apollonius, or to behave as the sage would wish, and his short-lived elder son will have no real chance to do so. This is signaled by the later incident (5.41) in which Apollonius rebukes Vespasian for revoking Nero’s grant of free status to the cities of Achaea. Similarly, in the extended encounter between Apollonius and the future emperor Titus (6.29–33), the latter comes off quite well, but we receive several reminders that Titus will only rule for a short time, and that any enlightenment he might have received from Apollonius will go for nought. In fact, when Titus questions Apollonius regarding his own death, it appears that the sage has had a premonition that Domitian will assassinate him, which in Philostratus’ version is what in fact happens. Unfortunately, Apollonius fails to communicate this information explicitly, but only through a Homeric allusion that Titus misreads.107 The irony of the dramatic situation stems from the audience’s knowledge of historical circumstances. Apollonius cannot give Titus the one vital piece of advice, because allowing Titus to live would introduce into the Apollonius’ world an unacceptable historical impossibility. Given that Apollonius cannot succeed and must necessarily come off as rather ineffectual, we are left asking 107

VA 6.32.3. Apollonius tells Titus that death will come for him from the sea, as it did for Odysseus. Titus, we are told by the narrator, follows a tradition that Odysseus was killed by a stingray, and takes precautions against that fish. Unfortunately, as the narrator explains, what actually happens is that he is poisoned by Domitian, using poison extracted from a sea-creature. It is not clear how many of the details Apollonius knows in advance, but he had apparently foreseen that after Vespasian’s death, Titus should fear those most intimate with him (οἰκειοτάτους), which would seem to suggest poison more than a swimming accident.

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why Philostratus included such a story at all in a narrative that is supposed to magnify its hero’s powers. In short, Apollonius’ positive interactions with the Flavians have no real result. They cannot have any result, given the audience’s existing memories of that dynasty, and Philostratus as author surely knew this when he chose his subject and time-period. Here as elsewhere, the problem with making a virtuous and omniscient being responsible for the course of history is that history includes many events that would surely have happened differently if such a being had been in charge. The question thus arises of why these scenes are there, and in particular why they occur where they do with the characters they do. Apollonius’ positive encounters with emperors occupy curiously un-emphatic places in the narrative structure. The Vespasiandebate in particular is sandwiched, chronologically and geographically, between two episodes of exotic travel (to Spain and to Ethiopia) and is somewhat overshadowed as a result. Contrast the Domitian episode’s position as the climax of the whole work. It could easily have been different. Why, one may ask, is it the unpromising Vespasian and Titus who are the recipients of the sage’s advice? Why not an emperor who might more plausibly have been portrayed as the recipient of wise guidance, Nerva or, better still, Trajan? The latter is all the more likely in that he was traditionally identified as the original audience of Dio Chrysostom’s Kingship Orations, and as generally taking good counsel from him; Philostratus himself will refer to this in the Sophists (488).108 Why could Apollonius not be held responsible for ongoing stable felicity as well as for the heroic resistance that brought it about? Philostratus the author is clearly aware of these possibilities, as he signals on several occasions. In the aftermath of the Domitian-episode and that emperor’s subsequent death, Nerva explicitly sends to Apollonius asking the latter to be his advisor (ξύμβουλος). Apollonius begs off, apparently because he realizes that neither he nor Nerva will live very long. He does send Damis with a message, but it is made explicit that the contents of that message are unremarkable, and that the real point of the exercise was to get Damis out of the way so that Apollonius could have a suitably mysterious death.109 108

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Whitmarsh 2001, 227–38 perceptively explores the links between the Apollonius and the Kingship Orations. To be sure, traditions on Trajan were not unambiguous, and his personality seems unlikely to have been congenial to Apollonius, but such objections would apply all the more to Vespasian. VA 8.27–8. Elsner 1997, 34 reads Apollonius’ demurral as a more or less calculated demonstration of his superiority to imperial power. The sage’s explicit remarks at this juncture, however, indicate that he is slighting not emperors generally but only Nerva. Nerva has told Apollonius that the latter’s role as advisor will make it easier for him to retain his throne, and Apollonius’ subsequent allusion to his imminent death evidently answers this specifically. There is a certain deliberate irony given that

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Inattention to Nerva might be pardoned on the grounds that he was a historical nonentity, but the complete absence of Trajan is a different matter. Philostratus is ostentatiously rejecting the chance to give his hero credit for the founding of the Antonine dynasty and for the much idealized era that it introduced. The absence cannot have gone unnoticed by his readers. If they were not already inclined to expect a meeting between Trajan and Apollonius, they would have been pushed in that direction by the prominence of Dio Chrysostom in the earlier narrative. In particular, there is his role in the debate before Vespasian, in which Dio’s speech is best characterized as tactful, moderate and meaningless, and is politely ignored by Vespasian.110 An audience familiar with Dio’s writings must conclude either that there will later be an encounter between Trajan and Apollonius in which the same intertextual link will be made, or that Trajan will be absent and thus that Philostratus has deliberately placed all of his “correction” of Dio in a different reign. Given the audience’s natural expectations, Philostratus’ narrative choices amount to a marked refusal to associate his hero with the founding legend of the revered former dynasty and by extension of the current rulers that are the ostensible sponsors of his project. The distinct implication is that Apollonius’ heroic qualities are better suited to a world of tyranny and resistance, which is how the Flavians were remembered, than to the enlightened rule of Trajan and the Antonines. Apollonius is able to reverse the power relationships on which dynastic history is predicated, but not for all dynasties. If the narrative history of Greek culture is to continue across dynastic boundaries into the Antonine age, it needs a different sort of hero. Remarkably enough, Philostratus is willing to oblige, in the shape of the sophists, to whom his next narrative work will be devoted. It is to that work we must now turn at length before looking once again at how both works reflect on the late Severan world in which they were written and read.

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during Philostratus’ narrative of resistance to Domitian, Nerva’s role and positive characteristics are exaggerated in a way that makes it all the more surprising when we learn how insignificant his role will turn out to be in the aftermath. The speech is at VA 5.34. In a sort of postscript to the debate at 5.40, the narrator notes that Apollonius considered Dio’s philosophy generally to be “overly rhetorical” (ῥητορικωτέρα) and “too much designed to cheer” (ἐς τὸ εὐφραῖνον κατεσκευασαμένη μᾶλλον). The contrast with the author’s later characterization of Dio at VS 479 as among those who “though philosophers, had the reputation of being sophists” (φιλοσοφήσαντας ἐν δόξῃ τοῦ σοφιστεῦσαι) is an indication of the different worlds of the two works. On Philostratus’ positioning of himself relative to Dio in both the Apollonius and Sophists see Whitmarsh 2001, 231–44. Apoll. Ep. 9 has Apollonius rebuke Dio for attending to pleasure rather than truth. There are clear verbal parallels with VA 5.40, and Penella 1979, 96 assumes that Philostratus consulted a version of the letter. But even if there was an existing tradition of this tension between the two, that was all the more reason an audience might expect Philostratus’ Apollonius to deliver his answer to Dio’s orations before the same audience.

chapter 5

Philostratus’ Sophists: Hellas’ Antonine Golden Age

Not a few readers of Philostratus have found it odd that the same man should have written both the Apollonius and the Sophists. Were it not that the narrator of the Sophists explicitly identifies himself as the author of the Apollonius, many scholars would certainly have wished to assign them to two different Philostrati. Each work has a fairly clear overt agenda, but the two agendas seem incongruous or even incompatible. Did Philostratus really move so easily from the world of religious propaganda to that of learned celebrity trivia?1 One answer is that the Apollonius in fact has more of the sophistic worldview about it than might at first appear, and good arguments have been made for seeing Philostratus’ earlier hero as not really so different from his later ones.2 As suggested at the end of the last chapter, however, a stronger link between the two can be made. Both works represent a very unusual sort of narrative history of the Greek people, specifically as a people united by their cultural practices relative to key elements of their remembered past. Of course, different aspects are emphasized in the two different works: above all religious practices and sites of memory in the Apollonius, and historical declamation in the Sophists. Different sorts of hero are required to embody the privileged status of these activities. In addition, these heroes will have a different sort of relationship to Roman authority, and their narratives will reflect differently on the dynastic history that forms the background for each. In short, though they are written by the same man and share many key locations and some significant characters, they nonetheless take place in different narrative worlds. These worlds are, not coincidentally, roughly sequential in time, since the earliest characters 1 2

Momigliano 1987a, 171–3 sees the difference as a contradiction in views of religion, with the Apollonius being in his view the wave of the future. For the “sophistic” nature of the Apollonius, see Bowie 1978, 1667–70; Koskenniemi 1991, 51–4; Hägg 2004, 393.

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of the Sophists overlap with the career of Apollonius. The Apollonius, we have seen, represents a projection into Roman narrative history of a Greek world that is timeless and unindividuated, except for the unique figure of the hero and the narrative of Hellenic revival (and implicit decline) built around him. In the Sophists, by contrast, the recent Greek past will be filled with individual figures living within a narrative structure built around teacher– student lineages, and the main cause of change will not be one transformative individual, but an entire movement represented by the class of celebrity practitioners that Philostratus claims to be defining.3 The rhetorical daring of such a premise is no less than that of the Apollonius. Philostratus is once again taking a familiar phenomenon, in this case extempore oratory on historical or hypothetical themes, and claiming that it is of critical importance for defining Hellenic identity in his own day. Probably all of Philostratus’ immediate audience had at some point seen a sophist perform, but few would have supposed that viewing that performance was a primary determinant of their status as Hellenes, or that there was a particular historical moment at which sophistic activities had reached such a level of prominence that it constituted a new era of Greek history. Yet the rhetoric and structure of the Sophists makes both of these claims. Traditionally, scholarship on the Sophists has taken an essentially synchronic view of the text, as a snapshot of conditions that prevailed with few changes from the mid-first to mid-third centuries ad.4 Such an approach works well as social and cultural history. There really were a lot of continuities over that period, and the Sophists is an excellent guide to them. As a literary reading of Philostratus, however, it does not bring out the important narrative aspects of the text. Philostratus’ version of the Second Sophistic is not a uniform set of cultural practices that operate continuously throughout the eastern half of the empire within a given period. Rather it is a movement that began at a specific time and place and then increased its geographical range with the successive generations of intellectual progeny that stemmed from that origin. The origin, as described in the prologue to the Sophists, goes back to classical Athens. In order to allow for this pedigree, Philostratus invents, from whole cloth so far as we can see, a distinction between an “old 3 4

Many of the arguments about the Sophists found in this section are given in expanded form in Kemezis 2011. See above all Bowersock 1969, but the customary static reading of the Sophists reflects the use of static models for describing the period as a whole, as noted above. Some recent scholarship has placed the Sophists within a more dynamic cultural history, notably Whitmarsh 2007; Jones 2008; Elsner 2009b. The question of how to find narrative or other unified structural principles in apparently anecdotal works has been much studied in several imperial Greek authors. See especially Elsner 2001a and Hutton 2010 on Pausanias.

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sophistic” begun by Gorgias and consisting of extempore rhetorical treatments of philosophical themes, and a “second sophistic” begun by Aeschines, whose themes are the historical set-pieces and invented legal cases familiar from imperial-era declamation (VS 481). Aeschines is said to have invented the Second Sophistic in his old age on Rhodes, where he had taken up residence after Macedonian domination made Athens untenable for him. The strange thing, however, is that Philostratus names no immediate successors to the great founder of the art, which in fact seems to be born only to lie dormant for nearly four centuries. The line of succession passes almost immediately from Aeschines on Rhodes to a group of characters all active in Ionia during the last half of the first century ad. These men, who include Nicetes of Smyrna, Scopelian of Clazomenae and Dionysius of Miletus, receive comparatively full biographical treatments and are the start of a complicated network of pedagogical relationships by which the sophistic art will be transmitted through time, and also through space from one realm of the Hellenic world to another.5 Like the Apollonius, the Sophists has a distinctive sense of geography that engages with the placement of center and periphery in a world both Greek and Roman. In the case of the Sophists, the far periphery is excluded. None of the action takes place outside of the Roman Empire, and very little of it takes place outside of the Aegean basin and Italy. Even a Hellenic locale as prominent as Alexandria is present only occasionally, and never as a site of significant sophistic activity.6 The real action is restricted to mainland Greece – mostly Athens – and the Aegean littoral of Asia Minor, that is to the locations most evocative of the classical past, and also to Rome itself, the inescapable center of imperial gravity. Within the Greek world, there is a further division between Athens and Ionia as possible sites for sophistic mimesis, with the former offering opportunities lacking elsewhere. The Second Sophistic, as embodied in the performances and teaching of its main exponents, makes progress through this world from Ionia, where its first two generations of practitioners are mainly active, to Athens, whither it is brought by Herodes Atticus, whose magnificent career represents for Philostratus the fulfillment of the sophistic art as the ultimate expression of Greekness. In the years after Herodes, his first- and second-generation pupils will dominate the wider sophistic scene, including Asia Minor and eventually Rome itself, which by the end of the Sophists is a major center of activity, though not on a 5 6

For the network of transmission through pedagogical relationships, see Eshleman 2012, 125–48. On circumscribed geography, see Kemezis 2011, 13, with Jones 2008, 114–17 and, for Alexandria, Schubert 1995.

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level with Athens. As Philostratus ends his narrative, the whole empire has become a stage on which sophists can connect the present directly with their particular version of the Greek past. Most of the emperors from Domitian to Elagabalus have entered the story at least briefly, but none has dominated the stage completely, and no cognizance has been taken of dynastic status as an ordering principle, whether, like Dio, by insisting on an epochal change after Marcus, or, like Severus, by stressing continuity through spurious adoption. On one level, this restricted version of the past is a reflection of its author. Philostratus himself was active in Athens as a third-generation pupil of Herodes, and could thus claim to trace his professional ancestry back to that giant’s Ionian predecessors. He also followed in the footsteps of the previous generation of sophists in taking his show to Rome.7 The Sophists is in reality the story of a particular and rather restricted segment of the Greek literary world, one about which the author could readily find information and which he had an obvious professional interest in promoting.8 What makes the Sophists such an ambitious work, however, is that it does not acknowledge these restrictions. On the contrary, Philostratus explicitly claims to be describing all the sophists of importance during his period, thus redefining his own intellectual milieu as the entire Greek world, and claiming that his chronicle represents an overall cultural history of that world. This is more than an act of over-aggressive intellectual salesmanship. As Kendra Eshleman has recently demonstrated, Philostratus is using established techniques for defining an intellectual community in the Roman Empire, and for carving out for oneself a privileged place within that community.9 In picking the literary form he does, however, he tells a story with broad implications for one’s conception of the empire as a whole. Like the Apollonius, the Sophists consists of a detailed narrative in which the key sites and characters of the Roman world are present, but not central. It also is a story that moves from key locations in the classical Greek world to a point where activities previously manifest in Greece take on major significance at the imperial center. It allows readers to think back on the last hundred and fifty years in a way that accounts for change and development while still transcending the dynastic phenomena that would have been their usual mechanism for structuring events. The Sophists, then, share Apollonius’ status as historical figures of Greek culture who ostensibly live outside of Roman dynastic history. But where 7 8 9

For a sketch of our data for Philostratus’ career and intellectual pedigree, see Bowie 2009a. For critiques of or excuses for the Sophists in this respect, see Anderson 1986, 78–92; Swain 1991; Billault 2000, 78–82. See Eshleman 2012, with particular reference to the Sophists at 125–48.

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Apollonius was a completely anomalous figure who could transcend the normal divisions between past and present, Herodes, Polemo and the other heroes of the Sophists are not superhuman, however much Philostratus may extol them. They live in a more ordinary world than the Sage of Tyana, and as such have more circumscribed opportunities for great deeds in emulation of classical giants. Although direct comparisons of individual sophists with canonical figures will occur, they are fewer, and Philostratus does not use them as his main prefatory device. The extended opening passages of the Sophists take a somewhat different approach to connecting their subjects to the classical past. Rather than compare individuals, Philostratus lays out a history of sophistic activity itself, and in doing so redraws the dividing lines that political history had imposed on previous centuries. To briefly summarize the content of the opening pages of the Sophists:10 After a short dedicatory address to a certain Gordianus, who is probably the future emperor Gordian I, Philostratus begins by discussing “the Old Sophistic” (ἀρχαία σοφιστική) and its relationship with philosophy.11 We are then told that after the “Old” Sophistic comes a “second” version that cannot be called “new,” because it in fact dates all the way back to Aeschines, and has been going on continuously ever since.12 After asserting this point, Philostratus then deals briefly with the question of whether Pericles, Aeschines, or Gorgias should be seen as the overall inventor of extempore rhetoric, and why it is correct to call Aeschines a sophist, even though both he and Demosthenes use the title as an insult. This last point leads on to the broader question of who is and is not a sophist. Philostratus claims that there are a class of people who ought properly to count as philosophers, but have often been mistakenly identified as sophists, due to their unusual eloquence.13 10

11 12

13

The narrative structure runs: preface defining two sophistics (VS 480–4); digression on “philosophers called sophists” (484–92); various 5c–4c bc figures characterized as the Old Sophistic (492–506); Aeschines himself as the transitional figure (507–11); one-sentence dismissal of all sophistic activity between Aeschines and the first century ad, followed by account of Nicetes (512). VS 480–1. For the identity of the dedicatee, see Appendix §2. VS 481. For the distinctions between the two sophistics, see Côté 2006, with full bibliography. In general, previous approaches have tended either to write the distinction off as incompetently executed intellectual history (e.g. Wilamowitz-Moellendorf 1900, 8–15; Bowersock 1969, 8–9; Anderson 1986, 8–11), or to accept Philostratus’ claim that he is defining the movement principally in terms of its intellectual method rather than its historical circumstances (e.g. Brancacci 1986, 89–100; Mestre and Gómez 1998). Côté himself (27–30) prefers an interpretation in terms of the immediate internal addressee, Gordian, and an attempt on Philostratus’ part to unite various objectives of rhetoric into one therapeutic presentation. VS 484–92. The “philosopher-sophists” have attracted the particular attention of Brancacci 1986, 89–100, who argues that Philostratus identifies himself with them rather than with the purely sophistic declaimers. This requires a highly selective reading of the Sophists as a whole; see the several cogent objections of Flinterman 1995, 30–2.

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The first six of these are mostly academic philosophers living in the fourth through first centuries bc, and are dealt with very cursorily. The last two are Dio Chrysostom and Favorinus of Arles, who get much longer accounts and are signaled as important figures on the periphery of the second- and thirdcentury ad sophistic milieu that will be Philostratus’ main subject. After finishing with Favorinus, the author then takes us all the way back to Gorgias in the fifth century bc for a discussion of the Old Sophistic that will consist of sixteen pages on several very familiar figures, the last of whom is Aeschines. After another mention of Aeschines’ invention of the Second Sophistic, we are brusquely told that Philostratus “will omit Ariobarzanes of Cilicia, Xenophron of Sicily and Peithagoras of Cyrene, who seem to have known neither what to say nor how to say it (μήτε γνῶναι ἱκανοὶ ἔδοξαν, μήθ’ ἑρμηνεῦσαι τὰ γνωσθέντα), but gained a following (ἐσπουδάσθησαν) among the Hellenes of their time due to the lack of worthwhile sophists (ἀπορίᾳ γενναίων σοφιστῶν)” (VS 511). Instead, the narrative proceeds immediately to Nicetes of Smyrna, the first of several late-first-century ad figures who mark the start of Philostratus’ continuous narrative of the generations of imperial-era sophists. There is much here that is counter-intuitive to say the least. Given that the first words of Philostratus’ account refer to the “Old” Sophistic, readers might reasonably expect the rest of the work to invoke a conventional separation between the contemporary and the ancient worlds, with a gap in between of several centuries that will not be considered at all. Philostratus’ insistence that the “Second” Sophistic in fact goes back to Aeschines does away with that expectation. Instead, we get a chronological scheme in which the last five hundred years are all part of one era whose earliest figure overlaps with the classical period itself. That scheme is defined not in terms of political events but of the sophistic art itself.14 The Old Sophistic is distinct not because it was practiced in the cities of a free Greek work, but because it lacked a uniform technique and because it dealt with abstract philosophical themes as opposed to the hypothetical and historical scenarios of the Second Sophistic (VS 481). The creation of the Second Sophistic was a consequence of Aeschines’ exile, but even that is made to seem more like an isolated event in one man’s career than like part of a series of watershed political events that would destroy the whole milieu in which the earlier sophistic had taken place.15 Neither the marked 14 15

In this sense the Sophists is similar to the Gymnasticus, for which see König 2009b, but the Sophists has a considerably more developed internal narrative. The exile is briefly alluded to in VS 481, without any cause given, and more fully at 509. There we learn that Aeschines left Athens after losing to Demosthenes in the prosecution of Ctesiphon. He intended

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hiatus in sophistic activity after Aeschines nor its equally marked resurgence in the late first century ad has a political explanation, although we can see from Tacitus or Ps.-Longinus (among many others) how common-place it is that the nature of rhetorical and literary discourse is shaped by the political circumstances in which it takes place.16 For Philostratus, the absence or presence of worthwhile sophists is an internal phenomenon of the movement and does not need to be related to any outside causal factors.17 The coming of Macedonian and then of Roman hegemony are for him non-events. The subsequent movement of the sophistic around the Roman world will be driven by the personal initiatives of key sophists independent of political rulers, who figure only in anecdotal roles. The lines between the classical past and the contemporary world are blurred, as present-day sophists are continuing a story that began in the fourth century bc, and thus have a narrative link to the ancients in a way not possible in the political realm. Our next sections will explore how this narrative autonomy relates to the actual activity of sophists, who invoke by mimetic means the same figures to whom Philostratus has connected them by narrative. It is sufficient now to underline that Philostratus has once again created a narrative scheme that transcends his era’s conventional divisions of ancient and modern, and that is explicitly defined by factors independent of politics. One must also note from the outset, however, that even as Philostratus blandly lays out this highly unconventional scheme, he also deliberately emphasizes its artificiality so as to leave readers wondering how sustainable this “history without politics” really is. After all, Philostratus’ material in fact lends itself quite well to a traditional separation of past from present. His primary subjects after Aeschines are all basically “modern.” They are active in the Roman period, and Philostratus stretches the limits of generational memory by claiming to have personally known someone who had seen Dionysius of Miletus, one of the earliest of the post-Aeschinean sophists.18 Would it not have been more natural to have placed them in one category and to have

16 17

18

to go to Alexander in Babylon, but when he got to Ephesus, he learned that Alexander was dead and that “affairs in Asia were in a tumult (ξυγκεκλυσμένα),” which made Rhodes seem like an attractive place of exile. See Ps.-Longinus, De Subl. 44, with Whitmarsh 2001, 66–71, who notes the similar periodization of Longinus and Philostratus. This is in part a result of the in-group-definition techniques described by Eshleman 2012, 67–90, but the very fact that Roman emperors are included, but relegated to a supporting role, foregrounds and thus places in question the political dimension of this intellectual autonomy. VS 524–6. Philostratus, who was born around 160, claims to have heard the story from Aristaeus, “the oldest of the Hellenes of my time.” It concerns a meeting between a very aged Dionysius and a youthful Polemo, and seems to be taking place in the 120s. Dionysius, as a pupil of Isaeus, is a member of the second generation of “modern” sophists.

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counted Aeschines along with the other classical figures who make up the Old Sophistic? The question must surely have occurred to Philostratus’ contemporary readers, given that it fit better with their customary ideas of past and present. Philostratus makes the question more obvious by his treatment of the years between the fourth century bc and the first century ad. Ostensibly, Philostratus is giving this space a unified narrative reality that it lacks in traditional high-imperial conceptions of history. But he does this by filling it with three figures, Ariobarzanes, Xenophron and Peithagoras, who are so obscure as to appear fictional, and to whom he explicitly denies any actual narrative content.19 The effect is not to render the missing centuries meaningful in narrative terms, but rather to re-emphasize their lack of significance. On top of this, Philostratus does in fact come up with a set of characters, the “philosophers called sophists,” who might neatly have filled the chronological gap, but he ostentatiously relegates them to a parenthesis. In part, this is meant to signal Philostratus’ rhetorical daring. He wants readers to realize how big a challenge he has set himself with his unconventional scheme of historical periodization. But there is more to it than bravado. Philostratus wants his readers to contemplate the idea of a narrative history of Greek culture independent of political circumstances, and at the same time to ask themselves whether such a history can be made to function, or whether political and dynastic changes really are the critical factors.

Sophistic past and present In one sense, writing on performing sophists seems the least likely way in which to counter prevalent second-century paradigms of past and present. After all, sophistic performance is for us the textbook example of how Greeks of the Imperial era could approach their past directly, without the aid of narrative history. A sophist was supposed to make Themistocles or Demosthenes appear in the contemporary world without one’s having to place those figures in relation to contemporary circumstances, or to consider

19

For the three non-persons, see Civiletti 2002, 428, who can find no possible reference to the first two and one exceedingly tentative possibility for the third. Explanations of the gap are many: Kayser, in the preface to his 1871 edition (ix) posits a lacuna, but has not generally been followed. Anderson 1989, 82–7 and Swain 1991, 151–2 both suggest reasons based on Philostratus’ information and his aesthetic or professional preferences; Anderson also gives an account of our evidence for sophistic activity in the late Republican and early Imperial periods. Flinterman 1995, 32–4 notes pertinently that the late first century does seem from other evidence to have been when the role of sophist first began to be adopted by people of high enough social and political prominence to make Philostratus’ expanded model of the sophistic role workable.

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a narrative of how the world changed from their time to one’s own.20 The reason sophists as a class are interesting is that they are able to achieve this basically non-narrative feat, and Philostratus will have to engage with the specifically mimetic nature of their activity while at the same time placing it within a very different, essentially narrative, paradigm of one’s relationship to the past. We will focus here on two particular ways in which Philostratus uses sophistic mimesis to re-draw traditional boundaries between past and present. First, the narrative structure into which he places the sophists tends to erase the neat distinction between the contemporary agents of mimesis and its past objects; second, his accounts of sophists’ wider political and social activities suggest that their mimetic abilities have spread beyond the moment of staged performance into less ephemeral areas where it continues to affect the audience’s world in real historical time. In placing performing sophists in a narrative history, Philostratus is exploiting a tension in sophistic performance that has been noted by modern students of the phenomenon.21 On the one hand, a performing sophist is stepping entirely outside of the present time. He is using all his verbal and visual resources to transform himself into a figure from the distant past, and to bring his audience into an entirely different historical moment. If the performance happens correctly, then the audience will imagine that the man they are watching is (say) Alcibiades, and they will consider his arguments and judge his performance as if they really were the Athenian assembly deciding on an invasion of Sicily. On the other hand, the sophist is also a cultural figure in his own right, engaging in a kind of performance that is characteristic of his contemporary moment but alien to fifth-century Athens. His verbal and visual presentation do not resemble those of an actual fifth-century personage, but those of a second-century sophist who has certain specific technical means of achieving verisimilitude. He is in some sense like an ensemble of modern musicians who, even if they play baroque music on “authentic” instruments and use historically appropriate techniques to replicate the auditory experience of a piece’s original performance, nevertheless do not perform by candle-light in knee-breeches, and do expect from their audience levels of attentiveness characteristic of our own age rather than the eighteenth century. The sophist’s audience know what kind of show they are watching, and will judge it by technical 20 21

On the relationship of sophistic performance to what we would think of as historiography, see Schmitz 1999. Above all Webb 2006, who uses models drawn from theatrical performance to describe a dual relationship between performer and audience.

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criteria against other sophistic performances, not based on whether it actually makes them want to invade Sicily. It is the first of these two co-existing scenarios that makes the sophistic art so unique and (to us) bizarre, but at the same time so revealing of Imperialera Greek attitudes toward the past. It evokes the ethos seen by Bowie, according to whom “the fantasy of the hypereducated Athenian must have been to walk out into the countryside of Attica and discover that he was in the fifth century.”22 It is also this aspect that gives Philostratus’ Sophists power as a reconsideration of the relationship of Greek past to present. Sophists are interesting in the first place because of the unique access they have to the cultural authority of classical Hellas. But it is nonetheless the second aspect of sophistic performance, its presence in the contemporary moment, that makes Philostratus’ work possible and allows it to take narrative structure. He knows that sophists’ audiences are interested not just in Alcibiades, but also in the man on the stage, his professional techniques, his offstage demeanor, his relationships with other performers and all the other materials of star culture. What is remarkable and different is that Philostratus can turn this interest in trivial detail into a large-scale narrative, and can use it to break down the distinctions between sophists and their objects of imitation. This is possible in large part because his scheme, in which commonalities between the First and Second Sophistics are made explicit and the origins of the second are traced back to classical Athens, makes contemporary sophists part of the same tradition as many of the speakers they are striving to imitate. Aeschines, to give the most notable example, is both the founder of the Second Sophistic and a key figure in several of its declamatory themes. And if Demosthenes is not explicitly counted as a sophist, as the chief rival of the sophist Aeschines, he must have some affinities with the art.23 Similarly in the case of other Athenian historical declamation-subjects, Philostratus’ presentation encourages one to see these people simultaneously as historical personages and as fellow-practitioners of rhetoric. The relationship of the earlier to the later figures is clearly very different in the two scenarios. From a fully mimetic point of view, nobody could ever be a better Demosthenes than Demosthenes. Someone might, however, write a speech of self-defense that met certain technical rhetorical criteria 22 23

Bowie 1970, 30. Cf. Bowie 2007 for more recent considerations on the relationship of Philostratean past to actual present. Thus Philostratus’ entry on Aeschines begins with an extended comparison of him with Demosthenes and account of their conflicts, which in fact makes up about half the entry (VS 507–9). A similar relationship exists between Polemo, who is unproblematically a sophist, and Favorinus, ostensibly a philosopher who is “called a sophist” in no small part because of his rivalry with Polemo (491).

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better even than the original On the Crown. Philostratus in fact introduces many direct stylistic comparisons between his own figures and classical orators, not always to the obvious advantage of the latter.24 In some instances a given modern figure will be compared to both an ancient and a modern figure: Proclus of Naucratis’ style is reminiscent of Gorgias and Hippias, but also of Marcus of Byzantium.25 Alexander Clay-Plato is best compared, at least in Herodes’ view, not to the actual Plato, but to a sober version of Scopelian (VS 573). It is significant that sophists are not generally compared to figures chronologically later than themselves, even though one might have supposed Philostratus’ audience would find it useful to explain distant figures by reference to more recent people they had actually heard themselves.26 The point is less to illustrate style vividly for the audience than to establish a growing presence for sophists as a historical phenomenon. The farther one reads into the Sophists, the denser become the comparisons and anecdotes of modern sophists’ interactions with one another, such that one gets the overall effect of a historical tradition that grows over time and takes more complex forms. Something of a reverse phenomenon also occurs: not only are sophists compared with the objects of their declamations, they also become themselves the objects of sophistic mimesis. Thus we are told that Polemo had intended to give a speech before the emperor Antoninus on behalf of Smyrna, but his death intervened, and a series of inferior speakers were sent in his place. Antoninus was unimpressed, and demanded that they locate a written copy of the speech Polemo had meant to give. He then had that speech read out and granted the dead Polemo’s request; the citizens of Smyrna considered that Polemo had come back to life to assist them.27 On a less elaborate level, we get the impromptu acts of Hadrian of Tyre, who would enliven student drinking sessions at Herodes’ school with imitations of the older generation of sophists. That comic act 24

25 26

27

See VS 564 (Herodes similar to Critias and, in his own view, better than Andocides); 565 (Herodes’ breakdown before Marcus compared to Demosthenes’ before Philip); 584 (Aristides’ outlandish insults compared to Demosthenes’). For a similar ambivalence in the Gymnasticus regarding the past and present technical development of athletics, see König 2009b, 267–70. VS 604. Similarly at 620, Hippodromus the Thessalian’s style is compared to that of Plato, Dio Chrysostom and Polemo. The point may be that the older authors’ speeches are in written circulation, and that Philostratus can rely on a larger segment of his audience knowing them than would be the case with any more recent performer who would be mainly known from oral performance. This would in turn suggest that Philostratus’ audience does not have a single shared frame of reference for these oral performances, and that even “superstar” performers were a more localized phenomenon than the narrator would have us believe. VS 540. The performance of the written speech is not quite the same as extempore sophistic mimesis, but the recreation of the context for the original performance and the idea of reviving a dead historical figure by means of performative oratory have obvious affinities.

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is later revived in a tragic register when we learn that in Philostratus’ own youth there were men who fondly remembered the dead Hadrian and would imitate his speech and gestures, to the accompaniment of tears rather than laughter.28 The Second Sophistic in its later phases has become selfreferential, and in doing so has elided the chronological break that should separate imitated past from imitative present. When an ecstatic crowd tells Herodes Atticus that he is like Demosthenes, his response is “if only I were like the Phrygian,” meaning Polemo.29 On another occasion, told that he is one of The Ten, i.e. the canonical Attic orators of the fifth and fourth centuries, he replies “I am better, at least, than Andocides.”30 These anecdotes are not easy to read, especially in the isolated form we have them. They might be merely witty repartee, or an assertion of technical skill or differentiation (“Demosthenes was great in front of an assembly, but in front of a sophistic audience, give me Polemo any day”), or even a sort of ironic selfdeprecation (“let’s not go overboard with Demosthenes, I’ll settle for being as good as Polemo”). However they are read, they still remind us that many of the principal objects of sophistic imitation were practitioners of the same art, broadly speaking, as their imitators, and as such could be compared directly with their modern analogues in a way that was not true of most figures from the revered classical past. This fuller sense of imitation is seen also in Philostratus’ selection of anecdotal material about his sophists. It is well known that Philostratean sophists do a lot more than just declaim. They are political leaders at the local level, monumental builders on a grand scale, participants in inter-city and international diplomacy, holders of official appointments and the teachers and public voices of emperors.31 How to interpret this activity has been a problem for modern scholars. Bowersock considered the civic activities of sophists to be an integral part of their movement, and concluded that the apparent rise of their activities in the second century constituted an important change in the dynamics of imperial political life in the eastern empire. Subsequent scholarship has been skeptical on this point, noting that plenty of aristocrats at the time engaged in the same types of political and civic

28 29 30 31

VS 586–7, noted by Webb 2006, 39. VS 539. The context is in Polemo’s entry, as part of a series of anecdotes about Herodes’ approval of the older sophist. VS 565. The anecdote is part of Philostratus’ account of Herodes’ teachers and his style more generally; it comes immediately after an extended comparison with Critias. On non-literary activities of sophists, Philostratean and otherwise, see Bowersock 1969, 17–30; Billault 2000, 83–5; Sidebottom 2009, 75–83.

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activity without performing as sophists.32 Another alternative is to assimilate sophistic performance to the wider field of aristocratic paideia, the mechanism whereby the ruling classes of the Greek world gained access to the great reserves of cultural capital represented by their own past, and used it to legitimate their own political pre-eminence.33 As regards the social realities of the second century, these later views are to a great extent correct. When sophists built monuments in their cities or served in administrative posts for the emperor, they were engaging in the customary activities of their class, and it is certainly true that the entire edifice of Imperial-era paideia served important legitimating functions for the ruling class. But if Bowersock’s view is problematic as regards second-century realities, it is nonetheless an extremely revealing reading of Philostratus, because it is Philostratus himself who suggests the unique role of sophists in civic and political settings. If Philostratus thought of the Second Sophistic simply as a rhetorical technē, or even as a purely literary-cultural phenomenon, he could have written a considerably different and rather shorter book. Many of the lives in the Sophists contain large amounts of material that does nothing to further his ostensible rhetorical purpose of describing the development of extempore oratory. This is especially true of the longest lives, above all that of Herodes Atticus. Herodes’ career is the high point of the Sophists as a whole, and represents in many ways the perfect realization of the Philostratean sophist, but actual rhetorical performance is curiously absent. Discussion of his works and style takes up less than two pages of the twenty-one devoted to him.34 The rest is concerned with all aspects of his life, from his civic benefactions to Athens to his at times strained relationship with Marcus Aurelius, his family life and even his encounters with Agathion, the wild man from the Attic countryside who portrayed himself as a throwback to autochthonous Athenian virtue. The presence of this material is not entirely surprising, since Herodes really was a celebrity of immense proportions. By including these stories, Philostratus entertains his readers and increases the apparent importance of his subject. The author of the Sophists is undoubtedly concerned to emphasize and exaggerate the importance of

32

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In particular Bowie 1982 argues against Bowersock’s contention that sophists played disproportionate political roles as ambassadors from their cities to the imperial court and as holders of the post of ab epistulis. It should be noted that Bowie does elsewhere posit a political dimension for sophistic rhetoric (e.g. 2009b) but tends to locate it in the content of the speeches rather than, like Bowersock, in the offstage activities of the performers. See on this most fully Schmitz 1997; 1999. VS 564–5. I am grateful to Dominique Côté for this insight.

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the phenomenon he describes, but the way he goes about it has important implications for how one reads the work as a greater narrative. When Philostratus describes Herodes’ fabulous wealth and aristocratic prominence, he is not telling his readers anything surprising. Residents and visitors in the Athens of Philostratus’ time would doubtless have been reminded in all kinds of ways that they were in Herodes’ city. His impact on the physical landscape of the city was on a scale very few outside of the imperial family could match.35 In Smyrna, one would have had something of the same sense regarding Polemo. On a more general level, readers would have known that sophists were also members of the civic aristocracy, and thus involved in the political and euergetic behavior that were characteristic of that class. It is not remarkable that sophists should do these things. What is remarkable is to see it included under the heading of sophistic activity. Athenians or visitors to Athens would naturally have thought of Herodes as an extremely rich and powerful man who made a tremendous, although by no means universally popular, display of aristocratic beneficence, and who was also very active in literary culture.36 Philostratus is asking them instead to see him as a sophist who engaged in civic and euergetic activities as an integral part of his sophistic persona. However much it may seem to us that performing sophistic activity was separable from, or in some way a product of, civic political life, Philostratus wants to insist that it is a primary and defining activity that can have transformative effects on the wider sphere. In part this is achieved by structural means, and especially by the privileged position accorded Herodes Atticus. The whole first book of the Sophists is working its way up to the peak that is Herodes’ career, and the second book can be read as later generations of his students attempting to maintain the level of excellence he had achieved.37 Herodes is positioned as the embodiment of everything a sophist should be, and the implication is that all of his various excellences can be characterized as sophistic, and that the ethos of the sophist goes beyond the individual stage performance to the broader world in which the audience live. The Athenians who look at Herodes’ 35 36

37

For full details, see the surveys of Ameling 1983; Tobin 1997. For Herodes’ commemoration and posthumous public image, see works in previous note, with Smith 1998, 78–81, who stresses that Herodes’ portraiture includes many elements that mark him as a “Greek” but not in Smith’s view an “intellectual.” Rife 2008 points out both the numerous references to Marathon (i.e. a site of sophistic memory) in his funerary ensemble, and the posthumous erasure of his tomb inscription. Gleason 2010 notes the cultural balancing act involved with the commemoration of his Italian wife Regilla. Jones 2008 argues, based on the evidence of Phrynichus and of late antique reception, that in fact extempore declamation was considerably less popular in Philostratus’ time than it had been in the early- to mid-second century, and that Philostratus is exaggerating its continued cultural salience.

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monuments as they read Philostratus’ book are not supposed to think simply that these were built by a very wealthy man, but also to reflect that they are the material outgrowths of a Greek cultural-historical narrative that began in the fourth century bc and has continued up to the narrator’s present. On the detail level, Philostratus makes this association by means closely related to sophistic mimesis. One of the key effects of a sophist’s performance, as noted above, is that by transforming himself into an iconic figure of the past, the sophist also transforms his audience.38 As the addressees of his speech, they themselves journey back into the past, where some more essential form of Greekness is located, as we have seen with travelers to iconic Greek religious sites. Sophistic activity in effect manufactures a heightened Greekness. The transformation, the manufactured product, is, of course, ephemeral. It is created when the sophist establishes his persona and lasts only as long as he speaks and maintains the dramatic illusion. Philostratus wants to extend that transformation beyond the moment, and to turn this performatively created Greekness into a stable defining characteristic of the sophists and their audiences alike. This can be seen in his habit of using the simple term “Hellenes” as shorthand for the sophistic audience, as when Alexander Clay-Plato asks Herodes to turn out “your Hellenes” to hear him speak, or when Philostratus as narrator asserts that “the Hellenes” have never justly appreciated the abilities of Clay-Plato, or of Chrestus of Byzantium.39 For Philostratus, it is not only performative acts of the sophistic stage that create Greekness, but also participation in the wider milieu of admiring and discussing sophistic performance. Many of the non-rhetorical activities of sophists are also positioned as mimetic, in the sense of replicating the activities of the classical age. Herodes, Polemo and company do not simply build nice new buildings; they renew and extend the fabric of the cities built by the ancients. Herodes’ most conspicuous monuments are used as settings for the Panathenaic festival and for sophistic and other literary performances (550–1). A lesser figure, Damianus of Ephesus, can still build a portico that connects his city with its most famous monument, the Temple of Artemis (605). Of the offices that sophists hold, Philostratus puts particular emphasis on those that evoke the classical era, such as Herodes’ eponymous archonship (550) or Lollianus’ 38 39

See on this point Schmitz 1999, 84–6; Webb 2006, 33–4. Thus at VS 524, Aristaeus is called “the oldest of the Hellenes in my time,” which is equivalent to “the person with the longest memory of sophistic performance culture.” See Follet 1991, 206 for these passages in the context of a survey of how the category “Hellene” operates in the works of Philostratus.

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holding of the hoplite generalship (526), both needless to say in Athens. Sometimes the sophists participate in contemporary political situations that are comparable to declamation scenarios, as when the citizens of contemporary Megara decide to exclude the Athenians from their athletic contests, ostensibly as a counter-blow to Pericles’ Megarian decrees of six centuries earlier (529). The situation is defused by Marcus of Byzantium, who as a native of a Megarian colony takes it upon himself to reconcile his metropolis with Athens. In that case as in others, the skills of sophistic rhetoric allow practitioners to achieve rhetorical feats that, while in the political sphere rather than the strictly declamatory, still have a distinctly mimetic character. Thus Aelius Aristides does not have the wealth to fill Smyrna with new buildings as Polemo does, but when the city is devastated by an earthquake, he is able to write a speech that persuades Marcus Aurelius to finance the rebuilding effort.40 Philostratus gives all the credit for the business to Aristides, which he expresses not by calling him the city’s savior, as one might expect, but by using the specifically mimetic designation of “founder” (οἰκιστής). Polemo performs a somewhat similar role at the dedication of the Temple of Olympian Zeus in Athens, when he provides the rhetorical climax to Hadrian’s assumption of the role of Pisistratus (532). Readers of the Sophists already knew how densely the physical and cultural landscape of Greece was filled with buildings and practices that conjured up the Greek past in one way or another. Philostratus’ great rhetorical trick is to take as many of these as possible and to characterize them as “sophistic,” and thus to claim that any time his contemporaries feel themselves particularly Greek, or engage in a defining Greek cultural practice, they are participating in the ethos of the Sophists. That ethos in turn he does not present as an automatic mechanism of Greek culture, something Greeks have done since forever and will always continue to do. Rather it is a practice specific to certain times and places, that requires a narrative to be correctly understood. The geographical aspect of that narrative is critical for how it situates the sophists in relation to the key physical sites of the Greek past. One of the most peculiar, indeed tendentious, aspects of Philostratus’ presentation of the Second Sophistic is the way in which he portrays it as only operating at certain times and key locations, in spite of what must in reality have been a much more 40

VS 582. The speech survives as Or. 19 in the corpus of Aristides. For full context, see Quet 2006b. As Quet points out, the text makes clear that Aristides’ appeal to Marcus relied more on their previous acquaintance than (as the Sophists narrator would suggest) on the persuasive qualities of the one particular speech.

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geographically diverse cultural scene.41 In particular, Philostratus structures the Sophists such that the climax represented by Herodes Atticus’ career also coincides with a geographic culmination, namely the return of the Sophistic to Athens. In Philostratus’ version, the Second Sophistic is founded by an exiled Athenian, Aeschines, but re-emerges in Ionia in the first century ad and remains largely confined there. The first three generations of sophists down to Polemo are all based entirely or largely there, and the level of sophistic activity in Athens is deliberately minimized in Book 1 so as to give greater importance to Herodes’ role as the man who went to Asia, learned the art from its greatest practitioners, and then became himself the center of the movement. Book 2 of the Sophists is far more concerned with the Athenian scene, and is dominated by the activities of men who had their training in Athens from Herodes or his intellectual descendants.42 The move is all the more significant in that Athens provides the perfect context for the broader aspect of sophistic activity, all the forms of mimesis that take place on the wider civic and political stage. Herodes is the greatest exponent of these activities, and much of what he does is only possible because of the unique level of Hellenic signification present in Athens. If the Second Sophistic is to become the definitive expression of Greekness that Philostratus wants it to be, it can only fully come into its own in the city where so many of its declamations are physically set and where so many other opportunities exist to place oneself in the role of the heroes of the sophistic stage. Equally, and crucially, Athens can only reach its full potential as a site of Greekness thanks to the Sophists. While the Sophists does not deal in the same themes of moral degeneracy that the Apollonius does, preHerodes Athens is not living up to its full cultural potential. Even the most perfect stage set cannot function without a cast. In providing one, Herodes and his fellow sophists perform a service for Athens not unlike what Apollonius had done for all the cities and shrines of Old Greece. Instead of his superhuman holiness, they use a rhetorical technē that can be defined in quite precise terms, and whose development can be charted. Thus once again elements of the Greek cultural scene that might have been seen as timeless elements of continuity from the distant past turn out to be contingent products of a particular moment in history.43

41 42 43

See on this point Kemezis 2011. For details and a diagram of pedagogical relationships, see Eshleman 2012, 125–48. It is true, of course, that the link to Aeschines provides a key element of continuity. However, Aeschines creates only the technē and not the wider field for its display. This comes only with the Neronian sophists, which allows Philostratus to combine continuity with historical specificity.

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That moment, of course, takes place while the Greek world is ruled from Rome, and that city and its power structure are key parts of the world in which Greekness is so fully realized. Sophists, in the process of replicating classical Hellas, still have considerable interaction both with the city and people of Rome, and with the most visible representatives of its power structure, namely the emperors. Geographically, Rome is a key point on the itinerary of the Sophistic movement as a whole. As with Athens, Philostratus creates a somewhat artificial picture in that Rome as a location figures very little in the first two-thirds of the Sophists. None of Herodes’ predecessors or contemporaries is shown performing there. Indeed Herodes’ own presence there is distinctly downplayed, although a man with his political career was obviously going to be active there a good deal of the time, and we have inscriptional and other evidence that other Philostratean sophists did in fact practice their art there.44 In this case the coming of the Sophistic to Rome is postponed to the generation after Herodes, and is attributed largely to his student Hadrian of Tyre, who becomes a major celebrity on taking the chair of rhetoric there (VS 589). In the generations after him, sophistic activity becomes increasingly naturalized at Rome, as Athens-trained sophists, including Philostratus himself, start to spend large parts of their careers there, and Italians themselves start to pursue the art. By the end of the Sophists, Rome has become a locus of activity second only to Athens itself. On the one hand this represents an acceptance of Rome into the defining activity of Greek culture, its placement on the Hellenic map. However, that placement remains a distinctly secondary one, thanks to the structure of the Sophists and the way in which Philostratus defines the movement he is chronicling. In reality, Rome’s role as imperial center had long made it the ultimate focus for Greek as well as Latin literary culture. Ever since late Republican times, Greek cultural celebrities had known that the richest rewards and the most prestigious audiences were to be found in Rome.45 The question had long ceased to be whether Rome could compete with Athens and had become whether and how Athens could compete with Rome. Philostratus finds an answer to that question through his expanded notion of the meaning of sophistic mimesis and the narrative that he builds around it. If the definition of sophistic activity is expanded to include all forms of imitating and emulating the classical Greeks, and if Herodes Atticus’ career is taken to be the fullest possible realization of that activity, then Rome cannot rival Athens. Herodes could not have functioned as fully 44 45

For details, see Kemezis 2011, 14–15. On Rome as a Greek cultural location in the late Republic, see Rawson 1985; Yarrow 2006.

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there, both because Rome evidently lacks the sites of Hellenic memory that he requires, and also because it must always be first and foremost the emperor’s city, and no private citizen could be allowed to put his stamp on its physical and cultural landscape as distinctively as Herodes had done in Athens. But the narrative structure of the Sophists represents Herodes’ activities as the climactic moment of the sophistic movement, and Rome only becomes significant as a by-product of the flourishing of sophistry that occurred in the aftermath of that moment, under the auspices of Herodes’ students. The inclusion of Rome in the Sophists does not so much recognize its importance as diminish it by shifting it to the periphery of an Athenscentered map. If anything, Rome becomes the object of a cultural incursion from Athens that is the reverse analogue of the conquest and colonization that were the dominant motif of Roman Greece’s political history. Rome does not just figure as a location to which Sophists migrate, however. Rome also comes to them, in the shape of its rulers.46 Philostratus has a pardonable weakness for anecdotes in which his Sophists are shown interacting with their rulers. As with Julia Domna in the Apollonius, one can obviously garner prestige for the activity one is promoting if one claims that it is of interest to royalty. All the ruling emperors of the Antonine dynasty and most of the Severans are mentioned at least briefly, and the roles they play are not roles emperors were used to playing in historical narratives. The chief function of emperors in the Sophists is to react to sophistic performances, either directly as an audience or indirectly through extending recognition of the sophist’s excellence. In some instances this involves listening to actual declamations, as Marcus does with Aelius Aristides in Smyrna (582–3), but more often it involves instances where a sophist speaks in propria persona before the emperor, employing for other means the skills he has acquired and used as a sophist. In other instances, Philostratus gives involved accounts of how a sophist came to acquire a particular honor from the emperor. In all of these instances the emperor is not himself the center of attention, but is playing a supporting role according to a script for a good sophistic audience. What this involves in the first instance is being able to appreciate and react to a good rhetorical performance. Marcus Aurelius follows the script perfectly when he is moved to tears by Aristides’ speech on behalf of earthquake-stricken Smyrna, but all the credit for the subsequent decision 46

For an overview of appearances and actions of Roman emperors in the Sophists, see Anderson 1986, 51–3; Swain 1996, 397–9. Eshleman 2012, 84–6 discusses the implications of imperial patronage for Philostratus’ portrait of the sophists as an autonomous intellectual community. König 2009a, 90 observes that some of Philostratus’ sophists (notably Polemo and Herodes) are described in ways that implicitly compare them to emperors, as well as to Homeric heroes.

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goes to the orator himself. Marcus has merely done what would have been expected of the recipient of such a performance.47 Emperors, at least in the earlier stages of the Sophists, cannot display notable wickedness any more than notable virtue. Domitian’s vine-edict is brought up in the Sophists as in the Apollonius; however, in this case it is not seen as a symptom of tyranny, but as a misguided though apparently sincere measure for public order.48 The emperor turns out to be entirely susceptible to Scopelian’s remonstrances and not only reverses the edict but rewards the orator richly. The script does not always require a positive reception. Antoninus Pius has a contretemps with Alexander Clay-Plato, but in doing so he is not rejecting the sophistic ethos, but rather properly playing the role of a discerning audience at a bad sophistic performance (570–1). Alexander first fails to hold his imperial listener’s attention, and when Pius commits the venial sin of appearing inattentive, the sophist makes the much more serious error of stepping out of character to demand his attention in peremptory terms. Pius’ response is to berate Alexander for his overly cultivated, perhaps effeminate, personal appearance. In doing so, however, the emperor is only repeating what we are explicitly told was a commonly circulating criticism of that particular sophist. Pius is following the script for a sophistic audience attuned to gossip about the stars’ offstage lives. Emperors also have a correct role to perform in distributing honors, especially the Athenian and Roman chairs of rhetoric and imperial administrative posts with a literary flavor. Such positions were important milestones 47

48

Thus while the Sophists narrator claims that Aristides himself would most rightly be called the oikistēs of Smyrna, in Aristides’ independently preserved speech (Or. 19.4) he calls on Marcus and Commodus to eclipse Theseus and Lysimachus by becoming the new oikistai. One assumes that Philostratus and at least part of his imagined audience would have known the parallel. Eventually and in another context (VS 583), the Sophists narrator does admit that Marcus would have re-founded Smyrna anyway. The narrator’s confusion is the author’s way of drawing attention to the grandiosity of his claims. VS 520. The Sophists narrator seems to find Domitian a rather awkward figure within his overall irenic picture of emperor–sophist relations. In the vine-edict episode, he is not in fact named but simply referred to as the basileus. Similarly, when Dio Chrysostom‘s exile is discussed (488), the narrator maintains that Dio was not exiled at all, but prudently decided to go on faraway travels from fear of vaguely characterized “tyrannies” in Rome (τῶν κατὰ τἠν πόλιν τυραννίδων). Domitian is mentioned by name in the basically neutral context of Dio’s averting a potential military riot after his assassination (488). This is in evident contrast with the Apollonius. One might in fact have expected the vine-edict to come off more favorably in the abstemious Pythagorean context of the Apollonius than in the Sophists, and it is notable that in the Apollonius political characterization (Domitian as tyrant who can do no right) has trumped ethical content. Apollonius does in the case of the vine-edict note his own lack of a personal stake in the issue (6.42). If, furthermore, one accepts that the emperor who assists Nicetes at VS 512 is Nero rather than Nerva (there is manuscript support for both, see Civiletti 2002, 433, but Nero seems the more probable), then that emperor also is portrayed in a way much at odds with his characterization in the Apollonius.

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in a sophist’s career, and as such they in reality served as a mechanism of imperial control by establishing within the sophistic community a pecking order that was to a large extent dictated by emperors and courtiers who could promote favorites and sideline those who displeased them.49 Philostratus does not portray it that way, however. In his world, imperial honors are the recognition of objectively existing merit, and do not themselves make or break the career of a sophist. Dionysius of Miletus earns a procuratorship from Hadrian, but this is cited only as one of a mass of honors he acquired from cities of the empire, in the context of establishing his universally positive reputation (524). The same emperor’s admiration for Marcus of Byzantium is cited as an afterthought to a long anecdote of that sophist’s dealings with Megara, and we are told only in passing that “of the emperors of the past age, [Hadrian] was the readiest to reward merit” (530). Commodus is actually made to apologize to Hadrian of Tyre for failing to appoint him sooner to a secretarial post. The sophist receives the honor as he is dying, when it can no longer be a meaningful instrument of power, but only a fitting resolution to a career that he made through his own excellence.50 Some of the more significant sophists, notably Polemo and Herodes, have more extensive relationships with their rulers, which include political and judicial activities that do not always involve sophistic rhetoric per se and are often contentious. Notable examples include Polemo’s being accused of appropriating the million sesterces Hadrian had destined for the citizens of Smyrna (533), and Herodes’ extended quarrel with the brothers Quintilii and its eventual resolution before Marcus Aurelius (559–63). In many of these instances, the sophists are not shown in an especially flattering light. As far as one can make out, Polemo really did steal the money, and while Philostratus is willing to excuse Herodes’ questionable political activities in Athens, the sophist’s unexpected emotional breakdown while speaking before the emperor is quite another matter. Questionable as their activities may be, however, the sophists remain firmly the focus of the action, and all the interest of the story is generated by their larger-than-life performances. The emperors have little to do but act as straight man and protect the sophist from the possible consequences of these unfortunate side-incidents in their basically brilliant careers. Hadrian simply refuses to listen to complaints from the Smyrnaeans, and Philostratus explicitly notes that while this 49 50

On sophists and imperial honors, see Bowersock 1969, 43–58. On Philostratus’ portrayal, see Flinterman 1995, 41–4. VS 590. Philostratus in fact tells us that Hadrian had attained such high honors that he was suspected of using magic. Note that even in this instance the emperor is in a passive role, and nobody seems to ask whether any peculiarity of Commodus’ tastes might be the cause of Hadrian’s advancement.

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might be seen as an exercise of the well-known imperial virtue of clemency, that clemency was only made possible by Polemo’s inherent excellence. Similarly, after Herodes storms out of Marcus’ courtroom, the emperor stays on script even when the sophist does not, and Marcus eventually finds for Herodes in absentia and reconciles with him personally. Marcus is congratulated for his “philosophical conduct” (φιλοσοφηθέντων) in this matter, but this still only amounts to reacting correctly to the phenomenon that was the world’s greatest sophist.51 For the first three-quarters of the Sophists, at any rate, the rulers of the known world are made into remarkably passive creatures who have little opportunity to display individual virtue, and even less to affect events. In one respect, it is not so surprising. Philostratus is writing lives of sophists, not of emperors, and he will naturally want to stress their activity and agency. If emperors are to be included at all, it will inevitably be in a supporting role. However, there are certainly things Philostratus could have done to either exclude emperors altogether, or to give them a more active role. Hadrian’s interaction with the Greek intellectual world, through travel, largesse, patronage and even professional rivalry, is a fascinating story, one that might have allowed Philostratus to explore the possibilities of a sophist-emperor. Cassius Dio and the Historia Augusta both have much to say in this respect, but for Philostratus, Hadrian becomes a benevolent but bland figure without any individual intellectual tastes, whose chief role is to pour oil on waters that have been troubled by such outrageous characters as Polemo.52 More attention might also have been given to Rome’s overall effects on the Greek cultural scene as a whole, whether in the form of conquest and devastation in the second and first centuries bc or the apparent revival of the first and second ad. It is notable that the Hadrianic Panhellenion receives scarcely a mention in the Sophists.53 This is a narrative in which sophists are causes and not effects. They exist in the same time frame as Roman emperors, and they transform the world in which those emperors live, ostensibly without themselves being transformed. This kind of narrative is not usual for imperial Roman considerations of the recent past. It denies both the conception of the static present that had been current under the Antonines and the various models of dynastic change and continuity that had been put forward by their successors. Ostensibly, the world of the sophists is one that has emperors, but 51 52 53

VS 561. One might also note that given its context in an avowedly sophistic work, to call Marcus’ behavior “philosophical” must be seen as a somewhat backhanded accolade. See Dio 69.3–4 and HA Hadr. 15–16. The league itself is not mentioned at all; there are two references to sophists serving as archon at the athletic festival associated with it (Herodes at VS 549 and Rufus of Perinthus at 597).

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no dynasties, in the sense that the rises and falls of emperors do not operate as an explicit framework for the structuring of events. The last portion of this chapter will look at the Sophists again alongside the Apollonius, and consider the implications, and indeed the viability, of non-dynastic history in a world that was indisputably ruled by the Severans.

A Philostratean diptych Both the Apollonius and Sophists, then, are set in worlds that map recognizably on to the world in which the audience lives, but whose structuring principles of space and time work differently. One should ask briefly how similar these worlds are to one another, and by extension to what extent the two works can be seen as part of a single literary project. I am proposing here that while the two works share important features as narratives of the Roman past, and neither work explicitly defines its time period in dynastic terms, they still show important differences that, for Philostratus’ audience, would have seemed like reflections of changes in ruling houses. Philostratus’ Apollonius moves through a world that is markedly that of the Julio-Claudians and Flavians. The principal political events are the tyrannical persecutions of Nero and Domitian and the civil wars of 68–70.54 Apollonius, and the Hellenic world that he represents, is still separate from the Roman power structure and functions in opposition to its specific representatives, although not to the overall existence of the empire. For readers of the Severan era, Nero and Domitian were the safest resource for someone who wanted to portray a Roman emperor negatively without treading on politically sensitive ground. The idea of Domitian especially as tyrant replaced by an enlightened ruler was still a founding myth for the current dynasty and a politically unproblematic way of introducing discourses of tyranny whose contemporary resonance would have varied from reader to reader depending on one’s experiences under Commodus and other emperors of disputed reputation. Philostratus is taking a familiar political narrative and re-envisioning it from the viewpoint of someone who would generally have been seen as at best a bit player. The end of Book 8, in which Apollonius has a few generic adventures before declining Nerva’s request for counsel and quietly leaving the scene, is a deliberately neat reminder that, however autonomous Apollonius may seem from Roman power, his actions still take place in a particular historical setting, 54

Thus at VA 5.32.2 Vespasian gives a potted history of the Julio-Claudian dynasty as an explanation of his present political dilemma.

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and must cease when the scene changes.55 Apollonius was able to rebuke a tyrant, and to give a good emperor counsel in time of crisis, but it was only tyranny and crisis that gave him the opportunity to project himself into the political sphere, and Philostratus seems unwilling to imagine a place for him in the more placid and culturally integrated world of the second century. It is precisely with this scene change that the heroes of the Sophists come into their own, and the world they live in is distinctly coded as Antonine. The earliest stages of the work do take place under Nero and the Flavians, but by the time Polemo and Herodes bring the movement into its own, they are dealing with Trajan and his successors.56 Correspondingly, they live in a world of political harmony and stability in which Greek-speakers are well integrated into the power structure. Philostratus will make a point of emphasizing which of his sophists had official posts and consular families. On the other hand, when it comes to participation in actual politics at the highest level, the sophists are significantly absent. Whereas the Apollonius took care to insert its hero into political intrigues and made the climax of the whole work a showdown with a tyrant emperor, the Sophists never tries to involve its heroes in the military campaigning of Trajan and Marcus, or in the episodes of messy succession politics surrounding the deaths of Trajan and Hadrian.57 Certainly it is difficult to imagine that a sophist’s talents would have been of much use in either case. Even such a politically prominent character as Herodes Atticus is restricted to feuding with provincial governors and to writing a one-word letter of rebuke to the rebel Avidius Cassius. In short, Philostratus is more anxious in his later work to preserve the separation between the Greek cultural sphere and that of high-level Roman politics. To the extent that the line is crossed, it is by emperors who turn themselves into sophistic audiences. The political repercussions of these incidents typically consist of benevolent interventions by the central government in the sphere of civic politics. Because of the sophist, the incidents can be managed in a way that focuses all the credit and gratitude not on an all-powerful emperor but on a prominent citizen, and thus preserves the appearance of city autonomy. This ruling style, in which emperors respect cultural boundaries and allow their subjects to display their excellence to the fullest extent possible, corresponds nicely with the idealized image of

55 56 57

See p. 194 above for other views of this passage. Domitian is in effect assimilated to an Antonine paradigm in the episode of the vine-edict, for which see n. 48 above. Flinterman 1995, 227 in fact cites the apparent lack of interest shown by the heroes of the Sophists as an argument against an overtly political reading of the Apollonius.

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the Antonine monarchy seen in Cassius Dio’s portrait of Marcus’ reign. In Dio’s case, he was engaging with a particularly senatorial discourse going back to Tacitus about the possibilities for aristocratic excellence in a monarchical state.58 Philostratus has a different sort of excellence in mind, but for him also it is a defining characteristic of a good monarch that he allows it to flourish. For both men, the ideal point of that flourishing was right around the time of their birth, in the 160s and a little earlier. Dio thinks of that straightforwardly as the age of Antoninus and Marcus. Philostratus explicitly portrays it as the age of Polemo and Herodes. His audience certainly was not unaware that the two conceptions coincided, and that they in fact shared many crucial features. An obvious question then follows: the audience will also have opinions about whether the age of Antoninus and Marcus is still continuing in their own time. Perhaps they will agree with Cassius Dio that it is definitively over; perhaps they will accept to some degree those strands of imperial propaganda that proclaim its continued existence. Either way, they will ask how these dynamics of change and continuity operate in Philostratus’ world. Fortunately, they have an answer. The Sophists continues its story well on into the reigns of Commodus, Severus and the later members of the Severan dynasty. Several of the later sophists are said to still be alive and operating as of the work’s dramatic date in the 230s, and Philostratus claims to be breaking off where he does only because he cannot give a properly disinterested account of living sophists with whom he has professional relationships.59 Thus Philostratus has ample opportunity to make his choice between a “change” or “continuity” model of the years after Marcus. On the explicit level, his answer is clearly in favor of the latter. The Sophists takes scarcely any cognizance of the changed character of politics after 180. The civil wars of 193–7 and 217–18, and the coups of 211 and 222 merit at most one or two short notices each. This cannot be because they actually had no effect on the sophistic world. Many sophists relied heavily on court patronage, and even those who operated on the local stage only would still have been affected by the promotions and demotions of cities based on which side a community took in a civil war and what associations it had with the victor. Sophists whose place at court depended on Geta, or who came from cities such as Antioch or Nicaea, would have shared in the feeling that we see so vividly in Dio’s senators, who have everything at stake in a game whose outcome they can do little or nothing to influence. 58

See on this point Kemezis 2012.

59

See Appendix §2 for questions of dating.

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On the explicit level, Philostratus conveys little trace of such feelings.60 Even in the few anecdotes that mention political upheavals, the sophist concerned is generally in an active role and attracts admiration, rather than being a passive object of pity. Thus we only hear about the civil wars of 193–7 in the context of the sophist Hippodromus of Thessaly. He was acting as a judge at the Amphictyonic Games at some point during the Severans’ protracted siege of Byzantium, and there appeared a tragic actor from that city who was at the peak of his powers and giving splendid performances everywhere, but was never awarded the prize because nobody wanted to appear to support a rebel city.61 On this occasion, however, Hippodromus publicly insists that the prize should go to the Byzantine. His opponents appeal to Rome, where Severus confirms Hippodromus’ decision. In this instance, Hippodromus’ apparent gesture of defiance turns into a correctly executed and received sophistic performance. The emperor accepts Hippodromus in the role of incorruptible arbiter of autonomous Greek culture, and remains on script.62 In this incident the Antonine rules appear still to be in effect, and a sufficiently confident sophist is able to give a daring performance that keeps the war from affecting a key cultural ritual of the Greek world. So far so good. On the explicit level this will continue to be the case right up to the end. No sophist will be actively victimized by a tyrannical emperor, nor is any indication given that the cultural-economic machinery sustaining the sophistic milieu is malfunctioning or slowing down. There are worrying signs, however. In particular, the interactions between sophists and emperors in the later era do not run as smoothly as they did before, and in many instances this seems to result from failure of both ruler and sophist to follow the proper script. One such incident is that of Heraclides of Lycia, who in declaiming before Severus “failed in his declamation (σχεδίου λόγου ἐκπεσεῖν) from fear of the court and the bodyguards” (614). The incident itself is not as disturbing as the excuse the narrator gives 60

61

62

To Anderson 1989, 189 he “seems blissfully oblivious.” Thus Anderson reads Philostratus’ anecdotes of Severus, Caracalla and Elagabalus at face value, as slips by individual sophists, rather than as they will be read in this section. VS 616. See Flinterman 1995, 46–7 for the incident in the context of imperial influence on Greek cultural competitions. It is curious that the actor, Clemens, shares his name with a senator named in Dio 75.[74].9 (Xiph.), who is also in danger for siding with Niger, and who also escapes the worst consequences of that punishment due to a daring act of honesty, in his case giving a speech in his own defense. The name Clemens itself is significant, since both incidents could also be portrayed as conspicuous instances of the imperial virtue of clementia. Similarly, Severus will be a receptive audience for Hermocrates (VS 611), and will show him admiration equal to that shown his great-grandfather Polemo, who had of course spoken before Severus’ adopted great-grandfather Hadrian.

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for it. He notes that sophists in general, because they are used to tame audiences of young students, tend to get nervous when performing for high stakes, and can get thrown off by the slightest unfavorable response from the audience: for boldness of spirit, one should look to lawyers. This observation has sometimes been taken at face value by modern scholars, and this is not so surprising. The logic of it is commonsensical, and it probably matched stereotypes of the performing sophist held by many of Philostratus’ readers.63 However, it also represents a flagrant denial of the sophistic ethos as Philostratus has defined it so far. Scopelian, Polemo, Favorinus and their kind were defined by their performative audacity, their loud assertions of authority.64 Presumably when Polemo told the Athenians he was about to test their reputation for discernment (535), or when Hadrian of Tyre asserted that “again letters have come from Phoenicia” (587), at least a few listeners gave them the kind of funny looks that in Heraclides’ case are supposed to be so disconcerting. When Polemo threw the proconsul and future emperor Antoninus out of his house in the middle of the night (534), there were presumably soldiers present, but the sophist remained unfazed. Herodes (561) and Alexander Clay-Plato (570–1) did both fail in performances before the emperor, but this can be attributed to personal tragedy in the first case and limited individual competence in the second, and on both occasions the sophist showed anger rather than fear. Heraclides does not fail because he is an incompetent sophist; he fails because sophists as a class have competence in only a few very specific cultural activities and cannot have meaningful effect outside of their own restricted sphere. This assertion is an utter contradiction of the thesis of Philostratus’ work thus far. One cannot help but ask what has brought this on. Although the narrator maintains his practice of attributing sophistic phenomena to sophistic causes, without reference to changing political history, dynastic change does seem to be creeping in. It seems likely that the change of audience that causes Heraclides’ problem is not that from students to emperors, but rather from Antonine emperors to Severan ones. This is confirmed by an afterthought that Philostratus mentions. Heraclides, we are told, also feared the resentment of a fellow-sophist, Antipater of Hierapolis. Although it is not made explicit in this context, Antipater’s resentment was to be feared 63

64

Thus Anderson 1986, 47: “Philostratus casually reveals how little pressure sophists had now come to expect.” Similarly Swain 1996, 398. The episode is treated at length by Korenjak 2000, 108–11. While his reading of the episode is considerably more literal than mine, he establishes the essential point that sophistic performances are two-way affairs in which the audience as well as the performer had a script (in the broad sense) to follow. For examples of this behavior, see especially Sidebottom 2009, 75–82.

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because he was in a position of particular favor at Severus’ court, and might presumably use that leverage against a rival.65 This adds a new dimension to sophistic rivalries, one that threatens the autonomy of the sophistic cultural sphere. Favorinus’ feud with Polemo was bitter enough to divide the Senate, and the cities of Asia, but in Philostratus’ telling neither man tried to enlist Hadrian against the other. Herodes had all sorts of enemies who tried to get him in trouble with Marcus, but none of them is characterized as a sophist.66 Under the Severans, the Antonine demarcation of political and cultural spheres appears to be breaking down, in this case partly on the initiative of sophists themselves. Under Caracalla, this would seem if anything to worsen. By the time we read the Heraclides anecdote, we already know that Antipater will eventually fall foul of his imperial patrons. He served as tutor for both of Severus’ children, which was an enviable position right up to the point in 211 when one of his pupils so far forgot his education as to murder the other.67 As Philostratus tells the story, Antipater was at this point living in his home city in Phrygia, and he on his own volition sent Caracalla two poems rebuking his conduct, and then committed suicide. Once again, on the surface autonomy is preserved, and the sophist is not a passive victim. Antipater is portrayed as choosing the course that would result in his death, and it is implied, plausibly or otherwise, that he could have kept his mouth shut and lived. But the anecdote is told in a confused order that makes causality difficult to determine.68 It is tempting to infer that Antipater was more associated with Geta than with Caracalla, thus leaving him fatally compromised. But even if one does believe the narrator, that his death was basically voluntary, the role of martyr is a new one for sophists, and not altogether fitting. Caracalla will have another hostile encounter with a sophist, namely Philiscus the Thessalian (623). Philiscus’ home town petitioned the emperor to force the sophist to perform public duties there, and he in 65

66 67 68

For Antipater, see p. 60 above, and specifically VS 607, where among other things he is said to have been made governor of Bithynia, but to have been dismissed for being “too ready to use the sword.” He is also shown at VS 610–11 using his influence with Severus to force the sophist Hermocrates to marry his unattractive daughter. Philostratus names Antipater as one of his own teachers, and Billault 2000, 19–20 takes it that Philostratus relied on his patronage for his own advancement at court. See VS 555 (Herodes vs. his senator brother-in-law Braudas) and 559 (Herodes vs. the brothers Quintilii and several Athenian politicians). VS 607. The passage comes before the Heraclides anecdote because it is related in the life of Antipater, which comes before that of Heraclides. The entire anecdote about the imperial tutorship and the subsequent rebuke to Caracalla is told not for its own sake, but at the very end of the entry, as an explanation of Antipater’s suicide, which has been mentioned briefly in a death notice.

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turn had gone to Rome to gain an exemption from those duties. At first all goes well, and Philiscus can get Julia Domna’s influence on his side and get appointed to the chair of rhetoric at Athens. When the suit against him finally comes up, however, we are told that Caracalla harbored resentment against Philiscus for having “gained an advantage on him” (ὡς περιδραμόντι). The sophist’s performance at the trial is a disaster. At first, this seems to be a repeat of Alexander Clay-Plato’s performance before an earlier emperor Antoninus; Philiscus is confronted with apparently well merited rebukes for effeminacy and general incompetence. But Caracalla then departs from the script in an alarming way, by declaring that “neither you [Philiscus] nor any other teacher is exempt, for I would not for the sake of your wretched little speeches (μικρὰ καὶ δύστηνα λογάρια) deprive the cities of men who should be performing services.”69 Many things have gone badly wrong here. Instead of entering into an audience–performer relationship with a sophist, Caracalla has somehow decided to consider him as an antagonist, literally as a competitor in a race. He has then escalated the conflict from criticism of an individual incompetent sophist to criticism of the entire sophistic enterprise and its utility for the cities of the empire. This is not the first time the delicate issue of exemptions has come up in the Sophists, but on previous occasions the inherent conflict of interest between sophist and community has been resolved either in favor of the sophist or without an overt rebuke.70 Of course in real life Caracalla was very different from Antoninus Pius or Hadrian. We can detect in this anecdote the rude excitability and illconsidered assertion of opinion for which Caracalla was otherwise known (e.g. Dio 78.[77].11.4–5 [EV]). Equally, not all of Caracalla’s encounters with sophists will be hostile. He will prove a quite congenial audience for a remarkable display of spontaneous brilliance by Heliodorus, of which Philostratus claims to be an eyewitness, although even in that instance the emperor’s reaction is rather overdone, such that it takes his audience a moment to realize that he is serious (626). Even when a script is correctly followed, there can be mistakes of delivery and intonation. One can perhaps claim that the fault lies with Caracalla’s character rather than any greater Severan–Antonine distinction, but this is simply to defer the question. Philostratus would surely have agreed that Marcus was a more virtuous 69 70

For similarities between this and the Alexander Clay-Plato anecdote, see Bowie 1982, 33. Most notably with Favorinus at VS 490. See also 589 (Hadrian of Tyre receiving ateleia along with many other rewards from the emperors); 601 (Heraclides punished with loss of ateleia); 611 (Hermocrates the hereditary possessor of ateleiai from his great-grandfather Polemo).

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ruler than Caracalla, but that does not mean that Marcus’ virtue was responsible for the flourishing of the Second Sophistic in his reign. On the contrary, every effort had been made to place the credit on the side of the sophists themselves, and to portray them as a self-existing phenomenon that did not require the emperor to do anything but be a good audience, something that even Domitian had no problem doing. If under Caracalla the personal characteristics of the emperor are suddenly crucial to the success of sophistic performance, that shows that the rules have changed in ways that are bigger than Caracalla’s eccentricities. This would seem to be confirmed by an encounter between the Italian sophist Aelian and Philostratus of Lemnos. The former claims to have written a superb invective against a recently dead emperor, apparently Elagabalus; the Lemnian puts him in his place by noting that the truly praiseworthy thing would have been to have done so while the tyrant was still alive.71 The rebuke is perhaps a just one, but still worrying from a sophistic point of view. Philostratean sophists rely for their effectiveness on the co-operation of their entire audience, emperors included, in their mimetic performances.72 Their art flourished in an Antonine ethos of carefully scripted cultural rituals where emperor and subject work together to simultaneously affirm and mitigate the power differential between them. When sophists do stand up to emperors, as with Polemo and the future Antoninus Pius, the sophists are claiming primacy on their own territory (quite literally, in Polemo’s case) rather than judging the emperor’s performance on his, and the emperors’ gracious reactions are a continuation of the sophistic script. Standing up to a tyrant is a one-way affair. One has to assert one’s moral status in the face of an audience that wants to negate it. That simply is not the sort of thing sophists do.73 It is, however, exactly the sort of thing Apollonius of Tyana does, and by the end of the Sophists, one has a new perspective on that text’s relationship with its author’s earlier work. The Apollonius and the Sophists can be read as two quite different depictions of how Greek cultural activity might have a transformative effect in a Roman context. The former relies on a distinctly Flavian narrative of crisis. It is the tyrannies of Nero and Domitian that unify the emperor’s Roman and Greek subjects as his victims, and allow Apollonius to take a 71 72 73

VS 625. Whitmarsh 2007, 35 sees the emperor in question as Caracalla rather than Elagabalus, but the explicit charge of gender transgression has suggested the latter to most readers. For a full treatment, see Korenjak 2000. Thus when Antiphon is executed by the tyrant Dionysius for an ill-chosen piece of sarcasm (VS 499–500), Philostratus places the blame on the sophist, albeit for specific reasons that do not really apply in a Severan context. See on this point Flinterman 1995, 39–40.

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critical role in rescuing them. In its portrait of the author-narrator and his work, the Apollonius also introduces a certain ambivalence about how one should treat officially disseminated versions of events and counter-intuitive new versions of the past. In the latter case, the sophists flourish in a nostalgically idealized Antonine world of harmoniously integrated elites and emperors who respect all forms of cultural excellence, and the work lacks the Apollonius’ overtly complex attitude toward historical truth and credibility. The narrator of the Sophists has done a certain amount of research, but he seldom applies much critical skepticism to what he has heard. Of the two versions, one, the Sophists, explicitly claims to represent the world that its readers still live in. However, it also does a certain amount of work to undermine that very claim, and even to suggest that perhaps the earlier model is the better one. It would be a mistake to read Philostratus’ relocated history as a straightforward argument that Greek cultural figures such as himself represented the most positive element of continuity in the changing empire. That is one of the possible narratives he offers his readers, but by no means the only one. It is perhaps the most Severan aspect of Philostratus that not only does he offer startling new narrative re-interpretations of his culture and its past, he in fact offers multiple versions that are not entirely compatible, and leaves his readers with no easy way to locate themselves within a greatly expanded matrix of possible pasts and presents.

chapter 6

Herodian: a dysfunctional Rome

Fifteen or twenty years after Dio’s history and Philostratus’ Sophists were completed, the political scene was considerably more disordered, and Herodian was describing it in a very different kind of history. We have seen how the two earlier authors deliberately violated second-century literary canons and made remarkable formal innovations in an effort to create new kinds of grand narratives to describe their life experiences under the new dynasty. Herodian’s eight-book work, by contrast, is remarkably conservative in form. It is a simple linear narrative of political events, broken only by speeches that follow the familiar conventions of ancient historiography. His sense of grand narrative is so limited as to remind one of the static Antonine paradigm, and his narrative personality is self-effacing and detached. He in fact resembles Lucian’s ideal historian quite closely on many points.1 However, he is describing events very different from what Lucian envisioned, to readers who know how different their world is from that of a century before. Rather than creating new literary forms to make a changed world coherent, Herodian is using the tools of a peaceful and orderly age to describe the upheavals of the years after 180. This produces an impressionistic, heavily fictionalized kind of history whose orderly form is constantly at odds with its chaotic content. The resulting dissonance gives full expression to an almost nihilistic vision of how Rome has ceased to function as a coherent world-empire. In this sense, however different Herodian is from his Severan predecessors, he represents the fullest literary development of Severan decline-and-crisis historiography.2 1

2

Throughout this discussion, as in my introduction, I will be using Lucian’s How to Write History as a sketch of what I take to be the conventional wisdom of Lucian’s time regarding the genre of historiography. As ever with Lucian, one should not assume that the implied author or audience fully endorse the narrator’s point of view, and the following pages will use “Lucian” only as a term of convenience for the narrator of that treatise. For the relationship of the How to Write History to the Lucianic corpus more generally, see Kemezis 2010, 303–5, with references. In using the terms “decline” and “crisis,” I do not mean to endorse the thesis of Alföldy 1971b that Herodian is aware of and responding to the symptoms of what modern scholars would call the “ThirdCentury Crisis.” Many of Alföldy’s arguments relative to Herodian have been cogently refuted by

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Modern critics have not been kind to Herodian, and have sometimes characterized his work as a historical novel rather than a history.3 This description is formally inaccurate, since Herodian clearly sees himself as working in the same genre as Thucydides or Polybius, but it expresses an important feature of his narrative. He is far more straightforward a storyteller than either Dio or Philostratus. He works in dramatic scenes alternating with passages of simple narrative with little room in between for analysis, character-sketching, digression or self-reference. Where Dio and Philostratus build up complex personalities for themselves, Herodian is systematically reticent, and in fact we know scarcely anything about his life or career.4 In contrast to the grand schemes of Philostratus and Dio for re-imagining chronology and geography, Herodian affects to be content with traditional prescriptions regarding limited scope and unity of action. Thus his work appears much simpler than those of his predecessors, and for that reason has been wrongly discounted as a superficial or perhaps popularizing version of Dio.5 In such a reading, the simplicity of his narrative reflects the mediocrity of his literary gifts. I propose instead to see Herodian’s narrative style as a literary tactic.6 In particular, his straightforward, traditionalist approach evokes the idealized Antonine world. As we shall see, his preface strives to create in readers a sense of comfort and familiarity even while reminding them of the tumultuous events that he will be describing. Herodian creates a tension between

3

4 5

6

Sidebottom 1998, 2793–803. Herodian clearly does see the political state of the empire as in a state of distress that one might well call a crisis, but that crisis does not correspond as fully as Alföldy proposes to the one diagnosed or refuted by modern scholars. The characterization of Herodian’s work as “eine Art historischen Romans” comes from Alföldy 1971b, 431, but can be found in much other work. See e.g. Hohl 1954; Reardon 1971, 156. Hidber 2006, 65–70 gives a cogent critique of this position, noting that the characterization stems more from modern disappointment at Herodian’s qualities as a historical source than from any developed model of how the genres of history and novel functioned in antiquity. Sidebottom 1998, 2829–30 suggests more nuanced links to the modern genre of the historical novel. As will be evident, I do not dispute critics’ assertion that Herodian is by modern standards less factually accurate than Dio. For defenses on this ground, generally muted, see Whittaker 1969, xlvi–lix; Bowersock 1975; Piper 1976. See Appendix §3 for the state of biographical knowledge on Herodian. See Alföldy 1971b, 431–2; Ameling 1997, 2491–2. While Herodian almost certainly read Dio and used him as a source of facts, I do not assume in this chapter that the content of Herodian’s text is anywhere primarily determined either by the presence or absence of given facts in Dio, or by polemic or other intertextual relationship with Dio. It is also unlikely, pace Alföldy 1971a, 230 and Marincola 1997, 239, that Herodian saw himself as continuing the work of Chryseros (FGH 96), the freedman of Marcus Aurelius. For arguments against this point, based on the likelihood that Chryseros’ work had little or no formal narrative content, see Hidber 2006, 155 and Kemezis 2010, 314. In this sense, the Antonine world for Herodian is analogous to how the Republican period and its literary practices work for Tacitus, as explored by Ginsburg 1981. For other pertinent ironic readings of the Annals, see Henderson 1989; O’Gorman 2000, with important methodological considerations at 10–22.

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form and content around which further oppositions line up: Antonine against Severan; order against chaos; unity against fragmentation; the familiar against the alien. In his preface, he sets readers up with the expectation of a simple and pleasant telling of a tale that they already in large part know. The rest of his history works consciously to defeat this expectation. His characters are familiar emperors, and the sequence of events is as it ought to be, but the portrayal of those events is bizarre. Nothing happens in the way one would logically suppose, and characters are constantly making wrong decisions based on faulty reasoning. They do this not because they are stupid or ignorant, but because they rely on assumptions and rational expectations carried over from the Antonine age that are now defunct. The result is a plot that can be at times downright farcical, and conveys a very pessimistic view of the world Herodian describes, though, as we shall see, the narrator of the history and his audience retain a privileged position within that dysfunctional world. This chapter will begin by examining the “familiar” aspects of Herodian, the formal aspects of his work that are reminiscent of Lucian and Antonine historians. These are especially notable in his preface and his brief description of the reign of Marcus Aurelius. With this beginning Herodian sets up for his readers the expectation of an Antonine-style narrative. The rest of the chapter deals with how Herodian does and does not fulfill that expectation, first in terms of the overall shape of his narrative and the kind of content he inserts into the traditional form, and then of the specific topics of cultural geography and rhetoric. Both of these last are areas that rely heavily on people’s preconceptions. We think we know what sort of people live in various sorts of places; rhetorical reasoning is based on shared axioms and topoi about how the world works. In Herodian’s world, neither of these forms of knowledge functions properly. The characters themselves are unable to understand what is happening to them or to make rational decisions about the future. The problem is that they are still trying to use the logic and expectations of an earlier age. Nonetheless, the form of Herodian’s work marks it as characteristic of that earlier age, and he suggests to his readers that he and they are at once living in and profoundly alienated from the tumultuous new world in which his characters live. Both internally and externally, characters and readers alike are confronted with the chaos that results when old Antonine bottles spill the new wine with which Herodian has deliberately filled them.

Herodian, Marcus and Antonine history In earlier chapters, we have seen how both Dio’s and Philostratus’ selfpresentation hinged on extravagant rhetorical claims. It was essential for

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both writers that their audience know just how different these works were from traditionalist historiography and the worldview associated with it. Philostratus especially places his most startling rhetorical claims early on in the Apollonius and Sophists. Herodian’s technique in his preface is rather one of disarming modesty, and leads his readers to suppose that they will be getting a history in the conservative Antonine mode.7 Lucian had advised historians to avoid explicitly appealing for the audience’s goodwill, a practice he finds more appropriate for orators, and instead to “make listeners attentive and eager to learn”; to explain how the events described will be “great, or important, or relevant, or useful” (Hist. 53) and to explain briefly what the main events and their causes were. Herodian meets many, although not all, of these requirements. His preface omits any personal appeal on behalf of the author, whose name is not in fact mentioned. He does not summarize his content, except to state that he will describe things that are within the recent memory of his readers, which he later implies means events after the reign of Marcus. After a considerable explanation of his commitment to truth and of the importance of his subject, which I will consider presently, Herodian supplies a sort of overall thesis, albeit one that his narrative will not wholly support. The thesis is that, of the various rulers he will describe, “those more advanced in age, because of their experience of affairs, governed themselves and their subjects more diligently (ἐπιμελέστερον . . . ἦρξαν), but those who were really youths lived careless lives (ῥᾳθυμότερον βιώσαντες) and did many unheard-of things (ἐκαινοτόμησαν)” (1.1.6). Herodian’s two basic claims – factual accuracy and important content – are entirely conventional for an ancient historian.8 The preface includes enough Thucydidean language to indicate proper deference to the canonical models, but not so much as to imply an ambitious full-scale imitation.9 It is reminiscent of Arrian’s Anabasis in its shortness, its omission of the author’s name, and its assumption that readers are already familiar with the story. There is much also that Lucian and Antonine readers generally would applaud. However, in his brevity, Herodian omits much conventional

7

8 9

Many points in what follows regarding Antonine historiography and Lucian especially are expanded on in Chapter 2 above and in Kemezis 2010. For different perspectives on Herodian’s links to the writing of the second century, see Marasco 1998, 2904–7; Zimmermann 1999e, 38–41. See Marincola 1997, 34–43 for the various conventional forms of stressing the greatness of one’s subject. The preface’s links to Thucydides have often been noted, most recently by Kühn-Chen 2002, 256–60, also with reference to Herodotus, and most thoroughly by Stein 1957, 76–90.

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material.10 He does not claim that his history relates glorious events, that he will give his readers ethically uplifting exempla, that reading his history will make them better statesmen, that his own abilities or viewpoint make him uniquely able to tell this story, that he is preserving the memory of the great and the infamy of the culpable or that there is any overall moral lesson to be gained from any of the events he relates. What he talks about instead is primarily pleasure, of which he identifies both positive and negative aspects. He starts with the familiar tactic of generalizing about what it is that “most historians” do, leading readers to presume that he will later specify his own contrary practices. Most historians, he says, are motivated by a desire to win glory and avoid anonymity, and therefore write about long-ago events, because the audience will not question their accuracy, leaving them free to concentrate on matters of style (1.1.1), which produces pleasure for listeners and, by implication, reputation for the author. Some, he adds, are also motivated by a desire to flatter, or to condemn, which causes them to portray some events as more important than they really are (1.1.2). One might expect Herodian then to follow the Thucydidean logic, and explain that he will subordinate all considerations of pleasure to truth. This is not exactly what he does, however. Herodian intends to provide pleasure, but in a different way, as he explains in one rather convoluted sentence: I, however, have painstakingly assembled my narrative, not from a story heard from others, without knowledge or witness, but from one that is subject to the recent recollection of the public, supposing that future audiences also would not find it unpleasant to have knowledge of events that were so great and so numerous in a short time. ἐγὼ δ’ ἱστορίαν οὐ παρ’ ἄλλων ἀποδεξάμενος ἄγνωστόν τε καὶ ἀμάρτυρον, ὑπὸ νεαρᾷ δὲ τῇ τῶν ἐντευξομένων μνήμῃ, μετὰ πάσης ἀκριβείας ἤθροισα ἐς συγγραφήν, οὐκ ἀτερπῆ τὴν γνῶσιν καὶ τοῖς ὕστερον ἔσεσθαι προσδοκήσας ἔργων μεγάλων τε καὶ πολλῶν ἐν ὀλίγῳ χρόνῳ γενομένων. (1.1.3)

He then goes on to specify the “great events” by asserting that no period since the time of Augustus contains so many changes of reign and so many

10

Sidebottom 1998, 2776–80 argues that Herodian in his preface implicitly claims a series of qualities, most notably paideia, to which he does not explicitly refer, but which will be critical for his evaluation of his times. See n. 116 below for discussion. Regarding the preface, I am unconvinced that Herodian’s narrative contravenes his own prescriptions in the ways claimed by Sidebottom (2778–9). It is rather that he does well and properly (as he would see it) all the things he accuses other historians of doing ineptly or excessively.

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violent and extraordinary events, both natural and human, as the sixty years since the death of Marcus (1.1.4). This is in fact a reversal of Thucydides’ arguments regarding pleasure and audience. Thucydides, and following him Lucian, had associated pleasure with contemporary audiences. In this view, pleasure is ephemeral, and bad historians neglect truth in order to produce superficially pleasing works that will win them instant praise. Truth, on the other hand, is eternal, and good historians labor to produce true accounts that will persist into remote posterity.11 For Herodian, conversely, accuracy is only really a concern when both the events and the audience are roughly contemporary with the historian. Pleasure, on the other hand, belongs just as much to future as to immediate audiences. In fact, since Herodian has earlier created an opposition between pleasure and accuracy, and has associated accuracy with contemporary audiences, his readers are led to associate pleasure exclusively with future audiences, even though Herodian’s logic does not compel this conclusion. Herodian is not so much talking about two mutually exclusive audiences as about two different approaches to a text. One can either read it as a record of one’s own times, to be checked for accuracy against one’s own experience, or one can read in a detached fashion, taking pleasure in stories that are not one’s own, and whose accuracy one is neither overly concerned with nor immediately able to verify. While the first option is available only to contemporary audiences, and the second most naturally applies to future ones, it is not impossible for contemporary readers also to take the second approach, and view their own time from a perspective of detachment. Herodian does not actually say that this is the right way to read his work, but there is much that would lead one to that conclusion. On the one hand, his presentation of the “accuracy” side of the opposition is highly attenuated. Herodian says nothing about what benefit the audience will derive from his true narrative, so that the question “Why should I read about things that I already know?” arises, simply because of Herodian’s notable failure to provide in advance any of the expected answers to it.12 Conversely, the “pleasure” side gets treated at length.13 11 12

13

See most famously Thuc. 1.22.4, picked up by Lucian at Hist. 42. For Lucian’s reading of Thucydides in this respect, see Kemezis 2010, 303–5. See Hidber 2006, 96–100 for a reading of this section as an aggressive endorsement of strictly contemporary history, in deliberate contrast to authors such as Cassius Dio and Asinius Quadratus who have narrated events from the distant past. Hidber 2006, 103–4 notes how unusual it is for an ancient historian that Herodian should emphasize pleasure so much with no corresponding reference to utility.

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Herodian probably also means readers to realize that in one respect he is still following Thucydidean precedent. Thucydides also posits two different modes of reception, one associated with immediate audiences and one with distant ones, and he makes clear that he views the “distant-audience” mode as superior; Herodian is doing the same, but has reversed the polarities of the “pleasure–accuracy” dichotomy. As will be argued in the rest of this chapter, one of Herodian’s main narrative techniques is to complicate the issue of the audience’s relation to events. Ancient literary theory certainly recognized that one can enjoy reading about experiences one would not enjoy living through, but historians seldom refer to the problem of how to make readers feel pleasure over their own disagreeable experiences even as they are still going on.14 This is the feat that Herodian intends to pull off, using the idea of choosing between two kinds of reader. On the one hand, as we will see, he constantly uses devices to distance his audience from the action and encourage them to read it as if it were happening in some other time and place. On the other hand, narrator and readers all still know that this is not in fact the case, that Herodian’s world really is the one they all live in. This awareness is what creates Herodian’s greatest literary effect. He can make his audience take pleasure in the unpleasant events they are living through, because he presents them in a polished literary form characteristic of the idealized Antonine age. Herodian heightens this effect by making the content of his story as chaotic and un-Antonine as possible while still narrating it with confident serenity. In Herodian’s scheme, the more dysfunctional real life is, the more valuable is his literary role in ordering it so as to give his audience pleasure. His narrative personality as presented in the preface contributes much to this effect. It is, as we shall see in the later part of this chapter, a remarkably self-effacing personality, much in the mold of Lucian’s detached but well-informed observers. This is signaled in the preface by the near absence of conventional authority-claims based on autopsy or experience of public affairs. The most Herodian will say is that “I personally took part in some of these events, being in the imperial and public service (ἐν βασιλικαῖς ἢ δημοσίαις ὑπηρεσίαις).”15 Too much has been made of this claim. It is not necessarily untrue, but it is extremely short and vague, would have been unverifiable to contemporaries and is not in any way followed up by the rest 14 15

This is not the same thing as taking pleasure in one’s past misfortunes at some later time when everything has been successfully resolved, as referred to e.g. by Cicero Ad Fam. 5.12.4 = SB 22. Hdn. 1.2.5. For full consideration of the line, see Appendix §3. Hidber 2006, 100 attributes Herodian’s vagueness to a wish to distance himself from contemporaries, including Dio and Asinius Quadratus, whose closeness to certain emperors opens them to a charge of bias.

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of the text. Its very perfunctoriness signals its unimportance, and tells readers that Herodian is involved in the same game of engagement and detachment that he means for them to play. Yes, he was there, and this is his world, but he will describe it as if that were not the case, and his readers should adopt the same position. Before moving on to describe that world, however, Herodian gives a brief account of what preceded it. We have already seen much retrospective idealization of the Antonine age. Both Dio and Philostratus needed to describe that time in detail in order to create positive models of how the empire ought to work. Herodian is less interested in positive models. He needs to refer to the older era only in order to provide a counterpoint to illustrate the failings of the new one. As such, his description is brief and vague.16 For Herodian, there is no “Antonine age” as distinct from Marcus’ reign, and in his preface he follows Appian’s and Florus’ practice of marking an epoch with Augustus’ reign and declining to construct a narrative linking the first princeps with his successors.17 Trajan, Hadrian and Antoninus Pius are ignored, Marcus is an isolated figure, and the golden age seems to be a function of his personality. Thus under his rule, there were a great many philosophers, because “subjects always tend somehow to live in emulation of the character of the ruler (ζήλῳ τῆς τοῦ ἄρχοντος γνώμης).”18 In Marcus’ time, the virtues of the emperor were contagious. Marcus’ relationships with all elements of Roman society are correct, harmonious, and conducted according to his virtues. He selects his sons-in-law from the most ethically deserving men in the Senate, not the richest or best-born (1.2.2). He surrounds himself with friends of appropriate virtue and station. His bodyguards are kept in their proper place and form no barrier between him and his people (1.2.4). When he travels to the army and the frontier, he is not changed, but remains his proper philosophical self. His personality is integrated with the whole of the empire, and his life is one of constant work for the welfare of his people, at considerable sacrifice to himself.19 His death calls forth a remarkable scene of unanimity: “as the news spread, all the army that was there (τὸ παρὸν στρατιωτικὸν), and all the common people (τὸ δημῶδες πλῆθος) alike were seized by grief, and in the whole Roman Empire, there was no man that received the news without a tear, 16 17 18 19

For detailed readings of Herodian’s portrait of Marcus, see Marasco 1998, 2840–3; Zimmermann 1999e, 34–7. Hdn. 1.4. For Appian and Florus see Chapter 2 above. Hdn. 1.2.4. Cf. Dio 72.[71].35.2 (EV), where Dio asserts that many people pretended to follow philosophy so that they could get rich off of Marcus. Cf. Hdn. 1.3.1, showing Marcus as worn out by his labors.

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and all as with one voice recalled his memory (ἀνεκάλουν), some as a virtuous father, some a good king, a skilled general, a temperate and upright ruler; and none was insincere (οὐδεὶς ἐψεύδετο).”20 This is a familar idealization of the Antonine world. It recalls Aelius Aristides’ picture of the empire as a chorus conducted in harmonious song by the emperor (Rom. 29 Behr). Taken in the context of the 240s, however, its meaning is quite different. Herodian’s point is less to say what was right about the past than to find a way of defining what is wrong with the present. The norms laid down by Marcus will become a key to interpreting the whole rest of the narrative. Put simply, under Marcus, the empire worked. It was a coherent organism that derived its unity from an emperor whose virtue could be transmitted downwards through properly defined social and political relationships. Under Commodus and his successors, it will cease to work, and the organic whole will be replaced by the confused, fragmented world in which Herodian’s history takes place. As already noted, the formal characteristics of that history closely follow the Antonine orthodoxy seen in Lucian. Its eight books are a series of selfcontained episodes, nearly all of them concerning changes of reign, failed coups or foreign wars. As Lucian recommends (Hist. 55), Herodian finishes each topic off completely and then makes a smooth transition to the next with no loose ends and very little bridge material.21 Thus Book 5 ends with the violent overthrow of Elagabalus, and within five pages (6.2) thirteen years have passed, and Alexander is already off on the first of two wars that will between them take up nearly thirty pages and end with his death at the close of Book 6.22 Those five intervening pages consist of a two-page 20

21 22

Hdn. 1.4.8. Marasco 1998, 2857–63 sees Herodian elevating this kind of consensus as a governing model for the empire, for which see below, n. 117. Herodian’s narrative of Severus’ final journey back from Britain (4.1) is in marked contrast, dominated as it is by the conflict between Caracalla and Geta. For a survey of the relationship of narrative time to fabula-time in Herodian, see Hidber 1999, 153–62; 2007, 208–10. Thirteen years assumes one retains the manuscript reading of τεσσαρεσκαιδεκάτῳ at 6.2.1. Lucarini 2005 and Whittaker 1969 both follow Càssola 1963 in emending to δεκάτῳ. Without the emendation, Herodian’s chronology is unrealistic, as it requires both the Parthian and German campaigns to occur in a single year, 234. However, the rhetorical logic of the emended text is extremely clumsy. Herodian begins by saying, in a μέν-clause, that “Alexander ruled well for thirteen years.” This is not meant to refer to his entire reign: Herodian twice says that he reigned for fourteen years (6.9.3; 6.9.8). Thus there is a strong expectation that the δέ-clause will amount to “but in the fourteenth year he did something bad,” which is just what the transmitted text does, since Herodian will indeed go on to recount Alexander’s incompetence and cowardice, which commence very shortly after the clause in question and characterize his entire handling of the Persian and German crises. It is possible that just such an expectation misled the scribe, but the emended text would require a logical progression something like “Alexander ruled well for thirteen years, but in the tenth year a crisis broke out [and that crisis caused him to rule poorly, but only later on, in his fourteenth year?].” No indication is

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wrap-up of the previous topic, in which Alexander’s accession demonstrates how different he is from Elagabalus, followed by three pages on Alexander’s failure to emerge from the dominance of his grandmother and mother, which failure remains a key thematic element of the rest of the book. Similarly, of the eighty-six pages that describe the eighteen-year reign of Septimius Severus, seventy-seven are taken up with either the civil wars that began his reign, the British war that ended it, or the intervening incidents of the second Parthian war and the rise and fall of Plautianus. The remaining nine pages consist of three short bridge sections that mostly describe either fallout from a previous crisis or the emergence of problems that will create the next one.23 Of course, one would naturally expect wars, coups and other such exciting events to take up disproportionate narrative space, but Herodian has streamlined his content to the point where there is hardly any material that does not advance the story towards its next climax. The long passages in which Dio describes ordinary elite life under bad emperors are nowhere to be found in Herodian. Even when describing wars, he omits anything that would detract from momentum. Severus’ two-year siege of Byzantium, which Dio turns into a major set-piece (75.[74].10–14 [Xiph.]), gets two sentences in Herodian (3.6.9), because by the time it is over, the narrative is done with the eastern war and rushing on toward Severus’ reckoning with Albinus.24 Similarly, Herodian has no time for the kind of minor characters

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given later in the text that Alexander’s decline was confined to the final portions of the external crisis, or deepened significantly at that point. On the contrary, Herodian draws a consistent sharp line between Alexander’s civilian virtues and his military failings (thus the laudatory obituary at 6.9.8 is confined entirely to the former). If we retain the transmitted text here, then Herodian is heightening the contrast by claiming that Alexander’s thirteen years of enlightened rule were ended by a single year of failed campaigning. In doing so, Herodian has introduced what strikes us as a chronological absurdity, but it may have been less noticeable to his readers in the 250s, who were accustomed to simultaneous military crises on multiple fronts. Given the choice of convicting Herodian of a chronological solecism or a rhetorical one, the former seems preferable. Thus 3.8 describes domestic business mostly in the context of settling conditions after the civil wars; 3.10.1–5 describes Caracalla and the outset of his feuds with Plautianus and Geta; 3.13 describes the aftermath of Plautianus’ fall and Severus’ subsequent efforts to curb his sons, of which the result is the British expedition. The Parthian war of 195 is entirely omitted for the same reasons. Herodian says at 3.5.1 that after his victory at Issus, Severus intended to punish Hatra and Parthia but postponed his revenge to deal first with Albinus. The fact that Herodian stops to bring up the possibility of a Parthian war suggests that we are not dealing with a careless error, especially since Herodian had a more than adequate source in Dio. Herodian may be deliberately signaling, to those who know the facts, that he is streamlining the story and giving his characters neater motivations, thus presumably increasing the reader’s pleasure. Widmer 1967, 63–4 suggests that this is an instance of a general tendency he posits, whereby Herodian splits his reign-narratives into sharply defined “internal” and “external” halves. It is difficult, however, to reconcile such a scheme with the narrative of Plautianus’ fall, which takes place largely within the imperial palace and fills 15 pages between the Parthian and British wars (2.10–13).

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in warfare that fascinate Dio, such as Numerianus, the schoolteacher who raised cavalry for Severus in Gaul (Dio 76.[75].5 [Xiph.]), or the various men of low station who in the confusion of Elagabalus’ coup against Macrinus took it into their heads to declare themselves emperor (80.[79].7). All such atmospheric and anecdotal interest is sacrificed to plot imperatives. This is exactly as Lucian had advised. He calls for rapidity at all times, and a precise distribution of narrative resources so that events of great importance, above all decisive battles and political upheavals, are described at length while minor events are treated cursorily or omitted altogether.25 Similarly in line with Lucian’s precepts are Herodian’s practices of severely limiting ethnographic and geographical digressions, keeping speeches within traditionally accepted length and subject matter and avoiding as much as possible simultaneous parallel narratives.26 In Lucian’s aesthetics, narrative rapidity and proportion in digression are, along with verisimilitude and avoidance of obvious flattery, the critical elements of an overall formal correctness that produces pleasure in the discerning listener.27 It is unlikely that Herodian consciously intended to follow Lucian; quite possibly he was unaware of his writing on the subject, but he was entirely aware of the Antonine orthodoxy, which Lucian was reflecting rather than creating.28 However, that orthodoxy had been developed to produce a certain kind of 25

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This is expressed in the abstract at Hist. 56; a concrete negative example is given at Hist. 28, where one of the “bad historians” describes a major battle in seven lines, which he follows with a digression of enormous length on the previous adventures of a single Mauretanian cavalryman. Photius (Cod. 99) makes it a major point in Herodian’s favor that he “neither engages in pompous verbosity nor omits anything relevant,” and Photius’ overall positive verdict on Herodian is based on criteria not dissimilar to Lucian’s. For Lucian’s strictures on these three subjects, see Hist. 57 (restraint in geographical description); 58 (speeches); 55 (multiple narratives). Herodian’s brief descriptions of the battlefield at Issus (3.4.2) and of Britain (3.14.6–8) are typical of his style in this respect. There are considerably lengthier descriptions of Aquileia and its environs in Book 8, but Herodian’s account of that war is unique for him in its scope and precision. Herodian is forced to resort to parallel narratives to describe the events of 193–4, and again in 238, but in both of these cases he does his best to minimize the switching around and maintain a linear focus. Thus Clodius Albinus is not mentioned until 2.15.1, after Severus has already taken Rome and needs to make an alliance with Albinus so that he will be free to fight Niger. For details see Hidber 2007, 207–8. Herodian’s practice regarding speeches will be described in detail below. See especially Hist. 51, where good historiography is compared to classical sculpture. Lucian is aware of aesthetic models in which digressions are a source of greater pleasure than the narrative itself. Although the point is not made explicit, he tends to place such pleasure on the wrong side of a “vulgar/elite taste” distinction in which vulgar listeners take pleasure in panegyrical, digressive or otherwise spectacular material for its own sake, while their more refined counterparts realize that such material loses its charm when it appears in a generically inappropriate context. Scholars have been understandably cautious about seeing Lucian’s direct influence in the work of subsequent historians, though Zecchini 1983, 30–1 is willing to speculate that Lucian was the forerunner of a “Thucydidean” school that included both Dio and Herodian.

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history, typified by the war monographs described by Fronto and Lucian, in which short, isolated wars take place far away and reach a happy resolution when a heroic emperor or general ensures the peace and security of the empire.29 These are not the kind of events Herodian describes. When in his preface Herodian lists off all of the calamitous happenings of the past decades, the wars, insurrections, conspiracies and so forth, he is not simply telling us what will be the highlights of his history. He is giving us a nearly complete list of the things he thinks are worth writing about. Because of his narrative rapidity, readers find themselves carried inexorably from one crisis to the next, without there ever being any happy resolution.30 Except for Marcus, none of Herodian’s emperors is heroic and none can bring about peace and stability. He more or less agrees with Dio as to which emperors are good and which bad, but he spends very little time evaluating them.31 Instead, when Herodian applies Lucian’s narrative strategies to a description of the whole political history of the empire from 180 to 238, the natural result is a story of continuous crisis in which the main activities of emperors are killing their predecessors and getting killed by their successors, with occasional foreign wars that often as not serve as the backdrop for a coup. It is not simply that the empire has problems that its rulers cannot solve and that lead to crises of succession. In Herodian’s view, the crises are almost all that there is. The empire barely exists as an ongoing entity with institutions, culture, laws, customs or any other elements of continuity. What we mostly see is the ongoing struggle for power between people who have neither the opportunity nor usually the inclination to do anything constructive with that power once they have gained it. This world of crisis has something of the peculiar static quality familiar from Antonine history. There is some sense of grand narrative, in that the Roman Empire is now in a period of decline from the heights of Marcus’ 29

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See Chapter 2 above. Sidebottom 1998, 2777–8 and Hidber 1999, 147–8; 2006, 69–71 both consider Herodian’s chronological scope, of several decades ending more or less in the present, unusual for a Greek writing in the Roman period. However, as discussed in Chapter 2, contemporary history in either language was rare in the second century ad, and Greek historiography in general is poorly attested for the first. Herodian’s time-scale is analogous to those of Xenophon and other fourthcentury Greek historians (see Tuplin 2007) and those of Latin historians from Sempronius Asellio to Tacitus (see Hidber 2006, 70 for this last as a parallel). The notion of writing a history of the events of one’s own lifetime is after all a fairly intuitive one, and the surprising thing is perhaps not so much Herodian’s decision to do it as it is the reluctance of previous generations of historians. See Hidber 2006, 152–87 for a detailed analysis of reign-changes as a narrative structuring principle. Hidber posits an opposition between chronological and biographical narrative structures, and sees reign-change narratives as linking each emperor to his successor and thus preventing the biographical structure from becoming as dominant as, in Hidber’s view, it is in Cassius Dio. For Herodian’s assessment of the various emperors, see Marasco 1998, 2844–57.

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time, but it is a highly attenuated grand narrative. Even more than Dio, Herodian’s history makes Marcus’ death a complete watershed. After 180, things almost immediately get very bad, and stay that bad, but there is little sense that they get worse.32 There is no downward trajectory from Commodus through Caracalla and Elagabalus to Maximinus: they are each about as bad as the others. Rather, as Herodian suggests in his preface, there is something of a cyclical alternation between reckless young emperors who come to no good and older emperors who are wiser but ultimately no more effective. The end of Book 8, in which, after Pupienus and Balbinus are murdered by the Praetorians, the teenage Gordian III is raised to replace them, is evidently reminiscent of Commodus’ accession at the start of Book 1, and one is left with the impression that this state of affairs is still going on and could continue indefinitely.33 The rest of this chapter will focus on ways in which Herodian portrays the dysfunctional nature of his world, and in particular how traditional Antonine ways of thinking and behaving are a constant cause of failure under changed conditions.

An emperor’s place When the orator Aelius Aristides wanted to flatter Antoninus Pius, he reminded him that for a Roman emperor “there is no need to wear himself out with traveling around his whole realm (φθείρεσθαι περιιόντα τὴν ἀρχὴν ἅπασαν), nor to be always settling things at different places in different times, whenever he sets foot somewhere. Instead he has the great convenience (εὐμάρεια) of governing the whole world by letter from one place (πᾶσαν ἄγειν τὴν οἰκουμένην δι’ ἐπιστολῆς)” (Rom. 33 Behr). He knew his audience: Antoninus never left Italy for his whole twenty-three-year reign. Marcus did so only in response to dire crisis.34 By Herodian’s time such masterly serenity was no longer in fashion and would not be again until the last years of the fourth century. Whether by necessity or inclination, the Severan emperors, except for Elagabalus, all spent large portions of their reigns with their armies on or beyond the empire’s frontiers. As threats on 32

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Zimmermann 1999e, 125–44 argues that Herodian’s portrait of Commodus becomes markedly more negative after 190, when he is ruling in person as opposed to being governed by favorites. The contrast between the Commodus of 180 and the Commodus of 192 does exist, but it is considerably less large and important than the contrast between Marcus and Commodus, even at his best. See Hidber 2006, 177–80 for the end of Book 8 as a recapitulation and projection into the future of several thematic strands from the narrative as a whole. For the argument, not endorsed here, that Herodian’s work is unfinished, see Appendix §3. For the practice of the last two Antonines in contrast to their immediate predecessor Hadrian, and for a reading of Aelius Aristides on the point, see Halfmann 1986, 40–50.

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those frontiers increased, such expeditions became more the norm and stays in Rome became the exception until, in Herodian’s grandchildren’s time, the whole institution of the emperor had been permanently relocated from Rome to an ever-changing set of locations within striking distance of the frontiers. In this progression, the early third century represents a transitional phase, during which emperors oscillated ever more frequently between Rome and the frontiers. Since Herodian almost never tries to sustain a narrative on two fronts, but rather follows closely the reigning emperor or an ultimately successful claimant to the throne, his tale is constantly being pulled back and forth from Rome to the frontiers, and the symbolic antithesis between the two will be critical to his characterization of events.35 Neither of those locations has a stable meaning within the text. It is not always right for the emperor to be in one or the other place, nor does each have a consistent set of good or bad characteristics. Rather each new episode is different depending on three key variables: the place, the situation and the character of the ruler. Here, as ever, Marcus Aurelius is the correct model. Like the Stoic he was, Marcus is able to change physical location and continue to do his duty under changed circumstances while still retaining the same essential character and always mastering circumstances rather than being mastered. Thus in 180 it was good for Marcus to be on the Danube and he did good while he was there. Under other circumstances he would have been doing good in Rome. His successors, needless to say, are less successful. They are usually in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the crises that bring them up and down are often the result of such a mismatch. The rest of this section will examine several recurring combinations of place, time and person.

The right and wrong ways to invade Italy The first pattern is the invasion of center by frontier. Twice in Herodian a general leads an army from Pannonia against Italy: first Septimius Severus in 193, then Maximinus in 238. The first time Pannonia wins; the second time, Italy. Both episodes have an apparent but deceptive happy ending, and in many ways the second represents a series of unexpected reversals of the first.36 Septimius Severus is the only emperor in Herodian who is able to 35

36

For a treatment of the frontier–center dichotomy and of issues of space in Herodian more generally, see Pitcher 2012, who makes the important point that Herodian’s relative lack of interest in geographical detail does not prevent him from giving symbolic geography an important narrative role. As explored by Pitcher 2012, 275–81.

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move between the center and the frontier without harm to himself. He can overcome his enemies in both settings, but he is clearly more in his element on the frontier. Severus has three episodes in Rome: after Didius Julianus’ death, after Albinus’ deception and after his Eastern War.37 The first is characterized by Severus’ deception of the Senate, the second by his violent repression of the nobility and the third by plots of Plautianus against him and of his sons against each other. Nothing good comes of having Severus in his capital. This identification of Severus with the frontier is present from the start of Herodian’s narrative of his rise. This happens largely through the identification of Severus with his army. In Herodian’s world, the Pannonian army is made up of Pannonians, and one set of characteristics describes the Pannonians and the soldiers interchangeably, those being that they are strong and warlike, but dull and easily outwitted.38 This is a conventional stereotype, stated in very similar terms by Dio (49.36), and Severus is ideally adapted to such people. He can assimilate himself to their toughness, as he will show on the march to Rome, while retaining his essential cunning, which allows him to control them through their simplicity. After gathering all the Pannonian troops into one place and publicly taking the name of Pertinax, Severus makes a speech to the soldiers that is structured on the contrast between the Danube army and the troops of less military provinces. The Pannonians “are trained in the practice of military arts, ranged as you constantly are against the barbarians, and used to bearing every hardship, to despising the cold and the heat, to wading in icy rivers and to digging for your water rather than bringing it up from wells.”39 The armies of Italy and Syria have ruined themselves with luxury, and will melt at the mere battle-cry of the Pannonians, with no need for fighting. Herodian’s own later comment on the decline of military skills in Italy (2.11.4–6) seems to echo this. Severus and the narrator are pointing readers toward consistent stereotypes of the frontier and Rome.40 The end turns out to be not as expected. One might have thought Severus would conquer Rome as he conquered Italy, by relying on the general fear of the army, or 37 38

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The first two are relatively short: 2.14. and 3.8. The last is 3.10–13 and includes the Plautianus episode and the beginning of the feud between Caracalla and Geta. Hdn. 2.9.11. This assessment is given as an explanation of why the Pannonians were willing to believe Severus’ pretext of taking the throne to avenge Pertinax. See Marasco 1998, 2877–80 for Herodian’s view of the frontier soldiery as barbarous. Hdn. 2.10.5. Whittaker 1969 deletes everything after “icy rivers,” suspecting an interpolation. See however Hdn. 1.6.2 for further remarks on the poor quality of Pannonian water. Lucarini 2005 retains the sentence in full. These two episodes have many fruitful points of comparison with Tacitus’ very different use of barbarian stereotypes to characterize the Vitellian army in the Histories, for which see Ash 1999, 37–55.

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that a little violence would settle the matter. What actually wins is brains. Severus consistently defeats people’s expectations of him. First he sends his advance guard in civilian clothes to infiltrate the city, so that Julianus and the Senate panic.41 This causes the Senate and Praetorians to turn on Julianus, after which Severus invites the Praetorians to come out and salute him, unarmed and dressed as if for a festival (2.13.2). This is typical “Roman” rather than “frontier” activity. During the reign of Commodus, Herodian places the great majority of the action during one holiday or another.42 Thus the Praetorians naturally assume that correct cultural stereotypes are operating and that the last thing they need fear from the Pannonians is a trick, and are correspondingly surprised to be surrounded by armed Pannonian troops and sent into exile. During his entrance into Rome, Severus first terrifies the people with his appearance in armor, although this is somewhat offset by their reflection that his triumph has been remarkably bloodless (2.14.1–2). He goes on to the Senate, and gives a speech “altogether mild (ἐπιεικεῖς) and full of fine hopes (χρηστῶν ἐλπίδων),” which impresses all except those few senators who actually know him and his deceitful nature (2.14.3–4). Thus Herodian describes a successful invasion of the center by the frontier, but with a disturbing twist. Pannonians have used cunning and the appearance of force to subdue Roman weakness and credulity. As Severus says at the start of his speech to the hoodwinked Praetorians: “We are superior to you in intelligence (σοφίᾳ), and in the power (δυνάμει) of our army and the multitude of our allies, as you now see demonstrated.”43 This is a much distorted rendering of the expected relationship between center and frontier, and Severus’ great skill is that he can exploit that distortion. Others will not be as adept. The end and aftermath of Maximinus Thrax’ reign take up nearly all of the last two books of Herodian, and form the most complex narrative unit in the history.44 In the course of this chapter, we will examine several of its 41

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Hdn. 2.12.2. No other account mentions these disguised soldiers, and we may assume that Herodian either invented them or chose to emphasize an existing story that others considered obscure or unreliable. Thus the climax of Perennis’ plot begins at the Capitoline Games (1.9.2); Maternus strikes at the Hilaria (1.10.5); the games at which Commodus performs are probably the ludi Romani, but are introduced with language reminiscent of the Secular Games (1.15.1, see Whittaker 1969, 1.98–9n. and Saldern 2003, 181–2 for alternative suggestions as to the games involved); and it is at the Saturnalia that he is killed (1.16.1). Hdn. 2.13.5. The first-person plural should refer to the army and not to Severus alone, since for the rest of the speech he, like emperors generally in Herodian, refers to himself in the singular. The account begins at 7.4 and runs to the end of the work, taking up 68 pages of Greek. Events from the death of Pertinax (2.6.1) to the defeat of Albinus (3.7.8) take up about the same space.

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important aspects. Among these is the evident parallelism between Severus’ capture of Rome and Maximinus’ attempt to put down the revolt in Rome that was sparked by the uprising of the Gordiani in Africa. In brief, the story in Herodian is as follows. The revolt starts in Africa, where the locals murder an oppressive procurator and proclaim as emperor the elderly governor Gordian, along with his son. The new claimant then sends a lieutenant to Rome to assassinate the praetorian prefect. He succeeds, but the result is massive rioting among the Senate, people and Praetorians. Maximinus, in Pannonia, hears about all this and prepares to march on Rome. Meanwhile the revolt in Africa has been suppressed by the Numidian army, and the Roman Senate has elected two of its own members as co-Augusti, with Gordian I’s homonymous grandson as Caesar. Maximinus crosses the Alps confidently with the Pannonian army, but the city of Aquileia puts up unexpectedly strong resistance. After the campaign gets bogged down in a siege, Maximinus’ army revolts, murders him, and makes peace with the citizens of Aquileia and the senatorial emperors. The episode of Maximinus’ expedition is full of complex plays on expectation. It begins with a speech of the emperor’s that is very similar to Severus’ opening harangue to his troops.45 The weakness of the Romans and Africans is contrasted with the valor of the Pannonian troops, although it is significant that where Severus had made the pretense of fighting to avenge Pertinax and re-assert Roman dignity, Maximinus concludes his speech with the promise that his troops will be enriched by the possessions of the rebel Italians. It is difficult for the reader to know what to make of this. Perhaps the similarity between the two speeches is a good sign for Maximinus, that he also will be successful. On the other hand, Severus was successful through cunning and manipulation, not by force. So far, Herodian has not explicitly said that Maximinus is stupid, but he has strongly implied it by characterizing the emperor as more or less a barbarian.46 It is surely not an encouraging sign when Herodian prefaces the speech by saying that it was composed not by Maximinus but by his friends, and then at the end has Maximinus announce his departure “throwing out muttered abuse (βλάσφημα) against Rome and the Senate, with threatening motions of his hands (διὰ χειρὸς ἀπειλαῖς) and 45 46

Hdn. 7.8.3–9 and 2.10. Maximinus’ background is discussed at 6.8.1 and 7.1.2. Herodian repeats stories that Maximinus was originally a herdsman, and seems neither to disbelieve nor absolutely to believe them. HA, whose account clearly depends on Herodian for much of its factual content, refers to Maximinus as semibarbarus et vix adhuc Latinae linguae (Mxmn. 2.5). For traditions on Maximinus’ ethnic background, see Syme 1971, 185–6 and now Moralee 2008, esp. 4–8. For extended comparison of Herodian’s and HA’s accounts more broadly, see Burian 1988.

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fierce contortions of his face (τραχέσι προσώπου νεύμασιν), as if the people he was angry at were right in front of him (ὡς πρὸς παρόντας ὀργισθείς).”47 Between the speech and the actual narrative of the campaign come two other episodes that seem to foreshadow a war between an organized army and rebellious civilians. The first happens in Africa, where Capellianus’ Numidian army overwhelms and massacres the armed plebs of Carthage (7.9). The favorable omen for Maximinus is evident. The second case, that of Rome, is more ambiguous. The people and Praetorians fight back and forth, because the people cannot attack the Praetorian camp, nor can the soldiers win in street-to-street fighting, although they can burn down large parts of Rome. The conflict is left as an awkward stand-off until after Maximinus’ death, when it becomes clear that the situation has been in some way calmed, and the Praetorians have temporarily been neutralized.48 As with Severus’ forces, Maximinus’ Pannonian army is quite distinctly a “frontier” army made up of Pannonians and mainly German auxiliaries, as distinct from metropolitan Romans or Italians. At one point Pupienus’ army opposing them is called simply “the Romans.”49 Herodian repeats the point he had made with Severus, that Italy and its natives were completely unused to fighting.50 As the fighting begins, however, it becomes clear that warfare in Italy is an equally strange business for the Pannonian army. Herodian has already given an account of Maximinus’ expedition across the Danube, so we know what kind of warfare the Pannonians are used to.51 Their German enemies keep running away, so that the soldiers can burn their crops and towns and live off their herds until they finally catch up with the fugitives and slaughter them in a pitched battle. The Aquileians 47

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Hdn. 7.8.9. For ὡς πρὸς παρόντας ὀργισθείς, Whittaker, 1969 gives “as though he were venting his anger on the people in front of him,” and Echols 1961 similarly. However, the absence of the article in Greek suggests the idea that Maximinus thinks people are present when in fact they are absent, which gives a more vivid portrait of the emperor’s derangement, as well as highlighting the unexpected spatial difficulties he will encounter. The rioting is described at Hdn. 7.10.5–12.7. We are told nothing more about the situation in Rome until 8.6.7, when general rejoicing breaks out at the news of Maximinus’ death. Hdn. 8.5.4. An exception is the troops of the Italian-based legion II Parthica, who seem initially to join Maximinus but are subsequently the first to defect from him. Hdn. 8.2.4. Herodian does not mention that Aquileia had been besieged by the Marcomanni about 70 years before (Amm. Marc. 29.6.1). Since he seems to know a certain amount about the geography of Aquileia, it is hard to believe, with Whittaker 1969, 2.260, that he had never heard of the siege. More likely he wants to preserve the idea of Marcus’ reign as a normative period in which the empire’s core was at peace and armies operated only on the frontiers. Hdn. 7.2. The campaign is described vaguely, and it seems likely that Herodian’s main source was the pictorial account that he refers to at 7.2.8, combined with ethnographic details. He does, however, make the astute observation at 7.2.2 that light infantry and archers are particularly effective against German tactics.

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are quite different. Encouraged by patriotic oratory, they stand up to the approaching army, secure themselves abundant food supplies and contrive incendiary devices that thwart efforts to storm their recently rebuilt walls (8.2.5–4.11). The Pannonians, meanwhile, have their own difficulties in this strange, civilized land. German auxiliaries jump into rivers and drown because they do not realize that, for whatever reason, Italian rivers flow faster than German ones (8.4.3). The soldiers begin to run short of food because they have destroyed all the surrounding crops, as they did in Germany, and because Pupienus’ army is able to get behind them and cut off their supply lines (8.5.3–4). They also run short of water because the Aquileians have thrown corpses into the river, thus also spreading disease (8.5.7). Herodian has given considerable vividness to the cliché he uses about the besiegers becoming the besieged. The Aquileia campaign is by far the most convincing piece of military narrative in Herodian. One can quite easily see how Maximinus’ massive army could set off hastily without proper supply arrangements and expecting very little resistance, so that even a comparatively slight delay could become a logistical disaster.52 As regards Herodian’s internal purposes, however, the contrast with Severus is unmistakable. Severus defeated the Italians by playing on their false expectations about Pannonians. Maximinus loses because his own expectations about Italians turn out terribly wrong. In both cases the fate of the empire is determined by key geographical and cultural differences between its center and its periphery, and by the success or failure of principal characters in understanding and using those differences.

From Orontes to Tiber and back Severus and Maximinus are both examples of adult emperors whose movements around the empire are a matter of their own will. They have rational expectations that are confirmed or defeated. Herodian’s younger emperors are not always so much in control. In particular, he creates a diptych of two youths from Syria, Elagabalus and Alexander, whose reigns each end in disaster for them due to movements over which they, even as nominal emperors, had little control. The movements are parallel and opposite. Elagabalus moves from his natural environment in Syria to Rome, where 52

Herodian has presumably departed from his frequent practice of relying on visual representations as the basis for his war-narratives. It is hard to see how there would have been pictures of details such as Maximinus using as ambassador a tribune of his who happened to be from Aquileia (8.3.1–2), or Pupienus and the Senate’s blocking the supply routes to the Pannonian army (8.5.4–5).

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he is a monstrous aberration. Alexander moves back to the eastern frontier, only to encounter failure and revolt when he proves impotent as a military leader. Of our three principal accounts of Elagabalus, Herodian’s is probably the second most accurate and certainly the least juicy.53 Dio and the Historia Augusta author both bring all their imaginative firepower to bear in describing Elagabalus’ sexual perversions, which consist mostly of various forms of gender irregularity. He is viewed as a monstrous freak that ought not to exist anywhere. His religious oddities are mentioned, but are distinctly secondary to the sex, or in the case of the HA, third after the sex and the gourmandizing.54 In Herodian, the religion is virtually the whole story. A few brief innuendoes are all we get regarding Elagabalus’ sexual practices, notably that he simulated a passion for a Vestal Virgin “to give the appearance of also acting like a man” (5.6.2, cf. also 5.8.1). Our historian is far more interested in the details of how the emperor ran backwards in front of a chariot driven by the divine statue of his namesake god, a performance that gets nearly two pages (5.6.6–10). Although the lack of emphasis on sexual matters can be seen elsewhere in Herodian, in this instance it has the effect of creating a certain space for cultural relativism.55 It is not that Herodian’s portrait of Elagabalus is favorable. Clearly his behavior is intolerable in an emperor. But Herodian does seem alert to the possibility that we are dealing here with a cultural misunderstanding.56 His description of the worship of the god Elagabal at Emesa, and of his priest’s role in it, is neutral (5.3.4–8). The worship of a massive formless rock, ministered to by a teenage boy dancing in jewelled robes, is alien to Herodian, but he seems quite comfortable with the idea that things like this 53

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See Sommer 2004 and Icks 2012, 92–122. In the case of Elagabalus, Dio’s account descends into gossip rapidly after the emperor’s accession. The best account is the few accurate portions of the mostly scurrilous HA Hel., but Herodian preserves several facts not in the HA account. See Syme 1971, 118–21; Barnes 1972; Bowersock 1975. See Baldus 1989 for possible numismatic confirmation of Herodian’s description of Elagabalus’ self-portrait in priestly dress, though with the reservations of Dirven 2007. HA Hel. 20–31, twelve pages of Latin, is almost entirely given over to a catalog of the extraordinary foods and dining practices allegedly devised by Elagabalus. Mader 2005, 136–8 sees a distinction whereby Dio and Herodian emphasize the cultural alienness of Elagabalus, while the HA places him in a discourse of pleasure and excess that does not strongly emphasize his ethnic otherness. For Herodian’s fastidiousness regarding sex, cf. 1.17.3, where Commodus’ paidika is given a gloss analogous to those for foreign cultural practices. Marasco 1998, 2907–8 sees it as an instance of Herodian’s modeling himself on Thucydides. For Herodian as unique among our sources in this respect, see Sommer 2004, though Sommer argues from biographical inferences about the author not shared here. Herodian’s Elagabalus is in some ways a reversal of stories in which a barbarian ruler becomes Hellenized or Romanized and is for that reason unacceptable to his own people. Cf. Hdt. 4.78–80 (Scythian king Scyles); Tac. Ann. 2.1–2 (Vonones installed as Parthian ruler).

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go on in such outlying areas of the empire as Emesa. It is when this behavior is manifested first in Nicomedia and finally in Rome that it appears as a problem, at least in the minds of some characters.57 The move toward the center is clearly not Elagabalus’ idea, it is that of his grandmother Julia Maesa, who is described as sick of rusticating in Emesa and anxious to get back to Rome and the imperial palace (5.5.1). The general disgust at his activities is focalized through her, and it is she who tries to convince him that his behavior is liable to be misunderstood by Romans who do not understand his devotion: specifically she is worried that his costume will appear effeminate or barbarous when worn in the Senate. Curiously enough, this expectation does not work out entirely as one might expect. In the short term, Elagabalus himself is actually able to address the problem by sending a painting of himself in priestly regalia on ahead to Rome to lessen the shock of his arrival (5.5.6–7). Apparently, it works: we are told that when he arrived in his costume “the Romans saw nothing unusual, accustomed as they were from the picture” (οὐδὲν παράδοξον εἶδον οἱ Ῥωμαῖοι, τῇ γραφῇ ἐνειθισμένοι). When Herodian goes on to describe Elagabalus’ behavior, the behavior is clearly meant to strike readers as bizarre, but negative audience reaction is oddly absent. It is only later that Elagabalus’ general appearance will become obnoxious, it will be to the Praetorians rather than to the Senate, and the effeminacy will be stressed (as it is in Dio) largely to the exclusion of the religious or cultural aspect.58 Herodian has created the expectation that cultural geography will be the key factor in Elagabalus’ fall, but he is ambivalent about actually following through in his narrative causality. It is natural that Elagabalus and Alexander should form a paired narrative in Herodian. The only question is which characteristics of the two Syrian boy-emperors will be compared or contrasted. The most natural approach would seem to be to cast Elagabalus as barbarian and generally deviant, and Alexander as a proper, upright Greco-Roman ruler. In a sense, Herodian does this. We are told repeatedly that Alexander’s grandmother and mother sheltered him from the bad influences of Elagabalus’ court and got him a 57 58

The idea that Elagabalus’ oddities first surfaced when he wintered at Nicomedia is found at Hdn. 5.5.3 and HA Hel. 5.1, although the nature of the oddities is quite different. First at 5.6.10 we are given a very brief notice about Elagabalus’ chariot-racing, dancing and use of cosmetics, which is perhaps a compressed version of Dio 80.[79].14.2–3 (Xiph.). This is followed at 5.7.1 by Maesa’s fears, this time regarding the Praetorians, which turn out to be correct (or perhaps self-fulfilling) when at 5.8.1 the narrator himself avers that the Praetorians were disgusted by Elagabalus’ effeminacy and began to favor Alexander, thus beginning the sequence of events leading to the former’s overthrow. Effeminate physical appearance as the trigger for soldiers’ turning on an emperor is a clear echo of 5.2.4, where it is Macrinus’ costume that becomes offensive. For an insightful reading of the various episodes around Elagabalus’ costume, see Ward 2011, 139–45.

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good education.59 In the end, however, it turns out that Alexander is led back to the frontier, where his education and character prove to be just as great a liability as Elagabalus’ were in Rome. During the start of the narrative of Elagabalus’ rise, Alexander is briefly mentioned, under the name of Alexianus, as the son of Julia Maesa’s other daughter.60 He presumably accompanied Elagabalus on his westward journey, but it is in Rome that he first becomes a real character. His rule there during the first years of his reign is portrayed favorably and at no great length. He listens to good advisors and lives in harmony with the Senate. He is too much influenced by his mother, but as long as circumstances are peaceful, this does not seem to be a critical problem. It is also an indispensable part of what is good in his nature. It is Maesa and Mamaea who were responsible for keeping him away from the evil influences of the court and the city. If not for them, he would have turned into an Elagabalus or a Commodus. In short, as long as Alexander is located in Rome, things go tolerably well. It is only when troubles break out on the frontiers that everything goes wrong. This portrayal is a creative choice of Herodian’s. The Rome of the 220s was not as peaceful a place as he makes out. Dio’s account, although cursory, describes the rise and fall of Ulpian, widespread disturbances on the frontiers and outrages by the Praetorian Guard.61 Writing from the perspective of shortly after 229, and with no apparent knowledge of Alexander’s Persian expedition, Dio clearly thinks something is very wrong with the current state of Rome. There was quite enough material there for Herodian to have portrayed the 220s as troubled times, and it would not have contradicted his portrait of Alexander’s character. The dependence on his mother and general lack of substance that Herodian ascribes to Alexander could have first manifested themselves in domestic troubles in Rome and then continued to their natural disastrous end on the frontier. Instead, their only consequence is the failure of Alexander’s marriage and some amount of unjust financial exactions by Mamaea (6.1.8–9). For Herodian, Alexander’s failure is mainly 59 60

61

Hdn. 5.7.5–6; 5.8.2; 6.1.5. See Marasco 1998, 2847–9 for discussion of Herodian’s approach to Alexander. Hdn. 5.3.3. Herodian also implies (5.3.10) that Maesa asserted from the start that both Elagabalus and Alexander were fathered by Caracalla, while Dio 80.[79].19.4 (Xiph.) implies that it was only when she despaired of Elagabalus and turned to Alexander that she decided the latter must also be her nephew’s son. Dio 80.[80].1–5 (EV). Zosimus (1.11–13) presents a similarly bleak, if factually confused, picture of the reign as a whole after the murder of Ulpian. Whittaker 1969, 2.114–15n. attributes the disproportion to Herodian’s desire to find in Alexander’s dependence on his mother a moral cause for his failure. However, such an explanation would have been all the more convincing if it were better supported by instances of that dependence earlier in the reign. Herodian is on the whole more interested in narrative flow than in moral explanation.

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the result of his movement from his natural environment in Rome to the uncongenial atmosphere of the frontier. During the Persian and German wars of the early 230s, Alexander is portrayed as generally passive and ineffective. The first of those wars begins after messages arrive from the Eastern provinces telling of a dire new threat, the revived Persian monarchy that has overthrown the Parthians (6.2). Typically, Herodian does not directly narrate major action that goes on away from the emperor’s presence, but focalizes it through the emperor and the court, so that we learn in the same way they do. As the message arrives, Alexander has been spending all his time in Rome, and is reluctant to leave and do what he knows is his duty (6.3.1). The expedition seems to be well planned, but in Herodian’s somewhat tendentious interpretation the plans fall to pieces and the war is a considerable failure.62 Herodian casually says that chance defeated these plans, but the real problem appears to be with Alexander. The emperor simply fails to carry out the main portion of the plan: the part of the army that he was supposed to lead against the Persians never leaves Roman territory, and another portion of his army that had set out by a different route counting on his support is destroyed (6.5.8–10). For once Herodian’s narrative omniscience fails him, and he is not sure why this happened. It was “either from [Alexander’s] fear that he was putting his life and his body at risk for the sake of the Roman empire (ὑπὲρ τῆς Ῥωμαίων ἀρχῆς), or because his mother prevailed on him (ἐπισχούσης), out of her womanly cowardice and excessive protectiveness of her child” (6.5.8). We are later told that Alexander and large portions of the army suffered from severe sickness due to the unfamiliar air and environment of the eastern frontier.63 This last is perhaps the clearest indication that Alexander’s problem is locational. He has been forced by circumstance into a place where his virtues are useless, and his dependence on his mother becomes fatal. His behavior has alienated the army from him, and when he moves on to Germany, this process will continue to the point of revolt. When he tries to 62

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For the planning, see Hdn. 6.5.1–4, where the plan is presented as Alexander’s own in consultation with his advisors. HA (Alex. 55.1), along with the KG tradition (Victor 24.2; Eutr. 8.23), treats the expedition as an unambiguous victory. HA in fact names Herodian (Alex. 57.3) and notes that his portrait of a starving army is contra multorum opinionem. On the various traditions and the campaign more generally, see Whittaker 1969, 2.115–21nn.; Rösger 1978; Potter 1990, 18–23; Dignas and Winter 2007, 71–7. Herodian does say at 6.6.5–6 that the defeat was not total and that Alexander’s army inflicted considerable damage on the Persians, but by this point the grim picture has been established. Hdn. 6.6.1–2. This is perhaps unrealistic in that, as a native of Arca Caesarea near the Phoenician coast and apparently a former resident of Emesa (cf. 5.3.3–4), Alexander was presumably not unfamiliar with the various airs of Syria. However, Herodian does not have any significant narrative of Alexander’s earlier life in Syria, and by the time of the wars, Herodian assumes readers follow him in identifying Alexander as a basically metropolitan creature whose origins are forgotten.

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rally troops to face the mutineers, he appeals to their sentimental feelings: they have brought him up from a child, he says (6.9.3). The language is very similar to that used of the civilian population’s feelings for Alexander when he first set out on the expedition (6.4.2). What worked well in Rome does not work in Germany. The mutineers respond with taunts about Alexander’s immature dependence on his mother. Alexander’s troops are convinced, and desert him, and he and his mother are both murdered in short order. Alexander and Elagabalus, then, follow analogous patterns. They are both forced to change from a location where they made sense as actors to one in which they are aberrations and cannot function properly. The cultural geography of the Roman Empire is used to indicate all of these locations, and it is quite flexible for the purposes. Elagabalus is a creature of the frontier because he participates in the strange, non-Greek, non-Roman cultural practices that go on there. This does not mean that he, any more than Alexander, could have been effective in the warfare that is characteristic of the frontier in another of its manifestations. The empire is a highly disjointed place whose different parts can have different meanings at different times. The inability of Herodian’s characters to move successfully within this world is a major factor in their rises and falls. Similar analyses might be made of the spatial portrayals of all of Herodian’s other emperors. Both Commodus and Caracalla, his other pair of unsuitable young men, make notable moves: Commodus from the Danube back to Rome after his father’s death, Caracalla from Rome to the frontiers and provinces after his brother’s murder. In both cases the move leads the emperor further down the path of self-destruction, and allows for a retreat from duty and reality into self-absorption and, ultimately, fantasy. Commodus in Rome becomes ever more isolated due to plots against him and finally tries to re-imagine himself as a gladiator, which for Herodian represents an urban parody of the soldier that he should have been.64 Caracalla’s wanderings parallel his series of play-acting episodes. In Germany, he dresses up as a German (4.7.4); in Macedonia (4.8.1–2) and again in Alexandria (4.8.6–9), he is Alexander, the second time with tragic consequences when his audience will not respond properly (4.9); at Troy, he is Achilles (4.8.4–5); and in Mesopotamia he stages an elaborate masquerade of a royal wedding (4.10.2–4). Both are eventually killed by dependants or subordinates acting in self-defense. Sometimes failure to move can be just as deadly. Pescennius Niger and Macrinus both find this out when they try to rule from Antioch as if it were 64

See on this point Pitcher 2012, 275–8.

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Rome. Antioch exerts a delusive influence on both men. They act as if they are in the pleasant capital of a peaceful empire, when they should have been moving to Rome or acting in a military fashion on the frontier. The stereotype of pleasure-loving, carefree Antioch makes a mockery of Niger’s and Macrinus’ attempts to imitate Pertinax and Marcus Aurelius respectively.65 Macrinus’ problem becomes poignant at the end when, after his retreat from the battle with Elagabalus, he tries desperately to make the return to Rome that he should have made in better days. He fails because adverse weather keeps him in Asia, and Herodian moves straight from his failure and death to Elagabalus’ move from frontier to Rome. It looks as if Elagabalus has learned Macrinus’ lesson, except of course that in his case moving to Rome will prove fatal. Another attempt to shift the focus of the empire occurs with Maximinus, who transfers all power to the frontier and only communicates with the center via informers (7.3). His main activity is forcing money and people to the frontier; the former to pay the soldiers, the latter to be punished. This creates a vacuum at the center which is filled by the actions of Gordian and the city mob. Even when, as in the cases of Pertinax and Julianus, an emperor never leaves Rome, there is still a geographical path to his career. Both men are first shown in their homes, engaging in activities suitable to their character; respectively preparing for a dignified death and being drunk.66 Both proceed through the streets of Rome to the Praetorian camp and thence to the Palace, with accompanying descriptions of crowd reactions. In Julianus’ case especially the physicality of his movements is constantly stressed. If one compares the parallel narrative from Dio (74.[73].11.2 [EV]), the characters there get from place to place automatically, with no comment. In Herodian, all sorts of things happen while they are in motion. It is as Julianus walks the streets to investigate the clamor following Pertinax’ death that his family and flatterers talk him into bidding for the throne (2.6.7). Subsequently, soldiers escort him to the palace with shields raised to prevent his being stoned by the Roman crowd (2.6.13). Rome itself can provide in miniature the link between temporal and spatial movement that we have seen with the empire as a whole. In Herodian’s world, the geography of the empire is not fixed. In Marcus’ time, the empire was a unit and there was one set of rules governing how its 65 66

See Hdn. 2.8.9 (Niger); 5.2.3–4 (Macrinus), with Pitcher 2012, 275. Hdn. 2.1.5–7 (Pertinax); 2.6.6–7 (Julianus). Pitcher 2012, 280 relates these episodes to the later passage (7.5.3–6) in which Gordian I is offered the throne in his own house, as later is Gordian III (7.8.10).

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various parts worked. Marcus’ own ability to suit himself to every situation without fundamentally changing was closely linked to this greater stability. Subsequently, different locations have taken on greatly different meanings, and those meanings have a great role in driving the plot. It is not clear from Herodian what has caused this breakup: he is always more interested in symptoms than causes. The spatial breakup of the empire is a condition that seems to operate from the moment Commodus moves back to Rome, and Herodian describes rather than explains that operation. In the next section, we will explore another of its symptoms. The breakdown of Roman unity is expressed not only geographically but socially. Just as different parts of the empire seem to function under different rules, so different groups of people within the empire start to speak different languages.

Rhetoric and miscommunication Depending on how one counts, there are between fifteen and twenty direct-discourse speeches in Herodian.67 Of these, a few have the narrative function of informing a character of facts he did not previously know, and a few others serve to give dramatic immediacy to a scene, but have little or no argumentative content.68 The rest are orthodox speeches for ancient historiography, and contain rhetorical arguments more or less appropriate to their situations.69 They seem at first glance to be fairly straightforward. Within the context of ancient historiography, they are “realistic”: characters make arguments that appear genuinely directed at the internal audience, and the author could make a case that these really were the sort of arguments used. The only problem is that, except for the first, by Marcus Aurelius and the penultimate, by the Aquileian orator Crispus, none of them works. Invariably, the speeches either fail to persuade their immediate audience, or they do persuade, but their reasoning and predictions regarding the future are shown in the subsequent narrative to be completely wrong.70 Herodian’s world is one in which rhetoric seems to have lost its power to describe or influence reality. 67 68

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Sidebottom 1998, 2817n. lists twenty-nine passages, but some of these are of only one or two sentences. Examples of the former include 1.13.2 (Fadilla tells Commodus of Cleander’s plans); 2.1.8 (Laetus convinces Pertinax that Commodus is dead); 3.12.2 (Saturninus informs Severus of Plautianus’ plot). For the latter, see 1.17.5 (Marcia’s soliloquy on discovering she is supposed to be executed). For an overview of ancient historiographical practice in this regard, see Marincola 2007. See Sidebottom 1998, 2817–19 for a reading of the speeches in terms of dramatic irony and control of the text by the reader.

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This section will examine what goes wrong in some of the most notable cases. The first cases are those of two rather different emperors, Commodus and Alexander, who make very similar speeches predicting events more or less the complete opposite of what in fact happens. Next, there are two older emperors, Macrinus and Pertinax, each of whom comes to the throne in a burst of rhetoric that turns out to be directed at the wrong people trying to persuade them of the wrong things. The disconnect cannot be explained in terms of Herodian’s idea of the personal rhetorical competence of the speakers. Some of them are emperors whose intelligence and general conduct Herodian applauds. Inability to communicate successfully is rather a universal characteristic of the post-Marcus world in Herodian.

Commodus and Alexander Commodus’ first and only speech comes at the very beginning of his reign (1.5), before we have learned anything definite about his character, or the problems he will cause. Marcus has predicted possible trouble for him, and readers would have been aware of the general tradition of Commodus as a bad emperor, but it remains to be seen exactly how the problems will manifest.71 The speech is given to the soldiers on the Danube, along with the donative that traditionally opens a new reign. We are told Commodus spoke at the suggestion of Marcus’ friends, who are portrayed as the new ruler’s good counselors. Its content has two themes. The first is that his claim to their affection and obedience is based on his father, and should be all the stronger because he is a hereditary prince whom the soldiers have revered since his birth. He makes it a great virtue that “I never knew a commoner’s (ἰδιωτικῶν) swaddling-clothes, but the imperial purple received me straight from the womb” (1.5.5). The second is that the correct way to honor his father’s memory is to assist Commodus in continuing Marcus’ work of subduing the Germans.72 71

72

Ward 2011, 115–34 stresses the prevalence of misdirection and dramatic irony throughout the Commodus narrative, as a result of Marcus’ largely correct fears regarding his son. For the general tradition on Commodus, see Espinosa Ruiz 1984. His memory was rehabilitated under Septimius Severus, who claimed him as an adoptive brother, but his commemoration as a divus remains inconsistent through the Severan dynasty. See Van ’t Dack 1991, 318–21 for details. Clover 1988 and Speidel 1993 trace more favorable traditions on Commodus in military and provincial contexts, but it is still likely that Herodian’s audience would have anticipated a negative portrayal in a Rome-centered work of literary history. This is one of two references in Herodian to the idea of conquering Germany as far as the Ocean, the other one being 7.2.9, referring to an intention of Maximinus that Herodian thinks could have been fulfilled. It is unlikely in either case that Herodian is drawing on sources that reflect actual military policy, or that he has any real idea of how far away the Baltic is from the Danube. See Hohl 1954, 9–11.

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This speech could not possibly have less predictive value, as would be apparent to an audience with any knowledge of the tradition on Commodus, in which he was less similar to his natural father than any of the “adoptive emperors” had been to his predecessor. And the promised physical continuity will not emerge. Instead, the soldiers who were used to seeing Commodus as a boy will never see him again after 180. And, of course, the German war will not continue “to the Ocean.” Instead, Commodus will adopt a policy of limited warfare mixed with bribery (1.6.8–9). It is difficult to see what all of this misdirection means, but it might not be so strange. Commodus is a well-known bad emperor, and the audience might expect him to be deceitful, or rhetorically incompetent, or to change his mind capriciously. It becomes a good deal stranger when nearly the same scenario is played out in the case of an emperor of considerably better standing. It is difficult to know what kind of general reputation Severus Alexander had ten or fifteen years after his death. The question is whether the later idealizing tradition is complete fiction, or whether it builds on contemporary witnesses.73 Herodian, and what little we have of Dio, are best described as lukewarm rather than hostile. Still, it is hard to believe his posthumous stock did not increase considerably during the reigns of Pupienus and Balbinus, who had both apparently prospered under his regime, and Gordian III, an aristocratic boy-emperor in a position not unlike Alexander’s.74 Similarly, even if the 220s were not as tranquil as Herodian makes out, they must have seemed quite a tame era to people living in the 240s and 250s.75 Certainly Alexander’s reputation in the mainstream upper-class tradition must have been considerably better than Commodus’. However, when he makes a speech to his troops before setting out to his Persian war, the similarities with Commodus are marked. It is true that when Alexander makes his speech, he is not an unknown quantity. He has been emperor for at least ten years, and Herodian has given us a sketch of his character. However, that sketch has given us no real clue how he will perform in a military setting except that, like Commodus, an 73

74 75

This idealization is most clearly seen in the long HA life of Alexander, for which see BertrandDagenbach 1990. The KG tradition is broadly favorable (Victor 24; Epit. Caes. 24; Eutr. 8.23), and Victor (24.8–11) does look on Alexander as a watershed, the last good emperor for a long time, but their portrait never quite reaches the HA’s level. Zosimus (1.11.2–13.2) lays considerably more stress on the internal crises of the reign, and makes no mention of the Persian expedition. Alexander was divinized by the new regime shortly after the death of Maximinus; see Loriot 1975, 729. Dio’s picture is considerably darker (80.[80].1–5 [Xiph.]), but we have to consider Herodian’s portrait as within the bounds of verisimilitude. It is not something he could have written about the 210s or 230s.

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ominous note has been sounded. In Alexander’s case, his relationship with his mother is the possibly negative unknown variable. The first half of the speech deals with the reasons for breaking the long peace and making just war on the Persian “usurper” Ardashir.76 The second briefly recapitulates the themes Commodus mentioned: that Alexander claims the authority over the army that was exercised by his putative father and grandfather, Caracalla and Severus; and that the Romans will prevail because “we have discipline along with good order (εὔτακτον ἅμα τῷ κοσμίῳ), and we have always learned how to defeat them” (6.3.6–7). Alexander is no better a prophet than was his fictive great-uncle Commodus. The point about respecting ancestry will have a bitter ironic twist. In the end it does turn out to be Alexander’s ancestry that determines how the soldiers treat him. They get sick of his dependence on his mother and kill them both. As to the military aspect, all will certainly not go according to plan. In Herodian, generals in speeches invariably claim the enemy will not fight well, whereas enemies in the subsequent battle narratives generally do in fact fight well.77 This might simply be realism – pre-battle harangues in historiography are after all meant to encourage troops – but the problem with Alexander is more specific. The soldiers will mostly do their jobs, and the Persians will be at a disadvantage, but Alexander himself will fail miserably and cause the ruin of the expedition (6.5.5–10). The rhetoric of these speeches is based on reasonable expectations: sons will be like fathers; Roman armies perform well, barbarians do not; ordinary leadership combined with the customary high operating standards of Roman armies will result in easy victories. In Herodian’s not unusual view, this represents a system that has worked in the past for fighting barbarians and should have predictive value for the future. However, the system has lost that value, so much so that emperors cannot even use it to foresee their own behavior. One might imagine that Commodus, when he made that speech, thought he really would be like his father, and had not anticipated the weakness of his own resolve.78 Similarly, we are probably supposed to think 76 77

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Hdn. 6.3.3–5. Ardashir is portrayed as having murdered his “master” (δεσπότης) Artabanus. Cf. Hdn. 3.6.6–7 (Severus derides Albinus and British troops) vs. 3.7.2 (British troops at Battle of Lyon explicitly said to be just as brave as Pannonians); 4.14.7 (Macrinus says Parthians will fight poorly) vs. 4.15.5 (subsequent battle takes two extremely bloody days to reach no decisive result); 7.8.8 (Maximinus sure Italy will not fight). Severus is more accurate at 2.10.6–8 (Praetorians and Syrian troops no match for Danube army), as shown at the Battle of Cyzicus (3.2.2). For standard topoi of pre-battle speeches, see Keitel 1987. Immediately after the speech, at 1.6.1, we are told that Commodus did follow the advice of Marcus’ friends for a very short time, until he was led astray by certain anonymous members of his court retinue.

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that Alexander had every intention of performing well in battle when the time came. We are not dealing here with dishonesty, but misapprehension. The speakers are operating in the wrong world, and do not perceive the rules and conditions that actually govern the outcome of events.

Pertinax and Macrinus Commodus and Alexander are both still young when they make their speeches, and Herodian explicitly distrusts young rulers.79 Perhaps it is natural that they should misread situations, given their inexperience. One might expect their elders to do better. For Commodus, one can look to his immediate successor. Pertinax’ accession is the climax of a narrative section of extraordinary dramatic detail in which private dialogues are often rendered in direct discourse. After the assassination and the selection of Pertinax have taken place in private, the narrative moves back to the public sphere with two set speeches. One by the Praetorian prefect Laetus introduces the new emperor to the Praetorian Guard, while the other is Pertinax’ address to his former colleagues in the Senate. Both speeches misread the entire situation. Laetus’ short speech to his men begins with a decent lie. Commodus, “having lived in a way that you know well (βιοὺς δὲ ὡς οὐκ ἀγνοεῖτε), perished choked by a surfeit” (2.2.6–8). Now there is a new emperor and, given Pertinax’ military reputation, Laetus is sure that both Praetorians and frontier troops will support him enthusiastically. Pertinax is then taken to the palace, where he starts to reflect that the Senate may reject him for his low birth. Thus when he goes into the Senate a few hours later, he tries to get the ultra-aristocratic Acilius Glabrio to take his place, but Glabrio and the Senate insist that Pertinax is the right man. The new emperor then follows with a long speech full of banal generalities (2.3.5–10). Its point is that although he appears very popular now that everyone is happy to see Commodus go, this elation will fade, and he will have many enemies among people that had done well under his predecessor. The solution is for him and the Senate to join in aristocratic rule. Taken at face value, these speeches are extremely poor diagnoses of the situation. If Laetus thinks his men will support Pertinax because of his 79

Alexander would presumably have been in his mid-twenties, but Herodian’s “young” emperors (Commodus, Caracalla, Elagabalus, Alexander, Gordian III) seem to retain their adolescent qualities regardless of what chronological age they manage to attain. For Alexander, this is explicitly noted in a positive context at 6.1.6.

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military record and hard line toward barbarians, he is mistaken. Instead, Pertinax’ discipline chafes them badly. Similarly, Pertinax is worrying about entirely the wrong things. The Senate does not seem to care about his birth, and proves more than willing to assist in his reforms.80 We are explicitly told that Pertinax created a consensus in favor of himself in every sector of the population but one (2.4.4). That one is the Praetorian Guard. Neither Laetus nor Pertinax seems to have anticipated that the Praetorians would be a particular problem. One might suppose that when Pertinax refers in his speech to “those who have become used to enjoying themselves amid the senseless and profligate ways of tyranny” (2.3.9: οἵ τ’ εἰθισμένοι ταῖς τῆς τυρρανίδος ἀκρίτοις καὶ ἀφειδέσι μεγαλοδωρίαις ἐντρυφᾶν), he means the Praetorians especially, but the context is part of a very abstract meditation on how the resentment one incurs from those one has harmed is always greater than the gratitude that comes from those one has helped. None of the rest of Pertinax’ speech or subsequent actions suggest a particular wariness of the Praetorians. Pertinax’ treatment of the Guard is presented as a straightforward attempt to impose discipline leading to mutiny. His attempt to talk his assassins out of murdering him entirely misses the point. He insists, truthfully as far as Herodian is concerned, that he is not guilty of Commodus’ murder and that he will give the soldiers all that he is able to raise in an appropriate and fair fashion without resorting to forcible confiscation.81 His language here is very similar to that he used in his Senate speech, and he does not realize how 80

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Cf. Hdn. 2.4.8. In his account of Pertinax, Herodian for the first and only time in his history displays an interest in specifics of legislation about such things as land-clearance incentives and remission of customs duties (2.4.6–7). Dio’s account as preserved by Xiphilinus mentions none of these things, nor any other legislative acts. Even if Herodian is giving us details of Dio that have been entirely effaced by Xiphilinus, which seems unlikely, there is still the problem of why he chose to include them in his history and leave out such things as the Constitutio Antoniniana and the admission of non-Italians to the Praetorian Guard. Probably Herodian thinks of Pertinax as the only one of his emperors who had both the experience and benevolence necessary to legislate for the common good, and Herodian wants specifics to point up that fact. The specifics probably tell us more about the sorts of laws Herodian thought characteristic of a benevolent ruler than about Pertinax’ actual legislative record. Hdn. 2.5.8. Textual problems make it difficult to know exactly what Pertinax promises. The manuscripts read οὐδὲν ὑμῖν τῶν εὐπρεπῶς καἰ κατ’ ἀξίαν καὶ ἄνευ τοῦ βιάζεσθαί με ἢ ἁρπάζειν ἐνδεήσει, with nothing to correspond to the τῶν. Mendelssohn 1883 prints a lacuna after ἁρπάζειν. My paraphrase above follows Lucarini 2005, who suggests πορισθέντων, which gives much the same sense as the δοθῆναι δυναμένων that is printed by Stavenhagen 1922 after the conjecture of Schwarz. Whittaker 1969, on the other hand, prints there Irmisch’s supplement ἐπιθυμουμένων, based on Politian’s quod concupiveritis. Here there is a difference in sense, since in Whittaker’s version Pertinax is the object of βιάζεσθαί and ἁρπάζειν, and is asking the soldiers not to do violence to him, while for Lucarini and Stavenhagen he is the subject and is asking that they not make him do violence to the civilian population. Lucarini points to the numerous parallels of vocabulary between this passage and Pertinax’ speech to the Senate at 2.3.9, where he is definitely talking about government exactions from

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irrelevant his current audience finds his ideas of what is appropriate and fair.82 Both Laetus and Pertinax assume that, for good or for ill, everyone in the empire whose opinion matters will react the same way to a given situation. Laetus thinks all soldiers respect people who defeat barbarians, while Pertinax thinks everyone is interested in just revenge and just reward. Neither seems to realize he is living in a fragmented society where different groups have very different ideas of what a ruler should be doing and will act accordingly.83 There is little evidence that the characters get any more intelligent in this respect as the history goes on. A good parallel to Pertinax is Macrinus, another experienced, mature man. Like Pertinax, his accession is marked by two speeches, the first to the troops and the second, this time in the form of a letter, to the Senate. The first is mainly notable for its false prediction of the outcome of a battle with the Parthians. Macrinus claims that Roman discipline will win the day, if they “fight with the good courage as for Romans is fitting and customary.” In fact, what makes Artabanus go away, after considerable bloodletting, is a letter from Macrinus telling him that Caracalla, by whom the Parthian king had been personally insulted, is dead.84 According to Herodian, Macrinus saw that the Parthians were fighting much harder than usual, and deduced that it must be because of the king’s personal ire. The second speech is more interesting. Macrinus claims at length that he is qualified for the highest office, and that everyone will recall how mild he was as Praetorian prefect. He also asserts the claims of talent over heredity, since “the gifts of chance fall even on the unworthy, while excellence of the soul (ἡ δὲ τῆς ψυχῆς ἀρετὴ) bestows on each man his individual reputation.”85 He cites Pertinax and, less plausibly, Marcus Aurelius as his predecessors in rising from obscurity, and as his models for “aristocratic” rule.86

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civilians, and where he uses the verb πορίζω. This is not decisive evidence in favor of Lucarini’s specific emendation, but it is strong support for his and Schwarz’ interpretation of the sense as against Whittaker’s. The parallel passage is 2.3.9, as noticed by Lucarini 2005, ad 2.5.8. In that passage, Pertinax speaks of collecting taxes κατ’ ἀξίαν, and uses the phrase ἁρπάζειν καὶ βιάζεσθαί to refer to excessive taxation. Zimmermann 1999e, 150–65 lays great stress on the correspondence between the characteristics of Pertinax and those of the idealized Marcus Aurelius. It is certainly true that Pertinax does have many features of an idealized monarch, but this only goes to indicate the irrelevance of such ideals in the context of the post-Marcus empire. No matter how attractive Pertinax’ ethical characteristics may be, they cannot be considered in isolation from the fact he that could not keep his throne for more than three months. Hdn. 4.14.4–8 (speech to troops); 4.15.6–9 (letter to Artabanus). Hdn. 5.1. For consideration of the speech, see Marasco 1998, 2865–7. For Herodian, ἀριστοκρατία does not refer to noble birth as such, but rather to a political arrangement in which an emperor governs in partnership with the elite. He uses it to refer to the actual governing styles of Pertinax (2.3.10) and Alexander (6.1.2), as well as that which Severus seemed to promise but never delivered (2.14.3). The historian is clearly in favor of such an arrangement in principle, but lays far less emphasis on its benefits than on the failure of all who attempt to practice it.

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The claim as to his background, although made in conventional terms, should worry readers even before they read the rest of Macrinus’ reign. All we have been told about Macrinus is that he was a good lawyer and that his luxurious clothes and dainty living sat ill with Caracalla, who preferred a pose of military austerity (4.12.1–2). In addition, his idea that being Praetorian prefect qualifies one for the throne is strange, given that the internal audience is the Senate. It betrays the thinking of a civilian administrator, but also shows Macrinus’ delusion that that thinking is universally shared. The short account of Macrinus’ reign shows him falling well short of his fine words and correct models. Herodian says he “wasted time in Antioch cultivating a beard, walking about needlessly and slowly and speaking very slowly and laboriously to those who came to him, so that often he was not heard because his voice was so low” (5.2.3). All this is supposed to be in imitation of Marcus, but the resemblance is belied by his luxurious lifestyle. The soldiers particularly resent his mode of life because they have to make do with reduced rations and want to go home from the frontier (5.2.5–6). It comes as no surprise that Macrinus is killed, but the soldiers’ choice of successor is a bitter comment on Macrinus’ speech. Elagabalus has no qualifications or experience, and his vices will in fact be worse than Macrinus’. His sole claim is his spurious royal blood. Macrinus’ sentiments were correct enough, but he was wrong to imagine that events were governed by a set of moral principles shared by the whole empire. One segment of that empire was in control at the time, and its principles were quite different. Such examples are very much the rule rather than the exception. Almost every speech in Herodian follows some similar pattern. Pescennius Niger’s speech to his troops and the people of Antioch mentions the Romans “continually crying out and begging me” to save the state, but nowhere in the subsequent account of Niger does this alleged popular consensus affect any events.87 Caracalla’s speech to the Senate after the murder of his brother is quixotic. It is the only speech in Herodian to make significant use of historical examples, but they are inappropriate ones: Romulus, Nero, Domitian and perhaps Tiberius appear as cases of justified fratricide.88 While Caracalla’s speech is ill calculated to convince, it is also

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Hdn. 2.8.1–5. Herodian does allude to the Roman people’s favorable attitude to Niger (2.7.3), but not to any practical effect of it. Hdn. 4.5.2–7. The manuscripts, after mentioning Remus’ murder, go on to list fratricides and victims as follows: σιγῶ Γερμανικὸν τὸν Νέρωνος καὶ Τίτον τὸν Δομετιανοῦ. This is how Lucarini 2005 leaves the text, but since the adopted brother killed by Nero is usually called Britannicus rather than

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aimed at an audience that is largely irrelevant. There is nothing the Senate can do at this stage no matter what it thinks. Generally, the rhetoric of Herodian’s speeches is distinctively Antonine. Either it assumes a unified audience sharing in the old imperial consensus or, as in the speeches of Severus and Maximinus to the Pannonian army, it assumes a set of stereotyped relationships that no longer obtain. We saw earlier in this chapter that in Herodian’s Roman Empire, the old fixed geographical hierarchy no longer exists. Neither do the old social relationships. It is no longer true that a sovereign can communicate his virtues downward, as Marcus did. Events are now driven by a series of players all acting in isolation and for themselves: the emperor, the Praetorians, the frontier armies, the urban plebs, the courtiers and so forth.89 Of these, the army is probably on balance the most powerful, but it cannot serve as a focal point for unity. Successful rhetoric is based on a shared sense of reality between the speaker and the audience. In Herodian, it is very difficult for one main player to address another in a mutually comprehensible way, and even when this does happen, the players involved are generally not in a position to bring about the desired actions. Rhetoric as a unifying and effectual force no longer exists.

Herodian’s elusive narrator We have already noted how little information Herodian provides us with about himself. Frustrating as this reticence is for moderns who would like to assign him at least a geographical origin or social class, it is a key part of his narrative strategy. Both Dio and Philostratus were explicitly writing narratives centered on people like themselves, and so they needed to establish narrative personae that made it clear what they themselves were like. They thus emerge from their works as strong personalities about whom we feel we

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Germanicus, Whittaker 1969 prints Sylburg’s addition of τὸν Τιβερίου, Βρεττανικὸν after Γερμανικὸν, meaning that Tiberius killed his brother Drusus Germanicus and that Nero killed Britannicus. This might rescue Herodian’s accuracy, but it is a stretch. There is no tradition elsewhere of Tiberius killing his brother, and most literary references to that brother do not refer to him as “Germanicus” (PIR2 C857). This is not much more likely than the confusion of Germanicus with Britannicus. In any case, given the vagaries of Julio-Claudian nomenclature, it is impossible to know whether one is correcting the manuscript or the author. It is the only instance in Herodian of a direct speech mentioning a historical character from before Antonine times. Marcus Aurelius does think of a series of Hellenistic tyrants and bad Roman emperors in a sort of interior monologue in indirect discourse at 1.3.2–4. Herodian may be emulating in a different context the speech in Dio 76.[75].8.1 (Xiph.), where Severus uses Marius and Sulla to justify his repressive actions after Albinus’ defeat. For characterization of the several parties, see Marasco 1998, 2857–63; Zimmermann 1999d; De Blois 2003.

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know quite a lot.90 Herodian, by contrast, is a self-effacing narrator who seldom intervenes or gives us any hint of his personality.91 His few observations about himself are too isolated to build up a convincing composite portrait. Even Herodian’s preface, where one would naturally expect him to talk about himself, omits to mention so much as the author’s name. This is not simply lack of technical resource or imagination. For Herodian, elusiveness is an object in itself, just as for Dio and Philostratus, a strong narrative personality was essential to their argumentative strategies. Unlike Dio and Philostratus, Herodian does not claim to be making a daring, counterintuitive rhetorical case. Rather he is trying to describe vividly and pointedly a world that is deceptively similar to that elsewhere perceived by his audience, but which is in fact incoherent and not subject to the axioms and rules his audience would expect to see operating in a conventional work of history. A vague narrative personality serves his rhetorical purposes well. It establishes his formal orthodoxy, since readers would have seen, both in his preface and in his restraint in the narrative itself, a bow to Thucydides and to the notion of the historian’s impartiality as laid out by Lucian.92 Furthermore, it underlines the basic negativity of his worldview by refusing to associate the author with any segment of that world. Dio’s first axiom in his contemporary history was that the senatorial point of view was the only one from which history could properly be grasped, and his main rhetorical objective was to identify himself as fully as possible with that viewpoint. Philostratus turns the world of Hellenic cultural performance into a position from which to construct narratives that embrace the whole Roman Empire. For Herodian, no such fixed points exist. People of different geographical locations and social classes cannot understand or deal with the relationships between social groups other than their own. As such, for Herodian to identify himself with any one geographical or social position would be poor narrative strategy. If he were a senator, that perspective would permanently cloud his judgement, as in his narrative it clouds Pertinax’s. If he were from Syria, he could never properly understand what goes on in Rome, and vice versa. Any positive characteristics at all would be compromising. The absence of such characteristics allows Herodian to tell stories 90

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Thus both Dio and Philostratus have been the subject of monographs that attempt at length to reconstruct their biographies, respectively Millar 1964, 4–27 and Anderson 1986, 1–22, and to make inferences about their works from those biographical data. See Hidber 2004b for an overview of Herodian’s narrative practices. For the appeal to impartiality generally and Thucydides in particular, see Hidber 2004b, 201–3, although the idea of a “completely independent and almost anonymous civil servant” is anachronistic. For Lucian on the point, see Avenarius 1956, 52–4; Luce 1989, 20–1.

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that Dio and Philostratus could not have told, in ways that those authors could not have told them. Once a narrator establishes a personality, readers inevitably develop expectations as to what that narrator knows and does not know, and about how that narrator will share that knowledge. We expect Dio to tell us about what is going on in the Senate or on public ceremonial occasions, and we trust him when he does so. On the other hand, we also know that he is excluded from the emperors’ private sphere, and that anything he tells us about goings-on there is hearsay at best.93 Herodian, by contrast, can at times ignore all informational limitations, to the extent of knowing characters’ private thoughts, without offending traditional ideas of verisimilitude.94 Skeptical readers may suspect that Herodian cannot possibly know these things, but he gives them no way to confirm those suspicions by interrogating the narrator. More importantly, he allows, indeed invites, non-skeptical readers to ignore informational questions altogether. The effect of this different narrative personality can be seen in the different ways that Dio and Herodian narrate the murder of Commodus and the subsequent ascent of Pertinax to the throne. The two authors differ somewhat as to the factual details of the murder, but follow a similar skeleton of events regarding the immediate aftermath.95 However, their accounts are fundamentally different stories, due to the choices of emphasis and focalization that each author makes. Dio, as best we can judge from Xiphilinus, appears to have three main purposes: to make clear the significance of the events for 93

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Dio is clearly conscious of his exclusion and sometimes uses it to emphasize the sinister nature of the events transpiring behind closed doors, even though he is generally able to find out what goes on. Cf. Dio 77.[76].1.2 (Plautilla’s dowry and eunuchs) and 78.[77].17.3–4 (Caracalla carouses and rides chariots behind closed doors while senators wait outside). The historical Dio may of course have known more than he explicitly tells us, but as a narrator he displays a palpable sense that too much is going on outside of his senatorial field of vision. For examples see Hidber 2004b, 206–7. There are counterexamples where Herodian explicitly does not know things, for example the reason that Alexander fails to advance according to plan on the Persian campaign (6.5.9). For the actual murder, see Dio 73.[72].22 (Xiph.) ≈ Hdn. 1.16–17; for the aftermath, see Dio 74.[73].1 (Xiph.) ≈ Hdn. 2.1–3. The sequence of the aftermath-accounts is: Pertinax is informed of the murder at home; he doubts; he is convinced; he goes to the Praetorian Camp where there is a speech to the soldiers; Pertinax speaks in the Senate. For comparison, see Hohl 1954, 30–2; 1956, 3–17. Kolb 1972, 38–47 notes parallels between Herodian’s account of the death of Commodus and Dio’s narrative of the murder of Domitian (67.15.3–4) as preserved by Xiphilinus. The similarities are undeniable, and it is entirely possible that Herodian, noting the more general parallels between the Domitian–Nerva and Commodus–Pertinax successions, consulted Dio and found the detail of the child finding the tablets too good to omit. However, it is unlikely that, even in its full form, Dio’s account of Domitian’s murder included the kind of focalizing and internal dialogue that we see in Herodian. It is typical of Dio’s narrative personality that he prefaces his entire account of the conspiracy with “the way I heard it” (ἤκουσα δὲ ἔγωγε), thus placing informational problems in the foreground even while asserting his superior ability to overcome them.

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his greater historical scheme; to commemorate an emperor, Pertinax, that he admired and identified with; and to convey the sense of joy and liberation that people in general and senators in particular felt at the fall of a tyrant and the rise of a person like themselves. Thus we get a formal obituary notice that Commodus was the last of the genuine Aurelii (73.[72].22.6 [Xiph.]); the much-discussed methodological excursus in which Dio talks about his reasons for writing history (73.[72].23 [Xiph.]); and Dio’s personal recollection of the one and only time he saw Claudius Pompeianus in the Senate (74.[73].3.2 [EV]). The point of view is always that of Dio as analyst or witness, and we are made conscious that this is a story only he could tell. Herodian, by contrast, gives a narrowly focused melodramatic account that consists largely of the closed-door plotting of the main actors. The narrator knows their private conversations and even their inner thoughts. Our point of view shifts constantly, from Marcia to Commodus and back again, with interludes of Eclectus and Laetus, and later to Pertinax.96 Instead of a great moment of mass liberation, what we mostly see is the personal circumstances that drove a set of not very admirable courtiers to select such a good man as emperor. Dio had picked his point of view based on considerations external to the plot itself, namely his conviction of the validity of his own experience and that of the Senate more generally. Herodian chooses Marcia’s viewpoint because of her immediate relevance to the plot. If Dio is looking for the one best seat in the house, Herodian prefers a mobile camera.97 As one would expect, the technique of looking through the eyes of main characters lends a dramatic air to the proceedings. Herodian’s narrative would lend itself much better than Dio’s to a staged adaptation or novel. This kind of total or virtual focalization through main characters turns out to be Herodian’s main form of commenting on the story. His judgements on emperors are more often than not colored by the viewpoints of other principal characters, viewpoints that Herodian may or may not endorse.98 Much of the criticism of Elagabalus is done though the eyes of Julia Maesa, because it is she that will bring about her grandson’s downfall.99 Herodian criticizes Macrinus in propria persona for his luxurious tastes 96

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There is a brief intervention by the narrator to mark the end of Book 1 and the start of Book 2, and a passage on popular elation (2.2.3–5) that focuses entirely on the anonymous mob, as opposed to senators. Herodian’s narrative omniscience is thus limited in that he does not know things his focalizers do not know, such as why it was that Commodus’ guards did not interfere with the slaves who carried his body out of the palace (2.1.2). For other examples of this practice in Herodian, see Hidber 2006, 148–9. 99 E.g. Hdn. 5.7.1–3.

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(5.2.4–6), but in fact he is repeating the characterization that Caracalla had made earlier in the history (4.12.1–2). When Herodian caricatures Macrinus’ slow philosophical perambulations and his mumbling, these are surely the aspects of his personality that would have annoyed the impulsive, demonstrative Caracalla. They must similarly have struck the soldiers who assassinated Macrinus in favor of restoring Caracalla’s dynasty. As with Marcia, Herodian’s focalizers are not characters with whom he shares some external characteristic that would naturally make him identify with them; rather they are the actors who keep the plot moving. By so often yielding his authorial voice to them, Herodian stresses the fragmented nature of the world he is describing and the prevalence in it of misunderstanding and miscommunication. Herodian’s history describes a world in which rhetorical communication has lost the ability either to describe or to influence events. This situation evidently must have implications for his own narrative stance. It means that the relationships Herodian establishes between those events, himself and his audience will be very different from what we have seen in Philostratus and Dio. Those authors use their narrative personalities to create a particular kind of unity between events, narrator and audience. They both tell stories that make sense from a given point of view, and they use that coherence to persuade readers to acquiesce in the narrator’s worldview as a whole and define themselves accordingly. It does not matter so much whether Dio’s readers were previously disposed to accept a senatorial narrative, or whether they became so as a result of Dio’s rhetoric. In either case, if they accept Dio’s version of events, they are also accepting his personality and defining themselves as people who share his point of view, and want to watch history through the eyes of people like him and themselves. Herodian does not want readers to think they are like him, at least in their external social or cultural characteristics. He is not, as far as readers know, a senator or a sophist or really anything else, and readers’ proper reception of his text will not depend on whether they fit or identify with any of those descriptions. For Dio and Philostratus, the audience was meant to identify with a given type of character, and to use that identification as a basis for making the narrative world (and possibly thus the external world) coherent. Herodian has no desire to make either the narrative or the external world seem coherent. When he gives his audience characters to identify with, it is his focalizers. These are not generally people with whom the audience shares anything external. They include royal mistresses, tyrants and grandmothers plotting to do away with their own descendants. Their shared characteristic is internal to the plot: they are the people who had the best view of a given

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event, that is, the view that will give the most pleasure to those readers who share it. To the extent that this creates a bond between Herodian and his audience, it also stems from internal factors, from his having constructed his plot and narrative in such an entertaining fashion. This audience identification with so many different characters in different contexts, however, precludes any identification with their environment as a whole. One enters and leaves Herodian’s world through individual characters, but one never continuously inhabits it. It is not a coherent environment in which readers can find a stable place, but a fragmented one from which the narrator actively tries to distance both himself and the reader. The role of the actual events in this relationship is complicated. On the one hand, Herodian claims them as his and his readers’ shared experience, but on the other, he is extremely vague about how he and his readers have experienced them. Altogether, his perspective is strikingly detached. His history reads not as an account of what “you and I” experienced, but of what a series of third parties did in an environment quite alien from “yours and mine.”100 This alienation is achieved by both negative and positive techniques. The former, as already observed, consist above all of the lack of distinguishing characteristics in Herodian’s narrator. By refusing to tell a story that is about himself and people like him, he prevents readers from putting themselves in his shoes and interpreting his work as being about themselves and people like them. The positive techniques are seen chiefly in the tone Herodian takes in explaining the world he describes. His voice is that of a well-informed outsider speaking to an audience about whose characteristics and level of knowledge he is uncertain. Thus the narrator often feels compelled to provide glosses and explanations of things that many but not all of his audience might be expected to know. Given Herodian’s subject matter, a great many of these things naturally relate to the higher political workings and traditions of the Roman state and, less predictably, its religious apparatus.101 They range 100

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Herodian does occasionally use the first-person plural, but it is always to describe public reaction to strange one-off events that stand outside of the main political-historical narrative. See 1.15.4 (Commodus brings exotic circus animals to Rome); 3.8.10 (lots of public entertainments during reign of Septimius Severus); 4.8.2 (odd split-faced portraits of Caracalla as Alexander the Great). Lists of explanations of Roman terms are given by Whittaker 1969, 1.xxix n. and Sidebottom 1998, 2823n. Both lists are somewhat exaggerated. In many instances the given passage is not phrased as an explanation for the ignorant, but rather as a fact contributing to some larger argument (1.12.1; 2.11.3– 5; 3.7.8; 3.9.1; 5.2.4; 7.7.1; 7.12.7) or as notification that an action already known to be customary in fact took place as expected (1.5.1; 1.17.10; 2.14.2; 6.1.4; 6.3.2; 7.6.8). In several other instances the phenomena are specific to the city of Rome and might well really have been unfamiliar to provincials from either half of the empire (1.14.2–3; 1.15.9; 2.12.4; 4.2.2; 5.5.7; 7.6.2; 7.6.5; 7.11.3; 7.12.5).

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from the obvious, such as that the troops attached to the emperor are called Praetorians, to the more recondite, such as the existence and use of the Altar of Victory in the Senate-House.102 Modern readers, struck by the basic level of some of these explanations, seldom take them at face value. It is very difficult to believe that a large proportion of Herodian’s audience were ignorant of these things and that he genuinely meant to inform them.103 In addition, Herodian is quite inconsistent. Although on one occasion he goes so far as to gloss the Latin word Africanus (7.5.8), he elsewhere (1.12.2) gives an etymology for the town of Laurentum that would make no sense if one did not know that the Latin for δάφνη was laurus. In Book 7 (7.10.2), he feels compelled to explain what the temple of Capitoline Jupiter is, even though he has already mentioned it with no explanation in Book 4 (4.8.1). Rather than try to construct a single knowledge set for Herodian’s ideal reader, it is best to read the explanations as a distancing device. Instead of using shared knowledge to make his audience identify with the story he is telling, Herodian on occasion uses the possibility of their ignorance to prevent such identification. Many readers may happen to know these things, but that is very different from assuming that they are members of a coherent and unified culture who are expected to know this information because it is basic to who they are.104 The explanations, along with Herodian’s insistent use of the third person in referring to “the Romans,” serve to reinforce the impression that neither narrator nor audience is really part of the highly dysfunctional world being described. It is a misreading, however, to see this alienation in terms of Greek– Roman cultural dichotomy. Herodian’s conscious distancing of himself and his audience from things Roman has sometimes led to the unjustified inference that he wants to make a corresponding link with all things Greek.105 While we can assume that most of Herodian’s actual readers thought of themselves as in some sense Hellenes, he does not bring that out in his 102

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See Hdn. 5.4.8 (Praetorians) and 5.5.7; 7.11.3 (Altar of Victory). Basic as the first example sounds, the transliterated form πραιτωριανοὶ is found only once in extant Greek literature before Herodian (Acta Alex. 9.1). Herodian’s usual word for the Praetorians is δορυφόροι, but he uses πραιτωριανοὶ again, repeatedly in 8.8.5–7, the first time qualified with καλουμένους. Whittaker 1969, 1.xxx–xxxi and Sidebottom 1998, 2823–4 agree that information is not the primary intention of the explanations. The former characterizes them as literary embellishments akin to speeches, while the latter sees them as proposing to the reader a “collusive game” in which Greek inhabitants of the Roman Empire affect to be unfamiliar with Roman matters. See Zimmermann 1999a, 34 for a contrary thesis, that Herodian glosses religious details in order to increase general awareness of pagan culture amid the growing influence of Christianity. For Herodian’s viewpoint and audience as Greek, see Marasco 1998, 2908–10; Sidebottom 1998, 2823–6. Zimmermann 1999a, 33–4 and Hidber 2006, 16–9 favor a broad audience including Latin speakers. Many of Sidebottom’s specific points are well answered by Zimmermann 1999a, 31–3.

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rhetorical approach to his audience. Herodian’s text is, in its way, just as remarkably un-Greek as Dio’s. The explanations cited before are not generally coded as being for Greeks.106 Generally speaking, the distancing devices that Herodian applies to Rome are not complemented by anything that would promote a closer identification with Hellas. It is true that he writes in Greek, and assumes that some of his audience will not speak Latin, but that does not in itself constitute a claim of Hellenic identity. By Herodian’s time, the generic, slightly Atticizing Greek that he used was the primary literary language of a large elite, many of whose members would primarily have identified themselves as Syrian, Egyptian or, of course, Roman.107 Herodian’s systematic use of Greek equivalents for Roman political terminology, rather than of transliterations – Σέβαστος rather than Αὔγουστος, εὐπατρίδης rather than πατρίκιος, and so forth – is a common and linguistically unmarked practice for the period, and is unlikely to have registered with Herodian’s readers, whatever their first language.108 To present oneself 106

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The one apparent exception is at 1.11.1, where, at the start of a three-page digression on the Roman Magna Mater cult, the narrator says he is going into such detail “because of its being obscure to some Greeks” (διὰ τὴν παρ’ Ἑλλήνων τισὶν ἀγνωσίαν). This should not be generalized into a global statement about Herodian’s expected audience and their cultural status. The qualifying “some” calls into question the whole principle of knowledge mapping on to ethnic status, and the statement as a whole is an explanation of why the narrator is departing from his usual practice (the digression is among the longest and least relevant in an author who consciously avoids long digressions), and is surely to be read with some irony, as a subversion of the aesthetic assumptions current in the rest of the text. The content of the story is pertinent, since it deals with the Roman appropriation of a cult from the Hellenistic world, and touches on questions of Greek antiquarianism relating to the mythological significance of Pessinous. The story involves much obscuring of the Greek East/ Roman West boundary, since the Romans, as Aeneas’ heirs, claim kinship with the “Phrygians” of Pessinous, and the same location is associated with the “barbarian” practice of sacred castration. It may even be that the “some Greeks” does not refer to audience members at all, but to Greek antiquarian authors who related the mythological content without its connection to Rome. In any case, it is not coincidental that the one place Herodian appears to highlight this cultural binary is one where he departs from his usual practice to tell a story that in fact subverts the binary in question. At the end of the digression (1.11.5), Herodian formulates his audience a different way by characterizing the story as “something that those who are not experts on the Romans may find it not unpleasant to learn” (οὐκ ἄχαριν ἕξοντα γνῶσιν τοῖς τὰ Ῥωμαίων οὐκ ἀκριβοῦσιν). Photius (Bib. 99) considers Herodian a moderate Atticist, which for him is a good thing (τὴν φράσιν σαφὴς καὶ λαμπρὸς καὶ ἡδύς, καὶ λέξει χρώμενος σώφρονι, μήτε ὑπεραττικιζούσῃ καὶ τὴν ἔμφυτον ἐξυβριζούσῃ χάριν τοῦ συνήθους). Stein 1957, 119–21, seeing the glass as half empty, barely counts Herodian as an Atticist at all. Roques 1990, especially 68–71 documents the practice and insists that it would have been striking to Herodian’s readers (69). However, on Roques’ own evidence Herodian uses no Greekism that is not well attested in authors from Polybius to Cassius Dio. Roques’ assertion (70) that Herodian is more averse than other Greek authors to Latinisms is not supported by the examples he gives. It is true that Herodian never uses σενᾶτος, whereas Plutarch does, but Plutarch, in a far larger corpus, uses the term on only one occasion (Romul. 13.3, used twice in two lines), when transliteration is necessary to indicate a parallel etymology with γερουσία, and no other second- or third-century author does so at all. Similarly, Cassius Dio is just as prone as Herodian to avoiding Latinisms, except in contexts where he is glossing them, or when the Latin term conveys a distinction that he feels no Greek

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as a Hellene talking to other Hellenes required not only linguistic conformity, but explicit participation in all kinds of discourses over linguistic correctness and proper deployment of classical precedents and predecessors.109 In contrast even to Cassius Dio, Herodian does not comment at all on his own style, nor display any self-consciousness about the correctness of his Greek. Once one goes beyond the lexical level, there is little or no interpretatio graeca. Roman cultural and religious institutions are not explained in terms of Greek equivalents, nor is the reader assumed to be more familiar with the history and geography of the East than of the West.110 On the contrary, Herodian often displays his unwillingness to make any assumptions at all. Some of his readers may not realize quite how big a place Carthage is (7.6.1), but for others the same may be true of Antioch (2.7.9); even the narrator himself is a little unsure about Sirmium (7.2.9). Herodian’s only significant discussion of Greeks collectively is in the context of Severus’ and Niger’s war in Asia (3.2.8). The historian notes that Greek cities chose sides not based on their feelings about the claimants, but according to local rivalries, and adds that this “disease of the Greeks” (πάθος Ἑλλήνων) goes back to antiquity and made them “easy prey for the Macedonians and slaves to the Romans” (Μακεδόσιν εὐάλωτα καὶ Ῥωμαίοις δοῦλα).111 The sketch is very detached, displays no nostalgia and does not equivalent would cover. The one major exception is that Dio does use Αὔγουστος exclusively, whereas Herodian always uses Σέβαστος. This is likely because for Dio, given his subject matter, “Augustus” is first introduced as an individual’s name, and as such to be transliterated, whereas for Herodian it is always an official title, and thus to be translated. For the counter-example of πραιτωριανοὶ, see above. For Dio’s practices, see Freyburger-Galland 1997, 215–19. 109 The fundamental treatment of the politics of language in second-and-third-century Greek literature is that of Swain 1996, especially 17–64. Swain argues persuasively for the cultural-political implications of the emergence of Atticizing Greek as a dominant form of that language in many genres (summarized at 409–13), and tends to exclude the possibility that an author could choose to Atticize without thereby making a strong statement of Hellenic cultural identity. However, Swain’s strongest arguments are based not on the fact of using Attic, but on the meta-literary discourse of talking about using Attic. Even explicitly professed Atticists vary considerably in their actual practice, and there are a great many authors who, like Herodian, Atticize to some degree without engaging in Atticist discourse, and one should not make the direct link between actual usage and ideology. For a survey of the theory of Atticism alongside its practice, see now Kim 2010b. 110 One might contrast Philostratus’ practice at VA 3.17.1 and 6.26, where places in India and Egypt are compared to equivalents in Boeotia and Asia Minor. Greek comparanda also abound in Plutarch’s Roman Questions (e.g. 264F; 267B; 273D; 274B; 286D; 291C), which often deal with the same sorts of religious practices as Herodian’s glosses. Whittaker 1969, 1.xxiv claims a counter-example in Herodian’s reference at 2.11.8 to the Alps as οἷα οὐκ ἄλλα ἐν τῇ καθ’ ἡμᾶς γῇ, which Whittaker translates as “far bigger than anything in our part of the world,” meaning that “our part of the world” is the eastern Mediterranean. However, it is if anything more natural to translate “far bigger than any other mountains in our part of the world,” i.e. our part of the world is the empire, which includes the Alps, but there may be bigger mountains (the Caucasus?) in barbarian regions. 111 Elsewhere in Herodian, cognates of δοῦλος are used to refer to Roman domination, but without any clear emotive content or narratorial identification with the “enslaved” party. On two occasions it

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cite any names that a Greek would have found evocative. Its third-person tone is as decided as when Herodian is talking about Romans, Syrians or Pannonians. The passage contains nothing that could not have been written by an Italian.112 The Roman–Greek cultural divide is not a defining factor in how Herodian portrays the empire. This can be seen vividly in the fantastic scene where Caracalla and Geta propose to divide their patrimony. Rather than foreseeing the establishment of separate Greek and Latin empires, Herodian imagines the divide placed at the Bosphorus. This would of course mean that the “old Greek” heartland would be in the Western zone under Caracalla, while most of the rest of the Hellenistic world was under Geta, but Herodian neither notices that fact nor comments at all on the cultural implications of the fissure.113 To look at the point from a different angle, it is notable that the two ancient authors whom we can most clearly identify as readers of Herodian both wrote in Latin: Ammianus Marcellinus and the Historia Augusta.114 The fact that the former of these writers identifies himself as a Graecus only serves as a warning against reading the culture of the high and late empire in terms of simple polarities. Rather than being polarized, Herodian’s world has gone from a unified system to one

112

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114

refers to non-Greco-Roman peoples fighting in the Roman army: see 2.9.12 (Transdanubians fighting for Severus against Julianus); 7.2.2 (Parthian prisoners in Maximinus’ army). For the use of slaverylanguage in imperial literature by provincials, see now Lavan 2013, with specific reference to Herodian at 140–1. He argues persuasively that in Greek such language is in fact most common in those authors (Cassius Dio above all) who show the closest identification with the Roman Empire. As notably by the Emperor Nero in granting free status to the Greek provinces (ILS 8794 ἢ γἀρ ἀλλοτρίοις ἢ ἀλλήλοις ἐδουλεύσατε). Appian (praef. 8) also mentions rivalry as a cause for loss of Greek freedom, but in his case it is only the Macedonians who are mentioned as captors, and the point of his argument is that the free Greek city-states never approached the Roman Empire in size or power. Marasco 1998, 2871–3 is sensibly critical of earlier attempts to read the division scene as anticipating the real cultural and political bifurcation of the empire in the following century. The location is probably chosen purely for reasons of physical geography, but if it represents a cultural fissure, then it is in the context of the Greek/Macedonian–Persian conflicts of the fifth and fourth centuries, which Caracalla will go on to replicate in his “Alexander phase.” To the extent Herodian divides the world into “us cultured people” and “those barbarians,” then the former explicitly includes both Greek and Latin culture. This becomes most evident in the contrast between Elagabalus and Alexander, for which see 5.7.5, also 5.5.4. For late antique reception of Herodian generally, see Hidber 2006, 20–8. Ammianus’ surviving text does not mention Herodian by name, but the case for a relationship has now been cogently restated by Kelly 2008, 231–40 on the basis of some very close parallels of content (Amm. 31.10.19 ≈ Hdn. 1.15.6; Amm. 22.9.5–6 ≈ Hdn. 1.11.1–4; Amm. 26.6.16–17 ≈ Hdn. 2.6.13). For a dissenting opinion, see Brok 1977. HA explicitly mentions Herodian at several points (Clod. Alb. 1.2, 12.14; Diad. 2.5; Alex. 52.2; 57.3; Mxmn. 13.4; Max-Bal. 15.3, 16.6; Trig. 32.1) and clearly relies heavily on him for the life of Maximinus especially (see Mommsen 1890, 262–70 and Lippold 1991, 59–78 for extensive parallels). Kolb 1972, passim goes too far in arguing that Herodian and Dio are virtually the sole sources for HA from 180 to 238. For convincing counter-arguments, see Barnes 1978, 79–89.

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fragmented along all kinds of social, geographic and cultural lines such that he has very little shared cultural ground on which to approach his audience. Writing history in this way has certain drawbacks, the main one being that Herodian finds his possibilities for advocacy very circumscribed. Dio and Philostratus take on the personalities they do for good reason. It gives them the authority to advocate positions, and opens rhetorical pathways down which to lead readers toward new ways of imagining what the GrecoRoman world was or might be. It allows a narrator to tell his readers that they are like him, and that the qualities he shares with them reflect what is most essential and right about the world they live in. Herodian cannot do this. After all, his readers do not really know anything about him, and he refuses to identify for them any qualities that might serve as a center for a positive message. He can point out a great deal that is wrong with the empire, but his deconstructive technique leaves us little idea of what might be made right. To be sure, Herodian is for some things and against others, but on the whole the list is very generic, and one should hesitate to infer from it an ideology. He thinks it is good for emperors to be brave and bad for soldiers to be greedy; few of his audience are likely to have disagreed.115 He believes it is better for emperors to be educated than not, but has little to say about what they should learn or how it helps them confront the problems of the age. Marcus Aurelius was clearly an ideal emperor, but the characteristics that make him so are so broadly defined – “he cared for all virtues” (1.2.3 ἀρετῆς δὲ πάσης ἔμελεν αὐτῷ) – that no specific lesson emerges from the portrait.116 In any case, it is unclear how even an emperor of Marcus’ superhuman excellence could help the situation, since the post-Marcus 115 116

For an exhaustive analysis of virtues and vices in Herodian, see Kühn-Chen 2002, 266–93, who looks at them in terms of how they work causally rather than whether Herodian is for or against them. In full, the quoted sentence runs ἀρετῆς δὲ πάσης ἔμελεν αὐτῷ, λόγων τε ἀρχαιότητος ἦν ἐραστής, ὡς μηδενὸς μήτε Ῥωμαίων μήτε Ἑλλήνων ἀπολείπεσθαι· δηλοῖ δὲ ὅσα καὶ ἐς ἡμᾶς ἦλθεν ἢ λεχθέντα πρὸς αὐτοῦ ἢ γραφέντα. Sidebottom 1998, 2805 uses it as the basis for his argument that Herodian views all virtues as essentially a function of paideia. Sidebottom reads this sentence as saying that the logoi “underpin” the aretē, but the causality might equally be the other way round, or the love of literature might be a subset of the aretē, emphasized less for its importance than for its exceptionality. A few sentences later (1.2.4), Herodian notes that Marcus was the only emperor who gave proof of his philosophia by his bios as opposed to his logoi, again suggesting aretē as a cause rather than an effect. Cf. Dio’s statement (72.[71].35.2 [EV]) that Marcus had a natural impulse toward virtue even before he began his philosophical education. More generally, it would not appear that, in the post-Marcus empire at any rate, paideia is capable of being transformed into skills actually required for being a successful emperor. Most notably, the ignorant Maximinus is genuinely competent at fighting barbarians, where the properly educated Alexander was not. For a critique of the exclusive focus on paideia, see Hidber 2006, 236–7. The argument from paideia is reformulated somewhat in Sidebottom 2007, 80–1, to include conceptions of physis and experience.

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empire lacks the coherence that allowed that emperor to communicate his virtues to his subjects. The two emperors who most resemble him are Pertinax and Alexander, and they both fail ingloriously, in part through making assumptions better suited to Marcus’ world than their own. However great Marcus’ virtues might be, Herodian does not suppose that any emperor can by imitating them restore the empire to the conditions that existed in his time.117 Herodian has surrendered a great many of the traditional functions of ancient historiography. His history does not aim to offer either practical advice for the statesman or morally uplifting exempla for the general public. But in the world as Herodian describes it, where rhetoric has lost its function, pragmatic and exemplary history both seem useless. What would the political experience of a Polybius, or a Dio, mean when such experienced men as Pertinax and Macrinus so persistently misunderstand the world around them? How can moral exempla have value if the behavior one sees as morally correct no longer yields the same outcomes it used to? Neither, as far as one can see, is Herodian interested in diagnosing the causes of political breakdown, but only in detailing its symptoms. If one reads the history as a straightforward comment on the author’s own society, it is a very pessimistic one. Even if there are no jeremiads, the sense of profound, almost absurd, dysfunctionality is powerful enough to do the work of explicit complaints. It is a history of an author who feels isolated and powerless, not simply because he personally cannot affect events, but because he does not see how events can be positively affected or even understood by anyone at all. Unlike Dio and Philostratus, Herodian’s narrative is not an attempt to enhance the significance in the world outside the text of the author and people like him. It is, however, a powerful act of narration in itself, and if Herodian is asserting his significance anywhere, it is in the role of storyteller. However chaotic the world described in Herodian’s narrative may be, the narrative itself, as I have argued, is conspicuous for its self-contained neatness, its adherence to literary orthodoxy, the effortless omniscience of its narrator, and the entertainment it provides the reader. Rather than use any form of external authority to order the world, Herodian does so entirely 117

Extended arguments to the contrary have been made by Marasco 1998 and Zimmermann 1999e, 321–5; 1999a, esp. 41–2, both of whom see Herodian as setting forth a given set of virtues or principles that, if properly imitated or followed by emperors, will produce positive results for the empire as a whole. My disagreement with these readings stems less from any point of detail than with the overall logic they employ. It is clear, as Marasco and Zimmermann say, that Herodian often associates negative outcomes with his characters’ failure to display certain virtues, many of which are associated with Marcus. But, as I have argued above, it does not follow that if an emperor did display those virtues, that would be a sufficient condition for the return of the ideal state associated with Marcus.

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through his literary tools. It is as a storyteller that he is able to turn the misadventures of the Roman state into pleasure for his readers. Those readers, though increasingly alienated from the world of high politics, can share with Herodian a kind of power over the emperors and favorites, inasmuch as the readers can see them as objects of detached and entertaining observation, rather than as the forces that control the world the readers live in. Such pleasure exists perhaps in most contemporary historiography, but Herodian increases it by underscoring his own and his readers’ lack of personal involvement in this dysfunctional world, and telling the story of his own times as if it were the story of a long-ago crisis that he was reviewing in the tranquillity of better days. Herodian’s history, though in its content the most pessimistic of the works considered in this book, and the furthest removed in time from the Antonine age, makes perhaps the most thorough attempt to establish a connection with that time. Although he rejects all attempts by his emperors to emulate Marcus, and indeed powerfully emphasizes the unbreachable gulf between the two periods, he does claim himself to have emulated Arrian and his contemporaries, and thus to have reached back to a continuous literary tradition complementing the political tradition of which Marcus was a product. Rather than trying to argue in his history that the Severan world is or could still be Antonine, he shows that an Antonine author can still describe it, and thereby make his audience Antonine.

chapter 7

Conclusion: from “Severan” to “third-century”

A major aim of this book has been to integrate in some measure the cultural and political histories of the Severan era, and thus to contribute to an overall understanding of the period similar to what has emerged in recent years for the age of Augustus.1 A particular challenge in this respect is the apparent discrepancy between those two aspects of Severan history. The cultural realm is characterized by continuity with the Antonine period and incremental change, often in directions already suggested during the earlier period. In the political sphere, on the other hand, there is an instability that is all the more notable for being in such sharp contrast with the tranquillity that was the self-conscious trademark of the previous dynasty. These contrasts do not necessarily have to be reconciled. One might simply speak of the Severan age as one of political sound and fury that in the wider society signified nothing, or at least relatively little, to the great majority who were not directly and continuously involved in high politics. I have attempted to do otherwise, however, and to explore how political events changed people’s larger conceptions of the empire and their role in it. As suggested in Chapter 2, one promising approach is to explore the proliferation of narratives, starting with those put forth by the rulers themselves. After all, Roman emperors did not think of themselves as having no impact on the social and cultural landscape of their realm. They were always trying to expand the significance of their personalities and actions by portraying their ramifications into every corner of their subjects’ lives. In particular, in the years after Marcus, emperors needed to deploy narratives that could make their usually violent rises and falls comprehensible and positive within the wide range of discourses, political and otherwise, by which inhabitants of the empire understood change and continuity. There were many and varied ways of doing this. Commodus faced a political scene 1

In such works as Galinsky 1996; Wallace-Hadrill 2008 and now, from a Greek perspective, Spawforth 2012. See also the essays in Habinek and Schiesaro 1997 and Galinsky 2005.

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that was, thanks to his youth and personal inclinations, considerably less orderly and congenial to existing elites than what had existed under his father. He responded, creatively rather than wisely, by projecting into the wider society narratives of crisis in which he might play a savior figure, whether as an arena fighter or as the ubiquitous eponym of a new era. Severus also faced political chaos, but was anxious to be seen as its solution rather than its cause. As such, he tried to tap into wider social-cultural continuities by portraying himself as the adopted successor of Marcus and the agent of stability into the next generation. The permutations were many, none was entirely successful, but they all suggested ways in which the emperor’s various grades of subjects might understand the political scene in relation to the larger fabric of which they were part. The literary narratives examined in Chapters 3–6 are in a sense the reverse process. Emperors started with political circumstances that needed to be given significance in a cultural context, significance that would serve the political end of strengthening their hold on power. Our literary narratives begin with a cultural context, a version of the Roman Empire expressed as a narrative “world,” into which political change is to be incorporated and given meaning. That meaning is not meant to promote a political agenda in the narrow sense; instead, it is meant to act within discourse and to valorize certain types of people or cultural material, corresponding in various ways to the implied author and audience of the narrative. By constructing narrative worlds within which political change takes place, authors and readers can distinguish what are for them the key defining elements of their shared culture, and examine how those elements display change and continuity. Each of our narratives takes up a different element or set of elements (though the two Philostratean works evidently have much overlap in this respect) and considers it in relation especially to the one dominant political change of the recent past, namely the abrupt outbreak of political instability that characterized both the start of the new dynasty and its continuation. For each of them, those same events constitute a different kind of story affecting different aspects of their Roman world. In Dio’s version, the story is one of deep-seated decline, with some tragic elements centered around such figures as Pertinax. However, that story is only the latest stage of a grander narrative, and as such the recent change appears as one in a series of key epochs that Dio identifies and associates with the differing narrative modes identified in Chapter 3. These epochal differences coincide with political events, narrowly defined as the comings and goings of great men and dynasties, but their real meaning and significance lies on another level, that of politics more broadly defined as the

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definition and functioning of the governing elite. The events of history, the characters and deeds of dynasts and emperors, demonstrate the different ways in which various versions of the Roman system work, but the really significant movements from one version to the next cannot really be explained on the level of year-to-year historical events, and thus the current crisis is not to be solved by the heroic intervention of any single ruler. The Apollonius tells a rather more optimistic story, at least in its explicit content. It does not, it is true, directly address the current situation at all other than in its frame narrative. It does, however, tell a story with many analogues in readers’ contemporary experience, a story of tyranny and resistance. Commodus, Julianus, Niger, Albinus, Macrinus, Elagabalus and Maximinus were all decried as tyrants by at least some of their successors, and their erstwhile subjects were encouraged to see themselves as victims, perhaps active resisters, and their new rulers as saviors.2 In the Apollonius, this tyranny is located at a point of the past that had crucial significance for the existing dynasty. The emergence of the good ruler Trajan from the tyranny of Domitian remained the founding moment of the Antonine-Severan dynasty and a key watershed at which the favorably remembered past began.3 The notable difference for the Apollonius, however, is how this change relates to the persistence of Hellenic culture that is the defining element of the text’s narrative world. In the more standard version, tyranny is replaced by a heroic political figure who then establishes the order in which Greek culture, among other good things, can flourish. In this text, we instead see Apollonius himself as the heroic figure whose excellence is manifested through Greek paideia (notably in its religious aspect). It is this excellence that allows him to become a transformative figure and a focus of unity for all the empire’s inhabitants. He uses it to establish an order that consists not simply of the tyrant’s defeat and good government but also of the restoration of correct cultural practice and signification throughout the Greek world. However, that this model seems oddly restricted to the Flavian period, and the Apollonius’ frame narrative and implied relation to the narrative present, tends to call its optimism into question.

2

3

There is an odd resemblance, for instance, between Apollonius’ activities in Gaul on behalf of Vindex (VA 5.10) and the irresistible story in Dio (76.[75].5 [Xiph.]) of the grammaticus Numerianus who raises troops in Gaul to help Severus fight off Albinus. The narratives of the bandits Claudius (75.[74].2.4 [Xiph.]) and Bulla (77.[76].10 [Xiph.]) have something of the same flavor, given how the bandits are able to invert the dynamics of such staged rituals as trials and imperial salutations. For the continued resonance of Trajan into the third century, see Dmitriev 2004, 213–15.

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The Sophists also tells a story familiar from the contemporary political scene, this time one of continuity. On an explicit level, the text echoes Severus’ denial of dynastic rupture. Just as the Severans were grafted on to the Antonine family tree, so the contemporary intellectual scene can be traced back directly to a figure, Herodes Atticus, who is the fullest expression of the sophistic ethos and of the privileged Antonine past. Herodes, in turn, establishes continuity back into the even more privileged past of classical Athens, through an ostensibly constant sophistic art that has persisted through all of the intervening political upheavals. As with the Apollonius, the defining element of the Sophists’ world is an aspect of Greek paideia, and once again the causal relationship between that element and political change is not what one would expect. Rather than dynastic continuity ensuring good order and cultural continuity, it is the sophists who, thanks to Philostratus’ independent narrative of succession through Herodes, have the stronger claim to be the heirs of the Antonine era. If anything they impart that continuity to the Severan emperors by giving them the same supporting role in sophistic performance that their Antonine predecessors have played so well. There are indications, however, that the emperors will not be able to maintain their part of the desired continuity, and the narrative leaves us questioning the reality of a sophistic art that can transcend its political circumstances. Herodian’s story is superficially similar to Dio’s, and presents similar ideas of decline and crisis. It takes place, however, in a different world, one that is more distant from the readers’ own and lacks the kind of single defining cultural feature that is so prominent in Dio’s and Philostratus’ worlds. Herodian shows us not how political change relates to given cultural institutions but how it relates to the social fabric on a more abstract level. In the post-Marcus world, what has gone wrong is the entire system of signification and communication. My case studies of cultural geography and political rhetoric are examples of the larger phenomenon. No individual agent causes this breakdown, and all the main characters are either its victims or, more rarely, its exploiters. Like the other authors, Herodian invokes a series of discourses in which he aims to put himself and his readers on the positive side. But unlike the others, that side does not correspond to a segment of society, like senators or sophists. Instead, what makes author and readers privileged is that they are participants in a correctly operating process of signification and communication, i.e. the functioning of a formally satisfactory literary narrative. It is that correctness of form rather than any aspect of content that provides continuity with the Antonine world. The political characters are unable to replicate that continuity, and thus the implied author and readers are eerily distant from a narrative world that nonetheless claims to correspond to the one they actually live in.

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My larger historical claim regarding these narratives is that they represent a sample of the options available to the Severan elite for imagining in narrative form the relationship of past to present. The range of those options was considerably wider than what had existed under the Antonines, when there had been a consensus view that left little room at all for grand narratives. Severan literature, at least in this later phase, is characterized by a dynamism, a desire to explain change in narrative form, that is remarkably absent from the Antonine product that it otherwise so much resembles. Intuitively, this is not a difficult assertion to believe. As noted in the opening pages of this book, there was simply more change to be explained, at least if change is defined in terms of the year-to-year events of high politics. And however one defines or contests the idea of a “third-century crisis,” there is a broad consensus that the century including and after Marcus’ reign saw alterations that went considerably deeper and wider into society than the immediate environs of the throne, and caused greater disruption than any analogous changes that took place in the two previous centuries.4 I have argued here that Severan literature displays a new and heightened awareness of change, and that that awareness was connected to real historical developments. The narratives here do portray historical change on a broad cultural canvas, although that is not because they are drawing on a generally shared perception of a genuine reality of all-encompassing crisis.5 Rather they are responding to a very specific phenomenon, namely the end of the Antonine consensus regarding the relationship of past to present. Commodus and the Severan emperors were the first to abandon this consensus, partly by choice and partly from necessity. In its place they offered a series of narratives that suited their various political and ideological objectives. Some of these were relatively traditional (Pertinax, Alexander, even Septimius), some of them more innovative (Commodus, Caracalla, Elagabalus), but none of them had the chance to take root as a new consensus view. This failure was the result not of a general increased instability in the society – Marcus’ reign after all had seen its share of crises – but of the specific phenomenon of rapid and violent alternations of ruler. Sometimes, as with the deaths of Pertinax, Macrinus and Alexander, the turnover can be 4

5

Perhaps the most comprehensive critique of the “third-century crisis” as an interpretive concept is that of Witschel 2004, expressed more fully in Witschel 1999. However, to summarize Witschel’s complex argument, he does not deny the existence of change at many levels, but he argues that these changes were neither uniform enough across the empire nor close enough either chronologically or causally to be usefully characterized as a single phenomenon. Other recent approaches to change and crisis across the early- to mid-third century can be seen in the massive work of Johne 2008, as well as various essays in Swain and Edwards 2004; Quet 2006a and Hekster, De Kleijn and Slootjes 2007. As famously postulated by Alföldy 1974; 1989 and refuted at length by Strobel 1993.

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traced to a deeper cause within the empire’s political and military culture, but characters such as Commodus and Caracalla are much harder to explain in terms of underlying forces, and one must give due significance to the unfortunate personal characteristics of the individuals involved. A set of largely contingent political circumstances had an overall cultural effect. Whereas under Marcus high politics had been an element of ostensible stability amid such new problems as barbarian raids, massive epidemics and increased turnover among the elite, now political events were an obvious element of instability that affected everyone and could provide a key to understanding whatever changes one perceived in the world beyond the throne. Emperors had in effect gone from being a shared positive element of the elite worldview to being a shared negative element. In all of the narrative worlds we have seen, politics, at least in its contemporary manifestation, is a contingent realm governed by turmoil and uncertainty, and that sense of negative contingency outweighs whatever ideological attachment the text exhibits to any particular form of monarchy. All of our narratives present ideas for what a good emperor might be like, but in none of them are we given a narrative expectation that that goodness can overcome the basically negative conditions under which it necessarily operates. To be sure, none of our authors, even Herodian, completely lacks a positive message. There are ideologies they endorse and specific courses of action that are favored, but the crucial point is that none of those positive messages is unproblematically integrated into the narrative as a solution to the negative changes going on in the narrative world. None of these authors is putting his way of thinking forward as an answer. Rather they are proposing different versions of just what the problem is and how one defines the “us” that is affected by it. The authors’ objectives exist not on the level of concrete policy suggestions, but on the level of discourse regarding what it means to be a member of the empire’s elite. I have deliberately avoided characterizing our different authors as the voices of particular segments of that elite. Each narrative privileges different aspects of Greco-Roman society, but we should not be too quick to identify these aspects with discrete groups of people; identity politics in the Severan era was not, as I will argue, that rigid. The imagined audiences for these works are more similar than different, and to some degree that was true of their actual readership. These narratives do not draw ideological battle lines across which sides must be taken. On the contrary, all of them posit a unified elite identity as inherently desirable, and they avoid treating key social binaries (Greek vs. Roman, but also Rome vs. provinces, civilian vs. military and so forth) in such a way as to make part of the elite the heroes and part the villains. When

Conclusion: from “Severan” to “third-century”

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villains are identified, they are usually wicked individuals and are invariably the enemies of the entire elite rather than the representatives of “their” segment of it against “ours.” The narrative worlds examined here amount to different but non-contradictory views of the current situation, views that the same people might consider sequentially in relation to different cultural questions as they encountered them. Certainly, one imagines that a Romebased senator would most immediately identify with Dio’s narrative, but our senator presumably considered himself no stranger to literary culture, and he would as such have welcomed texts such as Philostratus’ that allowed him to understand paideia as a historical force. Perhaps he even had moments when he felt alienated from his own milieu, and might take a perverse pleasure in seeing events through Herodian’s detached but vivid lens. Nor should one automatically suppose that any of the implied audiences for these narratives is limited to people we would identify as “Greek,” i.e. inhabitants of the empire’s Eastern half who were either native Greek speakers or used Greek rather than Latin as a primary lingua franca. One assumes that in practice the bulk of readers for all three texts were in fact in this category, but a substantial Western readership can easily be imagined for both Dio and Herodian, and if Philostratus was willing to imagine Gauls and Italians among his sophistic heroes, it would be strange if he did not anticipate some of them among his readers. This is not simply a peripheral quirk of Greek literary history. When one narrates the story of the contemporary imperial center through literature, one implicitly speaks to the experience of the literate elite as a whole. These are not stories of how Roman politics affected Greeks specifically. Dio and Herodian are explicitly stories about Roman dynastic politics, and I have argued that Philostratus’ narratives can be read as self-consciously unsuccessful in their attempt to exclude Roman dynastic politics from the Greek realm. The worlds of these narratives all reflect the boundaries of the Roman Empire rather than Greater Hellas. The events that drive their narratives are things experienced in some form by everyone who was conscious of political events, and it is that commonality rather than Greek ethnicity that unites their imagined audiences. Nonetheless, a modern historian who knows the end of the story can detect signs of fragmentation. One might, to adapt the title of a different study of a different period, call these authors and their audience the Last Generation of the Roman Principate. They are still operating within a shared cultural space, but the territories they are marking within it foreshadow what will in the later third and fourth centuries become separate elites with fewer and fewer points of contact. Dio’s affirmation of senatorial

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identity, and especially his fetishization of the magistracies and rules of precedence independent of the actual workings of power, can be read as an intellectual precursor to the Roman aristocracy of Symmachus’ time, albeit without the religious dimension seen in late antique identity politics. Philostratus, on the other hand, can be seen as an ancestor of Eunapius and other figures of the late antique East for whom Hellenism was a religious and social ideology rather than an ethnic construct.6 Herodian is obviously a harder person to fit into socio-cultural categories, but his self-consciously detached pose points the way to a “Roman” elite whose members asserted differing collective identities, as Hellenes, Gauls, Christians, Franks, and so forth, that they envisioned as at least potentially independent of the Roman social and political order, even as they functioned within it. In the 220s to 240s, however, these were not yet realities. In none of our narrative worlds can one imagine an imperial elite diverse enough to accommodate barbarian generals or Christian bishops. Characters such as Maximinus are still aberrations who do not need to be accounted for in one’s picture of ordinary reality. The elite and its image of the empire are still dominated by the centripetal forces that had prevailed since Augustus’ time and had brought about ever greater integration of provincials into a world focused on a single imperial dynasty fixed in Rome. The citizenship decree of 212, with which Chapter 2 began, is an expression of these forces, as well as of the political turmoil that would eventually work against them. For our authors, however, the imperial elite is still a single imagined community whose various segments assume that their experience is more or less comparable to that of the others. All our narratives agree on the casts of heroes and villains, and they judge them according to discourses that they take to be shared by all members of an elite that is defined above all by literate education. Each author tells a story that in some way validates a particular aspect of elite identity, and they all tell it in a language that was far more current in one half of the empire than the other, but nonetheless, they all believe that for that story to be valid, it must be presented as in some sense everyone’s story. It is in that sense above all that one can read Severan culture as the end of the old more than the start of the new. 6

This is the reading of Swain 1999. While Swain’s argument is anachronistic as regards Philostratus’ own intentions, it is valid to see him as conceiving of Hellenic identity in ways that then prove fruitful within later discourses in which Hellenism is opposed to Christianity.

Appendix

All four of the works addressed in this book have significant controversies surrounding basic philological issues, starting with dating but also including biographical specifics of the authors and important characters. These controversies seldom bear directly on the questions addressed in the principal chapters of the book, and thus I have not treated them at length in those chapters. However, any historical reading of a literary text should be based on as firm as possible a grasp of the immediate context for that work’s composition and dissemination. I have thus throughout the text referred such matters to the following appendices, which are intended less to add new material to existing controversies than to lay out the various positions and state my own preferred view.

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1

The date of composition of Dio’s history

Of the works studied here, Dio offers us by far the most data that can be used to make a chronology for his work. Unfortunately, more data has not led to greater clarity. The key question is whether the non-contemporary parts of Dio’s work can legitimately be read with reference to the recurrence of political turmoil in the later Severan period (especially after Caracalla’s death in 217), or whether they reflect the relatively more stable dynastic outlook of Septimius’ and to some extent Caracalla’s reigns. The latest events referred to in Dio are those of 229, but most scholars now hold that the work we have now was mostly planned and written in the 200s to 210s and complete before 220, and that thereafter Dio mainly added new contemporary material on to the end of the existing narrative. To oversimplify the question somewhat: Dio’s own numerous statements about his literary activity suggest, by the most natural reading, that his work was substantially complete in the late 210s, following periods of research and composition over the previous two decades. However, several passages in earlier portions of his surviving corpus refer or seem to refer to events of the 210s and 220s, and would make more sense in a work written in the 220s and not finished until around 230. Influential works by Gabba 1955, 295–301 and Millar 1964, 28–32 established consensus around an early dating (completion in 210s or early 220s with minimal revisions). See also Edmondson 1992, 24–8; Schmidt 1997, 2618–25; Swan 1997, 2549–55; Swan 2004, 28–36; Millar 2005, 29–31. A minority view favors seeing the history as basically a product of the 220s and even 230s, as argued on different grounds by Letta 1979 and Barnes 1984. There have also been arguments for a compromise dating that places the bulk of authorial work in the 190s–210s but allows for substantial revision, for which see Schwartz 1959, 397–8; Eisman 1977 and Murison 1999, 8–12. My own view is closest to these last. Dio’s own statements about his authorial endeavors should be read as placing them mostly in the 190s–210s. It is likely that these statements are accurate, but that the product of those endeavors was not circulated in anything like its current form before 229. 282

The date of composition of Dio’s history

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Dio retained and exercised substantial editorial control until the entire history was circulated in the early 230s, probably after his death. The crucial point for my purposes is that we are justified in reading any aspect of Dio’s text, including its overall structure, as reflecting the views of someone who had experienced not only the civil wars of the 190s but also the reigns of Caracalla, Macrinus and Elagabalus, even though many portions of the text were probably written during the reign of Severus. Important considerations for this view are as follows: i. Dio makes one particularly explicit statement regarding chronology, at 73.[72].23 (Xiph.), and that statement suggests he worked from the 190s to 210s. The statement comes as part of the larger methodological excursus that is placed in Dio’s narrative of Commodus’ final excesses in 192 and should be quoted in full, though the most important portion for our purposes is the final paragraph: After this there occurred great wars and civil strife, and I compiled an account of these things for the following reasons: I wrote and circulated a book on the dreams and portents that caused Severus to hope for the office of Emperor. And when I sent it to him and he got it, he wrote back to me at length and in favorable terms. I received this letter from him one evening and then went to sleep, and as I slept, the divine spirit gave me the task of writing history. And so I wrote about the events of the stage that I have now reached. Since these histories were much approved of by others and by Severus himself, then I got the idea of writing up everything else that concerned the Romans. And I have decided not to leave this [i.e. the second work] on its own but to include it in this history, so that I can write down and leave behind in one work everything from the beginning down to whatever point Fortune may choose. [Further thoughts on Fortune omitted] All the deeds of the Romans from the beginning down to the death of Severus [in 211] I read up in ten years and wrote in another twelve. The rest [of the events of my life] will also be written, to whatever point it progresses. πόλεμοι δὲ μετὰ τοῦτο καὶ στάσεις μέγισται συνέβησαν, συνέθηκα δ’ ἐγὼ τούτων τὴν συγγραφὴν ἐξ αἰτίας τοιᾶσδε. βιβλίον τι περὶ τῶν ὀνειράτων καὶ τῶν σημείων δι’ ὧν ὁ Σεουῆρος τὴν αὐτοκράτορα ἀρχὴν ἤλπισε, γράψας ἐδημοσίευσα· καὶ αὐτῷ καὶ ἐκεῖνος πεμφθέντι παρ’ ἐμοῦ ἐντυχὼν πολλά μοι καὶ καλὰ ἀντεπέστειλε. ταῦτ’ οὖν ἐγὼ τὰ γράμματα πρὸς ἑσπέραν ἤδη λαβὼν κατέδαρθον, καί μοι καθεύδοντι προσέταξε τὸ δαιμόνιον ἱστορίαν γράφειν. καὶ οὕτω δὴ ταῦτα περὶ ὧν νῦν καθίσταμαι ἔγραψα. καὶ ἐπειδή γε τοῖς τε ἄλλοις καὶ αὐτῷ τῷ Σεουήρῳ μάλιστα ἤρεσε, τότε δὴ καὶ τἆλλα πάντα τὰ τοῖς Ῥωμαίοις προσήκοντα συνθεῖναι ἐπεθύμησα· καὶ διὰ τοῦτο οὐκέτι ἰδίᾳ ἐκεῖνο ὑπολιπεῖν ἀλλ’ ἐς τήνδε τὴν συγγραφὴν

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The date of composition of Dio’s history ἐμβαλεῖν ἔδοξέ μοι, ἵν’ ἐν μιᾷ πραγματείᾳ ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς πάντα, μέχρις ἂν καὶ τῇ Τύχῃ δόξῃ, γράψας καταλίπω. [. . .] συνέλεξα δὲ πάντα τὰ ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς τοῖς Ῥωμαίοις μέχρι τῆς Σεουήρου μεταλλαγῆς πραχθέντα ἐν ἔτεσι δέκα, καὶ συνέγραψα ἐν ἄλλοις δώδεκα· τὰ γὰρ λοιπά, ὅπου ἂν καὶ προχωρήσῃ, γεγράψεται.1

We need not take this claim completely at face value, but we can treat it as a narratorial assertion internal to the text, and as such its implications should be established before they are tested against external data. To what particular twenty-two years is the narrator referring? The excursus as a whole does not give any precise dates for any of the events it describes, beyond that both of the two earlier works came out in the reign of Severus. However, the first of those two works, that on dreams and portents, makes most sense as a piece of civil-war propaganda early in Severus’ reign, and the most likely assumption is that the whole train of events described at 73.[72].23 begins in 193–4. And there is no reason to suppose that there were pauses of years during the period when the earlier works were composed until the start of work on the full history. On the contrary, the earlier part of the excursus operates on a quite immediate time scale with no pauses: Dio writes the book on portents; he gets a favorable response from Severus and that night is inspired in a dream to write a history; this is received favorably by Severus and others; he is inspired to write a longer history. Since Dio has emphasized how quickly the idea for the second work followed on the praise for the first, readers are naturally led to assume that the progression from praise for the second work to the idea of the third is equally sudden. The movement from Work 2 to Work 3 is expressed by ἐπειδή . . . τότε δὴ, which can be used emphatically for virtually simultaneous causation (e.g. Xenophon Hell. 4.2.19; Plato Phaedo 85a1), and seems unlikely to indicate a change to a much longer time-scale.2 No precise start-date can be established for the twenty-two years, but one hesitates to place the start long after 197, 1

2

See Schmidt 1997, 2604–10 for the argument that a lacuna should be placed in the middle of the first sentence due to Xiphilinus’ excerpting. Schmidt’s point is that the πόλεμοι καὶ στάσεις μέγισται should not be interpreted as the subject of the second monograph. I agree, though I have on balance preferred to construe the existing text loosely rather than emend. Having said this, it is possible that sending-and-receiving intervals of some months occur in between the various stages, since there is nothing in the text that requires Severus and Dio to be in the same place (pace Millar 1964, 29). It is for the same reason not possible to build a chronology around the relatively few intervals in the late 190s when Severus resided in Rome. If one assumes that the works served a conscious propaganda agenda, then Severus would have every reason to receive and read them on campaign.

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and it could easily be as early as 195, with end points accordingly in the late 210s.3 ii. Both the passage just cited and the “second dream” that Dio describes at 79.[78].10.1–2 imply that at the end of the “twenty-two years,” Dio thought of himself as having a finished work that ended with the death of Severus in 211. This makes most sense if one assumes that the “twenty-two years” ended before Caracalla’s death in 217. When Dio mentions the “twenty-two years,” he adds that in that period he covered everything up to the death of Severus in 211. Why pick that date? Assuming that Dio was unwilling to write at length about a living emperor, and that his choice of end point was dictated by that unwillingness, the natural inference is that at the time when the twenty-two years ended, Severus was the last emperor to have died, and it was only Caracalla’s subsequent death that allowed for the continuation of the project.4 The idea that Dio at some point saw himself as having a basically completed work that ended in 211 is further supported by a passage that comes after Dio’s description of Caracalla’s death, when he says: And even before Caracalla’s rule began, it was after a fashion made clear to me by his father that I should write also about these events [i.e. his death]. For I seemed to see the entire power of the Romans in arms in a great plain, with him [i.e. Caracalla]5 dead. And there was Severus sitting up on a hill, at a 3

4

5

Barnes 1984, 246–7 argues for a much more spaced-out chronology for the first two works, with the second not coming out until 202, and he has been followed even by several scholars who do not accept his late dating (e.g. Edmondson 1992, 27–8) and thus opt for a range of around 202–224. Barnes’ argument, however, relies too heavily on the inference that that second work covered all of Severus’ civil wars and both his Mesopotamian wars, thus running through 198. Dio defines its subject as “those things with which I am now concerned” (ταῦτα περὶ ὧν νῦν καθίσταμαι), which in context need only refer to Commodus’ death and its immediate aftermath, perhaps down to Severus’ victory over Julianus. Schmidt 1997, 2598–613 makes a detailed argument for seeing Work 2 as starting in Commodus’ reign but running only as far as 194. The reconstruction is inherently plausible and may well be correct, although Schmidt’s arguments rely too heavily on the assumption that a continuous stretch of our existing text must be taken more or less verbatim from Work 2. Barnes 1984, 252 insists that Dio “cannot have contemplated a history down to 211 (72.23) while Severus lived,” because living emperors were not an appropriate subject for history. This last is true, but nothing prevented one from preparing a history of a living emperor to be circulated after his death, especially if one had reason to suppose one would outlive him. Schettino 2001, 556 reads the “twentytwo years” passage as meaning that the entire twenty-two-year period could begin only in 202 or later, because the end of the “ten years’ research” cannot come before Dio has selected his end point for the whole history, i.e. before Severus has died. This is too rigid a construction of the syntax. πάντα τὰ ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς τοῖς Ῥωμαίοις μέχρι τῆς Σεουήρου μεταλλαγῆς πραχθέντα serves as the object of συνέγραψα as well as συνέλεξα, and one can imagine that the “ten years’ reading” is only meant to cover the time up to when it can be supplanted by Dio’s personal recollection. Cary’s Loeb, and possibly some subsequent interpreters, take τεθνηκότος αὐτοῦ as referring to Severus rather than Caracalla and modifying ἔδοξα, which would locate the dream in the immediate aftermath of Severus’ death in February 211. Such a construction seems unlikely, however, since it would mean

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The date of composition of Dio’s history tribunal, saying something to them. And when I stood close so as to hear what he said, he saw me and said ‘Here, Dio, come near so that you may fully learn and write of all that is said and done.’ ἐμοὶ δὲ δή, καὶ πρὶν ἐς τὴν μοναρχίαν καταστῆναι, προεδηλώθη τρόπον τινὰ παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτοῦ ὅτι καὶ ταῦτα γράψοιμι. ἐν γὰρ πεδίῳ μεγάλῳ τινὶ πᾶσαν τὴν τῶν Ῥωμαίων δύναμιν ἐξωπλισμένην ὁρᾶν τεθνηκότος αὐτοῦ ἤδη ἔδοξα, καὶ ἐνταῦθα τὸν Σεουῆρον ἐπί τε γηλόφου καὶ ἐπὶ βήματος ὑψηλοῦ καθήμενον διαλέγεσθαί τι αὐτοῖς. καί με προσστάντα ἰδὼν ὅπως τῶν λεγομένων ἀκούσω, “δεῦρο” ἔφη, “Δίων, ἐνταῦθα πλησίον πρόσελθε, ἵνα πάντα καὶ τὰ λεγόμενα καὶ τὰ γιγνόμενα καὶ μάθῃς ἀκριβῶς καὶ συγγράψῃς.”

Assuming that the dream occurs at some point in 211 after Severus’ death, the thought process would seem to be as follows.6 After Severus’ longexpected death in 211, Dio assumes that that will be the end point of his work, since he is unlikely to outlive Caracalla. The dream suggests that that assumption may be wrong, but this is not confirmed until Caracalla’s actual death in 217.7 In the meantime Dio continues to work as if 211 will be his end point. The dream-narrative does not in itself give us any new data, but it confirms a previous impression that Dio had a change of plans regarding his end date. Following an early dating, whereby the twenty-two years begin in perhaps 195–6, then their end point is exactly at the right date, in 217. This coincidence appears suspiciously neat, but works very well if one supposes that Dio’s retrospective self-portraiture was chronologically “straightened up.” However, if one follows a late dating, such that Dio’s project is only starting in 211, then it is not clear what Dio means at all by saying that the dream told him he would write καὶ ταῦτα.8

6

7

8

that all Dio sees is a large army, and it is thus unclear what made him associate that with Caracalla’s death. If, however, the clause refers to Caracalla, modifes ὁρᾶν and describes the internal world of the dream, it would indicate that Dio either sees or somehow knows that Caracalla has just died (the soldiers are assembled for his funeral? left leaderless after his death?), and Dio’s reasoning becomes much clearer. Boissevain ad loc., followed by Barnes 1984, 245; Sordi 2000, 393, asserts that the “dramatic date” of the dream must fall in the less than a year between Severus’ death and Geta’s, which latter event marks the start of Caracalla’s μοναρχία. This may follow from a misconstruction of τεθνηκότος αὐτοῦ (see previous note), but it still seems likely on the intuitive but not absolutely necessary assumption that only dead people appear in prophetic dreams. This is confirmed by Dio’s initial hesitancy in interpreting the omen, as expressed by the τρόπον τινὰ after προεδηλώθη. In addition, if one takes the twenty-two year claim literally, then by 211 Dio cannot have been close to finished, and thus even if the dream were unambiguous, Dio would have been in no position to act immediately. Letta 1979, 148–55 reads this passage entirely differently. For him, the “second dream” is in fact Dio’s initial impetus to write, and the “twenty-two years” begin from 211. In Letta’s view Dio got the idea to write history in around 196, as described at 73.[72].23, but it was only in 211 that, thanks to the dream

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iii. Dio’s statement at 77.[76].2.1 (EV) regarding his house at Capua implies that the “twenty-two years” were under way by 202 and that the later writing stage was well advanced or complete by 218. Describing an eruption of Vesuvius that we know occurred in 202, Dio notes that it was audible from his house in Capua. He adds that “I chose this spot most particularly for its tranquillity, so that I might have leisure from urban business as I wrote” (τοῦτο γὰρ τὸ χωρίον ἐξειλόμην τῶν τε ἄλλων ἕνεκα καὶ τῆς ἡσυχίας ὅτι μάλιστα, ἵνα σχολὴν ἀπὸ τῶν ἀστικῶν πραγμάτων ἄγων ταῦτα γράψαιμι). Again taking the narrator at his word, two conclusions can be drawn. First, if substantial amounts of writing went on at the villa, this must have occurred before 218, because, according to Dio’s own statements about his career (80.[80].1 [EV]), that is the last time he could have spent any long stretch of time in Italy. Second, when Dio selected Capua as a place to frequent, he had already formulated his project. This must have occurred before 202, when he was there and heard the volcano.9 One must reiterate that points i–iii only relate to statements by Dio’s narrator, and it is as such that I have parsed them rather minutely. They can tell us only what Dio’s narrator claims, not what the historical Dio actually did. This does not mean that they should be discounted entirely. Philology would be exceedingly impoverished if we never believed anything an ancient author said about himself, and there is no reason to suppose that Dio indulged in out-and-out fiction like the HA author or played the kind of complex games with fictive belief that Philostratus does in the Apollonius. We may suppose with some confidence that Dio really did get the idea for his history in the 190s, and that the project remained continuously active for at least twenty years. But it is a mistake to think that these passages can “prove” anything precise about the dates of Dio’s activity. The claim of twenty-two years is plausible, but it is conventional; many historians specify similar periods as a way of emphasizing their industry (see Marincola 1997, 151–2), and much the same is true of the dreams and the story about the house. These statements suggest an early time-frame but must be tested against the evidence of other passages in Dio’s work that relate to independently

9

of Severus, he got up the courage actually to begin. Letta’s logic is ingenious, but fails on points of detail (especially regarding Dio’s first consulship) and is as a whole implausible. It has not been generally followed, even by Barnes, who agrees with him on a late date. This is apparently how Millar 2005, 30 reads the passage. I cannot, however, follow Sordi 2000, 394 in making 202 the terminus post not only for the twenty-two years, but also for its second portion, i.e. the twelve years of composition, which in turn would mean the whole process had to begin in 193. Surely Dio might be using γράψαιμι loosely to refer to any literary activity, and equally the selection of a locus amoenus might have taken place during the ten years of research, with Dio foreseeing that leisure for writing would sooner or later be desirable.

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known external events.10 These passages on balance point to later composition or revision. iv. References to administrative posts that Dio held in the 220s are found even in relatively early portions of the narrative, and it is natural to assume that those portions were originally written relatively early in the compositional process and would have had to be revised. In particular, at 49.36.4, apropos of Octavian’s Pannonian campaign in 35 bc, Dio notes that he has been governor of Upper Pannonia and knows what its inhabitants are like. Shortly afterwards, at 49.37.3–4, he gives an account of the geography of Siscia that strongly suggests eyewitness knowledge, and is very unlikely to derive from the same source as his narrative of Octavian’s campaigns (since it refers to subsequent changes in the river). In addition, as Barnes 1984, 248 notes, the reference to the Pannonian governorship also mentions Dio’s governorship of Africa in a way that implies readers have already been told about that post. That reference most likely came before our extant manuscripts pick up in Book 36. Barnes also considers that a particularly precise description of Thapsus at 43.7.2 reflects Dio’s time in Africa.11 Dio’s post in Africa is usually dated to 223, and Pannonia to 226–8 (Barnes 1984, 244–5, with references). Slightly earlier dates are possible, but on any reckoning, the passages from Book 49 refer to events at least ten years later than when standard early datings would place the book’s composition. For Barnes (247–8), these references are too well integrated into the text to be a later insertion, and instead suggest that Book 49 was not first composed until 225 at the earliest. Were it not for the internal evidence cited in i–iii, I would agree. But unless we are to dismiss those passages entirely, or read them in a strained fashion, it is more natural to conclude that throughout the 220s, Dio continued to rework a text that had been fully assembled for some time. In addition to instances concerning his own career, we can detect a few references to administrative changes that took place mostly in the 210s (Barnes 1984, 249–51).12 Millar 1964, 30, Schmidt 1997, 2624–5 and Swan 2004, 378–80, narrow these references down as much as possible, and treat them as exceptions that prove the rule. For them, Dio retained editorial control over his text, but used it only once or twice, and with regard to trivial

10 11 12

Millar 1964, 208–10 provides a convenient list of passages in Dio’s earlier books that refer to events in his lifetime, although it includes only explicit references. Schmidt 1997, 2624 prefers to see the passage as an evocation of Thucydides’ (6.97.1) description of Sicilian Thapsus, but the similarities seem less strong to me than to him. Many of these changes (Alexandrian senators, a transferred Pannonian legion) are early enough that they can be incorporated into an early chronology without the need for revision, per Millar 1964, 31.

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matters.13 The somewhat fuller list suggested by Barnes, however, inclines one to see the glass as half full rather than half empty, and to ask whether signs of revision may not be seen elsewhere. v. The “Consolation-Dialogue” between Cicero and Philiscus in Book 38 seems to recall Dio’s own misfortunes of 229. In his Book 38, as he describes Cicero’s exile in 58 bc, Dio takes up twelve pages with a dialogue in which the exceedingly depressed orator is counselled by a philosopher named Philiscus (otherwise unknown) on why his despair is inappropriate, since exile is not the evil he supposes it to be. Dio is not given to such philosophical digressions (though Augustus and Livia’s dialogue on clemency in Book 55 is comparable), and one wonders what made him quite so interested in Cicero’s mental state at this point. When we learn that our historian in effect ended his own career in exile after losing in a confrontation with the forces of civil disorder, it is tempting to make this an explanation.14 Misleading as such biographical solutions often are, there are some close correspondences that make this one unusually plausible. There are two particular passages of the dialogue in which Dio seems to be reading his own plight into Cicero’s. At 38.28.1, Philiscus suggests that Cicero spend his enforced retirement in some seaside place, farming and writing history, as did Thucydides and Xenophon. It is hard not to add “as also did Dio,” although it is possible that Dio made the association in a weaker form even before his own troubles in 229 (as per Millar 1964, 51). Then a few sentences later, at 38.28.3, Philiscus remarks on how useless it is to seek a second consulship, since the honor is empty. The remark is curiously inappropriate in its immediate context, since Cicero never sought a second consulship and Dio certainly realized that it would have been out of place for a non-military figure in the late Republic to have done so. In a Severan context with specific reference to Dio, however, it makes much more sense. As best we can reconstruct Dio’s career from what he tells us, he 13 14

Schmidt and Swan both argue that at some point before 229 Dio disseminated the first seventy-seven books in substantially their current form, without the final three. The fullest exposition of the similarities is that of Letta 1979, 157–63, although it is over-scrupulous of him to object (163) that Dio could not have seen Nicaea, his home city, as a place of exile. Dio makes it perfectly clear at 80.[80].5.2–3 that his ostensible retirement on health grounds was in reality forced on him. He has just finished telling us how the Praetorians prevented him from spending his consulship in Rome, and his later visit to Alexander in Rome and petition for permission to retire are surely staged face-saving gestures. Court societies such as imperial Rome are familiar with the concept of being “exiled to one’s estates.” Dio displays relatively few signs of emotive attachment to Nicaea (pace Ameling 1984) as against copious evidence of pride in his career at the imperial center, and his chagrin at exclusion from the latter surely embittered the charms of the former. Gowing 1998, 381–3 makes many cogent connections between Philiscus’ advice and Dio’s political outlook, though none of them relates specifically to Dio’s post-229 troubles.

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had a period of inactivity, enforced or otherwise, in the 200s and 210s, after which he becomes much more active from the late 210s on, only to meet with sudden disappointment in 229 connected with his second consulship. To these specific references can be added some more general remarks. The consolation-dialogue could easily be a later insertion into the text. It is almost entirely detachable.15 Dio goes straight from the decree of exile to the Philiscus dialogue and then on to the decree of recall, with no other mention of Cicero’s depressed state, or indeed his behavior in exile at all. In the immediately preceding narrative (38.12–17), Dio has emphasized how poorly Cicero played the political situation, because he overestimated his own influence and failed to recognize both his own growing unpopularity and the duplicity of Pompey and others who were pretending to be Cicero’s friends. This theme of power leading to delusion and false friendship might, one supposes, appeal to a philosopher, but I at least do not detect it in Philiscus’ words. On the contrary, when Philiscus addresses Cicero’s specific political situation (38.24–5), he consistently maintains that Cicero did the right thing and that his misfortunes are entirely his enemies’ fault. He is even willing to accept the notion that Cicero’s exile is really a voluntary rejection of the wickedness of men he could not improve. Furthermore, in its current form Book 38 is unusually long at 56 Loeb pages.16 It contains one other long speech, that of Caesar to his discontented troops at Vesontio (38.46–56), and it is rare for Dio to include in one book two speeches that are not obviously thematically connected.17 One might lastly point out, with Eisman 1977, 664–6, that several of Dio’s comments on military affairs and military discipline elsewhere in his text gain new meaning if read as a comment on his woes of 229, though nothing in their contents specifically precludes their having been written earlier. 15

16 17

Gowing 1998, 377–8 canvasses the possibility of its having originally been composed for separate performance. Millar 1964, 51 pronounces that it has “no function within the history, unless to underline the weakness of Cicero’s character.” He prefers, however, to see the speech as being written in 212–14, around the time that the sophist Philiscus of Thessaly was at court (Philost. VS 623–4). In Millar’s view Dio named his fictional philosopher after the sophist. The suggestion is attractive, but not enough so to outweigh the internal evidence, and one can still suppose that the two men were acquainted and trading literary compliments without its having to be connected to the specific visit we happen to know about. The counter-arguments of Fechner 1986, 48–58 show that the speech has considerable thematic parallels with other parts of Dio’s text, but do not demonstrate its integration into its immediate narrative context. Books 41 and 52 are of approximately the same length, 46 and 48 a few pages longer. Book 44 contains both Cicero’s speech for amnesty after Caesar’s death (23–33) and Antony’s funeral oration (36–46), which can be read as a response (as by Potter 2011, 332–3). Book 56 contains both Augustus’ speeches on his marriage laws (2–9) and Tiberius’ funeral oration on Augustus (35–41). For the location of the marriage speech, see Kemezis 2007, 275–7.

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vi. Dio’s excursus on the Parthians in Book 40 does suggest that that book was composed before the rise of Ardashir in the mid-220s and not substantially revised, but we should not on that account exclude the possibility of substantial revisions to other parts of Dio’s text after that point. At 40.14–15, describing the initial stages of Crassus’ Parthian campaign, Dio gives an account of the Parthians with particular reference to their military capabilities. Dio continually refers to the Parthians in the present tense as the principal Eastern enemies of Rome, and gives considerable credit to their fighting abilities both against Romans (14.3–4) and against their other neighbors (15.5). No mention whatever is made of the series of ultimately lethal defeats inflicted on the Parthians by Ardashir starting around 224. Dio does, however, record the rise of Ardashir at the very end of his narrative, in his final summary of the events of Alexander’s reign (80.[80].3 [Xiph.]). Many have thus drawn two conclusions, first that Dio wrote the Parthian excursus in Book 40 before the news of Ardashir’s victories became known in Rome and, second, that by the time he did register these events, after 229, he was no longer inclined or able to do substantial revisions of his earlier books, since otherwise, he would have in some way “corrected” his words in Book 40.18 The first of these is intuitively convincing, but not critical to my argument. The second is not a valid conclusion. In general, it is methodologically unwise to assume that we can know what Dio would or would not have revised. Most of the revisions that are detectable either relate directly to his own career or to issues of senatorial rank that are a running theme throughout his work. On the Parthians specifically, just because Dio knew of Ardashir’s victories does not mean he knew they would result in the end of the Parthian kingdom and the start of what we call the Sassanian Empire (see on this point Letta 1979, 173–9). On the contrary, his notice at 80.[80].3 treats Ardashir as a rather isolated character whose recent successes have been offset by some defeats, and who is a danger to the Romans only because the Romans’ military preparedness is not what it should be. There is a considerable contrast with Herodian (6.2), who writes after the campaigns of Alexander and probably of Gordian III, and is fully conscious of the Persians as a new power replacing the Parthians.19 The same considerations apply to Dio’s comments at 75.[75].3.3 (Xiph.), that Severus’ conquests in Mesopotamia were counterproductive because of their expense and because “now that we have come up against peoples 18 19

On this point Millar 1964, 208 and Barnes 1984, 253 agree, though Barnes has the reservation that it only proves Book 40 “never received a thorough revision.” Pace Zimmermann 1999e, 290, who reads too much fear into Dio’s comments on the Persians.

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who are closer to the Medes and to the Parthians, we are always in some way fighting on their behalf” (πρὸς ἐγγυτέρους καὶ τῶν Μήδων καὶ τῶν Πάρθων προσεληλυθότες ἀεὶ τρόπον τινὰ ὑπὲρ αὐτῶν μαχόμεθα). It would have been quite understandable for a Dio writing in the late 220s still to think of Mesopotamia as basically “the Parthian frontier,” even if it were in the process of being conquered by the Sassanians. And if he had written it earlier, the events of the 220s would not have invalidated the point. In fact, it is possible (though by no means necessary) to see Ardashir himself as the “peoples who are closer to the Medes and Parthians.” Dio’s account of him at 80.[80].3 portrays him as geographically located between Rome and the surviving Arsacid forces, and Dio seems to think of the whole story as a civil war among Easterners that has grown out of control such that Ardashir is thinking of territorial conquests in the West. It is also quite possible, however, that Dio’s vague language at 75.[75].3.3 refers to low-level conflicts that have not registered in our historical record. vii. Taken as a whole, Dio’s portrait of the Severans does not read like something it would have been wise to circulate while any member of that dynasty was still in power, at any rate if the author were still alive and/or politically ambitious. There are two difficult evaluative questions here: How positive or negative was Dio’s portrait of the Severans, and how much scope did Roman political culture in general give for criticisms of the reigning emperor’s ancestors? The first of these has been answered many different ways, and my own position, that Dio is more or less critical of Septimius, Caracalla and Elagabalus and at best lukewarm toward Alexander, is argued in full above.20 The second is far too broad to be answered in this space, although my book as a whole is intended in part as a contribution to it. Not everyone will therefore agree with my assertion, but one specific point should be mentioned. Alexander Severus’ self-presentation continued to stress his links to the Severan and Antonine dynasties, and these depended critically on the fictions both of Severus’ adoption by Marcus and of Caracalla’s being Alexander’s father (see Baharal 1996, 64–6 for a brief 20

Eisman 1977, 668–73 lists a whole series of passages that he thinks of as later additions that could not have been circulated under the emperors to whom they refer, and he is to a considerable extent followed by Murison 1999, 8–12, though in both cases the emphasis is on the political circumstances of earlier reigns rather than Alexander’s. The suggestion of Schmidt 1997, 2624, that the books describing Severus were circulated under Macrinus, is unconvincing. Macrinus’ attitude toward his predecessors was by no means unfavorable, and in any case Dio could not have known when he wrote his critical Severan narrative that the dynasty would be temporarily overthrown. Furthermore, even Schmidt must concede that the text as we have it was first circulated under Alexander Severus, and one would have to suppose that Dio was unable to remove unsafe and offensive material from Books 74–7, even as he was able to insert the Pannonian digression in Book 49.

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survey). Dio, as we have seen, dismisses these fictions out of hand, and his overall portrait of Alexander contains no hint of the adulation that a living emperor might expect from a living subject. Having said that, it also contains none of the denigration that one might have expected in the reign of Maximinus (235–38), and one hesitates on grounds of age to prolong Dio’s career past 238. It furthermore seems unlikely that his observations regarding Ardashir at 80.[80].4 were written after Alexander’s expedition of 231, or that Dio would not have continued his narrative in some way to include that war. This therefore leaves us with the history reaching its final form between late 229 and some time in 231. It probably did not circulate until after its author’s death, but Dio was in his late sixties at this point, and it seems most probable that he did not live far into the 230s.

2

The dates and addressees of Philostratus’ Apollonius and Sophists

Neither of these two works provides much precisely datable material, though the Sophists naturally does better than the Apollonius, reaching as it does into the narrator’s own time. In fact, our dating of the Apollonius is largely dependent on our dating of the Sophists. Since the Philostratus of the Sophists identifies himself as the author of the Apollonius (VS 570), the Sophists must be the later work, and since we have no other means of establishing a terminus ante quem for the Apollonius, the date of the Sophists serves for that purpose. The Sophists, then, can be dated on internal grounds as follows. The latest event referred to appears to be the inauguration of Nicagoras of Athens as Sacred Herald of the Eleusinian Mysteries (VS 628), which very likely occurred after 230.1 The terminus ante quem depends entirely on the dedication of the work, which is addressed to one Antonius Gordianus, who is addressed as both ὕπατος (i.e. “consular” rather than necessarily “consul”) and ἄριστε ἀνθυπάτων (“best of proconsuls,” i.e. governors of “senatorial” provinces) and who is said to have some connection, probably familial, with Herodes Atticus.2 Until recently, the consensus view was that the Gordian in question was either the future emperor Gordian I, or his son, the future 1

2

See Clinton 1974, 80–1. Nicagoras’ date is not directly attested, but a certain Cassianus is known to have occupied the post in 230/1. Since the Suda (s.v. Νικαγόρας) claims that Nicagoras lived into the reign of Philip (244–9), and since the priesthood was for life, this ought to mean that his term postdates Cassianus’. If one prefers not to rely on the Suda, then it is possible that Nicagoras was Cassianus’ predecessor rather than successor (Clinton lists no other certain incumbents of the post for the 220s). In that event, the new terminus post becomes 222, since VS 625 refers to a recently dead emperor who appears to be Elagabalus. Regarding the use of ὕπατος for ὑπατικός, see several instances from the Sophists cited in Bowersock 1969, 7. The only other data point that has been suggested as relevant is that Apsines of Gadara is mentioned at VS 628, but with no indication that he is a consular. Since he apparently received consular rank under Maximinus (Suda s.v. Ἀψίνης), Nutton 1970, 721 suggests that the Sophists cannot postdate that point. However, it remains possible for Philostratus to have omitted the honor in such a brief reference.

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Gordian II.3 The various arguments for one or the other need not be rehearsed here, because in either case the only hard data point they provide is that both men died in 238, in the course of civil wars following their revolt against Maximinus. This provides a secure terminus ante for the “dramatic date” of the Sophists, and there is no reason to doubt that that corresponds also to the date of final composition and circulation. Thus anywhere in the range 230–8 is possible, and there are no certain grounds for greater precision.4 The consensus that the dedicatee is one of the first two Gordians has recently been challenged, however, by Jones 2002, who prefers Gordian III, grandson of Gordian I and emperor from 238 to 244.5 If true, this would make a difference to one’s reading of the work both because it would be several years later than generally thought and, perhaps more importantly, because it would be dedicated to a reigning emperor. However, there are several objections that should be made. Jones’ main positive arguments are: (i) If one assumes both that Philostratus’ Gordian is a direct descendant of Herodes Atticus and that he is a serving proconsul at the time of writing, then it is difficult to accommodate either Gordian I (who is hard to fit into Herodes’ family tree) or Gordian II (who is unlikely to have been a serving proconsul at any of the dates in question), and Gordian III, having ex officio proconsular status as emperor, can be made to fit both bills; (ii) Philostratus’ dedication mentions the two men’s having met in Antioch. Gordian III almost certainly visited that city on at least one occasion, but there is no evidence that the other two ever did so; (iii) Philostratus ends the letter by calling his addressee Μουσηγέτα, which is a title of Apollo’s, and Jones considers this more appropriately applied to the adolescent Gordian III than to his more aged relatives. Point (ii) is, as Jones admits (764), not 3

4

5

Until the mid-1960s, Gordian I was the universal favorite, but at that point Gordian II was championed by Birley 1965; Barnes 1968; Syme 1971, 167–8 and Griffin 1971. The cause of Gordian I has been vindicated notably by Bowersock 1969, 6–8; Nutton 1970; Grasby 1975; Avotins 1978 and Anderson 1986, 297–8, and remains on the whole the more popular, though many scholars are content to remain undecided between the two. A more definite dating, to 237–8 exactly, could be confirmed if one followed Griffin 1971, 278 in insisting that the valedictory reference to Gordian’s political duties means that he must be in office as governor at the dramatic date. Avotins 1978 cogently argues that such a premise points strongly to Gordian I’s term in 238 and not (as Griffin herself had preferred) to an earlier office held by Gordian II. However, Griffin’s reading of the Greek is too strict. As Anderson 1986, 297 points out, once Philostratus places Gordian in the role of a political man, it is a commonplace to speak of his cares of state, even if he does not happen to be holding office at a given moment. The valediction could mean not that Gordian is now proconsul, but that he was so at some previous stage of the two men’s acquaintance, or may be so again. The natural and frequently made inference is that Gordian was at some point proconsul of Achaea when Philostratus lived in Athens. Jones’ thesis has received support from e.g. Bowie 2009a, 29 and has not to my knowledge been disputed in print.

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strong in itself given how little else we know about the careers of the first two Gordians. Regarding point (iii), other explanations for the nickname are quite possible. Philostratus apparently wants us to imagine a long-term relationship, and the name could be one from the distant past that is still used familiarly by friends. It is a particularly appropriate nickname to recall in the context of a conversation that took place in a temple of Apollo, and the entire tone of the dedication suggests that much of its meaning will only be apparent to the two friends who remember that conversation. This leaves point (i), the questionable prosopography of the first two Gordians. These issues have always been the main cruxes of the dating question. Several solutions have been proposed, and all of them are messy to one degree or other, either because they require counter-intuitive readings of key language, or because they violate the standard rules of senatorial career progression. For Jones’ solution to be attractive, it should be substantially neater than the existing ones. There are two key reasons that it is, on the contrary, more problematic. The first, and stronger, is the question of forms of address. If we really are dealing with Gordian III as reigning emperor, then how is it that Philostratus fails to mention that fact? Jones (762–3) cites the example of Marcus’ correspondence to Fronto, but the two cases are not comparable. Marcus and Fronto are genuine friends with a longstanding relationship, and they are writing in a genre where informality was conventional. It is hard to imagine such a relationship existing between a septuagenarian Philostratus and Gordian III, who could have been no older than seventeen. And even if one does assume that Philostratus writes as one literary friend to another, then what are we to make of his using the titles ὕπατος in his salutation and ἄριστε ἀνθυπάτων in his farewell? Emperors from the early third century certainly used both of these titles, but not exclusively, without reference to their also being emperor.6 The association of “proconsul” with the notion of professional burdens is particularly out of place. Gordian III had never governed a province, and it is difficult to see why Philostratus should associate that particular office with his political labors. Given Gordian III’s age, those labors would have been largely courteous fiction, but if one was going to pretend that Gordian worked hard, why not say he worked hard at being emperor? The second reason, which is suggestive rather than compelling in itself, is the question of age. If the dedication were written to an adolescent by an old 6

Thus Gordian III calls himself ἀνθυπάτος in Oliver 1989, no. 281, and one sees the same for Caracalla (no. 268), Macrinus (no. 273, largely restored), Elagabalus (no. 274) and Decius (no. 284).

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man who had spent a lifetime teaching adolescents, one would surely expect some suggestion that the relationship was pedagogical in nature. As it is, there is no acknowledgement of any age difference, and the tone of the letter suggests a long-term friendship based on roughly equal intellectual status. It is not impossible that Philostratus is making a pretense of equality as a strained form of flattery, but that still detracts from the neatness of the overall solution. Combined with the first objection, it places the balance of evidence firmly against Gordian III and a date after 238. Taking 238 as also the terminus ante for the Apollonius, there is little more to be said about that date’s work. The terminus post relies largely on the references to Julia Domna at VA 1.31. The use of tenses and the lack of a dedication or direct address suggest that she is dead, which happened in 217.7 There are no definitive grounds for narrowing the range of 217–38. Arguing from probability and inference, one might suggest three points in favor of a date in the early 220s. First, the references to Julia do not make it sound as if she has been dead for very long. If the date were in the 230s, one might expect the narrator to explain the long interval, if only by way of emphasizing the length of his editorial labors. Second, the 230s would have been Philostratus’ sixties or even seventies, and assigning both of his two longest works to that late stage of his career seems unlikely, though not impossible. Third, and conversely, a date right at the beginning of the range seems improbable, in my view at any rate, given the religious situation in the reign of Elagabalus (218–22). It seems unlikely that in those years a work of religious literature claiming to emanate from the court would not have reflected Elagabalus’ new cult in some more direct way than the Apollonius does. A future study may be able to establish connections that have not yet been made, but in the meantime a date early in the reign of Alexander seems somewhat the most likely.8 7

8

Scholars who take the frame narrative regarding Julia more literally than I do tend therefore to assume that some considerable part of the Apollonius could have been written during the later years of her life, but that it was at all events completed and circulated after 217. The only detailed argument I am aware of that the Apollonius was substantially complete well before 217 is Calderini 1940–41, who places primary composition and initial circulation between 202 and 205 and views the prefatory material as a later revision. Such a dating is suggested, in Calderini’s view, by certain bits of political rhetoric that he thinks Julia Domna would have wished to put before Severus in order to favor her political agenda against Plautianus. The suggestion has not been much followed, and is refuted in detail by Flinterman 1995, 218–19. Morgan 2009, 279 considers the Apollonius to be in some measure counter-propaganda by Alexander’s court trying to distance themselves from Elagabalus’ extreme version of the Emesene cult. He appears to share the assumption that the work could not be a product of Elagabalus’ own reign.

3

The date, scope and author of Herodian’s history

Herodian’s work, as has already been noted, gives us far less help than Dio’s with answering the basic philological questions of date, authorship and so forth. Internal data are few, vague and even contradictory, while no inscription or later literary reference sheds external light on the situation. Nonetheless, literary scholarship abhors an authorial vacuum, and efforts have naturally been made to give Herodian a birthplace, a social station, a floruit and as many other distinguishing characteristics as the meager evidence will permit. According to the best supported conjectures (notably those of Whittaker 1969 and Alföldy 1971a), he was likely a native of Asia Minor of freedman or equestrian rank who held minor administrative posts perhaps in Rome and wrote under either Philip (244–9) or Decius (249–51). My own treatment of Herodian above has been very skeptical in this regard. I have avoided arguments based on biographical data about the historical Herodian, beyond supposing that he wrote in the decade or so after Gordian III’s death in 244, and that he had some adult memory of the later Severans’ reigns in the 210s–20s. My aim in this appendix is to justify this methodological choice by showing that, first, the evidentiary basis for fuller conjectures is in itself very weak and, second and more importantly, that Herodian’s reticence is best read not as an absence but as an authorial strategy that makes his text qualitatively different from those of Dio, Philostratus and most other ancient historians. To elaborate on this second point: Throughout this book, I have avoided traditional biographical readings of all of my authors and instead treated them as textual constructs, be it first-person narrators or implied authors. However, with Dio and to a lesser extent Philostratus, their narrative personae have many links with the extra-textual world. Dio’s identity as a senator is not just a historical fact, but a crucial aspect of his narrative persona. His readers may have independent knowledge of him personally, and they will certainly have some pre-existing ideas of what senators are like, and those ideas will be critical to how they read his text, 298

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what sort of implied author they construct and so forth. The real Dio surely expected them to do so, and his authorial strategies reflect that. Therefore it is interpretively useful for us to establish all the facts that we can about the external Dio. Herodian is different. As we will see, even the few data points we have about the historical author require philological detective work to give them meaning. They are too few and too vague to have served as cues for contemporary readers. Faced with Herodian’s reticence, those readers would not, like historically minded modern scholars, have read back through the text for every fact that could be employed to build up probabilistic guesses as to his identity. Rather, they would have read his silence as in itself significant, as the mark of a particular sort of historian. My chapter discusses this as an authorial strategy, and readers would variously have colluded in or resisted it. The crucial point is that, in contrast to the reading of Dio just outlined, they would not have deduced from Herodian’s statements that he was (to take Alföldy’s suggestion) an imperial freedman from Asia Minor; they would not have based their reading of his text on what they knew or thought about imperial freedmen from Asia Minor, and the real author of this text did not intend for them to do so. This point would remain valid even if in future a complete career inscription were discovered that indisputably referred to the author of our text. Such an inscription would indeed produce rich insights into Herodian’s text, but of an entirely different nature from what I have aimed at in this study. Given the current meager state of our information, I would argue that more can be learned about Herodian by treating his sparse persona as an affirmative fact about his text than by deploring it as an unsatisfactory set of historical data about a real person. In what follows, therefore, I will largely be pointing out the defects of existing hypotheses, but my purpose in doing so is not to advocate skepticism for its own sake, or to quarrel with the work of distinguished scholars. Rather I hope to establish that whatever facts we can or cannot deduce about the real Herodian, none of them is sufficiently integral to his text to compel a reading different from that I have used in Chapter 6. As such, I have not felt obliged to rehearse the details of every controversy, and my survey of existing scholarship is not meant to be exhaustive, especially with regard to work before the 1950s. For a more complete treatment of earlier bibliography, see Martinelli 1987, or more accessibly the introduction to Whittaker 1969 along with Alföldy 1971a, with more details in the 1989 reprint, and Sidebottom 1997 on questions of dating. The most comprehensive survey of recent scholarship is Hidber 2006, 1–16.

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Herodian’s dates and characteristics

i.

Dating and planned scope

Herodian’s text makes no explicit reference to any event later than the narrative end point of 238. The work could therefore belong to the reigns of Gordian III or any of his near successors. Recent scholarship has tended to prefer Philip or Decius, although arguments have been made for as late as Gallienus.1 My own view is that we can exclude any date under Gordian III, and that dates later than the mid-250s become increasingly problematic the further one gets from the “end of the action” in 238. Within the range 244 to 253, however, there seems to me little basis for choosing among the reigns of Philip (244–9), Decius (249–51) and Gallus (251–3).2 The various arguments are based partly on internal grounds, on the few statements Herodian makes about himself, but mostly on external grounds. Certain features of Herodian’s text are related to current events of various reigns either in a positive sense (i.e. they seem to be implicit references to events in a given reign) or a negative one (they seem like things it would not have been politic to say in a given reign). It is generally agreed that Herodian’s account of the various Gordians was not something that would have circulated during Gordian III’s reign. The general disparagement of young emperors in Herodian’s preface (1.1.6) would surely have been out of place at that time, but more significant is Herodian’s treatment of the new dynasty’s foundation. The boy-emperor himself is not vilified, but he is portrayed as a nullity. The circumstances of his initial accession are unedifying; he is produced to quell a riot by the urban mob, who find the senatorial emperors Pupienus and Balbinus too strict.3 The murder of Pupienus and Balbinus, which led to Gordian III’s becoming sole Augustus, is deplored and explicitly compared to the overthrow of Pertinax.4 His eponymous grandfather fares little better. When Gordian I is made to lead the rebellion, he alternates between undignified 1

2 3

4

Philip is favored most notably by Càssola 1957, 218–19; Whittaker 1969, ix–xix; Zimmermann 1999e, 285–302, while Alföldy 1971a, 204–9 makes the most thorough argument for Decius. The argument for Gallienus is made by Sidebottom 1997, though it is not clear how fully he endorses his own conclusion (see 2007, 78–9). Polley 2003 correctly points out the thin nature of Sidebottom’s affirmative evidence. Similar positions are adopted by Marasco 1998, 2839 (Philip or Decius) and Polley 2003 (before 253). Hdn. 7.10.6–9. The point of his mob support is particularly stressed by Càssola 1957, 218. Herodian explicitly says at this point that Gordian was proclaimed Caesar rather than Augustus “since at his age he was not capable of taking charge of affairs” (7.10.9: ἐπειδὴ δὶα τὴν ἡλικίαν οὐκ οἷός τε ἦν προΐστασθαι τῶν πραγμάτων). It is significant that we learn just how young Gordian is (thirteen) not at this point, but in the last sentence of Herodian’s whole history (8.8.8), at the moment when he does in fact become Augustus. Hdn. 8.8.3–8. The comparison with Pertinax is focalized through the mutinous soldiers, who are afraid that Pupienus’ German bodyguards will disarm them as Severus disarmed the Praetorians who killed Pertinax. Gordian III himself takes no active role in the proceedings.

Dating and planned scope

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terror (7.5.4) and disguised ambition (7.5.7). When it is crushed (7.9.4–10), he is in a panic throughout, and the narrator dismissively calls his whole revolt “an imaginary reign” (ἐν εἰκόνι τε βασιλείας). During Gordian III’s slightly less ephemeral reign, his handlers were anxious to construct a founding legend that lionized the earlier Gordians while apparently passing over Pupienus and Balbinus in silence.5 An account such as Herodian’s would surely have attracted unfavorable notice. Once one moves into the reigns of Philip and his successors, things become murkier. Histories that directly portrayed reigning emperors were expected to be highly laudatory, and anything less was impolitic or even dangerous.6 It was trickier, both for contemporaries and for us, to gauge where a current regime might see implied compliments or slights in accounts of earlier rulers. Thus some have seen Herodian’s notice on Severus’ Secular Games (3.8.10) as a topical nod to Philip’s celebration of Rome’s millennium, while others on the contrary believe that Philip, as a former Praetorian prefect, would have been offended by how Herodian portrays the prefects Perennis, Plautianus and Macrinus.7 Similarly some have wanted to date Herodian to the reign of Decius because of the historian’s interest in the Danube army and in Roman religious traditions, while others have reasoned that his negative remarks about Pannonians would have offended Decius, who came from that region.8 The exercise can be repeated with subsequent emperors as far as one has the energy to go.9 Dates much past the mid-250s, however, run into problems of internal evidence. Herodian often claims or implies that he was an eyewitness to the events he describes (1.2.5; 1.15.4; 2.15.7; 3.8.10; 4.8.2). The claims are not usually taken literally by modern historians, and ancient readers might not have put too much weight on them either. Nonetheless, Herodian is working within a rhetoric of realistic narration in which his statements cannot be fantastic or absurd. For his text to 5

6 7

8 9

It is not clear whether the new regime condemned the memory of Pupienus and Balbinus. There are cases of erased inscriptions and papyri, but there are also several survivals, and the scarcity of data from their short reign makes it difficult to tell whether the destructions were centrally ordered. See Haegemans 2010, 232–3. For the self-presentation of the new emperor more generally, see Huttner 2008, 1.179–80, with references. For this point as specifically related to Herodian, see Hidber 2006, 14. For games, see Whittaker 1969, xvii–xviii, also Zimmermann 1999e, 294–6, both of whom draw parallels with Asinius Quadratus’ history, usually thought to have been composed for the millennial celebration. Hidber 2006, 13 makes the common-sense objection that had Herodian intended such a reference, one might have expected him to make it explicit, as Quadratus does in his title. For Philip and Praetorian prefects, see Alföldy 1971a, 211–2 and Sidebottom 1997, 273–4. Here see Alföldy 1971a, 215–19 favoring Decius and Sidebottom 1997, 274 arguing against him. Sidebottom 1997 takes it to the reign of Gallienus and beyond, though perhaps less in earnest than for the sake of pointing out the futility of the attempt.

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work, readers have to find it plausible that there are still people around who can remember events in the 190s or even 180s, even if they do not necessarily believe the actual author to be such a man. By the mid-250s this would mean men in their 80s or 90s. In those circumstances, one would expect Herodian’s narrator either to present himself as a very old man whose memories go back uniquely far to periods unfamiliar to his readers, or to establish a false dramatic date by implying that the work was finished some years earlier but not circulated immediately.10 On the contrary, he gives every impression that he is the readers’ contemporary, producing a history that covers events until quite close to the narrative present.11 A full understanding of this point requires us to consider the end point and planned scope of Herodian’s work. Several scholars have argued that Herodian’s work is in some way unfinished, or that it was originally intended to cover events later than its present end point.12 The most concrete evidence for this is that, whereas Herodian’s narrative in fact covers a fifty-eight year period, he at one point states (2.15.7) that he intends to cover a period of seventy years. Since he starts in 180, this would imply an end point in or around 250.13 Beyond this, several features of the text have been read as signs of interrupted composition or incomplete revision, notably two unfulfilled narratorial promises, the lack of explicit closure at the end of Book 8 and a progressive reduction of the length of books and the frequency of speeches in the later portion of the work.14 On the whole most of these arguments are overstated, and furthermore, incompleteness is very much a matter of degree. 10 11

12

13

14

It is true that at 2.15.7 the narrator implies that he is over 70, but the claim is made in a very understated way, with no indication that readers are expected to consider this age remarkable. See especially the statement in his preface (1.1.3) that his narrative is “subject to the recent recollection of the public” (ὑπὸ νεαρᾷ δὲ τῇ τῶν ἐντευξομένων μνήμῃ). The statement cannot have been literally true for the whole of Herodian’s narrative, but it creates a general assumption that would be violated if the narrative present were too far from too many of the events related. Thus Alföldy 1971a, 204–9; Polley 2003, 207 (intended to go to 250); Zimmermann 1999e, 295–302 (originally planned end in 247 abandoned in middle stages of composition); Whittaker 1969, lviii–lxi, 1.455n; Sidebottom 1998, 2813 (internal evidence speaks for incomplete revision, which could be consistent with interrupted composition). The opposing case is well argued by Hidber 1999, 148–53. Zimmermann 1999e, 292–3 argues that Herodian’s miscalculation of reign-lengths led him to believe that it was more than sixty years from Commodus’ death to Maximinus’, and that the “seventy years” should thus end in 247. Such a calculation, however, relies too much on Herodian’s being precise at just the right points and careless at just the right other points. It is considerably easier to believe, with Hidber 2006, 13, that the round figures should be read as approximations. The unfulfilled promises come at 4.14.2 (says he will describe the subsequent punishment of officers who supported Macrinus’ coup) and 5.3.9 (says he will describe the subsequent transfer of the garrison of Emesa that initially supported Elagabalus). In both instances, the events are never described, although they would have occurred during the period covered in Herodian’s existing work rather than in a future year that he never covered at all. The reference at 7.9.11 to Capellianus’ possible ambitions,

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My arguments in this book have deliberately relied less on authorial intent and more on concepts such as narrative worlds that rely on readers to create meaning. Thus for my purposes the important thing is not what the actual author might have done were there but world enough and time, but rather how his existing text functions. Does the putatively incomplete text contain infelicities that would have made readers unable or unwilling to generate the meanings I have posited? Would they have read the work as incomplete and in some way indeterminate? The evidence as presented does not meet this standard. It seems unlikely that many readers of Book 8 would have remembered the “seventy years” from Book 2, or were bothered by Herodian’s failure to describe the punishment of Macrinus’ allies or the reassignment of the legion from Emesa. The shortening of books and the curtailment of direct-speech dialogue in the second half might well have attracted notice, but they do not amount to a uniform diminution of quality that would have strongly suggested to the ordinary reader that the work required further revision. In particular, while Books 5 and especially 6 are indeed somewhat dry and cursory, the description of the events of 238 in Book 7 and 8 is by any reckoning some of Herodian’s best work. It is detailed, exciting, suitably adorned and probably considerably more accurate than any other piece of military narrative in Herodian. The idea that “Herodian’s energy flagged as he progressed” (Polley 2003, 207) may appear from some rough quantitative measures but is not consistent with the overall content of the work, nor would contemporary readers have found it so. The openness of the work’s ending would undoubtedly have been noticed, but not likely as evidence of incompleteness. I have noted above that it functions as an effective anticlimax, negating all the optimism that follows Maximinus’ defeat and signaling the empire’s cyclical alternation from one sort of unsuitable emperor to the next. But this is one place where ordinary readers might well have asked the same questions as philologists: why end there, with no resolution linking past events to the immediate narrative present? Given ancient discourses regarding bias and flattery in historiography, they would most naturally have concluded that Herodian could not have proceeded further without dealing with a living emperor, which would have necessitated not simply flattery, but a happy ending in which the though cited in this connection by Sidebottom 1998, 2183n, is considerably less explicit than the other two. Regarding speeches, Whittaker 1969, lviii–lix counts speeches per book as declining as follows over eight books: 8–10–5–4–1–1–2–2. As Whittaker notes, the number of long stand-alone orations is relatively consistent through the work, but earlier books have dramatized scenes including several short pieces of dialogue (each counted as individual speeches in the above figures) that are absent in the later books. For a convincing explanation of the change in terms of differing narrative content, see Hidber 1999, 151–3. For the falling length of books, see Polley 2003, 207.

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current ruler solves all of the problems that Herodian has been describing so pessimistically. He might perhaps have managed a Cassius-Dio-type ending, where the reigning emperor is portrayed neutrally and the entire tone is pessimistic, but Dio presents himself as someone who has already been punished for doing the right thing and will soon be beyond all further punishment. Given Herodian’s reticent personality, he can establish his narrative independence simply by refusing to touch the current reign at all. That refusal would have been noticed by contemporary readers and serves to confirm a basically pessimistic reading of Herodian. After all, if there really were some set of ideal imperial characteristics that Herodian believed could bring salvation for the empire, it would have been easy to attribute them to a Philip or a Decius and end on an affirming note. Instead, Herodian achieves the last of the many distancing effects we see over the course of his work, so that even events of the recent past are narrated as if they were distant. If we assume that Herodian deliberately aimed for such an open ending, then we might try to determine the time of composition by assuming that his end point in 238 represents the furthest he could go without bringing up the figure of a living emperor. This would suggest the reign of Philip, since any further account of the reign of Gordian III would certainly have brought up the figure of Timesitheus, whose story was closely connected with Philip’s own. Philip did not denigrate Gordian III’s memory, but certainly presented himself as a very different sort of emperor, and as such Herodian’s ending would not have been problematic.15 Such a dating is insecure to say the least, however. One might argue that even under Decius 238 was a logical stopping point, because Philip’s rise could only have been described in a way so negative as to ruin Herodian’s pose just as effectively as flattery. What matters most for the purposes of my argument is that contemporary readers would have seen Herodian as someone who preferred silence to the contortions necessary in describing the immediate past.

ii. Biographical characteristics On this subject, skepticism is not hard to justify. Given that over the past two hundred years learned and thorough readers have managed to label Herodian an Alexandrian, an Antiochene, a native of western Asia Minor, a senator, an equestrian and a freedman, it might seem self-evident that the work fails to give conclusive testimony as to the origin or social position of 15

On Philip’s career under Gordian, and his treatment of his memory, see Körner 2002, 71–98, with Potter 1990, 201–11.

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its author.16 Nonetheless, there is something of a current consensus around Herodian’s origin, and to a lesser extent his social class, and much current scholarship on the early third century repeats that consensus view with unjustified confidence.17 According to that consensus, Herodian was from the urbanized area of western Asia Minor, and occupied a minor administrative post as either an imperial freedman or the son of an imperial freedman. My task here is not to confirm or refute these hypotheses, but to demonstrate that they do not rest on any obvious internal evidence that would have caused contemporary readers (as opposed to modern philologists) to attribute these characteristics to the author. The “western Asia Minor” thesis first gained currency with Càssola 1957, 215–16 and was endorsed by Whittaker 1969, xxvi–xxvii and Alföldy 1971a, 223–7. The main evidence for it is that when Herodian’s narrative deals with events in that part of the world (chiefly during Severus’ war with Niger in Book 3, but also during Macrinus’ flight from Syria in Book 4), he is more than usually precise in his geography and gives more place-names than for any other region of the empire.18 The higher level of precision is undeniable, but not immediately remarkable. Little or no information is given about the cities beyond their names, and the level of detail on Severus’ war is largely maintained when the conflict moves from its Anatolian to its Syrian phase.19 The most precise geographical description in Herodian is in fact not of an eastern city at all, but of Aquileia, the site of Maximinus’ final defeat.20 He describes not only the site and economic role of the city (8.2.3), but its distance from a key bridge over the Isonzo (8.4.1–2). He even 16

17

18

19 20

Important considerations of the question include Càssola 1957; Grosso 1964, 30–5; Widmer 1967, 68–70; Whittaker 1969, xix–xxviii; Alföldy 1971a; Gascó 1982; 1987; Zimmermann 1999e, 302–19; Hidber 2006, 1–10, with Hidber’s representing the viewpoint closest to that adopted here. An interesting alternative viewpoint is that of Sommer 2004, who adheres to the older theory that Herodian was a Syrian, and reads his narrative of Elagabalus accordingly. E.g. the verdict of De Blois 1998a, 3415 that Herodian was “probably the son of a freedman and almost certainly came from somewhere in the west of Asia Minor.” De Blois cites Alföldy 1971a on the point and in a footnote explicitly rejects more skeptical views about “the information Herodian implicitly provides.” For a survey of similar over-positive statements regarding Herodian’s biography, see the relevant notes in Hidber 2006, 1–6. Càssola 1957, 215 also notes that at 4.10.3, Herodian uses the word συστήμα to mean “confederation,” a usage that was also used to describe city-confederations in western Asia Minor but not elsewhere in the Greek world in the Imperial period. The usage could be an odd archaism, since the word is used regularly in the appropriate sense by Polybius (2.41.15; 4.6.10 etc.) and Diodorus (e.g. 1.8.4; 2.57.1; 3.32.1; 14.68.4; 18.18.1 etc.), and even if it does reflect a specifically “Asian” usage, it is unlikely in context that readers would have made the association, since Herodian appears to be talking about confederations of barbarians outside of the empire. See 3.1–2 vs. 3.3–4. Thus the account of Nicomedia and Nicaea’s rivalry (3.2.9) is balanced by those of Laodicea with Antioch and Tyre with Beirut (3.3.3). Noted by Alföldy 1971a, 303.

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deplores Maximinus’ destruction of scenic vine-terraces in the area (8.4.5). Nonetheless, this has not generally been taken as evidence that Herodian came from Italy, and without wishing to do so myself, it is worth at least considering why nobody else has.21 Certainly, it would be strange, although by no means unheard-of, for a Greek author to come from Italy.22 Western Asia Minor, on the other hand, is generally taken in modern scholarship to be the principal center of Greek literary activity for the high Imperial period.23 It was full of place-names that would have been easily recognizable to all possessors of Greek paideia, regardless of their origins.24 If one is faced with a Greek author of the second or third century who gives no clear indication of his origins, western Asia Minor is a safe default location to which to consign him. This is true for modern scholars and may well have been true for Herodian’s original readers, especially if they were from that part of the world themselves. To give Herodian such an origin is not an unreasonable procedure, but all it amounts to is calling him a generic Greek author from a generic Greek literary milieu. If he identified himself with a specific location in Asia Minor (like Dio) or with a somewhat less standard location elsewhere (like Appian of Alexandria), then his geographical origin would be an important part of his authorial persona. As it is, the Asia Minor hypothesis, even if correct, only emphasizes the non-specific nature of Herodian’s authorial persona. The same conclusion emerges from the discussion over his social and professional position. The sole information he gives us is one phrase. At the end of his preface (1.2.5), he briefly restates his subject matter as the events after Marcus’ death and adds that “some of these I took part in personally, as I was in the imperial and public service” (ἔστι δ’ ὧν καὶ πείρᾳ μετέσχον ἐν βασιλικαῖς ἢ δημοσίαις ὑπηρεσίαις γενόμενος). The last phrase in particular has been parsed quite thoroughly in the hope of discovering some more precise technical meaning.25 Herodian seems to use ὑπηρεσία to refer to

21 22 23 24 25

A Western origin for Herodian is briefly suggested as possible by Gascó 1982, 169–70, but not on the specific grounds of the Aquileia passage. Although, as Gascó 1982, 170 points out, Asinius Quadratus was apparently an Italian, as were the Philostratean sophists Aelian and Aspasius. See e.g. Bowersock 1969, 17–29 and Anderson 1993, 3–5. The same applies in some measure to Latin-speakers, as witnessed by the debate on asylum-rights at Tac. Ann. 3.60–2. Barnes 1978, 83n. notes the use of similar vocabulary in the fragments of the 1–2c. ad astrological author Dorotheus, though in that case an opposition is drawn between δημοσίαι χρείαι and βασιλικαὶ ὑπηρεσίαι, and it appears that the author is using the nouns as virtual synonyms rather than any technical terms, while the adjectives are opposites. Whittaker 1969, xxii–xxiii suggests translating

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relatively minor offices, preferring ἀρχή for significant magistracies.26 Given the logic of the passage, it seems likely that we are meant to think of an office relatively close to the court rather than, say, a municipal magistracy.27 Nonetheless, had our author been mainly anxious to emphasize his closeness to the center of power, he would assuredly have used a different phrase. While it is true that claiming to have political experience was a standard authority-building technique for ancient historians generally, Herodian’s version of that claim is deliberately, even parodically, generic and unverifiable. The first half of the sentence makes a rather strong, if non-specific, claim (πείρᾳ μετέσχον), which leads readers to expect some more meaningful bit of information than “I was a civil servant.” It may indeed be that Herodian uses the relatively low-prestige term ὑπηρεσία precisely to signal to his audience that they should not expect to know who he is, and that he expects to be judged on other criteria.28 The trope is invoked only to be deprecated, rather as if a modern popular historian began a preface by alluding to “my time as a graduate student,” but carefully avoided giving any clues as to actual schools attended, subjects studied or notable teachers, leaving readers to read the initial claim as either pro forma or ironic. The content of his work likewise gives no definitive evidence of an outlook corresponding to a social position. Even if Tacitus or Dio never mentioned anything about themselves, no attentive reader of their texts could miss their self-identification with the senatorial viewpoint. Nor indeed would one mistake Thucydides or Xenophon for anything other than well-born Athenians. It is this tendency in ancient historiography that has led scholars to assume they can figure out from Herodian’s writings who he was. The only problem is that they have disagreed about Herodian in ways that would have been impossible for the authors just named. It has been argued that his point of view is that of an administrator with a “fiscal mentality,” a sympathetic client of senatorial aristocrats nostalgic for the good old Antonine days, or an eastern Greek elite self-consciously dissociating himself from the ruling power.29 It is enough here to stress that the above hypotheses are not built on the kind of evident and uniform signals that Philostratus and Dio

26 28

29

βασιλικὴ ὑπηρεσία as apparitor Caesaris, but the latter phrase covers a wide enough range of activities (including but not limited to the scribal offices suggested by Whittaker) that it represents little advance, as noted by Hidber 2006, 7n. So Càssola 1957, 216. 27 Observed by Grosso 1964, 32–3. One may contrast Arrian’s claim (Anab. 1.12.5) that everyone will know his biography, or even Tacitus’ statement (Hist. 1.1) that he “would not deny” (non abnuerim) the details of his career, thus implying that they will be known and in some way asserted by at least some of his readers. The theses are respectively those of Grosso 1964, 33, relying on a few isolated references to fiscaladministrative details; Whittaker 1969, lxxi–lxxxii, relying on a combination of senatorial prosopography and a supposed “optimus princeps ideology” seen in Herodian’s judgements of emperors; and

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deploy in an effort to define and appeal to “people like us.” Rather they are built on implicit inferences of varying plausibility and tendency. To the positivism of a modern philologist, these are clues that, however unpromising, must be followed as best one can. To Herodian’s ancient readers, however, actual or intended, they are instead a significant absence. They represent a marked denial that history should be written by and for “people like us,” i.e. that any one segment of the literate elite should be the privileged interpreters of events. Useful though it is to establish what we can about the biography of the real Herodian, from a literary point of view it is his anonymity above all that defines his authorial persona. Sidebottom 1998, 2822–6, relying mostly on Herodian’s persistent glossing of Roman cultural institutions, along with a number of isolated statements that are taken to characterize Rome as an “alien monarchy.”

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Index

Acta Alexandrinorum, 41, 183 Actium, Battle of, 124, 125 Aelian, 37, 225, 306 Aeschines, 198, 200, 201, 205 Africa, Roman, 4, 41, 70, 72, 243, 288 Albinus, Clodius, 32, 56, 57, 64, 142, 236, 275 Alexander Clay-Plato, 158, 206, 210, 215, 222, 224 Alexander of Abonouteichos, 164 Alexander Severus, 85–9, 134, 277 Cassius Dio and, 143, 146, 292 Herodian and, 235, 247–50, 254–5, 271 relations with army, 88 reputation of, 87, 254 Alexander the Great Apollonius and, 171, 174, 177 Caracalla’s imitation of, 33, 63, 76, 155, 250 Alexandria, 41, 78, 172, 198 Ammianus Marcellinus, 269 annalistic history, Roman, 92 Antioch, 61, 168, 180, 220, 250 Antipater, Aelius, 59, 222, 223 antiquarians, Roman, 37 Antonine era attitude to the past, 9, 35–45 Cassius Dio and, 18 consensus rule and, 7–8 Herodian and, 228, 233–5, 260, 272 historical change and, 6 Philostratus and, 219 Severan continuities with, 1–2, 6–7, 146 Severan distinct from, 1, 8 Severan idealization of, 8, 35, 63–6 Antoninus, name used by emperors, 56, 80, 86 Antoninus Pius Commodus descended from, 48 Hadrian deified by, 147 Herodian ignores, 234 reign of, 34, 39, 239 Sophists and, 206, 215, 222, 224 Antony, 122, 123, 124

Apollonius of Tyana “holy man” tradition and, 160 animals and, 163 Cassius Dio and, 165, 192 compared with earlier philosophers, 187 compared with past philosophers, 173–5 cultural identity of, 164 divine status of, 186–8 historical figure, 158, 171 late-antique views of, 161 letters of, 167, 180, 181, 192, 195 reputation before Philostratus, 164–7 Roman power and, 179–95 Severan family and, 166 Appian, 18, 22, 36, 39, 41–3, 68, 306 Cassius Dio compared with, 92, 98, 109, 123 Herodian and, 234, 269 political terminology, 104, 108 Appius Claudius Caecus, 107 Apsines of Gadara, 294 Apuleius, 28, 41 Aquileia, 243, 244, 305 Arch of Severus, 67, 69 Arch of the Argentarii, 67 Archelaus of Cappadocia, 180 Aristides, Aelius, 38, 211, 215, 239 Herodian and, 235 Aristotle, 108 army, Roman Cassius Dio and, 143 Herodian and, 255 Macrinus and, 81 political views of, 89 Severus and, 62 Arrian, 22, 36, 40, 42, 99, 230, 272, 307 Assassins, Caesar’s, 110, 114, 123 Athens, 169, 171, 176, 197, 198, 211, 212, 213 Atticism, literary, 21, 154, 168, 267 Augustus Cassius Dio and, 45, 103, 112, 116, 120–39, 148 era of, 273

335

336

Index

Augustus (cont.) political rise of, 122 relationship to Antonines, 43–5 self-presentation of, 5, 125 Severus’ use of, 66, 103, 121, 125, 128, 138 Austen, Jane, 12 Baebius Marcellinus, 90 Balbinus, 254, 300 Beirut, 61, 71 Bithynia, 42 Britannicus, 45 Byzantium, in 190s civil wars, 61, 221, 236 Capua, Dio’s house in, 287 Caracalla, 75–9, 278 accused of parricide, 1 Alexander allegedly son of, 86, 248, 255 and Geta, 30–3 Cassius Dio and, 34, 142, 143, 165 Commodus compared with, 76 Elagabalus allegedly son of, 82 Herodian and, 250, 259, 264 military role of, 76 named as successor, 56, 64 Philostratus and, 223–5 portraits of, 75 religious activities of, 83, 165 reputation of, 30, 75, 81 self-presentation of, 30–4 wrote account of Parthian War, 77 Casperius Aelianus, 173, 181, 189 Cassius Apronianus, father of Dio, 18, 97, 145 Cassius Dio biography and, 115, 139 contemporary narrative of, 90, 97, 103, 141–5 cultural identity of, 26, 148 dating of, 282–93 dynasteiai portrayed by, 102, 107–12, 114–20 early works of, 60, 284 experience of civil wars, 57, 142 Herodian compared with, 260, 268, 270, 307 history, literary characteristics of, 18, 90–4 life and career, 17–18, 97, 288 Maecenas–Agrippa debate in, 126, 127, 129–35 methodological statements by, 94–7 modern scholarship on, 91, 93, 120, 127 narrative modes used by, 98, 101–3, 121, 128 narrative persona of, 287 preserved in fragments and epitomes, 104 principate portrayed by, 102, 139–41 readership of, 22 Republican Rome portrayed by, 102, 104–7 senatorial identity of, 280

Settlement of 27 bc in, 135–9 Severan context for, 103, 146–9, 274 speeches and rhetoric in, 106, 111, 113–15, 119, 122, 125, 129, 135, 290 value as historian, 10, 24, 118 Cassius, Avidius, 34, 48, 49 Philostratus and, 219 Cato the Younger, 110, 114 Catulus, 113 Christianity, 2, 61, 161, 266, 280 Chryseros, 228 Cicero, 60 Cassius Dio and, 111, 113, 122, 289–90 Philostratus and, 182 civil wars, Roman cities’ role in, 57, 61, 71, 268 of 190s, 55, 57, 62, 63 Sophists and, 220 Claudius Pompeianus, 53, 141 Clemens, Cassius, 57, 142, 221 coins Elagabalus and, 84, 246 Secular Games portrayed on, 73 Septimius Severus and, 57 Commodus, 45–51, 216, 278 arena performances of, 46, 50 Caracalla compared with, 76 Cassius Dio and, 96, 143, 262 Herodian and, 239, 242, 250, 253, 262 rehabilitated by Severus, 64 reputation of, 46, 52 self-presentation of, 273 Condianus brothers, 97, 223 Constantine the Great, 45 Constitutio Antoniniana, 30–4, 257, 280 Corinth, 172 Crispus, speech by, in Herodian, 252 cultural geography, 10, 170–3, 198, 213 Herodian and, 240–52 cultural identity, Greek and Roman, 25–9, 148, 279 changes in Antonine and Severan eras, 17, 27, 40–3, 74 Damianus of Ephesus, 210 Damis, 159, 187, 194 damnatio memoriae. See emperors, official memory of Decius, 87 Demetrius the Cynic, 172, 187 Demosthenes, 205 Cassius Dio and, 113 Diadumenianus, 80 Dio Cassius. See Cassius Dio

Index Dio Chrysostom, 17, 131, 172, 175, 180, 191, 194, 201, 215 Diocletian, 45 Diodorus Siculus, 92 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 41 Dionysius of Miletus, 198, 202, 216 Domitian, 66, 143, 170, 191, 275 death of, 5 Philostratus and, 172, 181, 184–5, 188, 215, 218 Domitius Insanus, character in Gellius, 37 Dorotheus, 306 dynasteia, usage history, 107–9 Elagabalus, 81–6, 179 accused of sexual and gender deviance, 85, 246 Cassius Dio and, 85, 139, 143 Herodian and, 82, 235, 245–7 Philostratus and, 225, 297 posthumous denigration, 22 religious practices of, 83, 246 elite, Roman distrust of army, 63, 79 perception of change, 1 social mobility and, 2 unity or fragmentation of, 6, 22, 278–80 emperors, official memory of, 32, 40, 44, 65, 80, 86, 147, 191, 254, 301 Epictetus, 186, 191 Ethiopia, 170, 194 Eunapius, 158, 161, 280 Euphrates, 172, 189 Eusebius, 188 Excerpta, Constantinian, 106, 107 Fabricius, 106, 180 Faustina, 46, 48, 65 Favorinus, 27, 37, 201, 205, 223 fiction, ancient, 159 fiction, realistic, 12 Flavian era Apollonius and, 181, 191–5 Latin historiography during, 99 Severus’ use of, 66 Florus, 36, 39, 42, 98, 234 fortune, imperial propaganda and, 60 Forum of Augustus, 5, 43 frontiers, Roman Commodus and, 49 Herodian and, 240–51 Severus and, 63 Fronto, 36, 41, 48, 146, 238, 296 Gabinius, Aulus, 113 Galba, 55 Gaul, Roman, 43, 182, 275

337

Gellius, Aulus, 36 Geta, 30–3, 76, 220, 223, 269 Glabrio, Acilius, 53, 256 Gordian I, 34, 134, 200, 294, 300 Gordian III, 6, 89, 134, 239, 254, 295, 300 Gorgias, 198, 201, 206 Granius Licinianus, 98 Greek culture, imperial, 40, 151–5, 279 Cassius Dio and, 132 Classical past and, 153, 173, 200, 201 modern scholarship on, 154, 207 narrative and, 155, 203 periodization, 3, 155 Roman politics and, 153, 175, 190, 219 Hadrian and Roman expansion, 39, 44, 63 as patron of Italica, 72 deification of, 147 Fronto and, 36, 146 Herodian ignores, 234 reign of, 39 restoration of Augustan monuments, 68 Sophists and, 211, 216, 217 Hadrian of Tyre, 206, 213, 216, 222 Hatra, 63 Heliodorus, 224 Helvidius Priscus, 183, 193 Heraclides of Lycia, 221 Herman, David, 11 Herodes Atticus activities in Rome, 213 civic activities of, 210 compared with earlier orators, 207 cultural identity of, 157 enemies of, 216 failure before Marcus, 222 focal point of Sophists, 20, 35, 198, 208–10, 212, 276 Gellius and, 37 Gordians and, 295 Herodian Cassius Dio as source for, 228, 262 chronological scope of, 238 complete state of work, 302–4 dating of, 300–4 focalization in, 247, 262, 263 glosses in, 265 Greek culture and, 266–70 history, literary characteristics of, 227, 235, 272, 276 ideological and rhetorical agenda, 16, 230, 231, 257, 258, 270–2 irony and misdirection in, 229, 242, 245, 247, 254, 255, 256

338

Index

Herodian (cont.) life and career of, 20–1, 304–8 narrative persona of, 228, 233, 260–72, 304–8 novelistic aspects of, 228 preface to, 229–38 speeches and rhetoric in, 241, 243, 252–60, 303 textual problems in, 235, 241, 257, 259 value as historian, 10, 24, 228 Herodotus, 131, 230 Hesiod, 45 Hierocles, 161 Hippodromus of Thessaly, 221 Historia Augusta, 34, 246, 249, 254, 269 historiography, ancient as genre, 8, 10 author-based approach to, 24 fiction and, 9, 13–14 Philostratus and, 150–3, 196 rhetorical analysis of, 10, 15 Roman senatorial tradition, 18, 92 source of facts, 25 Homer, 178, 193, 214 Hugo, Victor, 12 I, Claudius, 13 Iamblichus, 163 India, Philostratus and, 7, 164, 170, 177 Ionia, 180, 198, 212 Italy, 133, 181, 184, 213, 240–5, 287 Herodian and, 244 Julia Domna Cassius Dio and, 165 Macrinus and, 80 Philostratus and, 156, 162, 224, 297 public image of, 60, 65, 71 titles given to, 77 Warsaw relief, 78 Julia Maesa, 87, 247, 248, 263 Julia Mamaea, 87, 248–50 Julianus, Didius, 55, 64 Cassius Dio and, 56 Herodian and, 251 Julio-Claudian era, 39 Latin historiography during, 99 Julius Caesar, 44 Cassius Dio and, 112, 116–20, 136 kingship literature, 131, 192 Laetus, 256, 263 Leptis Magna, 71, 73 Livy, 5, 92, 93, 100–1 Longinus, 202 Lucian, 36

Apollonius of Tyana in, 164 cultural identity of, 27 Herodian and, 227, 230–8, 261 historiography and, 36, 92 Lucius Verus, 34, 48 Lucullus, 112, 180 Lyons, Battle of, 58 Macrinus, 79–82, 277 Cassius Dio and, 80, 144, 292 equestrian identity and, 79 Herodian and, 247, 250, 258–9, 263 Pertinax compared with, 79 relations with army, 88 self-presentation, 16 Magna Mater, 267 Marcia, 263 Marcus Aurelius Cassius Dio and, 47, 140, 148 descendants of, 53, 69 Herodian and, 35, 234, 240, 260, 270 Meditations of, 192 Philostratus and, 211, 214, 216 rain miracle of, 60 reign of, 34, 278 relationship to Commodus, 45–9 reputation of, 22, 47 Severan idealization of, 51 Marcus of Byzantium, 206, 211, 216 Marius Maximus, 57, 61 martyr literature, 182–4, 186 Maximinus Thrax, 63 Herodian and, 88, 242–5, 251, 270 social background of, 2, 88, 280 Megara, 211 Metellus Creticus, 113 Mithridatic War, Third, 112 Moeragenes, 167 monarchy, Roman, 44 and heredity, 45 Cassius Dio and, 129–39, 147 consensus model of, 4, 134 scope for political criticism, 146, 183, 292, 304 youthful figurehead emperors, 83, 134 Munda, Battle of, 117 music, “authentic” performance practices, 204 Musonius Rufus, 169, 172, 175, 182, 191, 192 narrative as textual and literary construct, 13, 23 in Roman political culture, 5 Roman political culture and, 33 narrative worlds, 8, 11–14, 98, 156, 185, 188 modalities within, 13

Index Neoplatonism, 161 Nero, 45, 143, 169, 172, 182, 190, 191 Nerva, 184, 185, 189, 194, 218 Nicaea, 61, 220 home city of Cassius Dio, 17, 289 lake fish of, 141 Nicagoras of Athens, 294 Nicetes, 198, 201 Nicolaus of Damascus, 92 Niger, Pescennius, 55, 250, 259 Numerianus, 237, 275 O’Brian, Patrick, 12 Octavian. See Augustus Olympia, 177 Paetus, Thrasea, 183 Panhellenion, 217 Pannonia, 240–5, 288 Pantheon, 69 Parthian Empire, 63, 67, 170, 177, 258, 291–2 Paullus, Aemilius, 106 Pausanias, 22, 179, 197 Peregrinus, 183, 192 Persia (Sassanid), 2, 143, 249, 291–2 Persian wars, 171, 177, 269 Pertinax, 51–5, 134, 277 as princeps senatus, 53 Cassius Dio and, 52, 55, 141, 143, 262 dynastic succession and, 54 Herodian and, 51, 256–8, 262, 271 Macrinus compared with, 79 Severus’ use of, 241 Pharsalus, Battle of, portrayed by Dio, 117–19 Philip the Arabian, 89, 301 Philippi, Battle of, 119 Philiscus (character in Cassius Dio), 289–90 Philiscus the Thessalian, 223, 290 Philostratus Apollonius and Sophists compared, 196–7, 199, 212, 215, 218, 219, 225 Apollonius, content summarized, 168–70 Apollonius, fictionality of, 159–60 Apollonius, Greek culture and, 163, 168, 171, 176–9, 180, 188–91, 275 Apollonius, ideological and rhetorical agenda of, 14, 160–4 Apollonius, New Testament and, 160, 183, 188 Apollonius, Roman politics in, 275 Apollonius, title of, 158 attribution of works, 156, 192 Cassius Dio compared with, 220 dating of, 179, 297 generic classification of, 19, 150 Gymnasticus, 167, 201

339

Herodian compared with, 260, 268, 270 Heroicus, 163, 167 historical value of, 10, 24, 181, 199, 211 homonyms of, 150 life and works, 18–20, 199 modern scholarship on, 150, 158–64, 197, 207 narrative personae of, 156, 160, 192, 226 Nero (Ps.-Lucian), 192 Severan context for, 275–6 Sophists, addressee of, 200, 294–7 Sophists, emperors in, 199, 214–18, 219–26, 276 Sophists, narrative structure of, 197–203, 209, 211, 213, 276 Sophists, non-literary activities of sophists, 207–11 Sophists, official honors in, 215, 219 Sophists, philosopher-sophists in, 200 Sophists, rhetorical objectives of, 199, 203, 208 plague, Antonine, 2, 35 Plautianus, 70, 75, 134, 141, 144, 166 Plautilla, 32, 70, 75 Pliny the Younger, 99 Plutarch, 99, 117, 139, 180, 268 Polemo, 205, 206, 211, 216, 222, 223 Pollio, Asinius, 18 Polybius, 41, 93, 101 Pompey, 112–15, 117 Porphyry, 163 Praetorian Guard, 52, 62, 63, 64, 85, 242, 247, 248, 257 Principate. See Monarchy, Roman Proclus of Naucratis, 206 proscriptions, Augustan, 122 Punic wars, portrayed by Cassius Dio, 105 Pupienus, 244, 254, 300 Pythagoras, 173 Pythagoreanism, 161, 176 Quadratus, Asinius, 92, 232, 301, 306 Res gestae divi Augusti, 5, 122 Romanization, 28, 41 Rome, city of Apollonius in, 157, 169, 170 Commodus re-names, 50 emperor and court located in, 2, 52, 240 Herodian and, 241, 244, 247, 248, 251 perspective contrasted with provinces, 57 Severus’ buildings in, 66–9 Severus’ entry into, 64, 242 sophistic activity in, 157, 198, 213–14 Rubicon, 116

340

Index

Sallust, 18 Sallustia Orbiana, 87, 248 science fiction, 12 Scopelian, 172, 198, 206, 215 Second Sophistic Aeschines invents, 201 Classical rhetoric and, 205–7 Hellenistic era and, 203 Philostratus’ conception of, 197 Second Sophistic (modern critical construct). See Greek culture, imperial Secular Games, 68, 70, 73, 242, 301 Secundus the Silent, 183 Senate, Roman Alexander Severus and, 86, 149 emperors and, 33, 49, 52, 55, 57 Macrinus and, 81 Philostratus and, 189 provincials in, 40 Severus and, 64 Septimius Severus, 55–74 adoption by Marcus claimed, 16, 56, 65 autobiography of, 59 building activities of, 66–9, 72 Cassius Dio and, 58, 68, 139 decennalia of, 70 ethnic identity of, 70–4 family, public image of, 65, 69 gods of Leptis and, 73, 84 Herodian and, 236, 240–2 Pertinax’ name used by, 55, 64 reputation of, 22 self-presentation of, 6, 31, 55, 58, 274 Septizodium, 68 Severan era cultural and political history of, 273 in modern scholarship, 3 new forms of historical narrative, 4 political instability during, 278 self-presentation of emperors, 6, 16, 74 Sophists and, 220–5 Sextus Pompey, 124 Sibylline oracles, 4, 152 Smyrna, 206, 211 sophistic declamation, 38, 155, 198, 203–5, 210 sophistic, old, 198, 200 Sparta, 169, 176, 180 Stendhal, 12 Strabo, 42, 170

Struggle of the Orders, 106 Suetonius, 99, 139 Sulla, 59, 130 Symmachus, 280 Syria, Roman, 27, 71 Tacitus Cassius Dio compared with, 100, 123, 136, 138, 140 cultural identity of, 43 experience of dynastic change, 40 Herodian compared with, 10, 228, 238, 241, 307 I, Claudius and, 13 literary and political change in, 202 literary characteristics of, 93 scholarly approaches to, 11 senatorial background of, 18 Trajan and, 5 Telesinus, 173, 189 third-century crisis, 2, 227, 277 Thucydides Cassius Dio and, 93, 105 dynasteia used by, 108 Herodian and, 230–3, 261 narrative persona of, 307 Tigellinus, 182 Titus, 193 Trajan, 5, 97, 183, 194, 275 Herodian ignores, 234 transliteration, Latin into Greek, 267 Triumvirate, First, 110, 115 Triumvirate, Second, 115 Tyana, history of, 168 Tyre, 71 Ulpian, 248 universal history, 42, 92 Valerian, 87 Velleius Paterculus, 18, 92, 99, 123 Vespasian, 62, 170, 173, 190, 192–4 Vindex, 182, 275 Virgil, 5, 43 White, Hayden, 10, 98 Xenophon, 101, 238, 307 Xiphilinus, 60, 61, 97, 112, 257