Studies in Emotions and Power in the Late Roman World: Papers in honour of Ron Newbold 9781463223977

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents.....................................................................................v  Contributors .............................................................................................ix  Acknowledgments ...................................................................................xi  Abbreviations .........................................................................................xiii  1. Barbara Sidwell, “Introduction: Power and Emotions” ................1  Power.................................................................................................2  Emotions ..........................................................................................4  Chapters ............................................................................................9  Bibliography ...................................................................................19  2. Ron Newbold, “St. Jerome’s Struggle for Control: an Approach” ......................................................................................23  Bibliography ...................................................................................37  3. Han Baltussen, “Marcus Aurelius and the Therapeutic Use of Soliloquy: An Interdisciplinary Approach” ...............................39  Meditations or Exhortations?......................................................41  Emotions and how to deal with them........................................45  Psychological efficacy: self-examination, care of the soul & self-consolation.....................................................................50  Conclusion......................................................................................54  Bibliography ...................................................................................56  4. Cristopher Malone, “The Virtue of Rage in the Fourth Century”..........................................................................................59  Bibliography ...................................................................................84  5. Barbara Sidwell, “Insult and Outrage and the Roman Military: Ammianus Marcellinus Res Gestae 20.8.8; 25.3.10; 28.6.23” ...87  Military Values and Ammianus ...................................................91  Julian’s Proclamation in Paris ......................................................97  The Death of Julian.....................................................................100  Response to the Tripoli Affair ..................................................103  v

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Conclusion....................................................................................105  Bibliography .................................................................................108  6. Silke Sitzler, “Angst and Identity in Antioch following the Riot of the Statues” .....................................................................111  Bibliography .................................................................................125  7. Andrew Gillett, “Love and Grief in Post-Imperial Diplomacy: The Letters of Brunhild” ......................................127  The geo-political context of the letters ....................................129  The letters of Brunhild and Childebert in the Epistolae Austrasicae .............................................................................132  Epistolary artifices .......................................................................142  Communicative strategies ..........................................................150  Appendix.......................................................................................161  Bibliography .................................................................................162  8. Thomas S. Burns, “Negotiating a Serviceable Identity and a Pathway to Power in Late Antiquity” ......................................167  Bibliography .................................................................................196  Index.......................................................................................................201 

DR RON F. NEWBOLD vii

CONTRIBUTORS HAN BALTUSSEN is an Associate Professor and the Head of Discipline in the Discipline of Classics, School of Humanities and Social Sciences, The University of Adelaide, Adelaide, Australia. THOMAS S. BURNS is retired Samuel Candler Dobbs Professor of History in the Department of History, Emory University, Atlanta USA. DANIJEL DZINO is Australian Research Council Australian Postdoctoral Fellow in the Department of Ancient History, Macquarie University, Sydney, Australia. ANDREW GILLETT is an Associate Professor in the Department of Ancient History, Macquarie University, Sydney, Australia. CHRISTOPHER W. MALONE is postgraduate student at the department of Ancient History, University of Sydney, Sydney, Australia. RON NEWBOLD is Visiting Research Fellow and retired senior lecturer in the Discipline of Classics, School of Humanities and Social Sciences, The University of Adelaide, Adelaide, Australia. BARBARA SIDWELL is a Visiting Research Fellow in the Department of Ancient History, Macquarie University, Sydney, Australia. SILKE SITZLER is Visiting Research Fellow in the Discipline of Classics, School of Humanities and Social Sciences, The University of Adelaide, Adelaide, Australia

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The editors would like to thank everyone who helped in the organisation of the conference “Emotions, Status and Power” at Adelaide University in December 2008, as well as to the presenters and all those who attended the sessions. Also, we express our gratitude to our editor Katie Stott and everyone at Gorgias Press for their help and support in the publication of this volume. The work on the book was financially supported by the Australian Research Council.

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ABBREVIATIONS ANRW CAH CIL MGH NCMH OCD PLRE PG

Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt (Berlin & New York). Cambridge Ancient History (Cambridge). Corpus Inscriptiones Latinorum (Berlin). Monumenta Germaniae Historica. The New Medieval Cambridge History (Cambridge) The Oxford Classical Dictionary 3rd ed. (Oxford). Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire (Cambridge). Patrologia Graeca (Paris).

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1. BARBARA SIDWELL, “INTRODUCTION: POWER AND EMOTIONS” BARBARA SIDWELL MACQUARIE UNIVERSITY [email protected] This collection of essays aims to contribute to our understanding of emotions and power in late antiquity, as either separate or combined themes, with particular emphasis on the place of emotions and power in the ancient literary sources. It brings together a range of papers from a variety of experts in Roman imperial history and late antiquity who draw on the historical sources, in order to examine the ways in which they present their characters, whether real or imagined, to discern how they are seen to behave or how the forces that move and shape events affect them. The particular emphasis that this collection takes is to examine individuals and groups from later antiquity, to understand how they react emotionally, or how power affects their behaviour. In recent times, interest in the grouping of emotions and power is moving beyond psychological thought and into the realm of historical inquiry into the ancient sources.1 Modern methods of determining and understanding behaviour can be applied, through careful analysis, to groups and individuals that existed many hundreds of years ago. This is able to be done because many historians, biographers and philosophers recorded their everyday lives and the lives of others in their carefully scribed works. Thus, the awareness of the inter-relationship of emotions and power exists in the classical scholarship from Homer and Herodotus onwards. For example, 1

See for example MacMullen (2003), or Harris (2001).

1

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in the first century, Seneca wrote that: “Men whose spirit has grown arrogant from the great favour of fortune have this most serious fault - those whom they have injured, they also hate (quos laeserunt et oderunt)”.2 Thus power and emotions are inevitably intertwined and many historians and philosophers, including Seneca, were very much aware of this relationship.

POWER The theme of power dominates a number of papers collected in this compendium, as does the topic of emotion. Power and emotion are by no means mutually exclusive subjects; rather, these themes are closely linked and complemented in an impressive number of ways. For example, emotions can provide the power to motivate and can direct the course of an individual’s behaviour. Emotions give people the ability to engage with the world around them and feelings such as anger are powerful motivators. Although they can be controlled, emotions have often been instigators for the behaviour and reactions of those who want, or are, in control, where control is linked to claims of power. The attainment of power was, and still is, a key motivator for many acts of groups and individuals. Certain individuals use power in order to validate their existence. In some cases, this is a method whereby individuals are able to overcome feelings of insecurity, whether real or imagined, by maintaining that feeling of control which appears to radiate out from them. Indeed, power may be the most significant type of authority.3 As Galinsky has defined it, power is the ability to have control, over ourselves and others.4 However, power is a fickle thing and all too often it is held but briefly. Power is an unwieldy ally and it can just as easily fall to others. Therefore, power must be jealously guarded. Some persons become prideful when they excel and become powerful. This can lead them to belittle those whom they have disserviced along the way and in certain circumstances, the powerful reduce their feelings Seneca, De Ira 33.3. Cf. Russell (1938). 4 Galinsky, et al. (2003); Keltner, et al. (2003); Thibaut & Kelley (1959). 2 3

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of guilt or pity and replace them with other, more satisfying emotions that qualify their status and use of power.5 For psychologists, the debate on power, its definitions, functions and organisation is ongoing. What the ancient sources show and what some modern psychologists agree on, is that power emerges when the social situations are in place for power to take hold. For power comes from groups, their shared culture, identityperceptions, values and social organisation. Through an awareness of these functions, individuals can use persuasion and authority over others, to encourage those persons to obey their instructions. Thus society influences how power is utilised and can have direct affect over the way that power is held, used and lost. To have effective power, leaders need to work with others to influence them, through gaining and holding onto their attention to convince them that their way is the right way.6 Most societies have a definite hierarchy, which makes individuals feel secure and protected. It is through manipulating this hierarchy that leaders can attain and remain in power, which often invokes mutual dependence, and trust / distrust.7 People desire stability in their lives, therefore, the drivers behind power stability comes from the creating of abstract rules, which are the customs, standards, beliefs and principles of human society.8 The rules that the powerful live by today in most Western countries are well established, but in antiquity, the rules were often more flexible and power could be taken by force or subverted for individual needs. What makes the attainment of power so interesting in antiquity is the very fact that these rules were frequently broken. But, by that token, the individual that quashed his fellow man on his way to seek power often left many enemies in his wake. Thus, the groups and individuals who attained power for themselves needed to be strong and resilient to ward off any potential threat to their stability. Threats to the powerful often provided an Elster (2004) 159. Turner (2005) 19. 7 Rorty (2004) 276. 8 Foucault & Gordon (1980); Sidanius, et al. (2003); Sidanius, et al. (2004). 5 6

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everyday fear for those who sought control for themselves over others.

EMOTIONS The need to understand emotions is an essential skill, which enables human beings to successfully cohabitate with one another. Thus, from an early age, we learn to recognise the signals that indicate how our parents, siblings, and those closest to us are feeling, from the reactions they give when we perform an action, thus informing us whether it is pleasing or displeasing to others. Facial expressions are the most important indicator of emotion for humans, and subconsciously we notice the body language of others and respond to it accordingly. Often these signals mean that we subconsciously respond to emotion even before we are consciously aware of it.9 Emotions play a role in the behaviour of all human beings and are the basic function of survival through giving rise to action. They are are essential motivators and knowledge of this has been part of the literary landscape of past and present authors. In this respect, emotions play an important role historically, for they move and shape events as much as the power plays that were discussed above. Emotions are one of the most useful tools for manipulating others and this gives rise to having power over individuals and groups. Emotions are intriguing, because the emotions that move and enthral are what interest us the most as human beings.10 Because of the essential role emotions play in our everyday lives, our desire for knowledge concerning human emotions has produced many theories and controversies throughout the centuries. The answer to what is an emotion, or a passion, is a question that was posed almost two and a half thousand years ago in ancient Greece. Aristotle spent much of his time studying the passions, and his theories are still being discussed today.11 Aristotle was motivated by an interest in ethics and maintained that moral virtue was concerned with passions and actions, and in his accounts of particular virtues Mayne & Ambrose (1999) 355. Cf. Oatley (2004) 10. 11 Cf. e.g. Fortenbaugh (1975); Kristjánsson (2007). 9

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the passions often figure even more prominently than the actions.12 Throughout the study of philosophy, virtues have frequently been cited alongside the passions. However, it was not just philosophers who were aware of the importance emotions have for motivating persons into action, or for them becoming so overwhelmed that no action was possible; the poets, such as Virgil, were also very much aware of the power of passions. Never is this more apparent than in the great epics, including the Sumerian epic of Gilgamesh and Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad. In the great Roman epic, Virgil’s final scene at the end of the Aeneid is a fine example of emotion guiding action. This ending is controversial due to its brutality; however, it is fitting for it adheres to traditional epic portrayals: Fierce in his arms, Aeneas stood with rolling eyes, and stayed his hand; and now more and more, as he paused, these words began to sway him, when lo! high on the shoulder was seen the luckless baldric, and there flashed the belt with its well -known studs – belt of young Pallas, whom Turnus had smitten and stretched vanquished on earth, and now wore on his shoulders his foeman’s fatal badge. The other, soon as his eyes drank in the trophy, that memorial of cruel grief, fired with fury and terrible in his wrath (furiis accensus et ira terribilis): “Art thou, thou clad in my loved one’s spoils, to be snatched hence from my hands? ‘Tis Pallas, Pallas who with this stroke sacrifices thee, and takes atonement of thy guilty blood!” So saying, full in his breast he buries the sword with fiery zeal. But the other’s limbs grew slack and chill, and with a moan life passed indignant to the Shades below (Verg. Aen. 12.938-952)

In this scene, Aeneas, fired with rage which was caused by the sight of Turnus, having adorned the armour of Pallas, refuses the young man’s plea for mercy and without remorse, kills him. Romans contemporary with Virgil were not concerned with the moral ambiguity of this passage that present day scholars discuss. Rather, they 12

Cf. Roberts (2003) 3.

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saw the anger and vengeance of Aeneas as just. No matter the literary devices behind the passage, what this shows is that anger, in antiquity, was an acceptable motivator for securing the demise of one’s enemies in order to rectify the hurt done to oneself or a loved one. The death of Turnus meant for Aeneas that he had now secured power over his new land and righted the wrong done to him by Turnus and his kin, thus this can be seen as righteous anger.13 Recent developments in psychology have meant that we have an increased understanding of emotions and their essential function within the human condition. Today, it is widely accepted that emotions are caused by evaluations, or appraisals, and concern events and experiences that are important to us all.14 A range of emotions and behaviours contribute to action or inaction and these can be subtle and barely perceptible, or they can be open and fluid. Emotions are a natural and ever-present characteristic of human behaviour. Emotions are important, even though they are one of the least understood motivators for people’s actions in antiquity. One of the most studied and discussed emotions in antiquity is anger, for anger is a motivator into action, for individuals and groups, which in the historical sources includes the military, emperors, barbarians and mobs. Anger is pertinent to historical inquiry, for it is coercive and subjective and comes through in all its forms in the portrayals of ancient figures. Today, it is widely accepted that anger can be interpreted as an affective appraisal, which is often a reaction to a perceived offence, which is recognised and disapproved of. For the offended individual, this in turn leads to the need to place blame, often involving feelings of aggression and hostility.15 Anger is manifested in various forms that were recognised in antiquity just as they are today. These include feelings of annoyance, indignation, rage, resentment, and so forth.16 Suppressed anger can shake the foundations of Cf. Galinsky (1988) 321-348. Cf. Oatley (2004) 3; Oatley & Jenkins (1996); James (1884); Arnold & Gasson (1954). 15 Cf. Robinson (2004) 39; Solomon (2004) 88; Solomon (1993) 11. 16 Cf. Deigh (2004) 17. 13 14

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those who are subject to it and can lead to long held resentment – a classic case is the Roman emperor Tiberius. Anger is often attached to a predisposition to attack, to aggress, or to strike back against the cause of the offence. Evidence in aggression research shows that anger provocation and feelings of irritation on the actor’s side are instigated when the opponent’s behaviour is viewed as unlawful and out of order.17 The actor’s succeeding response will aim at an instinctively warranted retribution against the antagonist. Thus anger is a natural desire to right a perceived wrongdoing to oneself or someone we care about. Emotions such as anger are important in our day to day lives, and having control over one’s emotions is a characteristic that has been praised since antiquity. For example, Seneca wrote: How else did Fabius restore the broken forces of the state but by knowing how to loiter, to put off, and to wait - things of which angry men know nothing? The state, which was standing then in the utmost extremity, had surely perished if Fabius had ventured to do all that anger prompted. But he took into consideration the well-being of the state, and, estimating its strength, of which now nothing could be lost without the loss of all, he buried all thought of resentment and revenge and was concerned only with expediency and the fitting opportunity; he conquered anger before he conquered Hannibal. Seneca, De ira 1.11.

*** Grief can motivate almost as powerfully as anger, although grief can overcome an individual completely so that no action at all is possible. Grief comes as the result of a loss, and it can return months or years after the event. This is perhaps because grief has the ability of reminding us of what it was that we lost and why it was so important to us to begin with.18 However, grief does not

17 18

Averill (1982); Tedeschi & Felson (1994). Baier (2004) 206; Gross (2006) 166.

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occur simply when one has lost something, but that something must be of great value to the individual suffering the grief.19 Expressions of grief are universal and can be accompanied by physical outbursts such as weeping and wailing. These physical expressions are important for they assist the griever in feeling better. it is more beneficial for individuals to express this emotion rather than repress it. Feelings of grief do grow less as the distance between the loss of something loved and the present grows further apart. Generally, grief is strongest immediately after the loss of the object of one’s love and as time wears on, grief generally loses its intensity.20 Augustine of Hippo describes the grief he felt on the death of a friend: My heart was utterly darkened by this sorrow and everywhere I looked I saw death. My native place was a torture room to me and my father’s house a strange unhappiness. And all the things I had done with him – now that he was gone – became a frightful torment. My eyes sought him everywhere, but they did not see him; and I hated all places because he was not in them, because they could not say to me, “Look, he is coming,” as they did when he was alive and absent. .... Nothing but tears were sweet to me and they took my friend’s place in my heart’s desire Aug. Conf. 4.9.

*** Another very powerful emotion is that of love, and feelings of being in love are expressed in the form of pleasure, which is strongest when persons are together. These feelings come from valuations of others as suitable mates and desirability.21 Love is not a single emotion, but a range of closely related feelings that have a variety of causes and effects. For example, when an individual is in love, he or she feels pain when his or her lover is hurt. An individual feels jealous when his or her lover pays too much attention to another Roberts (2003) 79. Roberts (2003) 175. 21 Cf. Ben-Ze’ev (2004) 259. 19 20

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and joy when his or her love is requited by the object of affection.22 Love is “basically a positive emotion,” meaning that “the positive evaluation and its associated positive motivational component and pleasant feelings are more essential in love than are the negative elements.” So even for emotions as complex as love, “we can nevertheless characterise their typical cases as either positive or negative.”23 Aristotle observed: And the affection of parent for offspring and of offspring for parent seems to be a natural instinct, not only in man but also in birds and in most animals; as also is friendship between members of the same species; and this is especially strong in the human race; for which reason we praise those who love their fellow men. Even when travelling abroad one can observe that a natural affinity and friendship exist between man and man universally. Aristot. Nic. Eth. 1155a

Love for another human being is an emotion experienced when the lover comes to know the other person. In western literature, falling in love is a drama on the grand scale and it can change and transform a person’s life forever. Love can be a motivator for leaving the security of the familial home and for making a commitment to another. “Love is an emotion that has a history in the evolution of human beings, in each individual, and in the development of Western culture.”24

CHAPTERS This present collection is deeply influenced by the work of Ron Newbold, his theories and contribution to a new type of scholarship, which prior to him, was dominated by the old school, setstandard approach to classical literature. Newbold has shown that it is possible to mix ancient history study with the diverse fields of psychology and sociology, to better understand ancient history and Cf. Kristjánsson (2002) 8. Ben-Ze’ev (2000) 68. 24 Oatley (2004) 2. 22 23

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literature and to bring ancient lives back to the forefront of human inquiry. His work was groundbreaking at the time, but other scholars have come since and their works play a vital role in elaborating upon this field of historical inquiry. The papers collected here showcase a small sample of scholars who have been influenced by Newbold. Through their example, it is hoped that we can promote new fields for scholarly research. It is wished therefore, that this collection will make its contribution in the study of emotions and power in antiquity. This publication is an outcome of a colloquium entitled “Emotions, Status and Power” organized by the co-editors of this collection, which was held at Adelaide University in South Australia in December 2009; it consists of seven of the papers delivered on that occasion, modified for publication in the light of our discussions. Although there are inevitably numerous gaps in our coverage – for example, the archaeological record receives almost no discussion at all, apart from Burns’ contribution; the chapters nonetheless contribute significantly to the subject of the conference and our aim to examine more thoroughly areas of emotion and power in late antiquity, covering diverse fields of interest. The seven contributions here, investigate many aspects of emotion in Roman imperial and post-Roman world, from Marcus Aurelius to the post-Roman Merovingian kings. This compendium finds power and emotion everywhere, from the ordinary people, to the emperors who were ideally thought to be above all such mortal concerns. Although it is impossibleto present a complete picture of emotions and power in late antiquity, it is hoped that by raising new questions about these subjects it will make a substantial contribution to the current debates about the concepts of how power was attained and held onto in late antiquity and how emotions were transmitted and affected the lives of all who lived in those times. Newbold’s exploration focuses on Saint Jerome, one of the most distinguished figures in the early Church, and the language he uses to describe control. This chapter looks at such themes as the ways individuals try to strengthen outward signs of control in order to cover up feelings of inner insecurity. In his essay, Newbold makes use of the work of David C. McClelland, the American psychological theorist, who formulated a four stage scheme of power drives that correspond to the main stages of ego maturity. Newbold goes on to show how elements of all four of McClelland’s

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stages are evident in Jerome’s life; for example, he prayed to and regarded God as a source of strength (Stage I: “Support or Intake Mode”), and others are outlined within the chapter. In his discussion of self-control, Newbold argues the importance of retaining that control, for it protects individuals from outside harm, or so the theoretical model assumes. Thus the ascetic does not risk letting anything come under his radar or drop his guard, lest some harm to his shell be found. Furthermore, he uncovers the prospect that Jerome himself was an obsessive, through his occupations as well as his desire to control others. For example, Jerome sought to control the women who came into his radius of control, through imposing upon them a regime that stressed unceasing vigilance and control of body and thought. The extremes of Jerome, that pointedly criticised the behaviour of others, created for him strong opposition; such was his need to control the thoughts and behaviours of others. For example, the priest held strong doctrinal disputations with people like Rufinus, Helvidius and Jovinian. Also his views of heretics earned him many enemies. Newbold points out Jerome’s contradictions, for he actively praised the life of the hermits, who were solitary and had perfect self-control, needing neither socialisation nor worldly goods to maintain them. Yet Jerome himself actively sought out human company and was averse to solitude. Instead, he followed Stage II: “the Autonomy or Self-Actualizing Mode,” where feelings of power came with the accumulation of knowledge. Jerome associated with a number of “well-behaved” women, but disdained sex in all its forms, and advocated abstinence, which, as Newbold points out, made him appear even more obsessed with sex than if he had remained quiet on the matter. His association with women was perhaps linked to his desire for control, especially when they were dependent upon the charity or good-will of others. They were less likely to challenge his authority and submit to his overarching power. Furthermore, while abhorring abuse and the raising of one’s ire against another, Jerome had an incredibly irascible temperament and took his temper out on those who displeased him. Though this was contradictory, Jerome saw it as sanctioned by his goal of moral improvement and its concordance with God’s cause. Jerome’s anger was perhaps an attribution of his need to maintain control over

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others and his frustration when that radius of control was subverted. Newbold’s examination rings true with current theories of control in social psychology. Individuals who desire control are those who generally have a baseline to measure it against. Thus any violation of that baseline ignites the controlling individual with a sense of injustice and frustration that can lead to anger. In his chapter, “Marcus Aurelius and the Therapeutic Use of Soliloquy: an interdisciplinary approach,” Han Baltussen argues for a re-examination of the work of one of the most famous Roman emperors, through his exploration of “the way in which Marcus Aurelius makes use of soliloquy as a strategy to cope with the emotions resulting from his extraordinary life and circumstances.” This paper looks at Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and the way in which the emperor used self-address as a form of self-consolation. Baltussen begins his investigation into Marcus Aurelius by discussing the title of the emperor’s formative work, his Meditations. He is unsatisfied with the traditional translations of the title and discusses how successive generations have taken the English translation of Meditations for granted. Baltussen offers up reasons for a new translation for the title of Marcus’ work and arguments to support this. He tracks the history of the mistranslation of the title and references to Marcus’ work in historical sources. He discusses the purpose of the Meditations, perhaps not as soliloquy, but rather as notes used for: “daily reflections and reminders of the moral message he was trying to adhere to.” Furthermore, it seems that Marcus was writing an extremely private document, which showed Marcus thinking and responding to his own thoughts, without an external audience in mind. Baltussen incorporates modern analysis into the work of Marcus Aurelius, to unearth the “impact of self-address, self-scrutiny and self-improvement.” By understanding the purpose behind Marcus’ work through using psychoanalysis, we can better understand the emperor himself and the methods he used to train his brain through effective exercises that reinforced the values and moral code that he so desperately wanted to adhere to. However, in his conclusion, Baltussen warns against projecting later traditions onto the past, which includes casting modern perceptions onto a Roman emperor who was writing within his own times and was

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influenced by the world around him as well as by past scholars. What Marcus was in fact writing was “self-address for the specific purpose of fending off whatever life threw at him: he protected his soul.” In Christopher Malone’s chapter, “The Virtue of Rage in the Fourth Century,” he begins with a discussion of rage as part of the historical tradition. Anger control has gone through the historical traditions, from being essential for a ruler to avoid the title of being a tyrant, to the fourth century, where the control of anger was a virtue that ruler must exhibit to ensure he does receives fair treatment in the sources. Malone goes on to show that at least one modern historian believes that: “when we hear about imperial anger in late antiquity, we are generally seeing little more than demonstrations of professional literary skill, without the political significance the discourse once held.” However, as Malone argues: “This is a very limited picture, and does not tally with the way anger works in the sources.” Malone’s intention is not to focus on the Stoic ideal of anger control, and the notion that rage is necessarily a negative emotion and he moves away from a discussion on restraint. Rage was important in the context of the military; ira militum was the controlled fury of the Roman army and not the reckless furor of the barbarians. The emperors also took on board rage when it came to facing a military opponent and in this sense, their rage was also a positive emotion. What Malone shows in his examination of rage in the fourth century is what modern psychologists have been discussing for years that emotions, including aggression, anger, hostility and hatred, are linked to the desire to act out in opposition to the source of the perceived provocation.25 As shown in the paper by Sidwell too, individuals and groups act out through anger against a perceived aggressor who has broken the norm and acted outside of their perceived scope or boundary.26 As Barbara Sidwell points out, anger in Ammianus Marcellinus: “appears as a way in which power was exercised and re25 26

Cf. Mummendey & Otten (2003) 124. Averill (1982); Tedeschi & Felson (1994).

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leased,” bringing together the issues of emotions and power.27 To illustrate this, she uses literary pictures of Roman soldiers drawn by Ammianus Marcellinus as the object of her research, focusing on the representations of their anger – ira militum. The Roman soldiers undoubtedly took a significant place in the Res Gestae, as Ammianus was a former Roman officer and used his intimate knowledge of the common soldiers to place them quite often in the position of active actors in his literary narrative. Three particular events are discussed in this chapter – the events surrounding Julian’s proclamation in Paris in 361, Julian’s wounding and death in the battle of Samarra during his Persian campaign of 363, and the so-called Tripoli affair, which occurred in North Africa during the reign of Valentinian I. Sidwell shows that Ammianus sees the soldiers’ anger as justifiable in these particular contexts,28 because the soldiers reacted to the perceived injustices and fought for a common cause. Ammianus positioned ira militum within the coordinates of Roman elite moral values such as virtus, itself rooted into the older Greek philosophic concepts, such as the military valour – thumos. Besides the use of ira militum for making a rhetorical point in the narrative of the Res Gestae – the Roman army by default should reflect Roman values – it is worthy to observe that anger was an integral part of the moral code that the Roman soldiers lived by and the closed communities they formed.29 Silke Sitzler’s chapter explores the domains of fear and communal identities in late antique Antioch. It focuses on Libanius, the famous orator from the fourth century, and his portrayal of the Antiochenes who fled the city after the famous “Riot of the Statues” of 387, anticipating that the emperor Theodosius I would destroy the city and massacre its citizens in revenge. As the course of events turned out, Theodosius spared the city and only the ring Explored in much more length in Sidwell (2010). However, Ammianus was not always favourable to the soldiers’ rage – see Sidwell (2010) 71-72. 29 The research of Roman military units as closed social- and identityunits has received some attention in the scholarship, see e.g. MacMullen (1984); Pollard (1996); Goldsworthy & Haynes (1999), etc. 27 28

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leaders of the riots were punished. The speeches Libanius represented are good evidence that the outcome of the events made a sharp division within the Antiochene community into “those who stayed” and “those who had left”, causing subsequent ostracism of those who were perceived as abandoning the community.30 Libanius used his orations, in particular Oration 23, to criticise those who had, in his opinion, abandoned the city in the moment of need, by removing them from the communal, Antiochene identity, and labelling them as “Others”. Deconstructing his narrative, Sitzler shows that Libanius carefully constructed a discourse of fear, disloyalty and dishonour, negotiating the negative identity of this group. The “refugees” were not pitied for their hardships, on the contrary, the oration made them appear as “deserving” of their destiny. Libanius used the “geography of difference”, as a powerful rhetorical weapon, showing how the refugees stepped outside of the domain of imperial order, symbolised by the city of Antioch, into a wilderness ruled by bandits and brigands, stereotypical enemies of the imperial order. As Sitzler points out, constructing “Others” is done in order to reinforce a strong and positive identity of the “real” Antiochenes, characterised by the trust, loyalty and cohesive commitment to both the city and the Empire. The following chapter links the issues of emotions and power even tighter. Building upon his previous research into political communication in the late antique West,31 Andrew Gillett examines one aspect of political communication in this period. The object of the study are the letters of two royal Merovingians - the Austrasian Frankish king Childebert II and his mother Brunhild, to the court in Constantinople, in two embassies dated between 585 and 593. A few of those letters belonging to the collection of Epistolae Austrasicae are particularly interesting, as they are concerned with the pleas for the release of Athanagild, their minor nephew and grandson 30 Great dangers, or the anticipation of great dangers, usually cause rifts within the community. A good contemporary comparison is the divisions of “those who stayed” and “those who had left”, and the ostracism of those who left the city of Sarajevo during its siege in the Bosnian civil war 1992-1995, by their fellow citizens; Maček (2009) 92-95. 31 Gillett (2003).

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respectively, and elsewhere an unmentioned Visigothic prince, who was at the time a hostage of the court of the eastern Roman emperor Maurice. These letters are seen as a communicative ploy in which emotion is used as a part of the communicative strategy in the context of a contemporary political embassy. They are crafted literary works, which use literary and cultural images to construct a literary persona of the writer, rather than to present their real feelings and thoughts. The literary personas of Childebert and Brunhild are stylistically recognisably gendered, with higher emotional registers reserved for a female writer (Brunhild). Gillett points out that the letters are neither confidential nor intended for the actual addressees, but rather to be read aloud publicly in the court. Their public delivery serves as a way to place emphasis on the public appeal in the court in order to influence the emperor to make the decision regarding the release of the young prince. They are “agendasetting”, rather than argumentative, trying to ensure that the decision-maker acknowledges a wider discussion of the issue. In a way, we can see them as the antecedents of the more recent “open letters”, disseminated through modern mass-medias, such as Emile Zola’s famous J’accuse published in French newspapers in 1898 and addressed to the French president, campaigning for the release of Alfred Dreyfus, military officer of Jewish descent, who was unlawfully imprisoned for high treason, mostly for his origins. Moving from emotions to the domains of power is the last paper in this collection. Thomas Burns makes an impressive sweeping survey into the strategies ordinary people from late antiquity used to construct their identities. The most important mechanism for accessing and interacting with societal power-structures, as in the present, so in the past, is the construction of personal and group identities – and identity is indeed in the epicentre of his enquiry. Burns regards identity as an active instrument, a political tool which individuals and groups freely use and manipulate for their own benefits. This view of identities belongs to recent ongoing debates, which resulted in a loose scholarly consensus about the

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fluid and contextual nature of identities, individual and group, in the world of late antiquity.32 Burns rightly recognised that the long term consequence of Caracalla’s edict was the diminishing significance of Roman citizenship and identity for inhabitants of the Empire: “People of all ranks and immigrant status suddenly needed more useful and personal means to identify themselves than citizenship”. He sees late antiquity as “the age of personal experimentations” with identities, when the existing cultural templates were mixed and matched into new forms. The focus of his paper moves from foreigners, to provincials, and their different strategies in approaching imperial power structures. Foreigners moving into the Roman Empire used their ethnic affiliations as starting points in the new society, and in a time were constructing multiple and hybrid identities by recombining Roman and ancestral cultural elements. Their identity-strategies stretched from the complete denial of their ancestry, explicit statements of it, or the construction of new links with their past, depending on the circumstances, which in different periods might be favourable, unfavourable or indifferent towards one’s “barbarian” ancestry. The provincials, on the other hand, established and maintained systems of regional diversity and reworked their ancestral customs to suit their new place in imperial society, becoming more comfortable and secure with their belonging to the Empire. Besides identity and power, this paper also explores the links of landscapes and power. Burns demonstrates how domestic spaces started to change in the 4th and 5th centuries, interacting with the simultaneous transformation of urban spaces.33 These changes transformed the existing villa system and broke down the barriers between civilian and military. Finally, for Burns, it is Christianity which brings an end to this Age of Experiment, unifying the “Micro-Christendoms” of post-Roman world34 into a solid and workable Roman Christian identity, which would dominate the identity patterns in the post-Roman West. Literature is increasing every year, see e.g. Amory (1997); Pohl & Reimitz (1998); Gillett (2002), etc. 33 Explored extensively in Liebeschuetz (2001). 34 The term of Brown (2003). 32

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It appears from the reading of historical material that interpretations of emotional reactions and expressions, and the desire for power, have, at their root, changed barely at all from their descriptions in antiquity. As a consequence, the modern day reader is able to feel analogous to the ancient characters, wherein we either sympathise or abhor the behaviour and actions of those long deceased. We see through the eyes of the ancient historian / biographer / philosopher, and we gain an insight into their perception of the behaviour of others. What this provides to the modern day scholar or student of antiquity is a rich ground of study that is still as yet barely touched. This collection of papers is an attempt to make further in-depth inquiries into these important pieces of the historical puzzle that have been often neglected by scholars who delve into past lives.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Amory, P. (1997) People and Identity in Ostrogothic Italy, 489-554 (Cambridge). Arnold, M. B., & Gasson, J. A. (1954) “Feelings and Emotions as Dynamic Factors in Personality Integration,” in M. B. Arnold & J. A. Gasson (eds), The Human Person, 294-313 (New York). Reprinted in M. B. Arnold (ed.), The Nature of Emotion (Harmondsworth 1968), 203-221. Averill, J. R. (1982) Anger and Aggression. An essay on emotion. (New York). Baier, A. (2004) “Feelings that Matter,” in R. C. Solomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford), 200-213. Ben-Ze’ev, A. (2000) The Subtlety of Emotions (Cambridge MA). _____. (2004) “Emotion as a Subtle Mental Mode,” in R. C. Solomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford), 250-268. Brown, P. (2003) The Rise of Western Christendom, 2nd ed. (Malden MA, Oxford & Carlton). Chen, S., Lee-Chai, A. Y., & Bargh, J. A. (2001) “Relationship Orientation as Moderator of the Effects of Social Power,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 80, 183-187. Deigh, J. (2004) “Primitive Emotions,” in R. C. Solomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford), 9-27. Elster, J. (2004) “Emotion and Action,” in R. C. Solomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford), 151-162. Fortenbaugh, W. W. (1975) Aristotle on Emotion: a contribution to philosophical psychology, rhetoric, politics, and ethics (London). Foucault, M. (1980) Power/Knowledge: selected interviews and other writings, 1972-1977, tr. C. Gordon (Brighton). Galinsky, A. D., Gruenfeld, D. H., & Magee, J. C. (2003) “From Power to Action,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 85, 453-466. Galinsky, K. (1988) “The Anger of Aeneas,” The American Journal of Philology 109.3, 321-348. Gillett, A. (ed.) (2002) On Barbarian Identity: Critical Approaches to Identity in the Early Middle Ages (Turnhout).

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_____. (2003) Envoys and Political Communication in the Late Antique West, 411-533 (Cambridge). Goldsworthy, A. & Haynes, I. (eds) (1999) The Roman Army as a Community. Journal of Roman Archaeology: Supplement 34 (Portsmouth RI). Gross, D. M. (2006) The Secret History of Emotion (Chicago). Harris, W. V. (2001) Restraining Rage: The Ideology of Anger Control in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge MA). James, W. (1884) “What is an Emotion?” Mind 9, 188-205. Keltner, D., Gruenfeld, D. H., & Anderson, C. (2003) “Power, Approach and Inhibition,” Psychological Review 110, 265-284. Kipnis, D. (1972) “Does Power Corrupt?” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 24, 33-41. _____. (1976) The Powerholders (Chicago). Kristjánsson, K. (2002) Justifying Emotions. Pride and Jealousy (London). _____. (2007) Aristotle, Emotions, and Education (Aldershot UK). Lammers, J., & Galinsky, A. D. (2009) “The Conceptualization of Power and the Nature of Interdependency: The role of legitimacy and culture,” in D. Tjosvold & B. Wisse (eds), Power and Interdependence in Organizations (Cambridge), 67-82. Lammers, J., Galinsky, A. D., Gordijn, E. H., & Otten, S. (2008) “Illegitimacy Moderates the Effects of Power on Approach,” Psychological Science 19, 558-564. Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. (2001) The Decline and Fall of the Roman City (Oxford). MacMullen, R. (1984) ‘The Legion as Society,’ Historia 33, 440-456. _____. (2003) Feelings in History, Ancient and Modern (Claremont CA). Maček, I. (2009) Sarajevo under Siege: Anthropology in Wartime (University Park PA). Mayne, T. J. & Ambrose, T. K. (1999) “Research review on anger in psychotherapy,” Journal of Clinical Psychology 55.3, 353-363. Mummendey, A. & Otten, S. (2003) “Aversive Discrimination,” in Brown, R. & Gaertner, S. L. (eds), Blackwell Handbook of Social Psychology: Intergroup Processes (Malden MA.). Oatley, K. (2004) Emotions. A Brief History (Malden MA.). Oatley, K., & Jenkins, J. M. (1996) Understanding Emotions (Oxford).

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Pohl, W. & Reimitz, H. (eds) (1998) Strategies of Distinction: The Construction of Ethnic Communities, 300-800 (Leiden, Boston & Cologne). Pollard, N. (1996) “The Roman Army as ‘Total Institution’ in the Near East? Dura-Europos as a Case Study,” in D. L. Kennedy (ed.), The Roman Army in the East. Journal of Roman Archaeology: Supplement 18 (Ann Arbor MI), 211-228. Roberts, R. C. (2003) Emotions. An Essay in Aid of Moral Psychology (Cambridge). Robinson, J. (2004) “Emotion: Biological Fact or Social Construction,” in R. C. Solomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford), 28-43. Rorty, A. O. (2004) “Enough Already with ‘Theories of Emotions’,” in R. C. Solomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford), 269-278. Russell, B. (1938) Power, A New Social Analysis (London). Sidanius, J., Pratto, F., van Laar, C., & Levin, S. (2004) “Social Dominance Theory: Its agenda and method,” Political Psychology 25, 845-880. Sidanius, J., van Laar, C., Levin, S., & Sinclair, S. (2003) “Social Hierarchy Maintenance and Assortment into Social Roles: A social dominance perspective,” Group Processes and Intergroup Relations 6, 333-352. Sidwell, B. (2010) Portrayal and Role of Anger in the Res Gestae of Ammianus Marcellinus (Piscataway NJ). Solomon, R. C. (1993) The Passions: Emotions and the Meaning of Life. 2nd ed. (Indianapolis IN). _____. (2004) “Emotions, Thoughts, and Feelings: Emotions as Engagements with the World,” in R. C. Solomon (ed.), Thinking about Feeling. Contemporary Philosophers on Emotions (Oxford), 76-90. Tedeschi, J. T., & Felson, R. B. (1994). Violence, Aggression and Coercive Actions (Washington DC). Thibaut, J. W., & Kelley, H. H. (1959) The Social Psychology of Groups (New York). Turner, J. C. (2005) “Explaining the Nature of Power: A three process theory,” European Journal of Social Psychology 35, 1-22.

2. RON NEWBOLD, “ST. JEROME’S STRUGGLE FOR CONTROL: AN APPROACH” RON NEWBOLD UNIVERSTY OF ADELAIDE [email protected] ABSTRACT One of the most basic human needs is the need to feel strong. People seek power to overcome a sense of weakness, to defend against demoralising feelings of helplessness and loss of control, in four main ways, by seeking or resorting to support, autonomy, assertion and togetherness. Jerome relies mainly on the autonomy mode, with its emphasis on order, containment and fortification, to feel strong. However, perceived threats to the fortress of his self, which could include the failure of others to cherish a similar ideal of rigidity, frequently ignited a deplorable and intemperate anger that went beyond assertion to vitriolic aggression. He also drew strength to some degree from support (notably from companions) and togetherness (in advancing the great cause of Catholicism). In terms of lasting impact, St. Jerome (c. 348-c. 420) was the most influential of the four Doctors of the Latin Church. The contribution of the other three (Augustine, Ambrose, Gregory the Great) to medieval Christianity, while more impressive in some respects, did not last as long or spread as wide as that of Jerome, whose translation of the scriptures into Latin, the Vulgate, was the Bible of Western Christendom until the Reformation. He also helped define the Christian world for a millennium. One of the most common motifs in Jerome’s writings, occurring at least 18 times, is that of the (frail, leaky) ship buffeted by 23

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strong seas and threatened by shipwreck, a vulnerable container in a hostile environment that challenges one’s power to steer and remain in control. It occurs in his first extant letter. The extended image there includes the following sentence: “I have not so much as handled a rowboat on a lake, and now I have to trust myself to the noise and turmoil of the Euxine.”1 Failure, he says, to steer oneself safely between the Charybdis of self-indulgence and the Scylla of lust or the Sirens of the senses leads to shipwreck and engulfment (14.6; 117.6). Jerome claims to have been shipwrecked often. Disturbingly, smooth seas may only be a prelude to a coming storm and still signify danger for a frail craft and careless sailor. Inertia or a rock may prevent progress. The seafaring image is, of course, common in ancient and other literatures but it would have particular resonance for a person obsessed with the issue of autonomy. Writing in 395, Jerome observes: Seeing that we have journeyed for much of our life through a troubled sea, and that our vessel has been in turn shaken by raging blasts and shattered upon treacherous reefs, let us as soon as may be make for the haven of rural quietude. Letters, 43.3

He proceeds to describe as idyllic life there, which he can direct, and where he can feel powerful and in control, free from the buffetings and demands of worldly living.

II One of the most basic human needs is the need to feel strong. People seek power to overcome a sense of weakness, to defend against demoralising feelings of helplessness. David McClelland has formulated a four stage scheme of power drives that correspond to 1 1.2, trans. Fremantle (1893) 1. All translations below except one are by Fremantle, and all references are to the letters unless indicated. Cf. 2; 3.2, 3.3; 3.8; 7.5; 14.6; 14.10; 43.3; 77.6; 108.28; 109.3; 117.3; 117.6; 123.16; 125.2; 125.3; 128.3. The seafaring image also occurs at 15.2, where Noah’s ark offers priceless security; 24.4, where forward progress as a boat is linked to the self-discipline of fasting; Adversus Jovinianum 1.3; Comm. in Hoseam, 2. pr., and Vita Malchi 1.

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the main stages of ego maturity.2 The sources of the strengthening may be either outside or inside the self, and the target of the power exercised can be the self or not-self. There are, therefore, four different ways of feeling powerful, depending on the relationship between source and object. There are other approaches to the issue of power but McClelland’s is the one that will be used here.3 Stage I: Support or Intake Mode. The object of the power drive at this stage is to strengthen the self: the source of power is external. It is the oral, supported stage. “It” (God, parents, teachers, partners, friends, colleagues, heroes, leaders, food, alcohol, drugs) strengthens me. I incorporate strength from another, like a baby imbibing milk. This is the way of the dependent or mystic, and folk tale themes illustrating this stage feature eating, taking, (fear of) abandonment. Authority is, and must be, perceived as benign. The extreme or pathological state of this mode is total surrender or addiction to external forces, substances or influences. Stage II: Autonomy or Self-Actualizing Mode The object of the power drive here too is to strengthen the self, but the source of power is internal. It is the self-reliant, self-willed stage. I strengthen, control, steer myself (often to build up potentially assertive power and control others, Stage III, below). The self may be extended to include controllable possessions and information, gained by self-discipline. Valued, prestige possessions may be material, or the immaterial fruits of study and search. It is the way of the body-builder, Stoic, dieter, researcher, collector (stamps, antiques etc.), and the compulsive routine-follower. The illustrative folk tale themes are: I have, or go and find. The autonomy-seeker constantly McClelland (1975); (1985). For a pertinent discussion, see Valantasis (1995), who does not mention McClelland. On the cross-cultural applicability of this model, see McClelland (1975) 24-29. Analysis of the folk tales of 44 cultures across the world indicates the generality of the way people think about and derive power from four main sources: support, autonomy, assertion, togetherness. 2 3

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fears regression to passivity and dependence on authority figures. The pathologies of this mode include anorexia and obsessive compulsiveness. Stage III: Assertion Mode The object of power is to influence others; the source of power is internal. It is the assertive, competitive, arguing stage. I have an impact on others, can exploit or help (i.e., assume superiority over) them. It is the way of the athlete, lawyer, politician, teacher, journalist, gambler, Don Juan. Folk tale themes deal with hunting and winning. The pathology of this stage is crime, where the welfare of others is completely disregarded. Stage IV: Mutuality or Moralised Action Mode The object of power is likewise to influence others, but the source of power is external. It is the stage of principled assertion, duty, and membership in voluntary organisations. “It” (religion, laws, cause, my group) moves me to serve, influence others. The need to feel powerful here is satisfied by joining, and by subordinating personal goals to a higher, impersonal authority, showing compassion, serving the common good. “Thy will be done” and I will feel strong and happy. Authority is distanced and evaluated. It is the way of the messiah, manager, charity worker, and philanthropist. The illustrative folk tale theme is: we/they ascend or fall. The pathologies of this stage include bogus messianism, extreme acts in God’s name, holy wars. All four of these modes of satisfying power needs have their appropriate time and place, and the mature person moves easily amongst all of them. For example, Eugippius’ portrait of the fifthcentury Norican St. Severinus reveals a man who prayed long for strength from God (Stage I), observed a very ascetic and ordered lifestyle (Stage II), asserted himself vigorously against barbarian aggressors and Roman exploiters of the poor (Stage III), and while compassionately carrying out and organising much charitable activity, attributed all good effects to God’s power (Stage IV).4 Ele4

Newbold (1985). Cf. Newbold (1984).

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ments of all four stages are evident in Jerome’s life. He prayed to and regarded God as a source of strength (Stage I). He began collecting an extensive library from an early age and sought prestigious special knowledge that enabled him to consult the Hebrew Old Testament, translate the Greek Bible, and comment extensively on the scriptures. Driven by curiosity and delighting in the minutiae of the grammarian Donatus’ teachings, he searched for and found treasured, often recondite information. He tried to harden his body by ascetic practices and admired those who succeeded in, for example, callusing their skin (II). Jerome argued vigorously with others and sought to control their behaviour by his teaching, mentoring and unsolicited advice (III). He organised his monastery at Bethlehem into a centre of charitable activity and service to others, such as refugees, the sick and the poor (IV). However, despite his prayers and hero-worship of noted ascetics, he was no mystic or uncritical dependent (I). Nor, despite his charitable activity and service to the greater cause of the Church, was he an egregious philanthropist and servant of the poor (IV). More noted as a teacher and polemicist, much of his activity looks like Stage III assertiveness against others. Ostensibly noble motives to save lost souls (IV) were contaminated by the desire to hurt and a failure to distinguish his own and the Church’s foes (III). He exhibits a good deal of Stage II pathology, obsessive compulsiveness which, in the drive for control, can lead to stage III aggression and brutality.

III The obsessive is literally besieged by the belief that perfect control of the self leads to control of others and the world generally. Strategies are adopted to control the environment so that it coheres with the self as much as possible, e.g., others are urged to adopt a similar predictable, controlled, disciplined perfectionist lifestyle. The path of self-control, when trod in a sufficiently inflexible and relentless way, is ultimately self-damaging and other-alienating. The ultimate goal of such activity, the maintenance of a zone of absolute safety in a dangerous world, seems highly desirable in the light of recollections of childhood helplessness and vulnerability, when support from others seemed insufficient in some way. The shift to stage II autonomy mode, however, requires vigilance against threats from inside and outside the self that makes the ideal of the body as a leak-proof and impenetrable container very attractive.

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Since self-esteem is so dependent on self-mastery, control must be perfect. Any lapse of the will or any failure to resist a surrounding throng of would-be controllers evokes a sense of weakness or temptation, a powerlessness that may be the prelude to complete collapse or shipwreck. Imperfect control still leaves scope for danger and unpredictability. Strict formulas for behaviour, distrust of spontaneity and observance of routine so that it becomes an invariant ritual are natural concomitants of this effort to control the world.5 With the moral authority bestowed by asceticism, one can put others on the defensive, control them by being holier-thanthou, judgemental, righteous and hard to please. There is an apparent justification for ultimately self-harmful frankness, “honesty” and inducement of guilt in others. In contrast, the impact made on others by the successful politician, general, athlete or hunter via the stage III assertive mode may co-exist with a comparatively undisciplined life, and is not driven by the belief that rigid control of the self is sufficient to control the environment. The emphasis here is on wholehearted engagement rather than withdrawal to exercise the will in the more proximate areas of body and mind, such as mastering a corpus of knowledge. The highly articulate, scholarly obsessive used of language as a tool to shape the attitudes and behaviour of others so that they conform more closely to his/her own and to extend the area of control.6

IV Jerome appears to have some of the characteristics of the obsessive. A strong advocate of the ascetic way, his prescriptions to women such as Eustochium, Laeta, Pacatula, Demetrias and Furia sought to impose a regime that stressed unceasing vigilance and control of body and thought. “Virginity can be lost even by a thought,” (22.5) or threatened by insufficient restriction of (the

5 A degree of routine may be a sensible aid to efficient and rhythmic living but it is a practice which the obsessive can easily take to bizarre extremes. 6 See, for example, Mallinger (1984); Shapiro (1981). Cf. Corrington (1986).

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plainest of) food, which too easily fuels unwholesome thoughts.7 Unlike a single deed such as theft that can be repented of, sensual thoughts are a perpetual source of temptation and guilt. We can fornicate in the mind, within our bodies (55.2), and victory ... is a work … which requires unremitting diligence to overcome that which is innate in you … strive with yourself day by day and to watch the foe shut up within you with the hundred eyes of fabled Argus. Letters, 54.98

Presenting a plain, unadorned exterior reduces the danger from without and complements the rein from within on impulses that endanger chastity (130.13). Fasting not only disciplines physical appetites but, as a form of diet control, is apotropaic against a prospect particularly horrific for the autonomy-cherisher, demonic possession.9 No less threatening for autonomy are incorporation or stealthy intrusion though chinks in the self’s defences. A common locus for both these fears is the serpent. Jerome’s strongly expressed aversion to widows remarrying, equating such a course with harlotry, not only was an attempt to control others but was bound to cause controversy and evoke wounding criticism. The ferocity of Jerome’s doctrinal disputations with people like Rufinus, Helvidius and Jovinian, and his hatred of heretics in general attest to the strength of his desire to shape the opinions of others and to make them cohere with his own. “Autonomy concentrates on keeping potential rivals out, and therefore can lead to jealous rage.”10 Much of Jerome’s vituperation was delivered on behalf of an ideal dear to the autonomy guardian, the 22.8; 22.10; 22.17; 22.27; 24.3; 54.9; 54.10; 55.2. Cf. Viden (1998). Cf. 54.10: “Regard everything as poison which bears within it the seeds of sensual pleasure.” Jerome acknowledged that complete success was virtually impossible, inevitably given the flawed, confrontationist method he embraced, which would only vitalise the mental besiegers. 9 In primitive thought, ingestion is dangerous because of the dangers it offers for demonic invasion of the body. In childish thought, one way to claim autonomy is to refuse food, to the exasperation of parents. 10 Erikson (1963) 256. 7 8

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integrity of the body, not letting it be penetrated from without or being (mis)shaped by a swelling womb. Only as a walled garden, a fountain sealed up, could the virgin enjoy the security to receive the Holy Bridegroom (22.25, quoting Song of Songs 4.12.). Enclosed within a perfect container, whether the body, a cell or a cave, the self or soul can roam in paradise (24.3), remain in control and avoid the perceived surrender entailed in sexual intercourse. Jerome’s ideal of the virgin as a perfect container reaches its illogical and bizarre extreme in the claim that Mary was an intact virgin even after giving birth.11 Jerome’s often harsh and critical persona covered a vulnerable interior and a fevered imagination that sought to invest emotionally in firm, reliable, protective surfaces, shielded against the devil’s fiery arrows, a sanctuary where precious possessions such as virginity can be hoarded, guarded, preserved. “I conjure you to guard that which you have received, not readily exposing to the public gaze the vessels of the Lord’s temple.” (22.23). A perceived collapse in communal willpower, evident to Jerome from the empire’s social and political disintegration, only encouraged a more ferocious exercise of individual willpower to redeem the world. If: “it is our sins which make the barbarians strong” (60.17), control and improvement of the self will help counter them. The mindfulness of constant prayer serves as a shield. There was a relationship between Jerome’s asceticism and his sense of the empire’s dissolution.12 We are assured that the life of virginity can microcosmically lessen the calamity of Rome’s macrocosmic invasion and sack in 410. “Then Italy put off her mourning and the ruined walls of Rome resumed in part their olden splendour.” (130.6). Thus, he did have an answer for the question he posed: “If Rome be weak, where shall we all look for strength?”13 To voluntarily embrace poverty rather than to have it imposed by victorious others (125.20) is a strategy for defending against helplessness. Jerome’s 11 Miraculously in the case of Jesus, not at all in the case of his siblings whom, in defiance of clear Gospel evidence, Jerome calls cousins. See Kelly (1975) 105-107. 12 Kelly (1975) 297-298. 13 123.17, quoting Lucan 5.274. Cf. 128.4.

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first extant letter, an imaginative and revealing piece about how strength of will can make one invulnerable, tells of a woman accused of adultery who firmly maintained her innocence despite horrendous tortures and assaults on her bodily integrity. Then, sentenced to death, the executioner’s sword thrice bounced harmlessly off her neck and, in an unambiguous image, bent back to the hilt, impotent, when he tried to thrust it into her throat. She was wounded, but not fatally, by another three blows and her steadfastness and the extraordinary strength of her armoured flesh eventually won her freedom (1.3-15). “The human body remained for Jerome a darkened forest filled with roaring beasts.”14 Jerome longed to emulate ascetic stars such as the hermits Paul, Bonosus and Hilarion, men who hardened their bodies, tamed the beasts, remained celibate and preserved their autonomy in an isolated self-containment and idyllic solitude.15 The ascetic ideal was the trained and hardened, even callused, dirt-caked, scabrous body. (14.10). However, Jerome lacked the physical robustness to endure privations to a heroic degree. Nor was he, gregarious by nature, emotionally equipped for lengthy solitude. Instead, he relied on an alternative Stage II strategy, the feelings of power that come with the accumulation of knowledge, although as the famous “You are a follower of Cicero” dream shows (22.30), he was conflicted about the propriety of this.16 He could take some pride in the ability to resist sensory allurements, which he saw as softening the soul and weakening the will. “Through the five senses, as through open windows, vice has access to the soul.”17 Much of his denunciation of urban life is based on the opportunities for sensory gratification it offered, including music and Brown (1988) 376. Much of what he wrote of them was the work of his imagination and the projection of his own needs and phobias. Thus exemplarily, Hilarion was able to toughen his weak body through exposure and fasting and achieved a degree of solitude that was unendurable for Jerome. 16 But accumulating scriptural knowledge was fine and he encouraged others to garner this form of wealth (54.11). 17 Adversus Jovininanum 2.8. 14 15

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bathing.18 Just as a city could be beset, infiltrated, taken and sacked, the corrupted soul might become like the city, with gates that allowed entry to sensory seducers, and a refuge for demons. “The metropolis and citadel of the mind cannot be taken unless the enemy have previously entered by its doors.”19 Resorting to a recurrent image, he tells Eustochium that the self is constantly under siege: “we are hemmed in by hosts of foes, our enemies are on every side” (22.3). She should therefore walk in fear, not pride. Let Paula say, “I am a wall and my breasts like towers” (107.7, quoting Songs 8.10). An impregnable zone of security, guarded by unfailing vigilance and exercise of will, was proof against the shafts of critics and foes, including the ever-encompassing, ever-lurking, keen-tofetter devil (2, 14.4,6), who “wishes to enter into all our senses, ruin the city of our good conscience, destroy the houses built by our good works.”20 Even “natural affection” could be a ram that battered the walls of faith (14.3). However, the fortress of the self, if impregnable, offered not just security but a base for inviolable selfesteem. God, thought Jerome, gave a great gift to the prophets when he made their faces like bronze, iron or stone so that “by the sternness of their looks they decomposed the effrontery of those who sneered at them.” (66.6). The self-fortress was a portable counterpart to that which might be found in the desert, on an island in the bosom of the Church (7.3) or, in Jerome’s case, the monastery at Bethlehem.21 In the Stage I power mode, omnipotence is often attributed to another: in Stage II, if the siege is withstood, it becomes, in fantasy, an attribute of the immutable body and self. There are other images of containment, and risks and threats thereto, which are dear to the autonomy-seeker and which have already been mentioned. They are the ship, vulnerable to wreck if lack of will and carelessness bring about helplessness and inability Wiesen (1964) 20-41. Or windows, Adversus Jovinianum 2.8. The senses-versus-security image is pursued at length, ibid. 2.8-10. Cf. 3.4; Vita s. Hilarionis 21; Antin (1961). 20 Comm. in Joelem 2.1, translation not by Fremantle. 21 Cf. Vita s. Hilarionis 30-41. 18 19

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to move (2). And the ravening serpent that can engulf like the sea or insidiously penetrate and inject poison if vigilance fails, for the deadly snake always threatens. In a strikingly explicit image, Jerome compares fallen virgins to: “rocks hollowed by the serpent that he may dwell in their fissures” (22.13) Engulfment fear appears also in the image of the foe lurking beneath the sea, sometimes “as smooth and smiling as a pond,” and the devil “as a roaring lion seeking whom it might devour”.22 Jerome appears to have been sexually active in his youth and had a prurient imagination that was hyper-alert to sexually suggestive behaviour.23 Sexual thoughts caused great distress and led him to redouble his self-punishment, repress of the fantasies and hence become further obsessed with them.24. The other response to the unwelcome presence of these demons in his citadel-self was projection. Projection of lasciviousness and base appetites by men onto women in general was standard for Jerome’s time but his constant association with female companions (who were honourable exceptions, of course) offered covert attractions and sparked innuendos from his critics (45.1-3) that had to be defended against. No less distressing to his ideal of self-control and his praise of humility and forgiveness was his irascibility and proneness to intemperate anger. His treatment of opponents and vicious assaults on onetime friends, including the late Rufinus, must have caused some pangs to one who knew abuse was unchristian. “Never speak 22 14.6; 22.4. References to serpents occur at, e.g. 6; 7.3 (“I am still as food to the same serpent which devours the earth”); 10.1; 22.3; 22.18; 22.30; 117.3; 124.2; 124.16; 125.2; 128.3; 130.19. For further examples and discussion see Wiesen (1964) 174-175 on Jerome’s fondness for depicting his enemies as serpents. Even Jovininian’s books are likened to snakes hiding in holesm, Adversus Jovinianum 1.3. 23 E.g., 22.1; 22.6; 22.7; 22.16; 117.7. 24 Ruether (1974) 151, 167. Cf. Shapiro (1981) 129: “The very conditions that are abhorred by rigid characters are highly erotic, and for the same reason they are abhorred: they are experienced as antithetical and inimical to the will, to self-control and self-discipline.” Masochism is a perverse advertisement of mastery of one’s domain. Its counterpart, sadism, attacks the weaker and already suffering, often in the guise of constructive discipline or “character building”: ibid. 101-109.

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ill of anyone”, he says, before proceeding to again savage Rufinus (125.18). He knew that anger needed to be repressed by Christians (79.9; 130.13), for it “makes us like raging lions” (43.2). “The reviling of a brother shall be counted as the sin of murder.”25 The attribution to others of this fault is a form of projection, which he acknowledged: “we inveigh against faults that are as much ours as theirs” (125.18). He rationalised this tendency by claiming that his cruel invective was sanctioned by his goal of moral improvement and its concordance with God’s cause.26 Such outpourings of vitriol suggest an inability to let go of those who threatened or challenged him in any way, ironically, itself a failure of autonomy.27 Overestimating his spiritual influence in Rome in the early 380s and his fame generally clearly betrays Stage III power motivation.28 Anger is strongly related to the need to feel powerful and exercise power, for it is a way of intimidating others so that they comply. Combative Jerome could revel in his power to retaliate: “I can return bite for bite if I like; when hurt myself, I can fix my teeth in my opponent.”29 Isolation, emphasis on love, humility and forgiveness, and advice not to compel others (82.3) may seek to cloak a fear of aggressive impulses that inhibits Stage III assertiveness. He actually denies inflicting pain: he merely offers friendly advice (52.17). Moral victories that affirm one’s own autonomy and virtue may, however, only decrease willingness to make allowances for the frailties of human nature. Jerome was capable of tenderness, self-effacement and compassion, especially towards children and dependent women, people less likely to challenge his fragile self-esteem or his 14.9. Cf. 22.37; 46.10; 54.9; 61.3; 117; 125.2. 24.1; 109.3. Cf. Wiesen (1964) 36-38, 257-264, and Jerome’s fourtime quotation of Galatians 1.10: “If I yet pleased men I should not be the servant of Christ.” One imagines Christ would have been appalled at this claim to be exercising Stage IV power and dismayed at the counterproductivity of such “service.” 27 Cf. Mallinger (1984) 161. 28 And the overreach damaged him. See Rebenich (2002) 39-40. 29 50.5. He engages with Jovinian “in hand-to-hand combat,” 48.2. Cf. 69.2. On anger and power needs, see Zurbriggen & Sturman (2002), a study which also broadly validates McClelland’s work. 25 26

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possessive, “control-freak” need to be the steerer in relationships. Although he frequently urged moderation in fasting and austere attire, the motive here had much to do with avoiding an ostentatious austerity that attracted unwelcome attention (22.27; 52.12-13). Too often he was a harsh, satirical, sex-hating critic who drowned any pity in an uncharitable outpouring of mockery and contempt. His ridicule of women who became unbalanced from the rigours of asceticism was a clear projection of his own ascetic shortcoming.30

V As we have seen, the Stage II autonomy power mode can involve the accumulation of prestige possessions like books that become a source of esteem and potential power. Or the body may be built up as a temple of strength via physical culture and disciplined exercise of the will. Jerome’s approach combined garnering of controllable knowledge with obsessive emphasis on the vigilant will to resist irrupting and tempting outer serpents, and to try to extirpate the tenacious demonic denizens already within. He thereby gathered weapons with which to influence, impress, impact, indict and injure as teacher and polemicist (Stage III) “There is no compulsion laid upon you: if you are to win the prize, it must be by the exercise of your own free will.” (66.8). Although Jerome is speaking here specifically of the perfection attainable from giving all one has to the poor, there is a general significance to his words. The latter sentence accurately conveys Jerome’s belief in the value of autonomy and controlling the body lest it assume control. The former sentence, however, could not be observed by one so anxious to achieve the sense of control provided by a homogenous thought-world to exercise a rigid will not to yield either to the self or to others. This conflict, between his Stage II sense of vulnerability and emotional investment in impervious surfaces on the one hand, and Stage III competitively reaching forth beyond himself and launching into others on the other, created gaps and chinks, and thus intensified his struggle.31 Although fre130.17. See Wiesen (1964) 147. Chinks in his armour which his enemies, serpents to Jerome, were happy to exploit. See Cox Miller (1993). 30 31

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quently complaining of being beset and attacked by many foes, these disruptions of his tranquillity were largely of his own making. In sum: McClelland’s taxonomy of power offers a particular way of illustrating and understanding Jerome’s beliefs and behaviour. If II was his modal stage to defend against helplessness, because of the particular way he operated, he was frequently impelled to Stage III assertion or aggression. He also drew to some degree on Stage I support (notably from companions) and Stage IV togetherness (subsumed in and promoting a great cause).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Antin, P. (1961) “La Ville chez Saint Jerome,” Latomus 20, 298-311. Brown, P. (1988) The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York), reprint 2008. Corrington, G. (1986) “Anorexia, Asceticism and Autonomy: Selfcontrol as Liberation and Self-transcendence,” Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion 2, 51-58. Cox Miller, P. (1993) “The Blazing Body: Ascetic Desire in Jerome’s Letter 22,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 22, 21-45. Erikson, E. (1963) Childhood and Society, 2nd ed. (New York). Fremantle, W. (1893) A Select Library of Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers of the Christian Church. Volume VI. St Jerome: Letters and Select Works (Oxford). Kelly, J. (1975) Jerome. His Life, Writings, and Controversies (London). McClelland, D. (1975) Power: the Inner Experience (New York). _____. (1985) Human Motivation (London). Mallinger, A. (1984) “The Obsessive’s Myth of Control,” Journal of the American Academy of Psychoanalysis 12, 147-165. Newbold, R. (1984) “Personality Structure and Response to Adversity in Early Christian Hagiography,” Numen 31, 199-215. _____ (1985) “Power Motivation in Sidonius Apollinaris, Eugippius and Nonnus,” Florilegium 7, 1-16. Rebenich, S. (2002) Jerome (London). Ruether, R. (1974) “Misogynism and Virginal Feminism in the Fathers of the Church,” in R. Ruether (ed.), Religion and Sexism (New York), 150-183. Shapiro, D. (1981) Autonomy and Rigid Character (New York). Valantasis, R. (1995) “Constructions of Power in Asceticism,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 63, 775-826. Viden, G. (1998) “St Jerome on Female Chastity: Subjugating the Elements of Desire,” Symbolae Osloenses 71, 139-157. Wiesen, D. (1964) St Jerome as a Satirist (Ithaca NY). Zurbriggen, E. & Sturman, T. (2002) “Linking Motives and Emotions: a Test of McClelland’s Hypotheses,” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 28, 521.

3. HAN BALTUSSEN, “MARCUS AURELIUS AND THE THERAPEUTIC USE OF SOLILOQUY: AN INTERDISCIPLINARY APPROACH”1 HAN BALTUSSEN UNIVERSITY OF ADELAIDE [email protected] ABSTRACT This paper takes a novel approach to the role of reflection in Marcus Aurelius’ famous work known as The Meditations. I give new reasons for translating the Greek title as Exhortations to himself, in line with very recent proposals, by focussing on the value of soliloquy as a form of self-examination and self-consolation. My interdisciplinary approach also brings recent insights into the plasticity of the brain into play in order to open up a way of clarifying the psychological efficacy of such a reflective method. This will

1 It is my great pleasure to dedicate this paper to my colleague Dr. Ron Newbold, whose generous advice and creative pedagogy have been a great resource and inspiration. The topic seemed eminently suitable, since it not only owes much to a suggestion he made, but also fits his own interests very well. This paper was presented at the “Emotion, Status and Power” colloquium (December 10, 2008 Adelaide) held in honour of Ron, and a second time at the annual conference of the Australasian Society for Classical Studies in Sydney (February 2009). I would like to thank the audiences for helpful questions and comments at both occasions.

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POWER AND EMOTIONS allow us to place Marcus Aurelius’ unique work within the therapeutic tradition going back to the fifth c. BC.

In his Homage to Marcus Aurelius Joseph Brodsky wrote — not without a certain detached irony: “Of all the Roman emperors, Marcus Aurelius gets the best press. Historians love him, and so do philosophers”.2 In this paper I do not simply want to join the band of Aurelius’ admirers, but examine, with a similarly detached and perhaps clinical eye, the way in which Marcus Aurelius makes use of soliloquy as a strategy to cope with the emotions resulting from his extraordinary life and circumstances. In ancient writings forms of self-address are not completely absent, but I will argue that the (socalled) Meditations are a special case of self-address, because the work stands in a tradition of philosophical therapy, and what is more, it can be viewed as a case of self-consolation. The paper aims to contribute to the scholarly debate on ancient psychotherapy by bringing the notions of “talking cure” and self-address together, while building on existing analyses of philosophical therapy of the soul. I will touch on three aspects in particular: how the title of the work should really be adjusted, how the content warrants this, and how modern philosophical and psychological research can make a plausible argument for the efficacy of Marcus’ approach. I hope this paper shows that an interdisciplinary approach can shed some further light on this fascinating and enigmatic work. When we consider the notebook usually referred to as the Meditations, we cannot go past Marcus Aurelius’ extraordinary predicament in the last ten years of his life — as a celebrated example of the notion of the philosopher-king, his life and writings offer an interesting and unusual dynamic between power, status and emotion; Marcus Aurelius as the Roman emperor can be described as an individual of great equanimity, philosophical demeanor and ascetic outlook. Even if we keep in mind, as I think we must, that Marcus was not a professional philosopher, the remarkable image we can extract from this small work would make anyone pause and admire his ambition to be humble in the role of “commander-in-

2

Brodsky (1997) 276. 

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chief” of a considerable military power.3 But by saying “ambition to be humble”, I have already signaled the need for caution about whether he was successful or even considered to be so. But my primary focus here will be more on how we can reframe what he is doing from a perspective of ancient psychotherapy. The two questions I would like to consider are: “what does he think he is doing?” and “does it (or could it) work?”

MEDITATIONS OR EXHORTATIONS? As a way into the argument I first present a few basics, including a rather pedantic point about the title of the work. Marcus Aurelius’ note-book contains his thoughts about his life, activities and attitude, mostly from a Stoic perspective during the time he was on military campaign in Dacia accross the Danube (modern-day Romania and Moldova, with surrounding areas). Its pages reflect his doubts and concerns about how to live his life in a responsible way without giving in to temptations and emotions amidst the erosion and disintegration of the pax romana. In good philosophical fashion, it also contemplates on how to die well. The ebb and flow of his emotions is indeed reflected in these musings, but there are many other elements that are not just about Marcus struggling to get through life. The booklet opens with gracious notes on his teachers, yet in its very personal tone and comments on how things could be improved, one senses that this is a work of some complexity, both in its literary form and in its motivation and aims: it seems to hold the middle between a diary and a personal “workbook”. It is quite a unique work and is usually printed under the title Τὰ εἰς ἑαυτόν, which in translation often becomes Meditations. But the traditional Greek title found in the Palatinus manuscript (Μάρκου  Ἀντωνίνου  αὐτοκράτορος  τῶν  εἰς  ἑαυτὸν  αʹ), is probably not his own4 and is more cryptic than the English counterpart. The evidence for its meaning varies, as is shown in the The terminology might seem slightly anachronistic, but I could not resist describing him in these terms in the light of recent developments in the USA. 4 Hadot (1998) 24.  3

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translations from the tenth to the nineteenth century, in which translators have tried to find one word to translate content and spirit of the little work, aiming to catch both the reflexive aspect (ad se) and the thoughtfulness found on every page.5 But “meditations” seems to have caught on early as a translation. I would like to offer a new argument for the alternative translation, which has more recently been put forward by Newman and Hadot.6 This approach is motivated by the crucial aspect of reflexivity, as the Greek emphasises the private nature of the notes, signalling that Marcus is writing to (or at) himself, and was thus addressing himself. Rutherford has appositely called it an “intimate notebook”.7 Even if my proposal today for a different translation will change little in the way that people will refer to the work (and I too will continue to use the traditional title for the sake of convenience), it will be helpful for my argument regarding the nature of the work to ask whether the title Meditations is fully justified. My considerations will clarify how much the translation has affected, and continues to affect, our approach to, and reading of, this text.

Treatise to Himself (ca. 900, Arethas, bishop of Caesarea); Ad se ipsum (ed. princeps 1558 edidit Guilelmus Xylander [=Wilhelm Holzmann]); His meditations concerning himselfe (Meric Casaubon 1634); His conversation with himself (Jeremy Collier 1701); The meditations of Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (J. Moor & T. Hutcheson 1742); The meditations of Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Richard Graves 1792); Communings with himself (Loeb, by C. R. Haines 1915); The Thoughts of Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (George Long 1862); Fourth Book of the meditations of Marcus Aurelius (Hastings Crossley 1882); Marcus Aurelius Antoninus to Himself (G. H. Rendall 1898); The meditations of Marcus Aurelius (John Jackson 1901); Wege zu sich selbst (W. Theiler, 1951); cf. Newman’s comment in ANRW: “... the emperor’s actual meditations ... recorded in accordance with Epictetus’ advice (1.1.25)” Newman (1989) 1507; latest translation Meditations (G. Hays 2003). 6 Newman (1989) 1507: “... his text includes both meditations and exhortations to meditate”; Hadot (1995) 179 “a better translation of the Greek title would be Exhortations to himself ...” I wonder if ad se - a third person vantage point - does not already suggest it is a later invention? See also Hadot (1998) 23-25. 7 In his OCD article s.v. Marcus Aurelius, Rutheford (2003) 220. 5

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Firstly, we should note that the presumed title is elliptical: the article in the genitive plural (τὰ εἰς ἐαυτόν), which we must take as a neuter plural, is combined with a prepositional phrase and produces an elliptical turn of phrase; to resolve the ellipsis we have to make an interpretive decision; so it is not obvious that a translation should choose a noun that signifies self-reflective cognitive activity (as does Meditations). The article τά could mean “things, words, works, books”. In other words, any decision about a title or its translation must rest on the content of the work, not the manuscript tradition. My preferred translation is “Exhortations to himself”, a decision I came to on the basis of my studies of ancient consolations. “Consolation” is another problematic term: the Latin consolatio has no direct counterpart in Greek, where the term paramuthia should be translated as “encouragement”. I am not alone in my preferred choice (see n. 6 above) — but I did come to this decision independently. My main reasons for this will become apparent, especially in the last part of the paper when I deal with the work as self-consolation. Secondly, I think it should be pointed out what caused the earlier choice. I suggest that one good reason for this mistranslation is the fact that the English term, based on the Latinate stem, seems to have undergone a semantic shift, which easily remains hidden from view, precisely because of its formal resemblance: meditatio, arising out of the Roman Stoic tradition and gaining further popularity in Christian authors who adopted some of the strategies of introspection from the Stoics, when translated with ‘meditation’, might suggest a quiet style of reflection.8 But this passive connotation does not apply to the Latin term at all: according to the Oxford Latin Dictionary the noun meditatio can mean “contemplation, thought”, but in many cases there is an element of action involved, “contemplation of a course of action” as in Tacitus or “the action of devising, planning”, or even “practising, rehearsal” as in Cicero.9 The English term “meditation”, traceable to the 13th century seems to have lost this active component and is limited to 8 Augustine and Descartes may have seen themselves as working in his footsteps; see also Humphries (1997). 9 Tac. Ann. 14.2; Cic. Tusc. Disp. 2.41.

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reflection rather than exercise. One further piece of evidence in favour of the alternative translation is the earliest ancient reference to Marcus’ work in the fourth century orator Themistius. In the year 364 he addressed Valens, the colleague of Valentinian on “Brotherly Love”, saying: “You have no need of the Admonitions of a Marcus or the excellent words of this or that ruler of days gone by; you have your Phoenix in your own house”.10 The word translated “admonitions”, παραγγελμάτων, is of interest here: used in military and rhetorical context, it signifies a command, instruction, or precept, and therefore comes closest to the notion of action that one would expect in a work based on Epictetus’ teachings and belonging to the broader consolation tradition. Another reason to regard the work unique concerns the question of genre. Despite many similarities with several samples of writing, there is no extant work from antiquity that is quite like it. As Rutherford has shown persuasively, it is neither simply a journal nor a philosophical tract. And while there are certainly clear influences from several types of writings such as the diatribe, Stoic philosophy, protreptic literature and anecdotes of famous men,11 it is not just one of those types of writings, but has overlaps with all of them. If we must allocate it a genre definition, some progress can be made with a major modern treatment of soliloquy in the theatre by James Hirsch.12 He has ventured to give a survey “From Antiquity to the middle of the Sixteenth Century” (the title of his Chapter 3) — an ambitious effort which starts with Roman comedy and ends with Thomas Preston (sixteenth century). His line of investigation follows the definitions offered in his first chapter which takes “soliloquy” to divide into audience-addressed speech, self-addressed speech, and interior monologue.13 His scope is therefore not suitable to our project, but his distinctions between the three types of

Farquharson (1944) vol. I, xv-xvi. Rutherford (1989) 3, 21-24, rejecting Farquharson’ theory that the work is “a draft for a moral treatise” (23).  12 Hirsch (2003). 13 Hirsch (2003) 13. 10 11

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soliloquy could be a useful starting point for our investigation into the nature of soliloquy and its possible uses. From a strictly formal point of view Marcus Aurelius’ writings “to himself” (Ta eis heauton) can be dubbed self-addressed monologue, but it is also quite close to interior monologue. These are not spoken words, unless we assume that he would re-read them out loud to himself. This is a possibility we cannot exclude, but since his ruminations are rather repetitive, it is far more plausible to assume that he used these notes as daily reflections and reminders of the moral message he was trying to adhere to. If, in the words of Brodsky, the Meditations “is at once a melancholy and repetitive book”,14 the nature of his thoughts strike the modern reader as gloomy and depressing, but that will happen only if one tries to read it all at once — which would be ill-advised. The most striking characteristic that sets the work apart must be its lack of audience awareness: this is probably one of the most private documents surviving from antiquity. Hays rightly notes that there is no generic “you” in the text that might give us reason to think Marcus even has a potential audience in mind.15 It is not only reflective but also extremely reflexive: it shows Marcus thinking by himself, for himself, and to himself. This reflective attitude is clearly not the exclusive domain of modernity, yet it takes a certain kind of temperament to take a critical look at oneself and write down one’s response. It is this image of reflecting on oneself, or better, of taking a long, hard look at oneself in the mirror that leaves a lasting impression: in fact, the mirror is the perfect metaphor for this type of self-reflection, in which the author is in conversation with himself, but at the same time speaks to himself. But what is he trying to achieve?

EMOTIONS AND HOW TO DEAL WITH THEM In recent decades the notion of ancient self-examination as a therapeutic tool has been studied in some detail. The phenomenon has been traced back to Socrates and Plato, Epicurus and Epic-

14 15

Brodsky (1997) 276. Hays (2003) xxxvi.

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tetus, where an increased self-reflective stance may well signal a response to changing historical and political circumstances.16 But Marcus’ work has not always been appreciated within the tradition of philosophical psychotherapy, let alone as a form of selfconsolation. As Hadot has rightly remarked, “In the twentieth century, the age of psychology, psychoanalysis and suspicion, the very fact of having written this personal diary has been interpreted as a symptom of a psychological malaise.”17 This view, however, is clearly an exaggeration. In line with his Stoic leanings, Marcus Aurelius seems only interested in bringing everything under the control of reason: That I had good grandparents, a good mother and father, a good sister, good teachers, good servants, relatives, friends — almost without exception. And that I never lost control of myself with any of them, although I had it in me to do that, and I might have, easily. Med. 1.17.1 ... that I had someone – as a ruler and a father – who could keep me from being arrogant (τὸν τύφον) and make me realise that even at court you can live without a troop of bodyguards, and gorgeous clothes, lamps, sculpture — the whole charade. That you can behave almost like an ordinary person (ἔξεστιν  ἐγγυτάτω ἰδιώτου συστέλλειν ἑαυτὸν). Med. 1.17.3

His reflections on the challenges he faced may have evoked all kinds of emotions: anxiety, anger, fear, insecurity and so on. So page after page we see him contemplate the world at large, his role in it, and how he is besieged by events, emotions and major challenges. We must not forget, however, that the elaborate musings on such an endeavour say as much about his intention to overcome these as it does about the apparent absence of this sought-after control. Marcus regards himself as a work in progress, as a good Stoic 16 17

See, e.g. Baltussen (2009a); Laín Entralgo (1970). Hadot (1995) 180.

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would (Stoics aim to progress, prokoptein); their theory of the emotions has always been regarded as an attempt to extirpate all emotions. This however is no longer the generally accepted view for Roman Stoicism which is characterised by greater realism and proposals for self-control and self-discipline that lie within reach — which is not what the founders of the Old Stoa preached.18 Witness his extraordinary calm and indifference regarding such things as duties to the community: ... at dawn when you have trouble getting out of bed, tell yourself I have to go to work – as a human being. What do I have to complain of if I’m going to do what I was born for – the things I was brought into the world to do? Med. 5.1

or his pursuit of virtues: No one could ever accuse you of being quick-witted. But there are plenty of other things you can’t claim you “haven’t got in you”. Practice what you can show: honesty, gravity, endurance, austerity, resignation, abstinence, patience, sincerity, moderation, seriousness, high-mindedness. Med. 5.5

Then there are also the everyday challenges such as bad breath or body odour: “Don’t be irritated at people’s smell or bad breath. What’s the point? With that mouth, with those armpits, they’re going to produce that odor” (5.28).19 Marcus here exhibits an extraordinary sense of duty, what ought to be done, that the effort involved almost looks superhuman. So there are many reasons not to be charmed by the Meditations; for instance, Marcus comes across as a very austere person, a quality that people may consider impressive, but still not admirable; but even if this generates the impression of a melancholic and dour personality, can we take these morose musings as evidence for Marcus the man? Marcus also writes about the beauty of the world 18 19

See now Graver (2007). Hays (2003) 62.

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and things in it. Even if “Aurelius’ asceticism” can be called “profoundly cerebral” as did James Francis,20 it would be quite wrong to take these rationalisations entrusted to paper as a comprehensive characterisation of Marcus the man. To be sure, he was a very serious young man, nicknamed Verissimus by Hadrian after his original name Annius Verus — so we can agree that philosophy made Aurelius “overly serious and demanding”.21 There can be little doubt that we see a turning inwards in Marcus with a specific therapeutic objective.22 Hadot has already emphasised that these notes should be viewed as “spiritual exercises”, which in rehearsing basic tenets of Stoicism according to certain rules provided repeated reflection on actions and duties, building up a protective reservoir of considerations and injunctions to remind himself of the straight and narrow path of a virtuous life.23 In the more eloquent wording of Rutherford: ... to revive and bring home to himself in suitably striking and memorable form, the moral truths that the author has accepted in the past, to revivify them (cf. [Med.] 7.2) by rephrasing and reiteration.24 Francis (1995) 23. Hist. Aug. 1.10; Francis (1995) 27. Francis has rightly highlighted the non-physical nature of Marcus’ asceticism (1995) 28; it represents the full turn within, the emphasis on virtue as a state of mind, not action (29) as the judgement of Socrates shows (28-29 and n. 23). But as Hadot (1998) argues persuasively, it is to prepare himself for life. 22 See for instance: Med. 6.3 “... look inwards. Don’t let the true nature or value of anything elude you”. Med. 4.36.1: “... contemplate continually all things coming to pass by change, and accustom yourself to think that Universal Nature loves nothing so much as to change what is and to create new things in their likeness”. Med. 4.3.1: “People try to get away from it all – to the country, to the beach, to the mountains. You always wish that you could too. Which is very silly: you can get away from it anytime you like by going within (εἰς ἑαυτόν ἀναχωρεῖν). Nowhere you can go is more peaceful — freer of interruptions — than your own soul (εἰς  τὴν  ἑαυτοῦ  ψυχήν) [tr. Hays, modified]. Note how this passage shows another striking phrase related to the traditional title. 23 Hadot (1995) 35; 48-51. 24 Rutheford (1989) 13; (my emphasis). 20 21

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Two considerations can help in understanding what Marcus is doing qua philosophical activity: firstly, he chose to write in Greek, the language of the philosophers, and aligned himself with Epictetus’ strategy on how to deal with psychological mechanisms such as desires and impulses. This has been long recognised and studied.25 Epictetus’ views represent a more moderate Stoic position of dealing with desires and views about life and death. But more importantly, his analysis of desires and impulse give Marcus the tools to cope with the Imperial court and its temptations of power games, luxury and sycophants. Combined with guidelines for exercises that implement the theory, this approach can be seen at work in the Meditations. The method included repetition of precepts, ongoing evaluation of one’s activities (preferably daily),26 and considering the big picture while living one’s life as a human being (not so much as an emperor). Marcus lived in very difficult times: on campaign during much of his reign, and confronted with intrigue and subversion at home, his task proved a heavy burden and a continuous challenge to his peace of mind and sanity. The notes can be interpreted as exercises that inculcate injunctions he believed in deeply on appropriate attitudes to wealth, fellow human beings, the fragility and futility of life when viewed against eternity. Secondly, if we bring the considerations of the modern philosopher Harry Frankfurt on motivation and free will to bear on our author, we can also further clarify Marcus’ situation, because the “internal monologue” could be viewed as one of internal conflict between Marcus Aurelius (MA) as he perceives himself (let’s call him MA1) and MA as he would like to be (MA2).27 MA1 is clearly trying to project a self-image to his current self that constitutes some kind of ideal MA2, as is clear from the examples he Hadot (1998); Newman (1989); Rutherford (1989). Cf. Epict. Discourses 1.1.25: “These are things persons studying philosophy should practice, and write down every day, and train themselves in”; Seneca, De ira 3.36.3: “I examine my whole day, I retrace my path through my actions and words; I hide nothing from myself, nothing do I omit.” (tr. Rutherford). Cf. Med. 5.11 “Interrogate yourself, to find out what inhabits your so-called mind and what kind of soul you have now.” 27 Frankfurt (2005) esp. 327-330. 25 26

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cites (esp. Antoninus: Med. 6.30 “... take Antoninus as your model, always.” [list of virtuous qualities follows]) — and he is implementing a way of getting closer to MA2 by vigorously practising selfimprovement through self-address. This is, of course, the exhortative side of his writing. So what we have here are in fact the two selves communicating, but it is a one-directional process in which repetition of prescriptive encouragements or precepts aims to have a wholesome effect (the “spiritual exercises” Hadot talks about). A further aspect can be at play: Frankfurt offers some intriguing thoughts on second-order motivation: this is the notion of wanting yourself to want something as opposed to first order motivation (i.e. simply wanting something). Marcus is also constantly setting out what is to be done, and often enough this involves instructions (or: exhortations, admonitions). The most characteristic feature of this attitude — surely a form of second order motivation — is his use of imperative verb forms, which abound in the work. So MA1, fully aware that he wants to be a good person and emperor but still falling short of that ideal, is admonishing himself to become more like this ideal, the MA2.28 The writing brings out this internal conflict and sharpens up the contrast between Marcus as is and how he wants to be. Marcus is effectively writing about his real self and ideal self, and the tension between them.

PSYCHOLOGICAL EFFICACY: SELF-EXAMINATION, CARE OF THE SOUL & SELF-CONSOLATION I set out to consider three questions: the first was how the title of the work should really be adjusted, the second how the content warrants this. The third and last question now remains: can such self-admonition be effective? Here I need to speculate, but I will attempt to be as persuasive as possible. Self-admonition had a long tradition: Plato and Socrates already saw the word as a tool for taking care of the soul; Epicurus offered his students the tetragrammaton, a set of four succinctly stated phrases, to be used as a mantra; Cicero resorted to a self-consolation to cope with his grief; Catullus 28 In Brodsky’s words, we are looking at a: “vector, rather than an attained destination,” Brodsky (1997) 284.

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wrote a poem in which he used self-address to deal with grief;29 Epictetus taught his students to reflect on their day and evaluate their experiences through self-interrogation (cf. n. 24 above). But one ends up asking: how does it actually work? We do seem to see much of the process, but what about the outcome? After studying the strategies for coping with loss in ancient consolations, I have come to see that instances of self-address can be regarded as potential cases of self-consolation. (I believe one such case is Cicero.)30 In considering these different strategies found in the extant consolations of the Greek and Roman periods, one is soon forced to consider the question whether any of these exhortations could have any effect. There is surprisingly little evidence for this. A new hope for making some progress on this question arrived in the form of a book recommended by a colleague (none other than Ron Newbold). It dawned upon me that the efficacy of such ruminations and exhortations as we find in the Meditations could perhaps be made plausible by using the insights of modern psychiatry and neuroscience. The book I referred to is Norman Doidge’s The Brain that Changes Itself, which discusses the importance of the brain’s plasticity and the implication that physiological and psychological mechanisms can be changed by ideas or thoughts. Recent neuroscience has proven beyond doubt that the brain has greater plasticity than always assumed, and what is more, that we can influence the physiology of the brain to change its performance by specific mental exercises. The book is a survey and synthesis of brain research. Doidge explains how in the past five decades all kinds of important evidence has emerged from new investigations on learning disabilities, flawed brain functions and even such phenomena as phantom pain which can be either remedied or explained from accepting that the brain is highly adaptable. In other

Even if poem 8 is very likely a clever parody, using the conceit of grief and self-consolation, it still seems to use some of the known conventions of the genre. 30 See Baltussen (2009b) and Baltussen (forthcoming b). 29

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words, the brain strongly resembles a muscle and not only in the first stages of life, but pretty much your whole life.31 How does this relate to “talking to yourself”? What I found especially exciting about Doidge’s results is how he could show that thoughts can influence the physical brain. The plasticity of the brain opens up the intriguing opportunity to explore the possible effects of self-address as an effective healing activity. In other words, it opens up the possibility that the “talking cure” allows for self-medication. All this has important implications for education and learning (think of language learning). Doidge especially highlights the importance of repetition and rote learning, because the brain can adapt and change its “hard wiring” when immersed in a specific activity. Modern case studies in Doidge also show how self-improvement depends a lot on repetition.32 Now changing neural pathways to improve reading and writing (case studies in Doidge) is of course not the same as wanting to improve one’s moral standing or becoming a good person. In addition, it can easily be objected that, when someone keeps hammering certain moral principles home, the person simply becomes convinced of certain attitudes as the result of self-delusion. But there is one good case in which a closer similarity exists in the book when he describes a case of psycho-analysis (Doidge: a case of infantile amnesia regarding a deeply traumatic experience).33 This case illustrates that psychotherapy can heal behaviour by way of “rewiring” memories and their connections with the past, hence changing the brain. The important conclusion that forces itself upon us is that manipulation of the brain’s plasticity also applies to high-order psychological mechanisms — it can lead, in Doidge’s words, to “psy-

There is of course some loss of flexibility as one gets older, but the research shows that the idea of a brain being made up of fixed functional areas which cannot change has to be abandoned, because it was based on the early modern notion of the body as a machine, see Doidge (2007) xiv. 32 Doidge (2007) 45-92 elaborates on the discovery of brain plasticity and the use of immersion and repetition for learning and “redesigning the brain”. 33 Doidge (2007) 215-244. 31

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chological reorganization”.34 So, I will end by presenting my hypothesis as to how this could be brought in for Marcus Aurelius. We can find encouraging evidence in Marcus’ reflections which allow for an argument by analogy: despite the somewhat patchy nature of his notes, which also do not seem to represent a progression, he repeatedly shows a conviction that he can influence what he calls his “rational soul” (Med. 5.11.1 “Characteristics of the rational soul: self-perception, self-examination, and the power to make of itself whatever it wants”, see also 5.11; 5.16; 5.19; 6.3), and thereby establishes a firm basis for coping with all that assails him. He even seems to have an inkling of the power of thought and how it can change a person’s mind in this evocative passage: The things you think about determine the quality of your mind. Your soul takes on the colour of your thoughts: colour it with a run of thoughts like these: anywhere you can lead your life, you can lead a good one … things gravitate towards what they were intended for … Med. 5.16

But by turning inwards he does not turn away from the world. Rather he builds his unshakeable confidence on the conviction that there is order in the universe, that nature has innate goodness, that we should strive to achieve what is within our power, and that challenging events and people can be dealt with, so long as we accept certain principles of action and knowledge. It is this wise acceptance of his fate without adhering to a debilitating fatalism that enables Marcus to emerge as a strong and combative individual: he realises that he is not perfect, but he also has the confidence that he will cope by wishing it. Thus his internal conflict is to some extent an artificial one, because he accepts that he needs to apply himself continuously for the exercises to be effective. The consolatory power of language would seem to operate at two levels then: at the specific individual level of dealing with the immediate realities of everyday life, and at a much more general level of dealing with the life that fate has dealt him and with the 34

Doidge (2007) 238.

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death that may eventually occur. Self-address and self-admonition thus work as forms of self-improvement and self-reassurance. In other words: consolation for the real loss of a life free from concerns and oppressive responsibility, and consolation drawn from the imagined life which projects the preferable ideal that inspires and provides courage.

CONCLUSION I have argued that the work of Marcus Aurelius deserves reexamination for at least two reasons: its unique nature as a written record of applied psychotherapy (in the ancient sense of the word) offers an opportunity to trace what I would call the “therapeutic turn”. But what is perhaps more important is that we should consider the modern insight into the impact of self-address, selfscrutiny and self-improvement, which allows us to make more plausible that such exercises had indeed a considerable chance of being effective. Both the unique form and content constitute a clear example of how power and emotion could be balanced in order to preclude the negative effects of status. Writing kept him sane and grounded. In the Renaissance, the Jesuit De Loyola designed exercises for self-scrutiny and self-improvement which recaptured some of the method of Epictetus and Marcus. But the existence of an early modern tradition, in which Christian and classical influences became amalgamated, seems to have given the modern scholars license to project later ideas back into the ancient concept of selfexamination. Augustine’s Confessions, Montaigne’s Essays, Rousseau’s Confessions, Pascal’s Pensées all show a new approach to the self and how to express it.35 But we should beware of projecting these instantiations of the genre into the writing activities of ancient authors which are alien to their own intentions and aims. Marcus used this kind of self-address for the specific purpose of fending off whatever life threw at him: he protected his soul, as the core of his personality, like an unassailable castle — or, as Hadot so nicely puts it, his “inner citadel”. From this position he 35

On the similarity with MA, see Hadot (1998) 33.

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made sure to reflect on his character, his decisions, and his life as it unfolded. He saw that humans are plagued by desires and weaknesses, and that they need reminders of how to live their lives. His way of dealing with this, to meditate and exhort himself, shows that this was a singular document for “his eyes only”. Had he lived today, Marcus would not choose the public blog, but the private diary as the best medium for the emperor’s private thoughts.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Baltussen, H. (2009a.) “Personal Grief and Public Mourning in Plutarch’s Consolation to His Wife,” American Journal of Philology 130.1, 67-98. _____. (2009b) “A Grief Observed: Cicero on Remembering Tullia,” Mortality: Promoting the interdisciplinary study of death and dying 14.4, 355-369. _____. (ed.) (forthcoming a) Acts of Consolation: Approaches to Loss and Sorrow from Cicero to Shakespeare (2007 London colloquium; under review with Cambridge University Press). _____. (forthcoming b) “Greek Philosophy Transformed: Cicero’s Personal Mission as a Public Service,” in S. McElduff & E. Sciarrino (eds), A Sea of Languages: Rethinking the History of Western Translation (Leiden). Brodsky, J. (1997) “Homage to Marcus Aurelius,” in J. Brodsky (ed.), On Grief and Reason: Essays (New York), 267-298. Doidge, N. (2007) The Brain that Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science (London). Farquharson, A. S. L. (1944) The Meditations of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius (ed. with translation and commentary), 2 vols. (Oxford). Francis, J. (1995) Subversive virtue: asceticism and authority in the secondcentury pagan world (University Park PA.). Frankfurt, H. G. (2005) “Freedom of the Will and the Concept of a Person,” in G. Watson (ed.), Free Will, 2nd ed. (Oxford), 322336. Graver, M. (2007) Stoicism and Emotion (Chicago). Hadot, P. (1995) Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault (Oxford & New York). _____. (1998) The Inner Citadel: The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, transl. and ed. by M. Chase (Cambridge MA & London). Original publication: La Citadelle Intérieure: Introduction aux “Pensées” de Marc-Aurèle (Paris 1992). Hirsch, J. (2003) Shakespeare and the History of Soliloquies (London). Humphries, M. L. (1997) “Michel Foucault on Writing and the Self in the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and the Confessions of St. Augustine,” Arethusa 30.1, 125-138. Laín Entralgo, P. (1970) The Therapy of the Word in Classical Antiquity, transl. and ed. by L. J. Rather & J. M. Sharp (New Haven CT

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& London). Original publication: La curación por la palabra en la antigüedad clásica (Madrid 1958). Newman, R. J. (1989) “Theory and Practice of the Meditatio,” ANRW 2.36.3, 1473-1517. Rees, D. A. (1944) “Introduction,” in A. S. L. Farquharson (ed.), The Meditations of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius (Oxford), i-xvii. Rutherford, R. B. (1989) The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius: A Study (Oxford). _____. (2003) s. v. “Aurelius, Marcus,” in OCD, 3rd ed., 219-221. Scarborough, J. (1996) “The Opium Poppy in Hellenistic and Roman Medicine,” in R. Porter & M. Teich (eds), Drugs and Narcotics in History (Cambridge), 4-23.

4. CRISTOPHER MALONE, “THE VIRTUE OF RAGE IN THE FOURTH CENTURY” CRISTOPHER W. MALONE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY [email protected] ABSTRACT In both the classical tradition and modern perception, ira, anger or rage, is considered a negative, a vice akin to madness; a good ruler was supposed to restrain it by clementia, if not avoid it altogether. For the emperors of the Fourth Century, however, ira was at times presented as a positive quality, its expression and use as politically important as its control. This paper examines several instances of imperial rage from the Tetrarchy to Theodosius, both on and off the battlefield, in order to elucidate the discourse of rage and its ideological and political value in the Late Empire. Anger, in the classical tradition, is generally considered a bad thing.1 Rage, that particularly furious type of anger closely connected to

This is a substantially revised version of a paper given at the “Emotions, Status and Power” colloquium at the Adelaide University in 2008. I would like to take this opportunity to thank the organisers for the opportunity to present a paper to honour Dr. Newbold’s retirement, and am grateful to Dr. Barbara Sidwell for comments and a copy of her doctoral thesis. I would like extend my thanks also to Dr. Peter Brennan and to Maxine Lewis for comments on drafts of this piece. Any errors are, of course, my own. 1

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wrath and violence,2 is even worse, a kind of madness.3 The conceptual field rests in Greek on ὀργή, though the vocabulary is extensive, extending to θυμός, μῆνις, and χαλεπαίνειν, among other terms. In Latin, ira and its cognates are most vital, able to cover the field from simple annoyance through to heroic battlerage;4 ira connects also to more behavioural terms like furor, saevitia, and impetus.5 William Harris, in his landmark work Restraining Rage, has demonstrated an ongoing dialectical tradition running through antiquity concerning the necessity to control the emotion of rage.6 Despite divergence on details, the philosophical consensus was that one ought rein in angry feelings and behaviours, and more ambitious schools, like the Stoics, aimed at the complete elimination of anger itself.7 Particular attention was paid to the rage of rulers. As early as Herodotus, giving in to rage was the mark of a poor ruler, if not a tyrant,8 and thereafter a ruler’s image could be constructed as either positive or negative, depending on whether he controlled, or was controlled, by rage.9 This motif faded for a time during the Hellenistic period, but re-emerged under the Principate in a stoicising

2 Harris (2001) 32-33, following the common definition from the Oxford English Dictionary. 3 Harris (2001) 64. Ira as madness became a commonplace, cf. Sen. De Ira 1.1-2. 4 For an account of the terminology in both languages, see Harris (2001) 50-70. 5 Sen. De Ira 1.1.1; 2.12.6; 2.3.4-5; furor was a fusion of madness and anger. 6 Harris (2001) 4 ff. 7 Sen. De Ira 2.13. For an excellent account of the various philosophical positions, see Harris (2001) esp. 88-126. Platonic theory was that anger was one of the passions, useful but needing to be reined in by reason; Peripatetic thought, as ever, looked to moderation. The Stoics saw ὀργή / ira as particularly displeasing; Seneca was on the hard-line end of the scale. For a discussion of the various positions in regards to the military in particular, with most focus on the Stoics, see Sherman (2005) 64-89. 8 E.g., Herodot. Hist. 7.35; Harris (2001) 174-176. 9 Harris (2001) 230-231.

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critical discourse connecting good rulership with clementia, the merciful reversal of rage and revenge.10 In the Late Empire, the virtue of anger control was elided into the more generalised imperial and administrative virtues of gentleness: lenitas, indulgentia, humanitas, and philanthropia.11 These, together with decorous self-control and cultural display, were the essence of paideia, the peak of elite culture.12 Traditionally, rage was to be avoided as a violation of paideia, implying a loss of control, the sort of thing to which a barbarian might give way.13 This was despite — perhaps more likely because of — the institutionalised violence of imperial government: paideia could, ideally, check this violence, and control disharmony.14 Harris argues briefly that when we hear about imperial anger in late antiquity, we are generally seeing little more than demonstrations of professional literary skill, without the political significance the discourse once held.15 This is a very limited picture, and does not tally with the way anger works in the sources. Peter Brown is closer to the mark when he suggests that ira came to be a more important component in the language of the late Roman politics.16 Anger had always played some role in the discourse of imperial power, but it was a quality apparently unbecoming to the position of the Augusti: to be Emperor was to be the elite ideal, and therefore required complete dignity and self-restraint. Deliberately violating this by displaying rage could not but be political.17 Brown argues that imperial ira existed precisely to be overcome, as a principle of reversibility in a relentless system — anger could cool, and

Harris (2001) 237-239, 248-249; Newbold (2001) 1-2. Harris (2001) 257-261. 12 Brown (1992) 51-57. Though Neoplatonism had become the premier system, Stoic insistence on self control and self-mastery continued to be basic to paideia. 13 Wiedemann (1986) 194-195. 14 Brown (1992) 48-53. 15 Harris (2001) 257-258. 16 Brown (1992) 105-106. 17 On conforming to the ideal, see Brown (1992) 58-59; Herodian, 5.2.1-4 on Macrinus, and Amm. Marc. 25.4.8 on Julian. 10 11

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thus official violence be reversed or alleviated by viewing it as the result of rage, and replacing it with clemency.18 This is, however, not the whole story. Harris and Brown, working from the perspective of anger-control, offer conceptions of rage too far in the negative — in accord with the philosophical, especially Stoic, picture of the emotion, but not always with the Late Imperial reality. I intend to take a different tack, and will not assume rage to be negative, nor will I follow the usual approach and focus on restraint. The expression and use of ira is just as important as its control, and has received far less attention. In the Fourth Century the importance of rage increases, and it becomes positive in its own right when enacted in the proper context, rather than always needing restraint to be seen positively. The discourse involves several kinds of imperial ira, which should be differentiated, and will be examined below. There is the ira of the Emperor at war, a more personal kind and generally viewed as positive. While traditional for soldiers, battle-rage in a general seems a recent development, apparently arising from the representation of the imperial commander himself as a warrior. This is linked ideologically to the more established ethic to form a discourse of ira during war and clementia and pietas afterwards. This is then extended into the civic political framework, in which ira is imperial performance. Again, and possibly stemming from the military context, we see ira used on its own, as a technology of power to create fear and control, potentially positive depending on motivation and degree. On the other side, ira is paralleled and contrasted with clementia, in a system which includes the kind of anger with which Brown is most concerned, shown and then restrained in a political negotiation, which goes back to Augustus.19 Both: ideals, rage and mercy, are positives in their proper contexts. Outside strict Stoic circles,20 rage was considered important in a military context. Proper, justified ira — unlike the more bestial 18 Brown (1992) 55, 105, sees this as being long established by the time of Theodosius I. It was not limited to the emperors, but also their governors: Lib. Or. 11.155-156. 19 Brown (1992) 105. 20 Seneca, De Ira 1.8-14, denies the usefulness of ira, even in war.

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furor of the barbarian — was useful in battle, inspiring soldiers to manifest virtus and thus to win victories.21 While soldiers were thus to enact rage, a commander was not, no matter how strong the presentation of imperial general as commilito, since the Princeps did not fight. It becomes more appropriate when the emperor is represented as a soldier, personally participating in combat, a tendency which arrives with the Third Century Crisis. The first to be presented — indeed, publicised — as personally fighting is Maximinus Thrax, who not only fought personally, but boasted of it, and sent images to the Senate of his deeds in battle.22 In the dire military and political situation of the Crisis, emperors had to be both commanders and warriors. Many were originally soldiers, and we find them fighting and even dying in battle.23 Our unfortunately sparse record for the Crisis makes it difficult to see exactly how this new tendency towards personal combat was conceptualised, though we know that it was afterwards praised.24 There are some indications: the mid-Third Century Ludovisi Sarcophagus shows a clearly imperial figure — usually interpreted as Decius’ son Hostilian — happily embroiled, though not participating, in combat.25 One of the panels on the lid shows a scene of the general in the classic clementia pose,26 indicating the beginnings of the discourse. Clementia and peace are juxtaposed 21 Sidwell (2008) 78-81, 195-196. Ammianus offers numerous examples: ira as an attribute of the Roman soldiery: Amm. Marc. 17.10.6; 21.13.16; 25.3.10; 26.9.3; ira paired with virtus: 17.13.15; 19.11.14; 24.2.5. Barbarian ira and furor are opposed to Roman discipline at Strasbourg: 16.12.44-47, but once the Alamanni are routed, the Romans show ira: 16.12.52. Roman ira is opposed to (and caused by) barbarian furor at 17.13.9. The idea of ira militum was not itself new: cf. Livy, 24.39; Tac. Ann. 1.62. 22 Herodian, 7.2.6-8; SHA Max. 3-4; 12.2-3; 13.2-3. 23 Burns (2003) 251. 24 E.g., SHA Aurel. 6.4 (Aurelian’s personal body count), Aur. Vict. Caes. 29.5, 34 (Decius and Claudius II dying in battle); Amm. Marc. 16.10.3 (Decius’ and Galerius’ deeds in war). 25 Bianchi Bandinelli (1971) 58-60. His brother, Decius the younger, might be a better candidate, having actually died in battle along with their father. 26 Nees (2002) 20-22.

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with the Emperor in battle, though ira does not yet appear; we shall see this motif elaborated in Fourth Century sources. The increasing tendency towards emperors being depicted in battle is also found on coinage. From 260 onwards, reverses show imperial scenes that are increasingly military, particularly of the Emperor charging on horseback.27 Even the “nude” obverse bust becomes a rarity, replaced by the cuirassed portrait, Constantine being the last to show his neck, amusingly fully clad in armour on the reverse.28 Under the Tetrarchy things become clearer, and we find an exaggerated portrayal of the Emperor as an epic-style warrior-hero: the earliest surviving is of Maximian, in the panegyric of 291. In this oration, the Emperor is described in battle against Germanic tribes as a Homeric hero. He ranges across the field like a river in flood, his own troops unable to follow him, unable even to watch his divinely swift progress as he slaughters the barbarians himself, impelled by divina virtus.29 The presentation is enhanced by the Tetrarchic theology which cast Maximian in the role of the supreme warrior-hero, Hercules.30 The series of panegyrics to Constantine offer multiple angles on the discourse of rage. The panegyrist of 310, in covering up the military failure at Massilia against Maximian, embraces the ideal of clementia and pietas controlling ira, even that of angry soldiers in 27 28

382.

On this see now Hedlund (2008) 52-67. On a gold medallion rather than a coin: Kantorowicz (1961) 381-

29 Pan. Lat. 10(2).5.3-4: Quid enim opus erat multitudine cum ipse pugnares, ipse omnibus locis totaque acie dimicares, ipse hosti undique et qua resisteret et qua cederet et qua fugeret occurreres, erroremque adversariis pariter ac tuis faceres, cum neque te barbari unum putarent neque milites, non dico stipatione atque comitatu sed saltem oculis sequi possent? Toto quippe proelio ferebare, non aliter quam magnus amnis solet hibernis imbribus auctus et nivibus passim fluere qua campus est. Ita cuncti Chaibones Erulique cuncti tanta internecione caesi interfectique sunt. 30 Pan. Lat. 10(2).2.1: qui te praesentem intuemur deum toto quidem orbe victorem; 11(3).10.5: non opinione traditus sed conspicuus et praesens Iuppiter cominus invocari, non aduena sed imperator Hercules adorari. Mattingly (1952) 131, suggests that the idea of the numina of these gods in some way dwelling in the Augusti is the likely Roman conceptualisation. Note that in Pan. Lat. 9(4).8.1 and 7(6).8.2, Maximian is apparently the literal son of Hercules.

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arms. Constantine’s piety was such, he says, that he pulled back from victory in battle in order to pardon his enemies.31 This is part of the usual official picture of Constantine as a most pious and clement Emperor.32 Eusebius in particular sees him not only as master of all his passions,33 even describing him as turning the savagery of barbarians to gentleness,34 but as thoroughly possessed of eusebeia, which Constantine himself in his Oration to the Saints ascribes as the cause of everything — fortunes, courage, and victories.35 The alternative side of the discourse, mirroring that of Maximian’s heroism, can be found in the panegyric of 313. Here the orator discusses the personal participation of Constantine in battle outside Verona the previous year. Like Maximian, he appears as a hero with divina virtus,36 but is seemingly censured for his excessive ardor and impetus, which make him like a river in flood, the orator re-using the description of Maximian.37 The loss of control is not the problem, rather the orator claims to be worried that Constantine might have been injured, or might lessen the imperial majesty by exertion.38 A note of unease over heroic violence is apparent, as the orator praises imperial heroism while at the same time seeing it as somewhat inappropriate. Constantine is then said to have mixed virtues, being mitissimus in peace, but ferocissimus — hardly a tradiPan. Lat. 6(7).20.1-4, esp. 1. Euseb. Historia Ecclesiastica 8.13.14; Pan. Lat. 12(9).4.4 opposes his clementia to Maxentius’ crudelitas; 12(9).12-13 parallels Constantine’s clementia and ultio. On Constantine’s official imagery, see Rodgers (1989) 233246. 33 Euseb. De Laud. Const. 5.4. 34 Euseb. Vita Const. 1.25.1, cf. 3.10. It may be worthwhile to observe that Eusebius completely ignores the Italian campaign: Vita Const. 1.37-38; HE 9.9.2-8; elsewhere the idea of an Emperor (Maxentius) killing Romans is abhorrent to him: HE 8.14.3-5. 35 Constantine, Or .ad Sanct. 22: Ἐγὼ μὲν τῆς εὐτυχίας τῆς ἐματοῦ  31 32

καὶ  τῶν  ἐμῶν  πάντων,  αἰτιῶμαι  τὴν  εὐσεβέιαν,  μαρτυρεῖ  δὲ  καὶ  ἡ  ἔκβασις  τῶν  κατ́  εὐχὰς  ἁπάντων,  ἀνδραγαθίαι,  νίκαι  κατὰ  τῶν  πολεμίων, τρόπαια.

Pan. Lat. 12(9).10.3. Pan. Lat. 12(9).9.5: toto quippe impetu ferebare, cf. n. 29 above. 38 Pan. Lat. 12(9).9.3-6; 12(9).10.3-5. 36 37

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tional virtue — in battle.39 This paralleling is important — the images of the emperor at war and peace are here combined into a single discourse. Nazarius, in the panegyric of 321,40 reaches the extreme. The topic again is the 312 campaign against Maxentius, and once more the siege of Verona is crucial:41 You, however, Emperor, no more unguarded by the conditions than protected by god, pursued everywhere the most savage enemy and, exulting in the freedom of bloodshed, thought it a gift of night that no-one watched over you fighting. You go fearlessly through the hostile lines, and you break through all the thickest ranks, you strike them down, you trample them. Those cast down unknowing lose the honour of their death, unless your very force compels them to recognise you. For not at all do the broken voices of trumpets move you, the horrid cries of soldiers, wounds dealt by chance, swords clashing in mêlée, heavy groans of the fallen, arms resounding far and wide and the mixing of diverse noises into a sort of single racket, because all this either your valour disregarded or your rage did not perceive. Night itself, most justly a cause of fear to the combatants, made you more ardent in conducting slaughPan. Lat. 12(9).10.4-5. Nixon & Rodgers (1994) 338; given at Rome for the quinquennalia of Caesars Crispus and Constantius II; it is uncertain who exactly from the imperial house was present. 41 Pan. Lat. 4(10).26.1-4: Tu tamen, imperator, non intutior tempore quam deo tectior, saevissimo hosti multus instares et libertate caedis exsultans donum noctis duceres quod pugnantem nemo servaret. Per infestas acies interritus vadis, densissima quaeque perrumpis deicis proteris. Mortis decus perdunt quos ignoratus adfligis, nisi quod te ipsa vis tua cogit agnosci. Nihil enim te permovent tubarum fractae voces, horrendus militum clamor, permissa casibus vulnera, inlisi cominus gladii, cadentum graves gemitus, arma late strepentia et in unum quendam sonitum diversi fragoris acta confusio, quod haec omnia aut virtus neglegit aut ira non sentit. Nox ipsa, iustissima bellantibus causa terroris, vehementiorem te agendis stragibus fecerat. Quod solum enim virtutis tuae impedimentum est, miserationem tenebrae non habebant, ut intellegi liceat quantum illo in bello vis tua perfecerit pietate non retenta et maiestate secura. Proelio vix multa nocte confecto fessus caedibus, anhelus ex bello, cruore oblitus sed hostili, ad obsidionis vigilias recurrebas. Translation is mine. 39 40

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ter. The shadows had no pity, for this is the only impediment to your valour, so one may understand how much your might would have accomplished in that battle with piety not retained and with majesty secure. With the battle scarcely over and much of the night passed, worn out by slaughter, panting from combat, smeared with blood, but the enemy’s blood, you hastened back to the watch of the siege.

Constantine shows a disturbing bloodlust. Alone he massacres the foe, and in very Virgilian fashion, those he slays who do not recognise their assailant lose the honour of dying by his hand:42 he is an epic hero. Nothing of the dreadful reality of battle worries him, because either his virtus is indifferent, or his ira, his rage, does not perceive it: Constantine has blinding heroic ira. While rage was an important part of soldiering, it is quite a leap to consider it appropriate for the imperial general to lose control and enter a battlefrenzy. The imagery is jarring, and Constantine appears as a berserker with an unnerving level of ferocity and personal delight in bloodshed, far exceeding praise for military virtus. He is being praised for slaughtering Romans, in a rage, during civil war. This is not quite paideia! Constantine is hailed despite violating the principles of being a good emperor, pietas and mercy, while his ira is close to being an unproblematic good. There is again a slight unease at the excesses, as Nazarius implies in referring to Constantine’s invisibility at night. The discourse is not simply panegyrical. Another author of a rather different kind, also at court, expresses similar ideas of righteous anger in regards to the Christian God: Lactantius, tutor to Crispus Caesar. In the De Ira Dei, Lactantius argues that God can show mercy and therefore also rage, being capable of both gratia and ira.43 Ira is for the evil — and since God is perfect it is always justified — whereas there is caritas for the good, and pity for the 42 E.g., Virgil, Aen. 10.829-830: Hoc tamen infelix miseram solabere mortem: | Aeneae magni dextra cadis. 43 Lactant. De Ira Dei 6: consequens esse, ut irascatur Deus, quoniam gratia commovetur... nam neque honos ullus deberi potest Deo, si nihil praestat colenti, nec ullus metus, si non irascitur non colenti. Cf. 20: si [Deus] potest ignoscere, potest igitur et irasci.

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broken.44 In addition to this expression of the two-sided iraclementia discourse, Lactantius also invokes the idea of ira itself being a positive source of power. He argues that maiestas and honor require fear, but that there is no fear where no one rages,45 pointing directly to its political value. Lactantius does not link his argument specifically to the imperial power, but it sounds very similar, suggesting both justified ira and contexts in which it is to be put off in favour of mercy. There is unfortunately no place to develop this ideological strand here, as the Christian response to rage is very complex, with numerous competing philosophical positions.46 The discourse of the heroic warrior-emperor, apparently quite new, allows the emperor to be ferox and iratus, to be involved in battle and even slay his enemies personally in an excess of virtus. The positive basis for this ira lies primarily in the heroic context, where Virgil had already illuminated the tension with pietas.47 The heroic warrior is the apex of the military ideal, and figures like Hercules, Achilles, and Aeneas are often seen manifesting a more unrestrained ira. It had of course been clear since the first lines of Homer that heroic anger was not always positive; alongside  ἀρετή  / virtus it drove the hero on, but was to be judged from context — whether justified or excessive.48 The same is true of the late emperors, themselves heroes and divine champions.49 Lactant. De Ira Dei 16. Lactant. De Ira Dei 8: Quod enim non metuitur, contemnitur: quod contemnitur, utique non colitur. Ita fit, ut religio, et maiestas, et honor metu constet: metus autem non est, ubi nullus irascitur. 46 The question of divine wrath in Christian thought is a very large one. Lactantius was neither alone nor in the majority, but his view is one which carried on. See some discussion in Harris (2001) 391-393; examples of the various viewpoints can be found in [Clement], Recognitions 6.3; Basil, Against the Angry 1-6; and John Cassian, Inst. 8. 47 Most famously in the closing lines of the Aeneid (12.945-952), in which pius Aeneas gives in to ira and ultio. Galinsky (1988) 323-325, 339 considers the humanity and ultimate justification in the Roman mind of Aeneas’ wrathful action. 48 Braund & Gilbert (2003) esp. 255-268. 49 E.g., Pan. Lat. 10(2).7.5-6 (Diocletian and Maximian); Euseb. De Laud. Const. 1.6; 2.3-5; 3.5-6. See the comments of Nock (1930) 264, and Fears (1977) 279-294. 44 45

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The emperor at war in the Fourth Century is heroic, likely thanks to evolution of the ideology of the Third. But at peace, lenitas and pietas return, ira fades to clementia. Both are positive ethics within their proper contexts, which can be brought to bear as needed. The image of the emperor in battle does seem to be toned down after Nazarius’ extreme: despite repeated comparison to Homeric heroes, Julian does not link Constantius to ὀργή.50 Emperors continue to lead their armies and at times fight on the field in person, and are very often presented as warrior-heroes. While such a peak of frenzy does not seem to recur, the discourse is maintained, and is clearly presented at the end of the century, as we shall see. The surviving Latin panegyric to Julian does not ascribe him battle-rage, though he briefly emerges as a hero, appearing out of nowhere to rescue Illyricum.51 It is Ammianus who portrays his favourite Emperor as repeatedly seized by ira in war, and even dreaming of the din of battle and the blood of barbarians.52 His excess of rage is problematic for Ammianus, who wavers between idolisation of Julian and his strong distaste for failures of moderation.53 Despite being a philosopher, Julian is in fact the angriest emperor in the Res Gestae.54 In 356, besieged in Sens by the Alamanni, he could be seen on the walls, boiling with rage at being unable to sally because of troop numbers.55 But it is the Persian campaign

Julian, Or. 2.53-54. Pan. Lat. 3(11).6.3-5. It should be noted that Mamertinus’ panegyric is not only a personal gratiarum actio, but deliberately glosses the military exploits of Julian for political reasons. See Blockley (1972) 448-449. 52 Amm. Marc. 16.1.1: urgente genuino vigore, pugnarum fragores caedesque barbaricas somniabat. 53 On the favour shown moderatio, see Seager (1986) 1-2, 33. Even Valentinian could be praised for religious moderation: Amm. Marc. 30.9.5. 54 Sidwell (2008) 5 notes that ira is the term most often used for his rage. Wiedemann’s assertion ([1986] 196), that furor and ira are simply qualities of people Ammianus dislikes, may therefore be discounted. 55 Amm. Marc. 16.4.2: ipse cum armatis die noctuque inter propugnacula visebatur et pinnas, ira exundante substridens, cum erimpere saepe conatus, paucitate 50 51

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which brings Julian’s rage to the fore, and as it progresses he seems to get angrier. In almost every case he is enraged by a setback. An attack by Surena leads to great rage, concitus ira immani, in a deliberate reference to Turnus, indicating again an epic tone.56 A series of setbacks on the way to Ctesiphon elicit a series of rages: lost pack animals, a defended fort, a Persian sally; Julian moves from iratus et frendens to ira immanis to ira gravis. Finally, in a burst of rash heroism, he leads an assault and storms the fort which so angered him, leaving it a smouldering ruin.57 The language employed is important. According to Seager, Ammianus uses immanis as moral language of excess, generally linked to barbarian fury and savagery, with Julian alone showing immanis ira in Ammianus’ work.58 The use of frendens may also suggest a rage bordering on the barbaric.59 The presentation is partly Ammianus’ literary construction. Zosimus corroborates several instances of rage, but he seems more neutral towards it, showing neither criticism nor an epicising tendency; affronts simply provoke rage and violent reprisals.60 Ammianus stresses Julian’s heroism, exaggerating his role in battle.61 This is in line with his suggestion that his account is almost panegypraesentis manus impediretur. It does not always happen, as before Strasbourg he does not lose his temper at Alamannic demands, 16.12.3. 56 Amm. Marc. 24.3.1-2, also 24.5.7; cf. den Boeft, et al. (2002) 72, 161. Turnus in Virgil, Aeneid 9.694-695: Deserit inceptum atque immani concitus ira | Dardaniam ruit ad portam fratresque superbos. 57 Amm. Marc. 24.5.5-11. 58 Seager (1986) 6. 59 den Boeft et al. (2002) 159, suggest this, noting the use of frendere of barbarians in four of seven cases, (15.4.9; 16.12.36; 19.6.8; 29.6.12), once here for Julian, and once (19.5.3, frendebant ut bestiae) for the garrison of Amida. The remaining case is of raging Roman troops (19.11.13). 60 Zos. 3.18.1-2 (a recalcitrant town: ὀργή); 3.19.1-2 (the Surena’s attack: θυμὀς); 20.3 (an armed assailant: δυσανασχετῶν). Blockley (1975) 101 suggests that he saw Julian’s emotional responses as more tempered by strategic considerations. 61 Blockley (1975) 80. Compare the tone and details in particular for the battle of Strasbourg: Amm. Marc. 16.12.1-62 (esp. 28-33) and Zos. 3.3.3-5; a skirmish at Maiozamalcha: Amm. Marc. 24.4.4-5 and Zos. 3.20.2; and the death of Julian: Amm. Marc. 25.3.2-21 and Zos. 3.28.429.3.

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rical, and the epicising opening of the narrative.62 Nonetheless, the text is not panegyric, and we do not find the same simple positivity of imperial rage. Seager argues that Ammianus is constantly critical of Julian’s anger,63 but he generally shies from open disapproval, and despite the repeated rages does not mention ira in the elogium at all.64 In Persia particularly, what is censured is not so much rage but rashness, lack of constraint and caution.65 For his own part, Julian declares to Constantius that an Emperor should not be carried away by his θυμός, like Achilles.66 Ammianus seems to see virtue in military ira;67 Julian’s outbursts seem justified and result in a successfully heroic style of leadership. There are, however, negative connotations: Turnus is not properly heroic,68 and language associated with barbarians is not usually positive. Ammianus is caught between discourses. The Fourth Century sees the positive potential of rage come to the fore, despite the traditional rhetoric of control. Personal rage on the field of battle is met by a parallel civil system of ideals and a negotiation between ira and the traditional virtues of pietas and clementia. In the political sphere, the stance on rage was more strongly negative, lacking the connection with violent virtus. The ethic of pious clemency was standard, but we can see anger and rage becoming more positive political tools, used for their own ends. Julian is again instructive, particularly in comparison to Marcus Aurelius, on whom he explicitly patterns himself.

62 Amm. Marc. 15.9.1, citing Aen. 7.44, and 16.1.3; cf. the analysis of Smith (1999) 92-102. 63 Seager (1986) 34-51; den Boeft et al. (2002) 159, disagree. 64 den Boeft et al. (2002) 149, citing Brandt: “eine cupiditas irascendio ä. mit keinem Wort kritisiert.” 65 Seager (1986) 69-76 on caution. Note his comment p. 82, that “the panegyrists have no time for caution.” 66 Julian, Or. 2.50B. 67 As indeed he does for that of the troops, Sidwell (2008) 36. Cf. above, n. 21. 68 Cf. the comments in Galinsky (1988) 323, 342-343.

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In the very first line of the Meditations, Marcus declares that he has received τὸ  ἀόρητον, non-rage, from his grandfather Verus,69 and later that from Sextus of Chaeronea he had the lesson never to show anger or any passion.70 He admits not being completely free of the emotion,71 but it all points to the importance of being, or appearing to be, without rage.72 There is an element of political performance in this: the Emperor wishes not to show ira, the philosopher in him not to feel it. When addressing his soldiers during the revolt of Avidius Cassius, Dio reports Marcus declaring himself not angry, but rather bewailing his fate.73 Such is the presentation. Julian, although aiming at similar virtues and restraint,74 fails to live up to Marcus’ example, being prone to rage not only on campaign but also repeatedly outside battle. Christian sources, unsurprisingly, push a negative image of the angry unrestrained Julian; Gregory Nazianzen in particular juxtaposes imperial claims of temperance with fits of rage.75 Ammianus, though not outwardly condemnatory, tells us that the sudden burning of the temple of Apollo at Daphne provoked ira, leading to investigations harsher than usual, and the closure of the main church of Antioch, since Julian blamed the Christians.76 So too the senators of Antioch enrage him by not immediately passing his decree to lower prices. This, alongside biting attacks in Antiochene satires, occasioned the 69

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 1.1:  Παρὰ  τοῦ  πάππου  Οὐήου  τὸ 

καλόηθες, καὶ ἀόργητον.

70 Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 1.9.9: καὶ  τὸ  μηδὲ  ἐμφασίν  ποτε  οργῆς, ἢ ἄλλου τινὸς πάθους παρασχεῖν, ἀλλὰ ἅμα μὲν ἀπαθέσατου  εἶναι.

Marc. Aurel. Med. 1.17.14. Cf. also Marc. Aurel. Med. 2.1; 2.10; 7.22; 7.26; 11.18.20-23. 73 Cass. Dio, 72.24.1: οὐκ ἀγανακτήσων  ὦ  συστρατιῶται,  ἀλλʹ  ὀδυρούμενος  παρελήλυθα. The Historia Augusta preserves the tradition – possibly going back to Marcus’ own report to the Senate, as Dio (72.27) reports – of a lack of anger from Marcus at these events: SHA Marc. 24.8: et Antoninus quidem non est satis motus defectione Cassii nec in eius affectus saevit; and SHA Avid. Cass. 7.5: Nec tamen Antoninus graviter est iratus rebellione cognita nec in eius liberos aut adfectus saevit. 74 Amm. Marc. 25.4.8. 75 Greg. Nazianzen, Contra Julianum 1.85-86; 2.21. 76 Amm. Marc. 22.13.2. 71 72

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Misopogon,77 which has been viewed as a quite lenient enactment of his apparently ongoing ira interna. To explain this, Brown invokes paideia, while Seager suggests moderatio,78 but in its day, it was seen as genuine chastisement.79 Zosimus considers it genuine lasting revenge, though not punishment,80 and Ammianus describes Julian as saeviens and the attacks as exceeding the truth.81 The act of publishing is what is crucial. Julian, as a man of letters, responded to literate insubordination with satire, but a satire suggestive of rage and at times devolving into purer anger and bitter sarcastic attacks.82 Julian’s letter to the irritating Nilus Dionysius, who had among other things insulted him, echoes this. He too receives a measured, highly educated set of threats and intimidations, very clearly implying imperial anger as a fact of life, and its potentially fatal consequences.83 It is a literary performance of rage, designed to elicit apology and obedience. Rage is a mechanism of imperial power. For philosophers, rage, even if felt, was supposed to be allowed to dissipate. But Julian’s ira was still alight when leaving Antioch. Here the politics of rage are in play. Ammianus tells us that at his departure, the Antiochenes begged that in future Julian might 77 Barnes (1998) 52 notes that it is displaced from its actual date of publication in Amm. Marc. 22.14.1-3, where the text is a direct response to the senate, countered by Antiochene satires, leading to ira interna in the Emperor. 78 Brown (1992) 59; Seager (1986) 1-2. Cf. Ammianus’ note that Julian’s iustitia meant he preferred threats to punishment: 25.4.8-9; Blockley (1975) 74-75, notes that even some Christians were willing to admit his mercy, as in Sozomen, HE 5.1. 79 Gleason (1986) 106-108; see 109-115 for New Year connections, and the possibility that Julian over-reacted to a Syrian tradition. 80 Zos. 3.11.4-5. Sozomen, HE 5.19, seems to agree with Ammianus’ ira interna, seeing the publication as connected to the suppression of rage; Socrates, HE 3.17 also associates the work with Julian’s wrath. 81 Amm. Marc. 22.14.2. 82 Note the bitter tone in Julian, Misopogon 342-345; 347-349A, and 356, and the thinly veiled threats of 360C-D, 364C, and 371C. 83 Julian, Ep. 50, esp. 444A, and the clear mention that the cap of imperial ὀργἠ is execution, and that Julian is angry (χαλεπήνας), cf. 445D, 446A-B. Lib. Or. 18.198 specifically links the two cases.

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be better pleased and gentler, but his ira was not mollified. He harshly said he would never come back,84 and spitefully appointed the undeserving but savage Alexander of Heliopolis as governor of Syria.85 So, Julian can feel and act openly on ira at these shows of disrespect, whereas Marcus showed, perhaps felt, no ira even at open revolt. The two sides of the political ira-discourse may be observed in Libanius’ reaction.86 His supposed congratulatory speech for early successes in Persia is really a further plea for the Emperor to overcome his rage;87 using the full discourse of anger, he beseeches clemency.88 In addressing the Antiochenes, Libanius includes the discourse of rage as legitimate power in itself. He indicates that Julian’s rage is feared, and needs to be alleviated.89 Potential imperial wrath, almost Olympian, involves armies or insults against cities; the correct response is to tremble and weep, and try to appease the Emperor and make amends.90 Rage, especially from Julian, who possesses piety, clemency, and philosophy, must be justified — it is, Libanius tells his fellows, Antioch’s fault for wronging him.91 Rage appears to be the appropriate imperial response to opposition, even if behaviourally limited. Brown’s model, of rage as there only to be shown and then controlled, misses the full picture: it was there to be enacted as well, at least in certain contexts, as part of power politics. Ammianus does not discuss what ira is until he reaches Valentinian, whose feritas is increased by outbreaks of fierce rage. He says that it comes from mentis mollitia, softness of mind, and is ulcus animi, an ulcer of the spirit.92 He falls into line with the classical 84 Amm. Marc. 23.2.4: placabilis et lenior. Julian is, of course, unintentionally prophesying his own doom. 85 Amm. Marc. 23.2.3. 86 Esp. Lib. Or. 15-16. 87 Lib. Or. 15.3-4. 88 Cf. Lib. Or. 15.70-71. 89 Lib. Or. 16.1 ff. 90 Lib. Or. 16.13-15. 91 Lib. Or. 16.17. 92 Amm. Marc. 27.7.4: Hanc enim ulcus esse animi diuturnum, interdumque perpetuum, prudentes definiunt, nasci ex mentis mollitia consuetum.

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tradition, that anger is bad, and that it is the duty of a good ruler to restrain himself.93 Valentinian’s rage is an explicit personality trait, and Ammianus, disliking the man, draws on the very negative Stoic definition of ira.94 This should logically also apply to Julian, but seems not to. The distinction between Julian and Valentinian is that one is immoderate, the other cruel; both are angry. Ammianus is caught between the ethic of paideia and the new acceptability of imperial rage. And this is basically the crux — ira in the Fourth Century is not necessarily a good — barbarians have it and it violates paideia; but despite the philosophers, it is not necessarily an evil. Whereas Julian’s frequent rages were mitigated by his many virtues, Valentinian has too many vices, which his ira exacerbates.95 He demonstrates, moreover, the importance of fear and reactions to imperial rage in constructing power. The Senate in 368 was driven to send a delegation to appeal for leniency in sentencing; having given a lighter penalty of exile to Hymetius, they were confronted with vehement iracundia and feared savage penalties themselves.96 Though it is his feritas that is the source of their fear, Valentinian’s rage is employed to reinforce political dominance — it is not only that his punishments are savage, but that he might embrace ira and hand them out at any given moment, something far more fearsome. This is precisely what he did in 365, angrily intending to wipe out the decurial class of several towns over a “pardonable offence”, until he was talked down by Florentius, Praetorian Prefect in Gaul.97 This frightening use of rage itself as power, lacking negotiation, is distinct from its use as a parallel to clemency.

93 Harris (2001) 261; Amm. Marc. 29.2.18: bonique esse moderatoris, restringere potestatem, resistere cupiditati omnium rerum, et implacabilibus iracundiis. 94 Amm. Marc. 29.3.2. 95 Amm. Marc. 30.5.19; 30.8.4-12. The vices are quasi-barbarian: lack of pietas and humanitas, innate feritas, avaritia, and crudelitas. The Valentinian of panegyric was, unsurprisingly, different, less impetuous, more closely connected to a proper military image: see Humphries (1999) 120-122. 96 Amm. Marc. 28.1.23-25; cf. 27.7.6-7. 97 Amm. Marc. 27.7.7.

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Valentinian’s final explosion of abusive wrath, against the Quadian ambassadors,98 can be read as partly intentional — things simply went very wrong when his towering rage triggered a fatal apoplexy. While Zosimus sees him dying, fittingly, at the height of his rage,99 Ammianus explicitly says that the response to the ambassadors’ request was decided before they were admitted, and that the Emperor, after raging, had calmed down and was about to give this answer. He was doubtless to some degree genuinely angry at the Quadi, but Valentinian seems to have been trying to intimidate them, incensed at their attempts to both disclaim and justify their actions.100 Valentinian realised how to employ his innate feritas to amplify the imperial performance and so dominate power relationships.101 Hence, he rages to establish imperial primacy, then calms down, intending to finalise the truce.102 Ira has a clear performance aspect in politics, in eliciting desired reactions and emotions, primarily, as here, fear and obedience. Ammianus admits that Valentinian was particularly skilled in military discipline,103 which may have informed his performance. Valentinian’s behaviour here echoes that of Constantius. He too was able to show courtly theatrical rage: when Julian’s envoys told him of the newly raised Augustus, he burst into such indignatio that they feared for their lives.104 Genuine anger was again part,105 but so was showing it to set the scene, and we know that Constantius, immobile and serene in his adventus, was a master of pageantry.106 In a similar way, Constantine, berserk at Verona, was angelic at Nicaea.107 Theatricality and drama were the order of the day in the Late Empire, and visible not only in their primary manifestaAmm. Marc. 30.6.1-6. Zosimus, 4.17. 100 Amm. Marc. 30.6.2. 101 Cf. Amm. Marc. 30.5.10. 102 Amm. Marc. 30.6.1-2. 103 Amm. Marc. 30.9.1-4. Cf. the remarks of Sherman (2005) 74-77, on the role of anger (real or simulated) in modern military discipline. 104 Amm. Marc. 20.9.2-3. 105 Cf. Amm. Marc. 19.12.5; 20.2.5. 106 Amm. Marc. 16.10.5-11; cf. 21.16.7. 107 Euseb. Vita Const. 3.10.3. 98 99

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tion of public ritual, but in art, architecture, and even clothing.108 Imperial ira was only effective if limited, and compared to a less angry standard, that of tranquil decorum and clementia, the other side of the negotiatory discourse. Control by rage alone was less tenable and, as with Ammianus on Valentinian, condemnable. Showing ira in the Fourth Century is one aspect of imperial performance, and aimed at eliciting reactions of fear, respect, and disciplined obedience, just as the Court itself aimed at an intimidating performance via awe and splendour — Ammianus describes the ambassadors in the Consistorium as standing with weak limbs, sticken by fear.109 It was accepted rhetorical theory that an audience’s emotional responses were predictable and thus malleable,110 something clearly not lost on the Augusti. In fact, both Seneca and Cicero used ira as an example of manipulative and motivational rhetorical technique.111 It was even exploited by the military, as having the troops clash their arms together was intimidating and raised their ira.112 The culture of performance goes so far that Ammianus even claims that for Valentinian, clementia was performance, put on over his natural anger and severity, in line with the image of proper imperial deportment; even he could demonstrate negotiation between the discourses of anger and clemency.113 The value of angry performance is also reflected by Theodosius. He too quite clearly knew how to use ira to intimidate and its value to an emperor, but for him there was a complication in the form of bishops. Theodosius is portrayed as raging over the Riot of the Statues at Antioch, but is prevented from acting because he is appeased — perhaps simply stopped — by representatives of the Church and the elite, who condemn his punitive policy.114 This is 108 For a survey of this, though biased against the culture of display inherent in the period, see MacMullen (1964) 435-456. 109 Amm. Marc. 30.6.2. 110 Webb (1997) 112-113, on vivid illustrations. 111 Sen. De Ira 2.17; Cicero, Tusc. Disp. 4.25. 112 Also, oddly, their dolor: Amm. Marc. 14.2.17. 113 Amm. Marc. 30.8.2: Adsimulavit non numquam clementiae speciem. 114 Theodoret, HE 5.19. Cf. Zos. 4.41. Sozomen, HE 7.23 mentions Theodosius’ wrath ὀργή almost in passing, but initially seems to see him

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the source of Brown’s model for imperial anger, but the crucial case is Thessalonica in 390, for which it is less applicable.115 Here, a riot and lynching of officials — in particular Butheric, the Gothic commander — causes a towering rage in Theodosius, who orders retribution, a punitive massacre leaving some 7,000 dead.116 Most modern scholars, I think rightly, follow Sozomen’s implication that an initial set of spectacle executions spun out of control as the soldiers took their own vengeance. But that was not what it looked like: it seemed that Theodosius, enraged, had the people of Thessalonica slaughtered. Rufinus characterises this as demonic and the vindication of furor,117 while Theodoret censures the sinful rage which leads to injustice, apparently a greater problem than the bloodbath itself.118 Sozomen is happy enough with the wrath of the Emperor, the problem for him being the unjust, indiscriminate killing.119 Ambrose, of course, is the real key to this story, as he censures Theodosius very publicly, and uses the recently acquired strength of the post-Nicene Church to embarrass the Emperor into submitting to episcopal authority.120 It is almost like Ambrose seizes control of the discourse. What Theodosius did was savage, but it was technically well within his rights as supreme overlord to use his rage in such a fashion, whether or not the mass of executions was intentional. And rage clearly is being used, and is the result intending on punishment without any emotion. It is the citizens of Antioch who are seized by rage (χαλεπαίνοντος) over taxes. 115 Brown (1992) 105-107; cf. Matthews (1975) 234-237. 116 Sozomen, HE 7.25. See Washburn (2006) 216. 117 Rufinus, HE 11.18. 118 Theodoret, HE 5.17: “The emperor was fired with anger when he heard the news, and unable to endure the rush of his passion, did not even check its onset by the curb of reason, but allowed his rage to be the minister of his vengeance. When the imperial passion had received its authority, as though itself an independent prince, it broke the bonds and yoke of reason, unsheathed swords of injustice right and left without distinction, and slew innocent and guilty together.” (NPNF transl.). 119 Sozomen, HE 7.25. 120 Theodoret, HE 5.17. Cf. the bishop’s own comments in Ambrose, Ep. 51.7-11; 51.3-15.

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of policy — Ambrose’s letter in the wake of the massacre shows that Theodosius (mindful of Antioch and Callinicum, no doubt) took steps to ensure the bishop did not find out what was going on in the Consistory, and thus could not meddle.121 Despite the propagation of the idea that the Emperor flew into a rage and started killing people, the Court clearly came to a decision to employ imperial punishment in the form of wrath. Rage is politics, and policy is subsumed into emotion.122 Ambrose excommunicated Theodosius, and only reinstated him upon a show of repentance. According to Theodoret, this was via the enactment of the “cooling-off” law, which established that in cases of exceedingly severe punishment, sentence should be delayed for a month.123 This apparently allowed time for rage to cool, and clemency to be shown, though ira is not mentioned in the original law. It appears only in the Fifth Century interpretatio which, interestingly enough, opposes ira to pietas.124 Ambrose’s letter at the time indicates that Theodosius was prone to impetus but was able to either restrain it by pietas and show

Ambrose, Ep. 51.2. Although Brown (1992) 105-107, argues that rage at Antioch was purely calculated, shown only in order to be assuaged to show clementia, he suggests (109) that as Theodosius’ own town, and the apparent lynchpin of his Northern defences, a riot at Thessalonica would possibly have been more upsetting. Once again, genuine anger cannot be excluded as a consideration. 123 Rufinus, HE 11.18; Theodoret, HE 5.17. Brown (1992) 109-111 does not think it had anything to do with the massacre; Matthews (1975) 236, argues that it did, but was not so closely connected to the penance. 124 Cod. Theod. 9.40.13, Gratian, Valentinian, Theodosius, from 390: Si vindicari in aliquos severius contra nostra consuetudinem pro causae intuitu iusserimus, nolumus statim eos aut subire poenam aut excipere sententiam, sed per dies XXX super statu eorum sors et fortuna suspensa sit. Reos sane accipiat vinciatque custodia et excubiis sollertibus vigilanter observet. The interpretatio from the Breviarum: Si princeps cuiuscumque gravi accusatione commotus quemquam occidi praeceperit, non statim a iudicibus, quae ab irato principe iussa sunt, conpleantur, sed triginta diebus qui puniri iussus est, reservetur, donec pietas dominorum iustititae amica subveniat. 121 122

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clementia,125 or to let fly into rage, depending on how he was advised.126 Observe once again the binary dynamic — clement piety or violent rage — which the Emperor was expected to enact in the face of some wrong. In his eulogy of Theodosius, Ambrose strongly echoes Lactantius’ ideas. He speaks of how the Emperor would enact his indulgentia instead of punishment;127 preferring miseratio and pietas to potestas and superbia and that when he was in a rage, was sure to forgive and pardon through gratia, though he terrified those he was judging.128 A complete whitewash, of course, since churchmen had to keep intervening, but Ambrose recognises that rage is political, used to terrify and keep men in line, but at the same time could be used to counterpoint or produce clementia.129 A similar position is taken in the 389 panegyric to Theodosius. He, having routed Maximus’ army, does not indiscriminately slay everyone like Nazarius’ Constantine, but rather he grants pardons, treating his subjects neither superbe, nor irate;130 having won the war, Theodosius executes only the “tyrant” (and a few close associates), laying anger aside with his weapons, and using clementia instead.131 This is a clear statement of the ira-clementia discourse, which is also promoted by Claudian. He declares that to those who yield, the victorious Theodosius puts off ira and hatreds along with his arms, being instead gentle towards appeals, abounding in pietas and leniency.132 The idea of putting off ira after war once more subverts 125 Ambrose, Ep. 51.4-5; 51.16; cf. his especial pietas and clementia up until Thessalonica at 51.12. 126 Almost a trope – compare Amm. Marc. 14.1.10 (Gallus – who notably is enraged like a rapid river – and Thalassius); 14.5.4 (Constantius II and courtiers); 27.7.6-7 (Valentinian and Florentius). 127 Ambrose, De Obit. Theod. 1. 128 Ambrose, De Obit. Theod. 12-13. 129 Harris (2001) 259; Claudian, IV Cons. Hon. 214-352, esp. 241-277, for the need to govern anger and turn instead to pietas and clementia. 130 Pan. Lat. 2(12).36.3. 131 Pan. Lat. 2(12).45.4-5. 132 Claudian, IV Cons. Hon. 111-117: Nec tamen oblitus civem cedentibus atrox | partibus infremuit; non insultare iacenti | malebat: mitis precibus, pietatis abundans, | poenae parcus erat; paci non intulit iram; | post acies odiis idem qui terminus armis; cf. 241-277, supporting clementia over ira.

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traditional theory, as Seneca considered it difficult to do,133 though it is broadly Aristotelean.134 There is a tension between the older imperial ethic and the more recent development in which rage is acceptable. Imperial ira is a positive in war, but in peace, yields to pietas and clemency, still the superior virtues. That is not to say that the idea of righteous rage disappeared. Ambrose, again echoing Lactantius, admits a positive nature for rage, as long as it is disassociated from sin.135 Claudian also perceives that ira can be just. He portrays Theodosius as feeling ira merita against the inroads of Gildo and Alaric, and, now divus, as enjoying the discomfiture of both as brought about by his avenger Honorius, more pious even than the great avengers Orestes and Augustus.136 Political rage is systemic to a degree, the image of the rage being important in terms of power-display and control,137 though in some cases a genuinely irascible temper should not be discounted. There is an element of calculation to it, and rage is clearly being intentionally inserted into the political world. This relates closely to Christopher Kelly’s quite appealing idea that the Emperor would act arbitrarily and at times destructively, subverting the allpervasive, increasingly powerful administration and bureaucracy to assert central, personal, control.138 Rage is how this is done. The greater validity of emotions in late antiquity,139 coupled with the 133 Sen. De Ira 2.35.1; cf. Sherman (2005) 65-66 on the psychological reality of this for more modern soldiers. 134 Aristotle, Nicom. Eth. 4.5.1126b27-1126b10. 135 “Be ye angry, and sin not” in Ephesians 4.26; Ambrose, De Obit. Theod. 14. 136 Claudian, VI Cons. Hon. 105-121, esp. 111-112: quorum nunc meritam repetens non inmemor iram | suppliciis fruitu natoque ultore triumphat. Cf. his treatment of Arbogast’s suicide in III Cons. Hon. 104-105, as the work of ultrices irae and iusta manus. 137 Cf. Harris (2001) 235, on how far this is also true of Alexander the Great. 138 Kelly (2004) 191-192, 216-225. Cf. his comments in the CAH 13, 145-159. 139 Harris (2001) 257, notes the disappearance from coins of the emotionless virtue of tranquillitas after Antoninus Pius.

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idea of just rage, allows ira to be conceptualised as positive. This allows the Emperor to be systemic chaos in a legitimate and not tyrannical way. Despite the elaborate hierarchies and lines of power and influence running across the Empire, the Emperor rules, and a burst of rage, almost unstoppable and as frightening as divine vengeance to those in its way, is a demonstration of this. If the Emperor flies into a rage, then all bets are off, he can enact that rage by striking with furious violence wherever he likes. Uncivilised, frightening rage allows the Emperor to act as chaos, somewhat ironically, to preserve the imperial order. The use of ira on its own as control invites comparison with the exemplum of the bad emperor, Caligula, usually mentioned in the same breath as Nero, Domitian, and Commodus as examples of what not to do.140 His favoured technology of control was fear, rather than love.141 This is what rage brings, control through intimidation; ira is connected to both retribution and savagery, and appears to be arbitrary. Coming from the all-powerful imperial centre, it is fearsome indeed. This is what Lactantius suggests, and the Augusti employ, regardless of the old advice of philosophers. Even Ambrose, preferring gratia to metu, allows a place for ira. So what we have is a construction of virtuous rage opposed to another set of virtues, the more classical ones of restraint and clemency. Already in 310, in fact, Constantine’s panegyrist allows iusta severitas — for example, fairly arbitrarily executing Frankish kings — as being on par with clemency in foreign relations. Clementia is useful and prudent, he says, but it is more courageous to trample the furious barbarians than to pardon them. Indeed, he declares, apparently without irony, that the Emperor’s enemies can hate him as much as they like, so long as they fear.142 Tyrannical or barbaric fury has become just rage. What has been offered here are the more outstanding examples, not a comprehensive examination. However, these cases are E.g., Amm. Marc. 21.16.8. Cass. Dio, 59.16.5-7: οὐδεις  γὰρ  ἀνθρώπων  ἑκὼν  ἄ  ρχεται,  ἀλλʹ  ἐφʹ  ὅσον  μὲν  φοβεῖται,  θεραπεύει  τὸν  ἰσχυρότερον; Suetonius, Life of Gaius 30: oderint dum metuant. 142 Pan. Lat. 6(7).10.4: quantumlibet oderint hostes, dum perhorrescant. 140 141

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illustrative. For emperors in the Fourth Century rage is not, as is very often supposed, an unmitigated evil, but rather an acceptable if problematic power discourse. There exists a positive version of rage which still contradicts paideia and the other imperial virtues, but does so in a larger validating discourse of proper contexts, in which it is even praiseworthy, and outside of which the Emperor can be entirely within the bounds of the proper virtues, including pietas and clementia. Ira in warfare in particular is acceptable for the late emperors who, perhaps because they are partly divine, exist in a heroic context, allowing parallel discourses of the heroic irate warrior and the clement prince. This all has a flow-on effect. In the post-classical world rage was far less of a negative trait: early mediaeval kings, when enraged, are seen neutrally at worst, and more often positively.143

143

Harris (2001) 262; Althoff (1998) 59-64.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Althoff, G. (1998) “Ira Regis: Prolegomena to a History of Royal Anger,” in B. Rosenwein (ed.), Anger’s Past: The Social Uses of an Emotion in the Middle Ages (Ithaca NY), 59-74. Barnes, T. D. (1998) Ammianus Marcellinus and the Representation of Historical Reality (Ithaca NY). Bianchi Bandinelli, R. (1971) Rome: The Late Empire, Roman Art AD 200-400 (London). Blockley, R. C. (1972) “The Panegyric of Claudius Mamertinus on the Emperor Julian,” American Journal of Philology 93.3, 437-450. _____. (1975) Ammianus Marcellinus: A Study of His Historiography and Political Thought. Collection Latomus 141 (Bruxelles). Braund, S. & Gilbert, G. (2003) “An ABC of Epic Ira: Anger, Beasts, and Cannibalism,” in S. Braund & G. W. Most (eds), Ancient Anger: Perspectives from Homer to Galen (Yale), 250-285. Brown, P. (1992) Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison WI). Burns T. S. (2003) Rome and the Barbarians, 100 BC–AD 400 (Baltimore MD). den Boeft, J., Drijvers, J. W, den Hengst, D. & Teitler, H. C. (2002) Philological and Historical Commentary on Ammianus Marcellinus XXIV (Leiden). Fears, J. R. (1977) Princeps A Diis Electus: The Divine Election of the Emperor as a Political Concept at Rome (Rome). Galinsky, K. (1988) “The Anger of Aeneas,” American Journal of Philology 109.3, 321-348. Gleason, M. W. (1986) “Festive Satire: Julian’s Misopogon and the New Year at Antioch,” Journal of Roman Studies 76, 106-119. Harris, W. V. (2001) Restraining Rage: The Ideology of Anger Control in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge MA). Hedlund, R. (2008) “... Achieved nothing worthy of memory”, Coinage and Authority in the Roman Empire c. AD 260-295. Studia Numismatica Upsalensia 5 (Uppsala). Humphries, M. (1999) “Nec Metu nec Adulandi Foeditate Constricta: The Image of Valentinian I from Symmachus to Ammianus,” in J. W. Drijvers & D. Hunt (eds), The Late Roman World and its Historian: Interpreting Ammianus Marcellinus (London), 117-126. Kantorowicz, E. H. (1961) “Gods in Uniform,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 105.4, 368-393.

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Kelly, C. (2004) Ruling the Later Roman Empire (Cambridge MA.). MacMullen, R. (1964) “Some Pictures in Ammianus Marcellinus,” Art Bulletin 46.4, 435-456. Matthews, J. (1975) Western Aristocracies and Imperial Court AD 364425 (Oxford). Mattingly, H. (1952) “Jovius and Herculius,” Harvard Theological Review 42.2, 131-134. Nees, L. (2002) Early Medieval Art (Oxford). Newbold, R. F. (2001) “Pardon and Revenge in Tacitus and Ammianus,” Electronic Antiquity, 6.1, 1-22. Nixon, C. E. V. & Rodgers, B. S. (1994) In Praise of Later Roman Emperors (Berkeley CA). Nock, A. D. (1930) “A Diis Electa: A Chapter in the Religious History of the Third Century,” Harvard Theological Review 23.4, 251-274. Rodgers, B. S. (1989) “The Metamorphosis of Constantine,” Classical Quarterly 39.1, 233-246. Seager, R. (1986) Ammianus Marcellinus: Seven Studies in his Language and Thought (Columbia MO). Sherman, N. (2005) Stoic Warriors: The Ancient Philosophy behind the Military Mind (New York). Sidwell, B. (2008) The Portrayal and Role of Anger in the Res Gestae of Ammianus Marcellinus. Unpublished PhD thesis (University of Adelaide). Smith, R. (1999) “Telling Tales: Ammianus’ Narrative of the Persian Expedition of Julian,” in J. W. Drijvers & D. Hunt (eds), The Late Roman World and its Historian: Interpreting Ammianus Marcellinus (London), 89-104. Washburn, D. (2006) “The Thessalonian Affair in the FifthCentury Histories,” in H. A. Drake (ed.), Violence in Late Antiquity: Perceptions and Practices (Aldershot UK), 215-224. Webb, R. (1997) “Imagination and the Arousal of the Emotions in Graeco-Roman Rhetoric,” in S. M. Braund & C. Gill (eds), The Passions in Roman Thought and Literature (Cambridge), 112127. Wiedemann, T. E. J. (1986) “Between Men and Beasts: Barbarians in Ammianus Marcellinus,” in I. S. Moxon, J. D. Smart & A. J. Woodman (eds), Past Perspectives: Studies in Greek and Roman Historical Writing (Cambridge), 189-202.

5. BARBARA SIDWELL, “INSULT AND OUTRAGE AND THE ROMAN MILITARY: AMMIANUS MARCELLINUS RES GESTAE 20.8.8; 25.3.10; 28.6.23” BARBARA SIDWELL Macquarie University [email protected] ABSTRACT Insult and outrage are two of the most significant motivators behind ira militum found in the Res Gestae of Ammianus Marcellinus. This work, which is in general favourable towards the Roman soldiers, is necessarily at times critical of their behaviour, although this is rare. The three episodes, 20.8.8, 25.3.10 and 28.6.23, are significant within the context of Ammianus’ portrayals of the military, and reveal that Ammianus was aware of the factors that caused an angry reaction in the military, their notions of justice and to what degree Ammianus supported these, as well as the significant role that the military had in determining events. Three episodes that demonstrate categorically Ammianus’ perception of insult and outrage within the Roman military are discussed in the following pages. These incidents, even though they comprise only a small part of Ammianus’ immense work, provide excellent examples of the historian’s interpretation of the behaviour of the soldiers when ira militum was aroused, as well as interesting information about the problems and concerns of the Roman legions in Gaul, Africa and Persia. The importance placed on these events by the historian indicate that they were significant enough for him to include in his history; indeed they form part of a thematic whole in which the military play an important role in shaping the events and 87

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fortunes of the middle to late fourth century Roman Empire. Consideration of these episodes show that their similar responses united the Roman forces and each episode can be evaluated in a sense that reflects positively on the Roman military. This is not to say, however, that these episodes are identical; they are all unique and show motivators for anger that are alike, yet are the product of responses to specific and individual circumstances. Ammianus Marcellinus, unlike his literary predecessors Tacitus1 and Livy, travelled a great deal in his service to the Roman army, and served for at least fifteen years.2 Probably the most exciting moments of Ammianus Marcellinus’ history come when he places himself in his narrative, and relates his own experiences as protector domesticus, a regiment of high social standing.3 It is through being a staff officer that books 14-19 of the Res Gestae become quasi-memoirs.4 His account of the Persian war of 363 (books 23– 25) is that of a direct participant and observer.5 Having the opportunity to observe at close quarters and beginning in 353 even to be personally involved in the retinue of great men meant that Ammianus could incorporate important first-hand reports into his History. These were men such as Ursicinus, Master of the Cavalry, under whom Ammianus served in the town of Nisibis in Mesopotamia and then Gaul; and then continued his service under the emperor Julian.6 Ammianus took part in Julian’s first campaign on the 1 We do not know for certain how much military experience Tacitus had, and perhaps he had some, though, perhaps not as much as Ammianus. 2 Thompson (1942); Paschoud (1989) 40. According to the Codex Theodosianus, in a decree of 325 (7.20.4), the length of service was on average a period of twenty-four years. Perhaps this suited Ammianus and thus he chose the minimum length of service. 3 For Ammianus’ approach to historical narrative through his experience as a protector domesticus, see Trombley (1999). 4 Sabbah (2003) 50. 5 Cf. Matthews (1986). 6 Ammianus was joined to the staff of Ursicinus (magister equitum per Orientem from 349 to 354, and magister equitum per Gallias from 355 to 356) by the emperor Constantius. His first entrance into the text is at 14.9.1, and he served under the general in the East and in Gaul (15.5.22). Cf.

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German frontier in 356, and later was witness to his conduct in Antioch; finally he followed the emperor into the very heart of Persia.7 Frequently in his descriptions of military activity, whether as a direct observer, or retelling others’ experiences, Ammianus appears drawn to the common soldiery and cannot help but present a reasonably fair picture of them, often excluding them from making bad decisions, although they often willingly followed them. For, “as a retired officer, he may have respected their esprit de corps”.8 This attitude was very much unlike that of authors such as Livy, Dionysus of Halicarnassus or Diodorus Siculus, for these authors related “the prejudiced accounts of patrician annalists”.9 It can be claimed that these authors could not escape the bias of their own upbringing against the commonality of the soldiers, whose supposed lack of morality easily led them to insubordination and mutinous behaviour.10 This is an attitude that Ammianus largely did not share. The three episodes that I will be discussing are significant because they are presented by Ammianus as justifiable in their context. The soldiers do not become angry for unnecessary reasons; they exhibit anger because of perceived injustices. When this occurs their anger is a direct manifestation of their outrage and indignation, often caused by an insult. Anger can be defined in both ancient and modern terms and contexts.11 Outrage is a secondary Matthews (1983) 31. Thompson (1966) 145 describes Ursicinus as a “solid though not a brilliant officer”. He points out that only one other historian bothered to mention him: Zonaras 13.9. For Ammianus’ experiences serving under Ursicinus and Julian, see respectively Trombley (1999) and Smith (1999) 89-104. 7 Thompson (1966) 144; Sabbah (2003) 52. 8 Tomlin (1972) 255. 9 Messer (1920) 163. A comparison could be drawn between Ammianus and Velleius Paterculus, for Velleius was also a soldier and writer, however his narrative of the bellum Batonianum, where he participated, is a personal and ideological narrative. For Velleius as a writer, see for example, Sumner (1970). 10 The behaviour and discipline of soldiers in the Roman army has been the focus of much research, see for example Phang (2008). 11 See e.g. Fortenbaugh (1975).

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response to anger when it is cognitively judged to be caused by an injustice. Much research in recent years has been driven by the theory that emotions are cognitive, that is, they “are part of a process of perception and appraisal, not forces striving for release”.12 No longer do behaviourists (ethologists) only see emotions as irrational manifestations, but rather as the results of cognitive judgements, “appraisals”, by the individual, “about whether something is likely to be good or harmful, pleasurable or painful”.13 Emotions trigger a response in cognition, which often persists beyond the initial stimulus.14 On an interpersonal level, emotions allow individuals to interact with their social environment by “producing specific action tendencies”, which assist us through “forming attachments, resolving injustices, negotiating hierarchies, and adhering to social norms”. On this level, emotions assist us by focusing our cognitive processes, memory and judgement upon a perceived threat, prospect or wound.15 In this respect, emotions such as anger simplify cognitive processing, by reducing “the number of cues used in making judgements”.16 Anger is directly related to an individual’s cognitive appraisal when one desires to attribute blame, as well as determining the response: (1) a desire to blame individuals,17 (2) tendencies to overlook mitigating details before attributing blame, (3) tendencies to perceive ambiguous behaviour as hostile,18 (4) tendencies to discount the role of uncontrollable factors when attributing causality and (5) punitiveness in response to witnessing mistakes made by others.19

Cognitive appraisals of injustice can lead to anger. If the issue is not resolved, the anger can spill over in an effort to resolve the emotion in an alternative form. If the anger is not felt to be fully Rosenwein (2002) 836. Rosenwein (2002) 836. 14 Lerner, et al. (2003) 146. 15 Goldberg, et al. (1999) 782. 16 Lerner (1998) 563. 17 I.e. projection. 18 I.e. paranoia. 19 Goldberg, et al. (1999) 782. 12 13

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resolved, it can be directed towards others in the future who may be perceived as able to initiate a similar angry response and escape from justice. In this respect there is the concept that individuals often feel the need to re-establish a sense of justice. Individuals who are especially conscious of the need to establish social order often view future violations of the norm with fewer appraisals as to the cause and focus, and more on the need to actively punish. Their aim becomes one of halting “further erosion of the social order”.20 As a result, “anger can activate blame cognition as much as blame cognitions can activate anger”.21 The emotion of anger has always been a field of controversy, but also a field for new insights for those who delve into its depths. We fear angry outbursts and their consequences today just as we feared them thousands of years ago. Traditionally, historians have mentioned emotions as tools for conveying experiences that may have occurred, and to explain the reasoning or causes behind certain events. Authors often imagined and reproduced emotional scenes complete with the physiological signs that accompanied them. This was a rhetorical device used to lend colour as well as sway the minds of the readership, by either inciting the reader to share in the emotional event or be repulsed by unsavoury consequences. Ammianus was no stranger to these devices, and by studying his anger portrayals, we can see how and to what extent he thought along these lines, especially when he supported justifiable anger against an antagonist.

MILITARY VALUES AND AMMIANUS We can safely assume that Ammianus was thoroughly on the side of the common soldiers, for they were doing their duty and obeying orders, and as such were benefiting the Roman Empire. Nevertheless, the Roman military in the history of Ammianus is presented as easily prone to rage. This made the army a very real threat, and this is something that Ammianus does not hesitate to present to his audience. This feature makes the legions important

20 21

Goldberg, et al. (1999) 783, quote from 790. Lerner (1998) 563.

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tools for the various leaders in the Res Gestae. The historian relates the significant impact of the soldiers upon the fortunes of different individuals, right from the beginning of Book 14 and the account of Gallus and his popularity with the troops, up until the final book and the defeat of Valens at Adrianople.22 Ammianus does not go into any moral arguments regarding this support. However, being a soldier himself perhaps meant that he was in a way biased towards his fellow men – no matter his objections towards the common soldiers in general.23 The comments of Ammianus prove particularly useful in defining precisely the praise given to the soldiers, as he saw himself as one of them – although as an officer. However, blame does come through just as strongly, for example when criticising the weakness of the military in the fourth century, he states: “they are clearly unaware that their forefathers (especially the warlike Trajan) through whom the greatness of Rome was so far flung, gained renown not by riches but by fierce wars...” (14.6.10). In this way: This ethical reason is joined by the shared awareness of fatal danger threatening Rome if its best defenders – the senators and milites – came to abandon and betray the essence of Romanitas, the superiority of moral values which have made

Gallus was extremely popular with the army, especially with the rank and file, and this is shown in the impulsiveness of Gallus’ troops who were heedless of the suggestions of Montius and killed both him and Domitianus, Thompson (1943) 311. For Gallus cf. Hunt (1998a) 22-28. The Res Gestae ends with the death of Valens at the Battle of Adrianople, who, rather than waiting for support from Gratian, sought to achieve glory by engaging the Goths (as well as with the added impetus of anger / jealousy of the achievements of others), but died as a result. One report was that Valens was burned alive as he hid in a farmhouse. Of this Eusebius (Hist. Eccl. 9.10.365) writes: “By the just judgement of God Himself, Valens was burned alive by the very men who, through his action, will burn hereafter for their heresy”. Cf. Zos. 4.20-24. Most of his baggage train was also captured, Cameron (1993) 116. On Valens’ motives for engaging the Goths, see Burns (1994) 29. 23 On Ammianus’ military experience and personal reflections, cf. Matthews (1989) 287 ff.; Crump (1975) 28f. 22

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Rome’s power, was now its last bulwark against the barbarians.24

The soldiers that joined the Roman army were drawn from all parts of the empire, and even though they were often from the very “barbarian” groups against whom they were in opposition, the fact that they were integrated into the Roman military meant that they took on board the Roman values and ideological and identitydiscourse that the army encompassed and emphasised.25 These soldiers, no matter their ethnic background, were accorded an overall level of praise from the historian. Therefore Ammianus draws a distinct contrast between the Roman military who were meant to behave in a certain way, and those who opposed and repelled them. In this respect, those groups that Ammianus saw as living outside the boundaries of civilisation were associated with the untrustworthiness of the wilderness. The Alamanni were described as barbara feritas,26 a very typical description of the fierce Germanic warriors throughout the Res Gestae. Feritas is a term that takes the barbarians into the realm of the savage; they were not bound by the strong moral code that was emphasised by the Romans – and the language of the historian when he describes these groups reflects the savagery and uncultured nature of the barbarians. This distancing from the “Other” also comes through in Ammianus’ descriptions of the Persians, whom he never once refers to as “barbarian”. For the Romans, the Persians presented the greatest threat and were their greatest adversary. Both empires were world dominators, but due to threats from other sectors, these two super-powers up until Ammianus’ time never defeated the other, although advances were at times made by one another.27 The (EastSabbah (2003) 79. As Southern & Dixon (1996) 50 point out, “The Germans who attained positions of authority in the army and in civilian office were more Roman than the Romans, attuned to Roman civilisation and ways of life.” Cf. Potter (2004) 443, “To be in the army, and in the service of the emperor, was to be “Roman,” even if one’s roots were beyond the Rhine or Danube.” 26 16.12.2; 16.12.16; 16.12.23; 16.12.31. Cf. Blockley (1977) 222. 27 E.g. Trajan’s conquests in Persia and its surrounds in 113. 24 25

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ern) Romans defeated the Persians but only in the 7th century (628, Heraclius) and were shortly after defeated themselves by the Arabs.28 Thus up until Ammianus’ time, neither power was able to totally dominate the other. Their vast borders meant that they could never withdraw completely from each other and their cultural differences meant that total integration was extremely difficult and unlikely.29 This may in part reveal why Ammianus’ portrayal of Julian as taking on such a super power in his Persian campaign and the impossibility of the mission, coupled with the huge resources it would entail, was met with few supportive comments from the historian.30 Roman soldiers were viewed by the historian as far superior to the unsophisticated and uncultured “northern barbarians”; they were not always the best behaved, but for the most part they were following the traditional roles of military virtus (including ferocia), and were thus to be praised. And, even though Libanius instructed his reader that goodwill towards barbarians was recommended on occasion,31 this theme is rarely apparent in Ammianus’ portrayal of these non-Mediterranean groups, particularly when they are in direct opposition to Roman military forces or have caused a major turnaround in imperial rule.32 The majority of the barbarians in the Res Gestae are savage, uncultured and uncivilised. Therefore: Kaegi (2003) 156-191, cf. Cameron (2000) 84. Bullough even goes so far to say that the pressures from “uncivilised hordes” helped stabilise “the peace which was established in 363 AD (sic) lasted for almost a century and a half, until 502 AD (sic)”, Bullough (1963) 55, 57. 30 Indeed the entire enterprise was doomed to failure and the Persian emperor Sapor at all stages shone through. 31 Lib. Or. 19.16. 32 E.g. after the defeat at the Battle of Adrianople, Ammianus (31.16.8) writes of Julius the comes et magister militum that: “Learning of the disasters in Thrace, he sent secret orders to those in charge of the Goths who had been transferred earlier to Asia, and dispersed in various cities and fortresses. These commanders were all Romans, an unusual thing at the present time. The Goths were to be collected quite unsuspecting outside the walls in the expectation of receiving the pay that they had been promised, and at a given signal all put to death on one and the same day. 28 29

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Much of the way that barbarians were commonly perceived during Late Antiquity revolved around literary and artistic images of violence: a barbarian propensity for violence, violent acts barbarians performed, and, paradoxically, the violence necessary to keep them from being violent.33

In these portrayals, Ammianus is in no way different than any historian of his day, for this was a common and effective means of portraying barbarians. For Ammianus, much of his portrayals of the soldiery come across with a sense of violence and bloodshed, and these brooding insights may reflect the historian’s own dark mood, and the “hopelessly defensive situation” of the time.34 Ammianus was very aware of the importance for Rome to retain power and influence over all outsiders: Rome’s mission is to be the bastion of civilisation, but now, for all the noble efforts of a few, the values for which she stands are not only under constant attack by the forces of barbarism without, but also subject to unceasing erosion by the growth of barbarism within, even in those whose highest duty it is to be the keenest defenders of the Roman way of life.35

Anger in individuals occurs for a variety of reasons that are often personal, but for anger to be exhibited collectively, the cause must be something that is so significant that it is shared by all. Ammianus does not denigrate the Roman soldiers for exhibiting anger, for, “in the case of anger, which in a military context, when the reactions of individuals merge or are submerged in a collective wave of emotion, is often regarded as acceptable, if not actually praised”.36 As a former soldier, Ammianus understood and often supported the collective reactions of the Romans, as they came as a

This wise plan was carried out without fuss or delay, and the provinces of the East saved from serious danger.” 33 Mathisen (2006) 27. 34 Auerbach (1957) 60. 35 Seager (1986) 68. 36 Seager (1986) 133.

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unified response to an active threat, the behaviour of a leader, or injustice felt at a lack of pay or supplies, or other unjust conditions. What is significant then in these anger portrayals is that in every instance in which Ammianus discusses the anger of the military, it is always in a collective sense, for no individuals are singled out. Collective anger in turn suggests unification – whereas the collectivism of the barbarians or the Persians is not always so enduring, and their discipline is rarely, if ever, emphasised. Another significant factor is the Roman armies’ expression of ira militum. Ira militum can be associated with Roman Republican elite value terms, with perhaps the most important Roman value being virtus. Virtus was proved by a man’s actions, usually on the battlefield. This extends back to Greek philosophic ideals of thumos: …thumos, translated as “spiritedness,” is a universal psychic disposition, typically expressed as anger against violations of one’s honour or as a desire for recognition. These interpreters associate it with the desire to protect one’s family and property, with injustice, and manliness, and identify it as the fundamental political impulse.37

Thumos was also the idea of valour amongst soldiers, “according to which courageous citizens display their patriotism by the spirit of anger (thumos) with which they pursue not peace or justice but honor (time) and fame (kleos)”.38 This is not just honour and fame for the individual, but honour and fame for their particular leader, and in a Roman sense, for the empire and the emperor for whom they essentially were fighting. The moralistic historian stood thoroughly behind those whom he wished to promote as exceedingly positive and those whom he regarded as the worst types. Though it is rare, his comments do reveal the occasional praise or blame which are direct and not hidden behind his rhetoricising language.39 There are actions and events that the historian uses often quite effectively to promote Koziak (1999) 1069. Cf. Fisher (2002) 190. Salkever (1986) 235. 39 On Ammianus’ use of rhetoric, including exempla and digressions, see Laistner (1947) 147. 37 38

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particular behaviour, and the soldiers fit into this pattern well. Indeed the Roman military conforms better even than his most praised figure, the emperor Julian.

JULIAN’S PROCLAMATION IN PARIS Their resentment at failing to receive either promotion or annual pay was increased by the unexpected order that men who are accustomed to a cold climate should be transferred to the furthest parts of the East, separated from their wives and children, and marched off in a state of want and destitution. In consequence they assembled at night in a mood of unusual anger and surrounded the palace, shouting loudly and repeatedly “Julian Augustus”.40 (20.8.8)

The passage given here is taken from one of the letters that Julian Caesar wrote to the emperor Constantius II to justify what happened in Paris when the soldiers forcibly proclaimed him Augustus in February 360. Ammianus presents the letter of Julian that he possibly had access to or knew of from personal contact with Julian’s secretaries.41 From this letter it is shown that the anger of the soldiers was a result of their perception of an outrage. This Cuius iracundiae nec dignitatum augmenta nec annuum merentis stipendium id quoque inopinum accessit, quod ad partes orbis eoi postremas venire homines iussi assueti glacialibus terris separandique liberis et coniugibus egentes trahebantur et nudi. Unde solito saevius efferati nocte in unum collecti palatium obsidere Augustum Iulianum vocibus magnis appellantes et crebris. 41 Julian wrote two letters to Constantius that concerned his accession. One was cautious and concerned Julian’s conditions for sharing power, but the other more critical. Ammianus presents this letter of Julian that he possibly had access to or knew of from personal contact with Julian’s secretaries, although he does present adlocutiones, as does Tacitus. Cf. Blockley (1973) 73; Williams (1997) 62. Ammianus was in a more fortunate position, in that he was a contemporary of the emperors whom he wrote about and perhaps had more first-hand knowledge of their actions, written accounts and actual speeches. Although we must bear in mind that Julian was writing this, as well as other letters, for a direct purpose and thus is necessarily biased towards his case. 40

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“outrage” resulted from not receiving their pay, as well as Constantius’ orders that Julian should send to the East four auxilia palatina, the Heruli and the Batavi, the Celtae and the Petulantes, 300 men from each of his other regiments, and the pick of his two scholae, the Scutarii and Gentiles.42 These troop movements can be seen as a direct result of Constantius’ response to renewed Persian aggression in the East.43 However, these orders can also be seen as a response by Constantius to his suspicions that Julian was becoming too popular in the West, and his wish to suppress a possible uprising. Nevertheless, this decree would naturally cause angst amongst any group whose perceptions of the outside world were very limited and/or cherished their family life. Nevertheless, as Jones further points out, these field armies were fully mobile, and were theoretically able to travel from one corner of the empire to the next.44 However, as is the case here, these armies could form local attachments. Also, there were German units who had been guaranteed that they would not serve beyond the Alps upon their enlistment, and as Burns states, these were volunteers, not defeated opponents.45 Julian made a show of following Constantius’ orders, even though there were anonymous letters being circulated that added to the already disaffected troops’ deepening dark mood.46 It is recorded that the regiments to be transferred were gathered at the outskirts of Paris to hear a speech from Julian urging them on their way, and their senior officers shared his dinner-table.47 However, the outcome was not obedience to his wishes, but instead an open rebellion broke out amongst the troops. The letter of Julian explains that as a result of the anger of the soldiers, Julian retreated in fear, and admitted that he was only able to console the troops and calm their outrage through his persuasive words. However, they could only be fully assuaged when he yielded to their demand to 20.4.2-3; Jones (1964) 120. Hunt (1998b) 56. 44 Jones (1964) 125. 45 Burns (2003) 322. 46 20.4.10; cf. Ep. Ad Ath. 283b; Zos. 111.9.1. 47 20.4.13. 42 43

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make him emperor (in contrast to his refusal after Strasbourg). Julian alleges that he accepted this finally in order to quieten their armed violence (vim armatam).48 The indications introduced by Ammianus here are in support of the notion that Julian became emperor through the outrage and forced responses of his soldiers. Nevertheless, the account by Ammianus does make Julian’s accession appear staged. The dinner with the officers certainly makes this appear to be the case.49 Julian wrote a number of letters which defended his accession and subsequent civil war. Whilst stationed in Naissus (Niš) he wrote letters to various cities in Greece (of which only that to the Athenians survives in its entirety), and to the senators of Rome.50 The end result, however, was that the letter, reproduced in part above, failed to appease Constantius, even though it offered a number of concessions. As a consequence, Julian marched east towards Constantinople in 361, but the Augustus died in Cilicia on 3 November, 361, before an engagement could occur.51 Constantius’ dying words were allegedly that he had named his cousin as his successor; this was convenient for Julian and more importantly Julian’s legitimacy rescued the Roman Empire from the real threat of civil war.52 One more instance in this sequence of events, and which demonstrates a secondary response to anger, occurred shortly after Julian’s forced usurpation, when the new emperor retired into seclusion in his palace. This departure from the public eye prompted a decurion of the palace into a panic, in which he spread the rumour that their new emperor had been murdered.53 In response, the soldiers of the Gallic legions, in anxiety (sollicitudine), rushed to the palace brandishing their weapons. At once they created a fear20.8.10. Cf. Bringmann (2004). 50 21.10.7. 51 Jones (1964) 120. 52 Ammianus ascribes the designation of Julian as Constantius’ successor both to rumour (21.15.2, 5) and to the official announcement by the comites (22.2.1); it is easy to assume that the report came from Julian’s camp, Hunt (1998b) 60. 53 Cf. Williams (1997) 64. 48 49

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ful uproar that so terrified the troops stationed inside that they fled the enraged soldiers. Ammianus, through reports and his own understanding and interpretation of the events, was able to recount the supposed effects that differing emotions had on prompting the soldiers into quick action: Upon hearing this the soldiers, who were equally excited by all news, known to be true or not, some brandishing darts, others with naked swords and uttering threats, rushing forth from different sides and in disorder (as is usual in a sudden commotion) quickly filled the palace. The fearful uproar alarmed the guards, the tribunes, and the count in command of the household troops, Excubitor by name, and in fear of treachery from the fickle soldiers they scattered in dread of sudden death and vanished from sight.54 (20.4.21)

What we learn from these events is that when the soldiers finally discovered that their emperor was alive and well, they ceased to rage, and once confident that their leader would remain as emperor, they were able to direct their anger towards the real enemy – the untamed tribes of Germany.55 The soldiers therefore reacted of one accord to the perception that the emperor, whom they had just created, had somehow been taken away from them, and this outrage that they felt had led them to exhibit an aggressive response towards the property and attendants of Julian.

THE DEATH OF JULIAN Another incident that reveals the outrage of the military also involved the emperor Julian, but as the previous episode concerned his accession, this one reveals the state of the soldiers upon his demise. In 363 Julian was in the thick of his Persian expedition, his 54 Hocque conperto milites, quos ignota pari sollicitudine movebant et nota, pars crispantes missilia, alii minitantes nudatis gladiis, diverso vagoque, ut in repentino solet, excursu occupavere volucriter regiam, strepituque inmani excubitores perculsi et tribuni et domesticorum comes Excubitor nomine veritique versabilis perfidiam militis, evanuere metu mortis subitae dispalati. 55 20.10.1ff.

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intention being to defeat this powerful enemy once and for all, following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great. Julian’s impulsiveness, however, was a factor in his death on 26 June, as his army drew near to Samarra (some fifty miles to the north of present-day Baghdad).56 Ammianus was a participant in this campaign and so we can be reasonably assured as to the accuracy of his accounts here. The historian reported that during the Battle of Samarra, while pursuing the retreating enemy with few men, Julian acted courageously yet imprudently by rushing into battle without wearing armour. He received a wound from a spear that reportedly pierced his lower torso. The wound was not immediately deadly, however, after a few hours the emperor died, leading his men in their anger and grief to attack the Persians more vehemently. After the emperor had been taken back to camp his troops in a frenzy of rage and grief flew upon the enemy with incredible eagerness to wreak their revenge, clashing their spears against their shields and resolved to die if that were their lot. Their eyes were blinded by dust, which rose high in the air, and their energy was impaired by the growing heat, yet they rushed recklessly on the enemy’s swords, released, as it were, from discipline by the loss of their leader.57 (25.3.10)

As this passage demonstrates, Ammianus incorporated a good deal of sound and imagery in order to transmit the primary responses to the emotion of anger. In his descriptions, Ammianus does not judge the behaviour of the soldiers as immoderate, but as suited to the occasion. The soldiers behave as they are encouraged to behave and, as they are fighting for Roman military commanders, then for the most part, it is for the right reasons – i.e. the security of the Roman Empire and the preservation of its mores. Hunt (1998b) 76. On the location, see Matthews (1989) 181. Reducto ad tentoria principe incredibile dictu est, quo quantoque ardore miles ad vindictam ira et dolore ferventior involabat, hastis ad scuta concrepans etiam mori, si tulisset fors, obstinatus. Et quamvis offundebatur oculis altitudo pulveris et aestus calescens officeret alacritati membrorum, tamen velut exauctoratus amisso ductore sine parsimonia ruebat in ferrum. 56 57

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When the soldiers learned what had happened to their beloved leader, they burned with wrath and grief. To demonstrate their anger and to rally themselves for battle, the soldiers clashed their spears against their shields. The conditioning for the soldiers to unite through their anger was by exhibiting such overt behaviour as clashing spears against shields, so that this collective involvement made the army a powerfully unified force. The sound created, along with the visually noticeable fury of the soldiers, was meant to strike terror into the enemy. Therefore, creating a loud sound could also mean the provision of support of a particular leader, as well as being a means to intimidate their opponents. This primary response could of course also be usefully employed in order to support a leader and to intimidate an enemy at one and the same time. In other words, confected anger. As a response to their anger then, the soldiers then rushed upon the enemy with a renewed energy. But when the emperor had been taken to his tent, the soldiers, burning with wrath and grief, with incredible vigour rushed to avenge him, clashing their spears against their shields, resolved even to die if it should be the will of fate. And although the high clouds of dust blinded the eyes, and the burning heat weakened the activity of their limbs, yet as though discharged by the loss of their leader, without sparing themselves, they rushed upon the swords of the enemy.58 (25.3.10)

What this episode demonstrates is outrage felt by the soldiers at the death of their leader. As with the first incident discussed earlier, outrage is caused by a notion of injustice. The soldiers were furious and to rectify this feeling of injustice and outrage, they took their vengeance out upon the Persians. Many were lost on both sides, including important satraps and generals, but in the end the Per58 Reducto ad tentoria principe incredibile dictu est, quo quantoque ardore miles ad vindictam ira et dolore ferventior involabat, hastis ad scuta concrepans etiam mori, si tulisset fors, obstinatus. Et quamvis offundebatur oculis altitudo pulveris et aestus calescens officeret alacritati membrorum, tamen velut exauctoratus amisso ductore sine parsimonia ruebat in ferrum.

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sians won out. A new emperor was proclaimed by the legions and he shamefully submitted to the Persian king’s demands in order to secure the army’s withdrawal back to the Roman lines.59

RESPONSE TO THE TRIPOLI AFFAIR Ammianus is explicit about the potential threat to groups and individuals that the soldiers presented. This is especially obvious when he describes the various rebellious actions prompted by anger and the notions of outrage within the soldiery. There are a number of instances that are recorded by the historian that either resulted in the death, or potential death, of various individuals at the hands of the troops. They include the soldiers’ angered reaction towards the envoy Flaccianus, who was seen to have betrayed them, and so anger covered their feelings of helplessness: Before the death of the envoys, however, Flaccianus was brought before the vice-prefect and the court. He defended himself with energy, but was almost finished off by the furious troops, who rushed at him shouting abuse, and claiming that the reason why it had been impossible to protect the Tripolitans was that they refused to provide the supplies necessary for the operation.60 (28.6.23)

Earlier, Flaccianus along with another envoy, Severus, had been sent by the townspeople of Tripolis to tell Valentinian of the “lamentable ruin of the province”.61 This the men did, however, the emperor Valentinian, whom they addressed in person, did not believe their statements.62 The townspeople of Tripolis were suffering

59

78-79.

For the brief reign of Jovian, see Jones (1964) 138; Curran (1998)

60 Flaccianus tamen ante legatorum interitum, cum a vicario audiretur et comite, constanter saluti suae propugnans acclamationibus iratorum militum impetuque cum conviciis paene confossus est obicientium ideo Tripolitanos non potuisse defendi, quod ipsi ad expeditionales usus praebere necessaria detrectarunt. 61 28.6.7: lacrimosas provinciae ruinas. 62 28.6.9.

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not only from a corrupt governor,63 but also from the threat of raids by the Moorish tribes of the desert, which naturally caused them much “anxiety and suspense” (suspensis et anxiis). Both were instigators of the angry reactions of the soldiers who were garrisoned in and around Tripolis.64 The reason why the soldiers had not been able to defend Tripolis was due to the lack of supplies necessary for such an operation.65 After a series of incidents from which the emperor eventually learnt of the true state of the destruction of this province, he became so angry that he launched an investigation during which several leading figures were executed. Ammianus then describes the soldiers’ angry reaction towards Flaccianus, who, as the original envoy, had been seen as not having fulfilled his duties in the first place. Ammianus writes that Flaccianus was able to safely escape to Rome, where he died of natural causes.66 The emotional reaction of the soldiers was significant enough for the historian to record for posterity. Ammianus may have held the similar view of the soldiers towards Flaccianus in their outrage, and this was the cognitive secondary response that they also exhibited towards others whom they condemned. This entire incident is worthy of recording, for it shows that the anger of the soldiers benefited the province. Their anger was said to have caused Flaccianus to be imprisoned. As a consequence Valentinian was forced to seriously consider the happenings in the province, which in turn led to its relief from distress. The details of these events in the Latin are confused and are not presented as a coherent narrative. Nevertheless, Ammianus is again simply trying to demonstrate that the soldiers are on the side of right, using the term ira in order to describe their rage. Whether the soldiers’ anger was a force for change here is questionable. It is evident that the soldiers had to be paid in order to remain loyal. 63 Romanus. On Romanus see PLRE 1.768-769. As tribune of the schola scutariorum prima, he had previously been dismissed and exiled by Julian in 362, 22.11.2. Cf. for Romanus, Mattingly (1995) 294, 296, 301303. 64 Cf. Matthews (1989) 386. 65 Cf. Warmington (1956) 59. 66 28.6.24.

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That the soldiers were not adequately supplied is a recurrent motive behind their anger and notions of outrage. What is relevant here is the imagery that Ammianus incorporates to emphasise the anger of the soldiers, and the noise and vibrancy of this representation is reminiscent of scenes described in the text in which the soldiers use threatening noises and gestures in order to intimidate their enemy. The historian is careful to present important reasons for the behaviour of the troops in all these instances. Perhaps they often seemed to him to be justified, for all they were demanding was what was, or seemed to be, fair. Nonetheless, their historical significance is also an issue that Ammianus was well aware of, and this is an important reason for these additions into the Res Gestae. For the soldiers as a competent military force were doing “great things” for their emperor, and as such should be amply rewarded. Oftentimes they were not, and this would have affected Ammianus who, with his typically authoritarian personality, believed in treating those who behaved well with due credit. Occasionally things did get out of hand, and a leader was not always in a position to properly reward or even to feed his troops. As Ammianus presents the troops, the anger of the soldiers did indeed have a most significant influence upon the emperors and other important figures of the Later Roman Empire.

CONCLUSION An overview of these three episodes, besides pointing out the battle readiness and excitability of the Roman soldier, yields interesting conclusions about the behaviour of Roman commanders. In his descriptions of military activity Ammianus has relied upon what Pauw67 calls the “indirect method” of character portrayal, with which comparison, contrast, and innuendo are of special importance. Although the particulars of each of these events are different, the causes of the soldiers’ outrage were collective and shared by all. It is the causes behind each of these three incidents which make an over-all comparison of the narratives interesting. The soldiers become angry because of a perceived injustice and their inter67

Pauw (1977) 185-186.

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nal and collective desire is to want to restore order; the welfare of their fellow men is of primary importance, even when their commanders’ lives were threatened. The soldiers do not fight for their own individual reasons, but find support and camaraderie through encouraging and exhorting their peers. In every ira is a motivating factor, and the soldiers rouse this emotion to fortify themselves against very real threats. The soldiers could, and did, think for themselves and used devices such as anonymous letters to spread rumours that would naturally arouse their anger. The soldiers are noted for behaving through aroused emotions; they actively defended their commanders, but would voice their grievances readily if the situation became dire enough. In Gaul the soldiers were fighting for their rights as they understood them; they believed that Julian would not actually force them to travel to the east and demanded his accession to save them. Julian, although he hesitated initially in Gaul, was remarkably quick to respond to the offer of power after becoming Augustus, and did in fact take his Gaulish troops east. However, it is not whether Julian’s accession was staged, but rather Ammianus’ perception of the anger of the troops which forced the Caesar’s hand. Julian ended the uprising for a time, until his seclusion created a second outbreak of panicked fury. In the end the soldiers remained loyal to Julian, even though his treatment of them at times could be harsh and sometimes brutal.68 The soldiers’ loyalty was proved upon his wounding in Persia and their outrage was directed towards the Persian aggressor. In Africa the soldiers’ outrage was directed towards the envoy whom they vicariously blamed for their unsatisfactory conditions. The soldiers’ anger was a cognitive response to the injustice they felt and the only way to resolve this was to react through physical displays of their might. Whether the soldiers were punished for 68 For example, when Julian became angry (concitus ira immani) after learning that the Persians had attacked three squadrons of the Roman cavalry, and that the standards were not adequately protected, he had the two surviving tribunes cashiered, and ten soldiers who had fled from the field were put to death (24.3.2). Cf. Williams (1997) 68. This punishment seems like decimation, as it involved ten men out of almost one hundred; cf. Browning, (1975) 201.

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their aggressive behaviour is not recorded in the historical narrative, rather it is enough to tell that they were a force for change. It is the timing and appropriateness of action and the response to the soldiers’ actions which is a measure of their success. What is more, the soldiers are shown in a way that enhances their portrayal and though their actions can be interpreted as “mob” behaviour, when we look at the causes we can find a consistency to their behaviour which is a product of cognitive assessments of the situation. Therefore, the situations are balanced because the anger of the soldiers was directed towards those that are perceived to have caused injustices to themselves. The soldiers feel it is their responsibility to balance a wrong and this of course reflects their Roman values as well as the camaraderie they felt for one another. As discussed at the beginning of this study, the purpose of this examination was to explore the way in which anger was used to strengthen and validate the portraits of a section of society present in the narrative history of Ammianus Marcellinus. The usefulness of such a study is furthered through its attention to detail, and by adding to the existing scholarship, through presenting to the readership a rather neglected dimension in Ammianus’ portrayals. Anger in Ammianus appears as a way in which power was exercised and released. It motivated a wide range of actions, causing injustices and provoking reactions on behalf of justice. It was therefore an integral part of the moral codes people lived by.

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Kaegi, W. E. (2003) Heraclius: emperor of Byzantium (Cambridge). Koziak, B. (1999) “Homeric Thumos: The Early History of Gender, Emotion and Politics,” The Journal of Politics 61.4, 1068-1091. Laistner, M. L. W. (1947) The Greater Roman Historians. Sather Classical Lectures 21 (Berkeley & Los Angeles). Lerner, J. S. (1998) “Sober Second Thought: The Effects of Accountability, Anger, and Authoritarianism on Attributions of Responsibility,” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 24.6, 563-574. Lerner, J. S., Gonzalez, R. M., Small D. A., & Fischhoff, B. (2003) “Effects of fear and anger on perceived risks of terrorism: A national field experiment,” Psychological Science 14.2, 144-150. Mathisen, R. W. (2006) “Violent Behavior and the Construction of Barbarian Identity in Late Antiquity,” in H. A. Drake (ed.), Violence in Late Antiquity: Perceptions and Practices (Aldershot UK & Burlington VT), 27-35. Matthews, J. F. (1983) “Ammianus’ Historical Evolution,” in B. Croke & A. M. Emmett (eds), History and Historians in Late Antiquity (Sydney & New York), 30-41. _____. (1986) “Ammianus and the Eastern Frontier: A Participant’s View,” in P. Freeman & D. Kennedy (eds.), The Defence of the Roman and Byzantine East. Proceedings of a Colloquium Held at the University of Sheffield in April 1986. British Archaeological Reports – International Series 297/1 (Oxford), 549-564. _____. (1989) The Roman Empire of Ammianus (Baltimore). Mattingly, D. J. (1995) Tripolitania (London). Messer, W. S. (1920) “Mutiny in the Roman Army. The Republic,” Classical Philology 15.2, 158-175. Paschoud, F. (1989) “‘Se non è vero, è ben trovato’: tradition littéraire et vérité historique chez Ammien Marcellin,” Chiron 19, 37-54. Pauw, D. A. (1977) “Methods of Character Portrayal in the Res Gestae of Ammianus Marcellinus,” Acta Classica: Proceedings of the Classical Association of South Africa 20, 181-198. Phang, S. E. (2008) Roman Military Service: Ideologies of Discipline in the Late Republic and Early Principate (Cambridge). Potter, D. S. (2004) The Roman Empire at Bay: AD 180-395 (London & New York). Rosenwein, B. H. (2002) “Worrying About Emotions in History,” American Historical Review 107.3, 821-845.

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Sabbah, G. (2003) “Ammianus Marcellinus,” in G. Marasco (ed.), Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity: Fourth to Sixth Century AD (Leiden & Boston), 43-84. Salkever, G. (1986) “Women, Soldiers, Citizens: Plato and Aristotle on the Politics of Virility,” Polity 19.2, 232-253. Seager, R. (1986) Ammianus Marcellinus, Seven Studies in His Language and Thought (Columbia MO). Smith, R. (1999) “Telling Tales: Ammianus’ narrative of the Persian expedition of Julian,” in J. W. Drijvers & D. Hunt (eds), The Late Roman World and its Historian: Interpreting Ammianus Marcellinus (London), 89-104. Southern, P. & Dixon, K. R. (1996) The Late Roman Army (London). Sumner, G. V. (1970) “The Truth about Velleius Paterculus: Prolegomena”, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 74, 257-297. Thompson, E. A. (1942) “Ammianus Marcellinus and the Romans,” Greece & Rome 11, 130-134. _____. (1943) “Ammianus’ Account of Gallus Caesar,” American Journal of Philology 64.3, 302-315. _____. (1966) “Ammianus Marcellinus,” in T. A. Dorey (ed.), Latin Historians (London), 143-158. Tomlin, R. (1972) “Seniores-Iuniores in the Late-Roman Field Army,” American Journal of Philology 93.2, 253-278. Trombley, F. (1999) “Ammianus Marcellinus and Fourth Century Warfare: A protector’s approach to historical narrative,” in J. W. Drijvers & D. Hunt (eds), The Late Roman World and its Historian: Interpreting Ammianus Marcellinus (London), 16-27. Warmington, B. H. (1956) “The Career of Romanus, Comes Africae,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 49, 55-64. Williams, M. F. (1997) “Four Mutinies: Tacitus Annals 1.16-30; 1.31-49 and Ammianus Marcellinus Res Gestae 20.4.9-20.5.7; 24.3.1-8,” Phoenix 51.1, 44-74.

6. SILKE SITZLER, “ANGST AND IDENTITY IN ANTIOCH FOLLOWING THE RIOT OF THE STATUES” 1

SILKE SITZLER UNIVERSITY OF ADELAIDE [email protected] ABSTRACT Libanius and John Chrysostom both tell of the mass panic and exodus that followed the “Riot of the Statues” in 387. In Libanius’ orations, in particular, we are told of the tragic fate of those who abandoned the city in fear. This paper considers Libanius’ accounts of those who fled, focussing on his discourse of fear, disloyalty, dishonour, and irrationality that negotiates for these refugees an identity which alienates them from those who remained in the city. Integral to his re-identification of this group is his use of a “spatial rhetoric” that creates a negative space outside the city that both preys upon and subsumes those who flee to it. In the year 387, the great city of Antioch, the metropolis of the Roman province of Syria, witnessed a riot, turned rebellion, which left the city cowering while awaiting the punishment of the emperor Theodosius. 1 An earlier version of this paper entitled, “The Irreverent Refugee. Exodus and identity in late antique Syria”, was first presented at the Australian Early Medieval Association conference in Brisbane in October 2008.

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The incident, known as the “Riot of the Statues”, had begun with the announcement of a new taxation levy,2 and rapidly escalated from a display of evident public dissatisfaction to a rowdy crowd roaming the city, attacking and destroying homes and buildings.3 The unrest culminated in the vandalism and destruction of the imperial statues, which were: “dragged along, either whole or smashed to bits”.4 It was an act that saw the rebellion brought to an end and martial law instituted.5 The destruction of the statues was the ultimate act of sedition for which imperial precedent prescribed severe punishment and the destruction of towns. Libanius tells: It was expected either that a regiment would come to massacre all in its path, or else, even though bloodshed were avoided, that it would loot and take possession of all private property. Yet another opinion had it that the council would be put to death at the hands of the executioners, along with no small number of the populace.6

Consequently many fled the city in anticipation of such reprisals.7 Their flight was, however, premature. There was no massacre, and no mass destruction. The initial punishment of the city for its behaviour included the loss of its metropolitan and urban status, the loss of its landed estates, and the closure of its public amenities, such as the theatres, baths and the hippodrome.8 The Emperor Theodosius then sent two respected judges – Ellebichus and Cae2 Lib. Or. 19.25; and Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 8.4 (PG 49.102). Chapter delineations for Chrysostom’s homilies are based on those found in Schaff (1886). On the sketchiness of the details provided by both Libanius and Chrysostom, see Norman’s commentary ([1977] 238-242). 3 Lib. Or. 19.25-50; 22.5-9; Theod. HE 5.19 (PG 82.1240-1); and Liebeschuetz (1972) 164. 4 Lib. Or. 20.4. Also Or. 19.29-31, and 22.7-8. All translations of Libanius are Norman’s (1977). 5 Lib. Or. 19.34-37. 6 Lib. Or. 20.5. See also Or. 19.39. 7 Lib. Or. 23.3-6, 14; 19.56-60; 20.8; 21.5, 20, and 22.9-11. 8 Lib. Or. 20.6-7; 23.26-27, and 19.60; Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 17.9-10 (PG 49.175-177); and also Liebeschuetz (1972) 154.

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sarius9 – to investigate and those who were found guilty of participation in the sedition were executed.10 Following several anxious weeks (for the Antiochenes), Theodosius finally decided, with persuasion from the Christian bishop Flavian, not to send his troops in to wreak havoc, and he restored Antioch’s metropolitan and urban status as well as its entertainment and bathing facilities.11 The rebellion was a significant moment in Antiochene, and imperial, history, and while its political significance has attracted some attention from scholars, it has by and large received only sporadic consideration. Studies to date have focussed largely on the main figures involved in the rebellion, the response of the emperor,12 as well as the rhetoric of the two main extant, and contemporary, sources for the events – the Christian presbyter John Chrysostom and his former teacher, the sophist Libanius.13 This paper considers Libanius’ accounts of the flight from Antioch following the rebellion, focussing on the rhetor’s response to the rebellion’s “refugees”, primarily in Oration 23, “Against the Refugees”. It is proposed that in Libanius’ condemnation of these “refugees”, the rhetor presents a discourse of fear, disloyalty, dishonour, desertion, and irrationality that negotiates for this “group” a negative identity which is strongly contrasted with that of those who remained in the anxious city following the sedition. It is further suggested that Libanius through his use of a “spatial rhetoric” depicts a hostile and inhospitable world outside the city walls that serves to reinforce and more strongly delineate the identity that he negotiates for these “refugees” in his orations. Lib. Or. 20.6. Orations 21 and 22 were panegyrics to the two commissioners. 10 Lib. Or. 19.37. Also Liebeschuetz (1972) 215. 11 Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 17 (PG 49.171-180); 21 (PG 49.211222). Also Libanius, Or. 20.7. 12 See for example: Liebeschuetz for a discussion of the responsibility and power (or, lack of power) of the city’s council ([1972] 104-105); and Browning (1952) for an argument that proposes a key role in the riots for the theatrical claque. 13 On Chrysostom see, for example: Brottier (1993); Burns (1930); Hunter (1989); and Volk (1886). On the rhetoric of Libanius and Chrysostom, see French (1998). 9

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Libanius devotes five orations to the topic (though only Oration 23 is said to be written during the events themselves),14 and about a half of Chrysostom’s homily series On the Statues provides contemporary information on the events and their aftermath.15 Both sources tell of the considerable fear that followed the rebellion and that prompted a great panic and a mass evacuation of Antioch.16 Libanius writes: “all began to bewail themselves, their wives, children and homes, and it seemed that there was but one means of salvation, to flee and seek another land.”17 He reports that the “greater part of the populace began to depart”,18 and Chrysostom confirms that the city “stands desolate stripped of almost all her inhabitants”, a ghost town.19 We are told that while the wealthy fled to country estates or other towns,20 other people sought refuge in the mountains and deserts that surrounded Antioch, hiding in “secret places”, caves and ravines.21 Interestingly, John Chrysostom in his homiletic series On the Statues, offers little insight into the fate of those who fled, except to mention that some fell victim to wild beasts.22 It is Libanius who provides further details of their plight,23 and whose words conseLib. Or. 19-23. Norman (1977) 238-240 points out that while Chrysostom delivered homilies in the weeks immediately after the rebellion, Libanius’ orations, except for Oration 23, were composed after settlement had been reached. 15 Chrysostom, De Statuis hom. (PG 49.15-222), in particular: hom. 3-6 (PG 49.47-92); 11-18 (PG 49.119-188); 20-21 (PG 49.197-222). 16 Lib. Or. 23.3-6, 14; 19.56-60; 20.8; 21.5, 20; and 22.9-11. Also Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 17.5 (PG 49.173-174); 5.5-10 (PG 49.71-73); 6 (PG 49.81-92); 11.1-2 (PG 49.119-120); 12.1-3 (PG 49.127-128); 14.15 (PG 49.151-152); 15.1-2 (PG 49.153-154). 17 Lib. Or. 22.10. 18 Lib. Or. 22.11. 19 Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 4.1 (PG 49.59); 5.17-19 (PG 49.77-78); 16.1-5 (PG 49.161-164); 11.2 (PG 49.119-120); 15.3 (PG 49.154-155). Also, Lib. Or. 19.57. 20 Lib. Or. 19.57; 23.9. Also Browning (1952) 20. 21 Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 17.5 (PG 49.173-174); 11.2 (PG 49.119120); 21.14 (PG 49.217-218). 22 Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 21.14 (PG 49.217-218). 23 Particularly in “Against the Refugees”, Or. 23.3. 14

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quently shape this discussion. The absence of any reference to the fate of the refugees from Chrysostom’s homilies is noteworthy, but does not thereby dismiss the authenticity of Libanius’ proclamations. Chrysostom’s contemporary homilies sought to provide spiritual guidance through Lent, and to improve the morale of his congregation,24 while Libanius sought to present a strong, unified and loyal Antioch in his orations. We do know from both Libanius and Chrysostom that people did flee, and it would seem reasonable to accept that those who fled would have suffered hardship. Nevertheless we should be careful not to take Libanius’ rhetorical account as a reporting of actual events or hardships, but be mindful that his particular focus on the plights of those who fled served his rhetorical aims well. Greco-Roman rhetors often presented what can be seen as “rhetorical proofs” for their arguments, and these “proofs” assisted them in persuading their audiences of the main aims of their speeches. They were not committed to the gathering and sifting of “facts”, nor were they interested in any careful or methodological interpretation of them.25 They were concerned with making their point. As French writes: “Even using an actual historical event as an example, the speaker was perfectly free to twist the ‘facts’ to fit the rhetorical needs of a particular speech.”26 With this cautionary note in mind, we can begin to address Libanius’ account of those who fled Antioch in fear. Libanius opens his Oration 23 with a grim picture of the death that follows the fear and desertion. He states: “We all hear the news that everywhere is full of the bodies of the dead — fields, roads, hills, ridges, caves, hilltops, groves and gullies — some a feast for birds and beasts, others borne by the river down to the sea”.27

See: Norman (1977) 240; and French (1998) 471. See French (1998) 469-470, n. 10. Similarly, Liebeschuetz writes: “When Libanius is writing a particular speech he is concerned with one point of view only and all facts in it are used to strengthen the one argument.” ([1972] 37). 26 French (1998) 475, 471-474. 27 Or. 23.1. See also Or. 19.58. 24 25

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This opening is striking. Its imagery vividly recounts bodies strewn around all parts of the countryside surrounding Antioch. Immediately Libanius speaks of death, and transforms the space outside of the city into an untended graveyard, where those who have met a tragic end are deserted and left to the elements.28 Little sympathy is offered these victims. Instead Libanius continues: At such tidings, I am at times shocked, at other times am full of reproof for the sufferers and feel that they have just got what they deserve in these consequences of their flight. You could say that they drew upon themselves the swords of the assassins. If they had stayed at home, they would not have suffered such a fate; but now they have encountered it in their wanderings, and they have offered themselves as a feast to those who have long made a pursuit of banditry, and moreover, by multiplying the number of potential victims, they have induced others to take up banditry. Who then could pity those who voluntarily made away with themselves?”29

Such reproof of the refugees may be unexpected, yet it serves Libanius well for it enables him to set the tone of his address from the outset. Those who fled the city in fear have suffered tremendously, many have died. Instead of offering sympathy; however, the rhetor criticises them and rebukes them for their foolish actions. Those who fled have “voluntarily made away with themselves” and drawn upon themselves their deaths. “If they had stayed at home they would not have suffered such a fate”. Libanius presents the city as safe, a clear contrast to the deadly space outside the city. Thus, those who have stayed at home, in the city, are safe, and those who went outside are not.

This is particularly noteworthy given the importance of funerary rites and honourable burials in the Greco-Roman world. Libanius writes of people being stripped not just of life, but also of burial (Or. 19.60). 29 Or. 23.2. 28

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Those who fled the city, who fled outside, attracted and fell victim to bandits.30 Here Libanius draws upon reality and social understanding of the bandit to emphasise that people knew what dangers were awaiting them. Bandits were a very real threat in the late antique world, potentially dangerous to travellers, villages, farms and estates, and the insecurity of travel outside of city walls, for fear of attack by bandits, was ubiquitous.31 Thus, just leaving the city presented a danger known to all, and those who fled consequently offered themselves as easy prey for an increasing number of predator bandits. Libanius reinforces that the danger of the “outside” was known, and it had been for a considerable period of time. Furthermore, in his discussion of the bandits, Libanius is arguably also drawing upon a long established Greco-Roman narrative tradition that depicted the bandit as the anti-imperial figure. The bandit was seen as the figure outside of the control of the state, disloyal to it, and a challenge to its authority.32 Thus in trespassing into the territory of the bandit, the refugee fell into the hands of those who upheld contrasting values. They stepped outside the control, and thereby protection, of the State. Drawing upon this image of the bandit enabled Libanius not only to emphasise that the decisions that the refugees made led them to their predictable fate due to the physical threats of the “outside world”, but it also enabled him to associate that outside world with the uncontrollable and the disloyal, with enemies of the State. Libanius’ spatial rhetoric and opening imagery of death and desertion has therefore set the scene, and his immediate rebuke has sealed it. He has in the space of two paragraphs created an identity

30

33.40.

See also Or. 23.18; 19.58-60. On bandits see: Lib. Or. 48.35-36;

31 See: Liebeschuetz (1972) 121; Shaw (1984) 8-12; and Browning (1952) 13, esp. n. 3. 32 In bandit tales, regular structures of authority are inverted, identities are reversed and the formal authority of the emperor is challenged. See Shaw (1984) 41-42, 45-51.

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for those who fled Antioch.33 They are refugees, and they are victims. They have become outsiders. By not staying at home, by leaving the city, by fearing it and leaving it to go outside, Libanius has efficiently identified them as the “Other”. As the “Other”, the “outsider”, they are worthy of rebuke, and their deaths are not worthy of honour. Their deaths are associated with those who are disloyal to the state – those that flee it and those that defy it (that is, the bandits). Though they were Antiochenes, from the same community, Libanius asserts that “the refugees” have clearly delineated themselves as different through their actions. He is using his narrative to renegotiate identities during, and after, a significant and tumultuous period in his community’s history, and he tells his audience this from the beginning.34 This re-identification of those who feared and fled the city as the outsider, or the other, is strengthened by Libanius in his portrayal of those who fled, both further in Oration 23 and also in the later Oration 19. He speaks of vulnerability, foolishness, danger and betrayal, and associates them with the innocent, the poor, the women, and the wealthy and elite, who fled. These identities and characteristics form an integral part in supporting and shaping the identity of the “refugee” that he has outlined at the start of Oration 23. The ideas of disloyalty, desertion, safety and danger are, for instance, reinforced in Libanius’ commentary on the innocent who fled Antioch. He is disappointed that the innocent fled as if they were guilty: But for anyone who had no part either in the words or in the acts which both involved such indiscipline, what need was

33 On the constant negotiation and evolution of identities in response to a multiplicity of contexts, particularly in narrative, see De Fina (2003) 26-29. 34 On the identification of a group both as the other and as a part of the self, and the fluidity of these boundaries see Marshall (1998) esp. 49, 60. See also De Fina (2003) 11-30.

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there to fly into a panic of fear and trembling when there was no cause for alarm?35

Libanius depicts the innocent (men) who fled as running from the justice of the empire, of the emperor. He asserts that there was no need to take flight as “Celsus, that paragon of justice, … was at pains not to execute all the males here that he could, but to inflict punishment only on those deserving of it,”36 and “those who were involved by circumstantial evidence were brought to justice with [the] most scrupulous care, and handed over to the executioner.”37 The innocent who fled, feared and mistrusted the system of the empire, and in so doing they were disloyal. Libanius stresses that no harm came to those who remained in the city, and who trusted both in the system of justice and in the empire. They were protected. The orator associates the empire and the city with law, order, justice, care and the preservation of life for the innocent. This is not so for the dangerous outside world, to which the innocent so needlessly fled. Out there, there are criminals, there is lawlessness, the unjust treatment of the innocent, and the disordered chaos of victims discarded across the landscape or unceremoniously thrown into the river. A discourse of vulnerability associated with the refugees, in particular with the poor and women, is also consistent in his commentary. He writes that people with limited funds: “left their workshops, their houses and tenements empty, and decamped without knowing who would welcome them.”38 They spent what little money they had, exploited by ass, mule and camel hirers,39 and when they were no longer able to feed their children or themselves, they eventually fell victim to starvation.40 These people suffered hardship and death, while those who remained at home suffered no

Or. 23.3. Also 23.10. Or. 23.10. 37 Or. 23.11. 38 Or. 23.4. See also Or. 23.17. 39 Or. 23.4. See also Or. 23.17; 19.56. 40 Or. 23.9. 35 36

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injury.41 Libanius speaks of what these people left behind in their flight, and stresses that they “left without knowing who would welcome them”.42 He portrays the city as offering them security, employment and shelter, while flight from it only offered them insecurity — the insecurity of unemployment, homelessness and the physical dangers and threats of the world outside of the city. Knowing that they were not privy to the network of contacts and the safety of country estates, that were the domain of the wealthy, Libanius highlights how vulnerable these refugees were, and he also makes it clear that they knowingly walked into this uncertainty and danger. In Libanius’ orations it is women who come to epitomise the vulnerability, weakness and irrationality of the refugee. He speaks several times of women leaving in considerable numbers, many with children, or pregnant.43 Yet he claims: ... women had done no harm, nor were they thought to have done ... No one even said, or heard it said, that our womenfolk had taken any part in anything said or done on that dreadful day ... Thus, they had no need to panic and flee, nor a need to lead others astray (such as their foolish men).44

As a consequence of their foolishness and panic, women found themselves “riding to beg the country folk, whom they did not know from Adam, to let them stay on their land – not in their houses, that’s certain.”45 Being strangers, it was “unthinkable” for country people to allow these unknown women (and their dependents) to stay in their homes, so a place to stay on their land was all that could be requested and offered. Tragically the women’s chil-

41 “Well, one cannot name any injury suffered by those who stayed here.” (Lib. Or. 23.4). 42 Note that Liebeschuetz argues “that the citizens of Antioch were true city dwellers, lacking close relations, whether of kinship or of occupation, with the countryside” ([1972] 73). 43 Lib. Or. 23.5, 8; and 19.56. See also Chrysostom, De Statuis hom. 21.14 (PG 49.217-218). 44 Or. 23.7-8; 23.10; 23.6. 45 Or. 23.5.

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dren died from exposure and starvation:46 “falling from the arms of those who carried them”.47 Nevertheless, their critic tells that they still hurried on to meet such a multitude of evils.48 For Libanius, the women are irrational and foolish, and their behaviour is inexcusable and unjustifiable.49 Libanius’ emphasis on the women’s irrationality, incited by their fear, and their foolishness in leaving an environment that was not going to harm them, reinforces the idea that they fled from shelter and safety into complete insecurity and hostility. With no connections they could not be assured of accommodation, let alone shelter. With little money they could not be guaranteed food.50 For Libanius, they fled to a certain death. The world outside the city was openly hostile to them and their children. They were weak – being susceptible to panic and fear — and extremely vulnerable to the outside world where only social networks could assure them of shelter and where the physical environment could assure them of danger. In his commentary and condemnation of those he portrays as the most vulnerable in his society – women, and those with little money and/or connections – Libanius uses a rhetoric of safety and danger. The city (and the state) are safe, the world outside is dangerous. He consistently reinforces what can be called a “geography of difference” in his contrast of the physical, social, cultural and

46 Libanius writes that both children and adults died of starvation and exposure, which is probable (Or. 23.5), although it was Spring. Chrysostom’s series of homilies On the Statues was delivered through the period of Lent in 387, a period of roughly six weeks. People probably returned to the city earlier than this, as in Homily 12 Chrysostom already speaks of an imperial reprieve, and a cessation of fear, and by Homily 19, people from the country were coming to Antioch for Christian celebrations. See Mayer (2005) esp. 69, 131, 205, on the dating of Chrysostom’s homilies. 47 Or. 23.5, and 19.60. 48 Or. 23.5. 49 Or. 23.8-10. 50 For example Or. 23.9. The custom of hospitality, networking and letter-bearing did not necessarily extend beyond the upper classes. Inns in towns would have provided some accommodation, but perhaps filled up quickly, and money or goods would have been needed to pay for them.

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economic factors existing inside and outside of the city.51 There are polarised differences evident on the opposing sides of the city walls. The rhetoric of safety and danger is modified for the wealthy. These, though not irrational, nor in a flight to certain danger, are for Libanius, equally, if not more, culpable for their exodus. They were, after all, responsible for their fate and the fate of others; when they should have looked after others, they did not, and hence they were dishonourable and cowardly.52 They left securing and safely depositing or carrying away their wealth, removing: “such quantities of silver that each one required a train of carts and a string of mules which groaned perforce under their burdens.”53 Unlike those we have already discussed, the wealthy did not simply abandon their homes, or head off into the great unknown. They took care to secure or remove their wealth, and as Libanius points out they had places to go, and funds enough to ensure their passage and food,54 even so, the orator reports that they too could fall victim to brigands.55 For Libanius: “They betrayed the city; they looked solely to their own interests.”56 They, as leaders within the community, should have remained and discouraged others from leaving. Dishonouring their positions and distinctions, these people

On “geography of difference”, see Shepardson (2007) 501-506. Also, on landscape as a means of shaping identity see: Petts (1998) 79-94. 52 Or. 23.17-19. Also: Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 17.5 (PG 49.173174); and French (1998) 477-478. 53 Or. 23.18; also 21.20. 54 In the Greco-Roman world, many wealthy people owned landed estates to which they could retire as a retreat. Liebeschuetz notes that the wealthy citizens of Antioch retired to Daphne, not to country estates ([1972] 51): however, Libanius writes that: “On the country estates there is hardly room to move”. (Or. 19.58) Whether or not the wealthy had country estates to which they could retreat, patronage and elite networking, would have ensured letters of introduction to provide a relative stranger an hospitable welcome. See, for instance, the moves of Libanius’ students in Or. 23.20. 55 Or. 21.20. 56 Or. 23.19. 51

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did “their level best to ruin the city for the emperor”.57 They placed their own self interests above those of the polis and the community, and consequently led astray those most vulnerable. They led them to the dangerous and inhospitable outside world. These wealthy refugees are contrasted with those people who remained and attempted to stop the exodus with reason, who acted for their community.58 Their disloyalty and desertion is marked more strongly than for any other group within the refugee identity, and it can be argued that their anti-imperialism, demonstrated by their actions, associates them with the outside world to which they fled and led the vulnerable. Libanius in his very labelling of those who fled as “refugees” assigns them a role external to that of the community, city and state that they abandoned. However, it is in his depiction of them, their flight, and their fate, that he truly delineates their identity as the “Other”. They become the negative other, clearly disassociated from the positive “Us”. The men, women, wealthy and poor are not ascribed the respected virtues of their society, there is no empathy or sympathy afforded them. Thus, those who were originally part of the same communal identity, the “Antiochene” — including men, women, children, the wealthy and the poor — are increasingly separated from this Antiochene identity through a rhetoric that emphasises their disloyalty, desertion, and irrationality through fear. They possess qualities, and exhibit behaviours, not esteemed by the culture they were once assigned a role in; qualities that polarise them as cultural “Other”. This cultural difference is further delineated by rhetoric of vulnerability that reinforces both the foolish motivations of those who fled, and the negative attributes of the environment outside of the city and the state it represents. Indeed it is through this discourse of vulnerability, and its associate rhetoric of safety and danger, that Libanius is able to create such “geography of difference” between the inside and the outside world. Representing social and political ideals the city is portrayed as the secure and just protector 57

174). 58

Or. 23.17. See also Chrysostom, De statuis hom. 17.5 (PG 49.173Or. 23.15-17.

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and nurturer, the world outside of it is portrayed as hostile, dangerous and beyond the protection of the city and its state. Those who leave the city are vulnerable to the outside world. The refugees through disloyalty, fear, irrationality, and desertion became vulnerable to it, and also became identified with it. Through this “geography of difference”, and its social, cultural, economic and physical constituents, Libanius reinforces the identity of the refugee by drawing the line between the “insider” and the “outsider” more definitively and strongly. Libanius assigns the “refugees,” in his orations on “the Riot of the Statues”, a critical role in reinforcing for his audience the city of Antioch’s alignment with, and loyalty to, the emperor and his Roman empire, and to the polis itself.59 The orator makes his point from the outset. The deserted and discarded bodies left to the elements of nature, vividly represent the fate of those who through fear knowingly discard and desert their city and state — “they” offer “themselves” as a feast for the wilderness. Thus he reinforces a strong and positive identity for the Antiochenes themselves who come to represent trust, loyalty and a cohesive commitment to both the city and the empire.

59

See: Norman (1977) 240-241; and French (1998) 476.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Primary Works John Chrysostom, Homiliae 21 de statuis, in J.–P. Migne (ed.) (1862) Patrologia cursus completus. Series Graeca 49 (Paris). Norman, A. F. (ed. & trans.) (1977) Libanius. Selected Works, Vol. 2, Loeb Classical Library 452 (Cambridge MA. & London). Schaff, P. (1886) Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Series 1, Vol. 9 (Grand Rapids MI). Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Historia Ecclesiastica, in J. –P. Migne (ed.) (1864) Patrologia cursus completus. Series Graeca 82 (Paris). Secondary Works Brottier, L. (1993) “L’image d’Antioche dans les homélies Sur les statues de Jean Chrysostome,” Revue des Études Grecques 106, 619-635. Browning, R. (1952) “The Riot of A.D. 387 in Antioch: The Role of the Theatrical Claques in the Later Empire,” Journal of Roman Studies 42, 13-20. Burns, M. A. (1930) Saint John Chrysostom’s Homilies on the Statues: A study on their qualities and form (Washington DC). De Fina, A. (2003) Identity in Narrative. A study of immigrant discourse (Amsterdam & Philadelphia PA). French, D. (1998) “Rhetoric and the rebellion of AD 387 in Antioch,” Historia 47, 468-484. Hunter, D.G. (1989) “Preaching and Propaganda in Fourth Century Antioch: John Chrysostom’s Homilies on the Statues,” in D. G. Hunter (ed.), Preaching in the Patristic Age. Studies in Honor of Walter J. Burghardt (New York), 119-138. Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. (1972) Antioch. City and Imperial Administration in the Late Roman Empire (Oxford). Marshall, E. (1998) “Constructing the Self and the Other in Cyrenaica” in R. Laurence & J. Berry (eds), Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire (London & New York), 49-63. Mayer, W. (2005) The Homilies of St John Chrysostom – Provenance. Reshaping the Foundations, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 273 (Rome).

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Petts, D. (1998) “Landscape and Cultural Identity in Roman Britain”, in R. Laurence & J. Berry (eds), Cultural Identity in the Roman Empire (London & New York), 79-94. Shaw, B. (1984) “Bandits in the Roman Empire,” Past and Present 105, 3-52. Shepardson, C. (2007) “Controlling Contested Places: John Chrysostom’s Adversus Iudaeos and the Spatial Politics of Religious Controversy”, Journal of Early Christian Studies 15.4, 483-516. Volk, J. (1886) “Die Predigten des Johannes Chrysostomus über die Statuen,” Zeitschrift für praktische Theologie 8, 128-151.

7. ANDREW GILLETT, “LOVE AND GRIEF IN POST-IMPERIAL DIPLOMACY: THE LETTERS OF BRUNHILD” ANDREW GILLETT MACQUARIE UNIVERSITY [email protected] ABSTRACT A cluster of letters written in the name of the Merovingian dowager queen Brunhild, preserved in the late-sixth century letter collection Epistolae Austrasicae, concern her separation from her grandson, a hostage held at the court of the emperor Maurice in Constantinople. These letters have been read as genuine expressions of grief, offering insight into the personality of Brunhild herself or the emotional history of the early medieval period. Examination of the letters in the context of their composition – the larger set of diplomatic letters for which they were prepared, and patterns of communication between the royal courts of Gaul and Constantinople – suggests a more complex function for emotional imagery. The letters represent a script to be performed, deploying emotive scenarios as a tactic to bring indirect pressure on the emperor, and revealing a sophisticated understanding of the dynamics of communication and negotiation. To prince Athanagild, the glorious lord and the sweetest of grandsons of whom we speak with unutterable yearning, from queen Brunhild: The time of great happiness that I have longed for has come upon me, dearest grandson: now, through these letters that I send, I am made present to your beloved eyes, for whose gaze

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POWER AND EMOTIONS I constantly yearn – and so I am at least a little sated, for thus is my sweet daughter, whom for my sins I lost, brought back to me. I do not altogether lose my own child if, with the Lord’s aid, the son she bore is preserved for me. Ep. Austr. 27 titulus-11

Passionate emotion plays an unexpected role in diplomatic relations in Late Antiquity, in the complex exchanges between the post-imperial kingdoms of western Europe and the eastern Roman imperial court. A small group of letters sent to Constantinople in the late sixth century by rulers of the Merovingian Frankish dynasty of Gaul, king Childebert II and his mother the dowager queen Brunhild, dwell touchingly on the love of parent-child relations and the grief of familial separation. The letters, produced to accompany two separate embassies to Constantinople, are preserved in a collection known as the Epistolae Austrasicae, transmitted in a single ninth-century manuscript. They concern the unwilling residence of a young western prince, Athanagild, at the court of the emperor Maurice in Constantinople. Athanagild had been transported to the eastern capital, there to be held hostage as part of the intricate web of alliance and conflict between the east Roman court and the western kingdoms of Gaul, Spain, and Italy. In the letters, Brunhild Domino glorioso atque ineffabili desederio nominando dulcissimo nepoti, Athanagyldo regi, Brunehildis regina. Accessit mihi, nepus carissime, votiva magne felicitatis occasio, per quam, cuius aspectum frequenter desidero, vel pro parte relevor, cum – directis epistulis – amabilibus illis oculis repraesentor, in quo mihi quam peccata subduxerunt dulcis filia revocatur; nec perdo natam ex integro si, praestante Domino, mihi proles edita conservatur. Malaspina (2001), which supplants the edition of Gundlach (1892), reprinted with amendments by Rommel (1957). For the collection and its provenance: Gundlach (1888); Malaspina (2001) 5-39. Note that the term rex is translated here and at n. 22 below as “prince.” Late Latin had no term for “prince” or “princess,” i.e. the child or intended heir of a rex, a non-Roman ruler (contrast the use of the terms augustus and caesar from the time of Diocletian onwards); princeps, an imperial epithet, had not yet taken on this function. Consequently, rex and regina were employed for all members of the Merovingian dynasty, both rulers and their children; Greg. Tur. Hist. 9.15; cf. 3.22; 4.13; 5.49; 7.9, 27; 10.15, 40. 1

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and Childebert, grandmother and uncle of the captive Athanagild, petition for his release; notes of emotional ties are not out of place. But the composition of the letters calls for examination. Rather than offering transparent expressions of concern, the letters demonstrate several levels of artificiality that must have been immediately apparent at Constantinople. Several of the letters are addressed to the hostage Athanagild himself, another to Theodosius, son of the emperor Maurice. Both were very young children, possibly mere infants, at the time. The subjects and tone of these letters contrast noticeably with other letters prepared for the same embassies, in ways that were almost certainly intended to be evident to recipients at the Constantinopolitan court. The emotive turn of the letters is prominent but highly gendered: letters to or from female correspondents feature themes of emotional loss, while letters between male correspondents concern issues of treaty negotiations or monarchical succession. The letters are not straightforward. For us, their artifices, suggesting a purpose other than cathartic expression of emotion, offer potential insight into how these communications were intended to work. Despite the tones of affection and grief in the letters, the documents represent not self-expression but communicative ploys in which emotion is used, in a rather dispassionate and sophisticated way, as part of the communicative strategy of a political embassy. In these short letters, emotive force is built up through literary devices: passionate epithets, striking conceits, imagined scenarios, personal tone, and gendered paradigms of emotions. This emotive force was to be dramatised in the oral delivery of the letters, before audiences other than the nominal addressees. The letters’ composer intended to use these audiences, most likely members of the Constantinopolitan court, as a forum within which the emperor’s response to an emotive tableau would be measured, obliging him to acknowledge a moral aspect to a military and diplomatic situation.

THE GEO-POLITICAL CONTEXT OF THE LETTERS The letters arose from the complex geo-politics of the western Mediterranean in the late sixth century, and the attempts of the east Roman empire to expand its military control of parts of postimperial Italy and Spain. In the 580s, the Roman emperor Maurice

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(r. 582-602) approached the rulers of Gaul, the Frankish Merovingian dynasty, for military support against the north Italian kingdom of the Lombards, established after the hostile invasion of the peninsula in 568. Justinian, during his wars against the Gothic kingdom in Italy a generation earlier, had similarly sought to enlist Frankish support to bring pressure from the north. Gaul at the time of Maurice was ruled by three members of the Merovingian dynasty, the grandson and great-grandsons of the dynasty’s founder, Clovis.2 The three parallel “sub-kingdoms” of Austrasia, Neustria, and Burgundia (conventionally known as Teilreiche) acted sometimes in unison, sometimes independently. In the case of Maurice’s overtures, only the court of Childebert II (b. 570, r. 575-595/596)3 – king of the north-eastern “sub-kingdom” Austrasia, centered on the primary royal residence at Metz – responded positively to the Byzantine proposal, but even so inconsistently. Gregory of Tours in his Histories written in Austrasia ca. mid-580s/early 590s, broadly contemporary with the events and documents addressed here,4 reports Childebert first accepting Maurice’s advance payment of 50,000 solidi to campaign against the Lombards, then reneging, but later again attempting to honour the agreement in five fruitless campaigns between 584 and 590. At this point, Childebert instead established a temporary truce with the Lombard king that proved to be long-lasting.5

2 Though usually referred to as the “Frankish kingdom/s” in modern scholarship, neither the terms regnum Francorum or Francia had currency in this state before the seventh century, and then only as alternatives to the standard, Roman denomination “Gaul”; Kurth (1919) 1.68-137; Gillett (2002) 115-118. Shorter introductory accounts of these complex politics: CAH 14 (2000) 97, 104; NCMH 1 (2005) 134-139, 154-155, 186-190; Wickham (1981) 30-33; Collins (1983) 45-49; (2004) 56-60; Whitby (1988) 12; Wood (1994) 167-168. Major studies include: Goubert (1956); Goffart (1957); Hillgarth (1966); Thompson (1969) 64-78; Ewig (1983) 36-48; Dumézil (2008) 269-283. 3 PLRE 3.287-291. 4 Murray (2008). 5 Greg. Tur. Hist. 6.42; 8.18; 8.21; 9.25; 9.29; 10.2-3; John of Biclaro, Chron. 54, 64-65, 68, 73, 78; Copen. Cont. Prosper 1533; Fredegar, Chron. 4.45;

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Gregory of Tours’ description of Childebert’s fickleness and the slipshod Frankish campaigns are characteristic of his derisive portrayals of worldly follies, and cannot be taken at face value.6 But two factors probably influenced the vacillation of the Austrasian court. Firstly, Childebert II was still minor at the time when Maurice first approached his court. Childebert had succeeded his murdered father in 575, aged about five, and the first decade of his rule was a struggle for influence between cliques of powerful aristocrats in his kingdom, who controlled the regency over the young king, and Childebert’s mother, the dowager queen Brunhild (r. 566/567613),7 until 585 when Childebert was declared in his majority. At least in Gregory’s account, policy fluctuated in accordance with changes in court influence. Secondly, Byzantine involvement in Spain also impacted on politics in Gaul. In 552, following the successes of his wars against the Vandal kingdom in north Africa and the Gothic kingdom of Italy, Justinian had dispatched forces to Cartagena in Spain to essay further conquests of the Gothic kingdom there. Never very successful, the Byzantine foothold in southeastern Spain served mainly to destabilise the politics of the Spanish Gothic kingdom. In the early 580s, a Gothic prince, Ermenegild, rebelled against his father, king Leovigild. Ermenegild had secured the support of Byzantine forces of Cartagena, always willing to foment civil conflict. Leovigild defeated his son’s rebellion in 584, and the following year had him put to death. Ermenegild, who had adopted Nicene Christianity against his father’s “Arianism,” was later venerated as a Catholic martyr. Shortly afterwards, in 586, Leovigild died, and was succeeded by his second son, Ermenegild’s brother, Reccared. One footnote to Ermenegild’s hapless misadventure was that he left behind a wife and son, Ingund and Athanagild, named after his maternal great-grandfather, a powerful ruler of Gothic Spain. Ingund was a member of the Austrasian branch of the Merovingian royal dynasty, daughter of queen BrunPaul. Diac. Hist. Lang. 3.17-18; 3.22; 3.28-29; 3.35 (mostly derived from Gregory); Theophylact, Hist. 3.4.8; Theophanes, Chron. AM 6080. 6 Though cf. Ep. Austr. 40-42. Gregory’s presentation: Goffart (1988) 112-234, esp. 153-183; Heinzelmann (2001) 94-152. 7 PLRE 3.248-51; n. 26 below.

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hild and sister of king Childebert II; she had been married to Ermenegild in 579 as part of a series of marriage-alliances between the Gothic monarchy of Spain and the Merovingian dynasty of Gaul. When Ermenegild rebelled against his father, Ingund and their young son Athanagild had been left with the Byzantine forces for protection. After Ermenegild’s defeat, they were removed from Spain and taken either to either Byzantine-controlled Carthage or Sicily, where Ingund died. Though unrecorded by any source other than these letters, Athanagild was evidently taken on to Constantinople. Ingund and Athanagild were exploited as leverage by Maurice to pressure the Austrasian court to resume campaigning against the Lombard kingdom in northern Italy. Gregory of Tours portrays Brunhild, following an initial and unsuccessful Frankish foray into Italy during Childebert’s minority, pleading with the nobles of Austrasia to help secure Ingund’s return by cooperating with Maurice. Their refusal probably contributed to Brunhild’s dissolution of the regency over Childebert shortly afterwards, in 585.8 It would, however, be two more years until Childebert sent another military expedition into Italy, in 587.9

THE LETTERS OF BRUNHILD AND CHILDEBERT IN THE

EPISTOLAE AUSTRASICAE

The letters of Brunhild and Childebert concerning Athanagild, their grandson and nephew respectively, cast a rare light on an issue known from narrative sources. They are preserved in a single manuscript, a collection of letters probably first assembled in the late sixth century, and copied into the unique extant Carolingian manuscript in the mid-ninth century.10 The forty-eight Latin letters were written between the late fifth and the end of the sixth century, all either from or to correspondents in the Austrasian region of Gaul (hence the modern title for the collection, Epistolae Austrasicae; the manuscript has no original title). The first two dozen letters of the collection, not relevant here, were written by various Gallic Greg. Tur. Hist. 8.21; 8.22, cf. 7.33 (Childebert’s uncle and fellow king, Guntram of Burgundia, declares Childebert to be in his majority). 9 Greg. Tur. Hist. 8.25. 10 Malaspina (2001) 5-11, 27-39. 8

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bishops and by two earlier Merovingian kings of Austrasia, both addressing the emperor Justinian. The second half of the collection is different and more coherent: all the letters are correspondences between the royal court of Austrasia under Childebert II and the imperial court of Constantinople under Maurice. Two distinct packets of letters written in the names of Childebert II or his mother Brunhild can be identified, one of fifteen letters (Ep. Austr. 25-39), the other of four letters (Ep. Austr. 43-45 and 47).11 These royal letters were probably copied from file-copies (volumina or tomi chartarum) in the archives (scrinium) of the Austrasian court itself.12 The two packets of letters are tabulated in the Appendix. Each of the two packets of letters from Childebert and Brunhild was prepared to equip envoys undertaking (two separate) embassies to Constantinople. The recurrence of vocabulary, conceits, and imagery almost certainly indicates that, for each of the two packets, all the letters were drafted by the same composer, notwithstanding that the letters were written in the names of two different royal senders; meaningful parallels and contrasts between particular letters, discussed below, also suggests common and planned composition.13 Differences in subject or tone within the same packet 11 The second half of the collection also includes three letters sent to Childebert, one from Maurice himself, two others from the Byzantine military governor in Italy (the exarch); Ep. Austr. 40-42. Other correspondence of Childebert II and Brunhild is attested by the dozen letters addressed to them preserved in Gregory I, Regestum 6.5; 6.55; 6.57; 8.4; 9.212-213; 11.46; 11.48-49; 13.7 (to Brunhild); 5.60; 6.6 (to Childebert). 12 Cf. the description of royal and episcopal letter archives in Greg. Tur. Hist. 10.19. 13 Contra e.g. Dronke (1984) 26; Malaspina (2001) 19. In two letters of Ep. Austr, composition by court officials (dictatores) in the name of monarchs is attested by archival annotations of the official’s name copied into the manuscript: Ep. Austr. 43 titulus (the first letter of the second packet to Maurice – unfortunately the transmission of the composer’s name has been garbled, but cf. n. 52 below); 48 titulus (an earlier letter to Constantinople, not part of either packet discussed here). Cassiodorus similarly wrote letters in the names of multiple senders, the Gothic kings and queens of Italy, and the sixth-century ecclesiastical historical Evagrius published a now lost collection of letters and documents he wrote in the name of the Patriarch of Constantinople.

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are therefore not the result of separate authorship but either of stylistic variatio or of intentional strategy, and the desire to see Brunhild’s own authorship or at least guiding sentiment in the composition of the letters in her name should be restrained. Both packets include correspondence to the emperor himself, together with letters to his courtiers and other figures of influence, including the augustae, the emperor’s wife and dowager mother-in-law, his father, senior civil officials of the imperial consistorium, and the Patriarch of Constantinople, soliciting their support in the negotiations the embassies had been dispatched to undertake. What these negotiations actually addressed is unspecified, as is frequently the case in ancient epistolography. The documents are only short “letters of credence,” introducing the envoys who bear them and who will deliver the substantive verbal messages of the embassy to each of the recipients.14 The letters refer to negotiations for a treaty with Maurice as part of the embassy, presumably, though not certainly, concerning undertakings by Childebert to send troops into Italy to harry the Lombards. The one aim that is specified – though only explicitly in the second packet – is the release of Athanagild from Constantinople and his “return” to Gaul. The dates of the embassies for which these two packets of letters had been prepared are unclear. External evidence at least establishes that both embassies were sent after 585 and before 593. Equally uncertain is the chronological sequence of the two packets, which contain too few references to events or prosopographical details to indicate even their relative order. For convenience, they are labelled here as the “first” and “second” packets, referring only to their manuscript order.15 Nevertheless, the two packets of letters 14 Most letters in both packets refer to accompanying verbal messages entrusted to the envoys to deliver to the various recipients. 15 The exact year-dates suggested for Ep. Austr. 25-48 in earlier studies Gundlach (1888); Malaspina (2001) 5-39; Goubert (1956); Goffart (1957); Ewig (1983) 36-48, Dumézil (2008) 274, 275, 278, depend on attempts to reconcile the embassies attested by the letters with those recorded by Gregory of Tours, despite conflicts of evidence. In fact, the letters and their associated embassies can only be broadly dated, on the basis of prosopographical evidence: Ep. Austr. 25-39 after 585, before 593; Ep. Austr. 43-45, 47 likewise but probably within a few years of 585,

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from the royal court of Austrasia offer rare contemporary and documentary evidence for events known otherwise only from the narrative of Gregory of Tours and sparse chronicles.16 Only some of the letters of the two packets from Childebert and Brunhild to Constantinople mention Athanagild: two of the first packet of fifteen letters, but all four of the second packet. The first packet (Ep. Austr. 25-39) opens with three pairs of epistles: a letter from each of Childebert and Brunhild to Maurice; a letter from each to Athanagild; and two letters both from Brunhild to the augustae Constantina, wife of Maurice, and Anastasia, her mother and dowager empress of the late emperor Tiberius II. The remaining nine letters are all from Childebert alone, to other senior figures. In this packet, Athanagild is mentioned only in the two letters addressed to him (Ep. Austr. 27-28). cf. nn. 33-34 below. The termination of Austrasian campaigns into Lombard Italy in 590 (Greg. Tur. Hist. 10.3; Paul. Diac. Hist. Lang. 3.18) need not necessarily provide a terminus post quam non for the two embassies of Ep. Austr. 25-39 and 43-45, 47: the truce was only provisional and there is no reason to assume either that Brunhild and Childebert ceased endeavouring to secure the return of Athanagild, or that Constantinople ceased to pressure Childebert to resume campaigning in Italy, cf. Dumézil (2008) 315. The silence of Gregory of Tours on AustrasianConstantinople relations after 590 is no guide; see next note. 16 Note that, as sources of historical evidence, Gregory’s Histories and the two packets of letters in the Epistolae Austrasicae adjoin rather than overlap: Gregory’s account of Ermenegild’s defeat and its consequences goes as far as Ingund’s deportation to north Africa and reports of her death there, but displays no knowledge of Athanagild’s further removal to Constantinople (or, indeed, of his name). By contrast, the letters of Childebert and Brunhild were all written in the knowledge that Ingund was already dead and her son in Constantinople – the addresses of Ep. Austr. 27-28, 43-45/47 are the only sources for Athanagild’s name. Gregory records several embassies from Childebert to Maurice in the 580s, but none of them can be securely identified with the embassies that carried the packets of letters preserved as Ep. Austr. 25-39 or 43-45, 47, and indeed none of them is likely to have been either of these embassies; both Gregory and the letter collection offer only partial evidence for a busy traffic in embassies between Constantinople and Metz (and other western royal courts).

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The first half of Brunhild’s letter to Athanagild (Ep. Austr. 27) is given at the head of this paper; the remainder of the letter refers to the envoys bearing the letter and their negotiations with the emperor. The address is structurally similar to other original addresses preserved in this packet, combining the formal titles of sender and recipient with effusive epithets.17 But the language of yearning is exceptional in this context; it signals familial rather than official correspondence, and establishes the tone of the letter.18 Brunhild greets the child with passionate affection, and, emphasising their bond through the dead Ingund, expresses her strong desire to see him. The syntactically complex opening sentence plays on the intermediary function of the letter and its visual nature to emphasise at once both Brunhild’s separation from Athanagild and her “yearning” (desidero) to see and be seen by him. Because Athanagild will read (and therefore look upon) the letter that Brunhild has had written, it will act as a medium that joins Brunhild with Athanagild’s “gaze” (aspectum) and, through him, to the dead Ingund. The physical object of the letter, passing from Brunhild to Athanagild, constitutes a form of deferred eye-contact: it makes Brunhild “present” (repraesentor) before Athanagild’s eyes so that she may, “at least a little” (vel pro parte), enjoy holding his gaze vicariously, and his “beloved eyes” (amabilibus … oculis) in turn bring back to Brunhild her lost daughter. This is a striking, self-reflexive exploitation of the function of the epistolary medium as a representative of the sender in a more than verbal sense. It exploits themes common in ancient epistolography and specifically in late antique, Structure: cf. e.g. Ep. Austr. 29: “To the glorious and renowned lady, the augusta Anastasia, from queen Brunhild.” Of the packet Ep. Austr. 25-39, only 25-29, 31, 33 appear to preserve the original intitulatio; other headings are archival annotations. 18 Cf. the paired letter of Childebert to Athanagild, Ep. Austr. 28, given at n. 22 below; its language is familial but less emotive. For the use of dulcis / dulcissimus (“sweet/-est”) in both letters, a common term of friendly affection, cf. Malaspina (2001) 239 n. 147 for references; Rosenwein (2006) 110-113. For desiderium (“yearning”) as a maternal address, cf. the seventh-century letters of Herchenfreda to her son, bishop Desiderius of Cahor, preserved in Vita Desiderii Cadurca, ed. Krusch (1902) 9-11, cited in Rosenwein (2006) 154. 17

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medieval, and Byzantine Christian letters of amicitia: the letter as a medium to reveal the true self of the sender to the recipient; the letter replicating, rather than merely representing, the physical and social relations between the two; and the letter as a shared experience between sender and recipient.19 The idea of the letter enabling the reader to “see” the sender had long been an epistolary commonplace,20 but Brunhild’s letter extends the idea a step further through the idea of reciprocality: the sender will also “see” the recipient and his lost mother, and Brunhild will be able to commune with her dead daughter through the media of the letter and its reader’s eyes. Striking and moving, this conceit has a function: under the guise of an elaborate greeting and rhetorical conceit, it serves to foreground Brunhild’s loss of her daughter and her separation from her grandson. Reinforcing this expression of personal loss is the register of the letter. Uniquely among both packets of letters, the composer of the letter to Athanagild here uses singular verbs and pronouns to refer to Brunhild, not the conventional formal plural employed for both sender and recipient in the other letters and, indeed, in most formal letters from Late Antiquity.21 “I” have lost a child (perdo natam, Ep. Austr. 27.1), whereas, in the letter of Childebert to his nephew, “we” hope for Athanagild’s well-being (optantes ut … nos laetificare, Ep. Austr. 28.2). The letter is far from intimate, but its rhetorical and syntactical complexity sits alongside a more personal register. Brunhild’s letter to her grandson is paired with Childebert’s to Athanagild (Ep. Austr. 28), which is similarly structured though more emotionally measured:

Constable (1976) 13-16; Mullett (1990); Conybeare (2000); Ebbeler (2009) 273-277. The idea of the letter as “shared” between author and addressee had some resonances with current “convergence” conceptions of communication as a participatory act among a community rather than a unilinear one (i.e. sender to receiver); Kincaid (1979); Rogers & Kincaid (1981). 20 Stowers (1986) 29, 62, 72, 186. 21 Haverling (1995) 337-353. 19

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POWER AND EMOTIONS To prince Athanagild, the most glorious lord, universally exalted, the sweetest nephew: from king Childebert: One benefit of the current circumstance gives us comfort: because of it, we can present at least in the eloquence of letters what we owe you from familial affection. Therefore, as becomes our kinship, we ardently discharge our dutiful greetings to your lofty Glory, and faithfully hope that He who knows the desires of all and our innermost secrets may order that we rejoice over your well-being … (Ep. Austr. 28 titulus-2)22

The other letters of this packet greet the emperor and other Constantinopolitan grandees, seeking support for the current treaty negotiations with Maurice, without mention of Athanagild. In the second packet (Ep. Austr. 43-45, 47), the issue of Athanagild’s captivity is raised in all four letters; other negotiations with Maurice are mentioned, but are overshadowed by attention to Athanagild. None of these letters is addressed to Athanagild. Instead, the letters are sent from Childebert to Theodosius, the son of Maurice; from Brunhild to the augusta Constantina, Maurice’s empress and Theodosius’ mother; from Childebert to the Patriarch of Constantinople; and from Childebert to Maurice. Just as the first packet is arranged with several pairs of letters, so too the first two letters of the second packet constitute a pair: both Childebert and Brunhild address a member of Maurice’s closest family with whom they share a parallel familial position (Childebert and Theodosius as royal heirs, Brunhild and Constantina as mothers); both letters are structured around imagined scenarios; and both focus is on the imperial heir Theodosius. Again, the most emotional language used in these letters is that of Brunhild, to Constantina:

22 Domino gloriosissimo et ubique praecelso, dulcissimo nepoti, Athanagyldo regi, Hildebertus rex. Praesentis oportunitatis relevamur compendio, per quam, quod parentillae redhibemus ex affectu, saltim epistularum repraesentemus epliquio. Quapropter praecelsae Gloriae Vestrae salutis officia iure propinquitatis desiderabiliter exsolventes et confidenter optantes ut de vestra nos laetificare incolomitate praecipiat qui singulorum desideria et secretorum novit arcana …

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Since, most tranquil augusta, mishap has brought it about that the infancy of my little grandson is consigned to be spent wandering in foreign parts, and his very innocence itself in these tender years begins to be held captive, I beseech you by the Redeemer of all peoples – just as you would not see the most pious Theodosius [your son] carried off from you or have your sweet son removed from the embrace of his mother, and just as his presence always delights your eyes and so too his mother’s heart is elated by his imperial birth – I beseech you to so order that, with Christ’s favour, I may obtain the return of my little one to my embrace, and my heart, which heaves with the heaviest grief at my grandson’s absence, may be consoled; that I who have lost my daughter may not lose also this sweet token of her which yet remains to me; and that I who am racked, even to the extent of my child’s death, may swiftly be comforted through your agency by the return of my captive grandson. (Ep. Austr. 44.3)23

Brunhild seeks to enlist Constantina’s support by asking her to imagine losing her own son. The parallel letter of Childebert to Theodosius (Ep. Austr. 43) is given below. Less emotive, it also plays on the theme of potential loss, though of a child orphaned rather than of a parent bereaved, and emphasising the needs of dynastic succession rather than parental affection. Because most modern studies of these texts have concentrated on the letters in Et quia, Augusta tranquillissima, casu faciente, parvuli nepotis mei didicit peregrinare infantia et ipsa innocentia annis teneris coepit esse captiva, rogo per Redemptorem omnium gentium – sic vobis non videatis subtrahi piissimum Thodosium nec ab amplexu matris dulcis filius separetur, sic vestra lumina semper exhilaret sua praesentia, simul et matris viscera augusto delectentur de partu – ut iubeatis agere, favente Christo, qualiter meum recipere merear parvulum in amplexu, refrigerentur ut viscera, quae de nepotis absentia gravissimo dolore suspirant, ut, quae amisi filiam, vel dulce pignis, es ipsa quod mihi remansit, non perdam, et usque de morte geniti crucior, relever per vos cito nepote redeunte captivo. Brunhild also addressed Constantina in her letters of the first packet: Ep. Austr. 29-30 (see Malaspina [2001] 280-281 nn. 618, 621, 627 for the vexed issue of identification); that letter is not emotional in tone. 23

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Brunhild’s name, from the perspective of political biography of history of gender or of emotions, the parallels and contrasts between these pairs of letters have not become evident. Modern commentary on the emotional tone of these letters has been based on readings of these passages as true reflections of Brunhild’s feelings towards Athanagild and Ingund.24 The image of Brunhild as grieving mother and loving grandmother has some resonances with her portrayal in other sources,25 but nevertheless contrasts sharply with the best-known presentations of the queen in the main narrative sources for Gaul in this period, the Histories of Gregory of Tours and the Chronicle of Fredegar. In these narratives, Brunhild is portrayed as a manipulative and calculating queen allegedly responsible for the assassinations of an impressive number of royal relations, ultimately suffering a gruesome death herself in punishment.26 The focus of such discussion as these letters have received has been as windows onto an unexpected side of Brunhild’s personality: a fierce attachment to members of her nuclear family. But it would be unwise to see the letters of Brunhild as unmediated expressions of her personal feelings.

24 E.g. Goubert (1956) 139-140; CAH 14 (2000) 429; Rosenwein (2006) 115 (noting however that Brunhild had never met her grandson). 25 I.e. Greg. Tur. Hist. 8.21: Brunhild pleads for the Austrasian nobles to help secure Ingund’s return; cf. 5.34: a carefully-wrought portrait of another grieving Merovingian queen, Fredegund. Venantius Fortunatus, Carm. 6.5 De Gelesuintha ll. 283-300 presents Brunhild lamenting the death of her sister Galsuintha, another Gothic princess who was married into the Merovingian dynasty but died in Gaul. Wood (1994) 135 insightfully links Brunhild to the series of names inscribed of the reverse of the Barberini diptych, including Childebert, Ingund, and Athanagild, suggesting that these constitute a list of Merovingian family members for whom Brunhild solicited prayer. 26 Brunhild as murderous plotter: Greg. Tur. Hist. 8.4; 9.20; Fredegar, Chron. 4.18-42; Jonas of Bobbio, Life of Columbanus 31-35, 57-58; Liber Historiae Francorum 1.18. On Brunhild: Kurth (1919) 1.265-356; James (1982) 136-139; for more assertive reassessment: PLRE 3.248-51; Nelson (1978); (1991); Wemple (1981) 63-70; Rouche (1986); Wood (1994) 126136, 352; Stafford (1983) 12-13 and passim; Jewell (2007) 90-91; Dumézil (2008).

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Studies of the representation of emotions in the post-imperial West have underscored the family as the focus of the strongest emotions portrayed in literary sources, and the close association of women with grieving; both observations are consonant with the evidence of earlier Mediterranean traditions – though it has recently been suggested that part of the cultural identity of Frankish and other western “barbarian” societies was a freer expression of emotion by males, conveying passionate reactions that, in the Stoic ethos of Roman elite civic culture, had been seen as examples of female weakness.27 The associations of emotion with family and women are both obviously relevant to Brunhild’s letters. But, on close inspection of the letters and their context, they do not appear to be naïve expressions of individual feeling. Nor do they provide examples of recent approaches to “reading” emotions and “emotional history” in the Middle Ages, either as representations of conventionally-expected and normative emotional behaviour, or as examples of semiotic or ritualised communications.28 The letters appear to have more precise and conscious purposes. Of all ancient texts, letters are perhaps the most consciously crafted literary works, created specifically with the aim of representing the sender in particular ways to the recipient.29 “Diplomatic” letters like these, though only rarely preserved for the early medieval period, were nevertheless a regular medium for maintaining relations among centres of power throughout the Mediterranean world; their political function was important and widely recognised.30 Such correspondence was the place for conventional Families and grief: Rosenwein (2002a); (2006) 62-68, 92-95, 113120, 123-129, 180; Newbold (2006) 10-19. See further n. 31 below. “Barbarian” identity: Halsall (2007) 474-478. 28 On the interpretation of emotions and their representation in medieval texts: Rosenwein (2002b), esp. 839ff. Ritual communication: Althoff (1998) 59-74, at 74. 29 Constable (1976) 15-16; Stowers (1986) 38-40; Mullett (1990) 178179; Ebbeler (2009) 272-274. 30 Other examples of “diplomatic” letters, i.e. letters from western kings and queens to the emperors and their courts in Constantinople: Gothic monarchs of Italy apud Cassiodorus, Variae 1.1; 1.46; 2.1; 2.41; 3.14; 4.1-2; 5.1-2; 5.43-44; 8.1; 9.1; 10.1-2; 10.8-10; 10.15; 10.19-26; 10.32-35; 27

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courtesies and mutually agreeable ideological assertions, not personal expression. The gendering of emotion in the letters concerning Athanagild – the persona of Brunhild as grieving mother – suggests exploitation of literary and cultural images associating women and particularly mothers with grief.31 This persona forms part of a number of artificial, literary ploys that mark the expression of grief as a communicative strategy in the relations between the courts of Austrasia and Constantinople.

EPISTOLARY ARTIFICES The baroque, late-Latin style of the letters will automatically suggest to most modern readers a level of artificiality, if not insincerity, regularly associated with late antique rhetoric. By contrast, the absence of such features as complex syntax, recherché vocabulary, and rhetorical tropes in the narrative prose of Gregory of Tours, a contemporary inhabitant of Austrasia, is one reason why modern scholarship has often paid him the backhanded compliment of regarding him as a transparent, if simplistic, window on his world, a view that is no longer tenable.32 But other, less conventional levels of artificiality can be delineated in these letters, at two registers: content and communicative situation, that is, what the letters say and to whom they say it. To take the communicative situation first: both packets of letters contain documents addressed to young children, Athanagild himself and Theodosius, the son of Maurice and Constantina. These letters are “fictitious” in the sense that, although the adthe Burgundian king Sigismund apud Avitus of Vienne, Epp. 78, 93, 94; the Frankish kings Theodobald and Theodebert apud Ep. Austr. 18-20; cf. the form-letters in Marculf, Formulae 1.9-10. As in earlier Antiquity, diplomatic letters embedded in historical narratives are unlikely to be historical, e.g. Procopius, Wars, cf. Cameron (1985) 148-149; Jordanes, Getica 186-88; Gillett (2003) 174-190, 224, 229, 246-247, 264. See also n. 43 below. 31 Cultural images of women and grief: Rosenwein (2002a) 30; (2006) 149-155, 161. For earlier periods: Wilson (1997) 48-67 at 59-60; Foley (2001) 31-55, 272-299; Konstan (2006) 58; Stears (2008) 139-166; Dutsch (2008). 32 Goffart (1988) 114-115.

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dressees were real persons, the letters could not have been intended to be read by them; neither Athanagild nor Theodosius would have been old enough to actually receive, understand, or (as the relevant letters assume) act upon the letters. The dates of birth of both Athanagild and Theodosius are unknown, as are the dates of the two embassies, but the chronological termini for the birth of Athanagild and embassy for which Ep. Austr. 27 and 28 were prepared would make Athanagild somewhere between one and fourteen years of age, most likely well shy of ten.33 Notwithstanding the striking image in Brunhild’s letter to Athanagild of the document as a medium for remote “gaze,” it is unlikely that he was the true intended reader. This is clearer in the case of Theodosius, who was probably a mere infant, aged one or two, when sent Ep. Austr. 43.34 It is possible, in the case of Theodosius, that the dispatch to him of Ep. Austr. 43 reflects the convention established in the fourth century of addressing correspondence to all members of the imperial college, irrespective of their age (or, before the termination of the western imperial office in 476/480, disparate location), if the em33 Athanagild was born after 579 (marriage of Ingund and Ermenegild, Greg. Tur. Hist. 5.38), before 584 (the defeat of Ermenegild in civil war, John of Biclaro, Chron. 54, 64-65, 68, 73; Greg. Tur. Hist. 5.38; 6.40; 6.43; 8.28). The dates of both embassies (Ep. Austr. 25-39 and 43-45/47) was after 585 (receipt of news in Gaul that Ingund had been sent to Constantinople and then died, Greg. Tur. Hist. 8.18; 8.28), before 593 (the deaths of Maurice’s father Paul and the dowager empress Anastasia in 593; Ep. Austr. 29, 37; PLRE 3.61; 3.981); see above, n. 15, and following note. 34 Theodosius was born either 583 or more probably autumn 585 (PLRE 3.1293). The embassy of Ep. Austr. 43-45/47 occurred after 585 (as previous note). Brunhild’s announcement that Childebert had attained the age of majority, which occurred in 585 (in Ep. Austr. 44.1, cf. 46.2; Greg. Tur. Hist. 7.33; 8.22), may suggest that the embassy was sent relatively soon thereafter, perhaps 585/586. It is, however, possible that the embassy was sent as late as 590 if the reference in Ep. Austr. 44.3 to Maurice as the senior princeps implies that Theodosius was officially the junior princeps, i.e. following his elevation as caesar in ca. 587 or as augustus in March 590. The manuscript does not include the original intitulatio for the Ep. Austr. 43-45/47, so Theodosius’ formal title, if any, is not recoded; contra Malaspina (2001) 296 n. 824.

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bassy associated with the second packet of letters took place after Theodosius’ elevation either as caesar or as augustus in ca. 587 and November 590 respectively, both while still an infant. But none of the eight letters of Pope Gregory I to Maurice, all written after 590, includes Theodosius as an addressee, and the convention was customarily observed by addressing one letter to the full imperial college, not by sending separate letters.35 The dispatch of a separate letter, with different content from the letter to Maurice, emphasises the choice of the Austrasian court to address a child. This awkward fact, that the letters to Athanagild and Theodosius address children, has rarely received comment.36 The children Athanagild and Theodosius, however, are not mere nominal recipients of the letters: they are addressed as if mature agents. Theodosius is petitioned to support Childebert’s appeal to the emperor (Ep. Austr. 43.4), the same request made to the augusta and the Patriarch of Constantinople in other letters of this packet; Childebert also envisages a treaty (pax) with Theodosius subsequent to his accord with Maurice, and describes Athanagild as being under Theodosius’s control (vestrae dicione; Ep. Austr. 43.2, 3). The letters to Athanagild envisage him discussing with Childebert’s envoys the terms of the current treaty negotiations and the outcome of the envoys’ meeting with the emperor (Ep. Austr. 27.2, 28.2). These appeals to the children or infants Athanagild and Theodosius as mature agents are artifices, and intended to be recognised as such. Alongside the artificiality of communicative situation is an artificiality of content. Brunhild’s letters portray her, accurately, as mother of the dead Ingund and grandmother of Athanagild who is held in Constantinople. But beyond that, the situation implied by the letters is deceptive or false. The letters of the second packet 35 Greg. I, Regist. 3.61; 5.30; 5.36; 5.37; 6.16; 6.64; 7.6; 7.30. Conventional addresses: e.g. Collectio Avellana 2.1; papyri in the Abinnaeus archive in Bell (1962) 1 ll. 1-2. 36 Rosenwein (2006) 115 silently amends the addressee of Ep. Austr. 27 (Brunhild’s letter to Athanagild) to the emperor Maurice; Dumézil (2008) 275, 277-278 reads the true audience of the letters to Theodosius and Athanagild as Maurice and Athanagild’s “tuteurs” respectively.

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refer to Athanagild coming to Constantinople through a “mishap of fortune” (casus fortuitus) and describe Athanagild’s position there as a “servant” of Maurice (famulus), tactful enough euphemisms for the Byzantine kidnapping and retention as hostages of members of the royal family of Gothic Spain with whom Constantinople was at war (Ep. Austr. 43.3, 44.3, 45.2, 47.2 bis). More egregious are the repeated petitions by Brunhild and Childebert to “return [Athanagild] to his homeland and his family” (patriae vel parentibus redidi; Ep. Austr. 45.2, cf. 43.4, 44.3 and 4), and Brunhild’s “grief at my grandson’s absence” (nepotis absentia; Ep. Austr. 44.3). Athanagild, though closely related to Brunhild and Childebert through Ingund, had been born in Spain and could never have travelled to Gaul or met his Frankish relatives; Gothic Spain, not Frankish Gaul, was Athanagild’s patria. Even under circumstances happier than those of Athanagild’s youthful misadventures, a member of the Gothic royal family would have been unlikely ever to have travelled to neighbouring Gaul, notwithstanding family connections.37 The nub of the emotive appeal of Brunhild’s letter is her grand-maternal grief at the “removal” of her grandchild, but this repeated image is deceptive. Artificial content also appears in analogies implied in the letters of the second packet addressed to Theodosius and Constantina. These letters proffer imagined situations as parallels to 37 Late Roman soldier-emperors occasionally met to negotiate with rulers of frontier peoples (e.g. Eunapius, Fr. 18.6; Amm. Marc. 27.5.9; 30.3.5; Nikephorus, Short History 6, all on river frontiers), but early medieval royalty rarely travelled outside their kingdoms to negotiate with or confront their peers in person. Rare examples: the meetings of Clovis and Alaric II, first in peace negotiations on a river frontier, then in 407 on the battlefield of Vouillé where Clovis killed Alaric, a literary parallelism that must be viewed with some reserve: Greg. Tur. Hist. 2.35; 2.37; the Burgundian prince Sigismund undertook an embassy to Constantinople ca. 515/516: Avitus, Ep. 9; the Merovingian Theudebert I led an army into Lombard north Italy in 539, Greg. Tur. Hist. 3.32. Childebert II, as son of Brunhild, a Gothic princess, had the same relationship to the Gothic royal family as Athanagild had to the Merovingian; the same is true for several other Frankish dynasts, none of whom ever met their Gothic royal relations.

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Athanagild’s position. Childebert prays that Theodosius is never orphaned as a child (thereby inviting his recipients to imagine this happening), and hopes that he will instead succeed Maurice to the imperial throne as a mature heir: In as much as a mishap of fortune has delivered our infant nephew into your control in the royal city [Constantinople], we make the following petition … through Him Who shall never allow that you should meet with the wretchedness of being orphaned, nor that you should pass your childhood without parents; rather may He bring it to pass that you grow up, with your begetter alive and well, under the indulgent shelter of your father to reach that youthful stage for which the senior prince [Maurice] longs, and may He command that, supported by your father, you attain the age of maturity, and that the protection of your father should not leave you until you succeed him auspiciously in his kingdom. (Ep. Austr. 43.3)38

The need to ensure not only an heir but also one who would be competent when coming into power was a systemic tension in Roman imperial dynastic succession, as in its western royal counterpart, very pertinent to the courts of both Constantinople and Metz. There had been no Roman imperial succession from father to son since the death of Arcadius and succession of Theodosius II in 408, and no elevation of a mature son since, arguably, Gratian in 375. Maurice, a successful general, had succeeded Tiberius II, who had no male heirs, through co-option and marriage to Tiberius’ daughter; the early accessions of Theodosius as caesar and augustus clearly mark Maurice’s intent to cement direct succession as does, probably, the choice of the child’s name, harking back to the last direct familial succession. Childebert himself had been orphaned at 38 … illud etiam poscentis ut, quoniam parvulum nepotem nostrum vestrae dicione casus fortuitus ad urbem regiam detulit …, per Qui vos non permittat miseriae orfinitatis incurrere nec sine parentibus annos pupillares transigere – sic, genitore superstite, illam ad iuventutem, quam senior princeps desiderat, sub patris blando tegmine vos praestet adulescere et, ipso sustentante, pervenire maturam iubeat ad aetatem, ac tam diu vobis patris non recedat tuitio, donec vos ipsi feliciter succedatis in regnum …

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about age five by the murder of his father, king Sigibert, and remained under regencies for the next decade, the cause of political instability within the Austrasian kingdom.39 The letter of Brunhild to Constantina stresses that Childebert had now entered his majority (Ep. Austr. 44.1, cf. 46.2). The theme of Childebert’s letter exploits the political significance of the recent birth of Maurice’s first potential heir and successor. But the implied analogy with Athanagild’s situation is deceptive, for the circumstances by which Athanagild had been orphaned – the fall of his father Ermenegild in civil war in Spain, soon followed by the succession of Reccared, Ermenegild’s brother – meant that Athanagild would never be a royal heir (succession passed to Reccared’s son). His position was not analogous with either Theodosius or Childebert. The letter of Brunhild to Constantina is similarly structured with a parallel imagined scene of loss (quoted at n. 23 above). Brunhild beseeches Constantina to assist in the return of Athanagild on the basis that she, Constantina, would not wish to have her own son removed from her and so suffer the loss of both maternal joy in his presence and the political kudos of his dynastic birth; Brunhild describes by contrast the joy that Athanagild’s “return” would bring after the grief of his absence and Ingund’s death (Ep. Austr. 44.3). The analogy, between Brunhild herself and Constantina’s (imagined) loss, is again misleading: Athanagild had not been “removed” from his grandmother Brunhild or indeed from Ingund. The composer of this letter used a very loose analogy, of Brunhild and Constantina as dynastic mothers, in order to generate an imagined situation that was both emotive and, like the letter to Theodosius, politically sensitive. The letters are not deceitful – there would hardly be any point in being so – but the priority of the author was to create evocative scenarios, albeit somewhat loosely related to the political situation, rather than to mount substantive argumentation. The artifices of address and false analogy are accentuated by contrasts within each packet of letters. One contrast is apparent in both sets of letters: only Brunhild writes to the augustae Constantina and Anastasia (Ep. Austr. 29-30, 44). In the few extant comparable 39

Greg. Tur. Hist. 4.51; 5.1.

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exchanges between western and eastern courts between the Theodosians in the 450s and between the Gothic monarchs of Italy and Constantinople in the 530s40, both male and female rulers address empresses, but in the Austrasian packets, though Childebert writes to a considerable range of court figures, he sends no courtesy letter to either of the augustae at Constantinople. The omission – if it is not a loss in archival preservation or manuscript transmission – calls attention to Brunhild as counterpart to the augustae, both dowager empress and the mother of the imperial heir, and emphasises her epistolary persona as grieving mother, most emphatically in the second packet with the letter to Constantina imagining her loss of Theodosius. Other contrasts appear within the two packets, between the emotive letters to Athanagild in the first packet, to Theodosius and Constantina and the second, and the rest of the letters. Of the fifteen letters of the first packet, Athanagild’s situation is mentioned only in the two addressed to him, and only the second of those explicitly connects Athanagild’s situation with the current treaty negotiations with Maurice (Ep. Austr. 28.2). His detention may well have been raised with the other recipients in verbal audiences, but the emotional messages of the two letters to Athanagild are the only written confirmation of this issue in the first packet. All the letters raise, however allusively, the issue of a treaty between Constantinople and Metz presumably addressing military cooperation against the Lombards in Italy, although this is never specified in this packet of letters. Athanagild, a bargaining chip in the negotiations, constituted one component of discussions – the only component to be spelled out in any of the letters, albeit silently passed over in all the letters of this packet other than those addressed to the child himself.

40 Galla Placidia to Pulcheria (apud Leo I, Ep. 58) and Theodosius II to Galla Placidia and Licinia Eudoxia (apud Leo I, Ep. 63, 64); Cass. Variae 10.20; 10.23 (Theodahad to Theodora), 10.10; 10.21; 10.24 (Amalasuntha and Gudeliva to Theodora). Cf. n. 43 below (letters of Pope Hormisdas to Euphemia, augusta of Justin I, and Pope Gregory I to Constantina, augusta of Maurice).

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The letters of the second embassy operate differently: the situation of Athanagild is the explicit focus of all four letters of this packet, but again there is a contrast. The artifices of the letters of Childebert to Theodosius and of Brunhild to Constantina (Ep. Austr. 43, 44) include an address to a child, ambiguous language of “return,” extended emotive passages, and deceptive analogies. The shorter letter of the same embassy to the emperor Maurice himself is by contrast a straightforward request: “give orders for this servant of your Tranquillity to be released that he might come to us.” The factual neutrality of “come to us” (ad nos … venturum; Ep. Austr. 47.2) contrasts with the misleading pleas for Athanagild’s “return” to “his homeland and family” in the accompanying letters.41 The basis for the appeal to Maurice is not emotive but divine reward, more or less generic. Though the letter alludes to Theodosius (“may the eternal Majesty deign to fulfil your Tranquillity’s hopes for your own family and for the lives of your sons,” Ep. Austr. 47.2), this is no equivalent to the extended analogy in Childebert’s letter to Theodosius, and probably represents timely recognition of Constantinopolitan announcements of the recent imperial birth. Within the same packet of letters, emotive and artificial argumentation is employed in the letters to Theodosius and Constantina, while a neutral request is made to Maurice. A final contrast between the two packets may be noted: Brunhild’s address to Constantina in the second packet (Ep. Austr. 44) is highly emotional; her shorter letter to Constantina in the first packet (Ep. Austr. 29 or 30; the headings of the letters to the two augustae Constantina and Anastasia have been confused in transmission) consists purely of diplomatic protocol and concerns only the Byzantine-Frankish alliance. Clearly, within the context of each embassy, Brunhild’s two letters to Constantina served different purposes. The tenor of Brunhild’s letters to Athanagild and Constantina cannot be taken as a direct personal expression of emotion. Nor Similarly, Ep. Austr. 45, to the Patriarch of Constantinople, refers to Athanagild being “cheated of his mother” (de matre deceptum), factually accurate unlike the false analogies of orphaned heir or bereaved mother in the two preceding letters. 41

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can the letters be seen as attempts to sway the various recipients at Constantinople directly by generating pathos, even though some of the literary elements used in the letters – particularly the analogies in Ep. Austr. 43 and 44 – are reminiscent of classical rhetorical techniques aimed at arousing emotional responses through generating visiones, mental images of emotive scenarios.42 Apart from the differences in approach among the letters, raised above, if Brunhild’s address to Constantina were an absolute expression of grief or attempt to raise pathos, it would have been stunningly bad negotiation, confirming the value of Athanagild as a hold over the court of Metz. Instead, as components of an appeal to the emperor, the differences in tones between the letters serve different strategies.

COMMUNICATIVE STRATEGIES The function of these strategies can be elucidated by comparable approaches to emperors. Two aspects of negotiating strategy seem to lie behind the artifices and contrasts of the Austrasian letterpackets. One is an attempt to introduce constraints on the range of options available to Maurice when responding to the embassies, by exploiting the imperial consistorium as a forum to publicise issues. The other is the deployment of the non-textual nature of the medium of epistolography: the reading and performance of a letter as a dramatisation of the text, creating a tableau displaying the sender’s epistolary persona. Appeals to emperors in Constantinople from senior figures – imperial colleagues, senior bishops, western kings – were sometimes made through what may be called “collateral approaches.” In addition to direct communiqué to the emperor, letters and embassies were sent also to individuals who were regarded as having influence on the emperor’s decisions, either informally because of their familial connections to the emperor or formally on account of their official posts. The latter included particularly those civil, military, or ecclesiastical officials who served the emperor in an advisory capacity by virtue of membership in the imperial consistorium. In these cases, sets of multiple letters represent in effect a single 42

Webb (1997) 112-127.

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diplomatic démarche, attempting to mobilise support from individuals significant to the emperor. This practice is attested in a number of extant packets of letters addressed to emperors and their associates: correspondence between the eastern and western branches of the Theodosian dynasty in the mid-fifth century, and multiple packets of letters sent by Pope Hormisdas to the emperor Justin I, by the Gothic kings of Italy to Constantinople preserved in Cassiodorus’ Variae, and by Pope Gregory I to Maurice, which are broadly contemporary with the two packets of letters from the Austrasian court discussed here.43 The list of recipients in the two packets of Austrasian letters is the longest of these: Maurice’s family members (wife, father, mother-in-law, and nominally son), senior palatine officials, the patriarch of Constantinople, another bishop who was a close personal associate of Maurice, an apocrisiarius (the papal representative in Constantinople), and influential nobles in Sicily. In view of the public nature of ancient letters, it is unlikely that the “collateral” letters in any of these packets were intended to be confidential; their aim cannot have been secretly to persuade the “collateral” recipients of the validity of their cause, and clandestinely to cultivate their aid in arguing the case before the emperor. Rather, the dispatch of multiple letters and, more importantly, their accompanying oral messages to “collateral” recipients may be seen as a means of advertising an issue within an influential forum and of defining it in terms framed by the sender. We should imagine the intent to be not so much shaping a climate of opinion – actuTheodosians: apud Leo I, Epp. 55-58, 62-64 (two embassies, one from each court). Hormisdas: e.g. Collectio Avellana 148-150, 152-153, 155158 (one embassy, to the emperor Justin I, his nephew Justinian and augusta Euphemia, the Patriarch and archdeacon of Constantinople, senior palatine officials, and other noble men and women), similarly 168-170, 174, 176-180. Gothic rulers: Cass. Variae 10.8-10; 10.19-25; 10.32-35 (three embassies, the first two both to Justinian and Theodora, the last also to senior palatine officials). Gregory I: Regist. 3.61 and 3.64; 5.36-39; 6.14-17. Ep. Austr. 25-39, 43-45/47. Cf. Liber diurnus Romanorum pontificum (PLRE 105, 21-26) 1.1-12: forms of address for a range of senior palatine officials, rex, and senior clergy. Millar (2006) 214-224; Whitby (1988) 1415. 43

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ally swaying the “collateral” recipients by the validity of a cause – as shaping a climate of acknowledgement: making a view of the issue (here, the moral issue of exploiting family piety for strategic ends) “public” within the consistorium, in the hope of restraining the emperor to acknowledge and accommodate that view in order not to be seen, domestically, as unjust in his response. The letters to the children Athanagild and Theodosius display a variation on this strategy. Clearly these letters were not straightforward parts of “collateral approaches” since their recipients formed no part of the emperor’s consistorium. The letters address Athanagild’s situation not by direct request but by dramatising it through the persona of the child’s grieving grandmother and, less emotively, his uncle’s familial piety (parentillae … affectu; Ep. Austr. 28.1). It is here that the non-textual component of communication was paramount, the “living half” of the letter44: not only the oral message entrusted to the envoys to be delivered to the recipient and any subsequent discussions, but the actual reception of the letter itself. We do not generally know what the conventional procedure for the reception of ancient letters was: whether silent reading of the letter by the recipient, or reading out loud either by the envoy and letter-bearer, the recipient’s own clerical staff, or the recipient him- or herself, in audience or in private. But in the case of the letters to Athanagild and Theodosius at least, silent reading by the recipient is ruled out. The letters present themselves as scripts for oral performance: for one or two minutes, the reader must project out loud the emotive sentiments of Brunhild and Childebert, rehearsing not just their formal greetings and such argumentation as the letters contain but also the dramatic personae of grieving relatives. Like panegyrics, the text of the letters has to be regarded as only a script to guide a performance, not an act of communication complete in itself. The real communication was

44 Mullett (1990) 182, 183: “half the letter, the living half, is automatically missing …[a letter] was written, oral, material, visual, and it had its own ceremony, lost for us [almost] totally …”; also Mullett (1997) 37.

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oral and performed and, in the case of Brunhild’s persona of maternal grieving, dramatised.45 The exact audiences for the performance of the letters to Athanagild and Theodosius remain unknown, but the list of members of the imperial consistorium who received other letters in the packets is a likely guide. The Austrasian court would not have expected the Constantinopolitan recipients of the letters to be swayed simply by a naïve reading of Brunhild’s emotive addresses to Athanagild and Constantina. Rather, the letters comprise a form of argumentation by performance, redefining the issue of Athanagild’s captivity from one of strategic considerations to one of pietas. By demonstration and dramatisation rather than by argument, Athanagild is shifted from being a useful foreign political hostage to the loved object of bereaved relatives; his captivity becomes not a political situation but a moral one. That the letters to Athanagild and Theodosius cannot have been genuinely intended for their recipients but for another audience indicates by default that this dramatisation was intended to be displayed, to some extent publicised, and its moral issue disseminated. It was intended to generate an expectation, presumably throughout the court, not that the emperor was wrong to exploit the leverage of his hostage but that he would nevertheless have to acknowledge a definition of the situation as one of familial piety. In modern public policy debates through mass media, the point of strategically publicising an issue is not argumentation, to sway the opinion of a head of government directly by mounting arguments, but “agenda-setting” to ensure that the decision-maker is required to acknowledge wider discussion of the issue, albeit that public debate might frame the issue in different ways from those considered pertinent by the government. Publicity initiates “twostep” diffusion of communication, in which individual recipients of information in turn influence both peers and decision-makers simply by being aware of the issue. Such diffusion enables terms of debate to be shifted, and pressures decision-makers to acknowledge

45 On persona in ancient epistolography: Malherbe (1988) 7; Trapp (2003) 39-42; Cass. Variae 11 Praef. 2.

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other agenda.46 So with the emotive letters of Brunhild and Childebert: through the tableau of Brunhild’s grief, these dramatisations of familial pietas portray the issue of Athanagild as a moral one before, presumably, members of the emperor’s family and consistorium, with the aim of obliging the emperor either to acknowledge this portrayal of the issue (and acquiesce to the pleas of family ties) or to rebuff it before this forum. Two comparable communicative situations provide analogies for such dramatisation of issues in public tableaux. A similar if less emotive attempt to force an emperor’s decision through public appeal to an imperial infant is recorded in an anecdote from the Life of Porphyry of Gaza by Mark the Deacon, concerning Theodosius’ namesake, the emperor Theodosius II. Bishop Porphyry sought punitive legislation against non-Christians in Gaza, but was rebuffed by the emperor Arcadius, who was concerned to ensure the stability of an economically important region. Undaunted, and discreetly aided by Arcadius’ augusta Eudoxia, Porphyry used the occasion of a public parade to approach not the emperor but the recently-born infant Theodosius, who had been elevated as augustus at age one. Porphyry claimed to have “secured” the infant’s assent to his petition. Faced with this public exploitation of the “imperial” authority of the infant, his father the emperor Arcadius had to accede to the bishop’s request.47 The comparison is not exact, as Porphyry could claim to have received approval personally from the infant emperor, whereas Childebert could only mount an approach to Theodosius through his envoys; and the historicity of the text, let alone the events, is unclear.48 But the idea of this anecdote, of an imperial child as an opportunity to stage a public dramatisation of an issue as defined by the supplicant, is comparable to the letters of the Austrasian embassy. Closer to the epistolary situation of the Austrasian letters are two elegiac poems written, a generation earlier, by Venantius Fortunatus in the name of another former queen of the Merovingian dynasty, Radegund: The Ruin of Thuringia (De excidio Thoringiae) and Windahl et al. (2009) 69-93, 253-256. Mark the Deacon, Life of Porphyrius of Gaza 33-50. 48 See conveniently MacMullen (1984) 86-87. 46 47

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its shorter companion piece To Artachis (Ad Artachin).49 Radegund had been daughter of the king of the Thuringian kingdom, east of Gaul, when it was attacked and destroyed by the Merovingian king Lothar I ca. 530. Most members of the Thuringian royal family were killed in the assault, but Lothar brought Radegund to Gaul as booty and married her. After he killed her sole remaining brother, however, the horrified Radegund became a religious and founded an important monastery at Poitiers. From there, Radegund established a correspondence with Constantinople, remarkably negotiating with the emperor Justin II (r. 565-587) and his augusta Sophia for the gift to her nunnery of a fragment of the True Cross in ca. 568.50 Several poems written in Radegund’s name by the itinerant Italian poet Venantius Fortunatus were addressed to eastern recipients, including (beside a gratiarum actio for the relic to the imperial couple) the two elegiac poems. Both are addressed to male Thuringian relatives, Radegund’s cousin Amalfrid and Artachis, perhaps Amalfrid’s son. Amalfrid is known to have served in the eastern Roman army, a long-standing career-option for displaced male members of “barbarian” ruling families.51 The two poems, in particular The Ruin of Thuringia, recall Brunhild’s letters to Athanagild and Constantina in three ways: the persona of a woman grieving for multiple relatives, imagery of refracted gaze through letters, and artifices of epistolary situation.52 In a scenario that explicitly equates Thuringia’s fall with that of Troy (Troia … Toringa), Radegund is cast as a captive foreign woman (barbara femina, femina rapta) expressing her grief at the deaths of her family, and her longing for her cousin Amalfrid. Her 49 Venantius Fortunatus, De excidio Thoringiae and Ad Atrachin = Appendix I and III, in Venantius Fortunatus, Opera poetica, ed. Leo (1881) 271275, 278-279. On Venantius and Radegund: George (1992) 161-177; for the two poems: 164-166. 50 PLRE 3.1072-1074. 51 PLRE 3.50-51; 3.131. 52 Malaspina (1998) 81-88; and (2001) 296-297 n. 826, suggests that Ep. Austr. 43-45, 47 were also composed by Venantius Fortunatus, based on the incompletely-transmitted titulus of Ep. Austr. 43 (dicta furtuna ad filio imperatoris) and verbal reminiscences (cf. n. 54 below). While attractive, the identification is not conclusive.

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tragic early life parallels that of Briseis, Achilles’ captive barbarian concubine and sole survivor of the royal family of Lyrnessus slaughtered by the Greek as part of the siege of Troy. Briseis, though Achilles’ booty, was appropriated by Agamemnon, and Achilles’ subsequent resentment is the focus of the opening book of the Iliad and stimulus of the following drama, as any Byzantine reader would have know well. Fortunatus almost certainly used Ovid’s Heroides, including Heroide 3, an appeal to Achilles in the persona of Briseis, as a model.53 Some vocabulary is common to both Radegund’s poems and Brunhild’s letters, most likely simply the function of similar themes.54 But it is Radegund’s persona of grieving queenly woman (cousin and sister rather than mother and grandmother), and the invocation of familial death as the cause for deep longing for a far-removed relative, that strikingly resonates with the epistolary persona of Brunhild.55 The Ruin of Thuringia plays, like Brunhild’s letter to Athanagild though with less complexity, with the conceit of a missive recalling the faces not only of the sender but also of other relatives – the refractive gaze. Because a letter reflects its sender in the same way that a father’s face is reflected in his son’s, Radegund begs of Amalfrid a letter that might depict his face and those of other ancestors and relatives. If he sends her a letter, he will not totally be absent from her; moreover, a letter from Amalfrid will be “a little” (pars) like her lost brother speaking to her.56 All these images have echoes, though not exact replicas, in Brunhild’s letters; the (poetic) epistolary medium is similarly imagined as a visual vehicle for bridging separation. Finally, artifices of epistolary situation: The Ruin of Thuringia presents itself as an address from Radegund to Amalfrid, somewhere in the 53 Homer, Iliad 1; Ovid, Heroides 3. On Fortunatus’ use of Ovid: Bulst (1963) 369-380, at 374-377; more generally, Dronke (1984) 86. 54 Malaspina (2001) 300-301 nn. 855, 861, 865, 871 (most closely ab amplexu matris; crucior: De excidio Thur. ll. 27, 73, Ep. Austr. 44.3). 55 The Ruin of Thuringia, like Brunhild’s letter to Athanagild, also makes explicit a connection between the sender’s familial grief and political events: mihi privatus publicus ille dolor; De excidio Thur. l. 34; cf. gentem ... genus, Ad Artichin ll. 5-6. 56 De excidio Thur. ll. 73-80. On the letter as a visual medium, cf. l. 169: Radegund’s letter will “see” those she loves (haec pagina cernat amantes).

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East.57 The poem has been read as an element of Radegund’s negotiations with the eastern imperial court, in part because the two poems are transmitted with the gratiarum actio to Justin II and Sophia, intended as a demonstration of Radegund’s membership of the cultured elite of the period, deploying epic verse to recast her personal history into a lament invoking Homer (and Ovid’s Heroides). In this strategy, Amalfrid is employed as a more or less fictitious addressee.58 If that reading is correct, then the poem parallels quite closely the function of Brunhild and Childebert’s letters to the children Athanagild and Theodosius. It too was a communicative strategy intended to disseminate to the imperial court, through dramatisation of the grieving persona of the sender, a particular definition of an issue.59 *** The two packets of Austrasian royal letters have features that appear anomalous: the addresses to children, the differences of tone and presentation of facts within each packet, and perhaps most strikingly the emotional cast of Brunhild’s letters to Athanagild and Constantina. These features, by virtue of being unusual in ancient correspondence, offer clues to how the mechanics of the two embassies were intended to operate. So too does the context of the “emotive” letters in larger packets of letters addressed to “collateral” addressees around Maurice. Beyond personal expression or literary tropes, they are elements of communication through the epistolary situation: attempts to effect a response from a distance. The text of an ancient letter represents only a small part of the communication of an embassy. Specific verbal messages entrusted to the envoys to be delivered to each recipient, informal discussion, the protocol of audience and hospitality, the status and comportment of the envoys, accompanying gifts, and the visual and mate57

lem.

De excidio Thur. ll. 97-100: Persia, Byzantium, Alexandria, or Jerusa-

George (1992) 165. Malaspina (2001) 296-297 n. 824 identifies as analogues Jerome, Ep. 128.1-2; Salvian, Ep. 4.15, 26, both claiming to be written on behalf of a child. These letters represent a different epistolary ploy: a nominal sender rather than nominal recipient. 58 59

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rial form of the letter itself all constituted substantial or semiotic components of the function of an embassy. In “diplomatic” or political communications such as the Austrasian letters, or the letters of the Gothic rulers of Italy preserved in Cassiodorus’ Variae, letters rarely carried the burden of substantial argumentation. Instead they served as “letters of credence” to validate the envoys and letter-bearers, and established the tone of discussions intended by the sender. In the letters of Brunhild and Childebert, however, a further communicative strategy can be identified. Their letters to the children Athanagild and Theodosius and the augusta Constantina seek to exploit oral reading of the letters (by whomever had this task) as a performance, deploying the letters as scripts dramatising a figure familiar from tragedy: the persona of grieving mother.60 Though an emotive figure, it is unlikely that this image was intended to win a positive response from Maurice simply through a direct appeal to pathos. Instead, the long list of “collateral” recipients of letters of the first packet, and the shorter but focused list of the second embassy, may represent the true audience of the emotive letters, and suggest that the function of these letters was to disseminate the images of Brunhild as grieving mother and Athanagild as orphaned child amongst the members of Maurice’s consistorium – again, not for direct appeal to pathos but to advertise the issue of Athanagild’s captivity as a moral, rather than strategic, one. If this interpretation is valid, the aim of the letters was to use the emperor’s closest advisors as a forum within which the empire’s strategic interests would be balanced against the emperor’s image as a just ruler. The letters offer the possibility of insight into their function, the mechanics of communication. They also raise other, historical and political questions, but it is not in the nature of these sources to answer these speculations. Why did Brunhild and Childebert attempt, repeatedly, to secure Athanagild’s release from Constantinople as part of the diplomatic and military negotiations between Austrasia and the eastern empire? Genuine familial feeling and the desire to recover the child of the lost Ingund, who presumably 60 On the currency of tragic imagery in Late Antiquity: Easterling & Miles (1999).

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would have had no future in Gothic Spain, may well have played their part.61 But two other possible factors also suggest themselves: a desire to undercut Maurice’s use of the hostage for political pressure by turning the issue against him, and nervousness at the possession by the east Roman court of a member of the Merovingian dynasty. The Gallic kingdoms were racked by civil war, at almost the same time as the events in Spain leading to Ingund’s captivity, with the attempted usurpation of one Gundovald, a member of the dynasty who had lived in Constantinople and may have been sent to Gaul with imperial support.62 We have no way of knowing if either of these factors influenced the court at Metz. Was Athanagild ever released from Constantinople? Gregory of Tours, effectively our only narrative source since later accounts derive substantially from his, barely mentions Athanagild and displays no awareness that the child had been taken to the eastern capital. But Gregory’s silences are profound, idiosyncratic, and often purpose-

61 Note however the different reactions to the consequences of Ingund’s death recorded by Gregory of Tours. After the death of the Gothic king Leovigild, his successor Reccared (Ermenegild’s brother) sought to reaffirm the alliance between the Gothic and Frankish monarchies by proposing to marry Chlodosind, the younger sister of Ingund and Childebert, and offering to take oaths and pay 10,000 solidi to clear himself of suspicion that he had any involvement in Ingund’s death. Guntram, the Frankish king of Burgundia and paternal uncle of Ingund, consistently refused, wishing instead to attack Spain in revenge for Ingund’s death; the court of Brunhild and Childebert, however, accepted Reccared’s proposal. Greg. Tur. Hist. 9.1; 9.16; 9.20; 9.25; 9.28; 9.31-32; Rouche (1986) 106107, 113 n. 44. 62 Greg. Tur. Hist. 6.24; 7.10; 7.26-27; 7.30-43; Goubert (1956) 29-68; Goffart (1957); Ewig (1983); Bachrach (1994). Dumézil (2008) 273-279 suggests that Brunhild wanted Athanagild, a descendant of the Gothic as well as Merovingian royal house, in order to impose him by Frankish force on the Gothic throne of Spain, cf. Nelson (1991) 474, but she would have been naïve not to assume that the Constantinopolitan court had thought of the same possibility well before.

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ful, not necessarily evidence for the non-existence of an event.63 We do not know Athanagild’s fate.64

63 Goffart (1988) 138, 159-164 (note that Gregory’s narrative ends in 594: 184 and n. 308); cf. Nelson (1991) 470-471 for a significant silence concerning Brunhild and Ingund. 64 Versions of this paper have been presented in 2010 at the Medieval Academy of America meeting at Yale University, The Australian Association for Byzantine Studies conference at University of New England, and the Macquarie University Ancient History Research Seminar; my thanks to the organisers and participants of those meetings, and to Walter Goffart, Antonina Harbus, Alexander Callander Murray, and Alice Tyrrell for helpful advice. The research for this paper was supported by the Australian Research Council.

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APPENDIX Epistulae Austrasicae 25-39, 43-45/47: The two “packets” of letters, with paired letters indicated. Letters partly translated in the text are indicated*. Embassy A of Childebert II to Maurice 25 Childebert to Maurice 26 Brunhild to Maurice 27 Brunhild to Athanagild* 28 Childebert to Athanagild* 29 Brunhild to the augusta (Constantina?)65 30 Brunhild to the augusta (Anastasia?) 31 Childebert to the Patriarch John 32 Childebert to the apocrisarius Honoratus 33 Childebert to bishop Domitianus 34 Childebert to the magister officiorum Theodorus 35 Childebert to the quaestor John 36 Childebert to the curator Megata 37 Childebert to Paul (Maurice’s father) 38 Childebert to the patricia Italia (in Sicily) 39 Childebert to the patricius Venantius (in Sicily) Embassy B of Childebert II to Maurice 43 Childebert to Theodosius (Maurice’s son)* 44 Brunhild to the augusta Constantina* 45 Childebert to the Patriarch John 47 Childebert to Maurice

65 The sole manuscript has not transmitted the names of the two augustae addressed in Ep. Austr. 29 and 30 clearly; cf. Malaspina (2001) 280 n. 618, 281 n. 628.

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8. THOMAS S. BURNS, “NEGOTIATING A SERVICEABLE IDENTITY AND A PATHWAY TO POWER IN LATE ANTIQUITY” THOMAS S. BURNS EMORY UNIVERSITY [email protected] ABSTRACT For most people in late antiquity the top layers of officialdom lay well beyond reach, and this fact reinforced their need to find alternative avenues to power at the local level, where assistance with matters of daily immediacy might provide comfort and support. This paper explores how men and women used various means to achieve that end: in the naming of their children, in joining groups, in dress, in private rituals, and in the manner in which they chose to build their houses and bury their loved ones. Despite its broadening at the order of Caracalla, citizenship remained part of the mix of personal identifiers for decades after 212, but it was increasingly relegated to formulaic occasions, not much used by ordinary people. Numerous alternative means of establishing serviceable identity rushed in to fill the role. Whereas Roman citizenship per se lost its cachet, an equally compelling substitute was long in forthcoming, replaced by an exciting host of alternatives in a world where employing multiple identifiers – a practice always true to some degree – better serviced those needing support in their local communities. The era of personal experimentation in using a wide variety of personal identities came to a close in some areas in the former Western Roman Empire by the opening of the sixth century, and almost everywhere by the eighth as Christianity broaden and depended its base. As in today’s era of global migra167

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tion there were purists, experimentalists, and hybrids all along the way. Available data are slanted somewhat towards foreign-born soldiers and other recent immigrants, largely because Roman law made clear that officials had to keep closer track of their status. This imbalance in the evidence is especially the case for the practice of changing names, since indigenous Romans had no obvious reasons to do so. Furthermore, in several ways the experiences of soldiers and non-Romans in the fourth century were precursors for those seemingly more Roman in the fifth and sixth centuries, when even those long time residents in the Empire were confronted with new choices in terms of personal and familial affiliation. Despite the bias of the sources towards the military, there are other examples with wide currency that reveal broad societal trends. In the essay that follows, I have generally excluded those who stood on the top rungs of the social ladder, for their cases are rather well discussed in the literature. Even though most of us probably do not think much about it, access to those in power concerns us today just as it did in late antiquity and in ways that may surprise us. Rarely do we have access to top governmental officials. Rarely do modern soldiers have entré to the top levels of the chain-of-command. For most of us, access to power means calling the police or a low level city official. Some of us might have the temerity to ask our supervisors for an increase in salary. We schedule appointments with teachers to discuss our children’s alleged inappropriate conduct. Anglicans and Catholics are expected to confess sins to their priests for referral to the highest authority. We belong to groups that extend our reach by magnifying our numbers and resources. Parallels are not hard to find among ordinary members of late Roman society, for whom the top layers of officialdom also lay well beyond reach. And so, they too needed to negotiate alternative avenues to power. Among the various means to achieve that end were: the naming of their children, joining groups, dress, private rituals, and choices in the manner of building their houses and in burying their loved ones. Context is always important. Political and economic structures provide some parameters, but ancestral traditions, and religious practice are equally or even more important at the personal and familial levels. A choice of what to wear, how to act, even what scent to apply or not, is likely conditioned by whom one expects to see and in what circumstance. Of course, one can choose to make a

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statement of independence and rebellion by deliberately dressing or acting outrageously. The name that one gives a child can set them on a course for the rest of their lives, as is immortalized by the ballad, “A Boy Named Sue” by the late Country & Western singing legend Johnny Cash. Choosing a name that is typically associated with a religious tradition or ethnic group is very much alive and well. What if we deliberately choose a name commonly associated with an ethnic group to which we do not belong? Are we making a statement? Again, Romans were no different. Their choice of identity was also conditioned by the setting in which they chose to present it and the manner that they negotiated its acceptance. Different circumstance typically meant and means deploying a different persona. The Roman Empire was never a unified cultural sphere, but rather an infinite variety of localities, mostly rural and therefore mostly elusive to our inquiries. So too were barbarian groups different from one another. Each local setting had a claim to uniqueness despite its similar economy and relative isolation from other areas. Those for whom the horizons visible from their hamlet defined their world – one far removed from Romans and Roman traffic – would have failed Tacitus’s test of civility. For Tacitus and the Roman elite, Romanitas was civilitas. Yet non-urbanites always comprised a very significant portion of the population of the Empire, doubtless the majority. This largely un-Romanized hinterland remained a deep reservoir of cultural tokens awaiting resurrection and deployment among civilians. Only in the most basic ways did the choices available to urbanites relate to men and women in remote rural areas. Life in a Roman villa, in origin a Mediterranean architectural design and lifestyle, fell between these poles – that of the village and that of the city – but it was much closer to the latter than the former, at least until around 400. Late Roman imperial villas were cities in all but name, complete with offices, granaries, mausolea, audience halls, large bath complexes and impressive private residential quarters. Although unintended, one emperor’s decision turned out to be monumentally important in redining individuals and communities within the late antique pyramid of power and influence. In 212, Septimius Severus’s son, the emperor Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Augustus, better known by his nickname Caracalla, issued the following edict:

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With but one category excepted, all free men and women were now citizens. Although local citizenship was specifically preserved, within a short time the many gradients of urban status such as municipia and colonia too disappeared, since the relationship between residence and citizenship was also dissolved by Caracalla’s action. There were still some people whose backgrounds or criminal records would have excluded them from the citizenship, so too the newest immigrants, the dediticii. Slaves were excluded. The document reverses the traditional questions. An individual was now regarded as a citizen, and the exceptions were non-citizens. This inversion of tradition had been long in evolving, and in that sense the edict merely acknowledged the shift. Nonetheless, as recently as Caracalla’s father, Septimius’s raising the status of Aquincum (modern Budapest) from a municipium to a colonia attests, distinctions of urban rank and citizenship still had meaning just a few years prior to Caracalla’s pronouncement. Townsmen had been proud of the enhanced honor that their municipal elevation carried, and they had broadcast it throughout the empire. Ultimately towns and their citizens were to take equal pride in the prowess of their The edict (the Constitutio Antoniniana) is known only from fragments and references to it in classical authors. Some like Cassius Dio (76.9-10) were decidedly jaundice in their views of its merits and purpose, claiming that it was just a mechanism to raise taxes since Romans alone paid the inheritance tax of 5% destined for the troops. It was still remembered in the Digesta (1.5.17) of Justinian (r. 527-565) as marking the moment when everyone living in the Empire became a citizen. See particularly Sasse (1958). 1

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bishops and saints, but that transition took at least three centuries to conclude. Perhaps Caracalla considered how Rome’s very complex legal and bureaucratic procedures would be simplified by his act, as they indeed were, but his motives given in the text are vague. The name Marcus Aurelius had long ago become a very common name as auxiliaries receiving their citizenship upon retirement had taken the name of the reigning emperor, Marcus Aurelius Antonius.2 Many of Caracalla’s new citizens now took up his official name, also Marcus Aurelius, as their epitaphs attest. Frequently these men can be distinguished from one another by reference to their traditional names present on the inscription as well. Henceforth, however, the use of the old Roman tri-nominal names that had so clearly indicated citizenship waned rapidly, since being a citizen soon lost much of its distinctiveness.3 Among the most controversial aspects of the edict is the exclusion from citizenship of the dediticii, which can be most simply translated as “those having recently submitted (or dedicated) themselves to the Empire.” Within this category would have fallen any new barbarians “received” into Roman service. Many of these barbarians, however, had not been technically defeated and had therefore not “submitted,” but rather had petitioned for admission. Even in relatively early Republican times allied cities “surrendered” before being granted municipal status within the Roman alliance 2 As Le Bohec (1994) 77-78, notes, new citizens routinely adopted their Roman nomen from the magistrate presiding over their ceremony of naturalization, and for soldiers this person was legally their “commanderin-chief”, the emperor. 3 The fact that throughout the third century emperors and claimants often took the name of Marcus Aurelius as a part of their official nomenclature no longer would have left such a mark on the official names of the retiring auxiliaries because of the rapid decline in the use of Roman trinomial names after the edict of 212. For example, upon his acsension to the throne in 284 Diocletian supplemented his name Diocles by including the names of his most famous predecessors in his new imperial name, Marcus Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus. Moreover, there are a few examples of barbarian soldiers taking the name Marcus Aurelius well into the fourth century.

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system. Republican slaves who had been convicted of a crime were called dediticii and could never become citizens, but third-century barbarian recruits were not slaves. Indeed dediticii were fully free and could own slaves. One of the few legal restrictions placed upon dediticii that had carried over from the Republican era and was destined to continue far beyond the third century was the prohibition upon their making legal testaments; that is they could neither inherit nor dispose of property through wills. The edict makes no provision for the barbarian recruits themselves ever to become citizens, and we know from much later legal sources that units kept records indicating those with the status of dediticii. Their children would probably not have carried these restrictions, since the edict seems clear enough that anybody born free inside the Empire was now a citizen. Outside of the army, no one probably much cared to ask whether you were a dediticius. Inside the barracks it may have mattered for something more, but of that we have no clues. Not bothering to make the standard presentation of one’s Romanness by noting one’s citizenship also meant not necessarily Latinizing your name or, as auxiliaries especially had done earlier, having two names, one in order to pursue a career in the military or other Roman trade and another for hearth and home. Now the Latin name could be omitted. Increasingly we find officials who recalled that their ancestors had been from such and such a barbarian group long after the same officials could have adopted the Roman practice of declaring in which city they held their citizenship. Along the frontiers the Edict, in effect, announced that relations between Romans and barbarians had become routine. Roman citizenship thereby gradually became more important for those not having it than to those who now found themselves being just one of the millions. The special category for the newest arrivals by virtue of its formality attests that the frontiers had created a zone of sustained interaction in which new immigrants were to be expected on a regular basis. The frontier operated as a gateway to the Empire, the army as the gatekeeper. Many new recruits were needed to stock the armies, and a majority of barbarian immigrants found new homes in the camps. Others held a variety of jobs in and around the nearby towns; a few needed asylum. New arrivals and those there before them had cause to both separate from and integrate others into their lives, and citizenship or its lack were less useful in this regard than heretofore. All frontier areas were not the

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same. Some areas remained sparsely populated, but most frontier provinces had the populations with all the requisite skills and talents to allow them to become essentially independent from the old Mediterranean core and some even from each other. People of all ranks and immigrant status suddenly needed more useful and personal means to identify themselves than citizenship. As a term, cives Romanus still had a long run ahead of it, but not without substantial new meanings. The edict of 212, also set in train a series of other terminological shifts only marginally related to citizenship. One was that henceforth the term peregrini (foreigners) was applied only to the barbarians, and mainly to those living outside the Empire. Since by then revolts of native populations were matters of the distant past, the edict sharpened the legal demarcation between barbarians and Romans. Essentially it declared that citizens lived inside, barbarians outside the Empire. The ambiguity of the non-Roman provincial population was eliminated. To that extent alone the status “barbarian” was made clear. The vast majority of barbarians lived beyond the frontiers and beyond the grasp, but not always the reach, of Roman administration. Thus a sharpened legal demarcation existed on paper between two groups – citizens on the inside and barbarians outside – but reality was different, for life on the frontiers was well advanced towards creating a single society. Controlled immigration of outsiders into the Empire was constant and accelerated throughout the remainder of Roman history. As citizenship waned as the primary Roman identification, other traditional forms of identity remained while new ones were created. Before exploring the latter, we need to approach the question of how people in general negotiate “identity.” Most scholars would probably accept two basic requirements for establishing a personal identity: (1) a self-declaration of belonging to a group; and (2) acceptance of that declaration by that group. If the declarer does not live up to whatever it is that the group accepting his declaration expects, then the members will typically withdraw their endorsement of the declaration and so end the effective affiliation. As a result the declarer is forced into a set of de-

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fined actions and interactions.4 These choices are, however, restricted by culture and circumstance. Nor is it to be expected that all choices are conscious acts or that one identity served for all occasions. Whenever we can see people seeking to identify themselves with or disassociate themselves from a group, we are on to something important because such choice carried risks as well as rewards. Being a Roman or barbarian was never quite as static as the legal sources make it seem. Even in the late Empire, when “foreigner” was largely synonymous with “barbarian,” as a term, “barbarian” never had a legal status as did “citizen.” “Barbarian” was never an ethnographic term and was only rarely used by nonRomans to describe themselves. Among the few such cases comes an undated inscription of a certain Murranus, who calls himself a barbarian but also notes that he was born in Pannonia. He was perhaps the son of newly admitted barbarian settlers, dediticii, or a member of a small group of by-passed people in the interior. Such isolated groups were regarded as “barbarians,” that is outsiders, throughout Roman history.5 In other words, very few claimed that he or she was a barbarian, and claiming was and remains the requisite self-declaration of personal identity. Nonetheless there were occasions when relating yourself to non-Roman traditions could be useful and be employed in a way that did not challenge the dominant culture. Place of birth was a standard part of how Romans identified themselves. Prior to 212, it was used to validate a “declaration” of citizenship by linking it to a specific city, the status of which in terms of citizenship was made clear in whether it was a colonia or a municipia. Even emperors abandoned the use of trinomials. If we consider Flavius as an indicator of rank rather than as a name, no fourth-century emperor used a trinomial name, not even on official Barth (1969) remains fundamental. On Murranus, see Mancini (1933). For examples of such by-passed barbarians, see Amory (1997) 21. The term gentes could be used to describe such people, living in isolation. They were thus “outsiders” to Roman culture and political control, despite that fact that they lived within the Empire’s administrative boundaries. 4 5

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pronouncements.6 Although the use of trinomial names dropped out of regular usage, place of birth remained useful. The practice of using a single name plus place of birth became completely sufficient as is made clear in the surviving names of holy men and women, for example, St. Martin of Tours, whose early military career followed that of his father, so too St. Germanus of Auxerre. The name Germanus will receive special consideration shortly. Hundreds of inscriptions confirm this pattern, even though the use of inscriptions themselves became increasingly rare in the course of the fourth and fifth centuries. At least the first generation of immigrants into the Empire could not use place of birth as part of their identification, since Roman custom demanded that be a city of origin, one where you appeared on the tax rolls. New immigrants had no such registry. Nonetheless, they had a similar need to confirm their integrity based on lengthy ancestry rather than residence. They found solutions in the use of ethnic affiliation: that is, in announcing their group ancestry as well as their family forebears. “Place” was thereby suggested within the context of the very shaky knowledge of geography that most Romans carried with them. There were many points in a Roman – barbarian (that is, nonRoman) relationship when each of the steps of negotiating an identity came into play: that is, of declaration, acceptance, and modification. This was particularly clear in instances of naming and changing names, and less obviously, in how people chose to dress. Since the group name that outsiders brought with them into the Empire when admitted (granted receptio) provided an important context for establishing a personal identity within the Empire, we need to sketch, albeit very briefly, the pace and general direction of group formation occurring beyond Rome’s jurisdictional limits. Many of the ethnographic topoi used to describe them during the Roman Republic were still standard fare for Claudian writing at the turn of the fifth century.7 Beginning around the time of Marcus Mócsy (1964). Claudianus, De cons. Stil. 1.188-217, (c. 400) where the classic topoi are put to use once again. Claudianus took many of his allusions to barbarians from Tacitus. 6 7

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Aurelius and the Marcomannic wars, Romans faced the tasks of living with and occasionally fighting barbarian peoples whose names often reflected their confederate nature and whose internal political structures were more durable and capable than those of previous generations. This process of group consolidation continued. Alamanni, Gothi, Franci, all appeared by the end of the third century and evolved alongside Rome for the remainder of the Empire, attracted and held there by opportunities for trade and employment, and not only in the army. Near the end of the fourth century Ammianus Marcellinus reports that virtually all Germans lived within ten miles of the Rhine.8 The alleged power and homogeneity of barbarians in the age of Ammianus were still essentially elements of imperial propaganda rather than statements of fact.9 Dealing with Roman authorities in various economic exchanges, not just the rare military confrontations, required some sort of barbarian political structures, since Rome often restricted access to its markets.10 Once inside the Empire, barbarians used these group identities, developed outside the Empire, as part of their own personal identification. In the process they modified the substance and purpose of the ethnic labels themselves, appellations once owing much to Roman diplomacy. Historians, like the ancient authors themselves, delight in telling of those barbarians who, after years of service in the Roman armies, went home. Some may have brought Roman-style housing

Amm. Marcel. 17.1.8. Sack (1986). The Gothic names Trevingi and Greutingi have long been thought to have had geographic origins (people of the forest and of the plains respectively); Ammianus reports the use of boundary marks among the Burgundians and the Alamanni, 15.4.1; 18.2.15; Julius Caesar had specifically called attention to their absence among the Germans of his generation, bell. Gall.4.1. 10 Tacitus, Germania 41.1, provides an early example, stating that the civitas of the Hermunduri were the only ones allowed to cross into Raetia. Constantine the Great’s limitations on access to markets on the Danube is a particularly well-documented decision in later Roman history. This was surely one of the roles associated with the maintenance of small strongholds opposite most important river crossings throughout the Empire. 8 9

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ideas back to their native villages upon discharge.11 But what were some of the factors determining whether a person of barbarian ancestry, who did not go home, chose to disclose his past? Perhaps we need to recall that without the desire to hold onto a barbarian heritage, we would not realize that a great many Roman men and women were of barbarian ancestry at all. Some kept track of their family origins for many decades after the initial settlement in the Empire. The case of Maximinus, praetorian prefect of the Gauls, 371-376, comes to mind. Maximinus recalled that his Carpic ancestors had settled in Pannonia, probably during the reign of Diocletian, at a place called Vicus Carpi. Obviously his forbearers had seen no reason to hide their origins, since their entire settlement was initially established from members of the same group. That their descendant knew this is a bit surprising, however.12 Unless you were born on Roman soil of barbarian parents or were a slave, as a new immigrant, you first passed into Roman jurisdiction when you stood before a Roman officer on the frontier. Men seeking long-term employment enlisted in the Roman army. Despite imperial iconography and the efforts of the late Roman panegyrists to paint a different picture, such enlistments were commonplace, not something that the emperors themselves cared to supervise. Local commanders recruited from barbarians and provincials as the need required with the percentage of Germanic barbarians increasing over time as provincials found other vocations more tempting. Throughout most of Roman history, recruiting barbarians on the frontiers from time to time created entirely new units. Some “Germans,” a term used by Julius Caesar with some precision but generally used by Roman authors, as the Greeks had before them, to note a general category rather than to recall a specific historical group, served as members of the imperial 11 Arminius is the most famous of the early examples, but the tradition continued for a very long time. The case of Mallobaudes, a Frank whose Roman service was interrupted by a brief sojourn as a Frankish “king,” comes to mind, see Ammianus, 30.3.7; 31.10.6-10. On the Roman villas in barbaricum, see for example the excavations at Frankenwinheim, Rosenstock (1984); Pitts (1987) and Kolník (1999). 12 Amm. Marcel. 28.1.5.

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guard from its early days.13 Since “German” was used from Caesar’s time in victory celebrations and on related coin issues, the name became commonplace for non-Romans, those also called barbarians, the terminology that today is used among English speakers in order to resolve the problem of equating die Germanen and die Deutschen. Barbarians soon found ways to work themselves into the local economies of the Roman camps and settlements.14 There are extremely few cases of Germano-Roman soldiers betraying their units to relatives outside even if we count warning them to hide while a Roman raid purged their village. A curious and undated inscription underscores that, like us, people in late antiquity were comfortable bearing multiple identities. Although not specifically dated, the epitaph certainly cannot be earlier than the opening of the fourth century when the Franks first appears in Roman records. Its place of origin is Aquincum. The text provides a personal affirmation of complex identity and reads Francus ego cives Romanus miles in armis. “A Frank, I am a Roman citizen and a soldier in arms”. The use of “cives Romanus” here is a bit of a puzzle, perhaps as a dediticius he had had to earn it and so felt deeply honored, but what is clear is that for this soldier what for us might seem like a potential conflict of interest between his birth heritage and occupation was most definitely not.15 Gender has always been central to identity. Barbarian women entering the Empire often did so as the consorts or wives of Ro13 Speidel (1994). The significance in the archaeological record was first noted by Werner (1936), and subsequently detailed by him and others. A Dagualdus was a member of the Cohort I Pannoriorum stationed at Housesteads in Britain and his coniux Pusinna (CIL 7.692). In the context of the discussion above, a few men began to note their Gothic heritage on inscriptions during the late third century and early fourth centuries (CIL 12.2444 from Aquae Sabaudicae in Savoy, a Vetticus Guticus). 14 MacMullen (1963); and Burns (2003) 309-373. 15 CIL 3.3576. Claudius Gothicus issued the first coins with a specific barbarian group named. Constantine I holds that honor for the Franks, but that this inscription is from Aquincum, suggests that it dates to well after Constantine, almost certainly to the second half of the fourth century.

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man soldiers disobeying the oft-repeated laws against marrying barbarians. Women were often better positioned to display their ancestry in their dress than were men, especially those men in the Roman army. While their husbands were linked to careers, typically women were more comfortable reinforcing family and personal heritage.16 Some barbarians were slaves.17 Each person would have recalled their immigration in personal terms, but analytically they fall into three categories: (1) those recruited into a specialized unit predominantly from one ethnic group; (2) those recruited singularly or in small bands and immediately dispersed into several existing units; and (3) slaves. Whether the newcomers held on to their birth names was up to them as was the choice and use of a cognomen that revealed an ethnic connection. Slaves were occasionally named for their geographic origin as well as their ethnic group. For example, Suebus Germanus or the twelve-year old boy Gaepidius Theodorus remembered by his mother a domestic slave.18 An inscription from Virunum, capital of Noricum, probably dating to the later part of the second century records the death of one Vibennius Primitius, whose mother was Quintilla Peucina. The name Peucina suggests that she was from the Peucini, the people of Peuce, and that she used this identity as her nickname. Her daughter, Vibennius’s sister, was Auicia, similarly not Latin in origin.19 On the Celtic world, see especially, Wells (1998) but with many insights more generally applicable, notably his discussion of gender and family. Dress has long been recognized among barbarian women as especially distinctive of the group identity. On the difference in fibulae and their placement on garments among women in some barbarian groups, for example, see the discussion by Bierbrauer (1971) 134-165. 17 See further Blockley (1982). On the very limited, and often punitive use of such marital prohibitions, see Sivan (1996). 18 CIL 6.6236 from Rome, Suebus from Germania or the house of Germanus, see further Kajanto (1965) 51 with more examples. Gaepidius Theodorus by his mother Marciana a domestic slave (verna), Scrip. Maffei, Museo Veronese 259.5, Rome, undated. There are quite a few inscriptions from the second half of the fourth century on which some form of Goth occurs as a cognomen, e.g. CIL 8.23040. Some barbarians married slaves who are remembered only by their Roman names, CIL 6.10951. 19 Neither Kajanto (1965) nor Schulze (1933) list it as a Latin name. 16

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The father was Primitius, probably a Roman soldier, whose consort went by the fittingly Roman name Quintilla but was apparently known in the family as Peucina. A clear example of using an ethnic group name as a personal one among both males and females comes from late third or early fourth century Ostia, where lie Gepidius Hermes and Gepidia Irene.20 These are also examples of the hybridization of identity. In a different context, a son might wish to recall his father, who had gone by an ethnic name, and thereby link himself to this ancestral group.21 If your barbarian parents gave you a Latin birth name, occasions such as their funerary monument might be an appropriate place to note an old tribal identification in the place where more Latinized Romans might have chosen a place of birth. In such cases we would otherwise never suspect barbarian parentage.22 Inscriptions attest to over 200 men with the cognomen Germanus and over 40 women named Germana. Germanicus was a much rarer appellation with only seven examples, all from members of the imperial elite celebrating their victories.23 Of the inciCIL 14.1091. The example of a certain signifer in the cohors I. Belgarum buried near Humac in western Herzegovina in the second half of the second century: [DAS]SIUS BASTARNI / [F(ilius) DO]/MO MAEZAEUS / [MILE]S COH(ortis) I BELGARUM, Fiebiger & Schmidt (1917) 17 (no. 13). Dassius was the son of Bastarnus, who was a member of the Mezaei, an indigenous group that was organized as a peregrine civitas after the Roman occupation in, what is today, western Bosnia and Krajina. Or see CIG 1.428 where a certain Amphion, noted that his father was an Illyrian from ca. 250 at Athens. 22 For example, Secundinius Verus natione Suaebus, Eph. epigr. 4, 345, no. 935, cited in Schulze (1933) 58, or Candidinius Spectatus and Candidinius Verax natione Badaus (CIL 6.3240). An especially valuable case, since it gives four examples in one, is that of Laurentius, son of Tzita (CIL 3.12396, from Glava in Lower Moesia, undated). Valerius Tzita here is remembered by his son Laurentius filio suo carissimo [...]. Laurentius notes that his father had named his other two sons Vitalis and Florentius. All had followed their father into the army, each noted on the inscription as miles. 23 Kajanto (1965) 51, 201 suggests that perhaps there was something exotic about it there. Other possibilities will be suggested later. 20 21

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dences of Germanus, over 71 of the inscriptions come from North Africa. Might the presence of so many men with the cognomen Germanus found there be better explained as a sign of the value of networking than merely an appeal to the exotic as it has typically been explained? The usurper Magnus Maximus and the emperor Theodosius reportedly preferred the high ranking barbarians in their armies and courts much to the distress of some churchmen, who were themselves busily networking at the same courts.24 Just as with other relationships, such as among Christians or pagans, networks based on friendship and shared interests were not necessarily conspiratorial. Scholae or clubs among the soldiers first appeared under Septimius Severus and for small dues provided modest financial assistance to veterans. Nor would any of these networks have been mutually exclusive. Like other petty associations, these plugged individuals through groups into bigger systems over which they felt no personal control. Even in the late fourth century, some first generation barbarian recruits abandoned their ancestral customs, hesitating to wear anything that might be regarded as appearing openly un-Roman around the camps, probably because it would have signaled that the recruit was “a country-bumpkin.” Yet while all this was occurring others of barbarian ancestry were still going in the opposite direction, for some set up inscriptions implicitly or explicitly revealing that they had changed their names to Latin ones. Each in his own way was deliberately seeking networks to better access those with power within their peculiar circles. Incidents of changing one’s name, using an old and a new name simultaneously, and perhaps of going by an old name as a nickname were relatively common. The practice of barbarians changing their names was noted over a century ago for troops serving in the Belgian and German provinces, but examples from elsewhere have continued to come to light.25 The increasing presence of barbarian recruits during the third century predictably left its Ambrosius, Epist. 24.4-8. Schulze (1933) 56. CIL 8.2170 from Tebessa in Numidia, ca. 238 perhaps under Gordianus, reveals a Victoricus formerly Verota (qui et Verota), serving in Africa. 24  25

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mark on the epigraphic record, upon artifacts, and the literary sources. The fourth century appears to have been a period of accelerating change with continuing examples of soldiers retaining part or changing their entire name.26 Increasingly these soldiers were barbarians until, as the old soldier Ammianus Marcellinus states, such a high percentage of the army was barbarian that to have a meeting of officers without barbarians among them was “a rarity these days.”27 By the fifth century there were no longer compelling reasons to bother changing your name regardless what type of career you pursued. Examples exist of academics with clearly Germanic names, book dealers, civil servants as well as soldiers. Aetius’s panegyrist Flavius Merobaudes, whose Frankish ancestry is clear from his name, was perhaps the most famous. Several such men did, however, claim an especially noble descent.28 Outside the Empire we find signet rings of Roman origin but inscribed with the Latinized Germanic names.29 I cannot find a single example of a name change securely dated to the fifth century, including the relatively numerous inscriptions from the so-called barbarian kingdoms. People of barbarian ancestry were secure and obviously proud to declare their heritage. And they had good reason. During the civil wars under Theodosius (379-395), it was typical to offer A group of four inscriptions from Concordia in Italy dating to ca. 400 Fiebiger & Schmidt (1917) no. 291-294 illustrate the straightforward use of Germanic names in the numerus Heruli seniores, a unit of the auxilia palatina also attested to in the Notitia dignitatum, Occ. 5.162, 7.13. Similarly five other Concordia inscriptions to other units also attested in the Notitia, Adabrandus primerius scutariorum scolae secundae, for example, Fiebiger & Schmidt (1917) no. 316-320, citation from no. 317. 27 Amm. Marcel. 31.16.3-7. 28 For men of barbarian ancestry in unexpected careers, see Mathisen (1997) 139-148. On Flavius Merobaudes see Clover (1971). For royal ancestry, CIL 13.3682, Trier, ca. 400-425: Hariulfus protector domesitigus filius Hanhavaldi regalis gentis Burgundionum ... Reudilo avunculus ipsius fecit. This is but one of many possible examples chosen here because of the obvious bragging about the rank of the family among the Burgundians. 29 The most famous probably being the ring of Omharus from Apahida in present Romania, Hampel (1905) 1.58; 2.42; 3. Taf. 35.  26

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chiefs the rank of military tribune, but not to place them in command of their former tribesmen within the Roman army, but the practice of separating indigenous leaders from their followers was increasingly difficult to apply whenever invasion and civil wars raged. Contemporary Roman soldiers of barbarian extraction serving in units with apparently quite high percentages of barbarian soldiers, and for whom a few inscriptions preserve their names, were apparently happy to continue their heritage.30 There were many such possible assignments by the late fourth century. The early fifth-century compilation known as the Notitia dignitatum lists many newly raised units with ethnic labels used as the unit names – Vesi, Tervingi, and the Iberi from the Caucasus, for example.31 One can imagine that in such a unit there surely was no attempt to cover up one’s ethnic background. Like the soldier who saw no conflict between being a Frank and a Roman citizen and a soldier, these men did not serve two masters. Nonetheless some soldiers even during the last quarter of the century changed to a Latin name. Similar mixed tendencies appear when we look at choices in dress and apparel. Nothing about using identity was ever simple. On the Rhine and upper Danube from as early as the middle of the fourth century, Roman recruiters plowed the fertile recruiting grounds of the barbarian villages growing up rapidly within sight of the Roman camps and, as during the civil wars of the third century, far further afield. Barbarians were recruited and dispersed 30 This is the picture that emerges from the Concordia inscriptions for example, which seem to underscore the high percentage of soldiers of Germanic extraction in units of the auxilia palatina during the last quarter of the fourth century as well as other units of the army stationed then in Italy, some formerly belonging to the Eastern army, which after Theodosius’s death remained in Italy for many months. These inscriptions also are important in the discussions of the possible assignment of units by pairs in late antiquity, Tomlin (1972). 31 Notitia Dignitatum. Or. 5.20, Vesi (insignia), and 61, Vesi as a unit of the auxilia palatina and similiarly 60, Iberi. The unit named Raetobarii (5.58) suggests that the Roman command invented a name to express the diverse manpower recruited at some point from barbarians along borders of the Raetian provinces, but this is pure speculation.

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into existing units in the time-honored manner, but within these units some soon found themselves attracted to membership in affiliations, which, for a lack of modern analogies, we might call “soldier clubs.” These associations shared cultic practices and could be expected to assist their members, and their members’ sons, gain promotion within the ranks, and, as with more traditional burial associations, honor their members with a proper farewell.32 Many new recruits quickly discarded the most obvious signs of their origins, wearing fibulae and clothing of the type common to all the other Roman soldiers. Only in very minor, virtually unnoticeable ways did they keep items from the old traditions.33 On the other hand, traditional burial customs were almost immediately abandoned, perhaps thereby confirming the public nature of funerary practices. In the late fourth and early fifth century, some of the most striking burial goods are small gold cult axes probably used in private devotion or with small groups. The soldiers’ use of small items of distinctive dress and personal religious observance preserved a bit of their heritage, and the soldiers chose to do this even though by their oath to the emperor they had sworn personal loyalty to his god, the God of Christians. In their way, however, they had begun a journey to Christ. Unfortunately none of the common soldiers buried with these items are known by name. There is still a marked tendency to accept the Romanophile perspective of our literary sources and to see a lineal progression of barbarians marching forward by generations to become full Romans culturally, politically, and economically. The archaeological record is often similarly interpreted. Although, in aggregate, this conclusion holds some truth, it is far too simplistic on an individual level. As the brief survey of onomastics has suggested, the use of ethnicity within the centralized Roman polity was a very complex

32 Woods (1995). That this networking was common among all ranks recall the early career of Gregory of Tours whose father was a centurion. 33 This is precisely the response we might anticipate given their isolation and inferior role, see especially on this and the problems associated with using archaeology in ethnography, Shennan (1989); Jones (1997) and Curta (2005).

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identification fraught with largely unknowable personal dimensions. Americans were once fond of thinking that all immigrants should become “real Americans” in three generations or explain why they had failed. Despite its wide currency, this norm does not and never has existed. Recently ethnologists more often speak of cycloidal progresses with much starting, stopping and occasional retreats to older forms. The children of immigrants may dress and act like members of the majority, but the grandchildren may emulate the grandparents and so start the process anew almost from scratch. There also appears to be a correlation between assertions of ethnicity and external factors such as wars with the “old country.” German-Americans, for example, essentially stopped proclaiming their German origins during and after World War I.34 On the other hand, Italian-Americans in the nineteenth century were fiercely proud of their cities of origin but could not have cared less about being Italians, a nation just coming into being. They did not think of themselves as Italians until it made sense for them to do so in the competition for economic and political power in the ghettos of America. They became “Italians” in the United States.35 The barbarian-Roman experience has some signs of undergoing a similar range of evolutionary processes within the Empire, and, although the evidence is incomplete and often impossible to date precisely, I shall now, in the spirit of fools rather than angels, hazard some theoretical explanations. Modern ethnographers are in accord on several points. If you change your name it is generally because the new name will assist 34 “Germans” in Thernstrom (1980) 406, 415-416, 422-423, on the era of WWI: “For most German-Americans, ethnic culture had been a means to social, religious, or economic ends and was not valued for its own sake. When it jeopardized their status as Americans, their otherwise rapid assimilation permitted most to abandon its formal trappings with minimal difficulty.” 35 For example, Handlin (1946) chs. 6-7, and (1973) 152-179, quote from 165, “The man who joined a mutual aid association, who took a newspaper or went to the theater, was adjusting thereby to the environment of the United States. These were not vestiges of any European forms, but steps in his Americanization.”

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you in some way. Conversely, if you go by a name and identity that is in the minority and could change it but do not, then there is again usually a reason. Identifying yourself or your child as a member of a group provides a “hook,” a connection to something through association with the group. The ancient cases of using ethnic cognomina are particularly intriguing in this regard, leaving no doubt as it did to your ethnic background. We also know that at least in late antiquity the army had many networks affecting promotions and social affiliations, including religion, be it pagan or Christian, and networks of patronage and friendship.36 The unduly accelerated promotion of the sons of veterans even attracted the attention of imperial legislation.37 Sons of officers particularly received special treatment and early promotions.38 Officers married their children to other officers in marriages that cemented alliances inside as outside the army. Examples abound of sons getting a leg up the career ladder because of their father’s standing in the Roman army. Even a vague allusion to a Germanic affiliation could have helped some but only for awhile and only for a relatively brief span of decades. After the opening of the fifth century, when barbarian soldiers clearly dominated all branches of the Roman military, there was no detriment to being of barbarian heritage, but also there was no advantage. Networks operate to further claims for favoritism; by definition they are exclusive not inclusive. By the fifth century, barbarian ancestry no longer offered a bridge to exclusivity. It would take civil society much longer to reach a point where ancestry hardly mattered. Let us now shift from naming practices to a consideration of more general questions relating to cultural symbolism and identity. Every administrative region of the Empire had a long history and had made its own peculiar contribution to Roman civilization. In general the native elites living in or near Roman provincial towns were the first to adopt Roman forms to express their concerns and values. Some of the needs expressed were universal, such as that of protection from physical harm, but most people called upon the Amm. Marcel. 15.5.11, and Woods (1995). CTh. 7.22.1-11. 38 Sulpicius Severus, Vita s. Martini 2.2. 36 37

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gods for assistance in meeting the demands of daily life, and these latter requirements were not susceptible to political redefinition. That is to say, underlying environmental and topographic conditions existed whether or not Roman engineers and soldiers were present in a few towns.39 Unless and until Roman towns and villabased agriculture were deeply entrenched, the native communities and their traditions changed very little, and even though the density of towns increased in every province during the early Empire, there remained great swaths of land occupied much as they always had been, unchanged by Mediterranean standards. Just as all Celts did not live in oppida at the time of Julius Caesar, but rather lived in villages and hamlets, Roman provincials did not all live in cities. As with barbarians, however, jobs and social opportunities attracted many provincials to Roman towns and military installations. Nonetheless there always remained communities beyond the reach of Roman standards. These living reservoirs help account for the “reemergence” of native traditions within many of the western provinces and for the survival of certain traditional customs among recent immigrants. By the third century the upper and middle Danubian provinces had become ever more interconnected economically with the Rhineland provinces. The Danube provided a cheap and safe way to transport goods, and it provided ready transport for troops. The northernmost provinces had similarly profited from the security that the Roman fleet on the Rhine guaranteed. These regional markets now provided most of the commodities that had in the first century come from manufacturing centers in the Mediterranean provinces. Since these new markets were themselves essentially self-contained, they also provided focal points for rural populations that were often scarcely Romanized in their tastes. The regional centers thereby encouraged rural producers to expand their horizons into crops and services not provided by military manufacture or arriving by subsidized transport. The major buyer of local prodSee on Roman influences in Gaul during the first and second centuries especially Derks (1998) who demonstrates important differences between the urbanized south and other areas by marshalling archaeological and epigraphic material. 39

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ucts was usually the army, whose soldiers were themselves locals. Soldiers who had been recruited in the area used part of their pay to obtain those local specialties such as foodstuffs and handicrafts with which they had grown up. In some areas this complex evolution produced a renaissance of indigenous culture previously preserved primarily in isolated rural communities. What some have called the “Celtic Revival” was a function of the development of an imperial system that had no choice but to allow for regional diversity, of the success of Roman economic development, and of social integration at the regional level.40 It was not a sign of imperial failure. Individuals felt comfortable and secure in their local Roman settings and saw no reason to reject their ancestral customs that now might give them a sense of individuality or of belonging to a group and with it possibly a valuable market niche and an expanded social network. Therefore using an ancestral name or adding a local item to one’s apparel need not have made any statement whatsoever about political values. Great profits were to be made within the region, and highly successful administrative careers in the provincial and imperial governments did not always require relocation across the Empire. This was most obviously the case in the Gallic Empire.41 There was no more colonization, no more foreign conquests. New combinations emerged from the regional mixtures of local Roman cultures with their native touches and the high culture of the imperial elites, but these new creations all took place within the peaceful evolution of Roman society. The civilian choices in personalizing their dress mirrored those long current in the Roman army, where great variety was possible, particularly from the late third century onwards, but it was Roman nonetheless. This was in keeping with what was actually a long tradition of using ones ancestral dress styles to enhance ones overall Roman appearance. In the frontier provinces women in particular frequently arranged their hair in peculiarly local ways, early on and again in late antiquity. Army officers exercised much latitude in their personal ornament. This can be seen 40 Discussions of this revival or renaissance follow upon MacMullen (1965). 41 Drinkwater (1987) 249.

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still in the decoration of their armor, which they personally ordered and paid for but that was locally produced from a stock of figural representations. The heirloom factor was also at work within the army, for frequently soldiers handed down their armor to a younger friend, as is attested by the multiple names stempeled on it. Certain aspects of Roman military dress had religious connotations that had evolved from Celtic decorative motifs during the early Empire, for example, wearing the torques, and became standard fare for many, many decades thereafter. Using local inspiration to make something standardized personal continued to reflect a healthy and vigorous Roman society during the fourth century and well into the fifth. The fact is that in remote communities there had always been a substratum of local products catering to local needs and still visible in peculiar pottery styles that were designed to prepare or serve local specialty foods. In those provinces with rugged topographies and few arterial roads, families continued to live peacefully with few if any signs of Roman influence. Despite much recent interest, compared to urban centers, little is known still about rural life within the Roman provinces let alone beyond them. The distributions of datable Roman wares and related local products found beyond the frontiers suggest that the same geographic and climatic factors prevailed there as within the Empire to create a myriad of local cultural subtleties. The same situation prevailed beyond Rome’s frontiers, in barbaricum, as it was sometimes called in the fourth century and where interior trade routes continued as they had in pre-Roman times, for without Roman roads and state subsidies making overland transportation competitive there were no alternatives. Trade remained largely restricted to luxury goods, although a few rivers flowing into the Rhine and Danube did allow for some heavier traffic, such as in the area north of the Danube between modern Vienna and Budapest. Those barbarians living along the great rivers, on the other hand, had almost full access to Roman products, even though this exchange was subject to sporadic manipulation. Anybody using these rivers for heavy transport had to have Roman permission and pay appropriate fees. Among some barbarians Roman wares had already become so commonplace that by the third century that they no longer played a role in status definition. Nearby to the frontier, Roman coins were used in direct exchange on both sides of the

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border. Elsewhere the reverse was true, especially as one moved farther away from the frontier. From roughly 100 km away from Roman settlements, coins were used as jewelry, and directly or indirectly as a source of precious metals. The most profound and yet literally “common places” to display personal values in antiquity were in your home and in the manner that you buried your loved ones. As recent research in the catacombs surrounding the city of Rome itself reaffirms, when Christianity moved out of the shadows and into the limelight it greatly accelerated its influence upon the lower echelons of the urban population. Christianity moved more slowly into the countryside. Among the hundreds of thousands buried in Rome's catacombs were many whose burial styles and upon occasion simple, hand-drawn inscriptions identify them as non-Christians - in one catacomb several thousand of the tens of thousands can be identified as Jews, for example - or incompletely Christianized pagans, yet all were buried in ways very similar to those of the Christians who lay alongside. The mutual influences among pagans, Jews and Christians were complex and began early and continued well into late antiquity.42 The use of the catacombs extended through the sixth century. Christians preferred to have their loved ones near them in death, and so the catacombs, although from their origins lying outside the sacred district of the city proper, were under areas where the poor had their dwellings and later built many of their chapels. The influence of Christianity is a prime suspect in changing urban lifestyles above ground as well. More and more data are coming in from excavations suggesting that the rich were slowly becoming less comfortable with the display of their personal wealth. Town residences of the elite had long reflected the influence of their lavish rural estates, and so changes in urban lifestyles inevitably affected rural estates and visa versa. Urban villas featured courtyards, formal gardens sometimes with fountains, guestrooms, private baths, and luxurious wall decorations. When the Empire 42 Some of the difficulties in unraveling these influences as reflected in the catacombs are readily apparent in Tronzo (1986) 75-78; and Ferrua (1991). New discoveries are frequent.

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extended its reach beyond the Alps, the Italian-style villa made the trek as well until there were tens of thousands in the provinces, most simply the homes of prosperous farmers. During the Principate, the commandant of every campus lived in a villa-like compound along with his family. The German provinces alone had at least 5,000 villae by the end of the fourth century.43 In general the same rule held true for villas that today applies to retail clothing stores: the larger the expanses of empty space within the walls, the richer the clientele. Even in relatively humble rural villas, the interior dimensions of some rooms remain striking when excavated. Villas attested to power. The visual effect of your villa being situated near to those of the top office holder announced your status, just as did the location of the family grave plot. For the few invited guests that entered your walled compound, its lavish appointments and use of space reaffirmed that you belonged there. The presence of members of the late Roman bureaucratic elite in all administrative centers announced that proximity to power gave access to power. A parallel existed in the countryside in the neighborhoods of imperial villas with their unrivaled size and complexity; for example, the grand villa named “Romuliana” now coming to light in Serbia, once the estate of the tetrarch, Gallerius and his mother for whom he named this truly grand palace complete with two mausolea.44 Thus from the top down, villas architecturally announced Roman power, in the towns and in the countryside. Although no single and fully cogent explanation has yet been adduced for the declining importance of the Roman villa as an architectural type, certain common features are beginning to emerge that offer very plausible suggestions. The time frame of transition from villas to villages spans the end of the fourth and fifth centuries. As is typical in archaeology, relative chronologies are very useful even when absolute chronological dating is beyond reach. The first signs that something was afoot in regards to changing villa lifestyles emerged from excavations in urban areas that were first conducted in Italy and later in Spain. Clearly some families were 43 44

Bender (2001) 187-188. Srejović & Vasić (1994).

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deciding to greatly reduce their villa’s display of space. Large rooms were cut up into spaces too small for anything other than storage. Sculptural and decorative elements were being removed or allowed to deteriorate. At first, but no longer, these facts were interpreted as sure signs of declining urban vitality and a general economic decline. In Rome itself as in provincial cities, pagan monuments fell to weeds unless somebody in power still looked upon them as in some way confirming their status.45 The reuse of urban space is a subject of great complexity intimately linked to the shifting nature of power in late antiquity, and indirectly so too is reconfiguring domestic space in the countryside where most lived and where medieval Europe was already taking shape. Some excavations are producing evidence for transformations of life on rural villas that is very comparable to that coming from urban contexts. A recently published example is a site near the Hungarian village of Babarc.46 For most of its history in Roman times the site was occupied by a Roman villa rustica of modest size. The villa first took shape in the second century, but there followed a long period of almost continuous modification extending into the second third of the third century. A second distinct construction phase took place from around the opening of the second quarter of the fourth century. A systematic remodeling of the excavated area occurred during the second half of the fourth century, when much effort was expended upon realigning living space and working areas. The site produced a chronologically extensive coin run through Valens with clear evidence of still later building activities in the late fourth and early the fifth century. Thus the settlement was still in use quite late. Other finds pointing in the same direction are: local pottery, African terra sigillata, but in particular an armband. The buildings from the late period were constructed in adobe-style; a pottery kiln cutting through the westernmost wall also seems to date to this period. An interesting feature at Babarc is the existence of three burial chambers made of clay tiles. These burials cannot be dated pre45 46

See in particular, Alföldy (2001). Fazekas et al. including the author of this article, T. Burns (2007).

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cisely because of their lack of grave goods, but their type and location in close proximity to the living areas are indicative of a late period. Whether these burials reflect the presence of Christians cannot be determined, but the location of the burials is suggestive of the possibility. The grave of a small child lay inside the line of the villa’s wall, and the remains of two adults were interred just south of the main building. All three graves were simple, without grave goods, and were lined and roofed with tiles and bricks typical of Roman villa construction. None can be exactly dated. The two adult burials are oriented West-East, head west. It would have been of great interest to have excavated the apsidal building situated in the center of the villa complex, but funding and time were not available. We are only confident that it did not have a hypocaust system. The location of the apsidal structure within the settlement is similar to that at Kövágószölös, where excavations revealed a small chapel with cella trichora south of the main building and oriented north south. Later, but not much later, building was in adobe-style, including at Babarc. The Babarc site continued to be occupied at least into the second quarter of the fifth century. Even before excavation surface finds, particularly coins, suggested that the site was occupied through at least 370, but excavation has extended that date.47 The waddle remains of a simple but rather sizeable structure was built within what appears to have been the main residential quarter of the villa complex. Initial scans also led us to excavate an ovalshaped structure that turned out to be an oven. Pottery found at floor level inside the entrance to the oven is of the type characteristic of local ware from the second quarter of the fifth century. One of the most stunning pieces of personal ornament discovered at our site was a substantial portion of a gilded armband. This arm ring is similar to a type often found in the graves of the last soldiers stationed along the Danube in this area, and therefore may be indicative of a military context, for in this late period many standards of classical antiquity seem to have lost their relevance: such as, graves are no longer placed outside the settlement, no longer are civilians the only inhabitants of a villae rusticae, and no 47

Visy (2001) 171-174.

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longer are buildings in stone. These men were generally recruited from among local populations on both sides of the political frontier. Scholars have typically given these troops the moniker “federates”, which implies a specific treaty status, but theirs was a militia force. A soldier did not necessarily lose the armband, for the nearest fort was about 9 km. distant. Sopianae (modern Pécs) with its governmental and ecclesiastical staffs lay about 25 km. in the opposite direction along the Roman road that ran close to but not through the villa. As long as either center existed, it would have needed foodstuffs and so would have provided a market for agricultural products from the countryside. The presence of the armband manifests that its owner was rather well off and either lived at the villa site or was visited by those who were. The owners did not have to live in an adobe dwelling; they chose to. In the last phases of occupation of villa-settlement and at an increasing number of other late sites, burials frequently took place alongside or even within villas themselves. Typically Christians rather than pagans sought to retain such close proximity to their dead. The ubiquity of bricks and tiles in Roman construction made them readily available for makeshift burial chambers, whether they were obtained as spolia or newly fired, and so only the positioning of the graves is noteworthy. If we accept the Roman villa as a unit of agricultural production instead of limiting our definition to its architectural style, the villa at Babarc continued beyond its classical phases. The presence of high-valued jewelry, the remains of a late but simple building in adobe-style, the existence of an operational baking oven in the second quarter of the fifth century, the burial practice of internment in close proximity to living areas, all point to the presence of a family of some means living in a rural environment. Just as the location of the burials suggests an increased Christian influence, the militarystyle armband underscores the expanding penetration of military tastes into what had long been the civilian world of the prosperous farmers cultivating the fields surrounding the villa.48 48 The following works have proven especially helpful in the above discussion: Van Ossel (1992); Brogiolo (1996); Banaji (2001); Witschel

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By way of conclusion, here is an example of how the vocabulary of Christianity went about redefining traditional terms of identity. In an odd but touching baptismal inscription from Lyon grieving parents are comforted by whoever set up the inscription, sometime not before the second half of the fifth century. Although they had lost their two sons “of barbarian seed” (unnamed and so probably infants at death), they had had the boys baptized. Thus, the inscription goes on to say that the boys were no longer outsiders to the Christian faith. The parents, who had put off their own baptism, could take heart. They had given their sons to God, who had now taken them into His care. In this case a barbarian was somebody outside the Christian or perhaps Catholic faith.49 The pathway is clear. During the fifth and sixth centuries individuals of both traditional Roman and barbarian ancestries when seeking to secure their positions of leadership often resorted to use of extensive genealogies, frequently inventing illustrious ancestors. Kings and bishops did the same. List upon list of those abbots and clerics remain still today. This practice too was well within both the Roman and Judeo-Christian traditions.50 For Theodoric the Great there was an Ostrogotha; for the Franks, ancestors equal in stature to the Romans themselves were desired, and the Trojans were resurrected for the task. For Gildas writing in the sixth century, cives meant a citizen of God’s church.51 By the reign of Charlemagne, if people stated that they were “Roman” the odds were that they meant that they were Roman Catholic. Christianity had come to dominate the patterns of identity much as Roman citizenship had once done.52 The era of experimentation had drawn to a close.

(2001); Francovich & Hodges (2003); Lewit (2003); Christie (2004), and Bowes & Gutteridge (2005). 49 Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres vol.1, no. 1516, and Fiebiger & Schmidt (1917) no. 116. 50 Goffart (1988) and especially on the role of lists in fashioning new identities, see Cameron (1999) 5-8. 51 Snyder (1998). 52 Sullivan (1960).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Alföldy, G. (2001) “Difficillima Tempora: Urban Life, Inscriptions, and Mentality in Late Antique Rome,” in T. S. Burns & J. Eadie (eds), Urban Centers and Rural Contexts in Late Antiquity (East Lansing MI), 3-24. Amory, P. (1997) People and Identity in Ostrogothic Italy, 489-554 (Cambridge). Banaji, J. (2001) Agrarian Change in Late Antiquity. Gold, Labour and Aristocratic Dominance (Oxford). Barth, F. (1969) Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (London). Bender, H. (2001) “Archaeological Perspectives on Rural Settlement in Late Antiquity in the Rhine and Danube Areas,” in T. S. Burns & J. Eadie (eds), Urban Centers and Rural Contexts in Late Antiquity (East Lansing MI), 185-198. Bierbrauer, V. (1971) “Zu den Vorkommen ostgotischer Bügelfibeln in Raetia II,” Bayerische Vorgeschichteblätter 36, 131-165. Blockley, R. (1982) “Roman-Barbarian Marriages in the Late Empire,” Florilegium 4, 63-79. Bowes, K. and Gutteridge, A. (2005) “Rethinking the Later Roman Landscape,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 18, 405-413. Brogiolo G.-P. (ed.) (1996) La fine delle ville romani: trasformazioni nelle campagne tra tarda antichità e alto medievo. I Convegno archeologico del Garda (Padua). Burns, T. S. (2003) Rome and the Barbarians, 100 B.C. - A.D. 400 (Baltimore MD). Burns, T. S. & Eadie, J. (eds) (2001) Urban Centers and Rural Contexts in Late Antiquity (East Lansing MI). Cameron, A. (1999) “Remaking the Past,” in G. Bowersock, P. Brown & O. Grabar (eds), Late Antiquity: a Guide to the Postclassical World (Cambridge MA), 1-20. Christie, N. (ed.) (2004) Landscapes of Change. Rural Evolutions in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Aldershot UK & Burlington VT). Clover, F. M. (1971) Flavius Merobaudes. Transactions of American Philosophical Society 61.1 (Philadelphia PA). Curta, F. (ed.) (2005) Borders, barriers, and ethnogenesis: frontiers in late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Turnhout).

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Derks, T. (1998) Gods, Temples and Religious Practices: The Transformation of Religious Ideas and Values in Roman Gaul. Amsterdam Archaeological Studies 2 (Amsterdam). Drinkwater, J. F. (1987) The Gallic Empire: Separatism and Continuity in the North-Western Provinces of the Roman Empire, A.D. 260-274. Historia Einzelschriften 52 (Wiesbaden). Fazekas, F. (ed.) with Bender, H., Burns, T. & Visy, Zs. (2007) Die römische Siedlung bei Babarc, Komitat Baranya, Ungarn / The Roman Settlement near Babarc, Komitat Baranya, Hungary. Passauer Universitätsschriften zur Archäologie 12 (Passau). Ferrua, A. (1991) The Unknown Catacomb: A Unique Discovery of Early Christian Art (New Lanark UK). Fiebiger, O. & Schmidt, L. (1917) Inschriftensammlung zur Geschichte der Ostgermannen (Vienna). Francovich, R. & Hodges, R. Villa to Village. The Transformation of the Roman Countryside in Italy, c. 400-1000 (London). Goffart, W. (1988) The Narrators of Barbarian History, A.D. 550-800 (Princeton NJ). Hampel, J. (1905) Altertümer des frühen Mittelatlters in Ungarn (Braunschweig), reprint 1971. Handlin, O. (1946) Boston's Immigrants (Cambridge MA), reprint 1969. _____. (1973) Uprooted, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia PA). Jones, S. (1997) The Archaeology of Ethnicity: constructing identities in the past and present (London & New York). Kajanto, I. (1965) The Latin Cognomina (Helsinki), reprint 1982. Kolník, T. (1999) “Gab es einen Limes Quadorum? – Langwälle in der Südwestslovakei,” in T. Fischer, G. Precht & J. Tejral (eds), Germanen Beiderseits des spätantiken Limes: Materialen des X. International Symposiums “Grundprobleme der frühgeschichtlichen Entwicklung im nördlichen Mitteldonaugebiet, Xanten vom 2. - 6. Dezember 1997.” Archäologisches Institut der Akademie der Wissenschaften der Tschechischen Republik: Spisy Archeologického ústavu AV ČR, Brno 14 (Cologne & Brno), 163177. Le Bohec, Y. (1994) The Imperial Roman Army (London). Lewit, T. (2003) “`Vanishing Villas’: what happened to élite rural habitation in the West in the 5th - 6th c?”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 16, 260-274.

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MacMullen, R..(1963) “Barbarian Enclaves in the Northern Roman Empire,” Antiquité classique 32, 552-561. _____. (1965) “The Celtic Renaissance,” Historia 14.1, 93-104. Mancini, G. (1933) “Iscrizione sepolcrale di Anversa,” in N.de Arcangelis (ed.), Atti del Convegno Storico abruzzese-molisano, 25-29 marzo 1931 (Casalbordino), 449-452. Mathisen, R. W. (1997) “Les barbares intellectuels dans l'antiquité tardive,” Dialogues d'Histoire Ancienne 23.2, 139-148. Mócsy, A. (1964) “Der Name Flavius als Rangbezeichung in der Spätantike”, in Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für griechische und lateinische Epigraphik, Wien, 1962 (Graz, Vienna & Cologne), 257-263. Ossel, P. van (1992) Établissements ruraux de l’Antiquité tardive dans le nord de la Gaule (Paris). Pitts, L. (1987) “Roman-Style Buildings in Barbaricum (Moravia and SW Slovakia),” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 6, 219-236. Rosenstock, D. (1984) “Eine prachtvolle römische Emailscheibenfibel und weitere Erzeugnisse römischen Kunstgewerbes aus der germanischen Siedlung von Frankenwinheim, Landkreis Schweinfurt, Unterfranken,” Das Archäologisches Jahr in Bayern 1983, 120-122. Sack, R. (1986) Human Territoriality: its Theory and History (Cambridge). Sasse, C. (1958) Die Constitutio Antoniniana (Wiesbaden). Schulze, W. (1933) Zur Geschichte lateinischer Eigennamen, 2nd ed. (Berlin), reprint 1966. Shennan, S. (1989) “Introduction: Archaeological Approaches to Cultural Identity,” in S. Shennan (ed.), Archaeological Approaches to Cultural Identity (London), 1-32. Sivan, H. (1999) “Why Not Marry a Barbarian? Marital Frontiers in Late Antiquity (The Example of CTh 3.14.1),” in R. W. Mathisen & H. Sivan (eds), Shifting Frontiers in Late Antiquity: Papers from the First Interdisciplinary Conference on Late Antiquity, the University of Kansas, March, 1995 (Aldershot UK), 136-145. Snyder. C. (1998) An age of tyrants: Britain and the Britons, A.D. 400600 (University Park PA). Speidel, M. (1994) Riding for Caesar: the Roman Emperor’s Horse Guard (London). Srejović, D. & Vasić, Č. (1994) Imperial mausolea and consecration memorials in Felix Romuliana (Gamzigrad, East Serbia) (Belgrade).

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Sullivan, R. (1960) Heirs of the Roman Empire (Ithaca NY). Thernstrom, S. (ed.) (1980) Harvard Encyclopedia of American Ethnic Groups (Cambridge MA). Tomlin, R. (1972) “Seniores-Juniores in the Late-Roman field army,” American Journal of Philology 93, 253-278. Tronzo, W. (1986) The Via Latina Catacomb: Imitation and Discontinuity in Fourth-Century Roman Painting (University Park PA & London). Visy, Zs. (2001) “Towns, Vici and Villae: Late Roman Military Society on the Frontiers of the Province Valeria”, in T. S. Burns & J. Eadie (eds), Urban Centers and Rural Contexts in Late Antiquity (East Lansing MI), 163-184. Witschel, C. (2001) “Rom und die Städte von der Spätantike und Frühmittelalter,” Bonner Jahrbücher 201, 113-162. Wells, P. S. (1998) “Identity and Material Culture in the Later Prehistory of Central Europe,” Journal of Archaeological Research 6.3, 239-298. Werner, J. (1936) “Zur Herkunft und Zeitstellung der Hemmorer Eimer und der Eimer mit gewellter Kannelure,” Bonner Jahrbücher 140-141, 395-410. Woods, D. (1995) “Ammianus Marcellinus and the Deaths of Bonosus and Maximilianus,” Hagiographica 2, 25-55.

INDEX Antioch, 14, 15, 72, 73, 74, 77, 79, 89, 111, 113, 114, 115, 118, 122, 124 Antiochenes, 14, 15, 74, 78, 113, 118, 124 Aquincum, 168, 176 Arcadius, emperor, 146, 154 Aristotle, 4, 9, 81 Athanagild, 15, 128, 129, 131, 132, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 140, 142, 143, 144, 145, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160 Athens, 178 Augustus, 62, 81 Austrasia, 130, 132, 142, 144, 146, 148, 150, 151, 153, 154, 157, 158 auxilia palatina, 98, 180, 181 Babarc, 190, 191 'barbarians', 6, 13, 26, 61, 63, 64, 65, 69, 70, 71, 75, 82, 93, 94, 96, 141, 155, 167, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 187, 193 barbaricum, 175, 187 bellum Batonianum, 89 Bethlehem, 27, 32 Bonosus of Stridon, 31 Bosnia, 178 Brunhild, queen, 15, 16, 128, 131, 132, 133, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143,

Achilles, 68, 71, 155 Adrianople, 92, 94 Aeneas, 5, 68 Aeneid, 5 Africa, 14, 87, 106, 131, 179 African terra sigillata, 190 Agamemnon, 155 Alamanni, 63, 69, 93, 174 Alaric I, king, 81 Alaric II, king, 145 Alexander of Heliopolis, 74 Alexander the Great, 81, 101 Alexandria, 156 amicitia, 136 Amida, 70 Ammianus Marcellinus, 13, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 87, 91, 93, 95, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 174, 180 personal life, 88, 97, 101 Anastasia, augusta, wife of Tiberius II, 135, 147, 149, 160 anger, 2, 6, 7, 11, 13, 34, 46, 59, 60, 61, 62, 67, 71, 73, 75, 77, 88, 89, 90, 91, 95, 96, 101 Aeneas', 6 Constantius', 76 Jerome's, 33 Julian's, 70, 71, 74 soldiers', 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107 Theodosius', 78, 80

201

202

POWER AND EMOTIONS

144, 145, 147, 149, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160 Burgundia, Burgundians, 130, 132, 141, 145, 159, 174, 180 Butheric the Goth, 78 Caligula, emperor, 82 Caracalla, emperor, 17, 165, 167, 168 Cartagena, 131 Cassiodorus, 133, 151, 157 Catullus, 50 Celts, 177, 185, 187 Charlemagne, 193 Childebert II, king, 15, 16, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 137, 138, 139, 144, 145, 146, 148, 149, 152, 153, 154, 157, 158, 160 Christian authors, 43, 72 Christian God, 67, 182 Christian influence, 54, 192 Christianity, 17, 23, 68, 165, 188, 193 Nicene, 131 Christians, 34, 72, 179, 184, 188, 191, 192 Church, 27, 32, 78 early, 10 Latin, 23 post-Nicene, 78 Cicero, 31, 43, 50, 51, 77 Cilicia, 99 Claudius II, emperor, 63, 176 clementia, 61, 62, 63, 64, 68, 69, 71, 77, 80, 82 Clovis, king, 130, 145 Commodus, emperor, 82 Concordia (place in Italy), 180 Constantina augusta, wife of Maurice, 135, 138, 139, 142,

147, 148, 149, 153, 155, 157, 158, 160 Constantine I (the Great), emperor, 64, 65, 67, 76, 80, 82, 174, 176 Constantinople, 99, 128, 132, 133, 135, 138, 141, 143, 144, 145, 146, 148, 149, 150, 151, 155, 158, 159 court, 128, 129, 133, 142, 146, 156, 159 court, 15 Constantius II, emperor, 66, 69, 71, 76, 80, 88, 97, 98, 99 Ctesiphon, 70 Dacia, 41 Danube, 41, 174, 181, 185, 187, 191 Decius, emperor, 63 dediticii, 168, 169, 170, 172, 176 Descartes, René, 43 Diocletian, emperor, 128, 169, 175 Diodorus Siculus, 89 Dionysus of Halicarnassus, 89 Domitian, emperor, 82 Donatus, grammarian, 27 Epictetus, 44, 45, 49, 51, 54 Epicurus, 45, 50 Ermenegild, 131, 143 Eugippius, 26 Eusebius, 65 fear, 4, 25, 26, 29, 32, 33, 34, 46, 62, 68, 74, 75, 76, 77, 82, 91, 98, 113, 114, 115, 116, 118, 119, 121, 123, 124 feritas, 74, 75, 76, 93 Flavius Merobaudes, 180 Florentius, praefect of Gaul, 75

INDEX Franks, 82, 130, 131, 132, 141, 145, 174, 176, 180, 181, 193 Fredegund, queen, 140 furor, 13, 60, 63, 69, 78 Gallus, caesar, 80, 92 Gaul, 76, 87, 88, 106, 128, 129, 131, 132, 134, 140, 145, 155, 159, 175, 185 German-Americans, 183 Germany, Germans, 64, 89, 93, 98, 100, 174, 175, 179, 189 Gildo, 81 Gilgamesh, 5 Goths, 92, 94, 174 Greece, 4, 99 Gregory I (the Great), pope, 23, 143, 148, 151 Gregory Nazianzen, 72 Gregory of Tours, 130, 131, 132, 135, 140, 142, 159, 182 grief, 7, 8, 51, 101, 128, 129, 139, 141, 142, 145, 156 Brunhild's, 145, 147, 150, 153 Catullus', 50 Cicero's, 50 Radegund's, 155 soldiers', 102 St. Augustine's, 8 Guntram, king, 132, 159 Hadrian, emperor, 48 Helvidius, 11, 29 Heraclius, emperor, 94 Hercules, 64, 68 Herodotus, 1, 60 Herzegovina, 178 Homer, 1, 5, 64, 68, 69, 157 Hormisdas, pope, 151 Iberi from Caucasus, 181 Ignatius of Loyola, 54

203 Iliad, 5, 155 Illyricum, 69 Ingund, mother of Athanagild, 131, 132, 135, 136, 140, 143, 144, 145, 147, 158, 159 ira, 13, 14, 60, 61, 62, 64, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 79, 80, 82, 83, 87, 96, 104, 106 Italian-Americans, 183 Italy, 129, 132, 133, 134, 148, 180, 181, 189 Ostrogothic kingdom, 128, 131, 133, 147, 151, 157 Jerusalem, 156 Jews, 27, 188 John Chrysostom, 113, 114, 115, 121 Jovian, emperor, 103 Jovinian, 11, 29, 33, 34 Julian, emperor, 14, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 88, 94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 106 Julius Caesar, 174, 175, 185 Justin I, emperor, 151 Justin II, emperor, 155, 156 Justinian, emperor, 130, 131, 132 Kövágószölös, 191 Krajina, 178 Lactantius, 67, 68, 80, 81, 82 Leovigild, king, 131, 158 Libanius, 14, 74, 94, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 124 Livy, 88, 89 Lombards, 130, 132, 134, 148 Lothar I, king, 155 Ludovisi Sarcophagus, 63 Lyon, 193

204

POWER AND EMOTIONS

Maiozamalcha, 70 Marcus Aurelius, emperor, 10, 12, 40, 45, 46, 48, 49, 53, 54, 71, 174 Mark the Deacon, 154 Maurice, emperor, 16, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 138, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 157, 158, 159, 160 Maximianus, emperor, 64, 65 Maximinus Trax, emperor, 63 Maximinus, praetorian prefect, 175 Merovingians, 10, 128, 130, 131, 132, 154, 159 Mesopotamia, 88 Metz, 130, 135, 146, 148, 150, 159 Mezaei, 178 Moesia, 178 Moldova, 41 Naissus, 99 Nazarius, 66, 67, 69, 80 Nero, emperor, 82 Neustria, 130 Nicaea, 77 Nilus Dionysius, 73 Nisibis, 88 Noricum, 177 Numidia, 179 Odyssey, 5 Old Testament, 27 Orestes, 81 Ostia, 178 pagans, non-Christians, 154, 179, 184, 188, 190, 192 paideia, 61, 67, 73, 75, 83 Pannonia, 172, 175 Paris, 97, 98

Persia, Persians, 69, 70, 71, 74, 87, 88, 89, 93, 96, 98, 100, 101, 102, 106, 156 pietas, 62, 64, 67, 68, 69, 71, 79, 80, 81, 83, 153 Plato, 45, 50 Quadi, 76 Radegund, 154, 156 rage, 5, 6, 13, 59, 60, 61, 62, 64, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 87, 89, 91 Rhine, 174, 181, 185, 187 Riot of the Statues, 14, 77, 112, 124 Roman citizenship, 165 empire, 167, 184 villa, 167, 175, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192 Romania, 41, 180 Romans, 5, 67, 93, 95, 166, 167, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 178, 182, 193 Rome city, 34, 104, 188, 190 empire, 17, 88, 92, 95, 99, 169, 173, 174 frontiers, 89, 187 sack of, 30 senators, 99 villa, 167 Rufinus of Aquileia, 11, 29, 33, 78 Ruin of Thuringia, 154, 155, 156 Samarra, 14, 101 Sapor, emperor of Persia, 94 Seneca, 2, 7, 60, 77, 81 Sens, 69 Septimius Severus, emperor, 179

INDEX Serbia, 189 Sextus of Chaeronea, 72 Sicily, 132, 151, 160 Socrates, 45, 48, 50 Sopianae, 192 Sozomen, 78 Spain, 129, 131, 147, 159, 189 Visigothic kingdom, 128, 131, 145, 158 St. Ambrose, 23, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82 St. Augustine, 8, 23, 43, 54 St. Eustochium, 28, 32 St. Germanus of Auxerre, 173 St. Hilarion, 31 St. Jerome, 10, 11, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36 St. Martin of Tours, 173 St. Paul of Thebes, 31 St. Severinus, 26 Stoicism, 13, 25, 41, 43, 44, 46, 48, 49, 60, 61, 62, 75, 141 Roman, 47 Strasbourg, 63, 70 Syria, 74, 111 Tacitus, 43, 88, 97, 167 Tebessa, 179 Tervingi, 181 Tetrarchy, 64 Themistius, orator, 44 Theodoric the Great, king, 193

205 Theodosius I, emperor, 14, 62, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 111, 112, 179, 180, 181 Theodosius II, emperor, 146, 148, 154 Theodosius, son of Maurice, 129, 138, 139, 142, 143, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153, 157, 158, 160 Thessalonica, 78, 79, 80 thumos, 14, 60, 70, 96 Tiberius II, emperor, 135, 146 Tiberius, emperor, 7 Trajan, emperor, 92 Tripoli, 14 Tripolis, 103, 104 Troy, 155 Ursicinus, Master of the Cavalry, 88 Valens, emperor, 44, 92, 190 Valentinian I, emperor, 14, 44, 69, 74, 75, 76, 77, 103, 104 Velleius Paterculus, 89 Venantius Fortunatus, 154, 155, 156 Verona, 65, 66, 76 Virgil, 5, 67, 68 virtus, 63, 64, 65, 67, 68, 71, 94, 96 Virunum, 177 Zola, Emile, 16 Zosimus, 70, 73, 76