The Cultural Parameters of the Graeco-Roman War Discourse (Antiquite Et Sciences Humaines) (Antiquite Et Sciences Humaines, 6) 9782503586472, 2503586473

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ANTIQUITÉ ET S CI E NC ES H U MA INES LA TRAVE RSÉ E DE S FRONT IÈRE S

6

DIRECTEURS DE COLLECTION

Corinne Bonnet Pascal Payen COMITÉ SCIENTIFIQ UE

Zainab Bahrani

(Columbia University, New York)

Nicola Cusumano

(Università degli Studi di Palermo)

Erich Gruen

(University of  California, Berkeley)

Nicholas Purcell

(St John’s College, Oxford)

Aloys Winterling

(Humboldt Universität, Berlin)

Theo Vijgen

THE CULTURAL PARAMETERS OF  THE GRAECO-ROMAN WAR DISCOURSE

F

© 2020, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium.

All rights reserved. No part of  this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of  the publisher.

D/2020/0095/80 ISBN 978-2-503-58647-2 e-ISBN 978-2-503-58648-9 DOI 10.1484/M.ASH-EB.5.118509 ISSN 2466-5916 e-ISSN 2565-9200 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper.

TABLE OF  CONTENTS

TABLE OF   CONTENTS

PREFACE



15 1. INTRODUCTION: CULTURE AND WAR

1. Aim and Scope of   the Study 17 2. Cultural History 18 2.1. Cultural History and the Present Study 33 3.

Military History 37 3.1. Keegan 41 3.2. Hanson 43 3.3. Lynn 44 3.4. Gat 47 3.5. Van Creveld 49 3.6. Military History and the Present Study 51

4. Methodology 54 2. THE GREEK WAYS OF WAR 1. Greek Warfare 61 1.1. The Rise and Decline of   the polis 61 1.2. The Development of   Greek Warfare 67 1.2.1. The Early Phase 67 1.2.2. The Middle Phase 70 1.2.3. Agonal Warfare 74 5

TABLE OF  CONTENTS

2. The Cultural Parameters of   Greek Warfare 91 2.1. War as a Necessity 91 2.2. The War Discourse 93 2.3. Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Pri mary Sources 97 2.4. Themes of   the Greek War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time 104 2.4.1. Epic 104 2.4.2. Lyric 130 2.4.3. Historiography and Rhetoric 139 2.4.4. Drama 169 2.4.5. Philosophy 189 3. Conclusion: The Competitive Spirit in Greek Culture and in Greek Warfare 197

3. HELLENISTIC WARFARE 1. The Hellenistic Age 203 1.1. The Hellenistic World 206 2. The Development of   Hellenistic Warfare 208 3. The Cultural Parameters of   Hellenistic Warfare 211 3.1. The War Discourse 211 3.2. Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources 213 3.3. Themes of   the Hellenistic War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time 215 3.3.1. Historiography: The Theme of  Military Excellence 216 3.3.2. Historiography: The Theme of   Agonal Warfare 220 3.3.3. Historiography: Liberty and Greek Superiority 227 3.3.4. Historiography: Competition and Commemora tion 233 3.3.5. Art and Architecture, Epigraphy and Numis matics: The Theme of   Victory 238 3.3.6. Art and Architecture: The Iconography of   Power 242 4. Conclusion 246 6

TABLE OF  CONTENTS

4. EARLY ROME (c. 750–290 bc) 1. Sources

249

2. Rome’s Foundation Myths 250 2.1. Romulus and Remus vs Aeneas 252 2.2. Genesis and Development of   the Foundation Myths 253 3. Interpretations: Theoretical Considerations 253 4.

Interpretations: Practical Applications 256 4.1. The Warfare Connection 257 4.2. The Pastoral Setting 258 4.3. Rome’s Capacity for Assimilation 258 4.4. Grace under Pressure 258

5. Conclusion 259

5. THE MID REPUBLIC (290–120 bc) 1.

Primary Sources and their Genres 261 1.1. Historiography 264 1.2. Drama 270 1.3. Epic 271 1.4. Visual Sources 273

2. The Themes of  the Roman War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time: The Mid Republic 274 2.1. The Theme of   Loyalty 274 2.1.1. Loyalty and patria 274 2.1.2. Loyalty and virtus and disciplina 278 2.1.3. The Loyalty Theme: Conclusion 293 2.2. The Theme of   Supremacy 293 2.2.1. The Superiority Discourse 294 2.2.2. The Victory and Conquest Discourses 297 3. Conclusion 305 7

TABLE OF  CONTENTS

6. THE LATE REPUBLIC (120–27 bc) 1. Primary Sources and Their Genres 307 2. The Themes of  the Roman War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time 312 2.1. The Legitimacy Theme 312 2.1.1. The Just War Discourse: ius in bello (How to Conduct a Just War) 312 2.1.2. The Just War Discourse: ius ad bellum (How to Start a Just War) 316 2.1.3. The Just War Discourse in Literature 321 2.1.4. The Legitimacy Theme: Conclusion 326 2.2. The Theme of   Loyalty 327 2.2.1. Virtus and disciplina: The Perceived Moral Decay 328 2.2.2. Loyalty to the Commander 333 2.2.3. Caesar’s Propaganda 336 2.3. The Theme of   Supremacy 342 2.3.1. The Superiority Discourse 343 2.3.2. The Victory Discourse 347 2.3.3. The Rhetoric of   Conquest 354 2.3.4. Caesar’s Clemency 358 2.3.5. The Supremacy Theme: Conclusion 361 3. Conclusion

361

7. THE AUGUSTAN PERIOD (27 bc–ad 14) 1. The Augustan Age 365 2.

Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources 2.1. Historiography 2.2. Literature 2.3. Visual Sources

366 366 368 370

3. The War Discourse in the Augustan Period 373 3.1. The Theme of   Legitimacy 374 3.1.1. Legitimacy and Destiny 374 3.1.2. Legitimacy and bellum iustum (Just War) 383 8

TABLE OF  CONTENTS

3.1.3. The Legitimacy Theme: Civil War in Various Genres 384 3.1.4. The Legitimacy Theme: Conclusion 387 3.2. The Theme of   Loyalty 388 3.2.1. Loyalty and patria 388 3.2.2. Loyalty and virtus and disciplina 394 3.3. The Theme of   Supremacy 403 3.3.1. Supremacy and Roman Superiority: Historiogra phy 403 3.3.2. Supremacy and Roman Superiority: Other Sources 407 3.3.3. Supremacy and the Victory Discourse 408 3.3.4. Supremacy and Conquest 419 3.3.5. The Theme of   Supremacy: Conclusion 431 4. Conclusion 432

8. THE EARLY EMPIRE (ad 14–193) 1. Introduction to the Period 435 2.

Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources 436 2.1. Historiography 436 2.2. Literature 438 2.3. Visual Sources 440

3. The War Discourse in the Early Empire 442 3.1. The Conformist Perspective 444 3.1.1. Loyalty to the Emperor and the Army Unit 444 3.1.2. Roman Superiority 451 3.1.3. The Victory Discourse 462 3.1.4. The Conquest Discourse 466 3.1.5. The Conformist Perspective: Conclusion 472 3.2. The Critical Perspective 472 3.3. The Dissociative Perspective 486 4. Conclusion 498

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TABLE OF  CONTENTS

9. THE THIRD CENTURY AND THE EMERGING CHRISTIAN DISCOURSE (ad 193–c. 360) 1. Introduction to the Period 501 2.

Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources 504 2.1. Historiography: The Emerging Christian Discourse 505 2.2. Other Sources 508

3. The War Discourse of   this Period 512 3.1. Loyalty and the Emperor: The Pagan Tradition 513 3.1.1. The Emperor and His Army’s Loyalty 514 3.1.2. Using ‘Victory’ as an Emblem to Secure Loyalty 519 3.1.3. Using Religion as a Tool to Maintain Loyalty 524 3.1.4. The Pagan Tradition: Conclusion 529 3.2. The Beginning of   a Christian War Discourse 530 3.2.1. Loyalty and Christian Pacifism 531 3.2.2. Loyalty and the ‘Constantinian Shift’ 540 3.2.3. The Christian Tradition: Conclusion 556 4. Conclusion 557

10. LATE EMPIRE: THE LATER 4TH AND 5TH CENTURIES (ad c. 360–500) 1. The Later Fourth and Fifth Centuries 559 2. Primary sources 564 3. The War Discourse of   the Late Empire 571 3.1. Classical Concerns in the Pagan Tradition 573 3.1.1. The Topic of   Decline 573 3.1.2. The Strong Military Leader and the Role of  virtus and disciplina 575 3.1.3. Roman Superiority 577 3.1.4. Developments in Panegyric and Poetry 583 3.2. Theological Framing in the Christian Discourse 589 10

TABLE OF  CONTENTS

3.3. The New Enemy: Antagonism in the Christian Dis course 593 3.3.1. From Barbarian to Infidel 594 3.3.2. Towards a Christian ‘Just War’ Theory 603 3.4. Victory and the Adaptation of   Christian Imagery 612 4. Conclusion

617

CONCLUSIONS 621 BIBLIOGRAPHY 637

Primary Sources 637 Text 637 Visual, Not in Works Cited Below 654 Secondary Sources

655

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES 715 INDEX OF CULTURAL PARAMETERS 723

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War is the father of   all and king of   all. Heraclitus, DK22B53 It is neither possible for a man with no experience of   warlike operations to write well about what happens in war, nor for one unversed in the practice and circumstances of   politics to write well on that subject. Polybius, The Histories, 12.25g.1 The task of   history is to deal with prominent events, not to delve into trivial minutiae, which is as hopeless to investigate as to count the small indivisible bodies we Greeks call atoms which fly through empty space. Ammianus Marcellinus, Roman History, 26.1

PREFACE

An intriguing question in the study of   war history remains the role that culture plays in warfare – what are the ideas and mentality that dominate a given period and how do they relate to warfare? This study aims to make a contribution to an understanding of   this complex relationship by looking at the ways in which ancient Greeks and Romans perceived warfare in their own time. Years ago I became fascinated by the interplay of  culture and war when I visited the battlefields of  the First World War in Flanders and in France. With clear ideologies missing, what sort of  cultural mindset enabled this enormous slaughter? This question, unanswered, later provided the impetus for the present study. The book is based on a dissertation I wrote to obtain my Ph.D. in History at the Vrije Universiteit in Brussels, which was completed in June 2018. The project was supervised by Prof. Paul Erdkamp, and it is to him that I am greatly indebted for a whole range of   matters of   advice. I would also like to thank Prof. Wim Klinkert (University of   Amsterdam) for putting me on the right scholarly track when I approached him, years ago, with a grand and diffuse scheme. Thanks are also due to Dr Marloes Deene (University of   Gent) and Dr  Jeroen Wijnendaele (University of   Gent) for their expert comments on parts of  the manuscript. With her detailed jury report, Prof.  Christelle Fischer-Bovet (University of  Southern California) greatly helped me in turning the dissertation into a book. The present study is the result of  years of  exploration into the world of   antiquity, focusing on an analysis of   primary sources (mostly written but also visual sources like art and monuments) 15

PREFACE

in order to bring to light the contemporary war discourse. To my knowledge this has not been done on this scale before: previous work has concentrated on very specific periods or – mostly – individual authors. This is not the only claim this study makes. Since cultural history cannot be studied in isolation – it sometimes is, but then it comes close to an exercise of   literary interpretation, unrelated to the real world, the analysis of  the discourse has been contextualized. That is, discourse features have invariably been linked to the political and social background of   the time, which has made it imperative to incorporate the many debates among modern scholars about a  large number of   contextual issues. This added dimension is often lacking in current scholarship. I would like to conclude with a few final words of  appreciation. In the early years, I made frequent visits to the staff  of  librarians at Zuyd University of   Applied Sciences (Maastricht), who helped me ordering scholarly material through the Interlibrary Loan. Thanks to all of  you. To T. C. Tsui, my roommate at Zuyd University for many years, pursuing his own Ph.D. track, I  say Ni Hao and thanks for the hours of  shared joy and misery. A final word of  gratitude to my wife, Emmy, who had to put up all these years with my incessant reading of   books by authors long dead. Thanks for the hours spent in reconfiguring the footnotes and bibliography to match the publisher’s standards. It  is  to Emmy that I dedicate this book.

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INTRODUCTION: CULTURE AND WAR

1. Aim and Scope of  the Study The present study aims to identify the cultural parameters of   the war discourse in ancient Greece and Rome, and to establish patterns of   development that can be seen over the period of   investigation. The wide scope of   more than a  thousand years (from c.  750  bc to ad  500) accounts for the horizontal, longitudinal approach taken. The search for cultural features is  fully focused on the contemporary war discourse. Culture and war can be studied from many different perspectives, as we shall see, but here we concentrate on the ideas and perceptions, in other words the non-material culture, that present themselves in the range of  textual and other sources produced at the time. Discourse and discourse analysis are key, therefore. At the same time, the social and political context of   the various discourse features have not been neglected: as said in the Preface, cultural history cannot be studied in a vacuum without losing its relevance. In the sections that follow, I will first give an overview of  how the combination of   culture and war has gained increasing attention from scholars working in different (sub)disciplines, and present the current state of   affairs. Today, culture and war are studied as part of  the subdiscipline of  ‘cultural history’, but also by scholars in the field of  ancient history and military history, which makes it possible to come to greater depth and comprehensiveness in combining the two. Therefore, in presenting the overview, I will move from the general treatment of   culture and war in the various subdisciplines (first cultural history, then military history) 17

THE CULTURAL PARAMETERS OF  THE GRAECO-ROMAN WAR DISCOURSE

in order to come to an appropriate theoretical framework that can be applied to the periods of   classical Greece and Rome, the focus of  this study. Next, I will turn to the details concerning the methodology applied, a form of   discourse analysis, but one that is placed in a social and political context. What is  new in the approach used in this study is  that – to my knowledge – it  is the first attempt to bring together a  wide variety of   cultural features of   warfare in the world of   ancient Greece and Rome. The fairly recent interest in the cultural aspects of   warfare has so far been restricted to very specifc (sub)periods, to individual authors, or to a  treatment of   features in isolation (such as ‘courage’ as a feature related to the hoplite phalanx). This study, however, brings these features together and traces their development over a long period of  time. Thus, next to ‘courage’, it treats ‘patria’, ‘virtus and disciplina’, ‘victory’ as discourse topics, to mention a few, and not just in the period of   Classical Greece, but through the Hellenistic era and the whole of   ancient Rome. This focus on the ‘longue durée’ has made it possible to identify a number of  patterns of  development, in an interplay of  continuity and change, with a number of  interesting ‘shifts’ in the ancient war discourse. It will be seen, for example, that there is a marked shift from the individual to the collective (and back again) where it concerns the principle of   soldiers’ loyalty. Or that ‘conquest’ as a goal gives way to a combination of   ‘victory’ and ‘pax’. And that, over time, the divergence of   perceptions in primary sources is  increasing. These and other findings will be discussed in the final chapter, after the discourse features of  the individual periods have all been identified and analyzed.

2. Cultural History As a special object of   historical study, ‘culture’ has found its own domain in ‘cultural history’, long a  minor subfield within the discipline but now fully recognized and increasingly fertile. As a separate branch of   history, it has tended to focus on the whole of  the human experience rather than the parts. This synthesizing objective has given it a multidisciplinary outlook. Since it is about artifacts and ideas at the same time, combining ‘material’ and ‘conceptual’ culture, cultural history necessarily crosses the 18

1. INTRODUCTION: CULTURE AND WAR

boundaries of   disciplines like anthropology, sociology, art history, literary criticism, philosophy and theology. This attempt to embrace all aspects of  human life in a given period in history, what some people called ‘total history’, has been most characteristic in the famous studies by Burckhardt and Huizinga that are often seen as the first successful attempts at writing cultural history. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, scholars like Burckhardt and Huizinga were the first historians who tried to capture the spirit of   the age, the Zeitgeist, rather than studying the conventional sequence of  historical events, the actions of  great men. In its early days, ‘classic’ cultural history as it is called today, used a rather narrow definition of   ‘culture’, in spite of   its broad approach. Culture was then seen as basically homogeneous and was what we now call ‘high culture’, the traditional realm that includes art, literature, religion and so on. Also, cultural expressions in a given age were linked by an underlying central idea that made that particular culture unique. This idea of   cultural homogeneity and uniqueness was essentially Hegel’s idea of  historicism: ‘each society is a unique whole, all of   whose parts are inseparable from one another. The art, religion, constitution, tradition, manners, and language of  a people form a systematic unity’. 1 Although radical historicism was later abandoned, it has still influenced the modern schools of  thought that want to treat cultures on their own terms. Classic cultural history found quite some followers in Germany and, especially, in France, where the history of   Zeitgeist was transformed into the history of   mentalités. The interest now became more focused on specific subjects that lent themselves to this synthetic treatment rather than on the study of   culture as a whole. And, irrespective of   later developments in this field of   study, the interest in specific subjects has remained and is highly characteristic. Thus, cultural histories have appeared on such divergent subjects as tobacco in Russian history, civility in Western civilization, and terrorism in the world. This wide range of  subjects makes it difficult to make general statements about the state of  affairs in the discipline. All the same, it is clear that an important change came in the middle of   the 20th century, when ‘culture’ was placed in a social,   Green 2007, p. 15.

1

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THE CULTURAL PARAMETERS OF  THE GRAECO-ROMAN WAR DISCOURSE

political and economic context. This change was effected by the rise of   Marxism in the humanities – for Marxists the concept of   culture existed too much in a vacuum. Another great change came in the 1970s, when culture increasingly became to be seen in anthropological terms. This is  why cultural historians broadened the definition of   culture to include ‘popular equivalents to arts and sciences’ as Peter Burke puts it. 2 The stretching of   the definition has continued ever since, so that ‘culture’ has not just extended downwards, from ‘high culture’ down to include ‘low culture’, but also expanded ‘sideways’, 3 to include human artifacts like utensils and tools, houses and other structures, but, perhaps even more importantly, all forms of  human practices. The anthropological ‘turn’, as this development is often called, has given cultural historians an immense field to work with. The anthropological turn in cultural history was not just important because of  its inclusiveness of  subject matter; it also brought new heuristic methods. Perhaps its main contribution was in its symbolic notion of   culture. Traditionally, symbolism was the exclusive domain of   art historians and literary critics, but now it entered the vocabulary of   cultural historians. This happened through the work of   ‘symbolic anthropologists’ like Clifford Geertz, Victor Turner and David Schneider. In  his influential book The Interpretation of   Cultures, Geertz defined culture as ‘a historically transmitted pattern of  meanings embodied in symbols, a  system of   inherited conceptions expressed in symbolic forms by means of   which men communicate, perpetuate, and develop their knowledge about and attitudes towards life’. 4 It was the task of   the anthropologist, Geertz believed, to gain access to a culture by trying to come to grips with its system of  symbols. He compared man with an animal ‘suspended in a web of significance he himself has spun’. 5 Anyone interested in analyzing a culture would necessarily have to interpret these meanings. Apart from symbols and their interpretation, the new anthropology’s definition of   culture also suggested that there was an     4  5  2 3

Burke 2008, p. 29. Burke 2008, p. 29. Geertz 1973, p. 89. Geertz 1973, p. 5.

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interest in the forms of   behavior which brought the symbols to expression, i.e. the cultural ‘rules’ or ‘protocols’. For cultural historians, this meant that it was not enough to focus on the related set of  symbols in a culture, but that it would be equally challenging to study how things were done. This ‘dramatic’ input has given us a wide variety of  unexpected topics in the field of  cultural habits and customs: how to ask for a drink, for instance, or how to enter a house, or how to be a medieval king, or a Counter-Reformation saint. 6 Geertz also suggested that the interpretation of   cultural symbols necessitated a  new heuristic method, and he borrowed his label ‘thick description’ from Gilbert Ryle, a British philosopher. A scholar using thick description tries to place cultural phenomena in a  proper cultural context. Contrary to the conventional description of  a culture (‘thin description’), which would remain relatively superficial and would concentrate on external representations of  the culture, thick description would try to delve deeper and place these representations in the context of   the ‘intentions, expectations, circumstances, settings, and purposes that give actions their meaning’. 7 Culture, therefore, should be understood from the perspective of   the participant, who acts within a  prescribed set of  conventions. The impact of   symbolic anthropology on cultural history has been long-lasting and it is still noticeable, but it has not given a new paradigm. To some historians, the symbolic approach was limited in that it did not offer adequate explanations for cultural change, a criticism that has been leveled at various trends in cultural history and one that is still valid today. Geertz’s cohesive symbolic structure is perhaps not so cohesive after all, critics said, yielding ‘conflicting and contested symbolic meanings’. 8 In the 1980s and 1990s, scholars explored the possibilities of  what is now known as New Cultural History along different lines. In the absence of   an overriding central idea, it  is still possible to discern a few developments. If  there is a common element in the divergent strands of   New Cultural History it is, perhaps,   Burke 2008, p. 41.   Geertz 1973, p. 9. 8  Green 2007, p. 62. 6 7

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the linguistic ‘turn’, the interest in the role of   language in shaping human culture. This interest runs parallel to the ascendancy of  French social and cultural theory in the 1970s and 1980s, when first structuralism and, a  little later, post-structuralism became popular. For some time, the movements overlapped, and they shared a strong linguistic (or semiotic) bias in that they were interested in the interrelationship of  signifier and signified, i.e. of  text and meaning, or, to link with cultural history, of   thin and thick description, of   surface and symbol. The focus on the semiotic dimension of  human culture has been outspoken ever since. In the structuralist approach, the human mind creates certain patterns, often in the form of   binary oppositions. The patterns come forward in texts (and, by implication, in other things that carry meaning). These patterns or structures together form a hierarchy. Post-structuralist theories generally assume that the interpretation of   these underlying patterns depends on the reader’s frame of  reference. Meaning is, therefore, a construct that an individual reader imposes on a text. This implies that a sound analysis must be based on the utilization of   various perspectives on the text, in order to create multiple interpretations. A sound analysis can also account for the shifts in meaning that occur with a shift in variables, such as the identity of  the reader. Because of  its inherent destabilizing of   the author and of   the author’s intent, this aspect of  the theory is often called ‘deconstructivist’. The deconstructivist method was used to bring to light the reader’s cultural biases and assumptions, and generated new ways of  reading texts. 9 Both structuralism and post-structuralism had a strong influence on New Cultural History. The concern that cultural historians had with categories of   thought, stereotypes, and formulae received a  strong impetus. Due to the interdisciplinary nature of   the object of   study, terms and labels abound, and can easily cause confusion, but they all try to establish a paradigm, the system of   thought that makes sense of   a culture’s basic way of   thinking, which was, of   course, what Thomas Kuhn had tried to do in the world of  culture and science in his book The Structure of  Scientific Revolutions. In  art history, the German historian Aby Warburg had already explored the idea of  cultural stereotypes; he based his   Glendinning 2011, p. 30–42.

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notion of   ‘schema’ on recurrent cultural motifs that artists used. Warburg showed that some of  these schemata had very long lives. The use of  schemata gained some currency when it was picked up by the famous British art historian Ernst Gombrich, who used it in his Art and Illusion. 10 The French theorist Michel Foucault found his system of  concepts in what he called the ‘episteme’, ‘the system of  concepts that defines knowledge for a given intellectual era’. 11 Foucault based his ideas on ‘discourses’, groups of  statements that belonged together because they shared certain patterns. These bodies of   knowledge were organized around a central ‘stratum of  rules’ that were used instinctively by writers and thinkers in a given period. These conceptual structures had to be dug up, so to speak; in fact, Foucault used the imagery of  archaeology and archaeologists for his analytical efforts. The structures were also seen as ‘mental grids’ through which ideas were processed and filtered. Since the individual’s eye was already ‘encoded’, it had restricted perception. For example, in the Renaissance, the episteme of   ‘similitude’ could be seen as dominant – it dominated contemporaneous discourses and implied that the world was a  book and ‘obeyed a  vast syntactic system based upon a  system of   similarities and correspondences’. 12 In  the early modern period, especially during the classical age (c. 1650–1800), the episteme of   ‘order’ was dominant: contemporaneous discourse was ruled by mathematics and science, by attempts to empirically classify knowledge into categories. In the modern period, ‘man’ has become the episteme, because now the proper intellectual pursuit of   man is man himself. 13 In  his book Madness and Civilization, Foucault applied these principles to argue that ‘madness’ in itself  is  not a  fixed concept but that it is ‘constructed’ – it is different for different periods in history. 14 Over the past two decades, the Foucauldian approach to cultural history has been dominant, but it has also come under critical scrutiny, as we shall see.     12   13  14  10 11

Warburg 2000; Gombrich 2000. Gutting 2005, p. 9. Macey 2004, p. 74. Foucault 1994, chapter 2, ‘The Prose of  the World’. Foucault 1988, p. 279–90.

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The new approaches to reading ‘text’ included a fresh look at the relationship between history and narrative. In his essay ‘Le discours de l’histoire’, Roland Barthes argued that historians wrote narrative, just like novelists. 15 As early as 1973, Hayden White had pointed out that historians, not always consciously, used literary archetypal patterns to create their narratives. 16 In White’s perception, historiography came close to fictionalizing. Later theorists looked at the role of  narrative as a mode of  understanding in many other domains than history, even in the sciences. They also pointed out that White’s attempt to equalize history and fiction ignored the divergent procedural aspects of  writing, which in the case of  historiography included such things as collecting data, formulating a thesis and arguing the case. 17 White’s thesis was effectively countered by Paul Ricoeur, who brought to mind that the writer of  history is not free to ‘invent’. There are sources and traces from the past that have to be accounted for. Also, a substantial part of  historical research (demography, economics, etc.) does not use narrative as a mode of  presenting results. The essential difference between the two genres is between recounting (fiction) and explaining (history), and, in his craft, the historian compares and contrasts a variety of  explanations, like a judge in a trial. 18 This does not mean the debate is over. Narrative has been and still is a widely used mode of   writing for cultural historians, and, as we shall see below, the exact confines of   what historical narrative can and cannot do are disputed. For some historians, history and fiction come very close indeed. It cannot be said that Michel de Certeau’s warning, voiced in 1986 and emphasizing the need for strict separation, is  heeded by all: ‘Fiction haunts the field of  historiography, a ghostly presence which must be continuously repressed for history to lay claim to a discourse that is legitimated as scientific’. 19 A different way to deal with systems of   concepts in the study of  culture is in the new history of  ‘representations’, which focuses     17   18  19  15 16

Barthes 1987, p. 127–40. White 1973. Gunn 2006, chapter 2. Ricoeur 1990, p. 89–94. de Certeau 1986, p. 219.

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on the use of   stereotypes in traditional representations of   other cultures. Edward Said’s Orientalism is a prime example. It studies the images of   the Orient in the West and shows the encoded eye of  Westerners in describing the East. This study (and other studies of   the history of   travel, for instance) point to the crucial role of   what is called the ‘gaze’ of   the traveler, the perception of   the reality that he or she is confronted with, distinguishing, as Peter Burke says, ‘imperial, female, picturesque and other kinds of  eye’. 20 Stereotyping in travelogues can be traced back a long way, perhaps even to Herodotus, but certainly to the first heydays of  travel, the days of  the Grand Tour in the 18th and 19th centuries. In recent years, some of  the defects of  the (post)-structuralist approach have been underlined by critics like Bourdieu, Goody and Bakhtin. The Foucauldian analysis does not seem to be able to explain cultural change, an objection that was also raised against its predecessors. If  each period has its own epistemes, how do transitions occur?  21 Another problem is the lack of   integration of   the semiotic approach within the social context, once again a familiar defect. Also, the linguistic turn is considered too much restricted to language as theory, as semantics in other words, rather than on language as expressed in speech acts, as pragmatics. Theorists like Bakhtin would like to see the practice of  actual speech brought into discourse analysis since discourse should be seen as a performative or ‘dialogic’ process. 22 This interest correlates with a general interest in cultural practices, which sees culture as a more dynamic object of   study, as a process rather than a product. Today, ‘practices’ has become one of   the new slogans of  cultural history. 23 It was Bourdieu who first stressed the importance of  seeing culture as a performative term rather than a system of   conventions and meanings, a practice that necessarily implied change, improvi Burke 2008, p. 65.   Foucault recognized the problem and in his later work introduced the idea of   ‘epistemic conflict’ to explain the occurence of   discontinuities and junctures in history. Within a given period, divergent epistemic systems could well coexist (Foucault 2002, chapter 2). 22  Bakthin 1993. 23   Inspired by the famous work by Norbert Elias (The Civilizing Process) on, inter alia, table manners. 20 21

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sation and also miscommunication. 24 Again, anthropologists were a  source of   inspiration when they investigated gossip and ritual in cultures, and moved away from social scripts to social performances. One of  them, Marshall Sahlins, even saw the general idea of   culture as ‘a series of   recipes for carrying out performatives’. 25 The idea of   social interaction as performance has produced more dynamic analyses of   everyday life and the adoption of   theatrical, dramaturgical metaphors. 26 The performative orientation of   the last few years has also stimulated an interest in the role of  conflict and ambiguity in culture. This is what Goody calls the ‘cognitive contradiction’ that is inherent in culture: because there is communicative dissonance, there is cultural change. 27 Apart from showing an interest in the pragmatics of  language – what it does rather than what it is – theorists of   New Cultural History have highlighted the relationship between language and power. In Mikhail Bakhtin’s view, language is ideologically saturated, permeated by power and those forces – political, cultural and aesthetic, as he says – that dominate a  given period in history. Bakhtin postulates a division between what he calls ‘unitary’ language and ‘heteroglossia’, i.e. official and unofficial language. 28 The  former is  the language provided by institutions such as the state, a  language that is  essentially ‘monologic’. Texts may also combine discourse types and become ‘polyphonic’, multi-voiced, containing elements from different discourses. 29 The enormous scope of   cultural history and its interdisciplinary nature has made it possible for many practitioners to pursue widely diverging interests, which makes it hard to establish a quick and clear scan of   the state of   the art. Still, some patterns seem to emerge. First of  all, there is currently a boom in the history of  cultural memory. It was, of   course, started in France by the publication of   Pierre Nora’s Lieux de mémoire, a series of   volumes that tried to make an inventory of  cultural items that could be seen as 24  Bourdieu 1977. Bourdieu also developed the concept of   ‘cultural capital’ in his essay ‘The Forms of  Capital’ (Bourdieu 1986, p. 241–58). 25  Sahlins 1985. 26  Goffman 1959. 27   Pallares-Burke 2002, p. 26. 28  Bakhtin 1983, p. 270–75. 29  Bakhtin 1986, p. 89–96.

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collectively forming the French identity. Here, memory is seen as created within a collective framework, rather than as a compilation of   individual memories. It  is  shaped by the social environment, as Halbwachs has suggested. 30 It is also constantly adapted on the basis of  social changes. In the process, cultural objects may be used, quite randomly in fact, for different purposes in different contexts, an idea that was already used by Lévi-Strauss in his bricolage idea. 31 A second focal point is the renewed interest in cultural tradition, which looks at the way in which concepts and objects are handed over from generation to generation, but also at its complement, reception, which studies the integration of  foreign elements into a  given culture. The treatment of   the subject has changed over the years, especially since Eric Hobsbawm’s The Invention of  Tradition. When he studied the period between 1870 and 1914, Hobsbawm found that many practices which were commonly held to be old, were actually recently invented to cater to the needs of   industrial society, mostly as a response to rapid social change. Today, the paradoxes of  tradition have become more prominent: on the one hand, apparent innovation may mask an underlying tradition, as in the new, more secular forms of   religion that hide a persistence of  religious feeling; on the other hand, external forms of  tradition may mask innovation. 32 A third and last object of   study is cultural encounters. It has attracted a lot of  attention because of  today’s interest in the ‘culture wars’ and the multiculturalism debate. It will also be a great incentive for cultural history as a discipline, as Peter Burke points out in the afterword to his book What is  Cultural History? In  studying cultural encounters, historians try to discover how social groups perceived, understood, or indeed failed to understand each other. There is a wealth of   historical material for this subject, for cultural encounters and cultural interaction go back a long way, at least to the days of  ancient Greece and Rome. Interaction between Greeks and Persians, Greeks and Celts, Romans   Halbwachs 1992, p. 37–40.   Lévi-Strauss 1962, p. 27. 32  Burke 2008, p.  26. In  the context of   this study, ‘invented tradition’ can be related to the endeavor of   the Roman Republican aristocracy to construct an appropriate tradition and genealogy for itself. 30 31

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and Celts, the encounters of   the classical world and ‘barbarians’ are all good examples of   encounters in antiquity, but other examples could be easily added. For 20th century history, encounter studies have expanded to include subcultures like male and female, urban and rural, Catholic and Protestant, youth groups vs establishment, and so on. These more recent encounters tend to be studied as processes, with analysts focusing on aspects like cultural borrowing, appropriation, exchange, transfer and so on. The variety of  terms is typical of  cultural history, which combines work from so many different disciplines. 33 Today, in the second decade of   the 21st century, cultural history is no longer the David facing the Goliath of  mainstream historical scholarship. Almost any topic has its cultural history. This is not just because the methodology employed by cultural historians has caught on – indeed it has – but also because, since the ‘cultural turn’, ‘culture’ has become a  catch-all term for objects of   study that would traditionally belong to fields like ‘social history’, ‘the history of   ideas’ and so on. In our discussion here, we focus less on ‘cultural’ as an object of  study, and more on cultural history ‘in its emphasis on hermeneutics, the study of  interpretation and the creation of  meaning, and its critique of  the positivist or scientific tradition of  social science’. 34 Current developments are diverse, not surprising for a  discipline ‘that lacks an essential core’, in the words of   William Monter. 35 I will first turn to two divergent views on how cultural history should develop, and conclude with what looks like some common ground among theorists. In  an article in History and Theory, Hannu Salmi argues that the study of  past cultures entails the mapping of  past possibilities. One of  the problems of  cultural historians is how to ‘access the horizon’ of  people in the past, the things they experienced, especially when resources are lacking or the sources remain silent. 36 A lot of   history writing is about past actions and past deeds, and Salmi wonders whether actions can only be thought of   as things that actually happened, or perhaps     35  36  33 34

Burke 1997, p. 208. Gunn 2006, chapter 1. Monter 2011, p. 478–80. Salmi 2011, p. 171–87.

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could also be seen as things that could have happened, as potential. If  the latter is accepted, the past is not only ‘what happened’, but becomes ‘a realm of   the possible’. After all, cultural history has typically challenged ‘historical realism’ with its emphasis on observable actions that actually occurred, and turned to the study of   thoughts, emotions and representations. 37 The study of   the possible could center, first of   all, on what the agent of   the past thought himself  or herself; second, on what in fact was possible for the agent; and third, on what the cultural historian reasons to be possible and, ultimately, is possible for him or her to know. 38 As successful examples of   this method, Salmi singles out Alain Corbin’s The Life of  an Unknown, the reconstruction of  the daily life of   a clog maker in 19th-century France, and Natalie Davis’ Trickster Travels, which, he believes, is ‘a plausible life story’ of  a traveler and diplomat around 1500. To Salmi it seems that this type of   research proves its worth by tracing situations, feelings and reactions that were possible for contemporaries, ‘even  if  their existence cannot be directly read from the sources’. 39 A totally different prospect is  offered by Avner Ben-Zaken in an article in Cultural History. Ben-Zaken departs from contemporary developments in neuroscience, linguistics and genetics, which recast the pre-modern perception of   the connection between nature and culture from natural surroundings (geography, climate) to innate physical faculties of  the human body (neuroscience, genetics). The question is: what can cultural historians do to avoid falling into a kind of  scientific determinism?  40 If  cultures do not necessarily or exclusively emerge from the human spirit, from human free will, and physical conditions are largely responsible for cultural development, and cultures are no longer ‘entrenched in distinct borders’ but float, creating mutual overlaps, it is time to shift the historiographical focus from ‘cultural fields’ to ‘cross-cultural networks’. And where it concerns humans as individuals, we should shift our attention to displaced persons. After all, they are most likely to confront the difference between     39  40  37 38

Salmi 2011, p. 173. Salmi 2011, p. 174. Salmi 2011, p. 182. Ben-Zaken 2013, p. 1.

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their innate habits and the practices of  their new homes. The cognitive dissonance they experience forces them to try and adjust and assimilate to new natural and cultural conditions. 41 It is time, Ben-Zaken argues, to put an end to the traditional detachment by historians of   culture from its physical condition, a  tradition dating back to the Enlightenment. The new foci that Ben-Zaken proposes for cultural history, notably the topic of  ‘displacement’, will keep it alive as a relevant discipline and rescue it from a fatal slide into determinism. Critical approaches to cultural history as a  discipline are not new, but seem to be carrying more weight in recent years. Already in 2006 Simon Gunn proclaimed that the heydays of  cultural history were over and that the ‘cultural turn’ was past its prime. 42 There was a fundamental flaw in treating culture as the foundation for all categories and concepts, even taking the place of   notions like ‘society’ or ‘class’. The cohesion of   cultural worlds was exaggerated, and the idea of  ‘textual analogy’ applied to everything and anything. 43 Gunn asserts that culture is  not the only ground on which explanations rest – there are other factors such as economics and politics. 44 Another theorist, Peter Mandler, had similar objections, adding the inherent lack of  distinction between the ‘imaginary’ and the ‘real’, and the failure to account for development and change of   meaning over time. 45 And, according to Richard Grassby, many cultural historians ignore the physical environment in which culture is  embedded. They ‘elevate abstract ideas above things, symbolic meaning above empirical facts’. 46 In an overview of  the state of  affairs in 2012, Peter Burke, the doyen of   the discipline, while defending the specific role of   cultural history, subscribes to most of   this criticism. 47 Cultural history, driven by values rather than material conditions, has brought us new insights, Burke maintains, but the problem is that it also     43   44  45  46  47  41 42

Ben-Zaken 2013, p. 4. Gunn 2006, chapter 8. Gunn 2006, chapter 7. Gunn 2006, chapter 3. Mandler 2004, p. 94–117. Grassby 2005, p. 591. Burke 2012, p. 1–13.

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‘excludes valuable old insights’. 48 The idea of  culture as ‘language’ or ‘text’, while offering many opportunities, has its limits, especially in the history of   visual culture, where we translate images into words, even when they are untranslatable because of   their ‘subliminal appeal which resists verbal translation’. 49 More generally, the central idea in cultural history of   ‘construction’ – the tendency to see entities like state, class and gender as ‘discursive constructs’ – underestimates the role of  development and change – the point raised by Mandler – for the process is  continuous. It is not a one-time effort but more like ‘bricolage’. Also, it ignores the agency of   construction: ‘Who is  supposed to be doing the inventing or constructing?’  50 After conceding these problems, Burke adds that cultural history still has a role to play, for it can ‘reach parts of   the past that other kinds of   history do not reach’. It has a special role when it comes to studying the great variety of   human cultures, by focusing on encounters, dialogue, conflict, misunderstanding and the like. 51 It can be concluded that, as in most fields of  history, some basic problems remain unresolved. The dualism between conceptual and material culture is at the root of  many of  the debates that have been ongoing in the field. Since the term ‘culture’ includes both symbolic and material objects, there is inevitably a bias towards either the mental world of  ideas and their symbolic expression, or the social and material context in which cultural activities arise. Much criticism of  individual contributions is based on this unresolved tension. As early as 1973, Clifford Geertz had already noted the danger that cultural history would ‘lose touch with the hard surfaces of  life’, i.e. the social, economic and political context. 52 A second, related, issue is the question of  methodology. Its synthetic scope has given cultural history a predilection for the qualitative method. The linguistic turn of   the new cultural historians has given us the idea of  cultural construction, an idea that is sometimes interpreted as subjectivist epistemology, ‘a retreat from veri    50   51  52  48 49

Burke 2012, p. 5. Burke 2012, p. 4. Burke 2012, p. 6–7. Burke 2012, p. 8–9. Geertz 1973, p. 30.

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fication’, as Burke puts it. 53 The poststructuralist emphasis on the position of   the reader can be seen to license intuition, since it is not possible to formulate rules that constrain the individual reading process. On the other hand, it must be said that, after years of   unlimited boom, cultural history has found a place of  its own, and that the ever-widening expansion of   the role of   ‘culture’ has seemingly come to an end. As a  historical method, cultural history is no longer seen as independent from the mainstream and antiestablishment, but simply as one of   the many instruments in the historian’s toolbox. With limited aims and targets, it can make a modest contribution to what the French call ‘total history’. 54 Since the focus of   this study is on cultural aspects of   warfare, not on history in general, a brief  inventory of   the state of   affairs in this area is in order. Cultural historians have been slow to pay attention to military history, a field of   interest left to specialists in technology and strategy, 55 but this is changing rapidly. Not all historical periods and individual wars are being subjected to investigation, however. Three areas of  research stand out: the American Civil War, especially by American scholars, and the two World Wars, the First World War above all. The Great War yielded a  number of   influential studies that went beyond the surface of  battles and tried to come to grips with the mentality of  the generation of  1914, or the effects of  the war on the Modernist movement, such as Modris Ekstein’s Rites of   Spring. Another aspect was the role of   cultural memory, as exemplified by Paul Fussell’s The Great War and Modern Memory. The latter also critically discussed the contemporary discourse on ‘honor’, ‘fatherland’, and ‘duty’. Today, the focus is  clearly widening, but the bulk of   the research concerns modern warfare, with contributions appearing in series like Studies in the Social and Cultural History of  Modern Warfare, published by Cambridge University Press, the Edinburgh Critical Studies in War and Culture (Edinburgh Univer  Burke 2008, p. 114.   Cf. Gérard Brun 2006. 55  Horodowich 2009, p. 209–10; ‘Military history may well be the last frontier’ (Burke 2012, p. 3). 53 54

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sity Press), and The Cultural History of   Modern War, issued by the Manchester Centre for the Cultural History of  War. In Denmark, the University of   Southern Denmark (SDU) in Odense is host to the War and Culture Research Group. A new, specialist journal, The Journal of  War and Culture Studies, restricts itself  to modern and contemporary warfare. This means that an area like ancient history is underdeveloped. In the following section, I will discuss the relevance of  cultural history for the specific aims of  the present study.

2.1. Cultural History and the Present Study What Simon Gunn said about the difference between ‘culture’ as an object of  historical research and ‘cultural history’ as a heuristic model  56 is relevant here as well. In conducting this study, I have made use of  the insights of  historians who have looked at a variety of   aspects relating to culture and war in classical antiquity, even if  in a great many cases they would not consider themselves to be working within the discipline of  cultural history. Cultural aspects of   war in ancient Greece and Rome have been studied for a long time, not always specifically identified as such with this label. To a large extent, they have even been part and parcel of   traditional research by classicists and ancient historians, warfare being the common denominator in much of  ancient history – arguably, of  history in general – and ‘culture’ being sufficiently broad a concept to cover divergent territories and to invite contributions from different scholarly disciplines. Thus, for purposes of  this project, I have used articles like ‘The Socratic Conception of   Courage’ (1985, by W.  Thomas Schmid) and ‘Clemency as a  Virtue’ (2005, by David Konstan) in elucidating cultural features in the Greek and Roman periods, respectively, and several other examples could be added. They were written from the perspectives of  philosophy and philology and had no intention of  covering the domain of  cultural history. Since the 1990s, numerous publications have appeared with explicit intentions to address cultural issues in antiquity pertain  Cf. note 34.

56

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ing to warfare, whether directly or indirectly. They have been helpful to shape the argument in the present study, and there are some that merit special attention. Vernant (1968) was a pioneer in this field, with a ground-breaking study of   the impact of   culture on warfare in ancient Greece. Later studies can, thematically, be grouped together. What follows is a small, inexhaustive selection of   three groups of   cultural studies pertaining to classical antiquity that have been seminal in the context of  this study. The first of  these revolves around an interest in ‘superior soldierly conduct’ and the adherence to the mostly unwritten rules of  battle. In cultural terms, this theme covers features like ‘virtus’ and ‘disciplina’, the agonal battle conventions, and a  concept like ‘honor’, especially as part of  a constructed tradition. For the Greek period, Victor Davis Hanson’s Western Way of   War was a landmark contribution, positing the idea that the ancient Greeks created their own culturally-defined way of   war, with an army of   disciplined citizen-soldiers. 57 Hanson’s thesis was criticized by scholars like Hans van Wees, who (in his Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities) argued that ‘the Greek way of  war’ was largely mythical, the product of   discourse, not of   reality. The role of   courage and discipline was explored in great detail by J. E. Lendon in a study (Soldiers and Ghosts) that emphasized the existence of  a long cultural tradition, all the way into Roman times. And, in his book Roman Manliness, Myles McDonnell investigated what the aspect of   courage (or ‘virtus’) meant in Republican Rome. A second issue concerns the relationship between Greeks and Romans and their enemies. This can be seen as part of  the overall interest among cultural historians in what is  now called studies of  ‘encounters’. Thomas Harrison’s Greeks and Barbarians exemplifies the traditional scholarly view of  how the Greeks perceived their opponents: as inferior and even as candidates for conquest and enslavement. Benjamin Isaac’s The Invention of  Racism argues that the Greek and Roman stereotyping of   the Other could be seen as a  form of   ‘proto-racism’. However, other scholarly  Since The Western Way of   War covers more than ancient warfare, it has also attracted attention and invited debate from general (war) historians, as we shall see in the following sections. 57

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works prefer to point to the interaction with barbarians, such as Erich Gruen’s Rethinking the Other in Antiquity, and Kostas Vlassopoulos’ Greeks and Barbarians. For the Roman period, Thomas Burns reviews the old image of   barbarians as invaders and conquerors, and introduces an alternative image of   settlers, allies and neighbors. In  this perception, instead of   conflict, it  is acculturation and integration that are characteristic of   Romanbarbarian relations. A third group of  important studies belongs to the Later Roman Empire, the period when the process of   Christianization comes to dominate the Roman world. Ramsay MacMullen’s Christianizing the Roman Empire analyzes how this process shapes Roman culture, including the military, as seen from a secular (i.e. non-theological) perspective. For the early period of   Christian influence, John Helgeland’s Christians and the Military studies the problem of   divided loyalty among Christian soldiers in the Roman army: how could they serve both the Christian God and the Roman emperor? John Shean’s Soldiering for God extends this theme into post-Constantinian Rome. Two other studies cover the same field but also add a new aspect, viz. the development of   a Christian ‘just war’ ethic: Roland Bainton, Christian Attitudes toward War and Peace; and John Yoder, Christian Attitudes to War, Peace and Revolution. Finally, William Gaddis (There is no Crime for Those Who Have Christ) turns to the 4th and 5th centuries, when a Christian Rome finds new enemies in the supporters of  all rival denominations outside the mainstream Catholic Church. Since the present study aims to look into the contemporary discourse, it is the other role of  cultural history that we need to turn to now, the heuristic model. It focuses on the small, the individual and, above all, the perspective from the inside. To get a proper view from the inside, discourse analysis is an important tool. It helps to gain access to contemporary ideas. In order to identify and categorize cultural features of  warfare in the ancient discourse, discourse analysis will be at the heart of  our methodology, and some of  the points raised before – in the discussion of  Foucault and Bakhtin, in particular – need special attention. An important starting point has been Foucault’s ‘episteme’, a  kind of   paradigm that brings together related features. I  have 35

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used it in the form of   ‘theme’, a label that unites individual discourse features that share certain elements. For example, I  have used ‘supremacy’ as a  theme in some of   the Roman chapters to cover discourse features like ‘victory’ and ‘conquest’. I have also borrowed Foucault’s ‘epistemic conflict’ in relevant sections, by using ‘perspective’ as an organizing principle in places where we see a number of   co-existing and conflicting viewpoints. This underlines the Foucauldian idea that ‘systems of  thought’ are not monopolistic entities, but can compete with each other, both simultaneously and in consecutive periods. Bakhtin’s division of   discourse into ‘official’ and ‘unofficial’ has some bearing here as well, especially in the chapters on the Roman Empire, where official discourse has its own preferred genres, like panegyric and – in the visual discourse – victory monuments. Another observation by Bakhtin, the occurrence of  ‘polyphonic’ discourse, with various voices speaking together, can be related to instances of   polyvalence or ambiguity (when seen from the side of  the audience). This is exemplified by the multiple views in the victory discourse that we shall encounter, such as the debates surrounding the victors’ triumphs in the Late Republic or, to give another example, the mix of  syncretic images on Constantine’s Arch. Finally, Bakhtin’s conception of  discourse as ‘dialogic’ emphasizes that discourse is  ‘performative’: it communicates with an audience. The large number of   contemporary ‘texts’ (both written and visual) analyzed here all have their own intended audiences. This is why it is important to consider ‘genre’. Genre not only shapes text or discourse into recognized, conventional formats relating to style and content, but it also has its own audience, an audience that is expected to respond to it. In the Greek discourse, for example, Aristophanes’ plays had a wider audience than Aristotle’s treatises. Hence, in the discussion of   the various discourse features encountered in the primary sources, genre has been a structural device. Especially in aspects like discourse analysis and the principle of  looking at history from the inside, cultural history has provided an important part of   the theoretical framework for this study. It cannot be our only approach, however, since discourse features need a proper context to be meaningful. This is why we need other 36

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perspectives to create a firmer footing. 58 It is interesting that the increased interest in cultural aspects has given us a correlative in the New Military History, which looks at culture and war from a wholly different tradition. It is to this second theoretical foundation that we turn to now.

3. Military History The study of   history and war has its own subdiscipline in military history. Just like cultural history, military history has developed over time. Traditionally, military historians have looked at their subject matter and their métier as a form of  political science or, alternatively, as applied technology. In the former case, they followed the footsteps of   Clausewitz, who in his famous work On War (1833) provided the explanation of   war as a continuation of   policy with other means. Of  course, Clausewitz’s analysis of   war as a political phenomenon did not come out of   the blue, for ever since Thucydides war had been very much discussed by historians as part of   a political context. In fact, history and war history had largely overlapped, since any description of  history in a given period, whether ancient, medieval or modern, was handsomely filled with accounts of  armed conflicts and battles. In this vein, war history dealt with the handling of   power by kings and other rulers and the military operations that, for a variety of   reasons, were often preferred over negotiations or diplomacy. The other branch of   war history focused on the more technical aspects of   warfare. This included the study of   strategic and tactical operations, and also the technology of   weapons. Today, 58  The problems identified with an uncritical approach to cultural history have been sufficiently outlined above, but the same can be said about applying discourse analysis as a self-contained instrument. For discourse theorists, the method has similar pitfalls. In an article in Pragmatics, Ruth Breeze has made an inventory of   recurrent problems in discourse analysis, or ‘Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA)’ as it is called these days. They include employing a shaky methodology, notably in the collection of   data (randomness of   selection), isolating texts from their social and intertextual context – the context in which they would be read – imposing preconceived meaning on the text instead of  letting the data speak, and ignoring the real-life situation in which a number of   discourses will co-exist and compete with each other to have varying degrees of   impact on their audiences (Breeze 2011, p. 493–525).

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there is  a  wealth of   literature on battles, both major and very minor, in which attempts are made to reconstruct events in minute detail. It is only recently that war historians have turned to other perspectives to look at war. Economics, for instance, long ignored, has become a serious issue in war studies, and oral history is becoming a new way to incorporate the social and psychological dimensions long missing; it is now possible to hear the voice of   the common soldier and get a better understanding of   what war was really like. Meanwhile, the cultural dimension of   war did perhaps not receive the attention it deserves. True, certain cultural aspects were obviously touched upon in the war narrative as a  whole, but usually in the margin: the role of   customs and traditions, for example, the importance of   religious rituals, or, more generally, what an impact belief  can have on a group of  soldiers. Culture was usually seen as outside the war historian’s realm or it was treated implicitly. The emergence of   the so-called New Military History, a new trend in military history that first tried to expand the historian’s horizon, can be traced back to the 1960s and 1970s, but it took a long time before it gained ground. Today, it has become firmly established as ‘one of   the dominant paradigms in the sub-discipline’, as Hughes and Philpott put it in their overview of  developments in military history. 59 The widening of   the military historian’s scope and the introduction on the ‘bottom-up’ approach can be first seen in the ‘war and society’ literature, which brings in the social dimension of   warfare: the relationship of   fighting front and home front, and the social interaction within the soldiery. 60 Looking back, it can be said that with the publication of   John Keegan’s The Face of  Battle (1976), the New Military History was founded as a new paradigm. In this seminal work, a study of  a series of  famous battles, Keegan adopts a cultural historian’s perspective, thus presenting a fresh analysis of  orthodox subject matter. In a different context, in the late 1980s, a group of  American military analysts came up with the idea of   ‘fourth-generation   Hughes and Philpott 2006, p. 6.   Neiberg 2006, p. 42.

59 60

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warfare’, a concept that stressed the importance of  ideas in modern warfare rather than technology. 61 The nation state was losing its grip on modern warfare, they argued. In  new conflicts, ideology would take the place of   technology, and the distinction between soldier and civilian would blur. Of  course, this analysis was influenced by years of   experience with American action in Vietnam, and in the decades that followed by events in Somalia, Iraq and Afghanistan. All too often, the US military did not fully appreciate the role of   cultural aspects in planning campaigns. This theme was picked up in Martin van Creveld’s The Transformation of   War, published in 1991. Van Creveld pointed out that the traditional paradigm for war, with formal armies fighting other formal armies, was no longer valid and that, even worse, it had, in fact, even been rather unusual, historically speaking. John Keegan’s History of  Warfare (1993) underlines the importance of  culture in war in a now classical war history that encompasses history, political science, and anthropology, and was one of   the first to broaden the war historian’s perspective to include heterodox sources. Keegan also gives a reappraisal of   the Clausewitz doctrine when he argues that Clausewitz’ theory should be seen as a theory of  ‘what war ought to be’ rather than what it actually is, and that war is more than a continuation of   policy – it is rather an expression of   culture, ‘often a determinant of   cultural forms, in some societies the culture itself’. 62 With this emerging role of   culture one can say that there has truly been a paradigm shift in the discourse of   war. John Lynn’s Battle (2003) is  the first study to fully focus on the cultural approach in war history. Lynn distinguishes between ‘conceptual culture’, i.e. the culture of   ideas, values, beliefs, assumptions and expectations, and ‘material culture’, i.e. its tangible products. He also borrows the term ‘discourse’ from cultural historians to refer to the complex of  conceptual cultural items that can be seen in a given historical context. A society (or a social group) imposes its discourse (or discourses) on the reality of   war, Lynn says. Of  course, there is  constant interaction between the world-of  Lind et al. 1989, p. 22–26.   Keegan 1993, p. 12.

61 62

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ideas and the world-as-it-is, and sometimes the two are hard to separate. 63 Lynn wrote his book as a reply to Victor Davis Hanson’s The Western Way of  War (1989), which was a highly original approach to an old problem: why did the ancient Greeks favor a  method of   war that seemed to fly in the face of   logic? It was the Greeks that developed our ‘Western’ way of  war, Hanson believes, a way that relies on tightly packed infantry formations with strict rules of   engagement. This was an anomaly, for most wars were fought with small skirmishes, with stealth, with hit-and-run tactics characteristic of   guerrilla warfare. The creation of   the Greek phalanx was culture-based, Hanson maintains: this brutal, demanding way of  fighting could only be achieved by independent and free property owners, the new citizens of   the emerging Greek city-states. In  a  later study, Carnage and Culture (2001) Hanson argued that the Greek way of  war was the beginning of  a uniquely European (or Western) type of  warfare, a category on its own. Hanson’s ‘exceptionalism’ thesis was refuted by Lynn and other scholars, mostly on the aspect of   continuity and unicity of  Western warfare. It is questionable whether there was any continuity, for the code of  honor invented by the Greeks disappeared when Rome ceased to be a republic, and when it reappeared in the Middle Ages it had changed rather drastically. Also, armies (then and now) tried to avoid combat, unlike the Greeks, and preferred raiding and sieges. Battles were not sought, as in classical Greece. Only with the French Revolution did the citizen-soldier return on the scene, but only briefly. The distinction between Western and Eastern styles of   warfare in Hanson’s (and also in Keegan’s) perception, broadly based on a different set of  cultural values, cannot be upheld for this reason. Instead of  a sharp dichotomy, there is actually a blurring of  styles. 64 Even if the unicity of  European warfare – the term ‘Western’ suggests an unwarranted role for countries like the United States or Australia – is  dubious, the importance of   ‘conceptual

  Lynn 2003, p. xxi.   Lynn’s thesis is supported by military strategist Patrick Porter, who even goes on to argue that the recent interest in the cultural paradigm of  war is greatly exaggerated and has become a new dogma (Porter 2007, p. 45–58). 63 64

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culture’ in European warfare (as in other types of   warfare) cannot be denied and merits investigation. It is also true that classical Greek warfare has given us a discourse of  war: its myths, ideas and a vocabulary of   war. 65 The military code of   conduct, the role of   heroism in war, the in­sis­tence on heroic values, the vocabulary to express these values, they were all, if  not invented by the Greeks certainly developed into a meaningful whole. This idea of  ‘military culture’ has been investigated in Martin van Creveld’s The Culture of  War (2008). The New Military History and the ‘cultural turn’ have resulted in a flood of   publications that prefer social and cultural aspects over technical or strategic issues. As in cultural history, research tends to focus on American history (the Civil War) or on international conflicts in which American soldiers were involved. Overall, the majority of  publications focus on warfare after 1800, and most of   the studies address very detailed and specific questions. 66 General treatments are scarce, which results in a  lack of  theoretical debate. What we do have is five comprehensive studies – four of   which already briefly mentioned – that try to come up with an explanation of   the relationship between culture and war, all five in their own way since they use divergent perspectives and terminology. Because of   their bearing on the present study, they will be given some more attention below.

3.1. Keegan The first modern treatment of   culture and war was undoubtedly offered by John Keegan in his book A History of  Warfare (1993).   Lynn 2003, p. 26.   Wayne Lee 2007, p.  1116–42. All  the same, the cultural turn in military history is not without its detractors, such as Porter. The interest in cultural aspects is sometimes seen as too academic, unreal, and out of  touch with the hard reality of  battle. However, to Lee it seems that this is  too narrow a  reading of  what the cultural approach can bring to come to a full understanding of  military behavior – under all circumstances, both in peace and in war. Another problem is that, among traditional historians, there is a deeply ingrained belief  that warfare is the product of  rational calculations and contingency. Although it is true that some cultural war historians seem to discredit ‘conscious agency’, Lee believes that a broad interpretation of   the cultural approach will do full justice to the role of   contingency in war. In analyzing the contingency aspect, the cultural historian will ask why a particular choice was made (Wayne Lee 2007, p. 1141). 65 66

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In Keegan’s perspective, culture should be understood as a determinant of  warfare. A History of  War can be seen as the first overall treatment of   the subject, since it provides ‘a coherent framework to understand non-political, non-technological studies of  the subject’. 67 In  stressing the strong cultural impulse, Keegan tries to discredit the conventional view of   war that is based on Clausewitz. War was fought long before there was the state, Keegan argues, before there was diplomacy, before there was strategy. 68 Keegan’s conclusion that war is always ‘an expression of   culture, often a determinant of  cultural forms, in some societies the culture itself’ carries a lot of  weight. 69 Not only does it emphasize the importance of  culture, but it also presents culture and war as interrelated concepts that interact with each other. Keegan presents a few case studies from all over the world which attest to the powerful constraints that culture can hold on the practice of  warfare: the Mamelukes and Samurai holding on to impractical, culturally prescribed ways of   fighting; the Zulus and Easter Islanders practicing utterly destructive and irrational forms of  total war. And, to illustrate the culture thesis with an example closer to Clausewitz’s own lifetime: the Russian Cossacks, whose involvement in Napoleon’s campaign in 1812 led to terrible outrages. The Cossacks’ totalitarian form of   war demonstrates that, to the Cossacks, war was not politics but culture and even a way of  life. In four sections, ‘Stone’, ‘Flesh’, ‘Iron’, and ‘Fire’, Keegan more or less chronologically deals with the interplay of   culture and the major material changes that characterize the history of   warfare, such as the introduction of   the horse (‘Flesh’) and the use of   gunpowder (‘Fire’). He argues that technological revolutions only succeeded if  and when the cultural context was right. There was no linear development, no predetermined course of   material development as such.

  Neiberg 1995, p. 466.   Keegan 1993, p. 6. 69  Keegan 1993, p. 12. 67 68

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3.2. Hanson Where Keegan took a  global approach and departed from the political/strategic paradigm, Victor Davis Hanson, in his study The Western Way of   War looked at the development of   Western (i.e. European) warfare based on ancient Greek cultural traditions. Hanson’s thesis was that ancient Greeks did not fight to protect their property, their vineyards and olive trees, but fought for cultural reasons, for battle grew out of   a  sense of   civic and personal pride. It was also short and decisive, and, like a football match, subject to all sorts of   rules. Greek warfare was fierce and violent as well, if  only because of  the phalanx formation in which it was fought, and it made tremendous demands on the individual soldier. It could only be realized with a strong sense of  community and full political rights. It was Hanson, therefore, who first underlined the cultural basis of  ancient Greek warfare. In The Western Way of  War, he also came up with a second thesis, one that claimed the existence of  a  cultural tradition of   ‘Western warfare’, linking all warfare in the West to this ancient Greek ancestry. In a later book, Carnage and Culture, this Western style of  combat, putting a premium on individual courage and discipline under duress, was broadened to include the political, social and intellectual context of   Western civilization. For Hanson, Western culture encouraged ‘civic militarism’, a soldiery that is instilled with civic responsibilities. And it was capitalism, another great Greek invention, Hanson asserts, and the principle of   economic liberty that made it flourish, that was responsible for the effectiveness of  Western warfare, for it gave the financial means to produce quality weapons and maintain large armies. The political, social and cultural superiority of   the West, combined with its economic success, eventually led to its awesome military power. It is Hanson’s contention that the cultural features of  Western warfare can be constructed on the West’s basic preference for decisive shock battle of   heavy infantry, an infantry of   citizen-soldiers that encourages group solidarity and discipline. It  also requires an intellectual context that facilitates rational decision-making by individuals, permits dissent or criticism, and allows auditing of  operations by externals. The features that distinguish Western war from its Eastern counterpart – discipline, morale, initiative, 43

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flexibility and command – can all be traced back to the principle of   freedom, for ‘Western armies often fight with and for a sense of   legal freedom’. 70 It is this idea of   freedom that made Western warfare more resilient and also more lethal, more prepared to push the enemy into oblivion. And, finally, it depends on the free market system of   capitalism to make it progress technologically. While exclusively focusing on culture as a determinant, Hanson explicitly rejects the approach followed by natural determinists, which relies on biological and geographical explanations.

3.3. Lynn John Lynn’s Battle: A  History of   Combat and Culture (2003) explicitly adopts the cultural approach to the study of   war and combat, both following Hanson and Keegan and at the same time departing from them. Lynn, a  prominent specialist on French military affairs in the premodern era, sees Keegan’s Face of   Battle (1976) as the true beginning of   modern studies of   war and culture, because it was the first to reject the concept of  the ‘universal soldier’ and replace it by the great variety in mentality that distinguishes various periods in history from each other – the individual soldier is no longer a faceless pawn in a game of  chess. Lynn agrees with Keegan’s correction of   the reductionist (Clausewitz) tradition, but he rejects his support of  Hanson’s thesis. Like Keegan’s, Lynn’s cultural approach wants to counter the prevailing view that it  is technological change that is  the main, if  not the only, explanation of   all great military revolutions. The great transitions in warfare, Lynn claims, were political, social and cultural, and wherever technological changes took place, it was their cultural embedding that triggered military change. In  the interbellum of   the 20th century, for example, the technological development of   armored vehicles, which followed similar patterns in countries like Germany and France, led to very dissimilar changes that can only be explained from a cultural (or ‘conceptual’, as Lynn calls it) perspective. In  studying the relationship between culture and war, Lynn distinguishes the mental from   Hanson 2001, p. 21.

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the material components of  ‘culture’: the thoughts and ideas that dominate in a given period on the one hand, and the products that give shape to these ideas on the other. It is the mental component, the ‘conceptual culture’, that he emphasizes, the ‘values, beliefs, assumptions, expectations, preconceptions, and the like’. 71 At the same time, Lynn makes a distinction between three categories of   ‘cultural realms’ that are used to describe the aspects of   culture that can be related to warfare: societal, military and strategic. The first of  these aspects, ‘societal culture’, are a society’s ideas that impinge on military matters, like religion or masculinity. The second, ‘military culture’ includes all ideas on war and combat within a  military community. The third, ‘strategic culture’ is somewhat broader and has a political bent: it combines the views of  politicians and civilians on all matters relating to war and peace. Lynn’s study addresses the first two of   these, rather than the third, since the book focuses on combat, on actual warfare. 72 To describe the way in which a  society conceives of   war, Lynn borrows the term ‘discourse’ from cultural history, and in this sense Lynn’s study is an attempt to apply some of   the principles of   New Cultural History to a military context. Of  course, discourses on war are not monolithic: even within a given society, there will be several discourses that vary by class, profession, gender and so on. They share a common element in that they all express ideas on ‘how war should be’, and thus try to impose ideas on reality. At the same time, reality always imposes itself  on society’s ideas, so that there is constant interaction. This interaction is, naturally, a complex phenomenon, ‘not always a simple matter of  recognition and reaction’, as Lynn says. 73 In the Appendix to the book, Lynn elaborates on his model, to stress this ‘feedback loop’ between ‘The Discourse on War’ and ‘The Reality of   War’. There are two forces at work here. On the one hand, cultures try to change or control reality – by making it fit an ideal; on the other, there is reality hard at work to present the facts of  life – in this way reality is shaping the discourse. Once again, there is  no single ‘Discourse on War’: it  is a  composite   Lynn 2003, p. xx.   Lynn 2003, p. xx. 73  Lynn 2003, p. xxi. 71 72

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of  various discourses within a society that may concur or conflict, depending on interests and points of  view. There is also a hierarchy of  discourses, since some social groups have more clout than others, and important military decisions are usually made by social, political and military elites. For example, in the late medieval and early modern period, peasants, aristocrats and clergy all had their own, distinct war discourses. As today’s war historians are well aware, in the interaction between the two forces, there is constant ‘friction’, i.e. there are such elements as ‘chance’ and ‘the unexpected’. They make the process ‘non-linear’, perhaps ‘chaotic’ in the sense of  the modern chaos theory. The model of   interaction between war discourse and reality is  tested in eight case studies, starting with ancient Greece and covering various periods of   history up till the 21st century. The first of  these, ‘Written in Blood’, discusses the Greek conventionbased battle style and the influence it had on Western warfare in later history. Lynn follows Hanson’s reasoning that the Greek penchant for pitched battles can only be explained in cultural terms, for ‘in the last analysis, they made cultural choices over other alternatives’. 74 It was actively-sought values like individual worth and independence that made Greek citizen-soldiers so keen on engaging in direct confrontations. Where Hanson sees continuity in the style of   warfare in the West, Lynn strongly disagrees. It is true that the Roman warfare of   the Republican era shares some characteristics with Greek warfare: it used the phalanx formation, for instance, and it was imbued with the same spirit of  civic militarism that characterizes the Greek poleis. However, in the later Roman tradition, especially in the imperial era, legions developed into more flexible formations and the Roman army ceased to be a citizen militia when professional soldiers were enlisted. After the Fall of  Rome, the line with this tradition was lost, anyway. Another weakness of   Hanson’s thesis, Lynn argues, is  the mistaken idea of   Western superiority in military matters. Long ago, Chinese armies used a  wide variety of   battle styles in no way inferior to that of  Greeks or Romans. At the same time, the alternative, so-called ‘Oriental’ style was actually quite successful   Lynn 2003, p. 25.

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in a long series of   encounters with the West. In the long period between the Fall of   Rome and the expansion of   colonial power in the 18th century, Western armies did not do well against their non-Western foes, whether they were Huns or Vikings, Arabs, Mongols or Turks. However, if  the Western way of   war must be dismissed as a  superior style of   warfare, there is  consensus about the enormous influence of   the Classics on war culture or ‘military culture’, as Lynn calls it. This can be seen in Greek and Roman names and symbols (Achilles, Spartans, centurion), visual representation (Greek helmets), architecture (war monuments), to mention a  few things. In  this broad cultural sense, there is a Western military tradition that connects with Greece and Rome.

3.4. Gat Azar Gat’s War in Human Civilization, published in 2006, is  clearly the most ambitious study of   culture and war to have appeared yet, since it draws on almost all scholarly disciplines that can have a  bearing on the subject. It  tries to give answers to basic questions on the nature of   war, and on the relationship of   human evolution and war. It  also has an inclusive historical scope, going from the origin of  man into the 21st century. Indeed, it is Gat’s aim to ‘unravel the riddle of   war’. 75 In this, he tries to view the development of   warfare in an evolutionary perspective, as a  function of   humanity’s adaptive, evolutionary growth over time. This evolutionary process is characterized by ‘relative chronology’: this implies that developments in different historical periods and in different parts of   the world do not conform to a uniform chronology. For example, in South America, primitive warfare could still be found in the 20th century. All  in all, Gat’s overall approach hinges on a biological explanation to the ‘riddle’ of  war. From the two ‘root’ causes of   warfare, resources (food) and reproduction (sex), other causes have derived, Gat thinks. These can be called ‘second-level’ causes. 76 Two of   these are dominance   Gat 2006, p. 662.   Gat 2006, p. 87.

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and revenge. Higher rank in a group gave an individual a larger share of  the hunting spoils and better access to women. Rank, status, prestige, honor: all these elements (‘proximate goods’) played a role in a warrior’s objective to enhance his position in the group. They emphasize different aspects of  the same thing, for successful performances led to higher ranking, increased status and greater prestige. Once a warrior’s status had been ‘displayed’, his honor was a given thing. Another motive, revenge, can also be explained from an evolutionary perspective. Retaliation can serve to destroy the enemy, but also to foster deterrence against him. Not paying back an injury will be interpreted as a signal of  weakness. Like dominance, revenge arises from a state of  ‘second-level’ competition, and this ‘second-level’ competition can be a source of   conflict as well, so that potential conflict breeds conflict: as soon as the other is seen as a potential enemy, ‘his very existence poses a threat, because he might suddenly attack one day’. 77 This leads to the well-known security dilemma, which escalates arms races: a strong defensive alliance on one side will be regarded with great apprehension by the other. The fear of  war breeds war. The reproductive and somatic determinants that Gat sees as shaping the drive for war are not restricted to primitive war, but they are equally at work in the age of   state formation. However, there are cultural influences, Gat admits, and they can sever the original link between a ‘proximate mechanism’, as he calls it, and the evolutionary end it serves. 78 This means that we sometimes only see specific behavioral patterns without their deeper, evolutionary origins. For example, the need for a ruler to have a harem was not related to reproductive success. There was a certain emotional gratification involved, a ‘proximate mechanism’, just as in the quest for power and glory. As proximate mechanisms, these got an independent life of   their own. Other cultural aspects, like ideas and ideals, can also be seen as proximate. With an intricate interface, culture is  linked with nature and forms an extension of  it. This is most clearly seen in the continuation of  kinship affiliation through ‘ethnies’ to nations. Nationalism is the cultural apex   Gat 2006, p. 97.   Gat 2006, p. 423.

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of   this evolutionary process. Similarly, religion should be seen as an extension of   social and political powers in the hands of   the rulers, for ‘unity of  faith fostered political unity’. 79 Gatt’s evolutionary model has been taken up and modified by Steven Pinker in The Better Angels of  Our Nature. Pinker looks at the decline of  warfare (and of  violence in general) since ad 1500 and relates it to the increased control of   central government, the growth of   commerce, the role of   feminine values and empathy, and the importance attached to science and reason. In his War! What Is It Good For? Ian Morris takes a further step by arguing that the decline of  war and violence is not a European or Western phenomenon (as Pinker suggrests) but that it is global and that it has been at work over a long period of  time, thousands of  years in fact. Ever since the agricultural revolution, when hunter-gatherers gradually became peasants, this transition to less violence has taken place, in fits and starts. What is more, it was what he calls ‘productibe warfare’ that was responsible for this decline, ‘creating bigger societies ruled by Leviathan, which, to survive in competition with other Leviathans, [had] to turn into stationary bandits that punish unauthorized violence’. 80 What Morris calls ‘productive war’ is the form of  war in which the winner incorporates the loser into a larger society, ‘the Leviathan’. 81

3.5. Van Creveld In The Culture of   War, which appeared in 2008, Martin van Creveld argues that war is  ultimately a  cultural phenomenon, rather than the rational activity it is often taken for, but ‘culture’ is used in a somewhat different way. War is universal and perennial – it will not, as some people like to think, be transcended into a state of  peace as human civilization develops. If  war can be seen – and studied – as a cultural phenomenon, it is not really the product of   cultural influences, as someone like Keegan sees it, changing along with the culture that has an impact on it, but rather an autonomous feature that has its own culture that surrounds it   Gat 2006, p. 432.   Morris 2014, p. 322. 81  Morris 2014, p. 80. 79 80

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and in which it is immersed. Although the outward appearance of  these features may vary, they have essentially remained the same throughout history because they share a psychological basis: ultimately, van Creveld says, the culture of  war was created to counter the fear of  death that is part and parcel of  all war. War is an individual impulse that resides within the individual. In the first part of  his study of  the culture of  war, van Creveld focuses on the many forms of   material culture that surround warfare, somewhat at the cost of   conceptual culture, so that The Culture of  War cannot be seen as a study of  culture and war per se. The world of   ideas that interplays with war in any given period in history remains somewhat concealed. The treatment of   material culture is broad, however, and structured along the lines of  warfare as a process, starting with preparation for war, continuing with actual combat, and ending with the commemoration of  war. The first section of   the book, ‘Preparing for War’, is  a  discussion of   the preparation phase of   war, which includes a range of   things such as the decoration of   armor, the magnificence of   battle dress, the aesthetics of   military architecture, and the use of   competitive games to educate soldiers. These are all features of  the culture of  war that cannot be accounted for in purely rational terms and that, from a military point of  view, can sometimes even be found to be counterproductive. In  the second section, ‘In War and Battle’, van Creveld turns to the military culture of   actual battle. Wars were conventionally started with a ritual declaration of   war, a ritual that sought to give justification to a war party’s case. Actual warfare is governed by rules – in this way, again, it is like a game – for without rules, there is no war. Rules varied and depended on the class of  enemy that armies were confronted with: equals or barbarians, legitimate enemies versus rebels, bandits or terrorists. The position of  non-belligerents (civilians, women and children) was also subject to changing rules. Whatever rules were applied, they invariably were meant to prevent escalation. In the same way, conventions concerning the taking and treatment of   prisoners varied, as well as the practices of   looting and plundering. Ending wars also followed recognizable patterns. Taking care of   one’s wounded and dead was one, but there was also the 50

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systematic division of   the spoils, the conventional celebration of  a triumph and the formal conclusion of  hostilities. The third section, ‘Commemorating War’, focuses on the way in which war is remembered, in history and literature – the two sometimes overlap – and in art and monuments. The relationship between war and art is complex and ever-changing, together with the broader cultural context in which they can be placed. Since war, like religion, is an important part of   the human experience, it has been used as a subject matter by writers and artists. Military art was often produced to satisfy its patrons’ tastes, so that styles changed with the years, and certain forms, like battle painting, became recognized genres. As in literature, perspectives on war greatly varied, ranging from glorification to utter condemnation.

3.6. Military History and the Present Study If  we follow anthropologist R. Brian Ferguson’s definition of  war, and settle on ‘organized, lethal violence by members of  one group against members of   another’, 82 warfare and culture can only be seen as necessarily interrelated, for the essential thing about war is that it is a social process, a group process. It is the social sanctioning that makes it different from other forms of  violence such as murder. Even though there seems to be consensus about this basic principle, there is little agreement among scholars on how precisely culture and war interact with each other. To a  large extent this divergence can be explained by the fact that ‘culture’ is a fairly broad concept, encompassing both ideational concepts (ideas, myths, symbols and so on) and their material expression (art, monuments, etc.). All the same, in the seminal studies we just looked at, some patterns seem to emerge. First of  all, they all recognize the importance of   the cultural dimension, something which had long been sadly ignored. At the same time, however, they presuppose different roles for culture in war. For Keegan, Hanson and Lynn, war is shaped by culture. Culture can be seen as a determinant, supplying the rules that govern warfare. The cultural codes, changing over the years and varying greatly in different parts of   the world,   Ferguson 2008, p. 15.

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determine the face of   battle. All  three authors are interested in war as combat rather than in the grand spectacle of  war and peace. They prefer to deal with ‘societal culture’ and ‘military culture’, as Lynn calls it, rather than with ‘strategic culture’, which is the domain of   political science, sociology, and management studies. Their interest in combat also explains why all three authors seek to relate their cultural ‘turn’ in the history of   warfare to the dichotomy of   combat styles. In Keegan, Hanson and Lynn, the East-West dichotomy plays a  central role, with the former two arguing for a  sharp division and the latter denying it. In  this way, the Hanson thesis tends to dominate the study of   culture and war. 83 For van Creveld and Gat, culture plays a  different role. Van Creveld denies the determinant role so distinct in the other studies – war is not the product of  cultural influences. Rather, it is an autonomous phenomenon with its own cultural features, and if  there are underlying forces, they are psychological. Culture and war should therefore be seen as the culture of   war, or war culture. Although the features of   this essentially material culture constantly reinvent themselves, they share a  universal basis that is  patterned on the distinct stages of   warfare (preparation – combat – aftermath). As van Creveld sees it, war culture is an indivisible concept rather than a  complex of   interacting forces, with culture influencing war, and war influencing culture. Just like van Creveld, Gat denies the determinant role of   culture in war. Ultimately, war can be explained as biological, as part of   the evolutionary process. Culture is  important, but only as a ‘second-level’ or ‘proximate’ factor. It supplies substitute motivations like status and honor for determinants that are actually reproductive and somatic. In  human evolution, it  is food and sex, to put it bluntly, that have engineered warfare. The evolution of   warfare, therefore, runs parallel to man’s biological and ecological evolution. The present study will not attempt to position itself  in the discussion of   the role of   culture as a determinant of   war. Although   It still does, as in a recent work by Alfred Bradford, War: Antiquity and Its Legacy (2015), which follows Hanson in tracing the Western history to its Greek roots. 83

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culture is a major force, so is biology (or ecology), and so is psychology. The studies reviewed above all demonstrate that arguments can be put forward to support a variety of  candidates with equal success. Nor will it try to join the controversy surrounding the Hanson thesis, which has come, it seems to me, to a dead end. One of  the problems of  culture studies – cultural bias – can easily blur the debate, which consequently gains political weight (as I believe it does in Hanson’s case) and loses historical interest. This study will not focus on combat as such, either. True, it is possible to treat a selection of   battles as cases-in-point, and make inductions from such events in order to come to an analysis of   cultural features, but the reconstruction of   the battle, frequently a familiar story, may easily take away some of  the argumentative force which should be fully focused on cultural interests – after all, strategic and tactical concerns are not the prime objectives here. Instead, this study will aim to present the first chronological treatment of   cultural features of   ancient Greek and Roman warfare. In  doing so, it will concentrate on societal and ideational culture, rather than on military and strategic culture, to use Lynn’s terminology, since these domains so far have been largely ignored, certainly in general studies. This does not mean that military culture (and material culture, for that matter) will be strictly excluded: sometimes categories overlap, and sometimes certain details are pertinent to the argument. However, it  is the ideas, beliefs, conceptions, myths, and so on that are prevalent in a given period that together constitute the basis for this study. They are the basic assumptions, usually hidden, that create the discourse on war of   a given society, and also have an impact on the choices made in the contingency of  warfare. They are what military historian Isabel V. Hull calls the ‘habitual practices, default programs, hidden assumptions and unreflected cognitive frames’. 84 To conclude, I  will use Lynn’s work as a  theoretical model, notably his emphasis on conceptual culture and the constant interaction between what he calls ‘The Discourse on War’ and ‘The Reality of  War’. Unlike Lynn, however, I prefer an analysis in   Hull 2006, p. 2.

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time rather than through case studies. This is largely because Lynn’s ideas, applied in form of   discourse analysis, require the context of   the time to balance discourse and reality. This approach will also enable me to postulate a number of  distinct cultural features for each period, and, in my final conclusion, some changing patterns over the whole time span that has been examined.

4. Methodology It was Jeremy Black who first pointed to the problems of  the present cultural ‘turn’ in military history in his essay ‘Determinism and Other Issues’ in The Journal of   Military History of   October 2004. One of  the problems is that the detailed work that the cultural approach requires is  simply not available, certainly not on a global scale. This means that conclusions are based on too narrow a range of  research. A large part of  the world has hardly been touched upon, and whatever material there is, is inadequate for making reliable assessments about cultural factors. Since cultural studies often rely on texts, another problem is in the use of   texts as source material, for it is difficult to say whether they are typical and can be treated as representative. Finally, there is the problem of  the relationship between the literature on war and the practice of  war, an obvious discrepancy. 85 Some of   these objections have already been raised. They touch on all periods of   history, including the classical antiquity, and need to be addressed. In  the present study, the problems have been tackled in various ways. First, by limiting the scope to specific periods (instead of   opting for a thematic, diachronic treatment). Secondly, by an attempt to be inclusive (using a multitude of  sources rather than a selection). Third, by incorporating – as much as possible – the social and political context. Below, we shall briefly elaborate on these issues when we discuss the methodological details. But let us first return to our research objectives. What is it that this study aims to achieve? Using discourse analysis to identify conceptual culture in a specific period, it tries to give answers to   Black 2004, p. 1217–32.

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a number of  questions that relate to the interaction of  culture and war in ancient Greek and Roman history:

1. Placed in the four major historical periods (Greece, Hellenism, Roman Republic, Roman Empire), what are the major features (or ‘parameters’) of  the discourse? 2. How do these parameters develop over time? Is it possible to identify patterns of   development (or ‘discourse strands’, as they are called by discourse theorists like Jäger?) 86 3. Are there any ‘paradigmatic shifts’ within this development and can they be related to recognized historical junctures?



In answering these questions, a dual approach will be followed, which combines the discourse analysis of   New Cultural History with the insights provided by modern war historians that have an interest in cultural aspects of   war such as John Lynn. In this way, the cultural historian’s text analysis, which tries to elicit the implicit symbols and myths, is held up for comparison with the results of   the war historian’s analysis, which is usually a more comprehensive one, one that includes the social context. In  embedding the Foucauldian approach in the broader social context, in line with recent insights, there are two advantages. First of   all, it widens the scope in order to avoid the old pitfall of   studying ‘culture’ as something ‘in the air’, and anchors it on the ‘hard surfaces of   life’, to use Geertz’s words. Secondly, it steers around the methodological trap of   subjective reading, obviously a  great concern for all practitioners of   discourse analysis. Methodology needs careful handling, anyway. Perhaps most of   all, the issue of   the narrowness of   research in cultural history that Black pointed to, will have to be given an adequate response. Because of   the enormous canvas on which they are working, cultural historians necessarily favor selective treatments, which sometimes results in far-reaching conclusions that are based on a limited number of  data. The problem can be seen in the popular micro-studies that focus on villages, families and individuals: the validity of   the claims is  not always very strong. It  is  not easy to solve this problem, but widening the selection, perhaps maximiz  Jäger and Maier 2009, p. 34–61.

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ing the selection, would be an option. Even though the periods of  history that are studied here offer a large number of  sources, the choice is not unlimited, as could be said of   later periods, particularly more recent periods like the modern age. For this reason, an attempt has been made to be as inclusive as possible. The research for this study has been based, first of  all, on a close scrutiny of  the contemporary historiography, literature and visual sources of   the four major periods in Ancient European history: (1)  Classical Greece, (2) Hellenism, (3) the Roman Republic, and (4) the Roman Empire. In the chapters that follow, the two Roman parts have been subdivided into seven subsections. This is because the Roman period covers an enormous time span, but also because of  the sheer quantity of  the source material that is on offer. In the selection of  relevant passages, ‘culture’ has been used in the broad sense, in the way John Lynn has defined the term in Battle, with an emphasis on ‘conceptual’ culture rather than ‘material’ culture. The large number of   items that have been analyzed collectively bring the war discourse of  the relevant period to the surface: this includes ideology and religion, myth-making, art, aesthetics, and so on. The next step has been to apply a discourse analysis for each of   the given periods. This implies a search for patterns or categories, or, as I prefer to call them, ‘features’ that seem to emerge from a  comparison of   the various sources and that present a  number of   overriding themes. These ‘discourse features’ or ‘parameters’ can be seen as forming the war discourses of   the period, and, taken together, as forming the ‘paradigm’, the system of   thought that was dominant at the time. It should be added that ‘parameter’ and, especially, ‘paradigm’ are used metaphorically – cultural history (or war history, for that matter) cannot be seen as a form of   science. What is important is that there are recurrent motifs that can be linked together, which means that it  is possible to identify certain patterns. The choice of   categories and category labels is, ultimately, my own, and is  the result of   ‘close reading’ of  all the source material, both textual and visual. For each period, then, I  shall posit a  number of   clearly distinct parameters or ‘discourse features’. In most of  the chapters, discourse parameters (‘features’) will be discussed in related groups or ‘themes’, such as ‘legitimacy’, 56

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‘loyalty’, or ‘supremacy’. These themes are meant to organize the material within the individual timeframe, but, as labels, they do not necessarily cover the same features for each individual period. In the Mid Republic, for example, I will use ‘legitimacy’ as a theme label to encapsulate the ‘patria’ and the ‘virtus’ and ‘disciplina’ discourses. In the chapter that follows, the Late Republic, ‘legitimacy’ will cover ‘just war’. In the later Roman chapters, ‘perspective’ is  used instead of   ‘theme’ to structure the argument, because war discourse themes have become fragmented into conflicting discourses. For the overall analysis, it  is the individual discourse features (patria/virtus and disciplina/just war/victory/conquest,  etc.) that are used to establish patterns. Hence, conclusions after each chapter and in the final chapter are based on developments within individual parameters, not themes. It seems to me that discourse analysis as such is eminently suitable for the study of  culture and ancient warfare, since it increases our awareness of   the complex interplay of   factual reporting and rhetoric in the ancient sources that we have. After all, much of  what we know is based on contemporary accounts, usually written long after the event, and, unfortunately, mostly unverifiable, which makes them intrinsically unreliable. 87 Also, contemporary historians writing our primary sources had a preference for what G.  M. Paul has called ‘historiographical motifs’. 88 A significant portion of   their narratives followed conventions: certain stereotypical ways in which battles and other events were expected to be described. This tradition of   using historiographical motifs has made our primary sources a complex interweaving of  perspectives on past reality and rhetorical devices. At the same time, it has also made it possible (and necessary) for us to study the texts as ‘discourse’ and analyze them as part of   the cultural discourse of   the time in which they were written rather than the period in history they describe. 87  In Edward Said’s words, it  is the exterior, the representation of   reality that constitutes the cultural discourse: ‘I believe it needs to be made clear about cultural discourse and exchange within a  culture that what is  commonly circulated by it is not “truth” but representations’ (Said 1979, p. 21). 88  Paul 1984, p. 5.

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In analyzing the ancient war discourse in its written form, I  have scanned the primary sources for relevant passages. The interpretation of   the meaning behind the words is my own, but wherever possible I have consulted the pertinent source experts to find support or, sometimes, to weigh in alternative readings. 89 As pointed out before, visual sources offer an additional challenge, since the ‘message’ sent by monuments or coins is (mostly) not in words and requires a translation before it can be properly interpreted; also, the translation itself  is  an interpretation to begin with. For this reason, I  have tried to avoid subjective ‘reading’ and have heavily relied on recognized standard works by experts on the art, monuments, and numismatics of   the period at hand, such as the handbooks by Henig, Kleiner and Ramage for Roman art and monuments, and the works by Kent and Crawford for Roman coinage. As for the treatment of   sources, two important principles have been applied. First of   all, I  have opted for a  chronological approach rather than a  diachronic one (which has been left for the concluding chapter.) I  think it  is essential to relate the war discourse within a specific period (say, the Late Republic) to the social and political context of   the time, in order to understand and explain the perspective of   the author. It makes it possible to compare, for example, Cicero’s orations to his other work, to that of  his contemporaries, and to the events of  the day. Also, to warrant true contemporaneity, retrospective views from later authors (such as Livy, in this case) have been discussed as belonging to the   The original Greek or Latin source texts have not been included. It would have made the book unwieldy. Also, the target audience is not primarily classicists (although ‘discourse analysis’ might suggest otherwise), but ancient historians, cultural historians and war historians. I have used authoritative translations (such as the Loeb Classical Library) wherever possible, and left sophisticated semantic issues to the judgment of   the translator. Since I embarked on this study, longestablished terms have become controversial. I  have incorporated new insights into the text without abandoning the old terminology altogether, sometimes giving additional information on how I use a term, such as in the case of  ‘Romanization’. I  have not always avoided terms like ‘nation’ and ‘state’ for the Mid and Late Republic, or ‘the Germans’, in discussing Caesar’s exploits, although these terms are strictly speaking anachronistic. Similarly, I have used the words ‘barbarian’ and ‘pagan’ without expressing the negative connotations they have these days, mostly because better terms were lacking or cumbersome (‘traditional Graeco-Roman religions’). 89

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discourse of   their own time (here, the Augustan Age). 90 In  this way, conclusions can be drawn on the variety of  discourse features for each individual period. In  the concluding chapter, patterns that emerge after all periods have been discussed will be presented as part of  a long-term development. The second principle concerns the phenomenon of   genre. What Paul called ‘historiographical motifs’ can be found in all other genres in their own ways. Literature, drama, epigraphy, art, monuments and coins: they all have their subgenres and their own specific conventions. Therefore, in the discourse analysis, it is not only the time that is important to consider, but also the genre that one is  dealing with, and the more or less prescribed form (and some of  the content) of  a given discourse item should be considered. Also, we need to consider that genre not only fashions the text but also has its own audience, something which inevitably has implications for the way in which we should ‘read’ the discourse. This is why, in the individual chapters, discourse features are discussed within their own genres, and the separate genres are identified and briefly introduced at the beginning of  each chapter. The inclusiveness of   the approach opted for in this study explains the large quantity of   primary sources. 91 Although the bulk of   the sources is  written, visual material has been incorporated wherever it was possible and necessary. This is  especially the case for the war imagery used in the period of  Empire, which speaks eloquently from monuments and coins. Furthermore, inclusiveness has been the consequence of  the aim to balance discourse analysis with recent scholarship by (war) historians. It puts

90  In most cases, authors reflect the ideas of  their own time, which cannot be simply ‘filtered out’ to obtain a more ‘objective’ view of   past events, or a ‘metahistory’, as is  sometimes suggested (Armstrong 2016, Introduction). There are varying degrees, of  course: in Livy the coloring is more obvious than in Plutarch. Still, I have adhered to the principle of   treating the author as a representative of  his own period as much as possible, with some exceptions, where the strict boundary lines are crossed in order to avoid breaking up a narrative which would result in confusion and unnecessary repetition. This happened in some parts of  the second chapter (Greek warfare) where examples could only be given from the Hellenistic period because of  a scarcity of  earlier sources. 91  ‘Inclusiveness’ is  relative. The vast majority of   primary sources has been lost, of  course. We can only base our conclusions on what we have.

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the discourse into perspective, by adding the context, which is only implicit otherwise, and by pointing to the gaps between ideas and reality. A final observation is in order. The inclusive approach, avoiding the pitfall of   subjectivity or ‘cherry picking’ – the bane of   all discourse analysis – has its obvious limitations. Occasionally, a more thorough, in-depth treatment of   an individual discourse item would be helpful to enrich the thesis. I still hope that this relative lack of  depth is sufficiently compensated by the width of  the views that are on offer and the quality of  the insight that is given into a large chunk of  history. In closing, I feel I should emphasize that this, of   course, is not a study of   cultural aspects of   ancient warfare as such, given the role of  discourse analysis. For this reason, a lot of  things that are increasingly drawing interest from scholars, such as the perspective of  non-combatants and, generally, all people outside the circle of  the elite that ‘created’ the discourse – the common people, of   course, the enemy or in gender perspectives, of  women, are inevitably underrepresented in this book.

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1. Greek Warfare Warfare in ancient Greece is usually identified with the hoplite phalanx, the tight formation of  citizen-soldiers, the army infused with a  strong civic ideology. This, however, cannot be seen as representing a  complete era, for it was a  relatively late development that did not last very long. The treatment here will be more extensive in its scope, covering a broad period, both chronologically and geographically. In time, the development of  Greek warfare can be studied from the Late Bronze period, around 1500 bc until Greece came to be part of   the expanding Roman Empire in the second century bc. Geographically, it can be seen to cover a small part of  today’s Greece in its initial stage to the Macedonian Empire of  Alexander the Great and his Successors. In the sections below, an overview will be given first of  the development of  Greek warfare and its relation with the polis. After this more or less introductory part, Greek warfare will be studied in greater detail – it is the cultural parameters of  the discourse of  war that we shall turn to, the system of  ideas that underlay the way in which the Greeks treated war in literature, philosophy and historiography. Having its own distinct features and forming a link between Greek and Roman warfare, the Hellenistic period will be discussed separately, in the following chapter.

1.1. The Rise and Decline of  the polis The development of  ancient Greek warfare cannot be traced without looking at the rise of  the polis, one of  the stock topics of  ancient 61

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Greek history. The traditional division of   ancient Greek history into five distinct periods (Late Bronze – Dark Ages – Archaic Greece – Classical Greece – Hellenistic Greece) still stands, but the precise boundaries are controversial and have come under attack from revisionists and counter-revisionists. It  is  especially the period of  the Dark Ages (roughly between 1200 and 700 bc), when a  time of   great instability seemed to follow the downfall of   the Mycenaean palace culture, that has come under scrutiny. Some scholars have argued that the darkness of   this period has been overstated, especially since recent archaeological findings have shed some light on the events of  the time, but also because in some views the period was considerably shorter. For example, Jonathan Hall, in a new history of   the Archaic Greek period, emphasizes continuity more than abrupt change, and sees the 6th century as the true watershed rather than the 8th, the so-called 8th century Greek Renaissance. 1 In this continuist reading, the Archaic period runs from c. 1200 to 479 bc. Ian Morris, on the other hand, reasserts the impact of   the 8th century revolution. There was indeed rapid population growth, which increased warfare but also promoted trade and overseas expansion. There was also a  strong social impact in the development of   urban centers with a new political organization. 2 Of   course, it is Victor Davis Hanson who has emphasized the role of   agricultural change in the formation of  the polis. The urban polis was made possible by the radically new way of  working the land that independent peasants introduced in Greece –  they worked as free men, not to serve their masters. 3 We can safely say that the process of   state formation that –  in the end – led to the rise of   the Greek city-state, the polis, was a  gradual one. The process has attracted a  lot of   scholarly attention, to this day. Central issues concern the making of   new forms of   rule in the emerging urban centers, and the varieties of  political organization and community that existed at the time. While aristocratic rule had replaced monarchy in many places, it became subject to internal divisions in the earlier 6th century, when the old aristocracy was challenged by a populist oligarchy   Hall 2007a, p. 285.   Morris 2009, p. 65; p. 70. 3   Hanson 1999, for example. 1 2

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of  the rich, when wealth came to replace birth as the more important of   the two criteria by which political power was restricted. It  was a  time of   violent competition for power, Van Wees has argued, with great social mobility ‘in which hereditary aristocracy had to give way to timocracy as the only viable alternative’. 4 In the analysis presented by Ian Morris and Leslie Kurke, the old aristocracy broke up between those aristocrats who saw themselves as members of  the local community, and those who identified themselves with the larger aristocracy, above and beyond the ‘petty local concerns’. 5 The former group is termed ‘middling’ and the latter ‘elitist’. When the elitist ideology collapsed, at the end of   the 6th century, the middling ideology provided the political framework for the later Athenian democracy, i.e. it made democracy a theoretical option. 6 The middling aristocrats were landowners, since agriculture rather than animal husbandry had become the norm, and they came to share power in a system of   alternating magistracies. 7 Citizenship and peaceful collaboration were secured by an order based on law, and this specific feature became the foremost characteristic of  the polis, the one element that made it more than an urban center. 8 It should be added, however, that there was no straight line from monarchy to oligarchy and democracy. It was not uncommon for cities to oscillate between oligarchy and democracy. What is more, the polis was not the exclusive social organization of   the time, with monarchy remaining an attractive option for a  large part of   the Greek world. 9 Also, there was an alternative organization in the ‘ethnos’, a term used to describe a population with a  distinct identity spread over a  relatively large territory, with small centers or villages. It  is  no longer taken for granted that the ethnos preceded the polis, i.e. its more urbanized version. In  the Archaic period, both forms co-existed for a  long time as forms of  state organization. 10     6  7  8   9 

van Wees 2003, p. 52–67. Neer 2007, p. 228. Hall 2007c, p. 40. Rose 2009, p. 473. Gehrke 2009, p. 396. Hodkinson 2003, p. 9–16. 10  Catherine Morgan has redressed the balance somewhat between ethne and polis. Ethne, often on the margins of   the polis world, were not as primitive and 4 5

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Another important element that can be linked with the formation of   the polis is the process of   colonization that dominated a large part of  the Archaic period. Many scholars have underlined the importance of   geography in the development of   Classical Greek civilization. 11 Greece was (and is) a  mountainous country with narrow valleys that mostly give access to the sea. There was a  natural tendency for the Greeks, therefore, to seek arable land elsewhere, and in times of   overpopulation, between the tenth and the sixth century bc, they colonized new lands, first on the mainland but later also on the islands, in Ionia, the western part of   today’s Turkey, and in far-flung places like Sicily, southern Italy, and other parts of   the Mediterranean rim. Greek traders came first, Greek farmers and mercenary soldiers followed. The economic changes between 800 and 700 bc which resulted in the replacement of  a traditional ‘redistributive and reciprocal’ economy by a market economy became a catalyst for the settlement of   new trading posts. 12 Today, this process is seen as part of   a  larger (economic and social) pattern rather than as a  type of   planned settlement directed from existing Greek poleis. 13 Of  course, Greeks migrated for a  multitude of   reasons (land, trade, but also push factors like civil unrest, stasis, which resulted in a lack of  ‘political space’ within the mother-city) 14 and the new colonies contributed towards social cohesion both in the new foundations and at home. Often the idea of   ‘polis’ was projected back from overseas rather than the other way around. 15

backward as was often thought, as archaeological evidence has brought to light (Morgan 2003, p. 3). 11  Kitto 1991, p. 29–31; Green 1973, p. 20–25. 12  Tandy 1997, p. 2. 13   Since the period of   colonization was one of   great mobility, and settlements were not really planned, the term ‘colonization’ is somewhat misleading, R. Osborne has argued (Osborne 1998, p. xiii; p. 264 & ff.). Greek settlements in the west were different from the Greek poleis, K. Lomas says, less democratic and more oligarchic, but, more interestingly, with an approach to ethnic difference which owes much to the inclusive ethos of  their Italian neighbors, for archaeological evidence shows that there was a strong interaction and intermingling of  people and artefacts (Lomas 2003, p. 167–85). 14  Malkin 2009, p. 380. 15  Malkin 2009, p. 377; Wilson 1997, p. 199–207. Mogens Herman Hansen holds on to three potential origins of   the polis – apart from the trajectory back

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These days the traditional reading of   the rise and decline of   the polis has been replaced by new directions, which tend to focus more on the context of  the polis in the whole of  Greek civilization in the Mediterranean as well as on the class struggle class division that characterizes a large part of   the history of   the polis. We already saw that the development was anything but linear – various periods of  oligarchic rule, for example, were interspersed with autocratic rule by tyrants. In  the economic heyday of   the 7th century, the nouveaux riches sometimes became too strong for the established aristocracy and created a strong rivalry that led to political instability. In this situation it was possible for individual aristocrats to seize power and rule their polis as tyrants. Although for some time they were popular in various parts of   the Greekspeaking world, tyrants did not last very long and were replaced by more collective forms of   government, whether oligarchic or democratic. 16 As for internal tensions, there is  consensus among modern scholars that the social and political changes in the Archaic Age did not go smoothly. A relatively egalitarian society was replaced by a more competitive one, in which the aristocracy offered protection to the demos in exchange for military support. Thomas Figueira has related the tensions between aristocracy and demos to the redistribution of   wealth among other classes, and Peter Rose even goes as far as treating the social and political struggle as a classical example of   Marx’s division of   the classes and class conflict, in his view the central lever of  all social change. 17 Although the term ‘decline’ no longer fits the bill, it  is clear that the role of   the polis changed after the Peloponnesian War had ended. For one thing, the importance of  ‘citizenship’ as a cenfrom the colonies, there is the early development in Cyprus based on Phoenician models and the conventional origin in eastern Greece (Hansen 2006, p. 45–46). 16  Although they came to get a bad reputation, tyrants actually made positive contributions to the development of  an identity of  their cities and citizens in the Archaic period (Salmon 1997, p. 60–73). Victor Parker has argued that tyrants and ‘lawgivers’ often pursued similar policies and that the negative connotation of  the former was undeserved (Parker 2007, p. 15–17). It is interesting that, even when sole rule under a tyrant had become undesirable, good kings of  the mythical past were generally accepted when democracy emerged as a  new form (Braund 2003, p. 103–18). 17  Figueira 1995, p. 42; Rose 2012, p. 1–55.

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tral entity in the community diminished. The concept of  ‘honorary citizenship’, long existing, had contributed to an expansion of  the physical and mental borders of  the polis. For cities to draw together, honorary citizenship were sometimes awarded to foreigners, usually to exiles or people who had contributed or could be expected to contribute to the city’s well-being as military allies or grain suppliers. 18 Citizenship in Athens was restricted but the legal distinction between citizens and metics and even slaves was not easy to distinguish – it could not be seen from the outside. This ‘blurring of   identities’ complicated social mobility. Citizenship was displayed in the performance of   citizen duties, of   financial and military nature in particular. By 430, when the status of  wealthy citizens created a new class, citizenship as such became less important as a mark of   distinction. 19 In the transition from Classical Greece to Hellenism, the old distinction between village and city became less pronounced, one shading off  into the other. And, by then, for the Greek elite, the writers, philosophers and artists, the allegiance had shifted from the polis to the Greek world at large. If  the polis ‘declined’, therefore, it was in an extended process. According to Mogens Herman Hansen, the polis did not go down in the days of   the Macedonian rise to power but only in Late Antiquity, and in a gradual decline. 20 It was especially the central bureaucracy under the Roman emperor Diocletian that effectively took away what was left of   self-government of   the city-states. 21 And Kostas Vlassopoulos, in a  recent study, tries to downplay the importance of   the polis as an object of   study. 22 By focusing exclusively on the polis, he says, scholars are missing the full picture of   Greek civilization in the Mediterranean, which could also be found in such’peripheral’ communities as Magna Graecia. But widening the scope should not necessarily mean diminishing the role of  the polis, it seems to me, if  only for its uniqueness and its impact on Greek culture, specifically on Greek warfare, as we shall see below.     20   21  22  18

19

Lambert 2007, p. 115–58. Deene 2011, p. 159–75. Shipley with Hansen 2006, p. 52; p. 34. Shipley with Hansen 2006, p. 50. Vlassopoulos 2007, p. 188–89.

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1.2. The Development of  Greek Warfare Most overviews of  ancient Greek warfare (such as Michael Sage’s Sourcebook  23) follow the traditional four-stage division into Heroic, Archaic, Classical and Hellenistic phases, in line with the general demarcation of  periods in Greek history. In this view, the two middle periods form the crux, with the hoplite phalanx emerging and growing to full maturity. In  recent scholarship, however, the central role of   the hoplite phalanx has been greatly diminished. In this study, I would like to follow these new insights and suggest that there was only one watershed, therefore, instead of   two, viz. the changes introduced in the fourth century by the Macedonians. The old ‘Hoplite Revolution’ actually was a gradual evolution over an extensive period of   time whose impact in military terms was not as ground-shaking as once thought. (It did have an enormous cultural influence, however, and this will be given due attention.) As for the development of  Greek warfare in the military-historical sense, I suggest warfare in ancient Greece should be divided into three distinct stages:

1. an Early Phase, the period before 700 bc, which includes the old period of  Late Bronze, Homeric (or ‘heroic’) warfare; 2. a Middle Phase, constituting a gradual transition, with hoplite warfare as a characteristic feature; 3. a Late Phase, the period after 350 bc, when Philip of Macedon combined traditional Greek styles of  warfare with Near Eastern methods and his son Alexander successfully applied these new principles. They were then developed into the massive scale of  warfare of  the successor kingdoms. This phase will be dealt with separately in the following chapter on Hellenistic warfare.



1.2.1. The Early Phase Warfare in prehistoric Greece, the Bronze Age, is  shrouded in mystery, especially the Early and Middle Bronze Age, the times before 1500 bc. The adoption of   bronze favored those who had access to the material, and bronze weapons transformed warfare, enabling certain groups to ‘consolidate their advantage by force   Sage 1996.

23

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or coercion’. 24 Somewhat more is known about the Late Bronze or Mycenaean period, roughly between 1500 and 1200 bc. The Mycenaeans built great strongholds around their palaces and undertook military enterprises far away from home. Of  course, the history of   Mycenae is directly related to the Trojan War, for the Mycenaeans were Homer’s Achaeans, the people who laid siege to Troy. From Hittite records we know that the coast of  Asia Minor was often visited by aggressive bands of  Achaeans. 25 Scholarly interest in these early days of   Greek warfare has always been strong, perhaps because so little is  actually known about it. There are no written sources, but archaeological findings have pointed to the importance of   swords and sword-combat in Mycenaean warfare. 26 Since warriors engaging in sword fights at close range are vulnerable and at intense risk, personal qualities like courage and martial skills must have been highly esteemed. In this sense, early Greek warfare was indeed ‘heroic’ in the traditional sense, and seems to corroborate the old reading of  Homeric warfare as a conflict between individuals. However, since parts of  other weapons like spearheads, arrowheads and sling-stones were also found in Mycenaean contexts, there is good reason to support modern interpretations of   early Greek warfare that emphasize continuity with the (later) Archaic period. The heroes of   Homeric warfare are basically no different from the heroes of  later periods – individual prowess can be found in all forms of  combat. 27 Throughout the early period, loose bands operate under a  leader and his followers, and armies tend to be small. 28 The ‘heroism’ of   Homeric warfare includes diversionary tactics, as well as ambush and other elements that were traditionally deemed unworthy, as even a close reading of  the Iliad appears to concede. 29 Individual encounters do occur but they are brief  and not the norm, for hit-and-run tactics prevail. In other words, early warfare was as opportunistic as warfare ever was.

    26   27  28  29  24 25

Snodgrass 1985, p. 52. Snodgrass 1985, p. 52. Rawlings 2007a, p. 23. van Wees 1996, p. 2. van Wees 1996, p. 3. van Wees 1996, p. 37.

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Indeed, early warfare was a combination of  massed action and individual combat. The fighters at the front, the promachoi, were the best and the bravest, the ones who distinguished themselves, ‘the named heroes of  the epic’. 30 The fighting consisted of  a quick succession of  clashes, which makes Homeric battle more fluid and realistic than has often been thought. 31 The focus on the heroic endeavor of   fighting that we find in Homer did not reflect the style of  combat but rather the poet’s interest in the human dimension, comparable to a modern film director’s technique of   focusing on one or two of  his protagonists in the film. 32 Revisionist interpretations like Rawlings’ and Van Wees’ have now substituted the traditional view of   Homer’s supposed combination of  contemporary and ‘heroic’ battle styles, his presumed nostalgic feelings for the old days of  individual combat, when aristocrats ‘duelled with each other for control of   Greece’s limited resources’. 33 This reading of  Homer as a pastiche of  fighting styles from different periods is no longer popular, since the strict separation of   Dark Age and Archaic Greece can no longer be maintained. This is why it is no longer sensible to distinguish a ‘heroic’ period in ancient Greek warfare. The chaotic period that followed the rather sudden demise of   Mycenaean civilization, known as the Dark Age – broadly from 1200 to 700 –, forms a link to what used to be seen as the Middle Phase of  Greek warfare. The traditional tale is that Greece was overrun by a  less developed people, the Dorians, ferocious horse-riding warriors from northern areas who physically and culturally destroyed the Mycenaean civilization: palaces disappeared, and so did the art of   writing. They introduced iron, and with it the crudely made but more effective (and cheaper) weapons made of   iron. 34 Over a long time span the Dorians exerted their influence, and eventually controlled all of   mainland Greece and the islands. They took the land, enslaved the locals, but also fought amongst themselves.     32   33  34  30 31

Singor 2009, p. 590. Rawlings 2007a, p. 37. Rawlings 2007a, p. 36 Carey 2005, p. 553–54; Raaflaub 1997, p. 51. Green 1973, p. 44–46.

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In the 1990s, historians like Robin Osborne dismissed the notion of   ‘Dark Age’ and the historical impact of   the Dorian invasions. 35 With new archaeological excavations, a  pattern was emerging that had become more complex, both in relation to the knowledge we now have of   the period, and the extent of   the disruption. Nevertheless, whether the Dorian invasions actually took place, or whether it was the so-called ‘Sea Peoples’, raiders from more distant places, that were to blame, post-Mycenaean Greece was a place of  great instability. The abolition of  the label of  ‘Dark Age’ cannot take this away. The general pattern – conquest, settlement, subjugation and perennial warfare – was set for the next period, the Archaic Age. It is important to stress, however, that any changes within the whole of  this early phase of  Greek warfare were technological, not tactical or ideological. It is true that long-range battle came to be preferred, with spears that were thrown, 36 and that helmets and shields were improved, but, as Peter Krentz has pointed out, we should realize that these changes were made ‘in order to help a man do better what he was already doing’. 37 1.2.2. The Middle Phase The introduction of   the hoplite phalanx has long been seen as the beginning of   a  new period in the history of   Greek warfare. Large groups of   infantrymen were used in a new formation, the phalanx. They were heavily armed with spears and shield, wore helmets and breastplates, and were trained to stay in formation, as a group together forming a block that was hard to penetrate. This tight formation was excellent defense, but could also be used in short offensive operations based on ‘shock’. 38 The advance of   the hoplite phalanx used to be called a ‘revolution’, with clear political ramifications, since it was directly linked to the emergence of   democracy in the political landscape of   Greek poleis. The details of   this relationship have been the subject of   a  large number of   studies. In his Athenian Revolution, Josiah Ober con    37  38  35 36

Osborne 2009. Rawlings 2007a, p. 26. Krentz 2007, p. 79. Ferill 1986, p. 101.

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nects the hoplite warrior to the new middle class, in a central social position between the aristocratic cavalry and the poorer light infantry and the mercenary archers and slingers. 39 ‘Their social centrality had clear political ramifications’, Ober says. 40 Walter Donlan follows this line of   thought, emphasizing the powerful leverage exercised by the hoplite farmers in the oscillating movements toward oligarchy or democracy. 41 This idea has gradually crumbled, and today’s consensus among military historians is  that the development of   the hoplite phalanx was a long-drawn process that only took full shape relatively late. 42 Van Wees believes it was a phase in a long trend towards ‘ever denser and more cohesive heavy infantry formations’. When light-armed and heavy-armed became distinct units, the process found its culmination. But this took place only in the Classical period. 43 Also, it is now believed that there is no evidence for its political impact. As Krentz puts it, ‘Hoplites  […] did not qua hoplites drive political changes in Archaic Greece’. 44 What we know is that the phalanx developed from the close order of   the promachoi, the heavy-armed fighters in the bands of   warriors operating in the Archaic period. In the course of   the 7th  century, the use of   hoplite armor and tactics had become widely dispersed. 45 The exact reasons for its introduction are still   Ober 1996, p. 59.   Ober 1996, p. 59. 41  Donlan 1997, p. 45. 42  Wheeler 2007b, p. 199. 43   van Wees 2000, p. 156. 44  Krentz 2007, p. 80. Kurt Raaflaub has proposed an interesting third, interactive option, which avoids a chicken-and-egg situation. This interactive process created an interdependence of   military and sociopolitical change. In  Raaflaub’s ‘interactive model’, the men who own the land fought in the army to defend the territory of   the polis, and sat in the assembly to participate in its decisions. The former elite of   village heads evolved into a stratified aristocracy. Once the polis system was in place as balanced, warfare diminished and became increasingly ritualized. In  this period (between the 7th and the early 5th centuries, the function of  warfare was to determine the prestige rather than the existence of  the community (Raaflaub and Wallace 2008, p. 22–48; Raaflaub 2001, p. 129–61). Raaflaub’s position is more convincing than the simple causal relationships such as proposed by A.  Pitsoulis, who argues that numerical superiority decided the outcome of   hoplite battles as a  conflict-resolution mechanism, and that this mechanism operated in war and politics alike (Pitsoulis 2011, p. 87–103). 45  Singor 2009, p. 591. 39 40

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not clear, however. Socio-economic explanations focus on the solidarity of  citizen-farmers against competitors when the availability of   land for a rising population caused friction. 46 Other explanations point to cultural influences, like the popularity of  the heroic fighting of   the promachoi ‘on behalf  of   the community’, as it was often expressed in contemporary poetry. 47 The hoplite phalanx was first articulated in Sparta, and is still associated with the Spartan mentality of   discipline and rigor. Sparta’s opponent, Athens, on the other hand, did not merely rely on its heavy infantry of  hoplites, but also on its non-hoplite light infantry – troops that included non-citizens like mercenaries and sometimes even slaves – and, to some extent, on cavalry as well. In fact, most Greek cities employed these combined forces, which made Sparta’s egalitarian citizen-army of   hoplites an exception, not a rule. 48 It was in the build-up of   its naval forces that Athens made its greatest contribution to classical warfare in this phase of  development. With its fast and flexible triremes, the Athenian navy came to dominate the Aegean Sea.  Over a  period of   300 years, between 800 and 500 bc, naval vessels changed from primitive longboats to sleek galleys. They were powered by rows of  oarsmen, at first in a  single line, later in two tiers (the bireme) and three tiers (the trireme). The agonal, rule-bound nature of   hoplite warfare, long considered a major feature, now has less of   a central role. There are, indeed, signs that some of  the battles between opposing phalanxes were ritualized encounters, but the proponents of   this view, like Hanson, have lost ground or modified their positions. The evidence is too slim, detractors argue, and the patterns of  warfare in this period are as varied as they used to be. 49 Also, the central role given to pitched battle can no longer be supported. Perhaps the attention that contemporary authors gave to agonal fighting was precisely because it was exceptional, Krentz has suggested. 50 Ober believes that the unwritten rules of  agonal warfare only pertained     48   49  50  46 47

Mitchell 1996, p. 95. Singor 2009, p. 595. van Wees 2004, p. 45–46. Rawlings 2007a, p. 64. Krentz 2002, p. 23–39.

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to intra-Greek conflicts, and that they more or less broke down between 450 and 300 bc. 51 The same can be said of   the hoplite phalanx. When enemies consisted of   foreigners (or non-polis Greeks, who had no tradition of  heavy infantry), or of  forces that had started to add lightarmed troops, hoplite phalanxes lost their effectiveness. 52 By the early 5th century bc, the hoplite phalanx had already become outmoded. As a general conclusion it can be said that, in the Archaic period as well as in the Classical period, the general nature of  warfare was, as before, chaotic and low-level, with hoplites fighting in phalanxes just as readily as in other contexts, whenever necessary. 53 Finally, the hoplite phalanx was not the unique Greek invention that it is sometimes made out to be – it was used in the Middle East as early as the third millennium bc. 54 What is  rather more typical of   the period is  the emergence of  alliances of  groups of  poleis. This was first of  all against the Persians, but later against each other, the Athenians fighting the Peloponnesian and Boetian alliances. However, the type of   operation did not really change: some campaigns had the objective of  territorial gain; other campaigns were predatory, seeking booty, captives and armor. 55 With the rise of   hegemonic alliances, some things did change, though. Increasingly, mercenaries were used alongside citizen-soldiers; also, campaigns became longer, more continuous, and relations between contestants became asymmetrical. This  made the old rules of   war between equal partners a  thing of   the past. 56 Also, in the 4th century bc, war became more and more a techne, a craft, the domain of  specialists, which explains the popularity of  specialized handbooks or manuals on the art of  war. Aeneas Tacticus’ Poliorcetica, on the ways of  handling sieges, was the first of  these treatises and set the pattern followed in the Hellenistic period. 57

    53   54  55  56  57  51 52

Ober 1996, p. 57. Hanson 2000, p. 214. Rawlings 2007a, p. 68. France 2011, p. 42. Rawlings 2007a, p. 69. Hall 2007b, p. 105. Tejada 2004, p. 145.

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1.2.3. Agonal Warfare Since agonal warfare has long been the center of   attention in the study of   Greek warfare, I  will deal with it in a  special section. On the one hand, agonal warfare plays a role in the historical development of   Greek warfare as outlined above – a role that is  controversial it  is true; on the other hand, it  is an important ingredient in the discussion of   various discourse features that is the aim of   this study. It will be presented in a number of   distinct themes in the following part of  this chapter. In this context of   cultural rather than military history, agonal warfare will be treated as an overarching concept that had an impact on a variety of  discourses. All this merits a special paragraph. 1.2.3.1. The Controversial Nature of  Agonal Warfare

The changes in the style of   warfare that were traditionally linked with the Hoplite Revolution took a  long time to develop and resulted in a brief  period of   bloom, the late 5th and early 4th centuries bc, so therefore the word ‘revolution’ – as we saw before – is somewhat misleading. The preference for operating in dense, tightly packed infantry formations that sought confrontation in single, brief  battles according to a more or less fixed set of  conventions must be seen as a cultural phenomenon, rather than a geopolitical one, as Hanson has argued. 58 The enemy was nearby, in the adjacent polis, the conflict was an expression of   permanent competition, if  not hostility, but the fighting was limited to a few hours on a  summer’s day, for the agricultural constraints were severe: after all, the soldiers were small farmers who had to look after their olives, their vines and their grain. These fundamental and practical limitations explain the ritualistic nature of   hoplite warfare: there was mutual agreement to restrict the war to a single, well-defined encounter. Because of   its strong competitive element, hoplite warfare is sometimes called ‘agonal’. It can be seen as one more form of  contest (agon), just like the many popular games and competitions that were held all over Greece. 59 And games, in the Greek   Hanson 1989, p. 35.   ‘Agonal’ implies the idea of   rivalry, of   tension, of   an engagement that brings together adversaries, and the idea of   rules, of   regulations, of   norms that 58 59

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view, were more important than they are today: in a contest one individual was pitted against another and the contest defined his rank as an athlete, a poet, a singer, or a warrior for that matter. 60 Although the agonal form of  war with its duel-like characteristics can be traced back to the Heroic Age, it moved away from the individual warrior showing his mettle in hand-to-hand combat to a collective undertaking, where the group as a whole takes the role of   the individual. This, at least, is what J. E. Lendon has argued: the phalanx represented the state and was a personification of  the state. 61 Agonal warfare became widespread as it proved to be more successful than operating in loosely organized bands of   soldiers bent on display of   individual prowess, for a fighting hero had little chance against a closed wall of   shock troops, with spearpoints sticking out all along. 62 It was also adopted because it was sometimes more economical for both sides to engage in pitched battles rather than in more ‘open’ forms, for instance if  both parties felt it was mutually advantageous to ‘contain’ an escalation of  violence, as Van Wees suggests. 63 It is clear that the rise of  the hoplite phalanx must also be related to the rising powers of  the state, the community, the polis. The use of  shock tactics implied strong discipline and morale and this could only be realized with fully developed social structures. This social setting is hard to overestimate, for in many ways the hoplite phalanx was an unnatural phenomenon, with countless disadvantages: an armor that was too heavy, hot, uncomfortable, and generally unsuitable for intensive battle in a Mediterranean climate. 64 the competitors must respect (Raoul Lonis quoted by John C. Dayton). ‘When applied to warfare, it necessitates a  number of   restrictions in the conduct of  battle, with which the enemies have agreed to comply, if  tacitly, even when they operate to one’s own military disadvantage; in other words, the battle has some qualities of  the ceremonial and contractual’ (Dayton 2006, p. 1). 60 Indeed, agon was a  feature of    daily life in the polis: in political debate, in court, as well as in the many social competitions in which citizens sought to gain public recognition. The many city (and pan-Hellenic) games and festivals not only pitted athletes but also musicians and actors and playwrights (Lendon 2010, chapter 1). 61  Lendon 2005, p. 63. 62   Ferrill 1986, p. 103. 63  van Wees 2004, p. 163. 64  Hanson 1989, p. 56.

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Once institutionalized, agonal warfare had a strong impact on perspectives of   war in contemporary sources: the glory and status that were attached to the old style were replaced by discipline and courage. In the intense battle, it was important to hold the line. Herodotus tells the story of  an Athenian hoplite who, during the battle of  Plataea, fastened an anchor to his belt which made it impossible for him to retreat. 65 The struggle was short but brutal, with a passive role for the individual soldier but an active role for the group as a whole, which was pushed forward like a machine. In Greek culture, great importance was attached to a man’s role as a hoplite, and many men served as hoplites a number of   times in their lives. Hoplite battle even defined a man’s entire relationship with his family and his community, for even during peacetime there was a permanent interest in the warrior’s panoply, his preparations, the clash of   battle, as Hanson says, a  fascination shown by vase painters, sculptors and poets, many of   whom had been hoplites themselves. 66 There are references to hoplite battle in Euripides, Aristophanes and Plato in contexts that have little to do with warfare, and they usually refer to the burdensome armor, the terror of  battle, the discipline that is required. 67 We have just seen that, since agonal warfare was an ideal, its real importance was cultural rather than practical. Where it was practical, its restrictions and its rules served both parties and prevented an escalation of   violence that was mutually beneficial. The  discrepancy between ideal and practice has not always received due attention, but modern scholarship is  increasingly pointing to the limitations of   agonal warfare, denying its prevalence, or seeing it as a purely cultural construct, perhaps even a late (i.e. Hellenistic) invention. First of   all, as scholars like Krentz 68 and Van Wees have demonstrated, devices like deception, ambush and trickery always played a role in warfare, and ambitions like glory and honor were sometimes stronger than rational deliberations, which made the other, more radical ‘total’ form of   war a permanent option, even  Herodotus, Histories, 9.74.   Hanson 1989, p. 221. 67  Hanson 1989, p. 45. 68  Krentz 2000, p. 201–32. 65 66

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during the heydays of   the hoplite phalanx, so that it can be said that ‘Greek war always had two faces’. 69 It is now sufficiently clear that we can no longer naively accept contemporary sources about the agonal nature of  the fighting. Overall, the hard facts of  actual warfare, as far as we can still reconstruct them, do seem to support the idea that fighting by the rules frequently was an ideal rather than common practice. This can be seen in the inventory that was recently made by John Drogo Montagu. 70 The use of   chemical and biological weapons in the European theaters of   war can even be traced back to antiquity. In the Western tradition, it was Hercules who invented the first biological weapon when he killed the Hydra by using the serpent’s venom to poison his arrow. 71 In a slightly different interpretation of  the two faces of  Greek warfare, J. E. Lendon explains the tension between the two styles of   war, ‘agonal’ and ‘total’, as an irresolvable conflict between two sets of   ideals, those of   the hoplites and those of   the generals. On the one hand, there were rules of   combat; on the other, there was subversion, cunning, stratagem, and good generals knew how to exploit these alternatives. 72 Of  course, Lendon is right in opposing the two viewpoints, but presenting the generals’ military stratagems as an ‘ideal’ misses the point for the simple reason that we are talking about the nitty-gritty of   campaigning on the ground. For some scholars, the separation of   theory and practice does not go far enough, and in a  number of   studies the concept of  agonal warfare has become completely dissociated from reality. The two faces of   war have become only one, the other being dismissed as fantasy. As early as 1994, Josiah Ober concluded that ‘any argument which assumes that a  universal sense of   fair play and decency was an innate part of   early Greek military culture is easily falsified’. 73 It seems to me that this is slightly overstating the case, for denying the existence of  a generally accepted theory on the basis of   reality is unconvincing: after all, the ‘universal sense’     71   72  73  69 70

van Wees 2004, p. 117. Montagu 2006. Mayor 2009, p. 44. Lendon 2005, p. 88–89. Ober 1997, p. 14.

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that Ober is referring to was actually felt at the time, if, indeed, we look at our sources; also, the practicality of   some of   the rules cannot be denied. In another study, by Peter Hunt, the citizen-soldier link of  hoplite warfare has come under scrutiny. It is generally acknowledged that the changing forms of  warfare in the 4th century led to the breakdown of   the citizen-soldier link, due to the use of   mercenary soldiers for specific tasks in the light infantry, and also due to the increasing role of   the navy, which was partly manned by mercenaries and slaves. As for the citizen-soldier connection, Peter Hunt takes one further step and believes it is largely a fabrication. In actual fact, Greek city-states used a lot of  slaves or helots in their armies, a lot more than is generally assumed, he says, but their recruitment was ideologically awkward and therefore systematically neglected. 74 It is true that the neglect of  the role of  slaves in Greek historiography was, albeit implicitly, an important part of  the agonal discourse. 75 It was part of  the idealization of  the army, the idea that the army produced unity. 76 Obviously, this idea did not reflect social reality, for in real life the army was stratified, not unified at all. After all, from Archaic times on, Greek armies had included an aristocratic ‘high status’ cavalry, and, from the Persian Wars, a common ‘low status’ navy next to their citizen-soldier hoplite infantry. 77 The  social reality of   Athens was more complex than that of  the polis as a political entity. The Athenian population was, as Edward Cohen has emphasized, anything but homogeneous, with a lot of   immigration and social relations spread over com  Hunt 1998.   Slaves are usually associated with slavish (i.e. barbarian) people; hence. references tend to emphasize the uselessness of   slaves in armies. In  Herodotus, despotism, physical softness and cowardice characterize slavish people, who are consequently militarily incapable (Herodotus, Histories, 1.155). Thu­cyd­i­des uses slavery metaphorically: slavery is the consequence of  loss in war, but also the cause of  loss in war, because of  the slave’s weakness (Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 5.89; 5.92–95). And Xenophon distinguishes between the true warrior’s ‘toughness’ and the slave’s ‘softness’ (Xenophon, Hellenica, 3.4.17). 76  We find the same ideas in Plato’s Laws (6.763): the ideal state should be protected by its citizens, which means that its army does not include metics or other foreign elements (Saunders 1972, p. 119–33). 77   Hunt 1998, p. 220. For the Athenian navy, metics were ‘essential’ (Whitehead 1977, p. 85). 74 75

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plex institutions and groupings. By the 4th century, large numbers of   metics and even slaves were integrated into the military. Athens’ integration of  ‘non-politai’ into the armed forces, Cohen says, ‘is monumentally inconsistent with the traditional scholarly model of  the polis’. 78 However, it must be said that a problem with radical interpretations like Hunt’s is that his evidence is highly selective and that, again, there are enough indications to show us that agonal warfare was more than merely an invention. In a new study, Jason Crowley makes a strong case for the dependency of  the Athenian hoplite on his social and affective environment and their efficacy as soldiers on the battlefield because of  the benefit of  inter-personal relationships. They endured and survived because they served together with their peers from the same deme, their home. 79 Also, it is interesting to see that in the period after the Peloponnesian War, attempts were made to provide a rich ancestry for both agonal and total warfare. For example, when, in the 4th century, the idea of   ‘war’ became less of   a ritual and more of   a craft, an expertise that could be learned, and the rules of   agonal warfare lost their force, the role of   deceit as a  function of   war was projected back into the past, as Xenophon did in his Cyropaedia – which after all describes events in the 6th century. Cyrus’ father instructs his son to compare warfare with hunting animals in the wild: ‘Why did you never meet the lion or the bear or the leopard in fair fight on equal terms, but were always trying to steal some advantage over them? Can you deny that all that was craft and deceit and fraud and greed?’ 80 1.2.3.2. Conventions of  Agonal Warfare

The idea of   agonal warfare was ruled by conventions. Both parties drew up face-to-face on an open field, enabling unobstructed view and a  relatively easy advance. Once the armies were set in 78  Cohen 2002, p.  17. This change is  reflected in contemporary sources, such as Demosthenes’ funeral speech. In his oration, Demosthenes replaces the old union with the motherland Attica with the new militaristic and nationalistic attachment to the fatherland Athens (Demosthenes, ‘Funeral Speech’, 60.4). 79  Crowley 2012, p. 45. 80  Xenophon, Cyropaedia, 1.6.28.

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motion, the pattern was set and the hoplites marched in the opposite direction, their spears levelled. Preparation was ritualistic, and so was the battle’s aftermath. There was a viewing of  the dead, an exchange of  bodies, the erection of  a trophy. Once the battle was over, a decision had been made that was respected by both parties: one party had won, the other had lost. This is why pursuit of   the defeated was uncommon – continuation of   the fight would conflict with the code, which sought to come to a quick outcome and limit bloodshed. 81 In his book Battle, John Lynn makes an inventory of  13 different conventions of  agonal warfare. The list should be treated with some caution, however, since practices varied significantly over time and there were many exceptions. The most important agonal conventions will be dealt with below in some detail. 82

1. Wars were officially declared; 2. During certain times, such as truces, or Olympic games, war was taboo; 3. Sacred sites should not be touched upon; 4. Noncombatants should not be involved; 5. The outcome of  a battle should be accepted by both parties; 6. Battles were fought during the summer campaign; 7. Battle began with ritual challenges and the acceptance of  challenges; 8. There was to be limited use of  missile weapons, such as bows; 9. Victory was announced by the construction of   a  trophy on the battlefield; 10. Pursuit of   the defeated after the battle should be limited in duration; 11. Enemy dead should be returned to the Vanquished, and their request constituted admission of  defeat;



  Hanson 1989, p. 123.   Some of  the examples are from the Hellenistic period but are included here because they illustrate the principles well. Many of   the conventions, developed in Ancient Greece, lived on until the time of   Alexander the Great and into the Hellenistic kingdoms. That Plutarch discussed agonal principles in retrospect, much later, tells us how much they had become part of   a  traditional image of  Greek warfare. 81 82

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12. Troops that surrender are entitled to humane treatment; 13. Prisoners should not be killed or tortured but offered for ransom. 83

It was an agreed principle that wars should be declared. It is with great disgust, therefore, that Polybius mentions the frequent acts of   war the Aetolians committed in the days of   the Macedonian Wars ‘without declaration’. 84 Usually, the declaration was accompanied by an explanation, a  rationale, not seldom on the basis of  a grievance held by the attacker. Whatever the true causes of   war might be, there were usually grievances that were invoked to justify it. Chaniotis gives an example from Diodorus Siculus, who narrated how the Rhodians avoided giving legitimate grievances when the siege of   Rhodes by Demetrios the Besieger was undertaken. 85 For the Greeks, an attack had to be justified as reprisal for a previous act of   injustice, even if  the real cause was of  a more material nature. 86 Pretexts and schemes of  all sorts were used, as the Sicilian tyrant Dionysus did in besieging Rhegium. He  demanded supplies, his design being that, ‘if  they refused to supply him, he thought he might have a just ground to graze their city’. 87 Of  course, the plan was a double-edged sword: if  the Rhegians did supply him, he would easily conquer the city because of  their lack of  food. Sometimes grievances were very petty. In  220  bc, there was a  war between Rhodes and Byzantion for the abolishment of  duties on vessels passing through the Bosporus. It was started with the aid of   a number of   small grievances: statues that the Byzantines had voted to erect in King Prusias’ honor were never erected, for instance, and there was irritation because it was said that the Byzantines had sent representatives to a certain festival but had omitted to send some to another festival. 88 In  the justification process, it was also conventional to seek the help of  the gods: they

  Lynn 2003, p. 4–5.  Polybius, The Histories, 4.16.5. 85   Chaniotis 2005, p. 179. 86  Chaniotis 2005, p. 180. 87  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 14.12. 88 Polybius, The Histories, 4.49.1–5. 83 84

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had to be won over with arguments – the enemy was an aggressor, a wrongdoer and had committed sacrilegious act. The gods were also won over in a more practical way, with promises of  tithes and offerings. It was also an agreed principle to avoid war during major religious festivals. This happened during sacred periods like the Gymnopaedia or the Carneia, but also during the quadrennial Olympic Games, when differences were put aside and the warring parties competed together in relative peace. In Sparta, the Carneia festival made it impossible to send more than a token force to defend Thermopylae against the Persians in 480 bc. One year later, after Salamis, the Greeks planned to face a reduced Persian army under Mardonius, but once again the agonal conventions intervened, for the Spartans had a  festival to celebrate, the Hyacinthia this time. 89 Of  course, the Spartans had a  reputation to live up to, and their scruples in interfering with their many religious duties were notorious. After the battle of   Leuctra in 371 bc, when the Spartans were soundly defeated by the Thebans, the bad news was reported on the last day of   the festival of   the Gymnopaedia, but the festival was not cancelled and the ephors, although they were deeply grieved, let the chorus go through with it to the end, as Xenophon says. 90 Sometimes, however, truces were called during periods of  fighting in order to observe religious duties. This meant that during the summer, the practical warfare season was often interrupted. 91 War was also banned from sacred places like temples and shrines. Lack of   respect for sacred places during war usually caused great outrage. Thu­cyd­i­des reports how during the Peloponnesian War the Athenians were accused of   transgressing this Hellenic law when after their invasion of   Boeotia in 424  bc, they had fortified the temple of  Delium and ‘were doing all the things that men do in unconsecrated ground’ such as drawing and using the water that Boeotians ‘never were allowed to touch except for the washing of   hands before sacrifices’. 92 This was a serious infringement   Lendon 2005, p. 68.  Xenophon, A History of  My Time (Hellenica), 6.4.16. 91  Van Wees 2004, p. 119. 92  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 4.97. 89 90

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of   law, and when the Boeotians were victorious in the ensuing battle, they refused to let the Athenians collect their dead under truce. However, it must be added, as J. E. Lendon has done, that Delium was eccentric in other agonal conventions as well: the battle occurred after the summer season, pursuit was long and bloody, and cavalry played a decisive role. 93 Polybius severely censures the Aetolians when, during the war with Macedonia, they burnt the porticoes of  the temple of  Dodona, destroyed the votive offerings and demolished the sacred building: ‘For the Aetolians no restrictions exist either in peace or in war, but … in both circumstances they pursue their designs in defiance of   the common usages and principles of  mankind’. 94 Later, in the same war, the Macedonians took revenge at Thermus, acting, as Polybius says, out of  the ‘perverse conviction’ that they were right in thus retaliating for the Aetolians’ sacriligious treatment before. 95 In agonal warfare, the use of   missile weapons such as arrows was limited. It  was one of   the ways for the Greeks to maintain individual competitiveness in hoplite warfare: on the one hand combat was simplified, on the other it was subject to strict rules. 96 The use of   missile weapons had gradually gone out of   the books, and in the days of  the hoplite phalanx the bow and arrow were considered improper weapons for a Greek warrior. In Homer’s days, this change had not yet taken place. In the Iliad, there is a certain ambiguity about the status of  archers. On the one hand, there are references to the contempt that is felt for archers, who are seen as cowards, attacking their opponents from a  safe distance. When Diomedes is hit by Paris’ arrow, he questions Paris’ manliness: So brave with your bow and arrows – big bravado – Glistening lovelocks, roving eye for girls! Come, try me in combat, weapons hand-to-hand – Bow and spattering shafts will never help you then. You scratch my foot and you’re vaunting all the same – But who cares? A woman or idiot boy could wound me so. 97   Lendon 2005, p. 81.  Polybius, The Histories, 4.67.3–4. 95  Polybius, The Histories, 5.9.1–6. 96  Lendon 2005, p. 47. 97 Homer, Iliad, 11.453–58. 93 94

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And Nestor in his speech praises Arcadia’s champion Ereuthalion as a  great warrior: ‘He would never fight with a  bow or a  long bow, no / With his giant iron club he’d break batallions open’. 98 At the same time, fighting with a bow is treated as an art in itself, ‘a  heroic arete just like fighting with a  spear’ in the words of  J. E. Lendon, 99 as when Aeneas tries to find Pandarus, ‘Lycaon’s skilled fearless son’, claiming that he has no rivals, no Lycian who is known to be his better. 100 In later texts, archers and slingers were generally detested and treated as cowards, as we have seen above. The use of   stealth and deceit as stratagems was equally frowned upon. In the play Rhesus, long attributed to Euripides, Rhesus, the king of   Thrace, comes to assist the Trojans and shows his contempt of  killing the enemy by stealth and deviousness: ‘Why, no true man of   spirit designs to kill this man by stealth. One should go forward and attack direct’. 101 Polybius gives a  biased, but typical description of   the Cretan way of   war, which was held in contempt: ‘They are irresistible in ambuscades, forays, tricks played on the enemy, night attacks, and all petty operations which require fraud’. 102 The idea of  war as a fair fight remained very strong in the agonal discourse, up to the time of   Alexander the Great. Hanson quotes Curtius when discussing one of   Alexander’s planned attacks on the Persians. The idea suggested to Alexander to attack by night was anathema: ‘The policy which you are suggesting is one of   bandits and thieves’, snapped Alexander […] ‘the only purpose of   which is deception. I cannot allow my glory always to be diminished by Darius’ absence, or by narrow terrain, or by tricks of   night. I am resolved to attack openly and by daylight. I choose to regret my good fortune rather than be ashamed of  my victory’. 103 Even if  the quote is fictitious, it says a great deal about the impact of  the idea of  fair fight in later days. In agonal battle, certain preliminaries were conventional. Apart from the usual sacrifices to the gods and the reading of  the  Homer, Iliad, 7.161–62.   Lendon 2005, p. 34. 100  Homer, Iliad, 5.189–93. 101 Euripides, Rhesus, 510–12. 102 Polybius, The Histories, 4.8.12. 103  Hanson 1989, p. 14. 98 99

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omens, there was a common meal and a liberal rationing of  wine, and a  short speech by the commander to exhort the troops. 104 Confidence-building was crucial at this stage, of   course, and so was the steadying of   nerves, which had been encouraged by the careful maintenance of   weapons: blades were sharpened, shields were polished, and the Spartans even spent time carefully dressing and garlanding their hair, as the Persians noted with awe. 105 Then the paean, the battle cry, was sounded, and the troops started to march, accompanied by hymns that were sung and the sound of  pipers. The music had a practical purpose: it enabled the mass of  soldiers to move smoothly, with discipline. Especially the Spartans had a  reputation of   a  slow march that was extended to the very last minute and kept formations intact. 106 It  also impressed the enemy, as Plutarch says: ‘It was at once a magnificent and a terrible sight to see them march on to the tune of  their flutes, without any disorder in their ranks, any discomposure in their minds, or change in their countenances, calmly and cheerfully moving with the music to the deadly fight’. 107 Naval battles also had their customary preliminaries. Thu­cyd­i­des narrates how the Athenian fleet prepared for sailing off  to Sicily at the start of  the ill-fated expedition: When the ships were manned and everything had been taken aboard which they meant to take with them on the voyage, silence was commanded by the sound of   the trumpet, and the customary prayers made before putting to sea were offered up, not by each ship separately, but by them all together following the words of   a  herald. The whole army had wine poured out into bowls, and officers and men made their libations from cups of  gold and of  silver. The crowds on the shore also, the citizens and others who wished well to the expedition, joined together in the prayers. Then, when the hymn had been sung and the libations finished, they put out to sea, first sailing out in column, and then racing each other as far as Aegina. 108   Keegan 1993, p. 249.  Herodotus, Histories, 7.208–9. 106   van Wees 2004, p. 187. 107  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Ly­cur­gus’, chapter 22. 108  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 6.32. 104

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Once the battle was over, agonal warfare had a number of   elaborate victory codes. Since its aim was not the total destruction of  the enemy but the winning of   the engagement and the possession of   the battlefield, a symbolic system was developed ‘to provide unambiguous confirmation of   the results’. 109 An important ingredient was the setting up of   a  trophy as a  tangible form of   evidence of   victory. The trophy, usually a  wooden stake or a  tree with enemy armor attached, had a  psychological dimension –  it expressed the termination of   the battle and the satisfaction of   victory in what could be seen as a  contest  – but also a  religious one, trophies being dedicated to Zeus or other gods, and often being erected not just on the battlefield but also at recognized sanctuaries as Delphi, where they served as a permanent memorial. 110 Gratitude to the gods was also expressed by offering up the ‘first-fruits’ of   the plunder taken, by setting up a bronze Zeus at Olympia or by sending gold and silver objects to Delphi, things that happened after the great victory at Salamis against the Persians, 111 but also after the Aetolian victory against the Galatians in 279 bc. It was conventional to strip the dead, however, and carry off  clothes and weapons as booty and souvenirs. 112 Shields, helmets, spears and swords were reemployed by the victors, sold on the open market, or used as trophies in local temples or sanctuaries. 113 Battlefields were routinely inspected after victory had been gained by the victorious army but also by curious onlookers from an army’s following who were curious to see the slain. Herodotus even reports battlefield tours organized by the Persian army, which supplied boats to ferry over battlefield tourists avant-la-lettre to have a look at dead Greek soldiers. 114 It was not common practise, though, to mutilate the bodies. After the battle of  Plataea, the victorious Greeks discussed what to do with Mardonius’ dead body, but when someone suggested a quid pro quo for the Persians’ brutal treatment of  Leonidas after Thermopylae – his head had been   Sage 1996, p. 97.   Sage 1996, p. 100–1. 111   Green 1973, p. 209. 112  van Wees 2004, p. 136. 113  Hanson 1989, p. 204. 114 Herodotus, Histories, 8.25. 109 110

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stuck on a pole – the Spartan general Pausanias dismissed the idea as obscene and barbaric. 115 The public recognition of  valor after success in battle was common practice, but competition was fierce. In  the Persian Wars, the victories of   Salamis and Plataea both gave rise to some internal conflicts over eligibility for special prizes. Herodotus reports how after Salamis it was decided that a prize of   valor was to be awarded to the man who, of   all the Greeks, ‘had shown the most merit during the war’. The various chiefs were given ballots to give their votes for the first and for the second in merit. Because each man voted for himself, there was no winner, but Themistocles came out as best with a large number of  second-best votes. However, envy denied the chiefs from giving Themistocles the reward. On  this, Herodotus adds, Themistocles, the Athenian general, went to Sparta expecting to be honored there, as indeed he was, with gifts of  a crown of  olive and ‘the most beautiful chariot that could be found’. 116 The victory at Plataea yielded an enormous loot for the Greeks, and after the usual tithes had been reserved for dedication to the gods at various shrines 117 the spoils of   war were systematically divided: ‘tents with gold and silver furnishings, inlaid couches, bowls, cups and cauldrons, armlets and torques, daggers and scimitars all of  pure gold […] concubines, horses, camels, and an infinity of   coined money’. 118 Private plunder was forbidden on pain of   death. Although the spoils were shared out among the troops, it is uncertain what special prizes were awarded since Herodotus does not choose to mention them, probably because of  the sensitivity of  the issue. According to Plutarch, there was some undignified bickering between Athenians and Spartans which could only be solved by deft diplomacy. 119 Sometimes the objective of  obtaining  Herodotus, Histories, 9.78–79.  Herodotus, Histories, 8.123–24. 117  The spoils were also used to embellish other public buildings: when the Thebans gained a  victory over the Athenians during the Peloponnesian War, they built a great gallery in the forum and adorned it with many statues of   brass (Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 12.7). 118  Green 1973, p. 273. 119  Plutarch, ‘Life of   Aristides’, chapter 20 (‘The cause of   Greece might very well have been ruined there and then by the two parties going to war to settle their 115 116

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rewards was made very explicit indeed. In one of   the Hellenistic wars, at the battle of  Rhaphia in 217 bc, the two opposing kings, Ptolemy IV and Antiochus III, could only inspire their troops by stressing the rewards which they might expect in the future. 120 Although this happened in specific situations, the prisoners that were made after battle were not killed but were ransomed and occasionally sold into slavery. Ransoming, being profitable, was the first option: a captive’s relatives and friends would take care of   the sum required and thus ensure the prisoner’s release. Prisoners not ransomed (or killed) were sold to slave traders and ended up as slaves, many of   them employed as rowers on naval vessels. 121 What happened after battle often depended on time and place, but massacre and enslavement were more common in ‘periods of   stress such as the Peloponnesian War’, in the words of  Michael Sage, 122 when old scores had to be settled. Thu­cyd­i­des tells us how the Athenians suppressed a rebellion on the captured island of  Melos, a Spartan colony, and massacred the male population and sold all women and children as slaves, even after the Melians had unconditionally surrendered. 123 According to Diodorus Siculus, a  notorious, earlier, massacre occurred in 511 bc after a fierce battle between two rival colonies in southern Italy, Sybaris and Croton. The Crotoniates won and in their anger decided to spare no one. 124 When, during the Peloponnesian War, the Mytlleneans of  the island of   Lesbos revolted against Athens and joined the Spartan League, they were defeated by their former ally, and the Athenians debated the question what to do with them. Cleon wanted to set an example and put them to death (‘it is a general rule of   human nature that people despise those who treat them well and look up to those who make no concessions’). His opponent Diodotus took a more rational approach and argued that it made no sense to try and suppress a feeling of  independence, since it would only quarrels, had not Aristides by dint of  a great deal of  explanation and pacification restrained his colleagues’). 120 Polybius, The Histories, 5.83.6. 121  van Wees 2004, p. 148–49. 122   Sage 1996, p. 104. 123  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 5.116. 124  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 12.3.

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feed the rebels’ resolve and they would fight till the bitter end; it would be more profitable to prevent rebellious acts in cooperation. Diodotus narrowly won the debate and the Mytlleneans were spared. 125 A similar situation was described by Diodorus Siculus in his narrative of   the Sicilian Expedition. When the Athenians were defeated, the Sicilians held an assembly to discuss what to do with their prisoners. Against a general call for revenge, cruel revenge, an old man who had lost his son advocated moderation: ‘What honour is it to destroy him that lies prostrate at our feet?’ He also added Diodotus’ argument to heed their own interest, for ‘parties who are driven to obedience through fear are ready to execute their hatred when they see an opportunity to rebel’. King Cyrus the Great was set as an example of  prudence in this respect: he showed kindness and courtesy towards the subdued, and tried to win their hearts and minds, as we would say today. The  old man, called Nicholaus, also referred to ancient laws governing the receiving and defending of  suppliants. His appeal fell on deaf  ears –  the captives were sent off  to work as slaves in the stone quarries. 126 Diodotus’ and Nicholaus’ rational approach to treating the defeated party was exceptional, for usually the victor was merciless. The Spartan treatment of   Athenian sailors is a case in point. Close to the end of   the war, after the Athenian defeat in 405 bc at the battle of  Aegospotami, the Spartan admiral Lysander called a meeting of   his allies and asked them what should be done with the prisoners, and, as Xenophon says, ‘very many bitter speeches were now made about the Athenians, both with regard to all the crimes they had committed in the past and about the decree which they had passed to the effect that, if  they won the naval action, they would cut off  the right hand of   every man taken alive’. 127 It  was decided to kill all the prisoners except one, Adimantus, who had opposed the decree in the Assembly. Enslavement took place on a massive scale after the total failure of   the Athenian expedition into Sicily in 413 bc. It was clearly   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 3.39–47.   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 13.2. 127 Xenophon, A History of  My Times (Hellenica), 2.1.31–32. 125 126

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meant to ensure the total destruction of   the Athenian armed forces, and it also helped to compensate the huge costs of  the war for Syracuse. The Athenian prisoners were first put in stone quarries and treated quite badly, as Thu­cyd­i­des tells us: There were many of  them, and they were crowded together in a narrow pit, where, since there was no roof  over their heads, they suffered first from the heat of   the sun and the closeness of   the air; and then, in contrast, came on the cold autumnal nights, and the change in temperature brought disease among them. Lack of  space made it necessary for them to do everything on the same spot; and besides there were bodies all heaped together on top of   one another of   those who had died from their wounds or from the change of   temperature or other such causes, so that the smell was unsupportable. 128

The unwritten rules of   agonal warfare were often broken or ignored, but the disapproving tone this entailed in contemporary sources tells us they were generally accepted. Sometimes sticking to the rules was the preferred policy to keep one’s troops in line. The principle can already be seen in the days of   Xenophon, when waging war became a profession, and a good general would enforce discipline among the troops. In The Persian Expedition, Xenophon addresses the unacceptable behavior of   some of   the Greek soldiers in the city of   Cerasus, which was a Greek colony on the coast of   the Black Sea.  He argues that this conduct was more like that of  wild beasts than of  human beings: Let us consider how we can put a  stop to it. Unless we do, how in heaven’s name, can we go on sacrificing to the gods with an easy conscience when we are doing wicked things? And how can we fight our enemies if  we kill our own people? What city will give us a hearty welcome when it sees this state of  lawlessness among us? 129

On Xenophon’s recommendation, a  purification ceremony was held. It  was also decided that an inquiry should be held among the generals and that those responsible should be fined. 130   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 7.87.  Xenophon, Anabasis, 5.7.9. 130 Xenophon, Anabasis, 5.8.1. 128 129

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In concluding this section on agonal warfare, it can be said that, in a  historical perspective, its once unassailable position has become firmly undermined. But even if  it was not the only way of   waging war in ancient Greece, it was pervasive as an ideal, with quite a  number of   conventions. Many of   these unwritten rules made pragmatic sense, and many of   them were discussed in contemporary texts, as we have seen. In the sections that follow, this cultural impact will be analysed – I will present a number of  themes in the Greek war discourse related to distinct discourse genres. As for agonal warfare, we will see that it is especially in the context of  commemoration and competition that the idea of  waging war according to a set of  implicit rules had a strong impact.

2. The Cultural Parameters of  Greek Warfare 2.1. War as a Necessity In ancient Greece, as in many other places, war was endemic. 131 For the philosopher Heracleitus, war was ‘the father of   all things’. 132 For Isocrates, war was god-given. 133 Ar­is­to­tle believed war was a phenomenon that should be related to the basic inequality of   man. Humans could be divided into free men and slaves, and this distinction was important in war. A victorious party in a war was so ‘in virtue of   superiority in some form of   goodness’, and all that was captured in war legally became the property of  the captor. So next to the ‘natural slave’ there was a ‘legal or conventional slave’. 134 For Ar­is­to­tle, all things in nature had a  proper place and function, and so did war. War was a legitimate way to acquire property: ‘It is part of   nature’s plan that the art of   war, of  which hunting is a part, should be a way of  acquiring property’. War in this sense is seen as a corollary of  hunting: the latter being legitimate against wild beasts and the former against those men 131   Hansen 2006, p. 28 (‘constant wars with other city-states’); but Van Wees, in his Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities, contends that this commonly held view is overstated. 132  Kagan 1995, p. 5. 133 Isocrates, Panegyricus, 4.84. 134   Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 1.6.

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‘as are by nature intended to be ruled over but refuse’. For that, Ar­is­to­tle adds, ‘is the kind of  warfare which is by nature right’. 135 In The Republic, Plato describes the origins of  war in economic terms, in a dialogue between Socrates and Glaucon. In civilized society, the number of   trades and occupations will multiply, wealth will increase, and so will the population. For an increasing population, more land is needed and this will lead to war: ‘If  we are to have enough for pasture and plough, we shall have to cut a slice off  our neighbours’ territory. And if  they too are no longer confining themselves to necessities and have embarked on the pursuit of   unlimited material possessions, they will want a slice of  ours too’. ‘The consequence is inevitable’. ‘And that will lead to war, Glaucon, will it not?’ ‘It will’. ‘For the moment’, I  said, ‘we are not concerned with the effects, good or bad; let us merely go on to note that we have found its origin to be the same as that of  most evil, individual or social’. ‘Yes, I agree’. 136

This ‘necessity’ made wars between city-states almost inevitable, even though they were a wasteful affair. Michael Grant believes the Greeks fought ‘because they could not secure the resources required to give themselves the self-sufficiency that every citystate was determined to attain; in consequence, the required assets had to be seized, if  possible, from another state by force’. 137 This explanation follows Plato’s description quite nicely. Another explanation, I believe, is in the nature of   the Greek political and cultural landscape at the time. On  the one hand, its geography of   islands and sea greatly stimulated mobility and, as Mogens Hansen has pointed out, the ‘constant and intense communication’ all over the Mediterranean world retained a  common ethnic identity with a  shared language, religion and culture. 138 On the other hand, the ‘city-state culture’ was politi  Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 1.8.  Plato, The Republic, 372d. 137  Grant 1987, p. 12. 138  Hansen 2006, p. 9. 135 136

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cally divided into a large number of  small entities, ‘cities and their hinterlands’, 139 with internal conflicts and rivalries. ‘There is only one Hellas, but there are many poleis’, the poet Poseidippos says. 140 I would like to argue that this geo-political condition of  competing city-states can be related to the role of  competition as a driving force in the Greek culture of  war, a central concern in this chapter as we shall see. Finally, going back to the views on war expressed in our primary sources, we should add that, even though ancient Greeks saw war as a  natural phenomenon, they took pains to give it a  proper context, by emphasizing formalities surrounding war declarations, truces, peace treaties and so on. This is  why it  is somewhat misleading to present the Greeks, as often happens, as bellicose people engaged in perennial warfare. Periods of  peace and war alternated. And war was not made ‘lightly, or unanimously’, as Louis Rawlings says. 141 As we shall see, the Greeks made it important – it was given great ‘symbolic power’  142 and it was fiercely debated, the subject of   an extensive discourse. It is to this discourse that we shall turn now.

2.2. The War Discourse The Greeks were not the first Europeans to create their own myths of   warfare, for the creation of   a  conceptual culture goes back into history just as far as the creation of   material culture. The Celts, for instance, had a martial tradition in which the concept of   honor played a  central role, for the Celts were an individualistic people and believed in personal courage in combat. Although there were groups of  Celtic warrior elites, most of  them operated as loosely organized bands that were not very strong in discipline, their members excelling in one-to-one combat. 143 What we know about Celtic warfare is  mostly based on Greek and Roman sources like Plutarch, Livy, Polybius, Diodorus, Caesar   Hansen 2006, p. 9.  Q uoted in Hansen 2006, p. 37. 141   Rawlings 2007a, p. 16. 142  As W. R. Connor pointed out a long time ago (Connor 1988, p. 8). 143  Ellis 2003, p. 76. 139 140

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and so on, and is obviously biased in the way Greek descriptions of   the Persian way of   war are. They often tell us more about the culture of   the opposing party – this is why Celtic warfare will be discussed below in the appropriate context. This does not mean that there was no Celtic ‘voice’, but it was part of  the oral tradition and was not recorded until relatively late. In the Mediterranean world, Celtic writers were hellenized and romanized, and their works do not tell us much about Celtic concepts of   war. In the West, however, Irish Celts wrote down a large number of   myths that give us some insight into the role of  war in Celtic culture, but all extant works are of  much later periods. 144 For Greece, there is  a  wealth of   material that begins with Homer’s Iliad. Of  course, there was a  pre-literate period, just like in the Celtic world, in an oral tradition. There are interesting parallels with the characteristics of   tribal warfare that 19th and 20th century anthropologists discovered in their field work among primitive cultures all over the world: the importance of   status and prestige, for instance, the tendency to dehumanize the enemy – the Other – and the need to pacify the gods or restore cosmic harmony. 145 It is tempting to project these features into the distant past, and it is more than likely that Homer is part of   a  very old tradition. Starting with Homer, we can trace the development, in ancient Greece, of   an iconography of   warfare. This iconography can be categorized in a number of  myths – discourses – that, taken together, constitute the cultural parameters of   ancient Greek warfare. On the basis of   an analysis of   a broad sample of   extant contemporary writing (historiography, philosophy, poetry and drama), I would like to propose the following classification:

144  The greatest of  these hero folktales is the story of  Cuchulain (pronounced coo’hoolinn). It is part of   what is known as the Ulster Cycle, a series of   related tales that, together with the Mythical Cycle, the Cycle of   the Kings, and the Fenian Cycle forms the backbone of   Irish mythology. In  the Ulster Cycle, the stories of   elite warrior bands like the Warriors of   the Red Branch are told, great heroes, of   whom Cuchulain was the undisputed champion. The most famous of  these tales is a long epic called the Táin Bó Cúailnge, the ‘Cattle Raid of  Cooley’. It celebrates the virtues of  personal courage and prowess in battle. But if  courage was a prerequisite, success in war the ultimate goal. 145  Feest 1980, p. 6.

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1. The heroic discourse 2. The honor discourse 3. The divine intervention discourse 4. The agonal discourse 5. The liberty discourse 6. The Greek superiority discourse 7. The ethics discourse 8. The aesthetics discourse

There is no hierarchy in the list; neither is there a development in time. However, in my treatment in section 2.4 below, I will not deal with the items in isolation, but present a thematic discussion of   the internal relationship of   these parameters as they are presented in the various genres of  my primary sources. I will also discuss the way in which they determined how the Greeks thought of  war, and how these ideas relate to the actual warfare of  the time as seen by today’s military historians. It seems to me that the cultural parameters of   Greek warfare that were identified above act in four different themes. These themes dominate the contemporary discourse. That is, their subject matter is treated extensively in Greek historiography, literature and other sources. But the idea to present them as themes is  mine, not part of   the classical discourse. The themes can be labelled as follows:

1. the duality of  bravery and courage 2. the relationship between competitiveness, commemoration and agonal warfare 3. Greek superiority as an extension of  the principle of  liberty, and 4. the two faces of  war.

It is the concept of  competition that is overriding here, and its central role in the war discourse of   ancient Greece will my thesis in the present chapter. Even though this study focuses on the war discourse, competition as a feature is not unique to the war-making context. This is why a few remarks on the social and political context are in order. First, there is politics in the wide sense. We have already seen how the geography of  Greece provided the backdrop for a politi95

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cal development of  small entities that were engaged in permanent rivalries. Competition was at the heart of   the polis, therefore. But apart from the polis, other factors can be seen at work. First of   all, the role of   communication should not be underestimated. Because of   increased literacy and communication, there was an increasing participation of   individual members of   the community to the political and administrative process. It  enabled the exchange of   ideas and the public debate. Communication was essential in the legal and political arena – the court, the assembly, the agora – and, of   course, in the field of   public administration, to keep records, issue proclamations, compile conscription lists, and so forth. As for these latter forms of  written communication, there is no doubt that literacy, becoming widespread by the end of  the 6th century, promoted the functioning of  the various levels of   social organization such as demes and tribes. What is relevant here is  that literacy promoted citizen participation since there was no professional bureaucracy common to the more autocratic regimes of  the Near East. 146 As for oral communication, it made public speaking a greatly respected occupation that appealed to the art of  oratory. As Josiah Ober has noted, it also enabled the complex interplay of  elite and masses. In  the process, the elite was more articulate and vocal, and although public discourse had a certain mediating and integrative power, it was more focused on debate than on consensus. 147 The old spirit of   competition that had characterized the aristocratic ethos here had a  political dimension as well, but it never resulted in a deep division between elite and masses. There is an explanation for this. At the time of  Peisistratus, elites recognized the ambitions of  the masses as a ‘new weapon’ to fight each other. Elites now embraced democratic thoughts of   reform to enhance their own positions. 148 There is  also politics in the narrow sense. Since competition can be related to the Greek tradition to see things as binary opposites, as exemplified by the Aristotelian classification of   things

  Missiou 2011, p. 7; p. 26; p. 148.   Ober 1991, p. 35; p. 297–98. 148  Ober 1991, p. 85. 146 147

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into opposite pairs, 149 politics in ancient Greece was a  sort of  ‘zero-sum’ game: if  I win some, you lose some. This made politics a  form of   ‘agonistic competition’. 150 But it must be added that competition was not the only force at work. Citizen participation at various levels (political, but also social and military) did not only make room for confrontation but also stability. This is the other side of  the coin. ‘Political competition’, Edward Cohen says, was responsible for making revolutions and social upheavals unlikely events. 151 Returning now to my discussion of  the war discourse, I would like to introduce the procedure that I will follow. In  providing a  full analysis of   the various discourse parameters, their themes and their interrelationships, I will structure my discussion along the lines of   genre and time. That is to say, I will discuss discourse features and their themes within the confines of   specific genres and their development in time. After all, each genre has its own audience, and the constraints of   genre have their implications for the reception of  the discourse, as well as for its role in society. At the same time, the enormous time span of   hundreds of   years cannot be ignored: what may be true of   one period may not be so for another. The  analysis will be preceded by a  review of   the various genres and the methodological problems that go together with the use of  primary sources from classical times.

2.3. Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources The sources that can be tapped to study the cultural aspects of   Greek warfare are limited but cover a  relatively broad range of   text types, from historiographical works to literary texts like epic and lyric poetry, drama, philosophical treatises and oratory, but also non-literary sources like epigraphy, numismatics, painting, sculpture and other forms of   art. Michael Whitby has pointed to the limitations in using visual sources when recon  Cartledge 2009, p. 4–5.   Cartledge 2009, p. 23. 151  Cohen 2002, p. 78. 149 150

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structing ancient warfare, but this limitation mostly applies to our analysis of  warfare itself  rather than the war discourse, which has left its marks in practically all forms of  cultural expression. 152 Contributions made in the field of   archaeology are of   a different nature, since the evidence enables a  multitude of   widely divergent readings. The well-known ‘ladder of   inference’ introduced by archaeologist Christopher Hawkes applies here: on the lower rungs of  ecology, economics and technology, archaeological findings allow inferences more easily than on the higher rungs of  ideology and religion. 153 Having said this, it must be granted that even our most generous, written sources have their own problems. First of   all, there is the problem of   genre. The views presented in the various texts are subject to generic conventions, such as epic and lyric, comedy and tragedy, but also historiography. Also, ancient authors did not use genre in the way we use it now, but were more interested in character (noble men and their noble deeds requiring, for example, epic as a genre) and in formal aspects like meter (the choice of   meter deciding the choice of   genre). 154 Furthermore, genres have influenced each other. As we shall see, classical historiography has been influenced by epic, in a process called ‘cross-generic splicing’. 155 Interestingly, today’s interest of  classical scholars is less in the formal aspects of  genre than in the ‘pragmatic’ ones. This is to  say, the way in which the texts were used in rituals and performances, and the way in which dedications in epigraphs ‘spoke’ to the gods and to the passers-by, even if  they were illiterate. 156 And, as in the present study, there is an interest in the role of  the author’s perspective and the intended audience. Secondly, there is  the problem of   veracity. Even for a  study that focuses on mentalités, this is  a  problem. The problem of  trustworthiness of   sources has long been debated and has not been resolved. The deconstructivist readings of  the ‘cultural turn’ have yielded sceptical views of   what literary sources can tell us.     154   155  156  152 153

Whitby 2007a, p. 72–75. Hawkes 1954, p. 155–68. Farrell 2003, p. 283–408. Hornblower 2007, p. 39. Day 2000, p. 37–43.

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The minimalist school sees the written sources as intrinsically unreliable and therefore it takes a dim view of  what can be established about events of  the time. Today, a counter-revisionist tendency seems to be gaining ground. A. Brian Bosworth, for example, argues against the extreme view to see ancient historiography as a form of  literary fiction. 157 Jonathan Hall tries to find a balanced position and proposes a number of  criteria to make the presuppositions that scholars need to use more explicit. The author’s intentions, his proximity to the events he describes, and the context that we have are all important here. For the present study, focusing on the war discourse in a given period, this is a sound approach it seems to me. In my analysis of   cultural features of   warfare, I will use visual sources wherever called for, but largely depend on texts, and will try to meet each author on his own turf, so to speak, following a  middle course between naieve credulity and paralyzing scepticism. In  doing so, I  have tried to respect the conventions of  genre. Genre is important for this study, since it is ‘a set of   historically and culturally specific expectations with which an audience approaches a text’. 158 In adopting a specific genre, an author enters into a form of   discourse with conventions that he shares with his audience. A brief  discussion of   the role of   genres in the primary sources that have been tapped is, therefore, in order. The first texts that have come down to us, by Homer and Hesiod, are conventionally classified as ‘epics’. They were long seen as part of   an old oral tradition, which was only recorded in writing in Archaic Greece. In the late 20th century, the role of  the author became more prominent, so that the poems were studied as creative works all by themselves, telling their own stories –  actually, the stories of   the time in which they were written. Examples of   this ‘linguistic turn’ in studying the classics include André Lardinois’ analysis of  the use of  ‘wisdom sayings’ (gnomai) in Homer’s Iliad  159– battle harangues can be more or less authoritative, depending on the rhetorical situation – and Deborah Beck’s study of   battle exhortations in direct vs non-direct speech, the   Bosworth 2003, p. 167–68.   Luraghi 2006, p. 85. 159  Lardinois 1997, p. 213–34. 157 158

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former characterized by greater expressivity. 160 Classical texts can also be read as ‘intentional history’, as Christoph Ulf  has demonstrated, as an early form of   historiography. 161 This explains why Homer and Hesiod knowingly archaized their works, both in the content and in the language used – to create a ‘basic understanding of  chronological distance’. 162 As heirs to this epic poetry, the early historiographers like Herodotus and Thu­cyd­i­des retained the original goal of   preserving memory. To the Greeks, historiography was a  literary genre and only gradually developed its distinct voice. Herodotus wrote in the Homeric tradition, but added new elements such as the rational inquiry, in his case with an ethnographical bent. Thu­cyd­i­des pursued an even more rational course, with an interest in the relationship between war and politics. Today, his work is  no longer seen as ‘scientific inquiry’ but rather as an artistic construct, with fictionalized speeches for dramatic effect, and a narrative with a sophisticated bias 163 as well as a development from a journal-type format to an integrated account of   disparate events. 164 And, finally, Xenophon, with his interest in human behavior, told a moralizing story. In Xenophon’s time, historiography had come to share elements with oratory, another important genre: for orators, exempla from history served their aims well in descriptive passages. Conversely, in historiography, speeches were used to convey ideas in overall narrative structures. 165 Since warfare was considered to be a natural part of   life, the accepted condition of   human society, it is a theme in practically all of   the literary genres and the ‘principal content’ of   the new genre of   historiography. 166 One of   Homer’s great gifts to his successors, Gordon Shrimpton has pointed out, is his introduction of  the pattern of  the war story: beginning – crisis – destruction – victory. 167 War was also the medium through which ancient Greek     162  163   164  165  166  167   160 161

Beck 2008, p. 351–78. Ulf  2009, p. 97–98. Nicolai 2007, p. 15. Desmond 2004, p. 366. Dewald 2005, p. 161. Nicolai 2007, p. 19–20. Tejada 2004, p. 130. Shrimpton 1997, p. 98.

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values could be transmitted. After all, the first historiographers were interested in recording great deeds by great men, and Greek culture favored male, competitive, and aristocratic values, which could be best expressed in combat. 168 One of   the popular tools of   historiographers, the battle speech, is  invaluable in analyzing the cultural dimension of  Greek warfare. We have already seen that oratory and historiography were related, and various types of   speeches were treated as major subgenres. 169 In  ancient rhetoric, symbouleutic speeches, in which advice was given to individuals or institutions on what course to take, were by far the most important in the writing of   history, and within this category it was the general’s address to his troops that was the major form in the writing about warfare. 170 The battle speech or harangue, the formal address made by the commander before battle commenced, gave an impression of   the issues at stake, the rewards promised, the goals reaffirmed, in short the things that were said to boost morale. There is now scholarly consensus that battle speeches were conventional literary topoi, useful for the author to convey abstract ideas that could not easily be incorporated in the narrative, and they were not meant to be verbatim recordings of   what was actually said. 171 In fact, the role of  this convention was well-known in the ancient world. 172 In the writing of   history by the ancients, some features stand out. In  ancient historiography, repetition is  frequently used to establish a certain point, for instance by listing a series of   similar events. Also, informants that have a degree of   public acceptance are introduced to say the things the audience would expect them to say. In  this way, the evidence produced gets greater credibility. And last, there is an extensive use of   characterization, which is  an important means of   enhancing an informant’s credibility   Dewald 2007, p. 93.   We will not discuss the various subgenres here, but it is useful to make a distinction between the original, spoken forms and the recorded versions that we have in writing. In the speeches (of  Per­ic­ les, Isocrates or Demosthenes, to mention the ones most relevant for our purposes) the emphasis was on performance rather than on content. When they were written down, they could be adapted and changed to bring in new aspects and arguments (Worthington 2012, p. 15–16). 170  Marincola 2007, p. 127. 171  Marincola 2007, p. 128. 172  Hansen 1993, p. 172. 168 169

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(or of   diminishing it, as the case may require). Especially for historical figures, an appeal could be made to the person’s character, a knowledge that the historiographer shared with his audience. 173 Next to epic poetry and historiography, lyric poetry is another source. For our purposes, it is especially the elegy that must be singled out. Although later elegy can be associated with the funeral lament, early elegy had a longer, narrative version that functioned as a  poem of   military exhortation and was performed at public festivals or on campaigns. 174 From a  primitive choral and ritual context, the poet’s exhortations to the army transmit a religious and a  political message and reflect a  strong communal spirit. 175 This religious background can be seen in the great poems by Tyrtaeus, but also in their satirical counterparts (by Archilochus), whose ridicule was a form of   ritual purification during religious festivals. 176 In the Classical period, drama took over the dominant literary position from epic and lyric poetry. Tragedy and comedy were the new modes, part of  the development of  the polis and civic institution. Both tragedy and comedy reflected social concerns, including warfare, starting with Aeschylus’ Persians, which celebrated the victory of   the Greeks over the Persians, but also underlined the moral flaw of  Persian hubris. Whereas tragedy treated politics in ethical and religious terms, comedy focused on specific issues, personal allusions and looked at current events with a  touch of   irony and satire. 177 In his tragedies, Euripides made most use of  the theme of  war, showing the dark side of  warfare; and in his comedies, Aristophanes ridiculed the political ambitions underlying all wars of  conquest. Both tragedy and comedy had a broad popular appeal: plays were performed in competitions before a  large audience, both of  elites and lower citizen classes. 178 Competition was also at the heart of   drama as a  genre – it can be seen as one of   the many forms of  ‘competitive speech’ that characterize Classical Greece.     175   176  177  178  173 174

Shrimpton 1997, p. 105–20. Kurke 2007, p. 146. Tejada 2004, p. 133. Tejada 2004, p. 133. Knox 1992, p. 283–85. Griffith 2007, p. 23.

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It  dominated the public sphere in the courtroom, in the agora, as well as in the rhetorical display of  plays, whose themes mirrored the issues of   the real world. 179 Indeed, as Gonda Van Steen says, the Greek public ‘was largely one and the same in the theatre, the law-court and the democratic assembly’. 180 For a student of   the culture of   war, two other genres remain. The philosophical treatises of  authors like Plato and Ar­is­to­tle contain a wide range of  observations on the ethical dilemmas of  warfare as seen through contemporary eyes, much of   the discussion focusing on the nature of  just war and the issues of  character and morale. In a more practical way, the latter were dealt with in the military manuals of   the time. These were written by experienced commanders as advice for their peers: the ‘stratagems’, which offered tactical advice for commanders in the field, and the more general ‘manuals’, giving instructions on a wide variety of  military matters. From the later Greek period, manuals by Aeneas Tacticus and Onasander have come down to us. 181 Among the non-literary sources, art is  the most rewarding because of   its relative quantity. 182 Although scholarly interest in Greek vases has traditionally been largely focused on formal and stylistic aspects, rather than on the cultural values that they communicated through their iconography, this is rapidly changing. 183 It  is  no surprise that, as a  common activity, warfare was depicted in various forms of   ancient Greek art, notably on vases and especially in the period of   development of   the polis, when martial prowess became a  public duty. Many of   the vases were drinking vessels, used during the symposion, an elite get-together and important cultural phenomenon of   the time, as well as during rituals in temples and tombs, to establish a link with the gods. They sometimes portray battle scenes, usually from legend, such   Martin 2007, p. 48.   Van Steen 2007, p. 110. 181  Bliese 1994, p. 108. 182  Just like written documents, art has its problems when it comes to historical research. Even if  the representation is clear, it is not always possible to attach an unambiguous meaning to it, and much iconography will offer a number of  different readings (Fullerton 2000, p. 42). In spite of  this, the narrative of  vases and statues can be invaluable for our purposes here. especially those ‘readings’ that appear to have some form of  expert consensus. 183  Marconi 2004, p. ix. 179 180

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as the ‘geranomachy’, the battle between pygmies and cranes, or between Greeks and Amazons, scenes that were intended to parody heroic warfare. 184 Epigraphy is another important source of  information for cultural aspects surrounding Greek warfare, since most epigraphs were epitaphs. In the Archaic Age, these epitaphs centered on the individual and on private concerns – the ownership of   possessions, the relationship with a god or the remembrance after death of   the person buried. After the Archaic period, the fact that the deceased fought for his community was given much greater prominence. As John Bodel has suggested, the inscriptions enacted the function of   speech, for the words speak to the reader or listener. They cannot be taken at face value, however, and should be treated as rhetorical conventions, for more often than not they represent commemorative practices rather than social realities. 185

2.4. Themes of  the Greek War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time In the selection and order of  genres that will follow below, I have tried to find a  balance between impact and chronology. This is why epic and historiography take precedence over lyric poetry (elegy), drama and philosophy. Non-literary sources, like art and architecture, epigraphy and numismatics, will not be treated separately but referred to throughout the text wherever appropriate. 2.4.1. Epic Epic stood at the beginning of  Greek literature. With Homer and Hesiod, the conventions were established: epic poetry told stories, mingling folktales with legend or myth and common wisdom. It  recounted heroic exploits in an elevated style, and developed into different forms as times went by, but remained, essentially, the most influential genre to tell the great stories of  war. Homer’s Iliad, the first Greek epic, originating from an oral tradition, had   Lissarrague 2002, p. 11.   This is why, in the context of  war history, epigraphic evidence, ‘used without caution, can lead to “epigraphic bias” ’ Bodel has emphasized. In our discourse analysis, this is less of  a problem (Bodel 2001, p. 46 & ff.). 184 185

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an enormous impact – its dissemination was wide (it was recited rather than read), and it shaped the basic techniques of   writing a  war narrative by its development of   plot, use of   description, direct speech, and the arrangement of  a ‘multitude of  details into a coherent narrative’. 186 To a contemporary audience – listening to a recitation –, the Iliad told the story of   a war that had really happened, even though the listeners were perfectly aware that verisimilitude was not the poem’s aim, but rather its celebration of  great deeds by great men in times of  war, and the great impact of  combat, its chaos, its terror, but also its beauty. In this sense, it was about the mythical Trojan War, but also about war itself. In epic, a number of   themes stand out. First, the gods can be seen to take part in the fighting, but they are fickle and whimsical, just like humans are. Second, warfare has two faces: it  is presented as a  terrible thing of   beauty, to borrow W.  B. Yeats’ phrase on the 1916 Irish Rising, an oxymoron so to speak, where ‘awe’ and ‘awfulness’ meet. Finally, in the Iliad as well as in other epics, the heroic discourse of   war is  paramount, and, within  it, the concepts of  ‘bravery’ and ‘courage’. It is to this last theme that we shall turn first. 2.4.1.1. Epic and the Heroic Discourse – The Concepts of  Bravery and Courage

Superficially, the two concepts of   ‘bravery’ and ‘courage’ seem to be more or less identical. They can be used interchangeably, and in fact most dictionary definitions seem to warrant this common usage as synonyms. The two words have different connotations, however, and I would like to use them here to discuss the two distinct ways in which the ancient Greeks looked at the valor shown by warriors under duress. The chief  characteristic of  bravery is that it refers to action that is spontaneous or automatic. Bravery, etymologically related to ‘bravado’, could be seen as a warrior’s intrinsic quality that does not require critical thinking. Courage, on the other hand, refers to action that is premeditated, at least to an extent. Courage is driven by a goal or ideal, and is the wilful choice to fight regardless of  the consequences.   Raaflaub 2009, p. 566.

186

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Although both bravery and courage suggest acts of   valor that imply strength and fearlessness, they will be discussed below as representing two different features. This is because, apparently, the Greeks saw reasons to treat them as such. In his Ethics, Ar­is­to­tle analyzes the various forms of  courage. True courage, he says, arises from virtue, from a feeling of  shame and a desire of  what is noble (that is, of   honor). Brave warriors ‘who act under compulsion from their commanders’ are really ‘lower’. Also, bravery caused by the ‘animal spirit’ is no true courage, for the moral choice and the proper motive are lacking. In this analysis, Ar­is­to­tle makes a distinction between the rational (civic or social) type and the emotional, ‘performative’ type that can come close to rashness. 187 In the Greek lexicon, the terms that cover both ‘bravery’ and ‘courage’ are ‘arete’ and ‘andreia’, but the semantic fields of   the English and the Greek terms do not overlap. Of  the two, arete is the broader term, referring to excellence and valor in all sorts of   different contexts, but also to martial excellence or martial valor. Andreia is  the equivalent of   ‘manliness’, the virtue that enables men to overcome fear of   death in battle. According to Ryan Balot, andreia was used specifically to refer to the manliness of  the hoplite warrior and the Athenian, rational type of  courage that is freely chosen, at least in the Greek ideological perception. Balot believes it can be associated with the Classical polis and the ideology of  democracy. Arete, on the other hand, has a ‘traditional, epic nuance’. 188 A similar distinction was made by Thomas Schmid in an article written back in 1985. Schmid argues that the concept of  ‘courage’ changed with Socratic philosophy. Before Socrates, courage was linked to the aristocracy, i.e. the aristocratic elite of   warriors and heroes like Achilles. After Socrates, courage came to be identified with the willingness of   the individual citizen-soldier to participate in the phalanx. It was ‘civic courage’ that was celebrated by Herodotus, Schmid says, the eagerness to fight for freedom rather than the military courage of   the Persian opponents, who only fought to serve their masters. 189 Whether Socratic philosophy   Ar­is­to­tle, Ethics, 3.8.   Balot 2004, p. 407–8. 189  Schmid 1985, p. 113–29. 187 188

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played a crucial role in this development remains a moot point, but it can be seen as a characteristic feature of  the changes taking place in its day. The former type, andreia, we’ll call ‘courage’. It  will be discussed in another context since it does not figure prominently in epic poetry. However, the latter type of   valor, arete, what we call ‘bravery’, can be associated with the heroic discourse and with the epic genre. It is to this feature that we shall turn in the following section. We shall go into (1) the origin of  ‘heroism’ as a discourse feature, (2) the two types of   hero that can be recognized, (3) the commemoration of  heroes in myth and legend, and, finally (4), the debunking of  heroism, a phenomenon that tells us that the ancient Greeks were perfectly capable of  separating myth from reality. 2.4.1.2. Bravery and the Heroic Discourse

The heroic discourse goes back a long way, to Homer and beyond, and it can be found in the Celtic tradition and in ancient Greek mythology. It is clearly linked with the personal glory of  the hero, the semi-divine creature that plays a  role in many Greek tales, and, for that matter, in tales all over the world, as Joseph Campbell has shown. 190 For the Greeks, heroes were a special race, created by Zeus, who were nobler and more righteous, but also resembled mortals in many other ways, as Hesiod explains in his poem ‘Works and Days’: But when earth had covered this generation also, Zeus the son of  Cronos made yet another, the fourth, upon the fruitful earth, which was nobler and more righteous, a god-like race of  hero-men who are called demi-gods, the race before our own, throughout the boundless earth. Grim war and dread battle destroyed a part of  them, some in the land of  Cadmus at seven-gated Thebe when they fought for the flocks of  Oedipus, and some, when it had brought them in ships over the great sea gulf  to Troy for rich-haired Helen’s sake: there death’s end enshrouded a part of  them. 191   Joseph Campbell 1968.   Hesiod, ‘Works and Days’, ll. 156–61.

190 191

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Heroes were, like the gods, depicted on vases, especially the popular heroes like Heracles, Theseus and Perseus, as well as their deeds. 192 In  the case of   Heracles, it was, of   course, his famous Twelve Labours, but also his lesser works and deeds, and the depiction of  the hero, which changed over the years, reflects the development of   Greek civilization. In  the beginning, Heracles was a character of  physical prowess, even of  brute force, but later representations tried to indicate greatness of  spirit and a passion for justice and order, while later still Heracles came to be seen as a  tragic figure, a  symbol of   human suffering. 193 As a  character, Heracles, like all other heroes, had no fixed form and was rather fluid. After all, the tales were not canonized in a definitive version, all text being part of  a common heritage and constantly added to and changed. 194 Heroes could be physically and morally superior, and after death were often worshipped as gods at their tombs, but they could also be ‘violent, antisocial, destructive’. 195 Still, even then they were great in that they showed that human beings could transcend their limitations. This is  how heroes should be seen: as  the embodiment of   a  kind of   human being that is not subject to the ‘imperatives that others obey in order to live’. 196 The best that heroes could offer was called arete, a  form of  excellence in a  wide variety of   fields: physical, moral, intellectual and practical. It was the heroic ideal to be an all-rounder of  this type, to possess this integrated combination of   virtues, and it became an important part of   classical Greek culture. The glory and fame attained, the hero’s kleos, was recorded and made public in poetry and song, and it became deeply ingrained in the Greek mind. The ‘radiating’ of   heroic qualities from heroes in the strict

  Boardman 1996, p. 111.   Uhlenbrock 1986, p. 7–18. 194  For Diodorus Siculus, Heracles was the first general, commanding a vast army with which he went through the whole world, benefiting mankind and attaining immortality (Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 4.3). 195  Knox 1990, p. 45. Plutarch reports on the brute heroes of  the epic period in his ‘Life of  Theseus’: ‘they exulted in an overbearing insolence and took advantage of  their strength to behave with savage inhumanity and to seize, outrage, and murder all who fell into their hands’ (‘Life of  Theseus’, chapter 6). 196  Knox 1990, p. 45. 192 193

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sense of   the word to ordinary humans had an enormous impact. It resulted in a social and cultural drive to excel. Of  course, it also meant that the word ‘hero’ at some point got a double meaning: a hero was not necessarily a heroon, a demi-god, a special creature in a special class, but also a human with special gifts, one who displayed great arete. The double role can best be shown in the Iliad, with Achilles representing the former, and Hector the latter type. In the huge cast of  characters of  the Iliad, the two stand out. At the end of  the poem, when he is consoling the king of   Troy on the death of   his son, Achilles is redeemed as a human being, but throughout the preceding part of   the text he has the superhuman characteristics of   a  demi-god, a  superior killer, the ‘personification of   martial violence’. 197 From his mother, Thetis the sea-goddess, Achilles knows that he has the choice between a  short but glorious life and a long inglorious one. And, of   course, he decides for the former. This is a crucial decision: by overcoming the fear of   death, Achilles receives kleos, eternal glory and fame. Achilles goes out to meet the Trojan prince Hector and, coldly refusing a pact, kills him, to revenge his friend Patroclus and achieve personal glory. Hector is civilized, shows wisdom and restraint and has the interest of   the Trojan community at heart – he is fighting for Troy, not just for himself. It  is  easy to forget the qualities of   Hector as a warrior, in comparison with Achilles, but Hector’s heroism is  clearly of   a  different, and perhaps also of   a  later type, of   the man of  the polis. However, it is Achilles who is the essence of  the ancient aristocratic ideal, the paragon of   beauty and prowess. His loyalty, in Bernard Knox’s words ‘is to a private ideal of  conduct, of  honor’. 198 The moment when the two warriors confront each other best describes the two forms of   heroism. Achilles answers Hector’s plea not to let his corpse be left for the dogs, and do him honor if  he dies. On the one hand it shows Hector’s interest in the conventions, his friends in Troy and his reputation. On  the other hand, it also shows Achilles’ autonomy, his superiority and his arrogance:   Knox 1990, p. 49.   Knox 1990, p. 64.

197 198

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‘Hector – surely you thought when you stripped Patroclus’ armor that you, you would be safe! Never a fear of  me – far from the fighting as I was – you fool! Left behind there, down by the beaked ships His great avenger waited, a greater man by far – That man was I, and I smashed your strength! And you – The dogs and birds will maul you, shame your corpse While Achaeans bury my dear friend in glory!’ Struggling for breath, Hector, his helmet flashing, Said, ‘I beg you, beg you by your life, your parents – Don’t let the dogs devour me by the Argive ships! Wait, take the princely ransom of  bronze and gold, The gifts my father and noble mother will give you – But give my body to friends to carry home again, So Trojan men and Trojan women can do me honor With fitting rites of  fire once I am dead’. Staring grimly, the proud runner Achilles answered, ‘Beg no more, you fawning dog – begging me by my parents! Would to god my rage, my fury would drive me now To hack your flesh away and eat you raw – Such agonies you have caused me! Ransom? No man alive could keep the dog-packs off  you, Not if  they haul in ten, twenty times that ransom And pile it here before me and promise fortunes more – No, not even if  Dardan Priam should offer to weigh out Your bulk in gold! Not even then will your noble mother Lay you on your deathbed, mourn the son she bore … The dogs and birds will rend you – blood and bone!’ 199

Heroes like Achilles were depicted on vases and on temple pediments and friezes, 200 and remembered in song, in poetry – they  Homer, Iliad, 22.390–417.   For example, the neck-amphora by Exekias showing Achilles killing the Q ueen of   the Amazons (Green 1973, p.  4 and frontispiece), the amphora by the Berlin Painter showing Herakles wearing lionskin (Boardman 1996, p. 120), the pediment of   the Temple of   Aphaea on Aegina, depicting an encounter with Herakles (Boardman 1996, p. 95), and the frieze of   the Siphnian Treasury at Delphi which has a  representation of   a  duel of   heroes on the Trojan plain (Boardman 1996, p. 94). The Age of  Heroes would continue to inspire artists for centuries to come, but one must be careful not to identify all protagonists on vase scenes as heroes of   popular myths, as John Boardman points out; sometimes the vases hold scenes of  everyday life (Boardman 1996, p. 41). 199 200

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became part of  the great oral tradition. Since they had power after death – their remains were thought to retain supernatural power to bring disaster but also to heal or to assist in warfare – heroes had shrines and altars erected, even complete sanctuaries. Commemoration often developed into worship, and hero cults were practised with public processions, sacrifices and games. Heracles was the only hero to have shrines all over Greece, but most heroes had to be content with local worship. In  Sparta, the enormous bones of   Orestes were kept in a sanctuary, bones that were probably the remains of   a  big prehistoric animal. 201 This myth-making process was already noted by the Greek historian Diodorus Siculus when he commented on the greatness of   Heracles: ‘His valour and military art was so admired by everybody, that he presently got together a vast army, with which he went through the whole world, desiring to benefit all mankind; upon which account all unanimously agree that he has attained to a state of  immortality. […] But the poets, according to the prodigious way of  relating matters, say, that Heracles himself  alone, and without any army, performed all those famous actions reported of  him’. 202 In the early Classical period, the heroic myths of   Heracles and Achilles were well-established and a  warrior who showed exceptional bravery was associated with these heroes and given a supernatural aura. Much later, Plutarch describes a Spartan soldier eager to obtain personal glory: Isidas, the son of   Phoebidas. He  was exceptionally tall and handsome, and when Sparta was attacked by the Messenians, and the city happened to be largely undefended, he anointed his body with oil and dashed out of   his house ‘naked, holding a  spear in one hand and a  sword in the other, but wearing neither amour nor clothing. Forcing his way through the midst of   the combatants, he threw himself  at the ranks of  the enemy, striking and laying low all who opposed him. He did not receive a single wound, whether it was that some god protected him for his valor, or because his height and his strength made his enemies believe him to be superhuman’. 203 The presence of   heroes in battles was an encouragement to ordinary   Fox 2006b, p. 89.   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 4.3. 203  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Agesilaus’, chapter 34. 201 202

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soldiers, and even in the rationalistic period of   the 5th century heroes –  like gods  – were sincerely believed to take part in the war effort. 204 Herodotus, for example. reports the sudden appearance of  a ‘gigantic warrior, with a huge beard, which shaded all his shield’ at the battle of  Marathon. 205 The power of  Achilles as described by Homer was a also source of   inspiration for Alexander the Great, who was said to have a  copy of   the Iliad, annotated by Ar­is­to­tle, in a  precious casket captured from the Persian king Darius. 206 When he arrived with his conquering army in Asia, Alexander went up to Troy, and, as  Plutarch reports, anointed with oil the column which marks the grave of   Achilles, and ran a  race naked with his companions, as the custom was, and crowned the grave with a wreath. 207 At  another point, when the Athenians sent him an ambassador called Achilles, Alexander, of  course, could not refuse their request. Over time, Alexander literally took on Achilles’ heroism and presented himself  as a son of   Zeus; it must be added, however, that this is usually seen as largely politically motivated. After his army’s victory over Porus, for instance – a victory which followed a daring crossing of   the river Hydaspes – Alexander had special coins minted for his soldiers depicting their general being crowned by the victory goddess Nike and holding a thunderbolt. 208 After his death, Alexander’s superhuman image was popularized when his life was turned into legend in dozens of  languages. 209 But in ancient Greece, most heroes do not achieve this extraordinary, superhuman status of   demi-god, even though their ambitions to excel are essentially the same. These heroes scrupulously respect the code of   honour while at the same time maintaining   Strauss 2006, p. 74.  Herodotus Histories, 9.117. 206   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Alexander’, chapter 26. 207  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Alexander’, chapter 15. 208  Dahmen 2007, plate 2.1. 209  Alexander’s was a hero’s life: ‘Alexander could better cope with warfare than peace and leisure’ (Q uintus Curtius Rufus, The History of  Alexander, 6.2.1). Alexander the Great also found encouragement in Heracles. Arrian reports how Alexander dreamt that Heracles invited him to take the city of  Tyrus when he laid siege to it (Arrian, The Campaigns of   Alexander, 2.18). Heracles was seen as the ancestor of   the Macedonian kings, and Alexander called Heracles his ‘ancestor’ (Arrian, 5.26). 204 205

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their humanity. In Homeric warfare, they are the promachoi, the soldiers of   the front rank, who achieve feats of   valor. They are the ones to step forward, and although there are clashes of   formations en bloc, as in hoplite phalanxes of   later days, most confrontations in Homer are personal duels, in which warriors attack their opponents, trying to obtain personal glory in battle. Heroes were the best, i.e. the strongest, the ones most skilful, the bravest, and it made sense to place them in the front ranks, also for practical purposes: they were ‘better armed, better trained, and better fed’, as Barry Strauss puts it. 210 Heroes were necessarily part of   the class of   aristoi, the nobles. Of  course, in the background, there was continuous fighting between ordinary infantrymen, the a  nonymous mass of   soldiers, but it  is the aristoi who take the initiative in attack or hold on to their positions while the rest, the laos, retreats. It is also the heroes who are named in the Iliad: Hector, Patroclus and Ajax, for instance. Of  course, they cannot be identified as people who really existed, and the Iliad is a distorted rendering of  a historical event, but proper names are the easiest things to pass down in an oral tradition and also some of   the most important things, so there could well have been men called Hector, Patroclus and Ajax who played a  role in an actual war, even though their exploits have certainly been subjected to poetic coloring and twist. 211 Still, their claim to fame was valid, for as promachoi they challenged their opposite numbers to one-to-one combat. Everlasting glory is  what both parties aimed for, and there was some degree of  mutual respect. This element of  personal fame and glory and mutual respect is  illustrated by the following excerpt from the Iliad, in which Hector, battle impending, delivers a speech about the glory attached to brave warriors after death: But now, Seeing the best of  all Achaeans fill your ranks, Let one whose nerve impels him to fight with me Come striding from your lines, a lone champion Pitted against Prince Hector. Here are the terms   Strauss 2006, p. 62.   This is basically what Strauss says in his Introduction to The Trojan War (Strauss 2006, p. 11). 210 211

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That I set forth – let Zeus look down, my witness! If  that man takes my life with his sharp bronze blade, He will strip my gear and haul it back to his ships. But give my body to friends to carry home again, So Trojan men and Trojan women can do me honor With fitting rites of  fire once I am dead. But I kill him and Apollo grants me glory, I’ll strip his gear and haul it back to sacred Troy And hang it high on the deadly Archer’s temple walls. But not his body: I’ll hand it back to the decked ships, So the long-haired Achaeans can give him full rites And heap his barrow high by the broad Hellespont. And someday one will say, one of  the men to come, Steering his oar-swept ship across the wine-dark sea. ‘There’s the mound of  a man who died in the old days, One of  the brave whom glorious Hector killed’. So they will say, someday, and my fame will never die. 212

And also in his final encounter with Achilles, Hector refers to the glory awaiting the warrior: ‘No way to parley with that man – not now – Not from behind some oak or rock to whisper, Like a boy and a young girl, lovers’ secrets A boy and girl might whisper to each other. Better to clash in battle, now, at once – See which fighter Zeus awards the glory!’ 213

This glorified confrontation of   heroes is the heart of   the heroic discourse in Homeric Greece and must have some historical basis – duels were ‘probably not unusual on the Bronze Age battlefield’, as Barry Strauss says, but they were certainly less important than Homer makes them out to be in the Iliad. 214 Rather, duels should be seen as the poet’s way of   highlighting specific action or specific characters, the way a modern film director focuses in on the details of  a scene. Sometimes formal duels were fought, but this was exceptional. A  formal duel implied a  duel between two of   the best warriors  Homer, Iliad, 7.84–105.  Homer, Iliad, 22.151–56. 214  Strauss 2006, p. 124. 212 213

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from the opposing armies which functioned as a sort of  substitute for the collective effort. The two heroes represented their own military force, and the outcome would be respected by both parties. It was an efficient way to avoid further bloodshed in a prolonged war, and it  is no surprise that there is  one such formal duel in Homer, although it should be noted that if  there ever was a Trojan War, most modern scholars agree it must have lasted for a lot less than 10 years. 215 In Book Three of  the Iliad, the Trojans propose to have a battle between two champions to replace the general engagement, and the Greeks agree. Q uite symbolically, it is Paris and Menelaus, the two instigators of   the war, that step forward, their long spears, the hero’s preferred weapon, ready for action. Unfortunately, their duel leads to nothing because Paris is  rescued just in time through divine intervention, and general fighting is resumed with an ordinary Trojan soldier shooting an arrow at Menelaus. In a later period a similar formal duel took place on a large scale, in the extraordinary ‘Battle of   the Champions’, between Argos and Sparta, which tried to put an end to a territorial dispute. 216 On the basis of  a formula developed by the Argive Heraeum, 300 Argives confronted 300 Spartans. Practically all 600 warriors perished in this battle, just two Argives and one Spartan surviving, and, of  course, both parties claiming the victory so that, as in Homer, general fighting was resumed. Even so, these formal duels implied a mutual respect, the respect that Homer described where Hector and Ajax marked their struggle by exchanging gifts: even though the two hated each other, they held each other in high esteem. The formal duel is one of   the examples of   the agonal conventions mentioned before. Another feature of   agonal warfare was the ritual of   the sharing of   booty and the awarding of   prizes, an important and highly competitive ceremony for all brave warri215  Strauss 2006, p. 8. According to Trevor Bryce, nothing new can be said about the historical basis for the Trojan War ‘until fresh evidence comes to light’ (Bryce 2006, p. xiv). 216  This type of  duel has a judicial character and is sometimes called the judicial monomachy. Its defining feature is  the prior contract which aims to settle a dispute. It is largely legendary and did not outlive the archaic era (Dayton 2006, p. 41–42).

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ors involved. The spoils of   battle formed an essential motivating factor for all belligerents, then and now, and when the battle was over, the booty was divided, with the leaders and the best men getting the largest share and the best items. 217 These special prizes were the tangible counterpart of   the honor gained, and it was vital for a successful warrior to see the respect and standing due to him translated into material things, such as ‘a tripod, or purebred team with their own car or a fine woman to mount and share your bed’. 218 In the competitive spirit of  ancient Greek warfare, prizes were often contested, the most famous contest being that between Agamemnon and Achilles over the latter’s ‘prize woman’ Briseis. Achilles, after all the hard fighting had been done, resented the fact that Agamemnon was entitled to a  prize simply as a  man of  rank, even without participating in combat. The incident even caused a temporary rupture in the coalition of   Greek allies that had crossed the sea to conquer Troy. In  the Little Iliad, which recounts other events of  the Trojan War, it is Odysseus and Ajax that quarrel over Achilles’ armor, and, when Odysseus gets the prize in accordance with the wishes of  the gods, ‘Ajax goes insane, savages the Achaeans’ plundered livestock, and kills himself’. 219 Sophocles’ play Ajax develops this theme: the award goes to Odysseus because intelligence prevails over strength. The bravery discourse inevitably included the concept of  cowardice, bravery’s counterpart. As early as in Homeric warfare, cowardice looms large in the hero’s speeches, whether as a form of   abuse for a  fighter who is  despised or belittled, as a  form of   exhortation, mostly to motivate or rebuke one’s fellows, or as a form of   justification of   one’s own behavior, i.e. to compare one’s honorable acts with the cowardice displayed elsewhere. 220 In  the Iliad, this second role of   the cowardice discourse can be seen when Agamemnon rebukes the Argives for retreating from battle:

  van Wees 2004, p. 163.  Homer, Iliad, 8.331–32. 219  ‘Little Iliad’, Argument 1. 220  Wissmann 1997, chapter 2. 217 218

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You Argives – Glorious braggarts! Disgraces – have you no shame? Just standing there, dumbstruck like fawns Done in from hightailing over some big meadow, Winded and teetering, heart inside then spent. Standing there dazed, your fighting spirit dead – What are you waiting for? You want these Trojans To pin you against your high sterns beached in the surf? To see if  Zeus will stretch his hands above your heads And save your craven lives?  221

Known cowards were placed in the center of  the formation (‘But the known cowards he drove amidst the center: A  man might cringe but he’d be forced to fight’.) 222 The third role, justification of   one’s own behavior, can be illustrated by Hector’s attempt to fill himself  with a warlike spirit just when battle was imminent: But I would die of  shame to face the men of  Troy And the Trojan women trailing their long robes If  I would shrink from battle now, a coward. Nor does the spirit urge me on that way. I’ve learned it all too well. To stand up bravely, Always to fight in the front ranks of  Trojan soldiers, Winning my father great glory, glory for myself. 223

Finally, the heroic discourse had its early detractors. In ‘The Battle of   Frogs and Mice’, a comic poem that has traditionally been ascribed to Homer or Hesiod but could well be from the 4th century bc, the epic battle scenes from the Iliad are parodied. Frogs and mice fight until divine intervention stops the war. The protagonists deliver mock-heroic speeches in the Homeric vein, such as the mouse posturing as a hero: ‘In battle I have never flinched from the cruel onset, but plunged straight into the fray and fought among the foremost’. 224 Parodies like this show the Greeks’ capacity to create a human context even for such serious subject matter as their great mythology. But parody aside, the heroic ideal was also tarnished by  Homer, Iliad, 4.275–85.  Homer, Iliad, 4.443–44. 223 Homer, Iliad, 6.523–29. 224  ‘The Battle of  Frogs and Mice’, ll. 40–41. 221 222

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some of   the poems in the ‘Epic Cycle’, written in the Archaic period and containing some parts of   the Trojan War that were not described in the Iliad or the Odyssey, such as the story of   the Trojan Horse, in which deception prevails over valor. There is also the quarrel between Ajax and Odysseus in which the two heroes ignominiously fight over Achilles’ arms. 225 And in the Odyssey, when Odysseus meets the ghost of   Achilles in the Underworld, the former hero downplays the joys of   being a ‘prince among the dead’: ‘Put me on earth again, and I would rather be a serf  in the house of  some landless man, with little enough for himself  to live on, than king of   all these dead men that have done with life’. 226 Perhaps Barry Strauss is right when he concludes that ‘reality was rapidly rejecting the heroic ideal’. 227 In rounding off  this first theme, we can say that, although the heroic discourse is strongly linked to epic poetry, to the Iliad in particular, it cannot be seen as a cultural expression of   a specific phase of  Greek warfare, for the simple reason that Homeric warfare is no longer considered to be a historical category. Rather, it should be emphasized that bravery and heroism are among the oldest cultural parameters of   the Greek war discourse, and that their impact on the Greek mind was long-lasting and cannot be overestimated because of   the position of   the Iliad and other epic poetry in the collective memory. 228 2.4.1.3. Epic and the Role of  the Gods

As in all ancient civilizations, the power of   the gods was invoked in war and in peace. In the Greek war discourse, there was an obvious role for the gods. This role was ambiguous, however, and created great uncertainty. Gods and humans were tied to each other in a  complex relationship. On  the one hand, gods and humans   ‘Aethiopis’, Argument 4.  Homer, The Odyssey, 11.480–90. 227  Strauss 2006, p. 165. 228   We find the same discourse in works of  art. In the Classical period, we can see that epic subject matter ‘filtered through the lens of  Classical drama’ and was then reinvented by vase painters who had access to both sources (Shapiro 1994, p. 21). Examples include passages from the Iliad such as the ceremonial collection of   Sarpedon’s dead body from the battlefield, or Achilles’ dragging of   Hector’s body around the tomb of  Patrocles (Shapiro 1994, figs 13 and 16). 225 226

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lived similar lives, in parallel worlds; on the other, the gods had the power to intervene at will. That is, if  they were not embroiled in bitter fights amongst themselves. In epic poetry, the help of  the gods, usually specific (patron)-gods was invoked, but the gods’ decisions were erratic. In ancient Greece, the relationship between gods and warfare goes back to the great myths and the cosmogonies of   the first poets that we know, like Hesiod’s ‘Theogony’. According to these cosmogonies, Heaven and Earth gave birth to Ocean, Kronos and the other Titans. Kronos became king of   the gods and swallowed his children when he learned that one of   his children would overpower him. This was the beginning of   the first great war, the war between Kronos and the Titans on the one hand, and Zeus and his brothers and sisters on the other. Many other wars among the gods would now follow, the divine world mirroring the human one. The great war between Zeus and the Titans, the ‘titanic’ struggle between gods and giants, was a recurrent theme in mythology and art. In his poem ‘Theogony’, Hesiod described it as follows: ‘For the Titan gods and as many as sprang from Cronos had long been fighting together in stubborn war with heart-grieving toil … So  they, with bitter wrath, were fighting continually with one another at that time for ten full years, and the hard strife had no close or end for either side, and the issue of   the war hung evenly balanced’. 229 It is interesting that the war is presented in human terms, as a Trojan War fought in heaven. An even more graphic description is  given in another poem by Hesiod, ‘The Shield of   Heracles’. It  is  terror-filled and reminiscent of   Homer’s war scenes in the Iliad: An hundred arms sprang from the shoulders of   all alike, and each had fifty heads growing upon his shoulders upon stout limbs. These, then, stood against the Titans in grim strife, holding huge rocks in their strong hands. And on the other part the Titans eagerly strengthened their ranks, and both sides at one time showed the work of   their hands and their might. The boundless sea rang terribly around, and the earth crashed loudly: wide Heaven was shaken and groaned, and   Hesiod, ‘Theogony’, ll. 625–642.

229

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high Olympus reeled from its foundation under the charge of   the undying gods, and a  heavy quaking reached dim Tartarus and the deep sound of  their feet in the fearful onset and of  their hard missiles. So, then, they launched their grievous shafts upon one another, and the cry of   both armies as they shouted reached to starry heaven; and they met together with a great battle-cry. 230

The battle between gods and giants was a popular topic for sculptors and the result can be seen on temple friezes, such as on the Parthenon in Athens and on the Siphnian Treasury in Delphi. Battle scenes are often combined with Trojan episodes on adjacent friezes, and depict the gods as victors, i.e. as fighting from the left. The divine struggle is  mixed with human struggle, and the story of   the war of   the gods has, as Boardman has pointed out, a  series of   different meanings in different periods of   history, so that it becomes part of   the human experience. On  the Parthenon, for instance, the victory of   the gods over the giants, which saved Olympian power, was interpreted by Athenians as Athens’ struggle to save Greece against the Persians. 231 In later days, it was associated with the victory over the Galatians. For the Greeks, the separation between the realms of  god and man was not very clear. It is  no surprise, therefore, that gods were seen to intervene on the battlefield. This intervention can be interpreted on various levels, and this is  what happened in fact. During all major battles in ancient and Classical Greece, not just in the Bronze Age, gods (like heroes) were thought to have been physically present, sometimes to encourage soldiers, sometimes to give tactical advice, and sometimes even to participate in the actual fighting. 232 At the same time, the presence of  gods was metaphorical, a matter of   epic convention, so that divine intervention served to explain the mysteries of  combat, the unpredictability of  events, the magic of   morale in the face of   panic. 233 Divine intervention was also capricious, unsystematic, inconsistent and amoral. In  fact, the gods sometimes squabbled amongst themselves about whose side     232  233  230 231

Hesiod, ‘The Shield of  Heracles’, ll. 670–686. Boardman 1996, p. 268. Strauss 2006, p. 74–75. Knox 1990, p. 42.

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to take, and the outcome remained uncertain, something which gave a sense of  fragility to human endeavor in war. Divine intervention plays a major role in the Iliad. For Homer, gods and humans are very much alike, not just in their physique, but also in their speech and in their inner drive, for they are possessed with the same feelings of  hatred and passion, of  revenge and retribution. At the same time, the gods are immortal, immune to change, and superior to humans because they can control human actions and can directly influence human behavior. It is the gods who are responsible for human wars in the first place, as Odysseus says, for ‘we Achaeans are the men whom Zeus decrees, from youth to old age, must wind down our brutal wars to the bitter end until we drop and die, down to the last man’. 234 In the Iliad, the gods are divided in their support, Zeus and his followers supporting the Trojans, Hera and her group of  gods supporting the Greeks. The duel between Menelaus and Paris, husband and abductor of   Helen and the two opponents in the conflict that triggered the war, ends in a  victory for Menelaus, but divine intervention provides a new incentive: Paris is miraculously rescued when his leather chinstrap, held by Menelaus, breaks and he is  released. This coincidence, typical of   the chaos of  the battlefield, is explained as the work of  Paris’ patron goddess Aphrodite: it is the goddess who quickly whisks him off  to safety behind the city walls of   Troy. This rendering of   events would be perfectly acceptable to Homer’s audience, for every great warrior, king, prince or hero would have a patron goddess on the battlefield to assist him. 235 When he feels dishonored by Agamemnon and his men, Achilles appeals to his divine mother Thetis for help. He wants her to prevail on mighty Zeus to bring ruin on the Achaeans so that they regret the things they did to him. This direct link between great men like heroes and nobles on the one hand and gods on the other shows the importance attached to divine intervention and the idea that it can be invoked. Later on, the truce between the two warring parties comes to a premature end when Achilles is treacherously wounded by a Trojan chieftain, but again it is the  Homer, Iliad, 14.105–7.   Strauss 2006, p. 119.

234 235

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gods that are pulling the strings, for Athena suggests the shot that injures Achilles. It is Hera who is determined to destroy Troy anyway, something which greatly angers her husband Zeus: Rising in anger, Zeus who drives the storm clouds Thundered, ‘Insatiable Hera! How great are the pains That Priam and Priam’s sons have heaped on you That you rage on, relentless, forever bent on razing The well-built heights of  Troy? Only if  you could breach Their gates and their long walls and devour Priam And Priam’s sons and the Trojan armies raw – Then you just might cure your rage at last. Well, do as you please’. 236

On the Trojan side, Apollo sends plague-infected arrows into the camp of   the Greeks, and feeds the Trojan soldiers with the true warrior spirit: ‘Up and at them, you stallion-breaking Trojans! Never give up your lust for war against these Argives! What are their bodies made of, rock or iron to block. Your tearing bronze? Stab them, slash their flesh!’  237 It is Apollo who knocks off  valiant Patroclus’ helmet and armor and puts an end to his killing spree – again, what could be an accident is presented as mighty Apollo’s intervention. And finally, in Book 20, the Olympian gods step down to fight each other in an all-out war: ‘Their overpowering strife broke out in massive war’. 238 The gods, however, do not decide the war, but add a dimension of   terror: the earth quakes, and even in the underworld Hades is badly shaken when Poseidon bursts open the earth and the dead are exposed, a terrible sight that even ‘fills the deathless gods themselves with loathing’. 239 After the war, as we know from the Little Iliad, an intricate contest was devised to decide which warrior would receive Achilles’ arms as best fighter: Ajax or Odysseus. Ajax was an old-style hero, a muscleman, whereas Odysseus was cunning, perhaps even devious, and a representative of  the ‘other’ style of  war, less heroic but often more effective, as was fully well known to the Greeks,  Homer, Iliad, 4.35–43.  Homer, Iliad, 4.589–92. 238 Homer, Iliad, 20.67. 239 Homer, Iliad, 20.71–79. 236 237

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even in the days of  so-called Homeric warfare. 240 Odysseus was so clever as to win and defeat Ajax, and this had to be explained by the poets as the result of   divine intervention; hence the victory of   cunning over force was presented as the work of   the goddess Athena. 241 It can be concluded that, as a theme, divine intervention can be related to the genre of   epic, because here we find the origin of  the bond between humans and the gods. Here we also find the many possible interpretations of  the role of  the gods, not least the metaphorical one. Although epic gives the full range of  the theme, it must be said that it makes its most frequent appearance in historiography. I believe there are two ways of  explaining this. Firstly, preparation before battle was a ritual that underlined the seriousness of  the decisions that had to be made – battle was a high-risk operation not to be engaged in without deliberation. It is no surprise that references to pre-battle rituals abound. Secondly, the enigma of   divine intervention also provided a  rationale for the chaotic nature of   war, the uncertainty of   its outcome. With the help of  the gods, both victories and defeats could be explained and accepted. 2.4.1.4. Epic and the Two Faces of  War

Even though ancient Greek society was dominated by warfare, and most adult males would have fought in a war at least once, if  not several times during their lives, relatively little has been written about the ethics of   war, about war itself  so to speak, or war as a  principle. Many scholars have explained this seeming paradox by looking at the Greek perspective of  the time. In those days, war was not seen, as it is today, as a deviation from a pattern, but as in integral part of  it, as we saw in the introductory section 2.1 (War as a Necessity). Both war and peace were taken for granted, peace obviously being the preferred state of   affairs, but war accepted as inevitable, a fact of   life. Even in the period that is traditionally seen as the heyday of   Greek civilization, the fifth century, the citizens of  Athens were at war, on land and at sea, for   Strauss 2006, p. 165.   ‘Little Iliad’, Argument 1.

240 241

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more years than they were at peace, and for both earlier and later periods, the same statement could be made. In the great war poem that all Greeks turned to, the Iliad, this same inevitability is pervasive: it celebrates the heroic values of  war, it exults the passion it engenders, it magnifies the violence, but it also shows its wanton cruelty. In  the use of   epithets, the descriptions of   glory won in battle and the joy of   victory are balanced by characterizations like ‘dreadful’, ‘man-killing’, ‘hateful’ and ‘the butchery of   men’, to name but a few. But on the whole, the Iliad ‘accepts violence as a  permanent factor in human life and accepts it without sentimentality’. 242 At the end of  the poem, when the fighting has stopped and Priam and Achilles are mourning Hector, the order of   things to come that Priam announces is typical – war is followed by truce, and then the fighting resumes: Well, nine days we should mourn him in our halls, On the tenth we’d bury Hector, hold the public feast, On the eleventh build the barrow high above his body – On the twelfth we’d fight again … if  fight we must. 243

The ritual mutilation of   slain opponents fits into this epic discourse as well. Mutilation was an ancient tradition, and in the Iliad it is still a perfectly acceptable form of   revenge: decapitation and cutting of  limbs figure prominently. In fact, warriors are under an obligation to avenge their comrades’ deaths. Homeric duels often end in what is  called a  Leichenkampf, a  renewed confrontation between the two sides over the corpse of  the fallen hero, with the victors attempting to strip the dead body and take the possessions and leave the warrior’s remains to the vultures and the dogs. Thus, in Book 16 of   the Iliad, Patroclus discusses what to do with the slain Sarpedon: Their captain’s down, the first to storm our wall, The great Sarpedon. If  only we could seize his body, Mutilate him, shame him, tear his gear from his back And any comrade of  his who tries to shield his corpse – Bring that enemy down with ruthless bronze. 244   Knox 1990, p. 29.  Homer, Iliad, 24.782–786. 244 Homer, Iliad, 16.653–656; The removal of    Sarpedon’s body from the 242 243

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When, shortly afterwards, Patroclus is  killed by Hector, both parties, Greeks and Trojans, try to recover Patroclus’ body, both sides dragging the corpse in different directions. The goddess Hera even admonishes Achilles to capture his friend’s corpse: ‘Writhe with shame at the thought Patroclus may be the sport for the dogs of   Troy!’ 245 After the final battle between Achilles and Hector, when Hector is dead, Achilles shows the greatest possible disrespect for his opponent: in a famous passage he fastens the corpse to his chariot and drags the body three times around the burial mound erected for Patroclus. He then leaves the body sprawled facedown in the dust. 246 The truce that Achilles and the old king Priam decide on in the closing part of   the poem is perhaps more characteristic of   Greek warfare after the Bronze Age: it enables both parties to collect their own dead and give them a  proper burial. This development no doubt correlates with the new style of   warfare in compact hoplite formations, which made the Leichenkampf  a quaint thing of  the past. The importance of   the Iliad as a national poem and a source of   inspiration is hard to overestimate: it was not just a text that was used to teach reading and writing; it was also a  moral text about man’s role in the terrible condition of   life he finds himself  in. And, of   course, with the ending of   the poem in view, it was also about the restoration of   humanity after the war has been fought. There is  a  sharing of   tears between Priam and Achilles, and there is Priam’s plea, which is a ritual act, for supplicants must be treated with respect, whatever they have done. 247 In  the war discourse, moral considerations can be traced back to the earliest epics. Hesiod, Homer’s near-contemporary, makes a distinction between good and bad strife, and associates war with the night rather than the day, and with disasters like infertility, drought and famine. 248

battlefield is depicted on the famous Euphronios crater, one of   the great masterpieces of  classical Greek art and dated around 510 bc. 245 Homer, Iliad, 18.208–9. 246  Homer, Iliad, 24.17–21. 247  Demondt 2004, p. 115. 248  Hesiod, ‘Works and Days’, 11–26; ‘Theogony’, 211–32; ‘Works and Days’, 225–47.

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But the war discourse of  ancient Greece had its clearly aesthetic dimension as well: in poetry and drama, in sculpture and ceramics, and in the many monuments great and small. The aesthetics discourse naturally takes a special interest in form and in the effect of  form on the spectator. In epic poetry, it is expressed in the joy of  battle, the frenzy that takes possession of  the individual warrior, the sound of  weapons clashing and the smell of  blood. 249 An early example can be found in The Thebaid, where Tydeus ‘split open’ the head of   Melanippus ‘and gobbled the brain in a  passion’. 250 And, in the Iliad, excessive violence and the blind fury to kill are presented in great detail and sometimes even with aesthetic pleasure, as in the account of   the death of   a Trojan charioteer called Thestor, who is killed by Patroclus: Patroclus rising beside him stabbed his right jawbone, Ramming the spearhead square between his teeth so hard He hooked him by the spearhead over the chariot-rail. Hoisted, dragged the Trojan out as an angler perched On a jutting rock ledge drags some fish from the sea, Some noble catch, with line and glittering bronze hook. 251

In Homer, the armies clash, and the sound of  struggle ‘roared and rocked the earth’, ‘the ground screamed blood’, and ‘from the grinding armies broke the cries and crash of  war’. 252 The Greeks are becoming ‘mad for war’, ‘battle thrilled them more than the journey home’. 253 The greatest warriors of  them all, Hector and Achilles, are on a killing spree. Hector, like the sea’s spray ‘shooting up from under the wind’s hurl’, ‘swerving, roaring down the sea’, wildly routed the packed lines of  Greek fighters. 254 The clash of   armies is  a  grand spectacle, depicted in cinematographic terms: ‘The glory of  armor lit the skies and the whole earth

249  This ‘sheer pleasure of   battle’ is also said of   Alexander the Great: ‘it was irresistible, as other pleasures are to other men’, Arrian notes (Arrian, The Campaigns of  Alexander, 6.13). 250  The Thebaid, fr. 9. 251 Homer, Iliad, 16.480–85. 252  Homer, Iliad, 4.521–28. 253 Homer, Iliad, 11.14–15. 254 Homer, Iliad, 11.357–60.

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laughed / Rippling under the glitter of  bronze, thunder resounding / Under trampling feet of  armies’. 255 Another interesting feature in this same discourse is the attention that is  given to preparation for battle, usually in detailed descriptions of  amour and weapons. In epic poetry, there is a conventional way to describe the dressing ritual: the warrior first puts on his greaves and fastens on the ankle guards, next his cuirass; he then takes his sword and hangs it from a sling over the right shoulder; he takes his shield and finally puts on his helmet. Taking his spear, he can now mount the chariot that will bring him to the battlefield. It is important that bronze plates were traditionally part of   this panoply, which created a  very powerful effect – bronze was not used to improve the quality of  the weapon, but for psychological reasons, for its shining and gleaming effect, its associations with fire, in short the impact a bronze armor had on the beholder. 256 In the Iliad, this shattering impact can be seen in the description of   Agamemnon’s magnificent outfit in Book 11, the regalia, it must be admitted, of  a king: Then over his shoulder Agamemnon slung his sword, Golden studs at the hilt, the blade burnished bright And the scabbard sheathed in silver swung on golden straps, And he grasped a well-wrought shield to encase his body, Forged for rushing forays – beautiful, blazoned work. Circling the center, ten strong rings of  bronze With twenty disks of  glittering tin set in, At the heart a boss of  bulging blue steel And there like a crown the Gorgon’s grim mask – The burning eyes, the stark, transfixing horror – And round her strode the shapes of  Rout and Fear. The shield-belt glinted silver and rippling on it ran A dark blue serpent, two heads coiling round a third, Reared from a single neck and twisting left and right. Then over his broad brow Agamemnon set his helmet Fronted with four knobs and forked with twin horns And the horsehair crest atop it tossing, bristling terror. And at last he picked up two tough spears, tipped in bronze, Honed sharp, and the glare flashed off  their brazen points  Homer, Iliad, 19.427–29.   van Wees 2004, p. 53.

255 256

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And pierced the high skies – and awestruck at the sight Athena and Hera loosed a crack of  thunder, exalting The great king of  Mycenae rich in gold. 257

There is  aesthetic, almost sensual joy elsewhere in the poem, albeit often in conventional terms of   recurrent epithets (helmets are ‘flashing’, for instance), with Hector clutching his long lance (‘the bronze tip of   the weapon shone before him  / ringed with a golden hoop to grip the shaft’), and also ‘polishing, fondling his splendid battle-gear / his shield and breastplate, turning over and over / his long curved bow’. 258 A similarly graphic description of  battle armor is  the subject of   the poem The Shield of   Heracles, long ascribed to Hesiod, but probably from the 6th century  bc. Prima facie, the poem describes the famous shield of   Heracles, crafted by the god Hephaestus, which was ‘all glittering’ and ‘a  wonder to see, for its whole orb was ashimmer with enamel and white ivory and electrum, and it glowed with shining gold’. 259 It also contained animated scenes depicting gods, goddesses, heroes and mortals in a wide range of  activities that are dealt with extensively – scenes of  daily life are placed next to battle scenes – so that the poem becomes a rambling, encyclopedic treatise. 260 The detailed description of  amour and the full warrior’s panoply underlines the importance that was traditionally attached to the impression of  wealth and status. Homer even gives some of  his heroes expensive shields and greaves of   precious but impractical material such as gold and tin. 261 On the one hand, aesthetic effects are a mark of   the artist’s craft, a way of   impressing the audience. On  the other, there was also a  practical side to decoration, for emblems and colors on shields and other equipment served to create an impression on the enemy. Decoration aimed to intimidate and terrify. For example, the soldier’s tunic was often dyed in a  warlike red, and on helmets decorative elements like snake  Homer, Iliad, 11.31–52.  Homer, Iliad, 6.372–80. 259  Hesiod, ‘The Shield of  Heracles’, ll. 139–43. 260  The conventional preparation for battle is parodied in the poem ‘The Battle of   Frogs and Mice’, with the mice covering their shins with green beanpods (‘The Battle of  Frogs and Mice’, l. 123). 261  van Wees 2004, p. 53. 257 258

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patterns or ram’s heads were used. On shields, forceful emblems were painted, often of  animals like lions, bulls, or snakes to express fighting spirit, but other things were also used, each warrior preferring his own image. 262 Finally, the two faces of  war that we see in epic poetry are represented in the visual arts as well. Preparation for battle finds its artistic expression in vase paintings, especially in the conventional departure scenes. The departure of  the warrior apparently carried a lot of  weight, considering the importance of  the theme on vases. One well-known departure scene shows a hoplite and an attendant – the hoplite is  handed his helmet by a  woman. 263 On  an amphora attributed to Lydos, c.  540  bc, a  warrior can be seen preparing for battle, mounted in full panoply and accompanied by an attendant, the two forming a well-groomed, stylish pair. 264 Another shows a hoplite making a libation in the presence of   his relatives and a dog. 265 Apart from departure scenes, vases depicted other popular themes from the war discourse, such as the sphagia, the blood sacrifice, and the setting up of   the trophy after victory was won. 266 And there were paintings of  the actual battle scenes themselves, the most spectacular of   which is probably the Chigi vase, which has hoplite soldiers closing in battle to the music of  flutes. 267 A vase in the Louvre, G115, has images of   warfare conducted by mythical figures in a  frozen, idealized fashion. 268 Hoplites and their panoply can also be seen on contemporary marble reliefs, 269 and on decorative bone carvings, such as in the sanctuary of   Artemis Orthia in Sparta. 270 A marble kouros from a cemetery near Athens, dated around 530 bc, and now in the National Museum of  Athens, has on its base the following inscription: ‘Stop and grieve at the   van Wees 2004, p. 54.   Attic red-figure pelike by the Cleophon Painter, c. 440–30 bc (van Wees 2004, plate viii). 264  Green 1973, plate 99. 265  van Wees 2004, plate x. 266   van Wees 2004, plates xi and xiii. 267  Boardman 1996, plate 44. 268  Louvre G115 vase. 269  Green 1973, plate 77. 270   Green 1973, plates 84 and 85. 262 263

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tomb of   the dead Kroisos, slain by wild Ares in the front rank of  battle’. 271 It is interesting to note that even if  they had not died in battle, dead men were often depicted on gravestones as war­ riors, in an upright stance. 272 We shall return to this later, in section 2.4.3.3, in the context of  competition and commemoration. 2.4.2. Lyric Lyric poetry, like epic, was a  long-established genre in ancient Greece. The material that is extant follows epic somewhat in time: whereas Homer and Hesiod are conventionally placed in the late 8th century, the great lyric poets worked in the latter part of   the 7th century or even later, such as Simonides (mid-6th century) and Pindar (5th century). Both epic and lyric were composed for performances, and were recited rather than read, but when literacy increased and books were produced in some quantity, notably in the 5th century, poetry was recorded and thus saved from extinction. 273 The transition from oral to written recording did not affect the nature of  poetry as much as the various prose genres that came to full bloom in this period, as we shall see below. This is not the place to engage in a discussion of  the various subgenres of  lyric. They are usually recognizable on the basis of  form and metric pattern. For our purposes, we can concentrate on elegy, epitaph and ode as our major sources. If  epic broadly tries to tell a grand narrative from a more or less objective point of   view, lyric poetry tends to follow a  more personal approach, a  more emotional and subjective one. In spite of  their differences, elegies, epitaphs and odes share a common element: the poet’s personal voice. In epitaphs and odes, which commemorate the fallen and the victorious, the poet speaks for the community, commenting rather than narrating. In elegies, the poet’s voice can be admonishing (for instance, in Tyrtaeus’ battle invocations) or reflective and introspective (as in Archilochus’ and Alcaeus’ poems).

  Boardman 1996, plate 70.   Boardman 1996, 97. These gravestone reliefs were generalized portraits of  age: young men were represented as athletes, mature men as warriors, old men had a stick they leaned on. 273  Knox 1985, p. 5. 271 272

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As a  genre, lyric can be associated with the Middle Phase of   Greek warfare, the period linking Archaic to Classical Greek history. This is because our sources can be placed in this chronological framework, but also because of   the lyric poem’s thematic interests. On  the one hand, there is  a  tendency to focus on the public and the collective experience, on the warrior’s role in his social group or even the community at large. Thematic concerns now include the dedication to one’s fatherland and the aim for respect among one’s peers. The hero’s ‘bravery’ takes on the form of   ‘courage’, and his personal glory attains a more social dimension. At the same time, poets can speak for themselves and may express highly personal concerns, so that the war discourse obtains some unexpected features – it  is unheroic, introspective, even pedestrian in its subject matter. 2.4.2.1. Lyric: From ‘bravery’ to ‘courage’

In our discussion of   the heroic discourse, a  prominent feature of   epic poetry, a  distinction was made between ‘bravery’ and ‘courage’. In lyric poetry, we can see a change of   focus from the former to the latter, and it  is to this change that we shall turn now. In  discussing the opposing concepts, I  propose to use ‘honor’ as the public equivalent of  the private ‘glory’: glory is the hero’s reward for his bravery in battle; honor is given to the valorous warrior with a commitment to his peers, his community or another ideal. The development of   the honor discourse is  often seen as an adjunct to the development of   the polis, and of   a  new form of  warfare, which relied on the hoplite phalanx, the heavy infantry. This took place all over Greece, but first on the Peloponnesos, where Sparta became the supreme military power after it defeated the Messenians in the Messenian Wars. Sparta also became a militaristic society with a  pervasive military morality, celebrating a ‘code of   manliness’. 274 Unlike the heroic code of   Homeric days, this code was fundamentally social, however, rather than individual, although the underlying spirit of  physical and mental excellence, of  fearlessness under duress, was the same. Essentially,   Ferrill 1986, p. 145.

274

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the phalanx was a social institution, which matched the new social and political structures that were emerging after the so-called Lycurgan reforms. Tradition has it that the Lycurgan regimen gave equal rights to all free-born Spartan citizens or ‘Spartiates’, and also made the hoplite phalanx the perfect military order. As the phalanx was a compact, shield-to-shield formation, success in battle depended on cohesion and group discipline rather than on individual strength. A hoplite was a free citizen and a partner in a common effort; his equipment ‘was paid for by the hoplite out of   his own purse, an item of   family honor to be hung up over the hearth on his return’. 275 In hoplite warfare, honor was key: a good hoplite would not let down his fellows, and would never display any cowardice. This is  why the principle of   honor was instilled in every male, in education, in poetry and in song. It became one of   the great Spartan legends. Plutarch, in his ‘Life of   Ly­cur­gus’, points out how Spartan songs were filled with this idea: And their very songs had a life and spirit in them that inflamed and possessed men’s minds with an enthusiasm and ardour for action; the style of   them was plain and without affectation; the subject always serious and moral; most usually, it was in praise of   such men as had died in defence of   their country, or in derision of  those that had been cowards; the former they declared happy and glorified; the life of   the latter they described as most miserable and abject. 276

Obviously, honor was based on courage in battle, and courage found its apotheosis in Leonidas’ celebrated last stand at Thermopylae in 480 bc, in which his famous 300 men were in a hopeless position against a huge invading Persian army. Still, Leonidas refused to give up and ‘said that he himself  could not draw back with honor; knowing that, if  he stayed, glory awaited him, and that Sparta in that case would not lose her prosperity’. 277 In the   Hanson 1989, p. 63.   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Ly­cur­gus’, chapter 21. The warlike spirit was seen as an exclusive Spartan domain. Plutarch explicitly mentions Ly­cur­gus’ Third Rhetra, which forbade military expeditions against the same enemy – this would only encourage the enemy to build up a stronger defence and make them just as warlike as the Spartans themselves (‘Life of  Ly­cur­gus’, chapter 13). 277  Herodotus, Histories, 7.220. 275 276

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same battle, Dieneces the Spartan excelled in the fight and was famous for saying ‘if  the Medes darken the sun, we shall have our fight in the shade’. 278 Only a  few of   the Spartans survived, one of  them a man called Pantites, who on his return to Sparta found himself  in such ‘disesteem’ that he hanged himself. 279 The fallen at Thermopylae became part of   Sparta’s national consciousness and were remembered in poems and songs, such as the one by Simonides: Of  those who died in the Hot Gates Glorious is the fortune, noble the end – Their grave’s an altar, in place of  grief  they know Undying remembrance, their fate is praise. Such a winding-shroud as this neither mould Nor all-devouring time shall ever consume. This sepulcher of  brave warriors has taken the good renown Of  Hellas to dwell therein – bear witness Leonidas, The Spartan king, who leaves behind him a great Crown of  valour, and undying renown. 280

Simonides’ epitaph on the Three Hundred of   Thermopylae (‘Go tell the Spartans, thou who passest by / That here obedient to their laws we lie’) has perhaps become the most famous memorial in the history of   warfare. 281 Leonidas’ last stand was a  desperate attempt to keep the Persians out of   Greece, and Leonidas sacrificed himself  and his men ‘for the better saving of  Greece’. 282 It is for this reason that this struggle can be seen as an act of  devotio, ‘the quasi-magical self-sacrifice of  an individual or commander to spare the community as a whole’. 283 The honor discourse is most vividly expressed in the poems of  Tyrtaeus, a 7th century Spartan soldier-poet. His elegies – mostly fragments survive – are exhortations to courage in battle and warnings against cowardice. The poems became popular among Spartan soldiers and were sung around campfires at night, the  Herodotus, Histories, 7.226.  Herodotus, Histories, 7.232. 280   Green 1966, p. 142–43. 281  Keegan and Darracott 1981, p. 203. 282  Green 1966, p. 140. 283  Green 1966, p. 140. 278 279

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polemarch rewarding the best singer with a  portion of   meat. 284 For Tyrtaeus, agathos (bravery) is the Spartan soldier’s hallmark: ‘For the man is  not brave in war  / unless he endure seeing the bloody slaughter / and standing close reach out for the foe / This is  arete  / this is  the best and loveliest prize for the young man to win / A common good this / for the whole polis and all the demos  / when a  man holds  / firm-set among the fighters  / unflinchingly … / For it is a fine thing for a brave man to die / falling among the front-fighters / fighting for his fatherland’. 285 Death in battle gets the highest distinction: ‘And beautiful in death the boy appears / The hero boy, that dies in blooming years:  / In  man’s regret he lives, and woman’s tears; / More sacred than in life, and lovelier far / For having perished in the front of  war’. 286 Tyrtaeus’ marching songs celebrate the newly developed hoplite phalanx, Sparta’s collective military effort, for it  is not just the soldier’s personal qualities that make the difference, but his courage as part of   the group, the group that for its survival depends on this. 287 When Pindar writes his odes a few centuries later, the same approval of  valor shown in war can be seen, albeit in a different tone. This is not the general addressing his troops, but a professional writer doing a PR job. In the Pythian Ode II, for instance, Hieron of   Syracuse, winner in the chariot race, is praised lavishly: Upon the flower-crowned prow will I go up to sing of   brave deeds done. Youth is approved by valour in dread wars; and hence say I That thou hast won boundless renown in thy battles, now with horsemen, Now on foot: also the counsels of   thine elder years give me sure ground Of  praising thee every way. 288   Cartledge 2003, p. 108.   Tyrtaeus, fr. 10 (6D). 286  Tyrtaeus, fr. 10 (‘Martial Elegy’). 287  But Tyrtaeus, fr. 12 stands out in the corpus, as Robert Luginbill has argued, in that it makes an appeal to the individual’s heroism rather than that of  the group (Luginbill 2002, p. 409). 288  Pindar, ‘Pythian Ode II’. 284 285

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Pindar’s Isthmian Ode  VII, dedicated to Strepsiades of   Thebes, winner in the Pankration, alludes to the everlasting glory awaiting the warrior who showed courage in battle: So shineth he forth by grace of  the Muses iris-haired, and to his uncle of  like name hath he given to share his crown, for albeit bronze-shielded Ares gave him over unto death, yet remaineth there for the valiant a recompense of   renown. For let whoso amid the cloud of war from his beloved country wardeth the bloody shower, and maketh havoc in the enemy’s host, know assuredly that for the race of  his fellow-citizens he maketh their renown wax mightily, yea when he is dead even as while he was yet alive. So didst thou, son of   Diodotos, following the praise of   the warrior Meleagros, and of  Hektor, and of  Amphiaraos, breathe forth the spirit of  thy fair-flowering youth amid the company of   fighters in the front, where the bravest on slenderest hopes bare up the struggle of  war. 289

Strepsiades’ victory in the Games, his crown, is here compared to that of   his uncle of   the same name, who bravely died for Thebes, his city, and followed in the footsteps of   famed warriors like Meleagros, Hector and Amphiaraos. 2.4.2.2. Lyric: Courage and the Love of  the Fatherland

The celebration of   courage as a collective virtue can be linked to the love of  the fatherland. In Sparta’s 7th century schools of  choral poetry eunomia is propagated, the love of   law and order, which is  guaranteed by the strong hoplite army with its civic spirit. It can be seen as an early form of  patriotism. In one of  his poems, Tyrtaeus has Hector praise the warrior who dies fighting for his (Trojan) fatherland: ‘For it is fine to die in the frontline, a brave   Pindar, ‘Isthmian Ode VII’.

289

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man fighting for his fatherland’. 290 Attaining glory in battle is not an individual warrior’s attempt to gain honor – it is a collective endeavor and it aims to save the fatherland: ‘Let us fight with spirit for our land, die for our sons, and spare our lives no more’. 291 In the Greek Anthology, a  1st century bc collection of   epigraphs, many epitaphs attest to the importance of  the fatherland. In  a  short poem, the poet Mnasalcas commemorates the dead of  an unknown battle: These men, in saving their native land that lay with tearful fetters on her neck, Clad themselves in the dust of  darkness; And they win great praise of  excellence; But looking on them let a citizen dare to die for his country. 292

And an unknown author immortalizes the soldiers who perished in a battle in Boeotia, trying to save the holy soil of  Greece: O Time, all-surveying deity of   the manifold things wrought among mortals, Carry to all men the message of  our fate, That striving to save the holy soil of  Greece, We die on the renowned Boeotian plains. 293

The honor attached to falling in battle has now become explicitly related to the fatherland. And fatherland has become more than the polis – it  is the Greek-speaking world vis-à-vis that of  the Persians. Only with the Persian Wars does the cultural panhellenic identity that had been shaping in the Archaic period find its political and military counterpart. The patriotic ethic that we now have revolves around the idea that the soldier is  performing a  duty for his fatherland and that the glory and honor that he is  entitled to can only be earned in that context. In  some of   the extant fragments from Simonides’ poems, this idea is well expressed. For example, he writes: ‘The children of  the Athenians drove out the Persian host and saved their country from     292  293  290 291

Tyrtaeus, fr. 10. Tyrtaeus, fr. 10. ‘Select Epigrams from the Greek Anthology’, III.V. ‘Select Epigrams from the Greek Anthology’, III.VI.

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woeful servitude’; and’they chose to leave the country green and gay with freedom’. 294 And at Marathon, ‘with our lives we saved all Greece’, and ‘we strove to crown Greece with freedom’. 295 Although the poetic range of   the lyric poets of   the 7th century was much wider than the song of   battle, there are quite some references to warfare in the poems. Tyrtaeus, already mentioned, Archilochus, Callinus and Alcaeus wrote about war, but used a different voice, a more personal tone than the traditional Homeric epic. Some of  the poets had first-hand experience of  war as professional soldiers, and some even died in battle. For once the focus of   the poem was on the personality of   the speaker and the particular circumstances of   its delivery, and this is  why we get ‘an unusually vivid, fresh view of  battle’, as Hanson puts it. 296 The poems of   Tyrtaeus are not just interesting in the way they exemplify the agonal style, invoking the code of   honor; they are also good examples of   the realism of   description of   battle scenes, the warrior ‘biting his lip with his teeth, covering thighs and legs beneath, his chest and his shoulders under the hollowed-out protection of  his broad shield’. 297 In the style of   the Spartan Tyrtaeus, his contemporary Callinus wrote exhortations to battle, urging his countrymen – he was from Ephesus – to fight the invading Cimmerians. The poems were used as an early form of   propaganda, instilling patriotic fervor, but they also had some elements of   the new, more personal style, and often directly addressed the audience: How long will ye slumber? When will ye take heart And fear the reproach of  your neighbors at hand? Fie! Comrades, to think ye have peace for your part, Whilst the sword and the arrow are wasting our land! Shame! Grasp the shield close! Cover well the bold breast! Aloft raise the spear as ye march on your foe!  298

The poems were called ‘elegiac’, they were accompanied by a flute or some other form of   musical pipe, and were used on military     296   297  298  294 295

Simonides, fr. 128, 129. Simonides, fr. 127. Hanson 1989, p. 43. Tyrtaeus, fr. 11. Callinus, ‘Exhortation to Battle’, ll. 1–6.

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campaigns or social events. More truly lyrical poems were written by Archilochos and Alcaeus, however. Only fragments survive, but some of  them are brilliant descriptions of  the details of  battle and the paraphernalia of   war, as the following fragment, which gives a photographic image of  a house in preparation of  war. In the last line, the poet, Alcaeus, refers to the civil war that plagued his home island of  Lesbos: The great house glitters With bronze. The entire ceiling is decorated With shining helmets, down From which plumes of  horsehair Nod, the adornment of men’s heads. Greaves of  bronze conceal the pegs they hang on, shining bright, a protection against strong arrows, while corslets of  new linen and hollow shields lie thrown about. Beside them are Chalkidian swords, Beside them are many belts and tunics. These it has not been possible to forget, Since we first undertook this task of  ours. 299

The poems of   Archilochus, who was a professional soldier from the Cycladic island of   Paros, are personal as well, with a  touch of   unexpected wit, as in the often-quoted poetic fragment about a  warrior’s shield that was necessarily abandoned in battle and picked up by the enemy: Some Saian mountaineer Struts today with my shield. I threw it down by a bush and ran When the fighting got hot. Life somehow seemed more precious. It was a beautiful shield I know where I can buy another Exactly like it, just as round. 300

The extant fragments of   Archilochus’ poems reveal a very modern, introspective style of   an experienced soldier musing about   Alcaeus, fr. 140.   Archilochus, fr. 6.

299 300

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the vagaries of   a  warrior’s life, the leveling effect of   battle (‘Let him go ahead / Ares is a democrat / There are no privileged people / On a battlefield’)  301 and the double life of  soldier-cum-poet that he is  leading (‘Sergeant to Enyalios  / The great god War  / I practise double labor / With poetry, the lover’s gift / I serve the lady Muses’). 302 Archilochus sings of   himself, even addressing his soul (‘Soul, my soul, don’t let them break you / all these troubles. Never yield’). 303 There is  an interesting combination of   patria (duty to the fatherland) and persona (the soldier-poet as a character in fiction). In Archilochus’ poetry, we are a long way from the epic tradition of  Homer and Hesiod. It can be concluded that, in the Greek war discourse, lyric was important for two reasons. First of   all, it gave a voice to the new form of   warfare, which relied on the hoplite phalanx, the heavy infantry, and the social code of   standing by one’s peers. This collective spirit of   aiming for honor, for respect from one’s fellows and the community rather than individual glory, can be seen as an early form of   patriotism. Secondly, lyric offered the personal voice, the individual persona in the poem, calling out for battle, giving graphic descriptions of  actual combat, and sometimes even casting a sceptical eye. 2.4.3. Historiography and Rhetoric It is often said that history writing began in the 5th century with Herodotus, the ‘Father of   History’. Herodotus did not ‘invent’ the genre, of   course, but built on a  relatively young tradition of   writing down legends in prose, and, arguably, surpassed his predecessors and contemporaries in scope and quality. 304 After Herodotus’ history of   the Persian Wars, Greek historiography developed over the following centuries with authors like Thu­cyd­ i­des (late 5th), Xenophon (early 4th), Polybius (2nd) and Diodorus Siculus (1st century bc). With Plutarch (early 2nd century ad) we have come to the period when Greece had become part of   the Roman Empire and, properly speaking, to biography rather than     303  304  301 302

Archilochus, fr. 3. Archilochus, fr. 1. Archilochus, fr. 67. Fowler 2006, p. 33; p. 37–38.

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historiography. A  similar time gap exists for our two primary sources for the period of   Alexander the Great, Q uintus Curtius Rufus (1st century ad) and Arrian (2nd century ad). In practically the whole of   this period, prose takes over from poetry as the dominant mode, in tune with the increase in literacy and education of   the developing polis. 305 The rise of   the polis went together with the increased production of   books in various forms of   learning, such as philosophy, oratory, geography, geometry, and so on. The writing of   history was part of   this development. It should be added, however, that the reading of  books did not take the place of   the old oral tradition: the two forms coexisted, with written texts read out to audiences in private houses or other places. 306 Even where writing became common, written documents were often still validated by oral communication, oral proof, or non-written symbols, and for the recovery of  past history itself, oral sources were thought to be the best: ‘All men trust the spoken word more than the written word’, Isocrates said. 307 Rhetoric (or oratory) is an important source of   information. Speech-making became an art in the 5th century, with its own teachers, schools and handbooks, and flourished in the public debate, in politics and the law courts. Some of   the speeches by Isocrates and Per­i­cles are invaluable ingredients for our discourse analysis, since they highlight opinions and beliefs instead of   the 305  According to A.  Missiou, the phenomenon of   increased literacy can be related to the reorganization of   demes and tribes in the early 5th century. Political participation facilitated the use of   writing, due to the need for administrative communication, such as the drawing up of   lists and the keeping of   records. In this Missiou makes a more direct connection between writing and democratization than C. Pébarthe in his Cité, démocratie et écriture. Pébarthe sees an earlier development of   writing occur long before democracy was established (Missiou 2011). It is certainly likely that the rise of  (relative) general literacy was preceded by a  period of   practical forms of   writing, as William Harris has pointed out. This began in the course of   the 6th century, with inscriptions and public display of   laws and the practice of   minting coins with the states’ own names. For a long time, Greece had little more than a low level of   ‘craftsman’s literacy’, i.e. literacy used in the context of   civic life, for legal, administrative and political purposes (Harris 1991, p.  57). In  the present context, Missiou’s thesis is  attractive since it accounts for the popularization of   the heroic militaristic and religious ideals of  the world shaped by Homer. 306  Thomas 2003, p. 172. Literacy remained restricted to somewhere between 5 and 10 per cent in the classical period, Harris estimates (Harris 1991, p. 36). 307 Isocrates, Ep., i.2–3, quoted in Harris 1991, p. 87.

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common sequences of   events that are the staple of   historiography. All the same, much oratory has come down to us indirectly, as part of  historiography. For historians, the inclusion of  speeches became a routine, since it gave authenticity and authority to the text. It is obvious that we cannot treat speeches as verbatim quotations – the citations cannot be verified, and, anyway, the speaker’s words merely served to give support to the general drift of   the historian’s narrative and were part of  the writer’s artistic tools. As for oratory as a genre, it is remarkable that funeral speeches (epitaphioi) stand out, because of   their frequency and relevance. In  the Archaic period, they were conventional forms of   praise to honor the deceased in aristocratic families, focusing on the heroic deeds of  the family’s ancestors. In Classical Greece, burials became public events, speeches were made by special orators, and the attention was drawn to more recent family exploits, especially the family’s military achievements, but they were also tied in with the deeds of   the ancestors. This is how a patriotic tradition was ‘made’: the dead were honored in the context of   glorifying the nation. The funeral speech included a  number of   standard topics, most of   them from myth and legend, but, very tellingly, one that was historical: Athens’ greatness in the Persian Wars. This all served the funeral oration’s dual role of   creating a  common link with the past as well as encouraging the present generation to emulate their ancestors. 308 In Greek historiography, our three main thematic concerns are perhaps not unique to but certainly characteristic of   the genre. The first of   these, the idea of   Greek superiority and the principle of   liberty, goes back a  long way, to Herodotus’ treatment of   Greeks and Persians, and beyond. It  spans the whole period, and will therefore be dealt with first, and more or less chronologically. The second theme, courage and honor as the counterpart of   bravery and glory, can be related to the days of   the polis as we have seen, and to the rise of   civic awareness. The third and last theme, which centers around competition, commemoration and 308  Thomas 1992, p.  200. This is  the phenomenon of   ‘telescoping’ that is frequent in oral societies: the group only remembers the recent past and the time of   origins – the intermediate period is hardly remembered at all (Thomas 1992, p. 103–4; p. 158; p. 207; p. 231).

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the agonal discourse, takes up most space. This is  because of   its importance and pervasiveness in contemporary sources, but also because of  its popularity (and controversial nature) in today’s academic world. It also has a broad time span and carries us through the whole period of  ancient Greek historiography. Finally, a word on the method that will be employed. As a genre, historiography engages in a form of  discourse that is different from that of   literature. It tries to engage in a dialogue with historical reality, rather than present a personal view of  an idea or ideal, and it invites comparison with other accounts of   that same reality. For this reason, the following sections will combine a discourse analysis with a  discussion of   other, both ancient and modern, interpretations of   the historical reality that our primary sources are presenting. 2.4.3.1. Historiography: Greek Superiority as an Extension of  the Principle of  Liberty

Much of   the discourse in historiography relates to the definition of   the principle of   liberty, the threats posed by enemies and the nature of   the enemy, the Other. Liberty and the nature of   the opponent belong together. If  only from a practical point of   view, this is clear: the enemy is the other party on the battlefield. From a cultural point of  view, things are more complicated, for the enemy takes on a variety of   roles that depend on a number of   circumstances. When Greeks fought Greeks in the small wars of   the pre-Archaic period, the definition of   the enemy can only be guessed at, because there are no records, but with the rise of  the polis, the concept of  liberty became more articulated. From then on the liberty discourse became the set pattern to define the enemy. The enemy was the rival for land, goods and slaves, but ultimately for the independence of  the community. When non-Greek enemies appeared on the horizon, the liberty discourse changed considerably. However, I  would like to argue that the idea of  Greek superiority that emerges with panhellenism and the Persian Wars is not a new departure but an extension of   the old liberty discourse. This is  why the development of   the idea of   Greek superiority will be presented as belonging to the same theme. In the sections that follow, I will first discuss how the idea of  ‘fatherland’ came into being, with the concept of  142

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liberty as a governing principle, but also with theory and practise somewhat diverging. Next, I will go into the consequences of  the Persian Wars – the way in which the Greeks defined themselves in a relationship with non-Greeks, and how the world of foreigners (‘barbarians’) was designed as a  construct of   concentric circles. I will finally discuss the changes brought about by the Macedonians and the effects these had in Hellenistic times. 2.4.3.1.1. T h e P r i n c i p l e o f    L i b e r t y

The transition from the fluid, open style of  warfare of  pre-hoplite days to the fighting in tight formations of   Classical Greece went together with the communal spirit that characterizes agonal warfare. It accompanied the rise of   the polis, the civic pride of   freemen, the flourishing of   political debate, the spirit of   freedom and independence. And, with it, the constant territorial disputes between independent poleis and their immediate neighbors, the conflicts over questions of  honor, infringements of  treaties big or small. In the early days of  the polis, ‘wars were simply local affairs between neighbours’, Thu­cyd­i­des says. 309 Military operations were short and swift, and, ideally, conducted by citizen-soldiers who met the enemy as a group, and were deployed by tribe, together with men from their own town or deme. In this group, there were long-standing friendships and kinships. 310 From a military historian’s point of   view, this explanation is a construct, as we saw before. In the liberty discourse, hoplite citizen-soldiers marched out to contest their neighbours, each party in the battle trying to show that no man was inferior to, or should give way, before another. 311 They saw themselves as defenders of   the liberty of   their fatherland. 312 In  reality, old-style forms of   combat, such as raiding, ambushing and what can be called ‘total’ war never disappeared. Also, armies did not consist of  citizen-soldiers   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 1.18.   Hanson 1989, p. 123. 311  Hanson 1989, p. 5 quoting Themistocles. 312   It is  this love of   liberty that Polybius adduces as a  chief  characteristic of   the Peloponnesians and an explanation for their endemic wars: ‘as they are all naturally both ambitious of   supremacy and fond of   liberty, they are in a state of  constant warfare, none being disposed to yield the first place to his neighbour’ (Polybius, The Histories, 5.106.5). 309

310

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only, but of  contingents of  mercenaries, metics and slaves as well. There is clearly a discrepancy here between theory and practice. When we follow the development of  the theme of  liberty and love of  the fatherland in time, we can see that early forms of  patriotism can be traced back to Homer, in the character of   Hector and the city of   Troy. In the Iliad, Troy is depicted as a polis, or perhaps we should say a proto-polis, and whereas the Trojans live in relative luxury – there are repeated appeals to accept ransom – the attacking Achaeans live in tents and temporary shelters. It is also evident that Trojans are not eager to fight: Paris is presented as a womanizer, not a soldier, and even brave Hector, the crown prince, makes serious attempts to stop the war. Hector is the man of  the polis, the protector of  the community, and it is for his country that he is fighting. When he encourages the Trojans, Hector underlines the importance of   fighting for one’s fatherland for both Trojans and their opponents: So fight by the ships, all together. And that comrade Who meets his death and destiny, speared or stabbed, Let him die! He dies fighting for fatherland – No dishonor there! He’ll leave behind him wife and sons unscathed, His house and estate unharmed – once these Argives Sail for home, the fatherland they love. 313

But even when, in the Peloponnesian War, Greek turns against Greek, there is  a  pervasive idea of   liberty on both sides. In  his Funeral Oration, Per­i­cles praises the men who died in the war for defending the fatherland: ‘Some of  them, no doubt, had their faults, but what we ought to remember first is their gallant conduct against the enemy in defence of  their native land. They have blotted out evil with good, and done more service to the commonwealth than they ever did harm in their private lives’. 314 Unfortunately for the Athenians, the spirit of   independence that was also instilled in their allies, sometimes turned against them. This happened when the Mytlleneans of  the island of  Lesbos revolted: they changed sides and joined the Spartans because they felt that  Homer, Iliad, 15.574–79.   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 2.42.

313 314

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Athens was trying to suppress its allies. In the speech that Thu­ cyd­i­des wrote in his History, emphasizing his critical view of   the Athenian will to power, Mytilene representatives explained this change of  allegiance as follows: ‘So long as the Athenians in their leadership respected our independence, we followed them with enthusiasm. But when we saw that they were becoming less and less antagonistic to Persia and more and more interested in enslaving their own allies, then we became frightened’. 315 During the battle of   Mantinea, the Mantineans were encouraged with an appeal to their patriotic feelings: ‘The Mantineans were told that they were to fight for their country, that it was a question of   power or slavery, of   keeping the power which they had won or of   relapsing again into the slavery of   the past’. 316 And, during the ill-fated expedition to Sicily, in adverse circumstances and in an offensive war, Nicias played the liberty card: ‘He  reminded [the soldiers] of   their country, the freest in the world, and of  how all who lived there had liberty to live their own lives in their own way’. 317 For the citizen-soldier of  Classical Greece, the sacrifice was not symbolic but real, and it has often been argued that the burden of  hoplite warfare, with its full participation of  the male community, could only be borne by men who had full political rights. 318 With some reservations, I  would say this is  true. Even though non-hoplites as fighters on the ground cannot be ignored, the role of   the citizen-soldier in the political and cultural arena should not be diminished either. 319 In  the Athens of   Per­ic­ les, going to war had become a political choice, sometimes a very difficult and unpopular one, as Thu­cyd­i­des makes clear when he quotes Per­ i­cles defending his policy: ‘If  one has a  free choice and can live undisturbed, it is sheer folly to go to war. But suppose the choice is forced upon one – submission and immediate slavery or danger   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 3.10.   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 5.69. 317  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 7.69. 318  Lynn 2003, p. 12. 319  This is confirmed by contemporary iconography, which clearly separates hoplites from peltasts or archers. Persian archers, for example, are not ac­com­pa­ny­ ing Persian foot soldiers but are opposing Greek hoplites and reduced to caricature (Lissarrague 2002, p. 117). 315 316

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with the hope of  survival; then I prefer the man who stands up to danger rather than the man who runs away from it’. 320 It should be added that the strong impact of   Per­ic­ les’ rhetoric is also testimony to Thu­cyd­i­des’ artistry as a  writer, with a  sceptical view of   Athenian imperialist aims. 321 A similar political choice is presented by a Syracusan nobleman, Theodorus, when in an assembly he persuades his fellow-citizens to no longer support the tyrant Dionysus in his war with the Car­thaginians: ‘We, to say the truth, courageously endure the extremest hardships in fighting against the Car­thaginians; but we are so poor-spirited that we dare not speak a  word for the laws and liberties of   our country against a most cruel tyrant’. 322 Fighting for the fatherland was held in high esteem, and the reputation of   the Spartan commander Brasidas is a case in point, but there are many other examples. When Brasidas died valiantly in battle, his mother was said to have praised him as an honest and good man, but ‘much inferior to many other Spartans in valour’. Sparta’s ephors then decided to decree her public honors because she preferred the glory of  the country before the particular praise of  her son. 323 During the Sicilian expedition, appeals to patriotism were heard on both sides, Athenian and Sicilian: Nicias adjured the Athenians not to ‘prostitute the glory of   the country, and become slaves to the Sicilians’; the Sicilians who fled were severely reproached, for ‘what more honorable death could they desire than that for their country?’  324 The necessity to defend the city, the fatherland, often also had a negative motivation: an undefended city would be overrun by the enemy, and terrible things were going to happen. Agricultural devastation was routinely part of   Greek warfare, perhaps even the essence of   Greek warfare. 325 The issue is controversial, however. Hanson has argued that the devastation was limited, sometimes necessarily so, for it  is extremely difficult to uproot olive   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 2.61.   Such critical readings of  Thu­cyd­i­des can be found in, e.g., S. Sara Monoson and Michael Loriaux (Monoson and Loriaux 1998, p. 285–86). 322  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 14.7. 323  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 12.7. 324  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 13.2. 325  van Wees 2004, p. 121. 320

321

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trees and vines, and very time-consuming to cut them down. 326 This is why Van Wees concludes that, although individuals suffered immensely, the damage done to the land did not normally affect the whole community – there was enough resilience to survive the war. 327 Hanson’s thesis has been challenged, notably in Paul Erdkamp’s Hunger and the Sword. Erdkamp submits there was actually quite some potential for crop damage; also, in military campaigns, destruction of   food was not limited to crops on the land. 328 With its strong sense of  community, the Greek city-state cherished the principle of  liberty and encouraged a feeling of  patriotism. This is why the theme of  liberty and love of  the fatherland can be linked to a social and political development that, of  course, was long in the making. It is no surprise that the liberty and patriotism discourse was most explicit in the context of   defensive warfare, when the existence of  the polis was at stake. In his military treatise Poliorcetica, Aeneas Tacticus explains what makes the defensive motivation so strong: When men leave their country and engage in warfare and encounter perils beyond their own frontiers, and disaster occurs by land or sea, the survivors still have their own country and city and fatherland between them and utter destruction. But for those who have to fight for all that is most dear to them, for temples and fatherland, for parents and children and all they possess, the struggle is of  a wholly different kind: a successful and stout resistance to the enemy will make them dreaded by their foes and more secure from future invasion, while any weakness in meeting the peril will leave them with no hope for safety. 329 2.4.3.1.2. T h e I d e a o f    G r e e k S u p e r i o r i t y

The well-known separation of  Greeks and barbarians that characterized the common war effort in the Persian Wars had xenophobic parallels and origins in the liberty discourse discussed above.

    328  329  326 327

Hanson 1989, p. 33. van Wees, p. 122. Erdkamp 1997, chapter 9. Aeneas Tacticus, Poliorcetica, Introduction, 1–2.

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All  wars, of   course, contain a  xenophobic element: the enemy is  seen as the Other, and in the Greek tradition the Other was ‘the citizen of   some other city, who was different from himself, and fundamentally different’. 330 In Sparta, this xenophobic tradition was very strong, and it had become a myth. For example, in his ‘Life of  Ly­cur­gus’, Plutarch says that strangers were banished during Ly­cur­gus’ reign, for ‘with strange people, strange words must be admitted’, and ‘these novelties produce novelties in thought’, which in turn destroy the harmony of  the state. Ly­cur­gus was said to be careful to ‘save his city from the infection of   foreign bad habits’. 331 These are strong words, and reveal a mentality, but they do not tell the full story, as we shall see. In the fierce competition between communities of  pre-Classical days, the ‘other’ city had a different dialect, different customs and perhaps a  different political system, but it was still seen as Greek. Non-Greeks were ‘barbarians’, speakers of   unintelligible jabber, and this idea received a strong boost during the Persian Wars, when many Greeks united against a common enemy. It  was only in times of   crisis that common action was taken, and it can be argued that any patriotic feelings that the Greeks held were expressed through the medium of   small political entities so that Greece never became a true nation. 332 But the Greek love of   liberty was also something that united them once the enemy was truly ‘foreign’. The liberty ideal was believed to be part of   a  Greek’s moral and intellectual make-up: Greeks were free citizens by nature, just like Persians were slaves serving a despot king. This is  why Plato said that, in a  war with barbarians, one should spare Greeks but could massacre or enslave foreigners. 333 After the Greeks had defeated the Persians, the word barbaros began to take on the meaning of   ‘barbarian’ next to the more neutral ‘non-Greek speaker’ that it originally had. 334 Ever since, ‘barbarian’ broadly did not just imply non-Greek speaking, but also (and equally so) having an identity outside of   the common   Walbank 2002, p. 258.   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Ly­cur­gus’, chapter 27. 332   Walbank 2002, p. 251. 333 Plato, The Republic, 470c. 334  Romm 1998, p. 95–96. 330 331

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Greek descent (real or imagined), the common religious institutions, and the common way of  life. 335 The Greek victory over the Persians was celebrated in art and monuments. The Parthenon served as a monument to the victory, and the virgin goddess worshipped there was depicted as a warrior fighting in the front ranks. 336 Most of   all, the victory was depicted as an epic event, and compared with mythical victories obtained over other non-Greeks or barbarians. Sculptors preferred scenes from the Trojan War, the combat between Greeks and Amazons, or between the Greek Lapiths and the bestial Centaurs. 337 The same can be seen on the larger 4th century vases: their decorations depicted encounters between Greeks and Amazons, or Greeks and Centaurs. They were inspired by the great myths, 338 which were now employed to reflect the supremacy of  the Greeks over barbarians and orientals. It is useful to make a distinction between the treatment of  eastern and western myths. It can be argued that the Greek portrayal of   mythical barbarians of   the west by such authors as Strabo, Ephorus and Ptolemy was a reversed self-portrait, since it depicted the very things Greeks feared or desired, such as primitive passion, disorder (stasis), but also the lost simplicity of   the fabled golden age and the enjoyment of   nature’s horn of   plenty without any toil. 339 The myth of  the Amazons, set on the borders of  the known world, constituted a sort of  reversal of  the natural order of  things, with women taking the natural role of   men in war, thus creating a ‘barbarian’ world. The Centaurs symbolized lustfulness and were also represented as opposites of  the ‘correct, decorous established order’. 340 The Cyclopes, as we know from Hesiod and the Odyssey, were in a  terrifying world, whereas the Hyperboreans lived the good life in a land of  milk and honey. 341

  Walbank 2002, p. 259.   Raaflaub 2007, p. 16. 337   Lendon 2005, p. 37. 338  Boardman 1996, p. 201–2. 339  Keyser 2011, p. 53. 340  Grant 1987, p. 280. 341 Homer, Odyssey, 9.106; Herodotus, Histories, 4.13. 335 336

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If  we turn east, we can see that in the myths of   the Trojan War, the Trojans were presented as rich, civilized and soft – it was they who loved luxury and were prepared to accept despotism, whereas the Greeks were independent and combative. In the Cypria, one of   the poems in the Trojan Cycle, telling the origin of   the Trojan War and the line of   events up to the point where the Iliad begins, the Trojans are actually called ‘barbarians’ in a  passage where they become aware of   the Greek raiding party that has come out to attack them: ‘When the barbarians learned that the expedition was approaching, they armed themselves and made for the sea, and tried to prevent them from disembarking by throwing stones’. 342 For the Greeks, there were peoples on the rim of   the known world that were truly inferior; the cultures of   the world could be arranged in concentric circles, with the true barbarians on the outside: they were not inferior in the moral sense, but less developed in terms of   social organization, material culture and technological progress. But also their art of   waging war was less developed, certainly on the fringes of  the world. The Persian king Darius, for instance, was confounded when he noticed that the ‘primitive’ Scythians simply abandoned the theater of   war – an area filled with Persian fortifications – and employed run-and-hide tactics of   roving nomads that made the Persian, more advanced way of  war utterly useless. 343 As for Greeks versus Persians, we can find our first (and best) primary source in Herodotus. In  his Histories, Herodotus gives an account of   the Persian Wars, and tries to explain how Persia came to confront the Greeks and why the Greeks won. 344 In this, he follows but also modifies the ideology of  his day, which centers around the idea that empires seek conquest by nature, as a form of   ‘manifest destiny’, 345 but also emphasizes the importance of  political freedom, and the relation between geography and culture, i.e. the idea that rough, infertile lands breed strong war­riors, and, conversely, mild climes and fertile soil makes armies soft     344  345  342 343

‘Cypria’, Argument 10. Romm 1998, p. 112. Forsdyke 2006, p. 228. Flower 2006, p. 277.

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and indolent. The Greeks were contemptuous of  the Persian way of   war, which was based on fear: ‘each [soldier] did his utmost through fear of   Xerxes, for each thought that the king’s eye was upon himself’. 346 The Persians, on the other side, served to mirror Greek views of   the traditions that dominated their style of  warfare: There were some deserters from Arcadia joining the Persians, and the Persian king asked them what the Greeks were doing. The deserters informed the king that the Greeks were holding the Olympic games, contending for an olive-wreath. One of   the Persians said: ‘Good heavens! Mardonius, what manner of   men are these against whom thou hast brought us to fight? – men who contend with one another not for money, but for honour!’  347

In another, often-quoted passage, Herodotus introduces another aspect of   the Greek style of   waging war, in an assessment by the same Mardonius, one of  Xerxes’ generals: And yet, I am told, these very Greeks are wont to wage wars against one another in the most foolish way, through sheer perversity and doltiness. For no sooner is  war proclaimed than they search out the smoothest and fairest plain that is to be found in all the land, and there they assemble and fight; whence it comes to pass that even the conquerors depart with great loss. I say nothing of   the conquered, for they are destroyed altogether. 348

It can be argued that Herodotus was most of   all addressing contemporary Greek issues: the need to maintain panhellenic unity in the aftermath of  the wars, and the corrupting effect of  the growth of  Athenian power and wealth. 349 For example, Herodotus placed the association of   softness and luxury with Persia in a historical context: Persia had long before been a ‘hard culture’ that dominated its soft neighbors. 350 At the same time, the Greeks of   the  Herodotus, Histories, 8.86.  Herodotus, Histories, 8.26. 348  Herodotus, Histories, 7.9. 349  This is what Forsdyke does (Forsdyke 2006, p. 231; p. 233). 350 Herodotus, Histories, 1.71.89. 346 347

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days of   the Persian Wars might well become soft in his own day, considering the rapid growth of   wealth and power of   Athens. The simple dichotomy of   Greek vs barbarian may be valid for some texts, such as Aeschylus’ Persians, but cannot be found in Herodotus. 351 In Herodotus’ Histories, the heart of   the opposition between Greeks and Persians is  in their constitutions. In  the ‘Constitutional Debate’ between Otames (arguing for democracy), Megabyzus (favoring oligarchy) and Darius (preferring monarchy), the difference is  made explicit. Eventually, the Persians, of   course, opt for Darius and monarchy, and it  is Darius who becomes the new king. 352 That single-man rule invites disaster is exemplified in Book 7, which details Xerxes’ imprudent idea to invade Greece against the sound advice of   his counselors Artabanus and Demaratus, and march to his eventual ruin. 353 After Herodotus, the relationship between Greeks and Persians remained complex. As barbarians the Persians were respected and despised, and sometimes their partnership was sought, as in the Peloponnesian War, when ultimately it was Persian financial backing that swung the balance in Sparta’s favor. It was a precarious relationship that had its ups and downs, and often depended on personal ties such as the one between Cyrus and Lysander: when Lysander fell out of  grace, the subsidies that helped to build the Spartan fleet dried up; as soon as he was reinstated, Persian support was resumed. 354 The Persian king was courted, but also debunked, and on the whole, the typical attitude of   Greeks towards ‘barbarians’ was quite negative. In  his Hellenica, Xenophon gives an example in Antiochus of   Arcadia, who did not accept the Persian king’s gifts because he thought the Arcadian League had been belittled. Antiochus told the Arcadian Assembly that ‘while the King had 351   Erich Gruen comes to similar conclusions (Gruen 2011b, p. 80). It should be added that Aeschylus’ treatment was given greater depth by Euripides. For Euripides, the boundary lines separating civilization and barbarity could be crossed, for Greeks could behave like barbarians and revert back to their barbarian past. In Orestes, Menelaus exemplifies this phenomenon (Saïd 2002, p. 62–100). 352 Herodotus, Histories, 3.80–83. 353 Herodotus, Histories, 7.45–52; 7.104–5. 354   van Wees 2004, p. 239.

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masses of  bakers, cooks, waiters and door-keepers, all his research had failed to discover any men capable of  standing up to Greeks in battle’. 355 Xenophon also gives an example in the Spartan general Agesilaus, who, during his campaign in Asia in 396–95, instilled in his troops a contempt of   the enemy which would be unthinkable in a  Greek context. Agesilaus instructed his men that all natives captured by Greek raiding parties ‘should be put up to sale naked’. The Greeks would then see that their skin was all white and flabby because they never took off  their clothes and were used to riding in carriages. Fighting with them would be like fighting with women. 356 Other ‘barbarians’ like the Car­thaginians did not fare better. This is how Diodorus Siculus describes the invasion of   the Car­ thaginians in their war on Sicily in 409 bc, and their destruction of  the city of  Selinus: The barbarians raging in all parts of   the city, rifled all the houses: the persons they found here, they either burnt them and their houses together, or dragging them into the streets, without any respect to age or sex, whether they were women or children, young or old, without the least pity or commiseration, they put them all to the sword, and after the barbarous manner of   their country, they mangled their carcasses; some carried about multitudes of   hands tied round their bodies; others, in ostentation, bore about the heads of  the slain upon the points of  their swords and spears. 357

When the Sicilian ruler Dionysius later evacuated the inhabitants of   the city of   Camarina to his stronghold Syracuse, the people were terrified and thought the Car­thaginians were at their heels. What had happened at Selinus and other cities ‘struck all with such a  terror, and filled every one with such an apprehension of   the beastly cruelty of   the barbarians, as if  it had been present before their eyes’. 358 In  describing the Car­thaginians, Polybius quotes Timoleon, saying that their large numbers are easily offset by their cowardice: ‘How can we be afraid of   men who having  Xenophon, Hellenica, 7.1.38.  Xenophon, Hellenica, 3.4.19. 357  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 13.7. 358  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 13.16. 355 356

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received from nature in distinction from other animals the gift of   hands, hold them for the whole of   their life idle inside their tunics, and above all wear drawers under their tunics that they may not even when killed in battle be exposed to the view of  their enemies?’  359 The perception of  the barbarian as naturally inferior has come quite close at this point, and it is good to review this development now. In his study The Invention of   Racism in Classical Antiquity, Benjamin Isaac argues that there are distinct phases in the way in which the Greeks dealt with their adversaries. The picture of   the Persians that emerges from Herodotus is  not as biased as commonly thought, as we have just seen. The Persians are the enemy and the Greeks are defending their land with superior military skills. There are no indications at this stage that the war is more than the war against a foreign invader. 360 It is only in the later 5th and the 4th century that the idea of  Greek natural superiority takes hold, in the writings of   Ar­is­to­ tle, who – as we shall see in the section on philosophy – sees the Greeks as natural masters over other, inferior peoples, but also in the Panegyricus of  the Athenian rhetorician Isocrates, who builds on traditional views of   Herodotus’ days and associates Persia with luxury and softness, the despotism of   its king, and with inferior fighters whose only motivation is fear. Their softness is attributed to the socio-political regime under which the Persians lived. 361 In the Panegyricus, the Persian Wars, just like the Trojan War, stand for East and West as opposing forces and opposing values. In art, the depiction of   barbarians reveals similar tendencies: from an interest in the unfamiliar to opposition and antagonism, albeit mixed with a measure of   respect. At first, at the end of   the 6th century, Greek warriors are depicted, usually in isolation, not in a phalanx, together with Scythian archers. The Greek hoplite and Scythian archer have their own distinct attire. Judith Barringer has suggested that in this iconographic grouping, the Scythian

 Polybius, The Histories, 12.26.3.   Isaac 2009, chapter 4. 361 Isocrates, Panegyricus, 4.150–51. 359 360

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stands for the exotic, the foreign. 362 The Persian Wars mark a pronounced break in the iconography, for archers are no longer flanking the hoplites but confronting them. The enemy is sometimes caricatured, such as on a  small wine-jar from the mid-5th century. It  shows a  Greek warrior ‘possessing’ a  Persian archer, both militarily and sexually. 363 The same Greek feeling of  disdain can be seen on a  5th century wine jug in the British Museum, with Persian soldiers belittled in their attempts to drive and ride a mule that refuses to move. 364 But this should not be taken as the standard representation of   the Persian enemy. On  other objects, Persians are shown as worthy opponents, such as on the ‘Darius Painter’ vase now in the Naples Archaeological Museum. There is no ‘demeaning of   the Other’ here, to use Erich Gruen’s words. 365 The common explanation for Persia’s weaknesses, sometimes called the ‘decadence thesis’, 366 can be linked to the popular theory of  the birth and death of  empires, which was taking shape at the time. The best soldiers came from societies that cultivate poverty and simplicity of   habits; once societies became wealthy, their soldiers lost their fighting spirit, with all dire effects. 367 The Greek superiority discourse was meant for domestic consumption, of   course, and not least of   all served as a moral tale of  caution. Today’s evidence shows that Persia in the 4th century bc was not the ‘moribund entity complacently described’ by primary sources like Plato, Xenophon, Isocrates and the like. 368 But Isocrates’ contemporary Xenophon held mixed views, and even in the 4th century, Greek-Persian relations were not monolithic. Both in his Anabasis and Cyropaedia, 369 Xenophon showed admiration for Cyrus the Great and his aristocratic officers, but Xenophon was a military man and spoke from experience, whereas   Barringer 2004, p. 13–25.   Lissarrague 2002, p. 101–24. 364  Attic red-figure oinochoe, British Museum 1912.7–9.1 (Isaac 2004, fig­ure 4a, 4b). 365   Gruen 2011c, p. 11; p. 45. 366  Lissarrague 2002, p. 204. 367 Plato, Laws, 3.694d. 368  Lissarrague 2002, p. 210. 369  Xenophon, Anabasis, 1.9.1 and Cyropeadia, 1.1.4. 362 363

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Isocrates was an orator and an ideologue. There is  little doubt that the views expressed by Isocrates had a greater impact on the Athenians at the time. And, in the 4th century, Persia became identified with Asia and collective inferiority, and with the growing Athenian self-esteem the spirit of  conquest gained popularity. The views that were expressed in the discourse did not always match the more complex reality, a scholar like Kostas Vlassopoulos has pointed out. First of   all, they tended to underestimate the cosmopolitan nature of   Athenian society, whose population included a majority of  ‘foreigners’. Secondly, in other parts of  the Greek-speaking world, such as Magna Graecia, many non-Greeks managed to acquire citizenship in the Greek poleis. 370 Hence, Greek-barbarian relations should not be simplified in strongly dualistic terms, Vlassopoulos says. Of  course, next to polarity and conflict, there was also interaction and exchange, and there always had been. As early as the Archaic period, Greeks served as craftsmen, administrators or mercenaries in Egypt and the Near East, and contacts were ‘open and still free of   ideology’. Most of   all, there was no single way of  being Greek among the great diversity of  Greek communities. Whatever stereotypes we encounter were typically Athenian and were not universal. 371 Although these sobering thoughts are hard to contradict, they cannot deny the binary perceptions that dominate the discourse. Overall, it can be concluded that the Greek representation of  foreign peoples was driven by ‘the need to convey a  recognizable image’ rather than historical accuracy. 372 The Greek-barbarian dichotomy was accompanied and somewhat muted by a growing tendency to rely on mercenaries, many of   them foreigners. There had been mercenaries, usually from other Greek places, in classical hoplite warfare of   the 5th century, specialist archers and slingers from Thrace, Crete and Rhodes, for instance. Especially in the period after the Peloponnesian War, reliance on mercenaries increased, something which made Greek armies less homogeneous. Xenophon, in his Hellenica, has a local ruler, Jason of   Pherae, discuss the advantages of   having a merce  Vlassopoulos 2013, p. 225; p. 189; p. 36.   Harrison 2002, p. 2; p. 4; p. 7. 372  Harrison 2002, p. 12. 370 371

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nary army. Inevitably, an army of  citizen-soldiers has a somewhat unpredictable mix of   fighting potential, whereas a  mercenary army can be more dependable and will be better trained: You know too, I  imagine, that I have a  foreign mercenary army of  up to 6000 men. In my opinion there is no city which would find it at all easy to face this army in battle. No doubt there are other cities which could send out a  force equally strong in numbers; but armies made up of   citizens must include some men who are already past and some who have not yet reached their prime. And there are very few people in each city who keep constantly in good physical training. But no one serves in my mercenary army unless he can stand physical hardship as well as I can myself. 373

In concluding the theme of   liberty and superiority, it can be said that in the war discourse, the idea of  liberty was principally defensive: it was related to the defense of  the community against aggressive neighbors. It is in Thu­cyd­i­des’ rendering of   Per­i­cles’ Funeral Oration and in the speeches of   the Mytlleneans that we find this spirit of   independence best expressed, for Athens and its opponents alike. The concept of   liberty was strongest in its potential negation – all the terrible things an invading party would do once the city was run over. With non-Greeks as opponents, the enemy, the Other, obtains mythic dimensions, since fabrications fill the place of   first-hand observations. In the war discourse, the idea of   cultural superiority follows the Persian Wars – it  is only then that Greeks fight as Greeks. Greco-Persian relations can be seen to develop from Herodotus’ ambivalent assessments to Isocrates’ sense of   natural Greek superiority. Even though political motivations (Isocrates), military pragmatism (Xenophon) and philosophical reasoning (Ar­is­to­tle)   374 make the superiority discourse more complex than can be summarized here, the overriding idea is unambiguous: it is the inferiority of   the Persian constitution, with its one-man rule over a  subject people, as compared to a  superior Greek system of  citizen participation.

 Xenophon, Hellenica, 6.1.5.   See 2.4.5 (Philosophy).

373 374

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2.4.3.2. Historiography: Courage and Honor in the Community

Turning to the theme of   courage and honor, we can see that in historiography courage and honor are discussed not so much as an individual soldier’s mark of   distinction, but as traits of   the community as a whole. Especially in the period of   the Peloponnesian War, this communal form of   courage, its political relevance and its impact on morale were given a great deal of  attention. Honor, or timè, as the Greeks called it, was a yardstick to measure a community’s standing, for a polis would consider itself  worthy of   the respect of   other poleis if  it displayed the excellence of   the ‘good man’. This is  why the many small local and regional wars were often fought to obtain status, in an attempt to command respect of  one’s neighbours. The special role of   honor and status in ancient Greek warfare is recognized by modern historians. Van Wees even believes that a community’s status was primarily based on its military success, and that honor played a big role in all wars, ‘whatever else they might have been about’. 375 Wars were started to retaliate for disrespect, such as Sparta’s war on Elis, and later on Sparta’s war on Thebes, and, in van Wees’ view, the Peloponnesian War, as well, because it was not so much about Sparta’s fear of  Athenian power, as Thu­cyd­i­des says, but Sparta’s fear of  losing status and respect. 376 In their attachment to the role of   honor, the Greeks were different from their ‘barbarian’ neighbors, something which fed their sense of   uniqueness. However, the love of   profit must also be considered: it was the other true cause of   war and provided the spoils in the form of  slaves, animals and land. All the same, to the Greeks, of  the two, honor and profit, honor was ‘the more respectable’ of  war goals. 377 This analysis is supported by contemporary sources. In 432 bc, at the outset of   the Peloponnesian War, the Spartans discussed their grievances together with their allies and a delegation from Athens, in an assembly, the forum that decided on important   van Wees 2004, p. 23.   van Wees 2004, p. 24. 377  van Wees, p. 32. 375 376

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political issues. Thu­cyd­i­des gives the speech made by the Spartan king Archidamus, which details the difference between Athenians and Spartans and the importance of  honor. The Spartans are better soldiers because of   their rigorous training and self-control – Athenians, because of  their interest in education, have lost this sense of  control and discipline: Because of   our well-ordered life we are both brave in war and wise in council. Brave, because self-control is based upon a sense of   honour, and honour is based on courage. And we are wise because we are not so highly educated to look down upon our laws and customs, and are too rigorously trained in self-control to be able to disobey them. 378

Courage is  the Spartan ‘birthright’, general Brasidas called out to his men when he led an expedition into Mende in Chalcidice in 423  bc. His 300 handpicked troops had to face a  strong enemy during retreat, a challenge even for a Spartan elite force: ‘It is  not your way to be frightened of   numbers on the other side’. 379 It  is  interesting to note that Thu­cyd­i­des contrasts the Spartan in­sis­tence on courage and honor with the more flexible Athenian way of  handling things as a form of  politics, an art that was mastered by Per­i­cles. When he defended his unpopular, strongly defensive strategy, Per­i­cles downplayed the role of  courage to his countrymen, who were eager to go out and attack the enemy. For the Athenian Per­i­cles, as presented by Thu­cyd­i­des, courage as such is  not enough – it  is intelligence that wins the war: Not courage alone, therefore, but an actual sense of   your superiority should animate you as you go forward against the enemy. Confidence, out of   a mixture of   ignorance and good luck, can be felt even by cowards; but this sense of  superiority comes only to those who, like us, have real reasons for knowing that they are better placed than their opponents. And when the chances on both sides are equal, it  is intelligence that confirms courage – the intelligence that makes one able to look down on one’s opponent, and which proceeds not by   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 1.84.   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 4.126.

378 379

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hoping for the best (a method only valuable in desperate situations), but by estimating what the facts are, and thus obtaining a clearer vision of  what to expect. 380

A similar, political approach to the code of   honor that tried to let wisdom and practicality prevail was used when Athens, in the summer of   416 bc, sent a fleet to the island of   Melos to demand that Melos became a tribute-paying member of  the Athenian alliance. In  a  speech that Thu­cyd­i­des constructed  381 to present his idea of  a manipulative Athenian power, the Athenian representatives appealed to the Council of  Melians not to oppose a superior force. This would not be ‘dishonourable’, they said: Do not be led astray by a false sense of  honour – a thing which often brings men to ruin when they are faced with an obvious danger that somehow affects their pride. For in many cases men have still been able to see the dangers ahead of   them, but this thing called dishonour, this word, by its own force of  seduction, has drawn them into a state where they have surrendered to an idea, while in fact they have fallen voluntarily into irrevocable disaster, in dishonour that is all the more dishonourable because it has come to them from their own folly rather than their misfortune. 382

Appeals to courage and honor played an important role in boosting morale, both in political and in more strictly military contexts. So did the condemnation of  cowardice, and the attempts to eradicate it in order to maintain discipline among the troops. In the heydays of   the polis, when an egalitarian spirit made it hard to rely on formal powers to impose discipline, it was the punishment of   cowardice that served this goal. Cowardice, like draft evasion and desertion, meant losing the respect of  one’s peers, one’s status in the community, and was often dealt with in court. 383 Men who threw away their shield were despised and ridiculed, and sometimes even killed, as Diodorus reports when describing Brasidas’   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 2.62.   In Desmond’s words, the speech was ‘constructed’ for dramatic effect, ‘to illustrate how pride precedes the fall’ (Desmond 2004, p. 366). 382  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 5.111. 383  van Wees 2004, p. 111. 380 381

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valour at Pylos: ‘Where others have been put to death because they basely threw away their shields, he by the loss of   his, gained the highest honour and reputation’. 384 In a hoplite formation, the strength of   which was based on mutual support and discipline, shield-tossing was seen as abandoning one’s friends. In Hanson’s words, ‘they had endangered the men who had kept their arms and were not able, or had no desire, to make good such an ignoble escape’. 385 The image of   the hoplite holding on to his shield was one of  the emblems of  the classical depiction of  the warrior in art, which was idealized. Thus, the fallen hoplite depicted on the pediment of   the temple of   Aphaia at Aegina still held on to his shield. And generally, on vases, hoplites were portrayed in idealized form, that is, without the cumbersome armour, often in the nude, but always with helmet, spear and shield. An example of  this idealizing representation would be the ‘Big Battle’ red-figure volute krater in the Metropolitan Museum. It dates from the 5th century and conveys a picture of  two heroic warriors succumbing to an onslaught by the mythical Amazons. 386 What we see is an aesthetic display of   a high social standard that has no association with the messy reality of  battle as it must have been. 387

  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 12.7.  Hanson, Western Way of  War, 63. 386  Cohen 2000, figure 17.2. Of  course, the heroic ideal in this particular example is  placed in an ‘inverted’ context, but this does not affect the artistic depiction of  the ideal. 387  The gap between ideal and reality may be obvious, but the relationship between heroism and cowardice is not. For example, what motivated the Athenian citizen-warrior to partake in military activities is debated. Matthew Christ places the hoplite in Athens’ strong performance culture, which makes battle a perfect context for providing opportunities for the performance of   courage (or cowardice) before one’s peers. However, not all conscripts were courageous. Draft evasion was a  problem if  one considers the many references in drama and oratory. And the existence of   conscription in the first place showed that Athenian armed forces could not rely on volunteers only (Christ 2006). Gabriel Herman, on the other hand, emphasizes the importance of   civic duty. In Athens, the system of   vengeance to resolve conflicts was replaced by recourse to the law courts, and self-restraint, in other societies seen as a sign of  cowardice, was promoted and accepted. The patriotic fervor of   the hoplite made the citizen army ‘an effective deterrent’ and provided the stability for which Athenian democracy is  known (Herman 2006, p. 257). 384 385

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In the theme of  courage and honor, Sparta takes a special place, and with the passing of   time, the Spartan ethos became truly mythical. This can be seen in Plutarch’s Lives, which give vivid accounts of  the severity and sometimes cruelty with which young men were trained to become fighters. The legendary crypteia code, which asked young men to kill helots in order to show courage, is a case in point. 388 Another legend surrounded the Spartan treatment of  reputed cowards. In his ‘Life of  Agesilaus’, Plutarch mentions how ‘tremblers’(cowards) were treated as pariahs: they were disqualified from holding any office, and that it was considered a  disgrace for a  woman to be given to such a  man in marriage. Anybody who met a convicted coward was at liberty to strike him if  he chose. Tresantes were obliged ‘to go about unwashed and unkempt, to wear cloaks which were patched with rags of   different colours, and to shave off  half  of  their beards’ to show that they were only half-men. 389 It  is  worth mentioning that, apparently, there were quite a number of  these people in the Sparta of  Agesilaus, for, in Plutarch’s story, the Spartans were reluctant to insist on the loss of   rights which is laid down in law, for there were so many of   them that it was feared that they might stir up a revolution. 390 Keeping up discipline and morale was a continual challenge for all military commanders, even in Sparta. The discrepancy between theory and practice can be illustrated by the well-known ‘Plataean Oath’ that Spartan warriors were expected to take before going into battle against the Persians in 479 bc. It ruled out all forms of  cowardice and lack of  discipline and stipulated that: they would fight while they lived, and not put life before being free, and not desert the taxiarch nor the enomotarch, neither while they ‹the officers› live nor when they are dead, and that they would not depart unless the leaders led the way, and they would do whatsoever the generals command. 391

The simple fact that the oath existed implies that there must have been a gap between the Greek soldier’s code of   honor and reality     390  391  388 389

Plutarch, ‘Life of  Ly­cur­gus’, chapter 27. Plutarch, ‘Life of  Agesilaus’, chapter 30. Plutarch, ‘Life of  Agesilaus’, chapter 30. ‘The Oath of  Plataea’, ll. 21 & ff.

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on the battlefield. As Peter Green has pointed out, the text presupposes a low level of   discipline, and some degree of   cowardice and insubordination. 392 The discrepancy was a recurrent problem and is frequently mentioned in contemporary sources. Diodorus Siculus, for example, refers to the Sicilian ruler Charondas, who made a  law against those that ‘ran away from their colors, or refused to take up arms for the defence of  their country’; whereas the usual punishment was death, he made them stay in the forum for three days clothed in women’s apparel. 393 In strategic and tactical terms of   military operations, cowardice was also associated with anything less than offensive, direct combat, the struggle of  the hoplite phalanx. A well-known example is Per­i­cles’ new strategy for Athens that was referred to above. Long walls were built around the city and along a narrow corridor that connected Athens with its port Piraeus. Because of   its strong navy, Athens could rely on supplies to come in, even if  the surrounding countryside was ravished by enemy troops. 394 This strategy, which hoped to have the enemy exhaust itself, was hard to swallow for ordinary people. Up from the Long Walls, Attican country dwellers saw their crops destroyed and received insults hurled at them from below. Per­i­cles was threatened and abused, and many songs and offensive jests were written about him, speaking of   him as a  coward, and one who was betraying the city to its enemies. As Plutarch tells us, his rival Cleon too attacked him, using the anger which the citizens felt against him to advance his own personal popularity. 395 In sum, in the honor discourse, the cultural constraints were strong, but not all-powerful. The Greeks created their myths surrounding the principle of   honor, but at the same time were realistic enough to choose alternatives like finding shelter or even fleeing to safety if  pitched battle was suicidal. They simply followed ‘the principle, accepted from Homer to Ar­is­to­tle, that honor did not require a community to fight against the odds’. 396     394   395  396  392 393

Green 1966, p. 241. Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 12.3. Kagan 2003, p. 47. Plutarch, ‘Life of  Per­i­cles’, chapter 33. van Wees 2004, p. 128.

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2.4.3.3. Historiography: Competition, Commemoration and the Agonal Discourse

Competition has long been recognized as an essential element in the Greek war culture and, indeed, Greek culture as a whole. It has generally been associated with the rise of  the hoplite phalanx and the new style of   warfare that it brought. The spirit of   competition was even seen as an adjunct to the hoplite phalanx and the increased sense of  citizenship within rival poleis. It set up competing cities against each other in a convention-ridden style of   warfare. For some time now, revisionist historians have downplayed the importance of  the hoplite phalanx and the agonal style of  warfare, and argued that it was an ideal rather than common practice. But whatever its role was in actual combat, agonal warfare and the principles and ideas that constitute it were pervasive in contemporary discourse and remain a central theme in any study of  ancient Greek warfare that focuses on cultural features. By bringing together competition and commemoration in this common theme, I suggest we treat them as part of   the phenomenon of  agonal warfare, rather than discuss the latter in isolation, as is usually the case. I believe the spirit of  competition was equally important for other, more cultural reasons. For example, it helped to develop ideas concerning the ethics of   war, and it helped to enhance the sense of   commemoration of   military events. In  all of  this, the competitive spirit can be seen as seminal. 2.4.3.3.1. C o m p e t i t i o n a n d C o m m e m o r a t i o n

As we saw before, the awarding of   prizes was part of   the agonal conventions. The complexities of   awarding prizes to the best underline the competitiveness of  agonal warfare. Respect, honor and prizes can be ranked, and will be, and the competition between warriors is the most distinctive element of  traditional Greek warfare, as J. E. Lendon has suggested. Ranking dominates the fighting in the Iliad: a  hero wins admiration by defeating a formidable opponent, with Achilles as ‘the best of   the Achaeans’. 397 Even if  the focus shifts from one-on-one combat to mass fighting, the poem moves from one form of   excellence to another, for the array, the tribe of  warriors that surround the hero, is matched  Homer, Iliad, 1.286.

397

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with another array, and a  new form of   competition arises. 398 When the style of  warfare changed to that of  the hoplite phalanx, this did not diminish the idea of  competition – it was still possible and desirable to identify the ones who had been bravest and even establish a  ranking. In  the days of   the Persian Wars, cities prepared honor rolls of   warriors, sometimes with second and third places. 399 It is interesting that the Greeks maintained this competitive ethos in a style of   warfare that was rather incongruous with it, and it is sometimes seen as a driving force behind the development of  the agonal rules of  battle: by simplifying their combat and subjecting it to a strict set of  rules, the Greeks managed to hang on to competition as a guiding principle. 400 This is not to suggest that the idea of   competition was static. Indeed, it was part of  the historical process of  democratization in Athens, for example. Looking at decorative elements on cups and drinking bowls, Robin Osborne has found a remarkable decrease of   active competition in athletic contests and in warfare as time progressed. Whereas images painted in the period before the early 5th century showed hoplite duelling in scenes bustling with activity, later art work seems to create a more harmonious world ‘from which competition is  banished’. 401 This can be explained, Osborne believes, because in the course of   the 5th century the Athenians developed new ideas on how to involve all its citizens in public matters, a ‘changing vision of  democracy’ in which competition had to be settled in a different way. 402 All the same, the competitive spirit was deeply engrained in Greek culture, and obviously not limited to the practice of   warfare. Competition in sports and athletics had a  long history, of   course. There was little formal training of   soldiers, but adolescent males (ephebes) were prepared for their initiation into the ranks of   hoplites in a two-year period of   ‘boot camp’. There were contests in which they could demonstrate their athletic skills in the same way as their skills as javelin throwers, horsemen or     400   401  402  398

399

Lendon 2005, p. 32. Lendon 2005, p. 45. Lendon 2005, p. 47. Osborne 2010, p. 20. Osborne 2010, p. 21–23.

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archers. Training was encouraged through competition rather than drilling or discipline, and the soldiers were judged by their general fitness and strength. 403 The in­sis­tence on the role of   athletics remained strong, ever since the Trojan War – in the Iliad, once a hero has died and his corpse burned on a pyre, his memory is  celebrated with funeral games, such as after Patroclus’ death. Contests like chariot races, boxing and wrestling are combined with simulations of   combat. In  Book 23 of   the Iliad, ‘Funeral Games for Patroclus’, we get an image of  the great Greek warrior in a  more peaceful setting. The great games like the Olympian, Pithian, Isthmian and Nemean Games were thought to have originated as funeral games. The richness of  the prizes and the efforts of  contestants expressed the honor paid to the dead. 404 Centuries later, in his Cyropaedia, a fictionalized description of  the life of  Cyrus the Great that gives great insight into the ideas of  his own days, Xenophon discusses the role of  competition and prizes in the training of  a soldier: For prizes, Cyrus announced that the brigadier in command of  the finest regiment should be raised to the rank of  general, the captain of  the finest company should be made a brigadier, the captain of   the finest squad of   ten captain of   a company, and the captain of  the best five a captain of  ten, while the best soldiers from the ranks should become captains of  five themselves. Every one of   these officers had the privilege of   being served by those beneath him, and various other honours also, suited to their several grades, while ampler hopes were offered for any nobler exploits. Finally prizes were announced to be won by a  regiment or a  company or a  squad taken as a  whole, by those who proved themselves most loyal to their leaders and most zealous in the practice of   their duty. These prizes, of   course, were such as to be suitable for men taken in the mass. 405

One of   the battle conventions of   agonal warfare, the setting up of  trophies, played an important role in the way commemoration became more elaborate and diverse in the discourse of   war. After   van Wees 2004, p. 92.   Knox 1990, p. 57. 405 Xenophon, The Education of  Cyrus (Cyropaedia), 2.1.23–24. 403 404

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battle, the trophy was set and the bravest warriors of  the victorious party were crowned with an olive wreath, symbolic expressions that developed in the days of   agonal warfare, notably after the Persian Wars. This was also the time when they came to be represented in art. 406 Paintings and sculptures depicting the Persians, such as the figures in the friezes on the Nike temple in Athens, displayed a foreign, yet a noble race. 407 The Persian Wars marked a turning point in Greek warfare – no longer was war a mythical affair with a corresponding ‘Homeric’ aesthetics, it now became history rather than myth. Apart from victory monuments, other forms of   commemoration grew out of  the erection of  trophies. Apart from the religious and practical considerations for this convention, there were also psychological aspects. Commemoration was not just for victories, for both victories and defeats were commemorated, and there were also monuments for the dead. Gravestones were erected, tall shafts topped by sphinxes were very common in the 6th century, for example, but later the shafts were carved in relief  with a representation of   the dead. 408 The Athenians held an annual public funeral for those fallen in a  war, with a  solemn funeral procession in which coffins of   cypress wood were carried on wagons, as Thu­cyd­i­des reports. 409 One empty bier was carried for the missing. The bones were laid in a public burial place outside the city walls. Only the soldiers who fell at Marathon remained buried on the battlefield itself, ‘because their achievement was considered absolutely outstanding’. 410 Pausanias, the geographer and traveler, described the graves and monuments at Marathon and other places around ad 150 in some detail: on the plain at Marathon the slabs gave the names of   the killed according to their tribes, and every night you could hear horses neighing and men fighting. And in Athens, the other dead warriors who had fallen for Athens had their graves, with slabs bearing the name and parish of   each,

    408   409  410  406 407

van Wees 2004, p. 138. Romm 1998, p. 174. Boardman 1996, p. 97. Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 2.34. Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 2.34.

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and there were monuments for famous men like Cleisthenes. 411 In the 1990s, inscriptions were discovered during building work that belonged to a  special cenotaph set up to honor the dead. For centuries, Athenians commemorated their dead at this cenotaph; this is  where especially selected orators held their famous funeral speeches. 412 In their content, epigraphy and lyric poetry do not completely overlap. In  the Archaic period, there was an interesting divergence between the tradition of   literary elegy and that of   funerary epigram that reminds us of   the development of   the concepts of   ‘honor’ and ‘courage’ that we dealt with before. Apparently, the two traditions sometimes ran parallel courses. Military elegy was public poetry, strengthening the bonds of   the warrior class and the community as a whole, but this aspect of  martial endeavor was absent from contemporary verse epitaphs. In  the latter, prominence appears to be given to the warrior as an individual. His valor in battle ensured the survival of  his memory after death – the salvation of   his polis was of   a  lesser concern. 413 In  other words, in the epitaphs, the soldiers’ status as citizens, so important in lyric poetry by poets like Callinus, Tyrtaeus and Solon, takes second place to their status as heroes. 414 To conclude, whether the emphasis was on the individual as hero or as citizen, the commemoration of  the war dead was characterized by a competitive spirit. It can be found in epic, historiography and in monuments, in several ways of   expression, from the ranking of  honourable fighters and the contests in the funeral games in the Iliad to the awarding of  prizes in the training of  soldiers, in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, and in the erection of   monuments to honor the fallen and the funeral speeches held to recall their accomplishments. In all of   these cases, the brave were singled out.  Pausanias, Description of  Greece, 1.29–1.32.   Fox 2006b, p. 109. 413  For example, CEG 136 commemorates a soldier called Hyksematas, from Argos, who died in war; the battle in which he was killed must have been that of   Sepeia in 494, where the Argives were defeated by Spartan invaders led by Cleomenes. It  is  remarkable that no patriotic language is  used (Hansen 1983; Robertson 1997, p. 83). 414   Robertson 1997, p. 151. 411 412

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2.4.4. Drama The attitudes to war that we find in the dramatic discourse in Greece – and in Athens specifically – were not monolithic. Before we turn to the views expressed, some general observations are in order, for the interpretation of   contemporary drama has its caveats. There are contingencies related to the individual author, the social and political context of   the time, and the general culture that was part of   a  hallowed tradition. First of   all, there are the idiosyncratic positions that the playwrights held at the time: their audiences knew very well how to distinguish between the entertainment of   the theater and the facts of   life. Secondly, many plays were written at a time when the popularity of  the Peloponnesian War was at its lowest ebb. And thirdly, the pro-war culture that had long pervaded Athens was ‘unassailable’, as Jason Crowley says. 415 Of  course, the Athenian public was not immune to the cost and the suffering that the war effort brought, but this unease was offset by the orthodox celebration of  the war effort, which could be seen and felt, not only in speeches, inscriptions, monuments and religious and sporting events, but more generally in the status and prestige (and not least the wealth) that warfare had given them and that had turned Athens into the economic and military powerhouse of  its days. Apart from these practical constraints, there is  the problem of  handling the genre of  Attic tragedy, which can be characterized as a complex interplay of  myth and contemporary social processes. This makes it hard to read these tragedies as reflections of  the reality of   Classical Athens: drama did not simply ‘reflect’ social reality as a one-to-one process. 416 For example, at the annual festival of   the City Dionysia, myths were re-embodied in performances, and in these recreations, they were not just narrated as past events but actualized as present happenings. Another feature is that the plays did not merely tell heroic stories; instead, they presented the moral and psychological consequences of   heroic exploits, which tended to be disruptive. By focusing on significant moments rather than telling the whole story, a technique of   ‘highlighting’

  Crowley 2012, p. 91.   Hall 2006, p. 2.

415 416

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that we find in epic as well, tragedy ‘depicts actions which are simultaneously extreme and representative’. 417 In the analysis that follows, all these aspects have been weighed in wherever features of  the war discourse crop up in individual plays. Tragedy, and, somewhat later, comedy became fully developed genres in the 5th century with Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides as the great writers of   tragedy, and Aristophanes as the great representative of  what is called ‘Old Comedy’ in Greek literature. Among these four, it is especially Aeschylus, Euripides and Aristophanes that have the greatest bearing in our study of   the war discourse. In  Aeschylus’ The Persians, Seven Against Thebes and the Oresteia Trilogy, various aspects of   warfare play a  role, such as the tragic interplay of   gods and humans in mythical wars (the Trojan War in the Oresteia) and on internecine war in Thebes (in  Seven Against Thebes). Aeschylus took part in the Persian Wars as a  soldier himself  and was an eye-witness to the Battle of   Salamis. His  great interest in the Persian Wars, seen in his oldest surviving play, The Persians, was personal, therefore, but also exceptional, since The Persians is a rare example of   the treatment of  a contemporary theme in ancient Greek tragedy. Euripides followed Aeschylus in time, and developed the genre of   tragedy away from traditional, mythical heroes to more ordinary people. In  many ways, Euripides was unorthodox and controversial, for instance by demonstrating sympathy for victims of   warfare. Writing during the long Peloponnesian War, Euripides gradually became disillusioned with it. Since his characters discussed present issues of   war rather than events of   the mythical past, he came to be seen as the spokesman for new ideas, which were commonly associated with declining standards in society. In tragedies like Andromache and The Trojan Women, all warfare is depicted as senseless, and in The Suppliant Women and The Phoenician Women, the tragic effects of   warfare on civilians are given full scope. Transgressions of  the moral war code – killing prisoners of  war, lack of  respect due to the fallen, and so on – are important themes of  such plays as The Heracleidae and Hecuba. Aristophanes turned comedy into a serious genre. Satire, the heart of   comedy, traditionally an adjunct to the more serious   Buxton 2006, p. 172.

417

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tragedy, now became a fully-fledged form of   drama, focusing on topical issues, real persons and situations. Among today’s classical scholars, there is no consensus about how to read his comedies. In  his plays, Aristophanes ridiculed war demagogues and profiteers, but this does not necessarily mean that he was a social conservative (unlike Euripides) who expressed the views of   his audience of   wealthy, old-fashioned citizens. Douglas MacDowell argues that Aristophanes mostly aimed to provide entertainment for a general audience in the competitive context in which performances were held, but also presented his political views on current affairs. 418 Charles Platter follows Mikhail Bakhtin’s reading of  Aristophanes as a representative of  the ‘carnival consciousness’, which emphasizes the inversion of   the categories of   daily life. 419 It is true that there is a wild juxtaposition of  styles and genres and a  characteristic ‘temporary rebellion against the status quo’. 420 It is also quite plausible that Aristophanes tried to give his comedies the broadest possible appeal in order to come out first in the competition, and that this explains the mix of  styles – diverse strata within the audience could all be accommodated. All the same, an exclusive consideration of  style can be as reductive as placing Aristophanes in a political camp. What cannot be ignored is that Aristophanes’ comedies are full of  allusions to the Peloponnesian War and Athenian politics. In  The Acharnians, for example, he makes an appeal to end the war, and in plays like The Knights and The Wasps, he pokes fun of   the popular demagogue Cleon, leader of   the pro-war faction, and attacks Cleon’s institutional power base. Another play, Peace, addresses the Peace of   Niceas of   421, which attempted to end the war, and, to give a  final example, in Lysistrata a  comic account is  given of   an attempt by a  group of   women to enforce an end to the war by withholding sex from their husbands and lovers. In  all of   these plays, Aristophanes combines comedy with sharp criticism of  the war parties in his days. He replaces the moral seriousness of   the great tragedies by parody and buffoonery, and presents war not as a moral spectacle but as a living experience for individuals, an   MacDowell 1995, p. 16; p. 355.   Platter 2007, p. 1. 420  Platter 2007, p. 2. 418 419

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incongruous affair for that matter, as can be seen in the eccentric plots of  his plays and their wild, bawdy humor. In Greek drama, a  number of   thematic concerns stand out when we turn to the war discourse. Many of   the plays date from the 5th century, and they reflect a  contemporary interest in the rules and conventions of   war, the making of   the Greek identity after the Persian Wars, and the less glorious aspects of   war. We shall first discuss some aspects of   the theme of   commemoration and the spirit of   agonal warfare as they appear in drama, continue with the theme of   liberty and superiority, and round off  with war’s double face. 2.4.4.1. Drama and Agonal Conventions

Some of  the battle conventions we looked at before are exemplified in drama. The pre-eminence of   infantry as the most honourable branch in agonal warfare is one item. Although the predominance of  wealthy citizens in cavalry made it an elite force, it did not hold the esteem of  the commoners whose class loyalty was with infantry. But there was more. Cavalry, like light-armed infantry, slingers and archers, relied on mobile and long-range combat tactics, and was relatively safe, at least at a  relatively safe distance from the enemy. For purposes of   actual combat, it had, therefore, an inferior reputation, so that a man who served in the cavalry who should have been serving in the infantry could be prosecuted for cowardice. 421 And the bow and arrow had long been seen as effeminate and called ‘the coward’s weapon’. In  Euripides’ play Heracles, Lycus ridicules Heracles and calls him a coward because he uses a bow and arrow: A man who, coward in everything else, Made his reputation fighting beasts, Who never buckled shield upon his arm, Never came near a spear, but held a bow, The coward’s weapon, handy to run away? The bow is no proof  of  manly courage; No, your real man stands firm in the ranks And dares to face the gash the spear may make. 422   van Wees 2004, p. 67.  Euripides, Heracles, ll. 156–65.

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Other conventions seen in drama relate to the preparation for battle and its conclusion. Before battle commenced, animal sacrifices were made, and specialists called manteis, who were capable of   interpreting signs given by the gods and in natural phenomena, 423 inspected their entrails, especially the liver, and closely examined them for clues. It  was imperative to have the gods’ support before any action was taken; of   course, good generals knew how to combine tactical insight with a  gift to select favourable readings of  omens. It has been suggested that the role of   diviners increased with the more formal organization of   the army, which had developed from a  rather loose, improvised band of   warriors in the Bronze Age to a regular army with assigned roles in the days of   the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars. Van Wees argues that the increased physical and emotional strain of   hoplite infantry battle –  the ‘uncertainty of  risking all in a single battle’ – explains why, in this period, soldiers attached such importance to the blessing of   the gods. 424 In many contemporary texts, not just in drama, references to hoped-for positive signs from the gods abound. The lack of  references in earlier periods does not mean that the opinion of   the gods was held in low esteem, it seems to me, for the simple reason that early sources are scarce. Also, we know from anthropologists that religious rites to invoke the help of   the gods are common among pre-literate cultures all over the world. 425 Another agonal convention that involved the gods was the respect due to them and their shrines. Armies that failed to observe the rules could become the butt of   divine wrath. In  Euripides’ Women of   Troy, which is set immediately after the Trojan War, the god Poseidon bemoans what happened to ‘his city’ (‘which smolders now, fallen before the Argive spears  / ruined, sacked, gutted’)  426 and together with Athena he discusses what the gods can do to punish the victorious Greeks, the same people who, when attacking Troy, had condoned sacrileges in Athena’s temple:   van Wees 2004, p. 120.   van Wees 2004, p. 120. 425  Gat 2006, p. 233. 426 Euripides, The Trojan Women, ll. 8–9. 423 424

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Zeus will shower down his rainstorms and the weariless beat Of  hail, to make black the bright air with roaring winds. He has promised my hand the gift of  the blazing thunderbolt To dash and overwhelm with fire the Achaean ships. Yours is your own domain, the Aegean crossing. Make The sea thunder to the tripled wave and spinning surf, Cram thick the hollow Euboean fold with floating dead; So after this Greeks may learn how to use with fear My sacred places, and respect all gods beside. 427

The gods were also assigned an active role. In nearly every Greek battle the gods are seen to descend. Most of   these epiphanies can be explained as attempts to boost morale, some seem to be clearly hallucinatory and would today be diagnosed as stress. 428 In  The Persians, Aeschylus’ dramatization of   the Persian Wars, it was the theoi that ‘gave the glory of   the seafight to the Greeks’ and it was ‘a hostile daimon or Alastor’ that deceived Xerxes, as Kitto puts it. 429 At Salamis, the Greeks were heavily outnumbered, so the gods must have helped them, as the herald reports to the Q ueen of  Persia: Had numbers counted, The barbarian warships surely would have won; The Greeks but numbered thirty tens, and ten Apart from these a chosen squadron formed; But Xerxes, and this I know full well, a thousand Led; and seven and two hundred ranked As queens in swiftness. The count stood so. Seemed we equal? Some deity destroyed Our host, who weighing down the balance swung The beam of  fortune. The gods saved the city Of  the goddess. 430

We saw before that, after battle was done, agonal rules prescribed the setting up of   trophies. This was first of   all to thank the gods. In his play Seven Against Thebes, Aeschylus makes Eteocles promise to dedicate trophies to the gods if  they help him save the city:  Euripides, The Trojan Women, ll. 78–86.   Hanson 1989, p. 198 and van Wees 2004, p. 229. 429  Kitto 1970, p. 42. 430 Aeschylus, The Persians, 338–48. 427 428

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If  all go well with us, if  the city is saved, My people shall dye your hearths with the blood Of  sacrificed sheep, aye with the blood Of  bulls slaughtered to honor the Gods. I shall myself  dedicate trophies, Spoils of  my enemies, their garments fixed On spear points, in your sanctuaries. 431

Another victory code was the collection of  dead bodies for proper burial or – in the case of   the dead of   the defeated – as ransom to ensure the acknowledgement of   victory. 432 Leaving the bodies of   the fallen on the battlefield was strictly taboo and considered an act of   sacrilege, only resorted to in extreme situations, to punish treasonous conduct, for instance. In Seven Against Thebes, Polynices, who commits the unholy act of  waging war against his brother, will not be buried, so the City of  Thebes decides: So it is resolved That he shall have, as his penalty, a burial Granted dishonorably by the birds of  the air And that no raising of  a mound by hand Attend him nor observance of  keening dirge. Unhonoured shall his funeral be by friends. This is the pleasure of  the Cadmaean state. 433

It must be said that the killing or maltreatment of   war prisoners was not part of   the victory code of   agonal warfare. In The Heracleidae, Euripides writes about the killing of   a  prisoner of   war, Eurystheus, in a mythical setting in which the family of   Heracles is persecuted. At the time of   writing, around 430 bc, five Spartan envoys who were captured on their way to Athens had been put to death without trial and thrown into a pit, an illegitimate action that was deemed legitimate by some because the Spartans had killed all Athenian traders they had caught sailing around the Peloponnese. 434 In  his play Euripides alludes to the event when 431  Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, ll. 274–80. The theme is also treated by Sophocles in Antigone. Antigone, Polynices’ sister, contravenes the city’s order and suffers martyrdom in consequence. 432  Sage 1996, p. 98. 433 Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, ll. 1020–25. 434   Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 2.67.

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he presents Eurystheus as a remorseful man who frankly admits his past misdeeds, and the prosecution in the form of   Alcmene as revengeful. In the following excerpt, the Chorus (the citizens of  Athens) and Alcmene discuss what to do with the prisoner: Chorus: Wait! You can’t put a man to death like that. Attendant: What was the use of  capturing him then? Alcmene: Show me a law against his being killed! Chorus: But the authorities won’t stand for it. Alcmene: You mean they don’t like killing enemies? Chorus: Not prisoners of  war, at any rate. 435

Finally, commemoration was an important part of   the playwright’s war discourse. The Persian Wars inspired tragedians (Aeschylus, The Persians) just like painters, sculptors and poets for their plays, their murals, their temple friezes, their odes. Shrines and monuments were erected to keep the memory of   the wars alive. In Sparta, a cenotaph for those fallen at Thermopylae had a poem by the poet Simonides: For those who died at Thermopylae Fortune was glorious, noble their doom; Their tomb is an altar, our grief  their memorial, our pity their praise. 436

Ever since the Persian Wars, countless victory monuments were set up, memorials and treasuries to commemorate the triumphs and the contributions made by great warriors. Verses such as Simonides’ were engraved, to supplement and reinforce the impression made by the monument, and also the oral tradition, which was still very much alive.  Euripides, The Heracleidae, ll. 961–966.   Romm 1998, p. 200.

435

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Honoring the dead was not always practised according to the book, of   course, and the lack of   respect was criticised by philosophers and dramatists. In  Hecuba, a  play by Euripides, the importance of   honoring the dead is underlined in an address by Odysseus. A citizen cannot be expected to enlist if  he knows that dead men get no honor: ‘What conduct could be worse, than to give you friend a lifetime of   honor and respect, but neglect him when he dies?’ Odysseus hopes for honor in the grave: ‘As regards my grave, I hope for honor, since honor in the grave, has eternity to run’. 437 In Andromache, Euripides also criticizes the tendency to honor the generals and ignore the private; the ordinary soldier does not always get the credit: Too bad the custom here is topsy-turvy. When the public sets a war memorial up Do those who really sweated get the credit? Oh no! Some general wangles the prestige! – Who, brandishing his one spear among thousands, Did one man’s work, but gets a world of  praise. Those self-important fathers of  their country Think they’re above the people. Why they’re nothing! The citizen is indefinitely wiser, Gifted with nerve and purpose, anyway. 438

Finally, Euripides used parody in his dramatic work to debunk the whole way of   war, One such example is his lampooning of   heroic discourse in The Heracleidae, which narrates the tragic legend of  the descendants of  Heracles. Their leader, Iolaus, is a weak old man whose preparation for battle is made fun of   in an exchange between the old man and his attendant: Attendant: Here is a full and fitting battle outfit; Be quick and put it on. The fight’s at hand. For above everything the God of  Battles Detests a slacker. If  the gear’s too heavy, Go on without it. Once inside the ranks You can encase yourself; till then I’ll carry it.

 Euripides, Hecuba, ll. 309–20.  Euripides, Andromache, ll. 693–701.

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Iolaus: All right, come on; but keep my things all ready. Now put the spear shaft into my left hand And take my right arm so, to guide my steps. Attendant: Ye gods! Am I to nursemaid you to war? Iolaus: No, but we’ll watch our step. To fall’s bad luck. Attendant: If  only you could do what you can dream. 439 2.4.4.2. Drama and the Love of  the Fatherland

In the cultural discourse of   warfare in ancient Greece, the idea of  fighting for the fatherland continues to play a role, and, in the days of  the Persian Wars, takes on a new dimension with the emergence of   panhellenism. For the Greeks, the Persian Wars were a struggle of  liberty versus despotism, with the Greeks stubbornly refusing to subject themselves as slaves. This is what the Chorus says to the Q ueen of  Persia in Aeschylus’ play The Persians: Q ueen: Who commands them? Who is shepherd of  their host? Chorus: They are slaves to none, nor are they subject. 440

And the Persian herald reports the patriotic motivation of   the opponent: ‘A great concerted cry we heard: “O Greek sons, advance! Free your fathers’ land, Free your sons, your wives, your sanctuaries of   paternal gods, the sepulchers of   ancestors” ’. 441 Just before Marathon, the strong appeal to liberty gained mythical proportions when Miltiades persuaded Callimachus, the polemarch, and his fellow-generals to engage in battle and put a halt to Persian aggression, ‘to bring Athens to slavery, or, by securing her freedom, to leave behind thee to all future generations a mem­ o­ry beyond even Harmodius and Aristogeiton’. 442 And later, at Thermopylae, the heroic defenders ‘undauntedly sacrificed their  Euripides, The Heracleidae, ll. 721–732.  Aeschylus, The Persians, ll. 240–42. 441 Aeschylus, The Persians, ll. 401–5. 442 Herodotus, Histories, 6.109. 439 440

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lives for the common safety of  Greece’, preferring death to life as slaves, a life in disgrace. 443 In Euripides’ Trojan Women, the same distinction is  made between the invading Greeks and the defending Trojans, the latter having the glory to die for their own country – those who fell ‘were carried home in loving hands, brought, in the land of   their fathers, to the embrace of  earth and buried becomingly as the rite fell due’. 444 The necessity to defend the fatherland implies great sacrifice. In  Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis, Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenia in a mood of   heroism offers herself  as a sacrifice, all to save the expedition for Troy, and all for Greece. ‘I am the possessed of  my country / And you, Mother, bore me for all Greece / Not for yourself  alone’, Iphigenia says before she is taken away to die, and ‘To Greece I give this body of   mine / Slay it in sacrifice and conquer Troy’. 445 Of  course, the old myth is here skilfully used by the dramatist, the sacrifice symbolic of   a deeply felt, but also an ambiguous form of  patriotism. Of  course, the idea of   liberty is older than the Persian Wars, but a lot of  it is projected back. The great playwrights like Aeschylus and Euripides go to legendary wars to identify the principle of  freedom and the separation of  Greek and Other. In Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, King Eteocles asks the gods for help to ward off  an attack from his brother Polynices and his allies. The play discusses the frightful things that can happen if  a free city is conquered by an enemy force, and Thebes’ enemies (a number of  surrounding towns) are presented as foreign, non-Greek: This is a town that speaks with a Greek tongue, City and land of  the Cadmaeans are free: Do not bind her in slavish yoke; be her protector. I think I speak for everybody’s good, For a city prosperous honours the gods. 446 […]

  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 11.1.  Euripides, Trojan Women, ll. 388–90. 445 Euripides, Iphigenia in Aulis, ll. 1376–77 and ll. 1396–97. 446 Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, ll. 74–78. 443 444

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O Gods and Goddesses, Perfecters, Protectors of  our country’s forts, Do not betray this city, spear-won, To a foreign-tongued enemy. 447

The same threat of  foreign domination is referred to by Iphigenia in Euripides’ Iphigenia in Aulis when she announces her readiness to die for a free Greece: ‘Because of  me, never more will barbarians wrong and ravish Greek women, drag them from happiness and their homes in Hellas’. 448 In  these classical plays, contemporary events are recast into mythical molds, and the enemies of   Thebes and Troy can be seen as the Persians. Of  course, there is also the theme of   gender at work here, augmenting the distance between Greeks and their opponents. Just like the Trojans, the Persians were associated with riches and luxury, and an autocratic rule that required complete submission – through a symbolic offer of   earth and water. But a people that showed submissiveness and a  ruler that collaborated could live in relative peace in the multicultural Persian Empire. It  is interesting that 5th century Greeks had become completely out of  touch with the Persian aristocratic ideal, which was manly, courageous, dignified in manners, and quite similar to the ideal that, in the old days, had been upheld by Homer’s heroes. 449 Of  course, at the time of  the Persian Wars, Persia was still a feudal society. Yet, even if  Greeks felt superior to Persians, they did not necessarily try to belittle them. The struggle of   the early 5th century took on a  heroic aura, and by elevating the stature of   the enemy, the Greeks could add a  dimension to their victories at Salamis and Plataea. In Aeschylus’ play The Persians, the Persians are not presented as war criminals, as might be expected, but as great and noble, victims of   the whims of   a king who was dispossessed of   his sound judgment, in the way we saw in Herodotus. Xerxes’ folly is contrasted with the wisdom of  Darius, who appears in the play as a Ghost. Darius advises against an expedition against the Greeks ‘for Grecian soil is  their ally  … it starves to death  Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, ll. 167–70.  Euripides, Iphigenia in Aulis, ll. 1380–82. 449  Green 1966, p. 10. 447

448

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excessive numbers’. 450 The Ghost of   Darius also explains that the Persians perished because of  their misbehavior: They, invading Greece, felt no awe, They did not hesitate to plunder images Of  gods, and put temples to the torch; Altars were no more, and statues, like trees, Were uprooted, torn from their bases In all confusion. Thus their wickedness Shall no less make them suffer: Other woes the future holds in store, And still the fount of  evils is not quenched, It wells up, and overflows: so great will be The sacrificial cake of  clotted gore Made at Plataea by Dorian spear. 451

This literary appraisal of   the Persians should also be taken as a rhetorical device: the enemy’s humanity served to enhance the victory at Salamis, an event that had taken place just a few years before the play was written. It  is  interesting to point out that the equivocal treatment of   the Persians by Aeschylus can also be seen as the first stage in Greco-Persian relations. According to Benjamin Isaac, the period of  Aeschylus and Herodotus – whose anti-Persian stance has been overstated – is clearly pre-imperial: the Greeks are just trying to defend their country. It  is  only in the fifth and fourth centuries that the idea of   Greek superiority is firmly grounded, especially through the writings of  Ar­is­to­tle. 452 2.4.4.3. Drama and the Dual face of  War

Right from the start, the Greek war discourse addressed the issue of  the two contrasting faces of  war. In epic, the joy and the horrors of  war were different sides to the same coin. 453 If  we turn to drama,  Aeschylus, The Persians, ll. 792–794.  Aeschylus, The Persians, ll. 808–819. 452  Isaac 2004, chapter 1. 453   The dark side of   war was revealed in various forms, in plays and in other literary works in particular, but also in art. For example, the late Archaic Louvre G115 vase, already mentioned, depicts Eos with her fallen son Memnon, who lies listlessly in her arms. The image created is one of  sorrow, not glory. Payen (2012), in his study of   Greek warfare emphasizes this ‘dark side’. I think he is addressing 450 451

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we can see parallel descriptions. There is, first of  all, an interest in the preparation for war. This can be seen in the following lines by the Athenian playwright Hermippus. There is a certain eagerness to stop talking and prepare for the real thing: Come now, king of  satyrs, stop waging the war With your speeches, and try a real weapon! Though I do not believe, under all your fine talk You have even the guts of  a Teles. For if  somebody gets out a whetstone and tries Just to sharpen so much as a pen-knife, You start grinding your teeth and fly into a rage As if  Cleon had come up and stung you. 454

Euripides’ The Phoenician Women has a description of   the final preparation for battle by the two brother-kings in the traditional, Homeric vein. With ‘shining arms’ the two antagonists get ready, encouraged by their own men: ‘Then did they cover the bodies with brazen arms / the two young sons of  the old Oedipus / their friends were dressing them. The Theban lords / saw to our captain, the Argive chiefs the other / Then they stood shining, and they had not paled’. 455 The aesthetics of  this preparation for battle also has a collective dimension, and the splendor of   the individual warrior’s outfit  is replaced by the pomp and pageantry of  a great army marching out to the battlefield. An early example is  Homer’s well-known ‘catalog of   ships’ in Book 2 – it has an incantatory rhythm, like the beat of  a military drum: And men who settled Tricca, rocky Ithome terraced high And men who held Oechalia, Oechalian Eurytus’ city: The two sons of  Asclepius led their units now, Both skilled healers, Podalirius and Machaon. In their command sailed forty curved black ships. 456

This roll call of   participants is the beginning of   a long tradition, and can be seen, for example, in Herodotus where he describes the modern concerns with imagery of  ‘heroism’ that are still (too) strong; the Greeks themselves did not ignore the inglorious aspects of  war at all. 454  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Per­i­cles’, chapter 33. 455 Euripides, The Phoenician Women, ll. 1242–45. 456 Homer, Iliad, 2.831–835.

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spectacle of  Xerxes’ great army marching out of  Sardis, the many contingents, all with their own armor and weaponry and led by their own commanders. 457 The list fills the reader with awe, perhaps in the way the great spectacle gave inspiration and encouragement to the common soldiers on the march. Enumeration is sometimes used in a different way, but with the same rhetorical effect of  hammering home the message. Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes is essentially a recital of   the blazons of   the seven Argive commanders and their matching Theban champions. The fierce reputation of  the seven enemy commanders is visualized in the emblems on their shields, such as mythical creatures breathing fire, like the commander at the fourth gate (‘A Typho hurling from his fiery mouth black smoke, the flickering sister of   fire’). 458 At the second gate, the commander has as his device a naked man that carries fire, who has a torch in his hands that is  ablaze and, in golden letters, the motto ‘I’ll burn the city’. 459 The fifth commander has the Sphinx as his emblem, ‘the Sphinx that ate men raw’. 460 In the play, the boastful, immodest images on the shields of   the aggressors are contrasted with the modest and pious emblems of   the champions. The fourth champion, Hyperbius, for instance, carries a representation of  Zeus. In Euripides’ Phoenician Women, which is based on the same Theban legend, emblems are also discussed, but less extensively. One of   the shields has the All-Seeing Eye, another a  lion with bristling mane. Some are quite terrifying indeed: Capaneus has ‘an earth-born giant’, carrying a  whole town on his shoulders ‘wrenched away from its foundations’. 461 And King Polyneices, being ‘one who loves war’, has on his shield, ‘the fillies of Potniae raged and ran in panic-fear / worked by the pivots near the handle-grip  / they did seem mad indeed’. 462 Beauty and terror are effectively combined into an impressive whole. War’s double face, already shown in the Iliad, is exposed mercilessly in the tragedies of   classical dramatists like Aeschylus and,  Herodotus, Histories, 7.40.  Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, ll. 493–94. 459  Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, ll. 432–34. 460 Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, ll. 541–42. 461 Euripides, The Phoenician Women, ll. 1121–32. 462 Euripides, The Phoenician Women, ll. 1127–30. 457 458

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especially, Euripides. In Aeschylus’ Oresteia, glory in battle is given a very bitter taste when the Chorus sings, in Agamemnon: The war god, broker of  bodies, he Who loads the scales in the spear clash Sends in return for loved ones only A heavy dust from the fires of  Troy, Dust bitterly wept for, urns packed tight With ashes that had once been men. 463

In Euripides’ plays, the glorification of   war is  substituted by radical criticism of   its terrible effects, a  sentiment that can be appreciated by modern audiences, but made the playwright more controversial in his own time; it  is perhaps not surprising that Euripides was awarded so few victories for his plays during his lifetime. 464 In  Andromache, Euripides criticizes the corrupting effect that war has: the setting of   the Trojan War can easily be replaced by the Peloponnesian War, which had only just begun when Euripides wrote the play. The effect of  the war and, it must be added, of   the terrible plague that ravished Athens at the time, was commented on by Thu­cyd­i­des when he described the general strife that followed the civil war in Corkyra in 427 bc: Fanatical enthusiasm was the mark of   the real man, and to plot against an enemy behind his back was perfectly legitimate self-defence. Anyone who held violent opinions could always be trusted, and anyone who objected to them became a suspect. To plot successfully was a sign of  intelligence, but it was still cleverer to see that a plot was hatching. 465

In Andromache, the cause of   the Trojan War is  ridiculed: Paris brought home no bride, but folly and ruin – he raised the Greek divisions for a woman who could only be called a slut. 466 Euripides’ invectives cannot be called impartial, however; Andromache is not just anti-war, but also anti-Spartan: the citizens of   Sparta are called ‘devious schemers’, ‘masters of   falsehood’ and ‘specialists

 Aeschylus, The Oreisteia, Agamemnon, ll. 500–6.   Hadas 1965, p. 9. 465  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 3.82. 466 Euripides, Andromache, ll. 103 & 605. 463 464

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in evil’. 467 In The Trojan Women, it is again the Trojan War that is used to comment on the cruelty of  war. The Greek victors desecrate temples and murder the innocent, but Euripides chooses to focus on the fate of  a small group of  women from the captured city as they wait for their departure into slavery. In  The Trojan Women, war is a terrible thing: the Greeks are dehumanized, sacrificing Polyxena, Hecabe’s young daughter to the ghost of  Achilles and dashing Andromache’s young son Astyanax, an innocent child, to his death from the city’s battlements – the Greeks are afraid that he will grow up to avenge his father Hector. The terror of  war is dramatized by the Chorus: I was there also: in the great room I danced the maiden of  the mountains, Artemis, Zeus’ daughter. When the cry went up, sudden, Bloodshot, up and down the city, to stun The keep of  the citadel. Children Reached shivering hands to clutch At the mother’s dress. War stalked from his hiding place. Pallas did this. Beside their altars the Trojans Died in their blood. Desolate now, Men murdered, our sleeping rooms gave up Their brides’ beauty To breed sons for Greek men, Sorrow for our own country. 468

And, again, what was the point of   the whole war? Once again, Euripides underlines that it is for a wanton woman that a great city had been crushed, its men butchered, and its women enslaved. The futility of   the war is further enlarged, to grotesque proportions, in the comedy Helen, which revolves around an old legend, already mentioned by Herodotus, that during the Trojan War Helen had never been in Troy but that she had been whisked off  to Egypt by the gods and that she had stayed there in hiding. For the story of  Troy, the real Helen had been replaced by a sub Euripides, Andromache, ll. 446–47.  Euripides, The Trojan Women, ll. 551–67.

467 468

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stitute, a ‘pantom Helen’. All this made the war a ludicrous undertaking, as the Chorus makes clear – the war is utter madness: You who in earnest ignorance would check the deeds of  lawless men, and in the clash of  spear on spear gain honour – you are all stark mad! If  men, to settle each dispute, Must needs compete in bloodshed, when Shall violence Vanish, hate be soothed, Or men and cities live in peace? 469

Euripides’ criticism of   the war of   his days, the Peloponnesian War, is here at its sharpest, for the great war, like its mythological predecessor, is presented as a disastrous mistake from the start. In 412, when Helen was written, only a phantom was left of   the original motives or justification of  432, when the war broke out. In The Suppliant Women, Euripides uses the Theban War as a setting. The suppliant women are the mothers of  the seven warriors who remain unburied after their failed attack on Thebes. Burying the dead was one of   the unwritten laws of   warfare, but the right was sometimes denied. Euripides here concerns himself  less with this aspect, and the underlying dispute between the two brother-kings, but rather addresses the wrongs that war brings to civilians. The Athenian king Theseus questions the wisdom of   Adrastus, king of   Argos and leader of   the Theban adventure – he was led astray by ‘glory-seeking youngsters, promoters of   unjust wars’, ambitious career-seekers who ‘never think what harm this brings for the majority’. 470 A herald from Thebes arrives and engages Theseus in a  debate, trying to take away feelings of  revenge: peace is better than war – We men all know which of  two words Is better, and can weigh the good and bad They bring: how much better is peace than war! First and foremost, the Muses love her best; And the goddess of  vengeance hates her. She delights In healthy children, and she glories in wealth.  Euripides, Helen, ll. 1151–58.  Euripides, The Suppliant Women, ll. 232–37.

469 470

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But evilly we throw all this away To start our wars and make the losers slaves – Man binding man and city chaining city. 471

The same Theban War returns in Euripides’ Phoenician Women. The young women from Phoenicia are on their way to the sacred shrine of   Delphi but they find themselves trapped by the war in Thebes. In  the play, they witness the terrible fight between the brother-kings, and comment on it: ‘O gods, in some way yet avert these evils and make the sons of   Oedipus agree!’ 472 The women blame Ares, the god of  war, ‘who brings us trouble, lover of  blood and death’, 473 and the evil strife that comes down on Oedipus’ children, that comes down on the town and its homes. 474 Although the play offers a mix of  emotions that can be attached to war, the feelings of  pride, honor, the principle of  liberty and the perennial struggle for power, it is in the Chorus that Euripides places the strong antiwar sentiment that characterizes much of  his work. In comedy, the genre that Aristophanes used for his satire and invective, peace is preferred over war. Aristophanes’ plays tell us how the great cause of  war and peace has become the central issue of   contemporary politics and how it  is handled (and abused). In The Acharnians, a common farmer and war veteran is tired of  the war, and declares a private truce with the enemy, a separate peace, and opens up his home as a sort of   free trading zone. The essence of  this idea makes the play a kind of  ‘topsy turvy fantasy’, as Moses Hadas calls it. 475 The hero, Dicaeopolis, is attacked by the city’s war party, the chorus of   Acharnian charcoal burners, but he defeats them rhetorically in a  winning speech. He also dismisses general Lamachus, called in by the chorus to assist them. (‘Six weary years of  absence over; for I have made a private treaty, and said goodbye to toils and fusses, and fights, and fighting Lamachuses’). 476 Lamachus is called out on a campaign, and

 Euripides, The Suppliant Women, ll. 486–94.  Euripides, The Phoenician Women, ll. 586–87. 473  Euripides, The Phoenician Women, l. 784. 474 Euripides, The Phoenician Women, ll. 811–812. 475  Hadas 2006, p. 15. 476 Aristophanes, The Acharnians, ll. 242–83. 471 472

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comes back wounded, but Dicaeopolis celebrates his private peace in a huge feast of  wine and women. In 422 bc, three years after The Acharnians was performed to great acclaim, – Aristophanes was eager to gain the status that tragedy-writers like Euripides had  477 – a similar anti-war comedy called Peace was brought out. Again, a private citizen seeks relief  from the pressures of   war. The hero, a  peasant called Trygaeus, decides to turn to the gods for help. He has trained a  giant dung-beetle which carries him up on an aerial journey to Zeus. The peasant and his beetle reach Mount Olympus, but find that the gods have gone and that heaven is  occupied by a  demon of  War – the goddess Peace has been thrown into a pit as a prisoner. Trygaeus manages to drag her out with the united effort of   the Greek people, and restores the goddess to her proper position amid great celebrations. Trygaeus’ deeply felt longing for peace must have resonated in the play’s contemporary audience: Think of  all the thousand pleasures, Comrades, which to Peace we owe, All the life of  ease and comfort Which she gave us long ago; Figs and olives, wine and myrtles, Luscious fruits preserved and dried, Banks of  fragrant violets, blowing By the crystal fountain’s side; Scenes for which our hearts are yearning, Joys that we have missed so long – Comrades, here is Peace returning, Greet her back with dance and song!  478

In a third comedy, Lysistrata, Aristophanes once again employs an anti-war theme, and one more time, an unorthodox scheme is introduced, suggesting that only an irrational mind can come to grips with questions of   war and peace. Lysistrata convinces the Athenian women to put an end to public funding of   the war machine and even to withhold sex from their husbands until they stop fighting – she later even engages the support of  women from Sparta and other cities to obtain peace. As in The Archarnians and   Platter 2007, p. 35.  Aristophanes, Peace, ll. 683–86.

477 478

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Peace, a parallel world is created, with Lysistrata as general, and the united women, who are swearing an oath of  allegiance, creating a  United Greece. The idea of   woman power bringing peace was ludicrous, of  course, but it also raised some painful questions about the competencies of   contemporary policy-makers. Finally, in Wasps, Aristophanes ridicules Cleon and his irresponsible supporters, and although the play’s sting is mostly aimed at Athens’ greedy jurors, it also has an anti-war flavor, with the Chorus singing: ‘How glorious a  thing it is  / To have no fear of   enemies  / Their poltroon armies roundly to thrash / Their country invade with galleys’ dash’. 479 2.4.5. Philosophy Philosophical prose was written as early as the 6th century, and came to full bloom in the 4th century. By then it was, of   course, influenced by Socrates and the Socratic method, so that much of   the seminal work of   the time was written in the form of   Socratic dialogue. For our analysis of   the Greek war discourse in philosophical prose, we mostly rely on Plato’s Laws, the ‘Symposium’ and other Dialogues, and The Republic (c.  375), as well as Ar­is­to­tle’s Ethics and Politics (c.  330). The treatment of   war in these sources is not extensive but highly relevant, since it reflects thought on such basic things as the origin of   war, its very nature, the relation between war and peace, and the definition of  such concepts as ‘honor’ and ‘courage’. Of  course, we need to emphasize that, as a genre, philosophy had a limited audience at the time – it still has – and the texts that we use all date to a limited period. Like most of  our other sources, philosophical writing cannot be treated as representative of  the mentality of  a given era – it preferred ideal constructs over perceptions on contemporary society. But just like poetry and historiography, its influence was wide and stretches into much later years. 2.4.5.1. Philosophy and the Nature of  War

An explanation for the origins of   war can be found in Greek mythology. In the ‘Cypria’, a description is given of   how, at the  Aristophanes, Wasps, ll. 1066–1134.

479

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dawn of   mankind, the earth was burdened with the large number of  people roaming over the land, weighing down the expanse. Zeus took pity when he saw this, and in order to relieve the ‘all-nurturing earth’ of   mankind’s weight, he decided to bring about the Theban War and next the Trojan War. 480 As we saw before, in The Republic, Plato follows this explanation in a  dialogue between Socrates and Glaucon, with a reasoning that runs as follows: in civilized society, the number of   trades and occupations will multiply, wealth will increase, and so will the population. For an increasing population, more land is needed and this will lead to war. 481 This means that all wars are undertaken for the acquisition of   wealth. 482 We also saw (2.1, War as a  Necessity) that Ar­is­to­tle considers war to be a natural consequence of  Greek superiority, which itself  is based on the perfect geographical position that Greece has in between West and East, between cold and heat, between spirited but dumb westerners and clever but lazy easterners. This makes the Greeks perfectly capable of   governing other people. 483 This ‘environmental determinism’, as Isaac calls it, made warfare against enemies like the Persians both natural and necessary. After all, they were servile by nature and born to be subjects. 484 Thu­cyd­i­des identifies three general causes of  war: self-defence, the pursuit of   honor and the pursuit of   profit. 485 In  the case of   the Peloponnesian War, Thu­cyd­i­des believes that war became inevitable because of   the growth of   Athenian power and the fear this instilled in Sparta. 486 This is  a  fairly sophisticated analysis that combines psychological insight and political savvy, but the essence of   his interpretation of   the general causes of   war was not unique: other Greek authors like Plato, Demosthenes and Xenophon held similar views. 487 For Ar­is­to­tle, it was profit that fueled war, and this is what he emphasized in his Politics. All things in   ‘Cypria’, fr. 1.  Plato, The Republic, 373d. 482 Plato, Phaedo, 66c. 483   Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 7.7. 484  Isaac 2004, p. 108. 485  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 1.76. 486  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 1.23. 487   van Wees 2004, p. 258. 480 481

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nature have a  proper place, he says, and so does war: ‘It  is  part of   nature’s plan that the art of   war, of   which hunting is a part, should be a way of  acquiring property’. 488 In fact, war is one of  the five ways of   obtaining wealth, the others being ‘the nomadic, the agricultural, […], fishing, and hunting’. 489 War should be taken for granted – only if  we assume that there are no enemies (‘the nonexistence of  these is postulated’) is it possible to live with an administration that is not directed to war or the defeat of  enemies. 490 Ar­is­to­tle concludes that preparation for war is inevitable, if  only for defensive purposes: ‘We regard every provision made for war as admirable, not as a supreme end but only as serving the needs of  defence’. 491 2.4.5.2. Philosophy and the Duality of  War and Peace

War and peace alternated like the seasons in the year, and peace often came when combatants got tired of   fighting and tasted the sweets of   peace, as Plutarch puts it in his ‘Life of   Nicias’. Peace was an extended truce, a long interval before the next war, and, although generally applauded, this sentiment was not unequivocal. During the Peloponnesian War, the Peace of  Nicias of  421 bc brought honor and fame to Nicias, for the Athenians considered the peace Nicias’ work, just like they considered war the work of   Per­i­cles, who had by then fallen from grace. Even then, Plutarch observes, the proponents of   peace were shutting their ears, with loud reproaches, to the forebodings of   those who said that ‘the war was destined to last thrice nine years’. 492 Of  course, after eight years the fighting was resumed. The alternation of   war and peace also had a more philosophical nature, as we can see in Thu­cyd­i­des, who makes a  distinction between the rashness and activism of  Athenians and the caution of  Spartans. 493 The basic Greek understanding, that peace is  preferred but that war is  inevitable, is  discussed in Plato’s Laws, in a  conver  Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 1.8.   Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 1.8. 490   Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 7.2. 491  Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 7.2. 492  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Nicias’, chapter 9. 493  Thu­cyd­i­des, History of  the Peloponnesian War, 2.40. 488 489

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sation between an Athenian stranger, a  Cretan called Cleinias, and a Spartan called Megillus. The Athenian wants to know why Cretans and Spartans have citizen soldiers that have common meals, do gymnastic exercises and wear arms. Cleinias explains that since soldiers in the field take common meals, it was considered good practice to continue doing so in times of   peace, since war can break out any moment (‘all are always at war with one another’). 494 He continues by saying that real peace does not exist, or is only a theoretical concept: For what men in general term peace would be said by him to be only in name; in reality every city is in a natural state of  war with every other, not indeed proclaimed by heralds, but everlasting. And if  you look closely, you will find that this was the intention of   the Cretan legislator; all institutions, private as well as public, were arranged by him with a view to war; in giving them he was under the impression that no possessions or institutions are of  any value to him who is defeated in battle; for all the good things of   the conquered pass into the hands of  the conquerors. 495

The Athenian explains that peace should be preferred over war, and a good statesman or legislator should not be interested in war for its own sake. Sometimes war is a necessity, but peace is always the aim: ‘nor will he ever be a sound legislator who orders peace for the sake of   war, and not war for the sake of   peace’. 496 And of  all forms of   war, civil war is  the worst, the Athenian adds, but wars in which the enemy is  ‘of  a  different race’ (i.e. wars with foreigners) are ‘a far milder form of   warfare’. 497 In  condemning civil war, Plato expresses a generally held view that is reminiscent of  Euripides’ plays. 2.4.5.3. Philosophy and the Discourse of  ‘honor’ and ‘courage’

We saw before, in 2.4.2.1 (Lyric), how ‘honor’ and ‘courage’ developed as concepts. The honor discourse can also be found in Greek  Plato, Laws, 1.  Plato, Laws, 2. 496 Plato, Laws, 4. 497 Plato, Laws, 5. 494

495

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philosophers of   the Classical period, most notably in Plato and Ar­is­to­tle. The passion for honor, irrational as it seems, was seen as part of  human nature. For this, men are ready to face any danger, Plato says in his Symposium, where the wise Diotema is instructing Socrates: ‘The nobler a  man is, the more is  undying fame and immortal arete the spring of   his every action’. 498 In  Laches, a  dialogue which tries to define ‘courage’, Plato contrasts the views of   two experienced generals, Laches and Nicias, with that of   Socrates, who showed extraordinary courage himself  in the battle of   Delium, as moderator. Laches is a representative of   the ‘old school’ of   military thought, believing in the simple courage of   not running away but remaining at one’s post. In  this view, courage is  a  kind of   endurance of   the soul. Nicias, however, points out that courage requires a kind of   wisdom: it is ‘knowledge of  that which inspires fear or confidence in war’. 499 Without knowledge, courage would be senseless or rash, and characteristic of  ‘animals or any other things which have no fear of   dangers’. True courage is a quality possessed by very few. In Nicias’ definition, courage in battle can also embrace courage in retreat, which makes it a more rational and also more modern concept. Ar­is­to­tle discusses military courage in his Politics, albeit very briefly, in his treatment of  laws, i.e. the broad system of  rules and conventions that permeates a  Greek polis. Some laws, Ar­is­to­tle says, foster military courage, such as in Sparta or Crete, but also in other parts of   the then known world such as Carthage, Macedonia, and Scythia, all three of   them nations with a strong military reputation. Courage is truly cultural here, developed by traditions and enveloped in them. This can be seen in Carthage, ‘where men wear armlets showing the number of   campaigns in which they have served, and in Macedonia, when men had to wear a halter until he had killed his first enemy, and in Scythia, where during a  feast a  cup went around and only warriors who had killed an enemy were allowed to drink from it’. 500 Ar­is­to­tle’s linking of  barbarian nations and Greek states like Sparta and Crete shows his dispassionate approach to the idea of   military courage: mili Plato, Symposium, 212a.   Plato, ‘Laches’, 194d–196c. 500  Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 7.2. 498 499

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tary prowess on this scale and with this focus was seen as a fault, since it neglected the skills that were necessary to develop a state once victory in battle had been achieved. 501 This way of   putting the virtue of   courage into perspective foreshadows the remarks made by Polybius about the relative merits of   institutions in the competing nations of  his day. 502 In discussing the concept of   ‘honor’, Ar­is­to­tle’s treatment again has a rather scholarly bent. Honor, not just in the military context but in general, is  linked with ‘the good man’ and ‘the golden mean’. Honor is the highest thing, to be regarded above all things, and is  publicly acknowledged. It  can only be earned by excellence, however, and needs to be sought for its own sake. Only a great man can achieve this, with a middle course between conceit and modesty, between taking risks and recklessness. For a  warrior, the ambition to gain honor should not be motivated by the public praise that he can expect. Although public praise is the normal spur for action, the good man shows indifference to it, or gives it up to his friends, because this reflects honour and praise on himself. This is true greatness. 503 But this is also why Socrates, quite pragmatically, says that the good general will put in the front rank the ‘ambitious men’, ‘those who will be ready to brave danger for the sake of  praise’, the men who ‘choose great glory for themselves’. 504 The deprecatory way of   describing non-hoplite soldiers was part of  the great classical ideal of  ‘standing one’s ground in battle at any price’. 505 It had little to do with reality, however, for cavalry and peltasts had a much more prominent role in the Greek way of  war than our traditional sources want us to believe. 506 Likewise, the Greek admiration for Sparta’s lack of   protective walls – city walls were an unhealthy invitation to hide from combat – was counterbalanced by a  more pragmatic approach to making war, in which there was a natural place for defence as a valid option.   Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 2.9.   See 2.4.3.2. 503   Ar­is­to­tle, Ethics, 9.4. 504  Ar­is­to­tle, Ethics, 9.4. 505  van Wees 2004, p. 65. 506  van Wees 2004, p. 61 & ff. 501 502

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Plato’s view that a city should have no walls as a matter of  principle was contradicted by Ar­is­to­tle: Deliberately to give cities no walls at all is like choosing an easily attacked position and clearing away the surrounding high ground. {…} Just as the attacking side is always on the lookout for methods which will give them an advantage, so too the defenders must seek additional means of   defence by the aid of  scientific enquiry. 507

With war constantly round the corner, the importance of   being prepared was common wisdom, and the subject of  one of  Aesop’s fables. It  tells of   a  soldier who had a  horse that he fed well on barley in times of   war, but when the war was over it was made to work like a  slave and getting nothing but chaff. Then war was declared again, and the soldier prepared his horse to go off. But he soon found out that the horse had no strength and stumbled at every step. The horse told him to join an infantry regiment, for he did not feel like a horse anymore: ‘You have turned me into a donkey, and how can you expect to change me back again?’  508 The fable’s moral is  that relaxing in times of   security will bring great sorrow in days of  affliction. Being prepared for war required a class of  soldiers, the Greeks discovered. Traditionally, soldiering was for the aristocracy, and later for all citizens when cities fought other cities with hoplite phalanxes. In the 4th century, a professional class of  soldiers developed. This development can also be seen in Plato’s Republic, in the same dialogue between Socrates and Glaucon. In the dialogue, Plato takes a step forward from the generally held view that soldiering was a citizen’s role in times of  war: ‘But can’t the citizens fight for themselves?’ ‘Not if  the principle, on which we all, yourself  included agreed when we started constructing our state, is sound. And that was, if  you remember, that one man could not do more than one job or profession well’. 509

  Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 7.11.  Aesop, Fables, number 91. 509 Plato, The Republic, 374a. 507 508

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In his ‘first city’, his first construct of   an ideal society, Plato did not include any professional soldiers, but he later made specific mention of  soldiers in his class of  Guardians, or rather in the subclass of  Auxiliaries. This enabled him to set the highest standards that the principle of   specialization calls for. A similar discussion can be found in Ar­is­to­tle, who in his Politics includes the class ‘which will defend in time of   war’. This class is just as indispensable as the others, Ar­is­to­tle adds, ‘if  the people is  not to be at the mercy of   aggressors  […] for I think that to give the name “state” to a naturally subject or servile institution is one of   those things that are impossible’. Ar­is­to­tle criticizes Plato on this point: Plato only includes a class of   soldiers in his state when territorial expansion involves them (‘the defenders in war’) in a clash with neighbors, when war breaks out. 510 This shift of   interest, from private to public valor, can be seen in Ar­is­to­tle’s writings. In his Ethics, Ar­is­to­tle discusses the characteristics of  the ‘good man’ and includes this virtue: ‘And this is perhaps that which befalls men who die for their country and friends; they choose great glory for themselves’. 511 Defending the fatherland is not just a virtue, but also a necessity. In The Politics, Ar­is­to­ tle says that if  a city wants to have the normal existence of  a polis, and not live in isolation, it will have to defend its territory against its neighbours: ‘the need is just as great to appear formidable to potential enemies, whether they come or whether they don’t’. 512 Finally, the sometimes conflicting views in Greek philosophy can give us another explanation of  the role of  war. If  we compare Plato’s treatment of  warfare in his Republic with that of  the Laws, we can see a marked difference. In the Republic, the city is a utopia, a theoretical construct, with a social cohesion that is maintained by the state structure. In the Laws, the polis is a more realistic community, one that is egalitarian but lacks the state structure. It is in the latter that warfare acts as a form of   bonding, to create social cohesion. 513 If  we follow this line of  thought, we could say that the competing Greek poleis needed war to survive as political entities.   Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 4.4.   Ar­is­to­tle, Ethics, 9.4. 512  Ar­is­to­tle, The Politics, 2.6. 513  Berent 2000, p. 272. 510 511

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3. Conclusion: The Competitive Spirit in Greek Culture and in Greek Warfare It is not easy to give a brief  summary of   what exactly the Greeks thought of   war – what it was and how it was perceived. After all, the evidence is limited and cannot be taken as representative of   Greek society as a whole, and for all periods of   history. As in most other periods of   history, our reconstruction of   mentalité relies heavily on a  cultural elite. Also, much contemporary war discourse concentrates on the mechanics of  war – the tactics, the reconstructions of   battles and the general, more or less chronological narrative of  events – rather than on cultural themes. However, the sources that are extant do offer us plenty of  insight into the cultural features of  the war discourse, the discussion of   ideas and ideology, of   the mindset that underlies warfare as an activity. They have been brought together from a large number of  widely varying, mostly literary but also non-literary sources. In the sections above, I have treated these features as part of  four distinct themes:

1. the duality of  bravery and courage 1. the relationship between competitiveness, commemoration and agonal warfare 2. Greek superiority as an extension of   the principle of   liberty, and 3. the two faces of  war.

I think it can be argued that, in ancient Greece, within these themes, the spirit of  competition served as a common denominator. It singled out the brave warrior, and it distinguished the courageous from the crowd. Competition had two faces. It fostered civil strife, stasis, when communities took pride in their autonomy. From another perspective, it enhanced a strong sense of  liberty vis-à-vis non-Greeks, with Greek soldiers looking down on their opponents as servants of  despots. It also boosted civic pride in military success and the construction of   a collective memory. Taken together, competition can be seen as the cultural feature that gives cohesion to a wide range of   utterances in the war discourse. 197

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We know that competition was the essential element in Greek culture, particularly Athenian culture. Competition dominated life. As part of  their education young males (ephebes) were encouraged to excel and outdo their peers. It  showed itself  in sports contests, which enjoyed great popularity and high standing, but also in music and drama, and even among craftsmen and other professionals, like potters and doctors. It was important to be the best and thus achieve honor. The Greek love of   engaging oneself  in a contest was also reflected in politics, the court and in learning (such as philosophy). All these contexts demanded from their participants argued speech, verbal battle, in which the best would win the argument and the listeners’ support. In the heroic discourse, we saw how bravery and courage set off  a  special class of   warriors against the ordinary rank and file. By showing bravery and courage, humans could transcend their limitations. Excellence led to fame and was recorded in poetry and in monuments. Achilles and Hector are the true representatives of   heroism, and even though their motivations are dissimilar, they both distinguish themselves, and their commemoration shows their importance in the Greek war culture, as a  source of  inspiration at various levels – from Plutarch’s ordinary warrior to Alexander the Great. The eagerness to excel also shows itself  in the importance attached to formal duels in early battle. The same can be said of  the related honor discourse, when valor is part of   the group effort. The true courage in Plato’s view is a quality possessed by very few, and Ar­is­to­tle’s honor is the highest thing, earned by excellence only. Personal ambition is paralleled by the achievement of  the individual polis. Loss of  status and respect are often cited as causes of   intercity wars, and so are, conversely, the enhancement of   status and respect, as seen in Alexander’s appeal to his men after the defeat of  Porus. Even though a premium was placed on excellence, the product of  rivalry and competition, this does not mean that the spirit of  competition prevailed in actual warfare. Ideal and reality often clashed. Contemporary parody of   heroic posture tells us that bravery could well be understood as a  form of   external display rather than performance. The existence of   the Plataean Oath makes clear that not all soldiers had an innate drive to achieve eternal fame. And the superiority attributed in contemporary sources 198

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to the heavy infantry – at the expense of   cavalry, skirmishers, archers, and slingers – was denied by common military practice. We have also seen how the great popularity of   agonal warfare in Greek thinking showed that there must have been rational attempts to curb violence. The rule-bound group-dominated hoplite phalanx can thus be seen as a way of   harnessing the competitive energy of  total war. At the same time, hoplites had their drive to excel, to get the olive wreath. Competition also features in the form of   divine intervention, in that the gods are depicted as each other’s rivals, with little reluctance to enter into broils. This can be seen in the Iliad, with some gods supporting the Greeks, others the Trojans. The all-out war between the divine factions is  awe-inspiring and terrifying, but not meant to decide the outcome of  the human war. The liberty theme has a  competitive edge as well, since the concept of   liberty developed with the development of   the polis and the attending intercity rivalry. Civic pride, the essence of  patriotism, can only thrive on a clear definition of  the Other, be it another polis or another nation. In the process of  defining one’s identity, the competitive spirit was a driving force. It helped to define the Greek feeling of   superiority vis-à-vis ‘barbarians’, viz. all non-Greeks. Even the Persians, powerful and culturally advanced as they were, were classified as barbarians, although this perception was subject to change, and there were gradations of  barbarianism, some barbarians being more barbarian than others, to paraphrase Orwell. The distinction between Greek and non-Greek was deeply felt, and had the backing of  philosophers like Ar­is­to­tle and Plato. At the same time, it must be added that serious opponents were also given the respect they deserved when it came to military confrontations. The Greeks had no qualms about asking the Persians for assistance in their constantly changing political and military alliances and partnerships. Also, the increased use of  mercenaries in later years made it harder to associate the us-them dichotomy with specific communities, so that the Other simply became the other side on the battlefield, as in a sports game. Where does the competitive spirit come from? In  Greek mythology, the goddess Eris, daughter of   Night, has two manifestations. The elder Eris, Hesiod tells us, brings strife, battle, 199

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quarrels and so forth. 514 The younger Eris drives ambition, so that people vie with each other in the race for wealth and prosperity. This form of   competition is  tantamount to our modern idea of   competition as ‘the driving force of   progress’, as Bernard Knox calls it. 515 This is  why Hesiod, in his ‘Works and Days’, underlines the blessings of   competition, even with beggar competing with beggar, and bard with bard, all of  them eager to work hard and outperform the other. 516 Hesiod’s explanation tells us that the Greeks were aware of  the idea of   competition as a driving force within their own culture. Of  course, there are other explanations for the pervasiveness of   competition in the Greek mentality. One explanation that is tempting is to link competition to the development of  the city-state. It  is  true that in the Archaic and Classical periods, when the competitive spirit came to full bloom, the Greek world consisted of   a network of   independent poleis, all with their own constitutions, cults and calendars, all constantly jealous of   each other if  not fighting each other. Intercity warfare and the great games at Delphi, Olympia and the Isthmus should therefore be taken together, as they often are, as representations of   the same competitive spirit, as two sides of   the same coin. Indeed, it was common practice to cease hostilities for the duration of   the games. In this way, mutual aggression was given a vent to blow off  steam, but also a meeting place was created for rivalry in a spirit of  mutual respect. Finally, the agonal characteristic of  Greek culture and war can also be seen in comparison with Greece’s neighbors, and really sets it apart from the rest. Whether Persian, Assyrian or Egyptian, the characteristic features of   these cultures were not agonal but rather synthetic: warfare had been and was part of   a culture that was truly imperial, stretching over an enormous land mass. Kings came and went, eliminating their rivals until, in turn, they were defeated by their contenders. The culture of   war, as all culture, was focused on royal service, a  celebration of   the power of   the king. One of   the masterpieces of   Persian art, the stone bas reliefs   Hesiod, ‘Theogony’, ll. 216–32.   Knox 1999. 516  Hesiod, ‘Works and Days’, ll. 19–26. 514 515

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of   the ten thousand ‘Immortals’ of   the Royal Guard, illustrates this point: the Great King sits at the top, the endless procession of  guards marching below. 517 This is obviously not the Greek way. Through its political instability, the Greek world introduced competition as an organizational principle, on the geographical fringes of  a rival power that was firmly controlled from the center. But agon also brought a certain ambivalence: on the one hand, it spurred creativity in politics and culture, as well as military success; on the other, its divisiveness was the reason for Greece’s ultimate loss of  independence.

517  North door of   the Hall of   a Hundred Columns, Persepolis (Bridgeman Art Library, image number JB 117109).

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1. The Hellenistic Age The transition of  the Greek epoch into Hellenism was inaugurated by the presumed Greekness of   the Macedonian king Philip  II, Alexander the Great’s father, who – for most Greeks of his days – was a  ‘barbarian’, but who was proud to trace his Greek ancestry to Heracles. 1 Today, the bookends of  Hellenism in history are formed by Alexander the Great at the beginning and Cleopatra at the end, when the successor kingdom of   Egypt was incorporated into the Roman republic as a province. This means it consists of   two distinct periods: the time of   Alexander’s life and career, and the three centuries that followed. In  the Hellenistic period, the role of   the polis diminished as a focus of   identity and was replaced with monarchical rule. This shift to huge kingdoms and central royal authority, an enormous change of  scale, was not an innovation but a reversion to ancient forms, long dominant in the Middle East and Mesopotamia. 2 The return to the monarchy, a system that hinged not so much on the one-man rule as on the court and on court society  3 – presented one of  the great problems of   the age: how could the principle of   self-determination that cities held on to be reconciled with the idea of  absolute monarchy? Also, there was massive emigration from the old cities to the new royal cities in Egypt or the east. Many new cities emerged   Browning 2002, p. 260.   Green 2008, p. xx. 3  Herman 1997, p. 200.

1

2

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whose citizens had no common descent or common political or religious traditions. Furthermore, there was a  lot more internal migration in the Greek-speaking world, of  mercenary soldiers and other professions, and there were more economic and ceremonial ties than ever before. 4 Also, the various Greek dialects were replaced by a new common dialect. And finally, in the new Hellenistic kingdoms, Greeks often formed a ruling class among an indigenous majority. It is somewhat ironic that, as such, the kingdoms had more in common with the old, much-despised Persian administration than with Greek city rule. But most of   the kings were Macedonians, not city-state Greeks, and were more familiar with monarchy as an institution than with the various forms of  democracy. 5 Hellenization was a  slow and complex process that worked two ways, since it implied the dissemination of   Greek culture over the newly conquered foreign territories but also the absorption of  the local culture of  the subject people by the Greek élite. 6 The ‘civilizing’ aspects of  this process have long been emphasized, but today’s scholars are looking more at the interaction of   cultures or take a skeptical view, like Peter Green, who believes that the expansion of   Greek culture was incidental, not structural, restricted to Greek enclaves, and emphasizes that the carriers of  civilization were simple, uncouth mountainfolk just looking for profit and adventure. Only because of  the Roman obsession with Greek culture did Hellenism become widespread and enduring. 7 As for the military culture, there was a lot of   continuity. The Hellenistic polis still had its own armies, but cities also contributed to their overlords’ armies, maintained defense forces and fortifications. 8 Growing co-operation led to the formation of   leagues, which secured protection for smaller city-states. Also, there were more economic and ceremonial links than before, so that the Hellenistic Age became more cosmopolitan and more pluralistic, as well as more elitist, but in a  democratic structure. In  the time     6   7  8  4 5

Shipley and Hansen 2006, p. 68. Green 2008, p. 47. Browning 2002, p. 261. Green 1993b, p. 313–15; p. 322. Shipley and Hansen 2006, p. 60.

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of   the successors, military operations were constant, but in a different context than Alexander’s. The empire was contracting and fragmenting, with regional dynasts contending for pre-eminence. There was a murderous struggle for supremacy and a complex network of  satraps, regional rulers that Alexander had inherited from the Achaemenid Persians. 9 The causes of   war included the familiar disputes over territories and resources, defensive wars against invading barbarians, and civil wars, but also new features like expansionist policies of   kings and attempts of   cities to get back their independence. 10 Warfare in the Hellenistic Age was ‘pervasive’, as J. E. Lendon says, but what is more characteristic is its variety of  theaters. There were petty wars among cities, just like in the old days, spurred by motives like revenge, territory and loot. Slave trading, on a massive scale, was an important incentive. 11 There were also wars among leagues of   cities that aimed for domination, just like the wars of   the Athenian empire in the 5th century. There is  strong continuity with the past, for even in this period, ‘the desire to preserve territorial integrity and civic independence’ remained a central issue for all city-states. 12 But now there were new conflicts as well, wars among the various kings, with an increased scale, the famous wars of   the successors kingdoms. 13 This scale was made possible through the increased wealth of   the individual kings. Troops were fielded with combined sizes of   up to 100,000 soldiers. 14 Also, these wars had their own cultural features that were passed on to the Romans. 15 These cultural features will be the focus of  the discussion below. Finally, in the Hellenistic Age politics and war became more integrated than before. As Jonathan Roth puts it, ‘war became more political’, and ‘politics became an increasing part of   war’. 16 Because of   the huge costs of   raising massive armies, unnecessary   Bosworth 2006, p. 12.   Chaniotis 2005, p. 13. 11  Green 1993b, p. 251. 12   Baker 2003, p. 387. 13  Lendon 2007, p. 516. 14  Serrati 2007, p. 464. 15  Adams 2006, p. 21. 16   Roth 2007, p. 375. 9

10

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fighting was avoided, and diplomatic efforts came to be more profitable. Wars would be fought if  there was a  good chance of   destroying the enemy, which made strategy an essential part of   campaigning, and made war the object of   political decision making. The attempts made by Antigonus in 305 to gain control of   Rhodes, as described by Diodorus Siculus, are a case in point. First, negotiations were attempted, next an economic blockade was instituted, and only when this came to nothing an invading fleet was sent. 17 And, taking another perspective, the combination of   politics and war could be seen in warfare’s new double role. On the one hand it was a means of   resolving differences; on the other, it provided the king with financial resources as well as being a source of  the new ‘royal mystique’. 18

1.1. The Hellenistic World As for the beginnings of   Hellenism, recent archaeological work has made some contributions to a  reassessment of   the position of   Macedonia in the 4th century bc. Perhaps it was not quite the primitive backwater it was long held to be, but a  place of  culture and refinement based on a high standard of   living, with fine palaces and private houses, and wealthy burials and grand tombs for the royal family. 19 Then again, the court at Pella with its ‘veneer of   Attic sophistication’ cannot be identified with Macedonian society as a whole, which was ruled by force. 20 The Macedonian state consisted of   the king and his ‘Macedones’, a  band of  warriors who elected him and were his loyal elite troops. 21 With Alexander’s conquests, Macedonia became one of   the great centers of  power of  a great empire. It is, of  course, its magnitude that characterizes the Hellenistic world, straddling three continents. What is  also distinctive in comparison with the period of   Classical Greece is the settlement of  new cities, well over a  hundred, as well as the marked popu    19   20  21  17 18

Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 20.81.2–3. Green 1993a, p. 55. Burn 2004, p. 29. Green 1993b, p. 5. Hammond 1993, p. 18.

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lation increase in existing cities. This trend towards urbanism was a matter of   demographics and of   town planning, for public buildings were integrated both from a practical and an aesthetic point of   view, and built and adorned on a  monumental scale. 22 Although the city-states had had to deal with royal power since the ascent of  Macedonia, this does not mean they fell into decline, as was long believed. On the contrary, cities came to new heights of  developments in commercial activity, diplomatic contacts and religious celebrations. 23 After Alexander’s death, with the coming of   the successor kingdoms, the Hellenistic world rapidly fragmented. Once the new kingdoms had been established, the boundaries between kingdoms and the various satrapies and other regional and local territories were constantly changing. This state of   ‘flux’ was reinforced by the creation and dissolution of   alliances, by what has been called the renversement des alliances, which turned a former enemy into an ally, or a former ally into a foe if  the occasion arose. The size and complexities of   Hellenistic armies made warfare a  risky and costly enterprise, and encouraged both the creation of  alliances and the use of  diplomacy as a tool to resolve conflicts. The many wars, the ever-changing alliances, the diplomatic effort – they all contributed to the extensive network of   political relations which brought together the distant communities within the Greek-speaking world. 24 The latter phenomenon, the ‘Greekness’ of   the Hellenistic world, was important. It is true that the new monarchies in many ways continued the traditions of   their predecessors, so that the new monarchies and new urban centers like Antioch and Alexandria were not really new phenomena, but built on ‘something very old’, as Peter Green says, the ancient cities of   the Near East like Babylon and Niniveh. 25 For example, the Seleucid empire was a continuation of   Persian rule in its ‘supra-national’ administrative policies, an approach easily explained by the great problems of   communication, information and the like in this vast realm.     24  25  22 23

Billows 2003, p. 196–97. Baker 2003, p. 377. Chaniotis 2005, p. 347. Green 1993b, p. 155.

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The resulting lack of  cohesion was offset by the strong cultural ties that created a common heritage – a common language, religion and mythology – and a shared iconography, as we shall see.

2. The Development of  Hellenistic Warfare There is no doubt that the 4th century was the time when Greek warfare underwent its most radical changes. But this new period in Greek warfare does not start with the traditional demarcation of   323 bc as the beginning of   Hellenism, a period lasting until the fall of   the Egyptian successor state to the Romans in 30 bc. In  military terms, the Hellenistic period starts with Philip  II of   Macedon, who came to power in 359  bc. It  was Philip and his son Alexander the Great who created a new way of  war. After Alexander’s death in 323, this new style of   warfare was just continued and magnified. 26 The first important Macedonian reform was the transformation of  the hoplite phalanx. The principle of  the density of  formation remained, but arms and armor were adapted: smaller, lighter shields, and long, thrusting spears, sarissas, were used. Although the sarissa made the troops immobile, it enabled the generals to apply the ‘hammer-and-anvil’ tactics, in which cavalry and infantry worked together to crush the enemy: the cavalry was used as a  hammer to drive the enemy onto the anvil of   the phalanx. 27 A second important reform was the introduction of   the peltast, i.e., light infantry, and some other special infantry forces like skirmishers (archers and slingers). The latter were used in the first stage of   battle, when all efforts were aimed at causing chaos among enemy troops. Finally, cavalry was raised to high military importance. On the plains of  Macedonia, cavalry had always been more important than in the more southern regions, and it had become the heart of   the Macedonian army, the so-called Companions, a 3000-strong detachment. The potential of  cavalry as an effective force was also reinforced by its division into light cavalry and heavy cavalry (cataphracts). This enabled specialization, like   Bugh 2006, p. 265.   Ferrill 1986, p. 178.

26 27

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mobile advance forces and direct strike forces. Later in the Hellenistic period, elephants were added, for shock value. 28 Another change was the increased reliance on professional soldiers, mercenaries, to do the fighting. These men had become redundant after the Peloponnesian War and, after joining the younger Cyrus in his unsuccessful expedition into Persia, had come back with Xenophon’s army. They learned the hard way that a hoplite phalanx had its limitations against a Persian force of   integrated troops. They also learned the importance of   good logistics. 29 Mercenaries had already been used, of   course, but in relatively small numbers. They now became ubiquitous. With the enormous size of   armies employed in the Hellenistic period (especially the time of  the successor kingdoms), mercenaries were in great demand to fill the needs of   the royal forces. The days of   the citizen-soldier, the ‘civic ideal of   amateur all-rounders’, 30 were over. While the major cities elsewhere clung to traditional styles of   warfare, largely based on massive infantry formations, Philip forged the first integrated army, by combining the elements mentioned above, the Greek heavy infantry with the Persian cavalry and light infantry. He also adopted the use of   intelligence and counter-intelligence, an unknown instrument in Greek warfare. Philip sent out spies to reconnoitre unfamiliar territory, and occasionally gave false marching orders that were corrected en route. A final item was improved logistics. Macedonian soldiers carried their own luggage, which considerably speeded up the army on the march. This new, integrated army of  50,000 men could cover 15 miles per day. 31 Apart from the Macedonian reforms, the 4th century saw other military developments, such as the introduction of   larger naval vessels – in the Classical period, the premier warship had been the trireme – with platforms for artillery and large numbers of  fighting soldiers that could board enemy vessels. Also, military

  However, the rapid rise of  the cavalry decreased in the course of  the third century (S. Scheuble-Reiter 2014, p. 475–500). 29  Sage 1996, p. 166. 30  Green 1993b, p. 94. 31  Ferrill 1986, p. 183. 28

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technology improved with new artillery and siege weapons like the catapult and the mobile siege tower. And shock tactics saw (temporary) improvement with the use of  elephants. Alexander the Great’s contribution to the development of  warfare in this phase has justly been recognized, but it should not just be seen in troop formation or battle tactics, but also in his great capacity for bonding with his men, and his tendency to include ethnic minorities in his army as well as his court, something which was considered unsound and undesirable by most of   his contemporaries. 32 Alexander’s conquest was the completion of   the Military Revolution of   this period, but also the end of   Classical Greece: the king and his court replaced the old citystate as the center of  power. Ever since the days of  antiquity, Alexander’s biographers have been in intense disagreement about his accomplishments: there were early, usually moral detractors but also successive waves of  eulogists. Alexander’s successors, the Successor Kings, stretched the military innovations to an extreme: armies became even bigger, and so did siege machinery, fortifications and warships. War became a permanent state of  affairs, for wars were used to exact ever larger tributes from subject peoples to support a luxurious lifestyle on a  scale even Persian Kings had not been used to. Also, warfare had by now become a much more complicated affair. Armies had grown in size, but, more importantly, troops could now be engaged at any given moment through deployment of   light infantry. In the old days, battle commenced when both sides had arrived on the battlefield, but now, once an army was on the march, it was ready for action. It  made the role of   officers more pronounced, and it made warfare a science. Generals were expected to develop ideas on tactics. There were even ‘professors of  tactics’ who wrote extensively on the art of  warfare. 33 Finally, Hellenistic warfare was also ‘the business of   kings’. 34 In this sense, a new way of   warfare was born. In the end, however, the enormous, technologically advanced, professional armies with their combined forces were defeated   Fox 1986, p. 240–42.   Sage 1996, p. 136. 34  Bugh 2006, p. 265. 32 33

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by the Roman legions. The latter were more flexible, had allterrain competencies, and were highly disciplined. Hellenistic warfare gradually went into retreat when the Romans managed to conquer the Hellenistic world by the middle of   the second century bc. They came as allies of   the Aetolian League and Pergamon against Philip V of   Macedon and the Car­thaginians, but soon took over, first in Macedonia, later in the rest of   Greece. If  Ptolemaic Egypt held out until 30 bc, 35 this was only because it had already acknowledged Rome as its master and cultivated a policy of  friendship with it. 36

3. The Cultural Parameters of  Hellenistic Warfare 3.1. The War Discourse Hellenistic warfare is usually treated as part of  ancient Greek warfare, but like the period of  Hellenism as such, it has now become a  subject in its own right. 37 Although there is  obviously a  lot of   continuity in this period, the many changes, slow or radical, merit a separate discussion. In the Hellenistic Age, warfare is less of   a  civic responsibility and more of   a  profession. This can be seen in several different contexts, as we shall see. Polybius’ in­sis­ tence on treating historical events as a  unified whole instead of  ‘a  series of   unrelated episodes’ was not self-evident at the time, but, of   course, he had the unifying theme of   the rise of   Rome in mind when writing his universal history. 38 Aelian’s explanation of   the beginnings of   wars in terms of   occasions rather than causes is perhaps more representative of  the pragmatic Hellenistic approach: I am not ignorant that the greatest Wars have sprung from very slight occasions. They say that the Persian ‹War› began upon the falling out of  Maeander the Samian with the Athenians; the Peloponnesian War from a  Tablet ‹or Picture›   Bugh 2006, p. 288–89.   Green 1993b, p. 231. 37  Green 2008, p. xvi. 38 Polybius, The Histories, 1.3. 35 36

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of   the Megareans; the War which was called Sacred, for the exacting the Mulcts adjudged by the Amphyctiones; the War at Chaeronea from the dispute between Philip and the Athenians, they not willing to accept of   the place by way of  Gift ‹but of  Restitution›. 39

Right from the start, warfare was also associated with the monarchy. Excavations in the Great Mound at Vergina have revealed tombs like the ‘Philip tomb’ that were associated with royal burials. The deceased’s possessions included an iron helmet, a  cuirass, sword and diadem, ‘symbols of   military prowess and royal power’. 40 Hellenistic kings were, above all, war leaders. They were dressed as soldiers, led their troops in battle, and their victories were celebrated in epigraphy and monuments, and on coins. By  gaining victories, kings legitimized their position and their power, and good kings were, of   necessity, good generals. This showed in the personality cult surrounding victorious royals: the use of   honorific epithets like ‘Great’, or ‘Savior’, and the popular associations with the goddess Nike. 41 In the Hellenistic war discourse, the following five themes stand out, and will be discussed below:

1. the theme of  military excellence; 2. the theme of   agonal warfare, a continuation of   the Classical Greek theme; 3. the theme of  liberty and Greek superiority, another continuation of  the Classical Greek theme; 4. the theme of   competition and commemoration, once again a continuation of  a Classical Greek theme; and 5. the theme of  victory and the iconography of  power.



As for our primary sources, it  is historiography and, above all, non-literary sources like art and architecture, epigraphy and numismatics that supply the information. In the section that follows, the various genres of   the Hellenistic war discourse will first be briefly introduced before we turn to the five themes.

 Aelian, Various History, 12.53.   Burn 2004, p. 38. 41  Baker 2003, p. 375–76. 39 40

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3.2. Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources Much of   the historiography of   the Hellenistic Age has been lost. What remains is  a  number of   chronicles, i.e. lists of   kings and events of   a given period, such as the one by Apollodorus of   Athens, listing events down to 119  bc. What also remains is  fragments from histories. They have come down to us as summarized extracts or quotations by historians like Diodorus and Polybius. Finally, Aelian should be mentioned for his collection of   historical and ethnographic bits and pieces, the Historical Miscellany, also known as the Various History. A new form of   historiography, dubbed ‘universal history’, came into being in the second and first centuries bc, with Polybius and Diodorus Siculus. Universal histories encompassed the history of  the then known world, and were based on written documents rather than on oral accounts. They were the first examples of   a  form of   investigation that worked with ‘reading, analysing and excerpting written sources’. 42 And universal histories supplied a paradigm for the canvas of  characters and events they described, usually a  moral one. 43 Also, these histories had a  preference for the theatrical and dramatic that characterizes the period – ‘tragic history’  44 is a common label – exemplified by Polybius’ interest in the unfathomable workings of  Fortune. Although most of   the writing of   historiographers in the Hellenistic period is lost, we know that history writing became part of   the larger scope of   argumentation and rhetoric in a legal and political context. The original histories of   Alexander the Great have all perished, and only scraps survive in the form of   outlines (epitomes) written and rewritten after Alexander’s death. 45 Our image of   Alexander rests on the histories of   later, Roman authors like Arrian and Q uintus Curtius Rufus. So does much of   our image of   Hellenistic warfare as a  whole: Roman authors like Livy, Plutarch and Appian supply indirect scraps that make a  partial reconstruction of   the Hellenistic discourse possible,     44  45  42 43

Schepens 2007, p. 53. Marincola 2007, p. 179. Chaniotis 2005, p. 207. Zambrini 2007, p. 211.

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but the evidence is indirect and inevitably biased. For example, Plutarch looked back through Athenian eyes, with little love for the Hellenistic kings that followed the period of   the great citystate. 46 There are also later, non-historical works by the Augustan geographer Strabo and the secondary century ad travel writer Pausanias. In the contemporary war discourse, literary texts (poems, plays) can only be treated as ‘circumstantial evidence’. The poetry of  the Hellenistic era, mostly second-rate according to literary standards, 47 includes a  barrage of   epic poems in praise of   rulers past and present, 48 but also the epic poem Argonautica by Apollonius of   Rhodes. With some exceptions, war is  not a  prominent theme in Hellenistic poetry. The epic Argonautica is  more of   a  ‘voyage narrative’ than an epic poem in the Homeric vein. The old-style hero Heracles is  abandoned early in the story, whereas the protagonist, Jason, is a ‘new man’, an ordinary citizen seeking personal gratification rather than glory in battle. This is typical for Hellenistic literature as a whole: it focuses on the private rather than the public, the countryside rather than the agora, it is anti-heroic and has some clearly escapist tendencies. 49 In drama, New Comedy was the predominant genre. Comedy gave us the stock character of  the miles gloriosus, the boastful mercenary, in the plays written by Menander, whose work survives mostly in fragments. Unlike the citizen-soldier of   past days, the mercenary is an outsider, often presented as an opportunistic buffoon, such as the character of  Bias in the play Kolax. 50 The philosopher Theophrastus wrote on a wide-ranging number of   topics, but is  most useful here for his On  Moral Characters, in which he portrays various characters with their virtues and vices, some of   which give us insight into the contemporary culture of   war. And a relatively new genre, the war manual, had an obvious bear  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Demosthenes’, chapter 3.   It must be added that, these days, Hellenistic poetry is reappraised in more positive terms (cf. various contributions in Clauss and Cuypers, eds. 2010). 48  Green 1993b, p. 203. 49  Green 1993b, p. 74. ‘Anti-heroic’ is a general tendency, but there is also continuity of   traditional images of   heroism in soldiers’ funerary epigrams, mentioning the individual’s kleos (Barbantani 2018, p. 183–239). 50  Brown 2004, p. 7. 46 47

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ing on the war discourse, but mostly on technical rather than cultural issues. In the Hellenistic discourse of   war, art and architecture, epigraphy and numismatics were important genres, more so than in Classical Greece, and will be given due attention below. Images of  war were ubiquitous. Public areas such as market places, administrative buildings, temples and sanctuaries were decorated with war scenes, war heroes, and war booty. Honorary inscriptions adorned these same buildings as well as statues, to celebrate the great deeds of   warriors. Hellenistic coins had portraits of   kings with military icons such as Athena holding the Victory and with martial attributes. Military decorations also figured on graves of  men who had served in the army, even on household utensils. 51 However, war imagery in these ‘private spaces’ was not as common as on public monuments. Epigraphic evidence shows how important the collective memory was of   warfare. The Parian Chronicle is  a  list of   events in Greek history up to c.  264  bc. Most of  the entries are about war. 52

3.3. Themes of  the Hellenistic War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time Most of   what we know of   the Hellenistic war discourse derives from historiography and the visual genres of  art, architecture and so on. Occasional references to literary sources will not be placed in a separate category for this reason. Due to its enormous geographical span and political fragmentation, Hellenistic history is not easy to deal with in a synchronic treatment. Most of   the traditional chronological narratives, such as the one by Polybius, follow a number of  parallel lines to tell the story, and divide their attention over different areas: (1) Greece and the Aegean, (2) Asia Minor and the East, (3) Egypt and the Eastern Mediterranean, and (4) Rome, Italy, Sicily and Spain. We will not follow this division, but discuss thematic concerns in specific genres for the whole of   the Hellenistic Empire that Alexander the Great left behind. Greece and Asia Minor obvi  Chaniotis 2005, p. 2–3.   The Parian Marble (Austin 2006, p. 19–22).

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ously play a more important role than the East and Egypt, firstly because we try to focus on European history, and secondly because of  the limitations in relevant source material from the more exotic parts. 53 Rome and Italy play a special role in the discussion in that there is an inevitable overlap with the history of   Rome, the topic of   the following chapters. Wherever possible, we have tried to use Polybius, Plutarch and Dionysus Siculus only as ‘Hellenistic sources’ in places where they focus on affairs outside of  Rome, or where Rome’s adversaries are the center of   attention, so that we can leave the rest for the chapters on Rome. In the sections that follow, we’ll follow the transition in warfare from the concern of   the citizen-soldier to that of   the professional, and of   the ‘republican’ to the ‘royal’ concern with regards to the cultural implications this transition had in various domains: the role of  courage in battle, the development of  the just war discourse, and the place of  commemoration in a world in which the ruler became increasingly interested in a public display of  his victory and power. 3.3.1. Historiography: The Theme of  Military Excellence In the chapter on Greece we saw how military excellence was related to concepts like bravery and courage. In  the Hellenistic war discourse, courage remained a relevant virtue in military matters, but lost ground in the discourse when Rome appeared on the scene. It also lost ground with the contemporary interest in the idea that war was a profession, and martial excellence something that could be learned and taught. At the same time, professional soldiers lost the social prestige of   their predecessors. It  is  this development that we shall follow below. It was the ephebeia, the training of   young men to become warriors, that as an institution dominated the civic ideology of  courage and honor. After a period of  decline in the late Classical period, the practice was revived and courage and the achieve I realize that current scholarship is  moving away from a  Eurocentric approach to one that gives greater weight to the Mediterranean and the Near East as foci. This is obviously the case in Hellenistic studies. If  I limit myself  to Europe, this is not because I deny other influences but because my canvas is already large as it is. 53

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ment of  honor remained part of  the virtues that cities demanded from their young men. 54 Honor was more respectable than profit. This respectability was often invoked by generals addressing their troops, and continued up to the days of   Alexander the Great. In a famous speech as narrated by Arrian, Alexander tried to convince his men that it was best to continue the expedition after the defeat of  king Porus, and not to turn back: Gentlemen of   Macedon, and you, my friends and allies, this must not be. Stand firm; for well you know that hardship and danger are the price of   glory, and that sweet is the savour of   a  life of   courage and of   deathless renown beyond the grave. 55

In his On  Moral Characters, the early Hellenistic writer Theophrastus followed the tradition of   treating courage and its opposite, cowardice, as innate features. The soldier who lacks courage hides his sword under the pillow in his tent and pretends to be looking for it; and when the trumpet sounds, he’ll never stir from his tent. Courage was a virtue, cowardice a vice, all in the classical Greek vein. 56 To an extent, appeals to courage and eternal renown were topoi, stock topics, and were part of   a  routine. But Alexander’s drive was strong, it appears, and his campaigns were infused with the idea that he was following in the footsteps of   a mythical predecessor like Heracles. In later years, it seems that courage and honor lost some of   this appeal. First of   all, this was due to the competition of   the ‘new kid on the block’. In comparing the rising power of   Rome in the second century bc with that of   its rivals, Carthage and Macedonia in particular, Polybius takes pains to emphasize the superiority of   the Romans, who relied on the ‘excellence of  their institutions’ rather than their inbred courage, taking advantage of   their discipline, their preparation and flexibility, which shows itself  in the quality of   the Roman manipular legion as compared to the Macedonian phalanx. 57 As for the   Chaniotis 2005, p. 49.  Arrian, The Campaigns of  Alexander (Anabasis), 5.26. 56 Theophrastus, On Moral Characters, xxv. 57 Polybius, The Histories, 1.17 and 18.32. 54

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quality of   the individual soldier, Polybius held a dim view of   his Hellenistic contemporaries – they were ‘unsoldierly’, lazy, selfindulgent and lacking morale. 58 However, it can be argued that in his assessment, the individual Roman soldier did not fare better. 59 For Polybius, it was the Roman ‘mixed constitution’ that was responsible for its superiority, i.e. the sophisticated equilibrium of   the power of   the people, the Senate and the consuls, a system of   checks and balances that precluded rash and erratic decision making, for ‘under no circumstances is it safe for the consuls to neglect to cultivate the goodwill of   both the Senate and of   the people’. 60 Also, the way in which Roman religious practice was connected with administrative duties created great cohesion, Polybius believed, not least because of  the strict adherence to formal responsibilities and the sacredness of  the oath. 61 Secondly, courage, the traditional main ingredient of  Classical Greece, lost some of  its luster because Hellenistic Greeks came to see military excellence as a form of  ‘craft’ rather than of  breeding, The military conquests of   Alexander had required large numbers of  soldiers, most of  whom were Greeks and Macedonians, the idea being that even incompetent Greeks were better than barbarians. It  was thought that only when ethnic Greek and Macedonian soldiers became scarce did Hellenistic rulers decide to enroll barbarian troops, 62 but this idea has been challenged in recent scholarship. 63 This broadening of   the catchment area went together with an increased emphasis on the role of   practice and training. The art of   war became a craft rather than a calling. This held for both soldiers and generals alike. For the generals, Hellenistic war manuals (strategemata) became more academic and theoretical than in Xenophon’s days, both in the scientific realm (Heron and Philo on the construction of  the war catapult) and on tactical matters (Posidonius and Asclepiodotus on the Macedonian phalanx) in addition to later  Polybius, The Histories, 8.37; 29.15; 5.63.   Eckstein 1997, p. 179–81. 60 Polybius, The Histories, 6.15. 61 Polybius, The Histories, 6.56. 62  Lendon 2005, p. 508. 63  For the Seleucid kingdom, Aperghis 2017, p. 60–102. For Ptolemaic Egypt, Fischer-Bovet 2014, chapter 3. 58 59

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becoming ‘simply antiquarian’, such as the collections of   stratagems by Frontinus and Polyaenus. There was also a  marked interest in the practical side of   the military management. An example of   how good generalship was appreciated can be found in a fragment from a lost work by the later writer Arrian that describes the operations led by Eumenes of   Cardia after Alexander the Great’s death. After acquiring an unexpected abundance of  resources from their opponents without any effort or danger, the soldiers ‘held Eumenes in high esteem, and the enemy, who were astonished by the speed and unexpectedness of   his attack, still more admired his skill as a general and his very quick-witted intelligence’. 64 But sometimes the tables turned. Not much later, Eumenes was executed by his soldiers because his lack of   success. A  good general was not averse to diplomacy and negotiations, Aelian pointed out when comparing Demetrius Pol­i­or­cetes and Timotheus: Which of   these two was the better General, Demetrius Pol­i­ or­cetes, or Timotheus the Athenian? I will tell you the nature of   both, and then you may judge which deserves to be preferred. Demetrius by force and avarice, and oppressing many, and committing injustice, took Cities, battering their Walls with Engines, and undermining them; but Timotheus by discourse, persuading them it was most to their advantage to obey the Athenians. 65

For the individual soldier, the increased professionalism of   his role had its downturn. Mercenaries were better trained and paid, they brought Greek civilization to far-flung corners of  the realm, to Egypt and into the Asian outback. But as mercenaries they lost the status that the hoplite had long held. In many of   the comic plays of   the time, soldiers serve as the butt of   popular jokes, and are ridiculed as macho men, rowdy and drunken no-goods. 66 The image fits in with the spirit of  the time that is exemplified in the New Comedy: war-making is a business left to the king’s mercenaries – the citizens are free to pursue a commercial career,   Arrian, ‘Events after the Death of  Alexander’ (Ta met’ Alexandron), 10.  Aelian, Various History, 3.16. 66  Lape 2003, p. 68 & ff. 64 65

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make money, and lead a quiet private life. Escapism is fashionable anyway, the public debate and commitment is long gone. It is quite telling that Apollonius’ protagonist Jason is ‘no Apollo’, as Peter Green observes, but ‘a nervous Everyman whose real talent  […] is  bedding women’. 67 Their low social status notwithstanding, mercenaries were instrumental in spreading Greek culture and lifestyle all over the Hellenistic world, and as professional soldiers they were deemed superior to the old citizen-soldiers. 68 3.3.2. Historiography: The Theme of  Agonal Warfare As a  theme, agonal warfare made its reappearance in the Hellenistic period, especially in its aspect of   the ‘just war’ discourse, which actually got a greater impact than before. After all, with the increased size of  armies, more was at stake. Also, the relationship between politics and war, Clausewitz’s famous principle, received wide recognition among Alexander’s warring successors. We shall see how the new rule of   the Hellenistic period, exercised by the monarch, affected the discourse in the direction of  the legitimacy of   conquest. As a  result, ‘victory’ became a  new and important concept. The same can be said of  the powerful image of  the ruler. In his Histories, Polybius looks back with nostalgia to the good old days of   agonal warfare, which he compares favorably with Philip  V of  Macedon’s preference for fraud and treachery: the ancients had war preceded by a declaration, ‘and when they intended to do battle gave notice of   the fact and of   the spot to which they would proceed and array their army’. But at present, Polybius continues, it  is seen as poor generalship to do anything openly in war. 69 An Achaean Greek by origin, Polybius had a  strong admiration for Philopoemen, the most illustrious Achaean of   his generation, who had led his people against the Aetolian Greeks in the Social War.  Philopoemen was a  general showing bravery among his troops, ‘endowed both physically and mentally for the life of  action and of  war’. 70 Also, Hasdrubal,

  Green 1993a, p. 61.   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 29.6. 69 Polybius, The Histories, 13.3.2–8. 70 Polybius, The Histories, 24.11. 67 68

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Hannibal’s brother, who was defeated by the Romans in the Battle of   the Metaurus, received accolades, for showing himself  ‘to  be a  brave man throughout his life; now in his last hour he died in the thick of  the fighting, and I must not take leave of  him without paying the tribute that is his due’. 71 In his study The Athletes of   War, John C. Dayton argues that there is  nothing retrospective about Polybius’ fascination with agonal warfare, for it  is only after the Peloponnesian War (and not before it) that serious attempts were made to regulate and restrain warfare. The agonal discourse really takes off  only in the fourth century, when a  penchant for athletic imagery and metaphor becomes noticeable, and it comes to bloom in the Hellenistic period, when a  certain consciousness of   wartime laws and customs develops, and an outrage at their transgression. 72 To Dayton, there is a disparity between the ancient sources and the prevalent modern opinions – there is, in fact, very scanty evidence for the existence of   agonal warfare in ancient Greece. 73 Once again, it must be emphasized that Dayton’s ‘disparity’ is based on two divergent and conflicting readings of   the ancients, and that the existence of  agonal warfare in ancient Greece cannot be denied. There is  no direct translation of   the conventions of   agonal warfare that we have seen in the previous chapter into the laws of   war that came to be developed in later periods, but there is a clear relationship. It was in the time of   Hellenistic kings that, perhaps somewhat ironically, the relationship between warfare and politics became more sophisticated than ever before. In the many wars between local and regional rulers of   the time, peace could only be secured by the power of  a victorious king, and during their continual wars, Hellenistic ‘warrior-kings’ recognized some ethical constraints, as we know from historians like Polybius. Not only was a successful king expected to conduct negotiations with other kings and materialize his success on the battlefield, the good king, like Philip II of  Macedon, demonstrated leniency, compassion, and above all moderation. A good king did not wan Polybius, The Histories, 11.2.   Dayton 2006, p. 172. 73  Dayton 2006, p. 172. 71 72

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tonly destroy his enemy’s temples and statues, as Philip  V did, an impulsive man who followed his emotions. 74 Polybius held strong views on how ‘just’ wars should be conducted, and the responsibility of   the good ruler in this respect: ‘For good men should not make war on wrong-doers with the object of   destroying and exterminating them, but with that of   correcting and reforming their errors, nor should they involve the guiltless in the fate of   the guilty, but rather extend to those whom they think guilty the mercy and deliverance they offer to the innocent’. 75 In  war, the enemy should be conquered by virtue and justice rather than by weapons. Here, Polybius is clearly describing an ideal, and not commenting on common practice; at the same time, his advice makes psychological sense, for ‘to arms the vanquished yield from necessity, to virtue from conviction’. 76 The justification of  war included the articulation of  grievances. In their conflict with Demetrius the Besieger, the Rhodians failed to present legitimate grievances and were dragged into a  war. 77 Justification, as we have seen in the previous chapter, was a deeply rooted idea in the Greek consciousness, but was given greater attention as time passed; it can be explained as a way to humor the gods, whose favor had to be won not only by sacrifice and a  share of   the booty, but also by moral arguments. 78 Of   course, the discrepancy between the rules – providing proper arguments for starting the war – and actual causes and occasions was recognized at the time. Chaniotis gives an example in the ironic fable by Babrius that ridicules the presentation of   grievances as empty ritual: Once a wolf  saw a lamb that had gone astray from the flock, but instead of   rushing upon him to seize him by force, he tried to find a plausible complaint by which to justify his hostility. ‘Last year, small though you were, you slandered me’. ‘How could I last year? It’s not yet a year since I was born’. ‘Well, then, aren’t you cropping this field, which is  mine?’ ‘No, for I’ve not yet eaten any grass nor have I begun to graze’.  Polybius, The Histories, 5.11.3–4.  Polybius, The Histories, 5.11.5. 76  Polybius, The Histories, 5.12.3. 77  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 20.81–82. 78  Chaniotis 2005, p. 180. 74 75

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‘And haven’t you drunk from the fountain which is mine to drink from?’ ‘No, even yet my mother’s breast provides my nourishment’. Thereupon the wolf  seized the lamb and while eating him remarked: ‘You’re not going to rob the wolf  of  his dinner even though you do find it easy to refute all my charges’. 79

Unjust wars and unjust acts of  war were often linked with acts of  sacrilege in the war discourse, a practice that was already known in earlier days. Sacrilegious deeds, like plundering and destroying temples and shrines, were highlighted to condemn an opponent’s aggression. This form of   injustice made the enemy look bad and the ‘victim’ morally superior, which obviously worked best when the enemy was non-Greek. 80 This can be seen, for example, in Polybius’ treatment of   the enemies of   the Achaeans: their sacrilege made them inferior, and in the long run they could expect the gods’ wrath to descend on them. 81 In Hellenistic Greece, the right of   conquest as such was not disputed: it was taken for granted that wars were fought to enlarge a ruler’s territory. It was important, however, to justify the act, to make it legitimate, for the right of  conquest did not apply unconditionally. The Social War of   220–17  bc between Macedonia and the Aetolian League was called ‘a just war’ by Polybius, ‘a  fitting sequel to the crimes that had been committed’. 82 Of  course, we know that Polybius was not unbiased. And in principle, for Polybius, war in itself  was not an evil that should be avoided at all costs: That war is  a  terrible thing I agree, but it  is not so terrible that we should submit to anything in order to avoid it. For why do we all vaunt our civic equality and liberty of   speech and all that we mean by the word freedom, if  nothing is more advantageous than peace? […] Peace indeed, with justice and honour is the fairest and most profitable of   possessions, but when joined with baseness and disgraceful cowardice, nothing is more infamous and hurtful. 83   Babrius, Fab. 89.  Polybius, The Histories, 9.34.11. 81  Polybius, The Histories, 9.4. 82 Polybius, The Histories, 4.26.1. 83 Polybius, The Histories, 4.31.3–8. 79 80

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Q uestions on the legitimacy of   ownership of   land depended on the terminus a  quo, the historical moment which had been determined as the basis for the discussion. 84 On  this principle, disputes were settled and negotiations conducted, but the terminus was sometimes conveniently placed further back in the past. But conquest in itself  was as legitimate as purchase, donation or inheritance, and violence was a  legitimate form of   acquisition of   property. Again, the circumstances affected the legitimacy of   conquest: open warfare had priority over stealth, or robbery, and a justified war, a war that was provoked, a war with a grievance, over one that was unjustified. If  the conditions were met, and if  necessary without them, victory in war established proprietary rights. This principle was backed up by the belief  that victory itself  implied divine support, and defeat divine punishment. 85 In the period of   the Hellenistic kings, the idea of   success in war became a domineering cultural motif  expressed in the victorious warrior-king. 86 We’ll introduce this idea below, but ‘victory’ as a theme will be discussed later, in as separate section, where it can be tied in with the treatment of  visual genres like art, monuments and numismatics. The ideal Hellenistic ruler was victorious, but would also establish a relationship with the cities in his realm through benefactions. In  return, he would receive gratitude and loyalty, as well as secular and religious honors. In  practice, circumstances determined whether the king would act ‘in accordance with the ideal of   royal benevolence’, or would abuse it ‘in order to cover his real intentions’, i.e. to use common bribery. It is clear that the ideal of   the good ruler was part of   the discourse, not a reflection of  reality. 87 An example of  the conventional city decrees in praise of   a new ruler, the Decree of   Ilium honoring Antiochus I on his accession, illustrates how Ilium’s citizens are prepared to honor the new king: When they are offering ‹the› sacrifice, the citizens and all the resident foreigners (paroikoi) shall wear crowns, and   Chaniotis 2005, p. 182.  Polybius, The Histories, 13.3.4. 86  Chaniotis 2005, p. 183–84. 87  Bringmann 1994, p. 25. 84 85

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shall gather ‹in front of   their homes› and offer sacrifices to the gods on behalf  of  the king and the people. ‹And so that› the people ‹may be› seen ‹by all› to be helping in promoting what relates to honour and glory, (be it resolved) to praise him for the excellence and manliness he ‹constantly› displays, ‹and to set up› a golden equestrian statue ‹of  him› in the sanctuary of  Athena in the ‹most› distinguished ‹place› on the step of   white stone with the following inscription: ‘The people of   ‹Ilium (honours) King Antiochius› son of  King Seleucus for his piety towards the sanctuary (and) for being ‹the benefactor and› savior of  the people’. 88

The same role of   the discourse was in the newly imported image of   the king as god. It  was Alexander himself  who had seen the advantage of   the Eastern tradition of   the divine ruler cult and had started to claim descent from a hero like Achilles and a god like Heracles, and dress in the attire of  gods. 89 The famous legend recorded by his biographer Callisthenes gave Alexander’s divine status its official seal: at the temple of   Siwah in Egypt, the priests had confirmed that he was the son of  Zeus. 90 But underlying the new phenomenon of  the divine ruler is the introduction of  the title of  ‘king’. The time when Alexander’s generals assumed the royal title is an important stage in the historical development, away from Classical Greece into the Hellenistic era. Plutarch tells us how, after Alexander’s death, royal proclamations spread like contagious diseases: the generals all wanted to ‘wear the diadem’, the mark of   royal distinction. It was not just about getting the title, Plutarch adds, for the ‘assumption’ stimulated ‘the spirits of  these men, raised their ideas to a different plane and introduced an element of   pride and self-importance into their daily lives and their dealings with others’. 91 The new kings imitated Alexander ‘with their scarlet cloaks, their bodyguards, the angle at which they held their heads, or the lofty tone of   their   Decree of  Ilium, 33–38.  Arrian, Campaigns, 3.3 and 5.26; ‘In fact, just about every day [Alexander wore] a purple chamys and a chiton with a central stripe and a kausia with the royal diadem’ (Ephippus of   Olynthus, ‘On the Death of   Hephaestion and Alexander’). 90 Arrian, Campaigns, 3.3 and 5.26. 91   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Demetrius’, 18. 88 89

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speech’. 92 The step from general to king would have revolutionary consequences. But Hellenistic monarchy remained tied to their army command, as is  made clear in an entry from a  contemporary text known as the Suda, which discusses individual merit and military ability of  the new kings: Monarchy. It  is  neither descent nor legitimacy which gives monarchies to men, but the ability to command an army and to handle affairs competently. Such was the case with Philip and the Successors of   Alexander. For Alexander’s natural son was in no way helped by his kinship with him, because of  his weakness of  spirit, while those who had no connection with Alexander became kings of   almost the whole inhabited world. 93

Of  course, in the course of   the Hellenistic era, descent did play a role, as dynastic cults established by rulers themselves developed: instead of   following the common practice of   being worshipped as living rulers by the cities they controlled, kings started to deify their predecessors. 94 The king’s apotheosis, 95 or ‘mortal divinity’, in the words of  Angelos Chaniotis, was the result of   the expression of   gratitude that was his due, for he had shown his abilities to protect his subjects. The king’s achievements and benefactions entitled him to honors from the thankful community, just like the honors bestowed upon the gods. 96 The ruler cult (which could include deification after death) was modeled after the worship of   the gods, with rituals of   sacrifice, religious processions and athletic or musical competitions. 97 According to S. R. F. Price, it was the new relationship between rulers and cities after Alexander’s death, the ‘new order’, that explains the genesis of   this convention. 98 The practice of   the ruler cult, enhancing the public relations between the monarch and the community, was continued into     94   95  96  97  98  92 93

Plutarch, ‘Life of  Pyrrhus’, 8.1. Suda, s.v. Basileia 2 (Austin 2006, p. 96). Austin 2006, p. 359. Pollit 1986, p. 19. Chaniotis 2003, p. 433. Chaniotis 203, p. 438. Price 1884, p. 29.

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the Roman period, when it was applied to Roman generals and provincial governors, thus creating a cultural link between Hellenism and the Principate. 3.3.3. Historiography: Liberty and Greek Superiority Even though Greek cities lost much of   their autonomy in the Hellenistic Age, the idea of   liberty that was so prominent in the Classical period did not disappear overnight. It  is  true that the practice of   citizen duty and military service lingered on, but the military revolution of  the 4th century with its shift to professional soldiers, trained specialists and artillery innovations made defence play a  greater role than ever before. Cities were fortified with walls and fortifications in order to repel and withstand sieges, and walls became emblematic of   a city’s liberty. In the war discourse of  the time, ‘liberty’ still played a role and liberty remained a bone of   contention in the aspirations of   cities (striving for maximum autonomy) and monarchs (aiming for maximum power). 99 The liberty card was also played by successor kings for ‘propaganda and divide-and-rule purposes’. 100 Diodorus describes how Antigonus and Ptolemy vied with each other to curry favor with the Greeks by drafting resolutions and proclamations that promised all Greek cities freedom, exemption from garrisons and autonomy. 101 Of  course, these decrees and manifestoes were meant to greatly enhance the cities’ goodwill, easing the collection of  taxes and the acquisition of  skilled labor. 102 Apart from the new conflicts between kings and cities, and conflicts between rival rulers, the old conflicts between city-states remained. There was strong continuity with the past, in events as well as the discourse, as we can see in the following excerpt from oath of   the Cretan city of   Dreros, which asked for loyalty to the city-state in its war with neighboring Lyttus, around 220 bc: I will be friendly to Dreros and friendly to Cnossos, and I will not betray the city of   the Drerians, nor their forts nor those of   the Cnossians; and I will not betray men of   Dreros or of    Austin 2006, p. 80.   Green 1993b, p. 7. 101  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 19.90–91.2. 102  Green 1993b, p. 25. 99

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Cnossos to the enemy, and I will not initiate factional strife (stasis) and I will oppose anyone who does, and I will not form a conspiracy in the city or outside it, and i will not join anyone who does. 103

In later years, when the art of   siege warfare was becoming more sophisticated, defending the city and the fatherland became part of  a new form of  ‘total war’, with great human cost. This prolonged form of  war with colossal, deadly instruments took a much higher toll in dead and wounded, in captured and enslaved. 104 It  also created a  sense of   resistance among the besieged, of   refusing to give up their freedom at all cost. Polybius recounts how in the war with Philip V of  Macedon, the city of  Abydus held an assembly in which it was resolved that, should the enemy conquer the inner wall, all women and children would be killed, the ships set fire to, and all the gold and silver thrown into the sea. 105 Total war also created large groups of  refugees, people without a fatherland who had become beggars and wanderers. For a Greek, the refugee’s life was most pitiful: it was worse than death. This was all part of  the process of  war. At the same time, the universal custom to kill the men and sell the women and children had, by Alexander’s time, modified into a ‘general sale’, and Alexander’s successors became even more interested in taking a city and making it profitable to themselves, ‘not to make it a  desert’. This is why the invasion of   Greece in 279  bc by the barbarian Gauls (‘Galatians’) had such an enormous impact: the Galatians, warriors with no respect for the new rules of   war, ‘accustomed to waging war with passion rather than by making the necessary preparations’, 106 were ‘frankly destructive’. 107 As for the association of   liberty and Greek superiority, we see a continuation from the Greek into the Hellenistic period as well.   Oath of  Dreros, 44–70.   The extent of  casualties in ancient battles is  still controversial. Dayton believes that fatalities remained ‘at the lower end of   the scale’ but increased when Greeks fought barbarians, which suggests that there is no correlation with the presence or absence of   agonal standards but with ‘the more diffuse principle of  cultural and tactical symmetry’ (Dayton 2006, p. 99). 105 Polybius, The Histories, 16.31.4–5. 106 Memnon, History of  Heracleia, 20.2. 107  James 1993, p. 41. 103 104

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Cultural conceptions underlying the war discourse were strong and persistent. 108 For example, the image of  the Persians as lax and unwarlike lived on. Hellenistic supporters of  the decadence thesis (see Chapter 2) pointed to the misuse of  heavy meals and drink as a source of   Persian military weakness. 109 Traditional Greek arguments about their superiority were adopted by the Macedonians. And Macedonian ambitions were firmly established by Philip II, as can be seen in one of  his gold staters of  the time, with the head of   Apollo on one side, establishing Philips ‘aspirations as leader of   the Hellenic world’. 110 Arrian gives these words to Alexander: the Persians ‘had lived in luxury for a long time. It will be above all the struggle of  slaves against free men’. Also, the Persians were cowardly whereas Alexander and his Macedonians were brave. 111 Polybius suggests that Philip  II’s expeditions were driven by his perception of   the Persians as cowardly and nonchalant, and Macedonians as excellent in warfare. 112 As we saw before, the weakness of   the Persian fighting force was overstated by our sources, who were fascinated by the riches and power of  the Great Kings, and had a ‘deep-rooted fear of   their armies and fleets’. 113 Meanwhile, the war-like reputation, if  not obsession with warfare, of   Philip of   Macedon and his followers was parodied by the Athenian playwright Mnesimachus (c.  345  bc). He depicted a symposion with Macedonians banqueting and talking in the following manner: So do you realize you’ll be fighting men who eat sharpened swords for dinner, and gobble down flaming torches as a sidedish? Then right after that the slave brings us Cretan arrowheads as an after-dinner snack, like chickpeas, plus some shattered fragments of  javelins; and we use shields and breastplates as pillows, and put slings and bows by our feet, and wear catapults as garlands. 114

  Briant 2002, p. 202.   Briant 2002, p. 203. 110   Burn 2004, p. 13. 111 Arrian, The Campaigns of  Alexander, 7.8.6–7; 2.7.4. 112 Polybius, The Histories, 3.1. 113  Briant 2002, p. 210. 114 Mnesimachus, Philip, fr. 7. 108 109

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The old Greek aversion to the idea of   monarchy, characteristic of  the despised Persian nation, gave way to a more positive assessment once Greco-Macedonian kings came to power. 115 When the Macedonian nobility adopted Greek arts and crafts, and wished to be seen as Greeks, this was the beginning of   the process called Hellenization. For Alexander the Great, pushing east was ideologically sound and fit the pattern set by Isocrates and the likes. Whether Alexander saw the Persians as intrinsically inferior we do not know, but already before Alexander the idea that Persia was there for the taking – it was decadent and weak and simply invited conquest  116 – had been firmly planted by Xenophon’s expedition and rhetoricians like Isocrates. 117 Arrian’s speeches by Alexander (such as ‘we are free men, and they are slaves’)  118 were standard generals’ harangues and written four centuries after the event. It was certainly Alexander the Great who spread Greek culture over the empire he established, and if  we cannot read his mind, we do know that he reconciled Greek customs with Asian ones, if  only to make it possible to control such a vast kingdom. By blending and assimilating cultures, 119 he attempted to secure his authority: it would rest on goodwill rather than on force. 120 Alexander kept the Persian satrapy system intact, mingled Persian and Macedonian administrators, and integrated the former enemy into his armies. Recruiting barbarians was one of   his principles: irrespective of   their origin, the foreign warriors were included and became part of   ‘Alexander’s men’. He even adopted foreign dress, assimilated the religious mysticism of   Egypt and Persia, and assumed the role of  a god where it became practical. This deliberate attempt at a fusion of   different worlds, a very modern idea and perhaps the earliest form of  globalization, should be seen as a mixture of   idealism and expediency. In Arrian’s version of  the life of  Alexander, it was Alexander himself  who made   Harrison 2002, p. 6–7.  Polybius, The Histories, 3.6. 117   Green 1993a, p. 16. 118 Arrian, The Campaigns of  Alexander, 2.7.4. 119  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 18.4.4. 120  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Alexander’, chapter 47. 115 116

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it explicit during a banquet speech at Opis, a city near Babylon, in an attempt to quell a rebellion among dissatisfied Macedonian troops. By saying ‘every man of   you I regard as my kinsman’, Alexander publicly embraced the idea of   homonoia, the common humanity or brotherhood of   man. 121 The concept had strong pragmatic overtones, as can be illustrated by the controversy that surrounded the proskinesis, the obeisance, a gesture of  prostration to the ground. In Persia it was a social gesture of   an inferior to a superior, in Greece a religious one, of   subjecting oneself  to the gods. Alexander tried to introduce a uniform system, and chose a compromise by having himself  regarded as a god by his subjects. Like this compromise, the grand attempt to fuse East and West was unsuccessful: the treatment of   barbarians as equals clashed with the stubborn nationalist sentiments of  the Companions, the Macedonian elite troops that formed the heart of   his army: they had no wish ‘to fraternize with people they once tried to kill’. 122 In the Hellenistic period, Alexander remained a  source of  inspiration for a whole series of  warrior-kings who went on campaigns in imitation of   their hero. But these Hellenized Macedonians had an ingrained sense of   superiority over the peoples they ruled, and Alexander’s attempts at cultural fusion lost some pace after his death. For the sake of   external threats, the separation of   Greek and barbarian worlds remained a cultural feature even then, but, with the Persian Wars long past, other enemies had to fit the bill. In  one of   his speeches, Libanius of   Antioch praised King Seleucid  I for establishing new cities in Syria: ‘[T]hrough his work of   hellenisation he brought the barbarian world to an end’. 123 Of  the many Hellenistic wars and battles, the ones against the fearsome barbarian tribe of   the Galatians made the greatest impact. In  the 3rd century bc, the Galatians or Gauls, a Celtic tribe, invaded Anatolia as the outcome of   a ‘shock wave’ of  migrations in the Balkans, but they were eventually defeated in 238 by Attalos I of   Pergamon. 124 It is no surprise, therefore, that

 Arrian, The Campaigns of  Alexander, 7.12.   Fox 1986, p. 242. 123  Libanius of  Antioch, Speech XI, 103. 124  Scholtens 2003, p. 137. 121 122

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contemporary sources presented the Galatians as bloodthirsty, godless and uncivilized rabble. 125 Right from the start, the Galatian invasion became a mythic event: the attack on Greece in 279 was identified with events 200 years earlier, and the successful defence of   Delphi was fully exploited by the Aetolians in monuments and inscriptions. 126 When the ‘barbarians’ crossed over to Asia Minor in 278, they instilled great fear in the western cities, and it became the responsibility of  the Hellenistic kings to crush the enemy. Within decades, rival claims were made by Antigonids, Seleucids and Ptolemies alike about their accomplishments in saving Greek civilization and their rightful rulership. Victories by Antigonos Gonatas, Antiochus I and Ptolemy II were all exploited to ‘enhance monarchic prestige’. 127 The promotion of  this myth of  the ruler as savior of   civilization was elevated to great heights a  few decades later in the architecture and sculpture commissioned by the Attalid kings. From Pergamon it spread to important cities and sanctuaries in Greece, such as Delos and Delphi. We know from Pausanias that a  monument was erected on the acropolis of   Athens by a Pergamene king. 128 Until the Romans conquered Greece in the 2nd century bc, Galatia remained a  ‘robber kingdom’ to be reckoned with, a nation that inspired widespread terror if  only for its reputation for sacrificing prisoners. 129 As with the Persians, the image was not unambiguous, however, for Galatians came to be depicted as Noble Savages, in Pergamon and elsewhere, as we shall see later on. It  should also be added that the barbarian myth that the Hellenistic rulers created was most of   all a form of   propaganda that did not necessarily correspond with reality. Stephen Mitchell has pointed out that the wars undertaken by the Galatians were not at their own initiative. The local historian Memnon of   Heracleia offered an alternative rendering of  the Galatian crossover to Asia Minor, for it was King Nicomedes of  Bithynia who had arranged  Pausanias, Description of  Greece, 10.22.2.   Mitchell 2003, p. 280–82. 127   Mitchell 2003, p. 283. 128 Pausanias, Description of  Greece, 1.25.2. 129  James 1993, p. 41. 125 126

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to bring them over, to assist him as allies against his enemies. In other words, the Galatians obtained land in exchange for services as mercenaries. 130 When the Romans came, history repeated itself: even though Galatian forces were no match, Roman victories were presented as a major feat, a successful eradication of  the old Gallic terror. 131 As for the Romans themselves, as ‘barbarians’ they were long ‘on the periphery of  the Greek mental map’, 132 but became a special category once they increased their military presence in the region and made themselves known to the Greek world: on the one hand, Romans resembled Greeks – they were literate and had a law code – on the other, they were like barbarians in their military ferociousness. 133 The Roman conquest and the marked Roman acculturation of   later years led to a  ‘self-identification with the Roman empire’. For the Greeks, the true barbarians were now outside the Roman empire. 134 The mythic accounts of   the Other continued to appear in ‘travel novels and utopias’, and in fictitious ethnography, but all in the ever more distant fringes of   civilizations. 135 To conclude, it can be said that what we see in the period of   Hellenism is  that the separation of   Greek and barbarian worlds did not change fundamentally. Whether Persian, Galatian, or tribes on the fringe, barbarians remained the perfect foil. Alexander the Great’s pragmatic approach did not make a  lasting impression – the old idea of   Hellenization as a successful integration of  Greek and non-Greek cultural elements had now been abandoned. 3.3.4. Historiography: Competition and Commemoration In Alexander the Great, the competitive ethos reached its zenith. Not only did Alexander offer prizes for all unusual achievements, publicly recite the great deeds of  his men, and lavishly reward those who showed courage and excellence, but he actively promoted   Mitchell 2003, p. 287–88.   Mitchell 2003, p. 289. 132   Marincola 2011, p. 349. 133 Polybius, The Histories, 6.53–54. 134  Nippel 2002, p. 294. 135  Nippel 2002, p. 295. 130 131

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competition as well. There were ball games, athletic games, drinking competitions, agility tests such as jumping on and off  chariots, hunting competitions and the like. In his ‘Life of  Alexander’, Plutarch mentions how the competitive spirit even showed itself  as a form of   amusement during a march against the Persians, when the camp followers had divided themselves into two armies and had appointed mock-generals called Alexander and Darius. There was earnest fighting with clubs and stones, to the real Alexander’s great delight. The two mock-generals were invited to fight it out in a one-on-one contest in front of  the troops, the winner receiving twelve villages as a prize. 136 In India, a prince called Taxiles, who showed signs of  submission and presented gifts to Alexander, was taunted when Alexander turned the exchanges of   presents into a contest: Perhaps you think that after your kind words and courtesy our meeting will pass off  without a contest. No, you shall not get the better of   me in this way: I shall fight with you to the last, but only in the services I offer you, for I will not have you outdo me in generosity. 137

Alexander’s sense of   competition was also a  matter of   life and death. This is exemplified by the first twenty-five cavalrymen who fell crossing the Granicus River: they were paid the special honor of  being immortalized in bronze statues. 138 This tradition continued into the Hellenistic period. Again, the interest in war can mostly be seen in historiography (in Diodorus or in Polybius, for instance) and in war monuments, and it  is remarkable that there is  an aesthetic preference for realism on the one hand and ‘baroque’ on the other, the former being characterized by grim details and blood, the latter by passion and drama. 139 Inspired by the exploits of   Alexander the Great, Hellenistic narratives of   war tended towards theatricality: war was seen as unpredictable, full of   dramatic changes. 140 For Polybius,   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Alexander’, chapter 31.   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Alexander’, chapter 59. 138  Arrian, The Campaigns of  Alexander, 7.10.3–4. 139  Chaniotis 2005, p. 190. 140  Chaniotis 2005, p. 207. 136 137

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this is Tyche (Fate)’s role in Rome’s rise to power, and this is why the historian Diodorus Siculus gives special emphasis to the sudden change of   fortune for the Car­thaginians in their war with Dionysus: ‘Before, they had possessed all the cities of   Sicily but Syracuse, but now they were totally defeated’. 141 Victories of  great kings like Demetrius the Besieger could also be commemorated by making the king a mortal divinity and celebrated in hymns (‘Hail son of  the most powerful god Poseidon and Aphrodite!’)  142 and on coins. As the new king of  Macedonia, Demetrius put his own image on his coins, with a double crown symbolizing Europe and Asia, and a robe portraying him as a sun among stars. 143 This form of   commemoration will be discussed in greater detail in the theme of   victory and the iconography of  power below. 3.3.4.1. Art and Architecture, Epigraphy: Commemoration

War monuments had originated in ancient Greece on the basis of  the custom to erect a trophy at the turning point of  the battle. Trophies would be left intact, sometimes turned into monuments, and sometimes survived for centuries, as we know from Pausanias. 144 The prolific construction of  war monuments should be seen in the context of   the competition of   kings, states and cities of   the time. They aim for a military glory that is meant to legitimize victors in battle as new leaders. But, also, successful generals were honored, as we know, for example, from a  letter of   Eumenes I to Pergamum and the subsequent decree resolved by the people of  the city. The generals were crowned ‘with a gold crown for their excellence and their devotion towards Eumenes and the people’. 145 The letter and decree were inscribed in a stele and placed in the agora. 146 In fact, there was a shift from communal achievements to individual contributions in the Hellenistic period. Exceptional brav  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 14.7.  Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae, vi.253b. 143   Green 1993a, p. 38. 144 Pausanias, Description of  Greece, 3.24.6. 145  Decree of  Pergamum, 30–40. 146  Austin 2006, p. 402. 141 142

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ery was recognized in honorary decrees, statues and dedications in sanctuaries, but, more remarkably, it was the victorious king that was celebrated in literature and monuments, and also in the civic ruler cult and in coinage. 147 It can be said that Hellenistic art as a whole is ‘deployed more for the satisfaction of   men and kings, for the embellishment of  private houses and palaces, than for the glory of   gods and the state’. 148 In the same way, the monuments’ dedications show pride and propaganda rather than piety. 149 These developments are symptomatic of  the smaller role of  the polis in ‘international’ warfare, and the rise of  empires and the cult of   the individual. 150 For example, Attalos  I or II dedicated representations of   mythical battles but also historical battles on the Athenian acropolis. This served both ways, to give their own victories mythical and pan-Hellenic status, as well as to enhance their personal reputation. 151 In the celebration of  the ruler’s individual accomplishments, eastern influences have left their mark, such as in some of   the cuneiform texts that have survived. A Hellenistic king like Antiochus I presents himself  as an eastern monarch of   Babylon, in a style that is rather foreign to the ancient Greek tradition: I am Antiochus, the great king, the legitimate king, the king of  the world, king of  Babylon, king of  all countries, the caretaker of   the temples Esagila and Ezida, the first(-born) son of  King Seleucus, the Macedonian, king of  Babylon. 152

Hellenistic commemoration was undoubtedly part of   the strong need for ‘historicism’ that characterizes the age, the yearning for   Chaniotis 2005, p. 242.   Boardman 1996, p. 216. 149   The major focus of   the ‘propagandistic art’ of   Hellenism was on the personality of   the individual ruler who shaped events, in other words, the ‘creation of  a royal imagery’. Its prime example (also its first), according to J. J. Pollitt, was Alexander’s funeral carriage. We have a  detailed description in Diodorus (18.26.3) that refers to decorations with figures of  Nike bearing trophies, a seated Alexander holding a scepter, a military procession with war elephants, and cavalry drawn up in battle formation. Themes depicted include the majesty and greatness of  the king, his battle exploits, and the diversity of  culture in his realm; they would continue to form the new Hellenistic iconography (Pollitt 1986, p. 19). 150  Boardman 1996, p. 267–68. 151  Chaniotis 2005, p. 235. 152  Pritchard 1969, p. 317; Austin 2006, p. 304. 147 148

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history, either real or ‘invented’, as S. Alcock says. 153 An effort was made to recover origin myths and legends, a  self-consciousness that can be explained as the result of  the loss of  the independence and identity of  cities if  one looks at the perspective of  the collective, the communal or civic prestige. From the point of  view of  the aristocratic class, the same interest in the past was oriented on the tracing of   genealogies and pedigrees that went back to the heroic past, the past of  myth and legend and of  heroes. Establishing kinship with heroes was common practice – it established status and secured identity to the elite. 154 The same thing happened with the new cities of   the age: they presented mythical founders to create a  connection with the past. 155 And, of   course, there was no dividing line between myth and history, for the mythic past was ‘firmly situated in historical time’, and just as true or real. 156 Of  course, these things went back a long way, long before the Hellenistic Age, but in the Hellenistic context it was the Macedon royal house that gave them fresh impetus when it sought to obtain proof  of   noble (and Greek) descent. And, during his campaigns, Alexander took great pains to present his venture as a re-enactment of  the great acts of  mythical heroes or gods. 157 There was a practical side to this convention – it made it easier to integrate the unknown and foreign into old, familiar structures. 158 There was a thematic concern in Hellenistic commemoration as well. Through the influence of   Stoic and Epicurean philosophy, Fortune was an important Hellenistic cultural feature, but there was also an aesthetic influence as we saw above. Fortune was taken to be a sort of  guiding force in events, whether deliberate or by chance, and often represented in the form of   a goddess. It plays a role in historiography, in drama, such as in the comedies of  Menander, and in art. Fortune, or Tyche, held power over the course of  life, including events in warfare, and the outcome of  battle was believed to be in her hands – for contemporaries, it was     155   156  157  158  153 154

Alcock 1997, p. 33. Alcock 1997, p. 31–33. Scheer 2003, p. 226. Green 1997, p. 38. Scheer 2003, p. 218–19. Scheer 2003, p. 220.

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a sensible and generally accepted way to explain the vicissitudes of   war. As was just mentioned, Tyche plays a  role in Polybius’ account of   the miraculous rise of   Roman power, and we’ll come back to this in the following chapter on Roman warfare, but here, in the context of   Hellenistic art, we can point to the famous and influential statue of   Tyche that was made for the Seleucid city of  Antioch in 296 bc, shortly after its foundation. It is likely that it commemorated the dramatic reversal in the wars of  the Successors that preceded the city’s foundation. 159 To sum up, commemoration as a theme moved away from the competitive arena and the community to the cult of  the ruler, the king, the god-king. A relationship with the mythic past of  heroes and gods had to be established to give the new rulers, successful warlords and usurpers, royal lineage. In  the Hellenistic period, commemoration of  martial exploits tended to be grand and theatrical, and infused with the idea of  changeability of  fortune. 3.3.5. Art and Architecture, Epigraphy and Numismatics: The Theme of  Victory As a  theme, ‘victory’ can be seen as part of   the theme of   commemoration: after all, it was an obvious subject in commemorating wars. It merits individual treatment because of   its frequency and importance, as well as its connection with the Roman war discourse. ‘Victory’ as a theme was not new to Hellenistic art – there was continuity with the Classical era, but the strong images of  victory that we find in Hellenistic art and architecture are part of  a war discourse that shows no inhibitions in showing violence. Contemporary battles are given detailed representation, battle scenes can be found on grave monuments, and mythical combat is  used to embellish drinking bowls and to adorn public buildings, like the famous encounter between Olympians and Giants on the Great Altar of  Pergamon. Compared to Classical imagery, Hellenistic representation tends to be full of   drama and action, an approach that is usually called ‘Hellenistic baroque’. 160 It also has a  preference for realism rather than Classical perfection.   Burn 2004, p. 137.   Burn 2004, p. 24.

159 160

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The seeming contradiction of   realism and baroque is characteristic of  Hellenistic aesthetic and culture in general. 161 When the Galatians replaced the Persians as the awesome enemy, the wars against the Galatians became a traumatic experience. After all, defeating the barbarian did not just mean rescue from danger, but it also underlined ‘the cultural identity of   the victorious party, and sometimes herald the beginning of  a  new era’. 162 Since Greek and barbarian opponents were not treated in the same manner, victories like Attalos’ victory over the barbarian Galatians received a  special place in the Greek discourse of   war, in historiography, in poems, in monuments, in festivals and commemorative anniversaries. 163 Victors in these wars were associated with the heroes of   the other great wars against barbarians, like the Trojan War and the Persian Wars. Credits for saving ‘the civilized world’ from Galatians were contested, with Aetolians, Macedonians and Pergamenes all staking out claims. To add luster to his reputation, Attalos of   Pergamon dedicated representations of   great Greek battles on the Athenian acropolis, in which the Pergamene victory over the Galatians was juxtaposed to Marathon and other epic events. The famous statue of   the dying Gauls on the altar of   Zeus also served to commemorate a great victory. Celebrating the anniversaries of  the Galatian victories worked both ways: it strengthened Greek identity and encouraged Greek sentiment, but it also constructed ‘otherness’, for it ‘separated the Greeks from the barbarians (Amazons, Thracians, Persians, Galatians) and the free cities from the repressive kings’. 164 The importance attached to victory and its symbolic representation is a mark of   the Hellenistic war discourse. 165 As a theme, it  is related to the theme of   Greek superiority, of   course, and is  best seen in the monumental art of   the period, which came

  Chaniotis 2005, p. 192.   Chaniotis 2005, p. 223. 163  Chaniotis 2005, p. 200. 164  Chaniotis 2005, p. 233. 165  We limit ourselves to connections with the Greek tradition, but Hellenistic kings also went back to Near Eastern predecessors (Strootman 2014, p. 38–61). 161 162

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to full bloom when great rulers stepped in the oriental tradition of  monarchs celebrating their own victories. Alexander the Great had a sculptured group of   figures erected at Dion in Macedonia to commemorate the Battle of   Granicus (334 bc). 166 The enormous Gigantomachy, depicting the mythical battle between gods and giants, which decorates the interior frieze of   the Pergamon Great Altar (now in Berlin) appealed to a tradition of   legendary battle confrontations, old and new, and later became conveniently associated with the victory of  King Eumenes II over the Galatian Celts. Pergamon, the ‘New Athens’, was an important center in the Hellenistic period, and boasted many monumental showcases of   military success. Sculpture flourished with large numbers of   honorary and votive statues, produced in near-industrial fashion, but also with masterpieces of   the time like the Winged Victory of   Samothrace. This statue, now in the Louvre, depicts the goddess Nike, as if  descending from the skies to the temple complex of   Samothrace, to celebrate an important naval victory, most likely that of   Antigonus  II of   Macedonia over Ptolemy  II of   Egypt in 255 bc. 167 Commemorative statues held dedications to Athena or other gods, like Attalus I’s thankful display of  his victories in battle: ‘King Attalus (dedicates) to Athena (these) thank-offerings for battles waged in war: [followed by a  list of  battles]’. 168 Hellenistic victory images had their own themes as well as aesthetics. Sculptors focused on the defeated enemy, for example, rather than on climactic battle scenes. Instead of   battle scenes, we see dead bodies of   slain enemy, or barbarians caught in the act of   killing themselves, as in the statues of   the dying Galatians (the Large Gallic Group) of   the temple of   Athena in Pergamon. The message is  twofold: the enemy is  subdued, but there is  also a certain respect for his death. 169 The Gauls are ‘tall, strong and handsome’, their physique inspiring admiration. There is  a  different, perhaps more cosmopolitan sensibility at work here, at

    168  169  166 167

Fullerton 2000, p. 106–7. Burn 2004, p. 88. Dedications by Attalus I to Athena at Pergamum. Chaniotis 2005, p. 200.

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any rate one that is  more interested in emotion and feeling. 170 In  statues like the Dying Gaul, already mentioned, and the socalled Ludovisi Group (of  a Gaul committing suicide after killing his wife), the defeated enemy is given credit for his courage, defiance and his dignity in preferring self-chosen death. Themes and aesthetics reveal the Hellenistic ideal of   simplicity and rusticity. 171 There is  plenty of   epigraphic evidence as well. For example, the Res Gestae of  Ptolemy III, recounting his exploits in the Third Syrian War of   around 240 bc, speak of   ‘having secured control of   all the territory within (i.e. to the west of) the Euphrates’, ‘having reduced to his obedience all the rulers in the provinces’, ‘having subdued Mesopotamia, Babylonia [and so on]’, foreshadowing Augustus’ proud list of   victories gained a  few hundred years later. 172 As a theme of  artistic expression, Victory also figured on coins, such as on the Victory of   Demetrius coin. It commemorated the Macedonian ruler Demetrius’ naval victory over Ptolemy  I off  Salamis in 306 bc. Demetrius (‘The Besieger’) smashed the Egyptian fleet and subsequently assumed control of  a large part of  the eastern Mediterranean. The coin shows Nike on the obverse, blowing a trumpet, and Poseidon, god of   the sea, on the reverse, wielding his trident. 173 A seated Athena, holding a winged Nike, with wreath, spear and shield figures on a tetradrachm of  Lysimachus, ruler of  Thrace, minted around 300 bc. 174 For the Successor Kings, it was Alexander that remained a prime source of   inspiration: Sicilian coins of  the late 4th and early 3rd centuries displayed the image of   Alexander and the representation of   Victory. 175 Of  course, Alexander had zealously promoted his self-image by replacing local currency with his own issues. It  is  clear that in this respect the Hellenistic period can be seen as forming a bridge between Greece and Rome: the popularity of   Victory as an     172   173  174  175  170

171

Burn 2004, p. 154. Green 1993b, figures 112 and 113. Austin 2006, p. 466. British Museum, CM 1873–8-3–1 (PCG IV.A.15). British Museum, CM 1919–08-20–1. Stewart 1993, p. 264–69; p. 313–21.

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emblem in the late Greek war discourse foreshadows the Roman interest in victory as a major cultural theme. 3.3.6. Art and Architecture: The Iconography of  Power Around 305  bc, Alexander’s generals started to claim kingship on the basis of   their military conquests. We have seen how kingdoms became the dominant forces in the political history of   the time. What is  interesting here is  that they expressed this dominance in various ‘powerful concrete and ideological forms’, to use John Ma’s words. 176 A Hellenistic monarch was, above all, a warrior king, and this was shown in his image and attributes. The king wore a  helmet, was often associated with Heracles, took initiatives for new wars, and figured prominently in military parades. His epithets stressed the accomplishments he had achieved or claimed, such as Seleucus VI’s ‘the one with the manifest power, the victorious’. 177 This role was ultimately derived from Alexander’s example, and, indeed, it can be argued that during Alexander’s reign, Greek art underwent important transformations, the most interesting one for the purpose of   this study being the ‘invention’ of  the western iconography of  power. 178 For this purpose, the king was portrayed in a  number of   ‘royal scenarios’, such as battles, hunts and rituals, and before his death was turned into a god. On coins, royal portraits were placed on the obverse, which was the conventional place for the gods in the Greek period, whereas the deities were now placed on the reverse. This change marked the new status of  the king and the loss of  distinction between the human and the divine. 179 As a  warrior, Alexander was immortalized in the Granicus Monument, a  large-scale equestrian bronze group depicting his first great victory over the Persians in 334  bc. 180 Bronzes by Lysippos showed Alexander as a ‘quasi-Homeric hero – a second Achilles, spear in hand, dashing and youthful, ready to make the     178   179  180  176 177

Ma 2003, p. 179. Chaniotis 2005, p. 62. Stewart 2003, p. 159. Austin 2006, p. 14. Burn 2004, p. 49.

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world anew’. And the paintings by Apelles represented the king with thunderbolt in hand, ‘no mere hero but a Zeus on earth’. 181 The royal image was deliberately created by Alexander, and for this purpose was borrowed from the East, since there were obviously no Greek models: Egyptian pharaohs, the Persian Great King, or even ancient Assyrian rulers like Ashurbanipal, who liked to see himself  represented on lion hunts. While still alive, Alexander controlled the images of   himself  that appeared, such as the full-length statues that were erected in the centers of   the cities that he conquered or founded. The image conveyed was one of   superhuman-turned-god, as well of   the familiar Greek ‘excellence of   virtue’, and was jealously guarded, as we can infer from Plutarch’s comment that Alexander would only have Lysippos sculpt his portrait: ‘For only Lysippos, it seems, brought out his real character in the bronze and gave form to his essential excellence’. 182 After his death, Alexander’s portrait remained important, because his successors used it as a political tool to reinforce their positions. The cult of   the deified Alexander was promoted as a form of  ‘glory by association’ – some of  Alexander’s excellence would rub off  on the new rulers. This was in the form of   monuments (statues), paintings and coins. Gradually, local rulers began to replace Alexander’s image with that of   their own. 183 We now see a  process of   translation of   existing imagery into something new, especially on coins (many statues having perished). We see Demetrius putting his own portrait on coins, probably the first living ruler to do so, with horns and royal diadem. We see Seleucus I on a silver tetradrachm, also with his own effigy, provided with bull’s horn and ear, symbolic of   superhuman strength, and a panther skin possibly alluding to Dionysus’s mythical conquest of  India. 184 In religion, we see a  development that follows this pattern. In  principle, the Greeks of   the Hellenistic period continued practicing the old rituals and invoking the old deities, but in     183  184  181 182

Stewart 2006, p. 159. Plutarch, ‘On the Fortune or Virtue of  Alexander the Great’, 2.2.3. Burn 2004, p. 65. Green 1993, figures 14, 11 respectively.

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the new cosmopolitan centers foreign cults and their gods were introduced and mixed freely with the Classical traditions. What was really new, however, was the ‘ruler cult’, which gave the ruler ‘the trappings of   divinity’, albeit without the full status of   a god, a mortal divinity (isotheos) so to speak. The god-like ruler, like the gods, was a provider of   benefits and gifts. 185 The dynasties of   the Successor Kingdoms associated themselves with deities such as Athena (Attalids), Heracles (Antigonids), Apollo (Seleucids), to give a few examples, in an attempt to legitimize themselves, for, after all, ‘in a  sense, they were all usurpers’. 186 This practice was facilitated by the theory of   Euhemerus, popular at the time, which stated that the gods had all originally been monarchs on earth and had been deified as a reward for what they had accomplished as humans. Also, people had come to believe that the only gods that really mattered were those who could be potential benefactors here on earth – this enhanced the position of   the divine king. 187 Kings with divine honors were more likely to deliver than the traditional gods, and the epithets they received are telling: ‘Savior’, ‘Benefactor’, ‘God Manifest’, or ‘Victor’, to name a few. Apart from these epithets, kings were given their own cults by thankful cities, including altars, statues, games and annual processions. 188 In art and architecture, the king’s efforts at self-promotion was translated into what is now called ‘gigantism’. Theaters, stoas, temples, they were all erected on a massive scale, and their enormous size is  what impresses us most of   all. The Colossus of  Rhodes, a war memorial of   the Rhodians and one of   the wonders of  the ancient world, was one of   such structures, but it  is now lost. It  was erected close to the habor of   Rhodes and celebrated the city’s success against the siege of   Demetrius in 305  bc. 189 The Pergamon Altar, a 2nd century bc building on the acropolis of   Pergamon, now an exhibit in a  Berlin museum, is  no longer part of  a temple, as altars used to be in Classical times, it is a tem    187   188  189  185 186

Mikalson 2006, p. 219. Walbank 1993, p. 210. Green 1993b, p. 398–99. Green 1993b, p. 402–3. Burn 2004, p. 23.

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ple all by itself, on a stupendous scale. As a distinctive feature of  Hellenistic art, gigantism served to create an overwhelming visual impression, with plenty of   scope to highlight forceful details. 190 Although its concept is Classical Greek, the Great Altar’s overall effect is foreign to Greek sensibility. The warrior-king would also figure as the peace-king, both as an arbitrator in lesser conflicts between cities in his realm – the one between Priene and Samos being the best example – and as the supreme ruler concluding the peace after war by eliminating the opponent, for peace was seen as the happy outcome of   a victorious war. The role of   peace-maker, like the role of   negotiator, protector and benefactor – what Chaniotis calls the ‘interactive kingship’ – is not visually reflected in art or on coins as much as in documentary evidence, such as in a laudatory poem by the court poet Theocritus praising Ptolemy II: No enemy by land has crossed the teeming Nile to raise a cry of   battle in villages that do not belong to him, nor has he leaped in arms upon the shore from a swift ship with hostile intent to seize the herds of  Egypt. 191

The ‘power’ and ‘victory’ discourse that characterizes the Hellenistic period can no doubt be related to the military nature of   the monarchy, as Michel Austin has underlined in discussing the Seleucid Empire. The monarchy was an ‘artificial construct’, created and constantly reshaped by individual kings who were actually warlords with an army. 192 Royal status depended on military success, and loyalty, once obtained, had to be secured and maintained. Therefore, the royal discourse aimed to control public opinion, 193 and often with great success, as shown by the ‘dynastic propaganda’, 194 developed to high levels of   sophistication by the Attalids of   Pergamon. There are interesting parallels here with the Roman period of   the third century ad, as we shall see.   Burn 2004, p. 92–93.  Theocritus, Idylls, XVII, 73–130. 192   Austin 2003, p. 122–24. 193  Austin 2003, p. 126. 194  Kosmetatou 2003, p. 170. 190 191

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4. Conclusion Whether in monuments, epigraphy or in historiography, Hellenism had a marked interest in war, notably wars fought against representatives of   other cultures, such as Thracians and Galatians. They were related to earlier, or even mythic wars against ‘barbarians’, like Trojans or Persians. These, after all, were the wars that shaped Greek identity. Although, in the Hellenistic period, patriotic competition was replaced with the grand competition of   powerful rulers, even then, albeit on a smaller scale, there were opponents that could still be identified as intrinsically inferior, such as the Galatian Celts in Anatolia. By then, the message was mixed, however, as the famous statue of   the Dying Gaul demonstrates. The Hellenistic bronze that was the model for the Roman marble that is now on display in the Capitoline Museums in Rome was commissioned by Attalus of   Pergamon to celebrate his victory over the Galatian Celts, but it conveys a strong sense of  admiration for the dying warrior’s nobility and bravery. 195 One of   the great changes in the Hellenistic war discourse as compared to that of   ancient Greece was the change of  focus from the civic and communal to the private and personal, a change that marked Hellenistic culture as a  whole. This can be seen most of  all in the war monuments of   the time, which often celebrate a personality cult of   a  monarch or regional leader. In 479 bc, the time of  the Persian Wars, this was different. Then, scandalized Spartan authorities erased the name of  the Greek commander-in-chief, Pausanias, from the memorial of  victory over Xerxes and replaced it with the simple words: ‘These fought the war’. 196 This is a far cry from the monument erected for King Antigonus Gonatas around 250 bc, dedicated to Athena Nike, the patron of  victory, that ‘contained memorials of  the king’s deeds against the barbarians for the salvation of  the Greeks. 197

  Musei Capitolini, ‘Statue of  Capitoline Gaul’, MC0747.   Green 1993a, p. 98. 197  Chaniotis 2005, p. 220. 195 196

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In many ways, the Hellenistic war discourse can be seen to form a link with that of  the Roman empire. Indeed, Rome could be called a ‘better-run Hellenistic-style kingdom’, as Peter Green phrased it. 198 It is especially the ideology of   conquest, the imperialist impulse that Hellenistic rulers flaunted, the imitation of  Alexander, that brings us to the Roman war discourse. Augustus’ visit to the tomb of   Alexander when he captured the city of  Alexandria is an example of   the reputation that Alexander held among the Romans – according to Suetonius, Augustus placed a  golden crown on the embalmed body and scattered flowers over it. 199 And Plutarch gives another example in describing the imperialist mission of   the young Pyrrhus in a conversation with the philosopher Cineas: ‘If  we can conquer the Romans, there is  no Greek or barbarian city which is  a  match for us. We shall straightaway become the masters of  the whole of  Italy, and nobody knows the size and the strength and the resources of   the country better than yourself’. There was a  moment’s pause before Cineas went on. ‘Then, sire, after we have conquered Italy, what shall we do next?’ Pyrrhus did not see yet where the argument was leading. ‘After Italy, Sicily, of   course’, he said. ‘The place positively beckons to us. It  is  rich, well-populated, and easy to capture. Now that Agathocles is dead, the whole island is  torn by factions, there is  no stable government in the cities, and the demagogues have it all their own way’. ‘No doubt what you say is true’, Cineas answered, ‘but is  our campaign to end with the capture of   Sicily?’ ‘If  the gods grant us victory and success in this campaign’, Pyrrhus told him, ‘we can make it the spring-board for much greater enterprises. How could we resist making an attempt upon Libya and Carthage, once we came within reach of   them? Even Agathocles very nearly succeeded in capturing them when he slipped out of  Syracuse with only a handful of  ships. And when we have conquered these countries, none of   our enemies who are so insolent to us now, will be able to stand up to us’. 200

  Green 1993a, p. 121.   Suetonius, ‘Life of  Augustus’, chapter 18. 200  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Pyrrhus’, chapter 14. 198 199

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Of  course, living in a time when the blend of   Greek and Roman culture reached its zenith, Plutarch was in the perfect position to give the young Pyrrhus the image of  Alexander – both in conduct and appearance –   201 and articulate it in the discourse of  conquest that the Romans would fully understand.

  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Pyrrhus’, chapter 8.

201

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1. Sources Early Rome is a unique period in that we have few documentary sources and what other – archaeological – material we have cannot shed much light on the war discourse of  the period. 1 Although there is broad consensus that the annales of  the pontifices as well as the lists of  annual magistrates formed an important development in Roman history writing, there is  no such agreement among modern scholars about the role of   the oral tradition. There are references in ancient sources (like Cato the Elder) to the ancient custom of   guests at banquets singing songs in praise of   famous men. Also, deeds of   ancestors were commemorated in funeral orations – as seen on early epitaphs and commented on by Polybius – and, as Dionysius says in his History, in hymns sung during sacrifices. 2 However, it  is hard to produce evidence for the role of  lists, songs and orations in the historical tradition of  Rome. The same can be said of   the role of   dramatic performances. T.  P. Wiseman believes it can be safely assumed that ‘much of  Rome’s communal memory consisted of   what the citizen body saw regularly performed before its eyes’. 3 This is an assumption, 1   We can safely assume, however, that warfare played an important role in archaic Rome, for 7th-century Latium graves excavated show weapons that were commonly buried with the (male) occupants. One grave, for example, contained a lance, sword, breastplate, three shields and a small two-wheeled chariot (Forsythe 2006, p. 57). 2  Wiseman 2007, p. 71–72. 3  Wiseman 2007, p. 73.

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based on common sense and comparative cultural history. The same holds for epic poetry. It  is  likely to have played a  role in transmitting early Roman history. Indeed, there are references to narrative poems, carmina, but these references are from later years. The longest and best-known of   these poems, Naevius’ carmen, was probably recited at the ludi and contained the great stories of   Rome, such as the foundation by Romulus, Aeneas’ flight from Troy, and Jupiter’s prophecy of   Roman greatness. 4 Finally, the idea that a  grand epic similar to Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey underlay the poetic tradition, originally voiced by the philologist and historian Niebuhr in the early 19th century, has now been discarded. The Niebuhr thesis was long controversial; it was refuted by Mommsen and Alföldi, was revived and finally laid to rest. 5 But even without a Roman Homer, I believe the existence of   an oral tradition of   epic, i.e. narrative, poetry as a source of   inspiration for later writers is very likely if  not proven, if  only on the basis of  analogy with other prehistoric communities. The lack of   sources does not suggest the absence of   useful material. The Romans had a strong interest in their history and its beginning. It is described in full detail in the many myths and legends that have survived, the most important of  which concern the foundation of   the city. The present chapter will mainly focus on the foundation myths since they had a number of  implications for the way in which the Romans saw themselves and how they believed their destiny would unfold itself. The mythography itself  does not belong here, because it is related to later periods, like the Mid Republic, when the first written versions of   Roman history saw the light, or even later, the Augustan period, when the old myths and legends were rewritten and expanded to serve other agendas.

2. Rome’s Foundation Myths Although Athens and Rome originated as city-states at approximately the same time, Greek and Roman history did not run along parallel lines. For historiography, it is important to realize that the   Wiseman 2007, p. 74.   Bridenthal 1972, p. 197 & ff.

4 5

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Greeks used writing as a means of  communication long before the Romans did. It is also important to underline that the myths and legends that were part and parcel of   the first Roman historiography and literature were seen as one body of  narratives. There was no sharp dividing line in Rome between myth (fibula) and legend (historia), nor was there a  perceived difference between stories coming from Rome or Italy and Greece. Even so, there is a sensible distinction made by Bremmer and Horsfall between Roman myths that predate regular contact with Greek literature and the spread of  literacy, and myths that could be called ‘secondary’. 6 The latter are the products of   ‘antiquarian industry’, literary constructs that suggest ancient authenticity. These ‘secondary’ myths can be dated to the period following 240 bc, when there was a  growing literate public, and Roman armies brought back ‘scraps of  Greek stories’, as well as Greek language and mores from Southern Italy. In  their story-telling, Romans followed Greek patterns, but they did not try to record the exploits of   gods and semi-divine heroes; instead, they centered instead on the origin of   Rome, its foundation and development. 7 These origin myths helped to create a  ‘historical consciousness’ that, in later years, would be rewritten to serve the needs of  the day. 8 We know from archaeological records that at the time of  Greek colonization, a  large part of   Italy including Rome had become a part of   the Greek world. There are also written documents that refer to Italy and Rome, and even to Rome’s origin. Promathion of  Samos wrote his Italica in the early 5th century; it contained an early version of  the Romulus legend. but, as Wiseman suggests, he followed a native Italic story. 9 And in the late 5th century, Hellanicus of   Lesbos wrote about Rome’s foundation by Aeneas and Odysseus. 10 Foundation myths abounded in Hellenistic ktisis (‘foundation’) poems, quite in vogue at the time. 11 Although there was a distinct Greek influence, the formation of   both strands of   the foundation myth – the Romulus and     8   9 

Bremmer and Horsfall 1987, p. 5–7. Bremmer and Horsfall 1987, p. 5–7. Wiseman 2007, p. 74. Wiseman 1995, p. 60. 10  Wiseman 1995, p. 68. 11  Goldberg 1995, p. 54. 6 7

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Remus version as well as the Aeneas version was a  complicated process. In the end, the Romans managed to coalesce the two stories into a large number of   combinations, in a process sometimes called bricolage. 12

2.1. Romulus and Remus vs Aeneas Reduced to essentials, the Romulus and Remus myth runs as follows. Romulus and Remus are the twin boys born to the daughter of  the king of  Alba Longa, sired by Mars, and forcibly abandoned, after birth, to die in the Tiber River. Miraculously, they are carried by the river to safety, suckled by a she-wolf, and eventually found by a shepherd and his wife. The twins are raised as shepherds. They find out about their identities, but rather than inherit Alba Longa, they prefer to found a new city. In selecting the site, Romulus prefers the Palatine Hill, but Remus the Aventine. In  the ensuing quarrel, Remus is  killed. After Romulus’ foundation of   the city of  Rome, he attracts many young followers, landless refugees, and finds women for them by abducting women from the neighboring Sabines. The war that follows ends with Roman victory and the incorporation of  the Sabine people by the Romans. Romulus becomes Rome’s first king. The Aeneas myth is  set earlier in time, and goes back to the Trojan War. After the war has ended, the Trojan prince Aeneas is commanded in a vision to flee with a number of   survivors and found a new city. The group of   Trojans cross the Mediterranean on a long voyage that takes them to places like Carthage and Sicily. After many adventures, the wandering Aeneas lands on the shores of  Latium, marries the daughter of  King Latinus and subsequently finds himself  in a series of  armed conflicts. After overcoming their opponents, Aeneas and his followers become integrated into the local population before going on to found the city of   Lavinium. In a related myth set in the years just before the Trojan War, the deified Greek hero Evander, coming from Arcadia, goes all the way to Latium, bringing Greek traditions to Italy and assisting Aeneas in his armed struggle.

 Chapter 1.

12

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2.2. Genesis and Development of  the Foundation Myths Rome’s foundation myths bear witness to the deep impact that Greek culture had and its reception. This took place in a  process that would last for centuries and that would also remain ambivalent. On the one hand, Greek (or Hellenistic) culture was admired and embraced; on the other, it was scorned as effeminate and artificial. In the context of  the foundation myths, it is interesting that the rooting of   Roman identity was realized through the legend of  Aeneas and Troy. The story was ‘invented by Greek intellectuals’, as Erich Gruen says, in the course of   the midfourth century bc, ‘modified by Sicilian historians like Alcimus in the later 4th century, and eventually adapted by the Romans themselves’. 13 Irony, of   course, abounds, for the Trojans were the enemies of   the Greeks and even though the story may have been Greek, Rome’s ancestors were clearly not. But then again, later modifications sought to establish Greek roots all the same, as in the Evander legend. We find it incorporated into the version by Dionysius of   Halicarnassus, who adds other bands of   Greek immigrants arriving before Aeneas did. For the Greeks, the westward voyage of   Aeneas was nothing out of   the ordinary – migrations to the west were both fictional and real. After all, there were long-established Greek colonies in Sicily and southern Italy. As early as the 4th century, Sicilian historians like Alcimus wrote histories that combined Aeneas, Romulus and Odysseus in an integrated myth, using Greek tales, Latin epics and their own imagination. In other words, the Trojan origin was placed into a Latin context and mixed with Latin legends. 14 Only then did Rome ‘borrow’ Aeneas for its own purposes. 15

3. Interpretations: Theoretical Considerations Following Mommsen, 19th-century historians treated Rome’s foundation myths as pure fiction without any historical merit,   Gruen 1992, p. 2–3; p. 12–15.   Gruen 1993, p. 20–26. 15  Bremmer and Horsfall 1987, p. 20. 13 14

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and one of  Mommsen’s students, Ettore Pais, called Rome’s early history a ‘falsification’. 16 This view, called ‘hypercritical’ or ‘sceptical’ remained dominant in the years that followed, especially among Anglo-Saxon scholars, but it was challenged by some classicists who see the early tradition of  Rome that we find in the stories confirmed by recent archaeological findings that have pushed the chronology of   early Rome further into the past. Scholars like Grandazzi and Cornell follow this ‘fideist’ line of  thought. Among the later skepticists, Alföldi expressed the strongest views about the nature of  the myths. In his perception, early Rome was just one of   the 30 members of   the Latin League. Its special position was an annalist creation. The annalists tried to push Rome’s hegemony back in time, even to its very beginning, in order to give Rome’s rising power a suitable pedigree. This fiction was adopted by later writers like Strabo or Plutarch, who subscribed to the idea that the Rome of   Romulus already lorded it over its allies (Strabo, 5.3–4; Plutarch, Romulus, 23–26). 17 Opposing Alföldi’s ‘fiction’ hypothesis, Tim Cornell argues that since Rome’s myths were handed down orally, it  is likely that went back a long way. Cornell points out that the foundation legend was already known in the archaic period, for we have the famous statue of  the Capitoline Wolf, which can be dated to 500 bc or earlier. 18 The old stories might even be based on fact, Cornell contends in an unconvincing leap of   faith, since Rome’s position of   strength under the 6th-century kings is supported by archaeological evidence. 19 Also, there would have been little scope for annalist invention: they could not change the basic outline of  facts that were known to contemporaries. After all, the historical tradition is the ‘sum of  what successive generations of  Romans believed about their own past’. 20 It is true that the tradition was reintegrated and filled with rhetorical elaboration, Cornell admits, but the basic outline was reliable. In his analysis he draws a sharp   Grandazzi 1997, p. 18.   Alföldi 1971, p. 101–2. 18  Cornell 1995a, p. 10–11. However, with the publication of  A. M. Carruba and L. De Mari, La lupa Capitoline: un bronzo medievale (2006), the authenticity of  the statue has become disputed. 19  Cornell 1995a, p. 12. 20  Cornell 2005, p. 57. 16 17

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line between structure (basic facts) and superstructure (rhetorical narrative). It seems to me that Cornell’s position in the debate is untenable where it relies too heavily on the separation of   fact and ‘embellishment’. It is questionable whether the two categories can be separated at all, especially so in the context of   ancient history. True, there must have been an oral tradition long at work before the annalists, and Alföldi’s reading of  the annalist output as pure fiction (even fraud) is  overstated, but the development of   the story lines over time, each generation creating its own version, makes it very well possible to treat the myths as a form of  fiction. After all, even fiction relates to the world we live in and inevitably contains fact. But above all, like all legends and myths, the Roman stories were only superficially meant to record history – their true meaning was to show how the Romans wanted to see themselves and how they wanted to be seen by outsiders. The study of   early Roman mythology gave rise to another, comparative approach, in which the old tales are explained as a function of  religion and ritual, and studied from a social perspective. The comparative philologist Georges Dumézil, for example, placed Roman myth in a  larger Indo-European framework and made comparisons with myths from other tribal communities. 21 Dumézil believed the myths were created as late as the 4th century, based on Indo-European storylines. This late creation is problematic, Forsythe has pointed out, for stories about mythical twins circulated earlier. Already around 500 bc, Castor and Pollux were worshipped in Lavinium. 22 More recently, Bremmer and Horsfall have used a similar method in identifying a number of   mythical features with parallel patterns in other cultures, some of   which not very distant. The story of  the twins, for example, is very close to that of  Praeneste, another ancient city of  Latium. 23 At first sight, comparative mythology creates more problems than it solves. Mythological analogies are found all over the world, Joseph Campbell has shown, which makes a  common ancestry somewhat dubious, even for communities that are relatively close   Dumézil 1973.   Forsythe 2006, p. 95. 23  Bremmer and Horsfall 1987, p. 54. 21 22

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in time and space. 24 At the same time it does offer support for the phenomenon of   bricolage, in which borrowings and adaptations are always at work and may account for a measure of   shared elements in storytelling. Meanwhile, another debate engaged archaeologists and historians, in which formation (Stadtwerdung) and foundation (Stadtgründung) were opposing principles. On  one side, the Gjerstad hypothesis stated that Rome originated in a long process of  aggregation of   different communities; on the other, the Müller-Karpe thesis claimed a  single-group origin developed from a  Palatine supremacy. 25 With recent archaeological discoveries, the latter view has gained ascendancy. 26 And, finally, a wholly different approach has more recently been introduced by Jeremy Armstrong, who argues that we should not focus to much on the traditional ‘framing’ of  history by later storytellers that are dealing with individuals. Instead, it is more useful to look at the collective behavior that the Romans displayed in their warmaking. Rome’s power was created by the struggle between the settled urban population and the region’s more mobile elites led by warlords – these two groups gradually fused into a cohesive society. 27 The claim is interesting, but for the present study, the stories that were created remain our central concern.

4. Interpretations: Practical Applications ‘The dreadful inescapable fact is  that there was no written history before about 200 bc’, T. P. Wiseman remarked in his review of   Tim Cornell’s Beginnings of   Rome. 28 And, even then, one may ask: how much did Fabius Pictor know about early Rome? In  the following chapter on the Mid Republic, we will address   Campbell 1968.   Grandazzi 1997, p. 145. 26  It could have repercussions for the debate concerning Rome’s origin myth that we outlined above, in that Cornell’s early, literalist interpretation could be seen as more credible. Still, even an early and fast development of  the city does not invalidate a skeptical interpretation of  the discourse in itself. 27  Armstrong 2016, p. 4 & ff. 28  Wiseman 1996, p. 311. 24 25

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the issue of   the filling in of   the past, or, perhaps more correctly, of  the ‘expansion of  the past’, as Badian called it. What we can do here is select a number of  features from the origin myths that have invited specific interpretations, some of  which somewhat speculative, and establish a link with the discourse themes that are the subject matter of   this study. In the chapters that follow, we shall come back to them.

4.1. The Warfare Connection In Roman religion, the god Mars had a number of  divergent associations, including youth and new beginnings, agriculture, and wolves. These elements are clearly represented in the Romulus myth. Of  course, Mars was also the god of   war, and the association with warfare in the myth can be made with the war that followed the abduction and rape of  the Sabine maidens. The murder of   Remus is  an interesting case. Was it fratricide or really war? In the tale, there was a fight. Wiseman argues that it is a mythical representation of   the conflict between plebeians and patricians, with Remus as the founding father of   the plebeian cause. 29 But all this is hard to prove. The Sabine War is a different matter: it has no political relation whatsoever, since there is no evidence of  the historical existence of  the Sabines in the first place. 30 This is why, as Rome’s ‘Urkrieg’, the Sabine War may have been a later add-on to give a historical background to Rome’s many wars of  conquest. 31 From early days on, the many unfortunate overtones of   the tales – the founders were suckled by a wolf, engaged in fratricide and rape – ‘provoked both scorn and apology’. 32 Since the war discourse is the subject of   this study, we shall look at some of  the later versions of  the tale with special interest.

  Wiseman 1995.   Momigliano 1989, p. 87. 31  Rowland 1983, p. 761.The connection between early Rome and endemic warfare was ‘received wisdom’ in later periods. Suetonius, for example, writes that in Rome’s ‘rude state of  society’, its people ‘were engaged in constant warfare and had not much time to bestow on the cultivation of   the liberal arts’ (Suetonius, Lives of  Eminent Grammarians, 1.1). 32   Dench 2005, p. 2. 29 30

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4.2. The Pastoral Setting A central feature of   the Romulus myth is  its pastoral setting. This setting would appear as a topos in later discourse, specifically in the Late Republic and the Augustan Age.  The raising of   the twins by a  shepherd is  a  motif  that runs through many other myths, something which could point to primeval roots. The same goes for the twins’ engagement in cattle-raiding, a common ritede-passage among tribal communities. It  figures prominently, for example, in Celtic mythology. These elements suggest a long pedigree, as well as an invested interest in a rustic beginning.

4.3. Rome’s Capacity for Assimilation After he founded Rome, Romulus opened up the city to outsiders of   all hue and color, including criminals and vagabonds. Again, there are connections with other cultures, since there is a pattern of  young male bands operating on the margin of   the community and attracting other marginal types. 33 It is tempting to relate this part of  the tale with Rome’s tendency to assimilate ‘foreign’ groups like migrants, freed slaves and subject peoples, with considerable success. Seen from this perspective, the ‘asylum myth’ exemplifies Rome as an early multicultural society. But even in antiquity, the asylum myth had its detractors, such as Cicero – after all, ‘the crap of   Romulus’ consisted of   slaves and sinners. 34 Hence, it will come back in the context of   the ‘Roman superiority’ discourse.

4.4. Grace under Pressure Few of  the Roman myths do not relate directly to Rome’s origins. But some of   them, set a little later in time, should be mentioned here, for they give valuable insight into the virtues that were greatly appreciated by Romans of   all periods, such as the combination of   virtus and disciplina. The idea of   personal bravery in battle, virtus, was an important ingredient in the war discourse,   Bremmer and Horsfall 1987, p. 42.  Cicero, The Republic, 2.12.

33 34

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and so was the restraint and control, the disciplina, with which it had to be exercised. We see both elements combined in the myth of  Horatius at the bridge and the myth of  Mucius Scaevola. In  the first story, Horatius Cocles was an officer in the Roman army who defended the Pons Sublicius against an enemy army led by the king of   the Etruscan city of   Clusium. Horatius was the only man in his group with the courage to make a defensive stance against an overwhelming army. He was severely wounded but survived rather miraculously. Livy and other later authors found the legend incredible, but mentioned it all the same. Cornell has suggested that the legend was invented by 1st century bc annalists to create a face-saving victory in the aftermath of   a  defeat. 35 In  the same war, a  young Roman called Mucius Scaevola was reputed to have attempted to sneak into the enemy camp and surreptitiously kill the king. He was captured but showed his courage by thrusting his right hand into a fire without giving any sign of   pain. The king was greatly impressed, let him go and sent ambassadors to Rome to offer peace. 36 The historical background of   these myths is less interesting than the emphasis they place on personal valor. We will see that bravery and discipline in battle are discourse features in many later contexts of  historiography and literature.

5. Conclusion Unlike the Greeks and most other peoples, the Romans did not have a  lot of   interest in the cosmic beginning of   their culture. ‘Le Romain, lui, qui n’aquière de preoccupations cosmiques, préfera rester à Rome’, Jacques Poucet observed. 37 For Romans, Rome was the center of  attention, and this is why the foundation myths play an overriding role in Roman mythology. The origin myths are important to get an impression of  the process of  creating a  common identity or becoming an ‘imagined community’, as Anderson has called it. For this, a common history is essential,

  Cornell 1986, p. 74.  Livy, The History of  Rome (Ab Urbe Condita), 2.12. 37  Poucet 1992, p. 296. 35 36

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and, above all a common knowledge of   this shared history (‘ein gemeinsames Wissen um diese Vergangenheit’). 38 One of   the functions of   myth is  to explain ritual, which in its turn serves to strengthen the bond among members of   the community. Rome’s many religious rituals could, in this way, be given a rationale. The many examples of  myths that accompanied underlying rituals – they created the ‘mos maiorum’ – cannot be discussed here, but they seem to point to an early beginning rather than ‘invention’ in the 4th and 3rd centuries. There is  no reason to assume that early Rome, unlike other tribal communities, had no oral tradition. Also, the numerous connections that can be found with other tales or origin make creation ex nihilo unlikely. This does not mean that we should be literalist about the stories. I think that the rigorous adaptations the myths underwent at the time when they were first put to writing underline Momi­glia­no’s well-known saying: ‘I assume for the sake of   argument that each of   the stories that has come down to us was created with some sort of   contemporary situation in mind’. 39 It is to these contemporary situations that we shall turn in the following chapters.

  Pina Polo 2004, p. 148.  Q uoted by Wiseman (1995, p. 45).

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1. Primary Sources and their Genres For the period that follows early Rome, the Mid Republic, we have a  broad range of   primary sources that can give us insight into the development of   the Roman war discourse. This period’s sources include historiography, drama and epic poetry, as well as various visual sources. As carriers of   the discourse, they can be seen to present two major concerns: (1) the idea of   loyalty, and (2) the idea of   Roman supremacy. In this chapter I will focus on these two themes, therefore. I  will also link the contemporary treatment of   these themes to the specific audiences that the genres in which they were expressed had in mind. It will be argued that concerns of   loyalty were mostly dealt with in the written sources, for a restricted and specific target group, whereas the subject of   supremacy could also (and more effectively) be addressed to a general audience of   the public at large. In the sections that follow, I will first deal with the development of  myth into history and the role of   the mos maiorum – the point where we stopped in the previous chapter. Next, I will select the essential characteristics of   various genres, before turning to the analysis of   the Mid Republican war discourse. The strong hold of   Greek culture on Roman historiography was not limited to the conception and development of  traditions that linked the origins of   Rome with Troy. It continued in the centuries that followed and even intensified in the period of   the Mid Republic when, for instance, Pyrrhus proclaimed himself  to be a descendant of   Achilles and that, as a Greek, he would fight a  continuation of   the Trojan War with the Romans, who pre261

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sented themselves as descendants from colonists of  Troy. 1 By the early third century, the Trojan connection had become firmly rooted in the Roman mind. At this point, the Romans started to use Hellenic material to meet their own cultural purposes. This was done in the epics of   Naevius (c. 270-c. 201 bc) and Ennius (c.  219-c.  169  bc), and in the historical works of   Fabius Pictor (c.  254-c.  200) and Cato the Elder (c.  234-c.  149). It  was they who started to ‘celebrate the values of   the nation’. 2 There seems to be broad consensus among historians today that the Roman military expansion of   the Mid Republic, which effectively conquered the peninsula and definitively eliminated foreign threat, notably Carthage, was the impetus for the creation of  a new image of   Rome, one that was strong, even superior, and had ancient roots in antiquity. 3 Among contemporary authors, Cato was the first to write in Latin. And, even though he was strongly influenced by Greek culture, he presented himself  as critical of   the Greeks’ lax discipline and fondness for luxury. He set the Romans apart as vigorous and morally healthy. It  would turn out to be a recurrent topic in Roman history writing. The development of  Roman identity that we first see recorded in the period of  the Mid Republic was largely based on a conventional respect for ancestral achievements in the ‘mos maiorum’. As  U. Walter has pointed out, this was an abstraction, for the details were irrelevant. The idea was to tell the story of  an act, saying or custom, and make it an example (exemplum). Mos maiorum was intimately connected with the ancient myths, of   course, including the origin myths. In the myths, the present was explained in relation to the acts of   the ancestors, and the future was signposted as well, for a glorious future lay in store by returning back to the ways of  Rome’s golden era, the original time of  the maiores. It was believed that sticking to the mos maiorum guaranteed survival of  the republic. Mos maiorum gave social and religious cohesion and was made concrete through exempla. 4   Gruen 1992, p. 27.   Gruen 1992, p. 31. 3  For example, Badian 1984, p. 12–13; Morstein-Marx and Rosenstein 2006, p. 634; Flower 2010, p. 70–71; Woolf  2013, p. 97–98. They all see the end of  the Mid Republic as crucial in this respect. 4   Walter 2004, chapter 1. 1 2

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Mos maiorum had a political dimension as well, since it served as a  political instrument for the elite. 5 The Roman aristocracy was by implication involved in politics, ‘in the permanent and pervasive internal competition over positions, rank and prestige in the service of   the res publica’. 6 There was intense rivalry for public offices and an effort to climb the ladder within the hierarchy of   public functions with the attached prestige and honor. This competitive culture, very much in the open in public areas, in places of   political action but also public ceremonies and festivals, was potentially destructive, as Hölkeskamp points out, but it was offset by a consensual tradition of  respect for and acceptance of   the system and the Roman code of   behavior that underlay it. Part of   the system was an ingrained ‘depth of   obedience’ to the rules as expressed in the many exempla of  the mos maiorum; after all, they set the pattern of  ideal aristocratic behavior. 7 The Camillus legend can serve as an illustration of   an exemplum. It  was not the only myth that became part of   the tradition, but it was influential and we know it was first put to writing by Ennius. There is  not much evidence for the actual existence of   Camillus, but his central role in Roman history makes him exemplary for the way in which great ancestors, presumed or real, were incorporated into the Romans’ reconstruction of   the past. 8   Pina Polo 2004, p. 166–67.   Hölkeskamp 2010, p. 90. 7  Hölkeskamp 2010, p. 99; p. 105–6. 8  The genesis of   the Camillus myth has been given plenty of   scholarly attention. S. Goldberg believes there are Greek sources for the Camillus myth, and that it was created in the 4th century bc (Goldberg 1995, p. 113). J. Elliott sees a direct link, as a source text, between Ennius’ Annales and the historiographical tradition (Elliott 2015, p. 280). As a paragon of  virtus, Camillus appears in some of  Cicero’s speeches (‘Against Piso’, 58; ‘For Sestius’, 68.143). Livy was an admirer of  Cicero and used Cicero’s comparison of   himself  to Camillus as a source for his famous Camillus speech in 5.54 (Gaertner 2008, p.  27–52). C.  Bruun argues that the Camillus myth was developed in the 2nd and 1st centuries bc, by way of  dramatic performances, since the annalists were inspired by the figure of   Camillus that was shown in contemporary drama. At that time Camillus was already a blend of  various historical figures and mythical characters like Achilles (Bruun 2000, p. 43). It seems reasonable to conclude that the myth already existed in the Mid Republic. Elliott’s hypothesis that Ennius’ Annales was instrumental in passing it on makes sense if  one considers the relationship between epic and the first writing of   history in antiquity. Via the annalists the myth went on to Cicero, Livy, and, later, to Plutarch, who all used it in their own way, as we shall see. 5

6

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In the legend, Camillus led the Roman army in a successful campaign against Veii and its allies, presumably around 400 bc. After this campaign, Rome had become the strongest power in central Italy. As a patrician, Camillus rejected land distribution; he was also accused of   embezzlement of   war booty and this resulted in his banishment from Rome. Shortly after, Rome was threatened by the Gauls and when Camillus managed to chase the Gauls off  from his city of   exile, the Romans welcomed him back and made him dictator. In a battle in the streets of  Rome, Camillus and his army routed the Gauls. The story is bare, but some elements stand out: Camillus’ virtus, his commitment to the common good in spite of   his exile. Ennius’ Camillus has not survived – there are very few fragments from the Annales left, and they are all citations in later works – but no doubt he must have been one of   the Annales’ epic heroes. At the time, he already represented pietas and was remembered in artefacts in the Jupiter temple. With the long duration and the use of  deceit attributed to it, the war with Veii was made Rome’s Trojan War. But as far as the details, they could be simply added later on (‘andocken’). 9 In the Late Republic, Camillus was made parens patriae, the second founder. It  was also important that, as dictator, Camillus had come to power in a  broad consensus between Senate and People, emanating respect for rules and traditions. The Gallic disaster was blamed on a neglect of  the old ways, and it was the return to the rules that would save the day. 10 When we turn to the various genres of   our sources in this period, we can see that historiography is by far the most important source, not least because we have Polybius’ massive Histories at our disposal, even if  a large part of  it is lost.

1.1. Historiography On the surface, like epic poetry, Roman historiography developed in the context of   the Second Punic War, and can be related to the ups and downs of  this decisive time. 11 More importantly here,   Walter 2004, p. 391.   Walter 2004, p. 393. 11  Flower 2010, p. 38–39.

9

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it was built on a Greek tradition and a Greek audience, since it aimed to bring out the strong relation between Greece and Rome, for the period saw the rising awareness of   Rome’s political elite of   its own position, and the importance of   giving it credibility and status. Recording the tradition in which it placed itself  was one way of   doing this. Of  course, historiography had a  limited audience, but the political elite had already developed a ‘culture of   memory’ at the time in the form of   rituals, monuments and epigraphy, celebrating Roman values. 12 Thus, early historiography was created by senators and could be called ‘class history’ – it was mostly written in Greek and aimed at a group of   peers. 13 It was also written by people who were participants in the political and military arenas themselves and had little scholarly inclination. 14 Cato the Elder, already mentioned above, was a major historiographer of   this period. In his Origines, Cato tried to convince the Romans, not the defeated nations, of   Rome’s greatness. 15 But it  is Fabius Pictor who is  generally considered to be the founder of   the genre of   ‘senatorial historiography’. He aimed to convince a  Greek and Hellenistic audience of   Rome’s supreme power, and the quality of   its institutions, somewhat along the lines that Polybius would elaborate on in much greater detail. We only have fragments of   his History, but we can see ‘back projection’ at work here, in Pictor’s claim that, under Servius Tullius, Rome already had an army of   80,000 men. Rome’s military strength in the past accounted for its strength in the present. The same goes for Roman virtues like piety, simplicity and vigor – they were all there, right from the start, represented by Romulus and Remus as shepherds. 16 With personal diplomatic experience himself, Fabius Pictor knew how to tap Hellenistic propaganda and redirect it to suit Roman needs. Thus, he used the Greek   Flower 2010, p. 39.   Pina Polo 2004, p. 158. 14  Flower 2010, p. 56–57. 15  Pina Polo 2004, p.  152. The Origines, written in Latin, was also important for its attempt to set limits to the Greek and Hellenistic influence on Roman myth-making and history-writing. According to Cornell, following Cesare Letta, Cato was the first to focus more on what he knew and learned about the various Italian communities himself, not exclusively on what Greek mythology told about them (Cornell 2013, p. 211). 16  Walter 2004, p. 230–41. 12 13

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victories over the Galatians, a  Gallic group related to the Gauls in France that had become the Greeks’ ‘pet’ barbarians after their encounters with the Persians. What the Greeks had done in 279  bc at Delphi was later accomplished by the Romans in 225 bc at Telamon. The discourse model presented by Greek historiography to describe and celebrate this victory over ‘barbarians’ was adopted as a tool to shed a favourable light on Rome. 17 The end of   the second century was the start of   a new epoch in Roman historiography. In historiae, there was greater focus on contemporary events, and young annalists like Macer rationalized the Romulus myth to make it more credible. 18 The later annalists filled in the details of  early history on the basis of  plausibility with ‘Scheingenauigkeit’. More figures, more names, and more speeches were given, the latter because the writers were better schooled in rhetoric. 19 The distinction between annales and historiae was based on Polybius’ definition of  historiae as eye-witness narratives and related to rhetorical and grammatical tradition, which gave historiae a greater literary flavor. Annales were considered the preferred medium to write on the more distant past, events that had not been witnessed. 20 Polybius, our most important source for the Mid Republic, played a similar, central role in the earlier chapter on Hellenistic warfare. In some ways, he covers the same period twice because of   his position center stage: as a Greek, living part of   his life in Rome, Polybius witnessed a  whole range of   events that had an impact on the state of   affairs in his native Achaea. There is a certain duality of   perceptions in Polybius that we have to reckon with but cannot always be separated. On the one hand, he had his own ideas about what he describes and they are often explicit; on the other, he tried to bring across the Roman world and Roman mentality to his readers. Polybius wrote in Greek, with both a Greek and a  Roman audience in mind, but mostly Greek, as 17   Erdkamp 2003, p. 145–50. According to Alföldi, Fabius Pictor wrote his annals first of   all to counter the propaganda of   the Greek historiographers of  Hannibal: ‘a Roman counterattack was urgently needed’ (Alföldi 1991, p. 172). 18  Kierdorf  2003, p. 53. 19  Kierdorf  2003, p. 57. 20   Scholz 1994, p. 64–79.

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appears from his many asides in the text. 21 In filling in the broad canvas of  events, he had his own preferences, however, and focused a  great deal more on the east than on the west, except where it concerned campaigns led by members of   the Scipio family, who were on friendly terms with the author. 22 Polybius’ detached tone implies an objective stance à la Thu­ cyd­i­des, but on inspection his accounts show the perspectives of  the Achaean Greek that he was, with clearly biased representations of   Aetolians and Cretans. To a degree, Polybius wished to give Greeks useful information on Rome so that they could maneuver themselves into a  less vulnerable position in order to hold on to a  measure of   independence. When, in the years between 168 and 146, Roman power became absolute, Polybius adapted his agenda: it was now best to advise Greeks on how to deal with Rome’s inevitable supremacy, which had become reality at that point. 23 Another device that Polybius used in order to stamp his vision on the text was the use of   digressions. He used ‘the excursus as a means of   instruction, in which he can develop the exemplary aspects of   its history’, F.  W. Walbank writes. 24 And, finally, there are a  number of   chapters (‘books’) that are fully dedicated to matters of   principle and encyclopedic knowledge, such as the well-known Book 6, which outlines the Roman ‘mixed constitution’. For Polybius, his history has practical as well as didactic ends: it contains lessons for politicians and generals, but there are also moral precepts that are referred to whenever appropriate. 25

21  Walbank 1972, p. 3–4. Polybius had a military background and it is clear in the text, in the detailed treatment of   wars and battles, that he knew what he was writing about. Indeed, the military historian W. K. Pritchett considers him the best military historian of  the whole of  antiquity (Pritchett 1992, p. ii; p. 37). 22  Walbank 1972, p. 88. 23   Walbank 1972, p. 27–28. 24  Walbank 1972, p. 46. Similarly, Craige Champion refers to Polybius’ use of   digressions for instruction. Perhaps the best example would be the digression on Roman funeral practices in book 6, which serves to mark off  Roman societal practice from Greek experience – but also ignores Greek roots, Champion points out. Admiration for Rome strongly prevails in this digression (Champion 2004a, p. 94). 25  Walbank 1972, p. 58.

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As for the didactic element in history writing, there is the central but complicated role of  tyche, the directing agency of  Fortune or Fate that embraces some form of  rationality or necessity on the one hand, and sheer chance and unpredictability on the other. We have encountered the concept in the chapter on Hellenistic warfare, but have not given it a lot of   attention. Tyche has been the subject of   scholarly debate, which tries to resolve the contradiction between the two versions. Historians from the school of  narratology seek different strands in the text to accommodate the difference. Felix Maier, for example, believes that in the Histories there are two discourses in the text instead of  one, ‘paralogy’ – the idea of   contingency, which is used in depiction of   the past – and ‘katalogy’ – the idea of  predetermination, which is used in didactic contexts. 26 The analysis is too ingenious, it seems to me. Using a different approach, F. W. Walbank argues that Polybius did not explicitly distinguish between the two uses of   tyche, but that the way he used them was often dictated by his political bias: anti-Roman activities are placed in the realm of   the irrational and must be caused by random tyche while orderly, predestining tyche has helped bring the Romans to their world-dominating position. This interpretation fits in well with the views held by the Greeks at the time. 27 But, instead, it could be argued that the distinction in types of   tyche is  focusing too much on Polybius’ Greek credentials. It  would be more helpful to look at the admiring, yet rational way in which Polybius views Roman religion. He treats the Roman acceptance of   superstition as an effective way of  keeping the fickle masses under control, but it is especially the scrupulous performance of   religious duties and the seriousness of  the oath that are singled out for praise. 28 From later authors like Livy we know that fortune or fate, whether pre-ordained or capricious, was seen as the result of   divine control, the outcome of   which could be influenced by human piety. This is  precisely what Polybius saw in Roman religious practice.

  Maier 2012, p. 149–53.   Walbank 2007, p. 353. 28 Polybius, The Histories, 6.56. 26 27

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But the main question concerns the great theme of   the text, Rome’s rise to power. How did Polybius assess this phenomenon, and how did his double allegiance affect his views? A long digression in Book 6 has some explicit answers. Book 6 discusses Rome’s transition from ‘the moving cycle of   political change to the comparative stability of   the mixed constitution’, with its checks and balances and the Roman genius for compromise. 29 Also, in answering the question, Polybius pointed to the quality of  Rome’s martial institutions that made order and discipline prevail over individual fighting skills. However, Polybius’ view on Roman expansion has two sides: on the one hand he gives a  schematic representation of   Rome as an expansionist power with imperial ambitions. On the other, his analyses of   individual wars suggest that the responsibility for the outbreak of   the war almost always lies with the other side. Scholars like Walbank, Epstein and Champion have looked at different aspects to untangle the ambiguities in Polybius and his work. Walbank believes basic contradictions can be explained on the basis of   Polybius’ attitude towards Rome, which changed over time. 30 In his Moral Vision in the Histories of  Polybius, Arthur Eckstein argues that Polybius can be given greater moral consistency by reassessing passages in the text that have so far been treated as Machiavellian. After all, Polybius did criticize certain forms of   conduct by the Romans in the Third Punic War. 31 However, for the period after Pydna, Polybius does not pass explicit judgment but reports views held in Greece (36.9) If  there is moral judgment here, it is rather mute. Craige Champion has convincingly pointed to the role of   the intended audience. Polybius was an aristocrat, writing for an elite of   both Romans and Greeks. Although the political context of  the day plays a role in his perceptions (the Romans were aggressors in Greece), the duality is not really ethnic but political in its narrow, institutional sense, and Polybius’ institutional message was aimed at the upper classes on both sides. As ‘polities’, both Greece and Rome wavered between the principles of   order, rea  Walbank 1972, p. 147.   Walbank 1972, p. 166. 31  Eckstein 1995, p. 102–9. 29 30

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son and temperance (ancient Greek virtues) on the one hand, and irrationality, impulse and violence on the other. Although the Romans were successful where they adopted the Greek logismos, such as in the army, they could easily descend into primitive chaos (‘mob rule’), especially since there was a universal cycle at work. This is why Polybius saw the degeneration of  the Achaeans in the 140s  bc mirrored in the decay of   the old Roman values much deplored by the aristocracy of  his day. 32 It seems to me that it is obvious that Polybius was ambivalent about Roman moral transgressions in war and, perhaps, Roman expansion as such. Before 167, Rome still embodied the new Hellas with its adoption of  Greek qualities like restraint, moderation and justice; after that, things changed with Rome’s arrival as an imperial power in Greece. As a  political conservative, Polybius backed order and the rule of   law, and he was concerned about the things that went wrong. At the same time, he had become part of   the Roman world himself, and personally involved with some of   its stakeholders like the Scipios. In this, he incorporates the great dilemmas of   Roman conquest and places himself  at the beginning of  an ongoing discourse.

1.2. Drama Early Roman drama closely followed Greek and Hellenistic patterns. Originally, as in Greece, plays were an integral part of   religious celebration, but later they only remained formally connected to state festivals and their religious institutions. In the 4th  century dramatic performances had become integrated with games and political spectacles, in ludiscaenici. These played an important role in the workings of   Roman politics at the time, and young politicians tried to gain the services of   the most talented dramatists. From the late 3rd century, drama had become

  Champion 2004a, p.  2–4; p.  6; p.  89; p.  101; p.  175. Polybius was not alone in this pessimistic view. Probably beginning with L. Calpurnius Piso Frugi, Roman writers were stressing the contrast between the simplicity of   primitive Rome and the elegant and luxurious decadence of  their own time (Cornell 1995a, p. 59). 32

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a  popular phe­nom­en ­ on, attracting the crowds. 33 Naevius wrote the first Roman historical play, 34 Clastidium, of   which only one line survives. The play presumably celebrated Claudius Marcellus’ victory over the Gauls in 222, and possibly referred to Marcellus’ winning of   the spolia optima and his subsequent triumph. 35 The ludi Romani were traditionally opened with elaborate processions including groups of   men performing armed dances with warlike manoeuvres, in a form of  mock combat. 36 By the second century, drama had become popular entertainment, packaged with boxers, tightrope walkers and gladiators, and this set the pattern for the role of   theatrical performances in later days. 37 It was a genial context for the successful performances of   Plautus and Terence, whose comedies were continuations of  Hellenistic New Comedy. Plautus (c.  254–184  bc) refurbished old Menander stereotypes like the boastful, blustering mercenary soldier. Soldiers were popular on the stage, both in Greece and Rome, because they were familiar in life, and the mercenary soldier, with his dubious reputation, was an easy butt. 38 Of  the two main comedy writers, Plautus is  our best source because of   his use of  military men and military themes in his plays. This reflects the social and cultural changes of   the time, with Rome’s military success and its subsequent ‘translation’ into public spectacles like triumphs, ludi and, as part of  this, comic plays. 39

1.3. Epic Dramatic performances had a relatively large audience, of  course, and it is for good reason that Wiseman says that ‘much of  Rome’s communal memory consisted of   what the citizen body saw regularly performed before its eyes’. 40 The same, he adds, could be said     35  36   37  38  39  40   33 34

Gruen 1992, p. 183–85. Burton 2013, p. 103. Goldberg 1995, p. 32. Goldberg 1995, p. 39. Graf  2007, p. 59. Goldberg 2007, p. 137. Rehm 2007, p. 199. Wiseman 2007, p. 73.

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of   the great epic poetry of   the time, which was probably recited at the ludi. 41 Like historiography, epic was important in transmitting early Roman history. The two epic poems of   the period have only come down to us in fragments. Ennius’ Annales was the first, and very influential since it founded annalistic historiography, with notes and comments on annual events. Until Virgil, it was even Rome’s standard ‘history’, used as a  school textbook. For Ennius, epic was the better medium to encompass the narrative’s enormous content. What is remarkable is the use of   exempla to help Romans identify with their own past. Military virtus is  the main focus, and war the dominant theme. 42 Virtus in Ennius is not one-sided, however. There is an attempt to create a  balance between Romans and their opponents, with virtus meted out where it was appropriate, such as to Pyrrhus. 43 According to Walter, this tendency can be explained as a feature of  the epic genre, which is all based on Homer’s ‘Gleichrangigkeit der Kombattanten’. 44 In Naevius’ Bellum Punicum, a great epic on the Punic War, we find an interest in religious rules and institutions, the importance of   omens, but also an emphasis on fides in dealing with other peoples, and, not least, concepts like ‘courage’ and ‘piety’. 45 Naevius made epic Roman by elevating current events to epic proportions. He wrote of  a war he knew at first hand, but also linked it to the past, with Rome’s origin in Troy, and this way attempted ‘to  carve out a  distinct cultural space’ for Romans within the Greek world. 46 With Ennius and Naevius, epic developed an intellectual base, and became a vehicle for a growing sense of  cultural identity. Within a generation, native Romans were writing Latin poetry and poetry was no longer the occupation of   social outsiders, like Ennius and Naevius, who were commoners that did not come from Rome. 47 It is remarkable that, in Rome, drama never obtained this relevance.   Wiseman 2007, p. 74.   Walter 2004, p. 273. 43  Ennius, Annales, 183–90. 44  Walter 2004, p. 273. 45  Walter 2004, p. 227. 46  Burton 2013, p. 104. 47  Goldberg 1995, p. 132. 41 42

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Concluding this overview of   the written sources, and looking forward to the analysis of   the discourse, it can be said that, apart from Polybius’ unique interest in the quality of  the Roman institutions, there seems to be a fascination, perhaps even obsession, with ‘virtus’ (and to a lesser degree with ‘disciplina’), aspects of  what I call the ‘loyalty theme’. This is why in our analysis below, the loyalty theme will take a central place.

1.4. Visual Sources What was said about the written sources can be said of  the visual sources: the Mid Republic is  the first period that offers enough material to make a contribution in the analysis of   the discourse. As in historiography and literature, the first impulse came from conquests in the Greek-speaking world. It  brought wealth and prestige for a  political and military elite that became conscious of   its newly acquired status and sought confirmation in an ‘invented’ tradition. In the various forms of   visual art we can see this cultural development taking shape: in monuments, paintings and on coins. Thematically, the written and non-written sources show a marked divergence, however, which can be largely attributed to their intended audiences. Whereas most of   our written sources aimed for a  relatively small circle of   aristocrats, and primarily focused on the theme of   loyalty – with features like ‘patria’, ‘virtus’ and ‘disciplina’ - all contributing to the creation of   a desired identity – the visual sources, tangible and more accessible as they were, for all to see and touch, fully concentrated on the theme of   Roman supremacy, specifically the aspect of  ‘victory’. What we see here is the beginning of   a long tradition, notably in non-written material, to celebrate Roman victory in foreign theaters of   war. The rich rewards of   conquest now found a symbolic expression. Those directly responsible, again, the upper class in its military function, would use the trappings of  their military success as another tool in the making of   their own reputation, but also as a  way of   establishing an image for Rome as an invincible power. The language of   victory that we will begin to follow here was not a Roman invention. As in the written sources, Hellenistic examples were used as models, another sign of   the ‘hellenocentric’ spirit of  the time. 273

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2. The Themes of  the Roman War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time: The Mid Republic 2.1. The Theme of  Loyalty Our first theme of   Rome’s war discourse, loyalty, adds a psychological dimension to the ethical, legal and religious concerns that dominate the destiny discourse that evolves from the origin myths and that we will encounter in later chapters. Rome’s success in war can only be understood if  one considers how strong the loyalty of   its citizen-soldiers was to the res publica and the army as an institution, but perhaps even more so in the way this loyalty was perceived in the discourse. This can mostly be seen in contemporary historiography, but also in some literary works, in what I will call the patria discourse as well as in the so-called ‘virtus and disciplina’ discourse. It is to these subjects that we shall turn now. For the patria discourse, we shall first briefly discuss the cultural background of   the concept before turning to its role in the military context of   the Republic. Next, we will discuss the virtus and disciplina discourse, and its treatment in the primary sources. 2.1.1. Loyalty and patria Loyalty to the fatherland was very much a Roman virtue and generally recognized as such. The concept of   ‘patria’, used to express the idea, had a  long pedigree. It  is  a  cognate of   pater, ‘father’, and ultimately derives its meaning from the paternal authority within the Roman family. The patria potestas entailed the father’s authority over his children and the husband’s authority over his wife. 48 With the development of  the state, patria became paternal authority ‘writ large’. It is interesting that the concept of   patria also came to take on a dual sense of   the place of   birth, a sort of  ‘local’ patria, called germana patria or patria sua, and a  larger, more general sense of   the state, of   Roman citizenship as it were, 48  In the practice of  the courts and, later, in legislation, examples are recorded of   the limits that were set to the ‘absolute’ power of   the paterfamilias. These limitations were set both in earlier and later times (Crook 1967, p. 119). Alternatively, if  one looks at the trouble that Romans took to ensure that children ‘in potestate’ were not deprived of   their maternal inheritance, it only underlines that patria potestas was ‘a cornerstone of  Roman family law’ (Arjava 1998, p. 165).

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called communis patria. The sense of   ‘patria’ that we use here is the latter. It  only became distinct in the Late Republic, but we need to briefly introduce it here. According to A. N. Sherwin-White, 49 it was Cicero who first distinguished between the natural attachment to one’s place of  birth  50 and the ‘higher’ bond that came to exist with ‘that one which is called the state and the whole community for which we must be ready to die and to which we must surrender our whole being, and in which we must place all our hopes and to which we must consecrate all that is  ours’. 51 The word pietas (and its adjective pius) also plays a role in this context. It usually refers to devotion to the gods, but for the Romans it had a wider meaning than the words ‘piety’ and ‘pious’ in English. Pietas included the idea of   duty and dedication, not just to the gods, but also to the family, and, more importantly here, to one’s community. 52 In the creation of   loyalty among the Roman people, the process of   integration was crucial. It can be traced back to the days of  early Rome, when the Latin communities were integrated into the Roman system and were given the various social, economic and political rights that were later codified in Roman law as commercium, conubium and ius migrandi. 53 In  later years, the integration of   foreign peoples and the granting of   full (or sometimes partial) citizenship are part of  this same process. 54

  Sherman-White 1980, p. 153–55.   For Cicero, his germane patria was Arpinum, a place that remained dear to him (Hammond 1951, p. 147; Cicero, Treatise on the Laws, 2.1). 51 Cicero, Treatise on the Laws, 2.5.5. 52   Knox 2008, p. 14. 53  Forsythe 2006, p. 184. Ius migrandi has become a disputed term. It is the idea that anyone could obtain Roman citizenship by migrating to Rome. It was commonly held that this was a  legal right that was restricted in the 2nd century. The evidence, based on a passage in Livy (41.8.6) is rather slim, William Broadhead has argued; in fact, ius migrandi must be seen as an invention of  modern scholarship. There was no ban on migration in the 2nd century since the freedom of  movement was granted to a privileged group of  individuals in the first place (Broadhead 2001, p. 89). 54  Paul Erdkamp has pointed out that, before the Social War, citizenship was not the great issue that we think it was, for mobility was relatively unhampered in the Mid Republic, and not controlled on the basis of   citizenship or ethnic identity, but by military desiderata. It was only at the end of  the 2nd century that citizenship came to be regarded as a privilege (Erdkamp 2011, p. 137 & ff.). 49 50

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It is clear that in the Mid Republic, loyalty to the state is an issue that should be seen in the context of   the complex nature of   citizenship, the political constraints of   citizenship, and the meaning of   the concept of   ‘state’ in the first place. All  these things merit a study in themselves, so we can only be brief  here and touch upon the most important aspects. First of  all, the concept of  ‘state’ is here used in its most general sense, and obviously differs from its modern (or even later) usage. In  fact, it stands for res publica, the preferred term, especially for the Republic. Res publica refers to the community of   citizens and their shared interests, the way Cicero uses it in his De re publica. ‘Citizens’ and ‘the people of  Rome’ are here used interchangeably, although properly speaking a  large number of   inhabitants would not qualify as ‘citizens’. As for the role of  Roman citizens in the decision-making process of  our period, it was significant (but not necessarily decisive). 55 However, it did entail that politicians would appeal to the people to seek support or election. Both domestic and foreign issues were put forward to the people; after all, it was the Populus Romanus, consisting of   its fighting men, that gathered in assemblies ‘to hear policy speeches, elect leaders, pass or reject bills, and cast their verdict in major trials’, to use the words of   Elaine Fantham. 56 In discussing the role of   the consuls in the 55  Its precise role is not quite clear and has given rise to a debate that is still raging, with scholarly positions ranging from maximalist to minimalist. Fergus Millar believes that the role of  the Senate is overestimated, that it had important advisory and even decision-making powers, but that the real power rested with the people’s assemblies. The widespread notion that the Senate was the governing organ of  the Roman Republic is not merely misleading, it is straightforwardly false (Millar 1998, p.  209). For Millar, the people were ‘the arbiters of   success or failure, and they alone could validate structural change’ (Millar 1998, p. 95). It is true that Millar mainly deals with the Late Republic, when Roman politics had become more volatile, but on the whole he makes Republican Rome a new Athens with a  democracy of   sorts, John North argues. The popular assemblies were largely dominated and controlled by the elite, and the voting system privileged the well-off  and inhibited the lower classes from risking conflicts. It seems to me that the power of   the aristocracy should not be underestimated, but it is important to emphasize, as Millar does, that the public at large needed to be engaged. Certainly in the Mid Republic, Rome was still ‘an archaic face-to-face political system in a single open space’, in which visibility was key (Millar 1998, p. 224). In fact, this is exactly what Polybius says about ambitious young Romans: they had to show themselves in the Forum to practise their oratorical skills (Polybius, The Histories, 31.29.8). 56  Fantham 2005, p. 210.

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Republic, Polybius is  very explicit about the necessity to keep an eye on the people’s interest. For, on laying down their office, ‘the consuls are obliged to account for their actions to the people’, and they cannot neglect to ‘cultivate the goodwill of   the Senate and the people’. 57 In the military context of   the Mid Republic, ‘patria’ was the res publica, as Polybius made clear when he described the fighting spirit of   the Romans and compared it with that of   the Car­thaginians. In fact, this loyalty to the fatherland was the decisive reason, Polybius believed, why Rome defeated Carthage: the Romans were citizens fighting for their country, whereas Carthage relied on mercenary troops to do the fighting for them: The Car­thaginians depend at all times on the courage of  mercenaries to safeguard their prospects of   freedom, but the Romans rely on the bravery of   their own citizens and the help of  their allies. The result is that even if  they happen to be defeated at the outset, the Romans carry on the war with all their resources, but this is impossible for the Car­thaginians. For the Romans, knowing themselves to be fighting for their country and their children, can never weaken in the fury of  their struggle, but continue to fight with all their heart and soul until the enemy is overcome. 58

According to our sources, the soldiers’ loyalty to the res publica was enforced by the general’s adlocutio, the morale-boosting speech that commanders delivered before commencement of   hostilities. Even though they were mostly composed by later authors and largely invented, adlocutios tell us something about the importance that was attached to the maintenance of  the bond between soldier and state. In the following excerpt, the historian Dionysius is  looking back on the days when it was easy to instil love of   the fatherland in Rome’s citizen-soldiers. Although it is from a later period, I would like to include it here because it illustrates the of   creating a continuum of   greatness by connecting present with past and future, allegedly going back to the Mid Republic. This is  what we can see in the speech delivered by the dictator

 Polybius, The Histories, 6.15.  Polybius, The Histories, 6.52.

57 58

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Postumius addressing young potential soldiers who should be ready to join the army and defend the fatherland: Would it not, then, be shameful if  you who are in the vigour of   life should flee from what is formidable, while those who are past military age, pursue it, and if  the zeal of  the old men, since it lacks the strength to slay any of   the enemy, should at least be willing to die for the fatherland […]. Is it not an incentive to you, Romans, that just as you have before your eyes the record of   the many wonderful deeds performed by your fathers, whom no words can adequately praise, so your posterity will reap the fruits of   many illustrious feats of   your own, if  you achieve success in this war also?’  59

Two things are interesting here. First of   all, the idea that dying for one’s fatherland in battle is  a  soldier’s ultimate gift to the community that he serves and represents. Virtus is now coupled to patria. We are looking back from a vantage point in the Late Republic, and Polybius’ observation that the Romans were fighting for their country has now been phrased in Cicero’s communis patria terminology and is  thrown back centuries ago. Secondly, the idea of   continuity: what was created in the past should serve as an example for the present, and, in turn, become a new example for future generations. As we shall see in later chapters, this thematic continuity of  loyalty and patria would extend much beyond Dionysius’ time. 2.1.2. Loyalty and virtus and disciplina In the previous section we saw how loyalty to the state was expected from all Roman citizens and, in the military context, from Rome’s citizen-soldiers. In the war discourse, another form of   loyalty prevailed: that of   the soldier vis-à-vis the army command as well as his companions. This more specific form of loyalty was a  desideratum and a  potential problem alike, and it hinged on two types of  expected behaviour: that of  virtus, the individual soldier’s readiness to fight, and disciplina, his acceptance of   an imposed order. Both virtus and disciplina are central concepts in many of  the contemporary (as well as modern) explanations given   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 6.9.

59

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for Rome’s successful war formula; they were first given full attention by Polybius. The two concepts are complementary but also opposed, and in discussing them I will follow J. E. Lendon’s idea to see them as two sides of   the same coin. 60 It is interesting that the later historian Cassius Dio, in his attempt to fathom Rome’s success in war, has a similar explanation. The greater their successes, he says about the Romans, ‘the more they sobered; against their enemies they displayed that daring which is a part of   bravery, but toward one another they showed the forbearance which goes hand in hand with good order’. 61 In the discussion of  virtus and disciplina below, I will first turn to disciplina, then to virtus. 2.1.2.1. Disciplina in Historiography

Like patria, disciplina was a feature with roots in the past. It has been the main explanation for Roman success since Machiavelli wrote his Art of   War. Disciplina was the ethic that the general relied on to command his soldiers’ obedience and put his plan into action. 62 It fitted well with basic Roman attitudes like austerity, parsimony, and self-restraint, and eventually even became a goddess in her own right, with a cult in Britain and North Africa. 63 In the Republican period, the disciplina discourse serves to analyze Rome’s success as a warring nation, but also to explain its capacity to create social cohesion; in later days, it  is more important in the war discourse in that it aims to favourably compare the old days with the presumed degradation of  the fighting spirit. For contemporary authors in the Mid Republic, the disciplina discourse focused on aspects like duty, morale, and the various ways in which military commanders sought to maintain or restore discipline. Polybius observed that the Roman soldier’s sense of   duty and discipline was institutionalized and enforced – it was one of  the things that made the Roman army invincible: ‘It was the excellence of  their institutions that saved the Romans. According to their customs, it  is a  capital offence for a  man     62  63  60 61

Lendon 2005, p. 178. Cassius Dio, Roman History, 13.52. Lendon 2005, p. 210. Stoll 2007, p. 453.

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to desert his post or to retreat in any way when he is  on guard duty’. 64 Night watches of   the Roman army were faultlessly kept, Polybius said, because penalties for lack of  discipline were severe; soldiers who fell asleep were beaten to death. Those who managed to escape were no better off, since they were not allowed to return to their homes and, besides, their family would be too ashamed to receive them. 65 Fear, lack of   courage or dishonorable actions were not only punishable – worse, they would be regarded as unmanly and lead to loss of   face. Even mishaps like losing one’s shield or sword, Polybius adds, would often make the men desperately hurl upon the enemy in the hope of  escaping by death ‘from the inevitable disgrace and the humiliations they would suffer at home’. 66 The great challenges of  the Mid Republic in the wars with Pyrrhus and Carthage were met by the Roman capacity to maintain discipline and thus create cohesion. As for disciplina in action, Polybius gives an example in the battle at Lake Trasimene, when some 15,000 Roman soldiers perished in the valley, not yielding to circumstances, for ‘they considered it their supreme duty, as all their training had taught them, never to turn tail or leave their ranks’. 67 Political and military leadership had, in these taxing times, received a premium, and there was also a shared ethic of   sacrifice for the common good. 68 The Punic Wars helped Roman society to cohere. Only with a  society that was geared for consensus could the difficulties that were faced be overcome. In this sense, disciplina was more than a military feature; it had a social function as well. 2.1.2.2. Virtus in Historiography

Like disciplina, virtus had a place in the hierarchy of   Roman virtues and, in its original sense, related to manly valor, but it gained a broader meaning as time progressed. 69 In the military context,  Polybius, The Histories, 1.17.  Polybius, The Histories, 6.37. 66 Polybius, The Histories, 6.37. 67 Polybius, The Histories, 3.84. 68  Flower 2010, p. 99. 69  The exact meaning of   virtus became a bit more diffuse at the end of   the Republic, gaining a wider application than mere martial excellence, such as out64 65

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it implied physical bravery, endurance, as well as success in battle. It  also implied competition, for example in single combat or the act of   devotio. Virtus was a central feature of   the Roman war discourse and was usually idealized in the form of   mythical exploits in days long gone that set standards of  excellence for later generations. 70 Most of   the stories of   virtus in the Mid Republic were written in later periods and projected back, with legend and history shading into each other. 71 The same goes for the concept of   ‘virtus’ itself: its root was placed in early Rome, as attested in Plutarch’s ‘Life of  Coriolanus’: In those days Rome held in highest honour that phase of  virtue which concerns itself  with warlike and military achievements, and evidence for this may be found in the only Latin word for virtue, which signifies really manly valour; they made valour, a specific form of  virtue, stand for virtue in general. 72

In the Mid Republic, manly conduct in military campaigns was not only publicly celebrated, it was also publicly sought by ambistanding rhetorical skills (Rosenstein 2006, p. 371). Myles McDonnell’s reductive interpretation of   the ‘essential’ meaning of   virtus remaining ‘aggressive courage’ is  not convincing, for it ignores broader meanings that gained currency during the 2nd century, when the aristocracy saw career possibilities outside the army and Greek culture became fashionable (McDonnell 2006, p. 70). 70  The competitive drive to display virtus was a  legacy from the old heroic warrior ethos that characterizes early Rome as it does early Greece – it is quite similar to the Homeric code: conspicuous bravery was a  must, personal glory a reward and loyal followers the result of   such virtus (Goldsworthy 2007c, p. 33; Goldsworthy 2004, p. 20–21). As in Greece, the stories that told of  martial valor were projected back in time in order to sanctify them (Lendon 2005, p.  175). However, Lendon believes that the ethic of   single combat was actually learned from the Gauls in the fourth and third centuries bc – and, indeed, in most of  the famous Roman single-combat stories, it  is the Gauls who are the challengers. All  the same, the Greek discourse must have been influential in turning battle practices into myths (Lendon 2005, p.  186). This holds for the Roman virtus discourse in general: even if  the stories are homegrown, the narratives are clearly inspired by Greek sources. 71  The warlike spirit of   the Republic became a  topos for later writers, who would look back with nostalgia to the good old days when ‘the greatest competition for glory was amongst themselves: each hurried to be the one to strike an enemy, to scale a wall and to be observed while doing such deeds; they considered this to be their riches, this to be a  good reputation and great nobility’. This is how the historian Sallust praised the virtus of  past generations (Sallust, Catiline’s War, 7.6). 72  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Coriolanus’, 1.4.

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tious young aristocrats embarking on a  political and military career, the two being synonymous. A  man had to complete ten annual military campaigns as a junior officer before he could seek election to the lowest position in Rome’s hierarchy of   magistracies, as Polybius reports. 73 Among prospective army leaders, lack of  virtus only became problematic at the end of  the Mid Republic, when we see (for reasons explained in the following chapter) the first signs of   individual aristocrats reluctant to go to war. At the same time, virtus was expected in the ordinary rank-and-file, in order to maintain a fighting spirit. Polybius points to the problem of  a lack of  virtus in troops that had not been engaged in battle for some time. Since, around 157 bc, the Italians had become ‘effeminate owing to the long peace’, the Senate deemed it right to begin a war with the Dalmatians: ‘They […] determined to recreate, as it were, the spirit and zeal of   their own troops by undertaking a war against the Dalmatians’. 74 This phenomenon was first mentioned by Polybius where he described the lukewarm response to the launch of   an unprofitable, difficult campaign against the Celtiberians. 75 What characterized virtus was its association with honor, and the reputation that it could build. Ever since 205 bc, Virtus and Honos had a joint cult and temple in Rome. 76 Another important element was its close relation to the warrior’s (or general’s) character, morality and psychological make-up, rather than his martial skills or competence. Thus, virtus implied having the perseverance to endure any setbacks, and continue until ultimately victory was achieved. On the whole it can be said that in the Republic, since success in battle was more or less expected, it was not a general’s military competence that was emphasized, but his moral character. 77 This points to Greek influences, and they were pervasive. For example, as in the origin myths, Greek mythology was freely used as inspiration (as well as status) for the great stories of   Roman heroism. 73  Polybius, 6.19.4; the ten years was for cavalry (the obvious choice for the elite). For infantry it was sixteen. 74  Polybius, The Histories, 32.13.4–9. 75 Polybius, The Histories, 35.4. 76  Galinsky 1996, p. 84 77  Rosenstein 2001, p. 205.

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The treatment of   these tales bears the stamp of   the Roman aristocracy that is  trying to shape its own role in charting Rome’s rise to power. 78 The devotio tales illustrate this phenomenon well. For example, in the heroism of  the 306 Fabii who died in defence of  Rome at the Cremera River, the Greek roots of  the heroic style of  fighting are unmistaken. 79 According to J. C. Richard, the association of  the Fabii story with Thermopylae was made by members of   the Fabian gens, probably Fabius Pictor himself, and possibly because he had a political axe to grind in the rehabilitation of  the Fabians after the Cremera disaster. 80 For a  full treatment of   virtus in the historiography of   this period we have to return to Polybius. First of   all, in assessing the way Polybius deals with virtus (or what he calls ‘arete’ or ‘andreia’), we can only agree with Eckstein’s remark that Polybius was an ‘enthusiastic purveyor of   a  rather traditional and moral code of  heroism, glory, honor and duty’. 81 But there is more to it. What sets him apart from the traditional aristocratic milieu of  his day is his ability to place concepts like virtus in a political and social framework. 82 In  this he places virtus on the same level as the Greek concept of   courage that can be found in Herodotus’ Book 8, which celebrates the Athenian, superior form of  courage over that of  non-democratic states. It is no surprise that Polybius notes that courage is a more or less natural attribute of   a citizen; ‘the civic force of  a democracy is more courageous in action than the subjects of  a tyrant […] one side is fighting for freedom and the other for slavery’ (11.13.5–6). In his digression on the aristocratic funeral practice, Polybius emphasizes the role of   the traditional speeches: they foster a spirit of  ‘desiring to excel by virtuous deeds’ in the service of  the res publica, including acts of  bravery in battle. The funeral speeches looked back and forward, for the idea was that the young were inspired to emulate their ancestors. ‘What I say is confirmed by the facts’, Polybius adds (6.54.3–4) and continues with the tale of  Horatius Cocles ‘as an example and   Dillery 2009, p. 89.   Pais 2014, p. 178 & ff. 80  Richard 1989, p. 312–25. 81  Eckstein 1995, p. 54. 82  In this I follow Craige Champions’ analysis in chapter 6 (‘Collective Representations and Ideological Contexts’) of  his Cultural Politics in Polybius’ Histories. 78 79

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a confirmation of  what I say’ (6.55). What is remarkable in Polybius’ version of   the story is not the physical act itself  (although it is remarkable enough) but Polybius’ explicit relation of  Horatius’ motivation to obtain glory for his name and safety for his country, as well as the direct connection with Roman institutions like the funeral practice: ‘Such, if  I am not wrong, is the eager emulation of  achieving noble deeds engendered in the Roman youth by their institutions’ (6.55.4). The same connection between virtus and Roman institutions is made in the military tradition of  honouring courage in action with decorations: it encouraged young Romans to risk danger (6.30–31). Overall, Polybius’ way of  dealing with virtus is, like many other things, in the form of   collective action. We saw earlier that a positive interest in a  community’s shared values and the collective good will produce the right ‘collective ethical character’, as Champion calls it. 83 Such conditions foster ‘logismos’, and, consequently, a kind of   virtus that is directed at the common good. In  a  negative context, a  society governed by ‘thumos’, which is characteristic of  barbarian nations, there is no common good and no virtus. This collectivist approach is  applied to Romans and non-Romans alike. The Abydenians, for example, are repeatedly praised for their excellent courage, specifically in the mass suicide that they performed in the hopeless defence of   their city. They preferred to die rather than surrender and become slaves. Polybius calls the incident ‘worthy of   memory’ and ‘splendid and admirable’ (16.32). Another example of  Polybius’ method can be given in comparing his judgment on the Achaeans and the Aetolians in Greece. As an Achaean, Polybius was obviously not without bias, and the high marks he awards to Achaean virtus are expected. What is more important is that his assessment is underpinned by the idea that, like the Romans, the Achaeans were virtuous because they had respect for the law, were rational and had good institutions. Because of   their communal spirit, they were capable of   displaying self-sacrifice in the Cleomenic War (2.58.2–3). Their northern antagonists, the Aetolians, failed to meet Polybius’ standards. Not only were they seen as violent and aggressive, impious and   Champion 2004a, p. 83.

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haughty (aspects which we shall come back to in a later section), but, relevant for our purposes here, they were also considered to be extremely cowardly (4.79.1). Polybius’ account of  the Aetolian assault on Aegeira (during the Social War, around 220 bc) illustrates this negative image. In storming the city they showed great ‘ineptitude’, Polybius says, and what courage there was in the fight was displayed by the defenders (4.58). On Car­thaginian virtus, Polybius is generally positive, although he sees degeneration in Carthage’s later days. Of  course, Carthage was a developed state, just like Rome, and in many military encounters deserved respect as a  formidable foe. In  several passages, Polybius shows admiration for the courage of   the Car­thaginian soldiers. 84 To single out one example: their heroic defeat at the battle of  the Metaurus in 207 bc, which is narrated with admiration due. Also, the soldiers’ qualities are explicitly related to the nature and structure of  their politeia (8.1.1–2). As an experienced soldier, Polybius knew the impact that courageous commanders had on their men; hence, special praise was meted out to commanders like Hannibal, Hasdrubal and Scipio. Hasdrubal ‘was always a  brave man’ (11.2.1), who ‘constantly bore disaster and defeat with spirit and courage’ (11.2.3). In  the patria context, we already saw how important adlocutios were as rhetorical instruments in underlining the army’s commitment to the res publica. They were also used to display the desired braveness in a general’s character and subsequently exhort the soldiers to follow their leader’s example. Polybius’ rendering of   Scipio’s speech in 209 at New Carthage, which caused the men to exhibit ‘great desire and zeal’ (10.11.8) exemplifies this use of   the adlocutio. Similarly, nine years earlier, at the battle of  Ticinus, Scipio’s address made his soldiers ‘ardent for hazarding battle’ (3.64.11). The conventional and repetitive phrasing shows that, irrespective of   the occasion, the speeches above all serve to boost the image of  the general. Another aspect is  that, in these speeches, Polybius is  dealing with ‘ideal behavior’, as Myles McDonnell has observed, and expected behaviour was not always realized. However, what the generals wanted from their men, McDonnell argues, was espe Polybius, The Histories, 9.8.1–2; 9.9.10.

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cially aggressiveness. 85 This sounds like Goldsworthy’s contention that ‘in itself, discipline did not bring victory, although it might have prevented or at least delayed defeat. Boldness and aggression, often by a few individuals, was vital to actually beating the enemy and causing him to run away’. 86 We conclude our discussion of   virtus in historiography here. The role of  virtus in epic poetry and drama will be looked at below, but a dictum used by Ennius is worth mentioning here: ‘To men of   fortitude is  fortune granted’. 87 It  evokes the idea that virtus and ‘chance’ or ‘fortune’ are related, which is, as we have seen before, one of   the things Polybius tried to come to terms with. In  his introduction to the reader, Polybius explains that the very reason for writing his book was to find out how Rome’s success could be accounted for. It is true that his famous observation that ‘the Romans succeeded in less than fifty-three years in bringing under their rule almost the whole of   the inhabited world’  88 is linked with the sense of  chance. For fortune, Polybius argues, ‘has never before in a single instance created such a competition or put on such a show-piece as that which we have witnessed in our time’. 89 At the same time, Polybius gives full credit to Roman qualities, by suggesting that ‘the supremacy of   the Romans did not come about […] either by chance or without the victors knowing what they were doing’. 90 Now the distinction between ‘what happened and what had to happen’ is blurring. 91 Polybius’ dilemma  92 perfectly illustrates the complexity of   what

  McDonnell 2006, p. 69–71.   Goldsworthy 1998, p. 281. In the heat of  battle, this makes sense, I would agree, for now virtus prevails over all else, but as an explanation for success in battle and victory it  is a  simplification – virtus without disciplina would never have accomplished Roman victories. 87 Ennius, Annales, 7.254. 88 Polybius, The Histories, 1.1. 89 Polybius, The Histories, 1.4. 90  Polybius, The Histories, 1.63. 91  Walbank 1972, p. 30. 92 James Davidson believes the apparent contradictions are the result of  Polybius’ tendency to combine different perceptions (‘gazes’) by participants in his narrative, thus creating different realities rather than a single one. Davidson’s thesis does not really affect our argument, I think, since it is the ‘gaze’ of  the author that matters here (Davidson 1991, p. 10–24). 85 86

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we call the ‘destiny’ discourse as it will evolve and mature in the Principate. 2.1.2.3. Virtus in Literature

In the fragments of   contemporary epic that we have, virtus figures strongly, which must be an indication for its role in the missing parts of  the texts. This is quite in line with the conventions of  the genre, of   course, and its Homeric echoes. In one of   Ennius’ fragments on the Pyrrhic War, Pyrrhus is given an indication of  Roman strength in an oracle of  Apollo with a double message: I say that you, O man sprung from Aeacus, the Romans can defeat That tribe of   blockheads, stock of   Aeacus, are war-strung more than wisdom-strung. 93

The line ‘you … the Romans can defeat’ applied equally to Pyrrhus himself  and the Romans. In another fragment about the Istrian War, the tribune Aelius is  portrayed in a  Homeric scene, withstanding the attacks of   a whole host in a superb demonstration of  virtus: From all sides the javelins like a rain-storm showered in upon the tribune, and pierced his buckler; then jangled the embossment under spears, the helmets too with brassy clang; but not one of   them, though strain they did from every side, could rend apart his body with the iron. Every time he shakes and breaks the waves of   lances; sweat covers all his body; he is hard distressed; to breathe he has not a chance. The iron came flying as the Histrians cast the spears from their hands to harass him. 94

The Romans are always ready to fight when duty calls, and hold no fear (‘When the commander sets forth with his host / Nor any fear holds them; trusting in their valour, they rest / Open your eyelids, will you all, and leave behind the sleep in your hearts’.)  95 Passages like this are sometimes seen as indications of   a militari Ennius, Annales, 6.174–76.  Ennius, Annales, 16.406–17. 95 Ennius, Annales, fragments not assigned to any book, 477–79. 93 94

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zation of   Roman society at the time, sometimes contrasted with fragments that seem to have pacifistic overtones. In one of   these, Ennius calls for non-violent options to further the interests of  the nation: ‘For to fight it out with brute force is the manner of  stupid pigs / he should save the state by craft, not violence’. 96 These mood shifts suggest that Ennius was ambivalent about warfare, Paul Burton has argued. 97 I think this is putting too much weight on the passages quoted, which are not so much anti-war as critical of   the irrationality in decision-making. Also, Ennius wrote an epic in the Homeric tradition, and just like fragments in the Iliad and Homer’s use of  epithets like ‘dreadful’, ‘hateful’ and the like (to go together with ‘war’), Ennius’ words do not express regret, nor do they point to an increasing militarization. 98 Instead, they reflect the epic tradition of   encompassing all human emotions when it comes to war, but they are all embedded in the grand theme of  heroism in battle. In Naevius’ Punic War, we find other indications of  the importance attached to virtus. Brave soldiers stay behind with their comrades rather than run for safety: And they would rather that they perish then and there Than return with disgrace to their fellow-countrymen But if  they should forsake those men, the bravest of  the brave, Great would be the disgrace to the people through all the world. 99

Virtus had its limits, though, and had to be controlled and managed by disciplina, in Lendon’s symbiotic relationship. During the Mid Republic, we have an example of   the problem of   a lack of  balance, in a comment by Ennius: When news of   battles is  proclaimed, away from view is Wisdom thrust, with violence is action done, scorned is the speaker of   good counsel, dear is the rude warrior. Not with learned speeches do men strive, but with evil speaking fall foul  Ennius, Annales, 96–97.   Burton 2013, p. 107. 98  For example, in Book 5 of  the Iliad (lines 1000 ff.), Ares is complaining to Zeus about the senseless cruelty of  the war he is assigned to be waging. This does not mean that Homer is ambivalent about warfare. 99  Naevius, The Punic War, fragments not assigned to any book, 59–62. 96 97

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one of   another, brewing unfriendliness. They rush to make joint seizure – not by law; rather by the sword do they seek a due return and aim at the first place, and move on with pack and press. 100

Turning from epic to drama, a rich source of   material comes up in the comedies of   Terence and, especially, Plautus. 101 Roman comedy had a  very large and popular audience, evolving as part of a  ‘total entertainment package’ that included racing, boxing, musical skits and so on. 102 With its inherent possibilities for change of  perspective and social commentary, comedy could treat virtus in rather unorthodox ways, ‘playing to the galleries’ and presenting the familiar clichés about the less heroic aspects of  soldiery. In this sense, it built on the low status of   Hellenistic mercenaries and continued the literary convention to depict soldiers as a corrupt lot, bragging, stealing, and bullying, tyrannizing the poor locals. 103 Serving abroad could be seen as a way to discipline wilful young men, in the tradition of   Greek New Comedy, as in Terence’s play The Self-Tormentor. The protagonist Clinia, greatly in love with Antiphila, a match that has his father’s strong disapproval, is  forced to serve as a  soldier in Asia. This is  called a  ‘wretched existence far away from home’. 104 In his play The Swaggering Soldier, Plautus aims for other commentary. By making a  caricature of   his protagonist, he satirizes the professional soldier’s boastfulness and braggadocio. There is no  Ennius, Annales, 8.262–68.   A pertinent question for Plautine and Terentian scholarship has been the authors’ originality. If  the material they use is  all imitation of   Greek New Comedy, or ‘contaminated’, as has long been said, can it still be seen as reflecting contemporary Roman society? Since Fraenkel, the picture of  Plautus practice has moved towards greater invention and originality than previously thought, and even though Plautus’ plots are set in Greece and have Greek characters, so that we have an upside-down ‘Saturnalian fantasy world’ which is anti-Roman, J. C. B. Loewe has argued that the Roman historian is legitimized to see a contemporary and topical significance in the plays (Loewe 1992, p. 174–75). Gruen (1990, p. 137 & ff.) and Burton (2013, p. 108–12) seem to be following the same line of  thinking. 102  Martin 2007, p. 50. 103  Alston 2007, p. 192. 104 Terence, The Self-Tormentor, 100–40. 100 101

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trace of   virtus in the posturing of   Pyrgopolynices – obviously a  Greek mercenary, as E.  F. Watling has pointed out, since the type was more of  a Hellenistic cliché than a Roman one:  105 PYRGOPOLYNICES: My shield, there – have it burnished brighter than the bright splendour of   the sun on a summer’s day. Next time I have occasion to use it in the press of   battle, it must flash defiance into the eyes of   the opposing foe. My sword, too, I see, is pining for attention; poor chap, he’s quite disheartened and cast down, hanging idly at my side so long; he’s simply itching to get at an enemy and carve him into little pieces … Where’s Artotrogus? […] PYRGOPOLYNICES: I wonder if you remember … [He seems to be vaguely calculating] ARTOTROGUS: How many? Yes, a  hundred and fifty in Cilicia, a hundred in Scytholatronia, Sardians thirty, Macedonians sixty – killed, that is – in one day alone. PYRGOPOLYNICES: How many does that make altogether? ARTOTROGUS: Seven thousand. PYRGOPOLYNICES: Must be at least that. You’re an excellent accountant. 106

Plautus enjoys ridiculing the phenomenon of   ‘triumph hunting’ by Republican generals, something that his audience no doubt took to, since it was a  well-known routine. 107 For example, in Truculentus, the soldier Stratophanes alludes to trials ‘for sham battles’;  108 and in Bacchides, the slave Chrysalus tells the audience that triumphing is not for him since it’s so common: ‘Spectators,   Watling 1965, p. 150.  Plautus, The Swaggering Soldier, 153–55. 107  In her study Contested Triumphs, Miriam Pittenger has analyzed triumphs awarded during the Mid Republic, and concluded that the most successful triumphatores were not just skilled in the art of   war but also in ‘the art of   self-promotion’ (Pittenger 2008, p. 1). The debate that preceded the triumph was important because it involved different elements of   Roman political life: the senate, the people and the magistrates, and because it enabled the participants ‘to define and perform their political identities’ (Pittenger 2008, p. 35; p. 124). In Plautus, we have the playwright’s version of  the people’s voice in the discourse. 108  Plautus, Truculentus, 486. 105 106

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don’t be surprised now that I don’t have a triumph: they’re too common: none of   them for me’. 109 The virtus discourse is given a critical twist, and so is the theme of   Roman supremacy, in its aspects of   conquest and victory, which shall be dealt with in greater depth in the following period. In  his comedies, Plautus is an early critic of  Rome’s imperial ambitions, at any rate as they present themselves in the conduct of  individual fools. When Plautus named one of   his soldiers on stage Pyrgopolinices (‘Habitual Tower Sacker’), he alluded to the tradition of  assuming honorific titles like ‘Africanus’ by victorious generals, and slyly hinted at contemporary examples. 110 And their pride of  listing their feats was given a dramatic twist in the play The Forgery, when the protagonist, Curculio, debunks The Captain as follows: I’ll tell you; why, because within twenty days he singly has subdued the Persians, Paphlagonians, Sinopians, Arabians, Cretans, Syrians, Rhodia and Lycia, Peredia and Bibesia, Centauromachia and ClassiaUnomammia, and all Libya, and all Conterebromia; one half  even of  all nations has he conquered unaided in twenty days. 111

In a more general way, the obsession with material gain that captivated war leaders was a recurrent target. The cunning slave-asgeneral Toxilus is  a  feature in Persa, (‘among my partners will I divide and allot the spoil’), 112 and Pseudolus in the play of   the same name echoes this same interest: ‘I expect to toad myself  and my confederates with more booty than we can carry’. 113 The slave Pseudolus (‘the liar’) helps a  young man to rescue his girl from slavery and prostitution, in an old Greek plot revived with plenty of   military metaphors to create comic effect. The mock heroic war discourse used by the protagonist served to give comic relief, but also lampooned the military clichés that the audience was habitually exposed to. ‘I’m going to wage war on a  neighbour of   yours, the pimp Ballio’, Pseudolus says, and ‘victory is certain,  Plautus, Bacchides, Gutenberg ed., 1072–73.  Plautus, The Swaggering Soldier. 111  Plautus, The Forgery (Curculio), 444–45. 112 Plautus, Persa, 757. 113 Plautus, Pseudolus, 588. 109 110

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deception will defeat and despoil the enemy, [and] this enemy … will be scientifically and ballistically destroyed’. 114 Warfare and its implications for daily life was a familiar motif  in Plautus’ days of  the Macedonian Wars, and well-recognized by an audience used to the routine of   soldiers departing for battle. It was also used by the playwright himself, in several of   his plays where military allusions are common, and, as a sort of   formula, in his prologues. They would end with the speaker wishing the audience wisdom in peace and victory in war. In the Prologue to his play The Prisoners, Plautus plays around with the war topoi in drama, where he reassures the public that ‘there is no doublecrossing pimp in this play – nor loose women – nor bragging soldiers. Yes, I did mention that Aetolia and Elis are at war; but don’t let that frighten you; the battles all take place off  stage. 115 In another of   his plays, Amphitryo, Plautus sends his hero to the battlefield, leaving the poor wife Alcmena at home. She regrets to part from him, but, she says, there is some comfort in the joy to see him come home. Alcmena’s pride of   Amphitryo’s valor is exuberant and worth quoting: To let him go is not so hard, I see, If  he comes back with glory. I can be brave. I can endure his going, I can endure it, If  this is my reward – to see my husband Hailed victor, crowned with laurels, borne in triumph. It is enough. There is no greater gift Than valour. Valour is all. Valour protects Our life, our liberty, our health, our wealth, Our home, our kith and kin. Valour is all, And he hath all that hath it!  116

Alcmena’s rhapsody is  given a  dramatic underscore, however, because the audience knows full well that, in her husband’s absence, she has been unfaithful, albeit unwittingly, and shared her bed with Jupiter, who had taken the appearance of   her husband.

 Plautus, Pseudolus, 530; 570.  Plautus, The Prisoner, 59. 116 Plautus, Amphitryo, 254. 114 115

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2.1.3. The Loyalty Theme: Conclusion The loyalty discourse addressed the relationship between soldiers and the state, the res publica, and that between soldiers and the army, in particular the army command. In  the Mid Republic, when there was still a strong identification of   the citizen-soldier with the community (and, conversely, the leaders kept an eye on the people’s interest), the army’s commitment was naturally strong and easy to encourage. This is what Polybius and Dionysius tell us. The dedication expressed in the patria discourse was reinforced by virtus and disciplina, to form an effective narrative to account for Rome’s rapid rise. Both virtus and disciplina served to give internal cohesion within the army and, according to Polybius, between the army and the res publica. In our sources, the two were the cardinal virtues at work in this process. Polybius’ admiring exposition of   the theory and practice of   disciplina is an example, but also Ennius’ views on the problem that arises if  and when virtus and disciplina, as two complementary forces, do not hold each other in check. Historiography and epic favored a formal, elevated treatment of   loyalty, but in Plautus’ comedies, the clash between lofty ideals and the disappointing facts of  daily life are made abundantly clear. The genre invited satire, and its wide audience of   ordinary people must have enjoyed Plautus’ debunking of   the posturing of   generals and common soldiers alike.

2.2. The Theme of  Supremacy Our third theme, supremacy, expressed in the superiority, victory and conquest discourses, has a limited representation in the Mid Republic. When Rome’s expansionary efforts brought its greatest victories and conquests, this was made visible in monuments and other visual forms, but hardly so in documents, Polybius and Cato the Elder being the exception. This can be explained by the contemporary perception of   the phenomenon: it was largely seen as a natural process, like a self-propelling engine. It called for commemoration in monuments, statues and triumphs, but did not invite introspection or reflection. For a  serious assessment of  Roman supremacy we have to wait for later sources, notably in the Principate. Hence, in the discourse analysis that follows, 293

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most of  our attention will go to the victory discourse, and specifically its representation in visual sources. 2.2.1. The Superiority Discourse In what written sources we have for our period, we can see the first instances of   an emerging superiority discourse, which places Roman and opponent at opposite ends. Rome’s enemies in the long stretch of   time were many, but Gauls and Car­thaginians, Pyrrhus and Greeks received special attention. Pyrrhus was a formidable opponent, a  brilliant strategist who could not match Rome’s military capacity in endurance and manpower. Ennius resorted to name-calling when he called Pyrrhus’ troops ‘stupid’, and ‘more mighty in war than in wisdom’. 117 Carthage, another tough opponent, was also a butt in Ennius. Now it was the presumed cultural inferiority of  the Car­thaginians that he aimed for: their violations of  taboos, their sacrilege, indolence and cruelty. 118 The Greeks were in a different category, of  course. Although Greek culture had been and was warmly embraced, Roman victories in the east stimulated Roman chauvinism, and, in the military context, the Greeks were despised. 119 Plautus, in his play Bacchides, takes aim at the Greek institution of   the palaestra, the ancient Greek wrestling school, in a wonderful passage: Where I’m to take a turtle-dove instead of  a sword, and where another puts into my hand the goblet instead of   the castes; the drinking-cupids in place of   the helmet, the wreathed garland instead of   the crest, the dice in place of   the lance. For the coat of   mail I should have to assume a  soft cloak; where, too, in place of   a  horse a  couch must be given me – for shield, a strumpet may be lying by me. 120

Paul Burton has pointed out that some analysts have read the text as irony. Plautus is  actually lampooning the crude Roman way of   looking down on non-Romans, in what is  sometimes  Ennius, Annales, 197.8.  Ennius, Annales, 221; 286; 274–75. 119  Burton 2013, p. 110. 120 Plautus, Bacchides, Perseus ed., 68–72. 117 118

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called a ‘cultural cringe’, since the passage is filled with Greek loan words which ‘subvert the speaker Pistoclerus’ entire argument’. 121 Burton’s argument is not convincing, it seems to me, if  one considers Plautus’ other plays, which abound in plain parody and simple caricature of   stock characters. The level of   sophistication that Burton reads in the text, with its subtlety of  intended irony, is the result of   a modern way of   ‘close reading’, today’s convention in literary studies now forcibly imposed on ancient comedy. Besides, Plautus’ treatment of   Greek soldiery fits in well in the developing Roman superiority discourse. The most extensive discussion of   Rome’s opponents can be found in Polybius. When Polybius wrote about Roman superiority and the difference between Romans and barbarians, he could draw upon a  long Greek tradition of   defining a  nation’s degree of   civilization along three common criteria: (1) nature, (2) climate and environment, and (3) state organization. 122 The first of   these, nature, suggesting that some peoples were, by nature, more inclined to be slaves than masters, was hardly used by Polybius, but he did subscribe to the second criterion and used it in some passages. 123 The third, state formation, was essential in Greek thinking – we find it in Plato and Ar­is­to­tle. In  Classical Greece, civilized life and the polis were practically interchangeable. We have already seen that Polybius elaborated on this principle in his Book 6, and how he applied it in discussing the quality of  virtus among Romans and their adversaries. In this more general context, we can focus on another important aspect of  Polybius’ method, which would play a role in much of   Rome’s later war discourse: the idea that Roman superiority over non-Romans (based on its ‘logismos’) was not fixed or static but could change with the times. In fact, these fluctuations dominate the structure of  the Histories, Champion has argued: whereas the Romans (like the Achaeans, deemed to be their Greek counterparts) are clearly superior in the first half  of  the work, this changes when deterioration sets in, and many passages in the second part   Burton 2013, p. 111.   Champion 2004a, p. 75. 123  This ‘geographical determinism’ was also used by much later writers like Vitruvius and Pliny the Elder. 121 122

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(chapter 15 and following) bemoan the loss of  traditional values, which brings Romans and Achaeans back to the same, uncivilized level of  their barbarian opponents. 124 As for Polybius’ depiction of   Rome’s enemies, this is less subject to change. 125 The Gauls and Illyrians are devious and treacherous above all, but also impulsive, passionate and greedy, all characteristic features of   barbarian ‘thumos’. In  11.5.6 we find an example of  where Illyrian treachery is contrasted with Roman fides. It is true that the Illyrians threatened the stability of  Roman maritime interests in the Adriatic, but as enemies the Gauls made a much greater impact. As Rome’s enemy number one, they had a history of   raids and invasions, and their ferocious fighting was feared and respected, 126 but their defeat at Telamon in 225 bc was inevitable, Polybius judges, because their passion was inferior to Roman reason (2.35.3–4). The Aetolians (Achaea’s foes) are given the same treatment as the Gauls – they are liars (4.29.4–5), their obsession with booty costs them battles (4.57.8), and they are not even averse to plundering sacred objects (4.19.4). 127 We saw before that the Car­thaginians, Rome’s main contenders in the Mid Republic, earned respect, but, ultimately, they failed to use ‘logismos’, the same way as Hannibal did after Cannae (11.19.6–7). Polybius finds a  more specific explanation for Carthage’s eventual downfall in the deterioration of   the condition of   the state: because of   a strong democratic influence, the state came to be ruled by an (emotional) populace (6.51.6). Also, their great mistake was to rely on mercenaries to fight for them instead of   their own citizens. Rome’s superiority proved itself  in the way it showed resilience after Cannae, which, as Polybius sees it, can be credited to the quality of   its institutions (3.118.5–10). The changing perception as regards this asset in 124   Champion 2004a, p. 101. Champion quite aptly calls this ‘a parallel retrograde development’ (Champion 2004a, p. 101). 125  Greeks (and, to some extent, Car­thaginians) excepted. Greeks and Romans more or less belong to the same category when they are compared to barbarians, but, as a Greek, Polybius displays ambiguous positions when it comes to details, reflecting his dual allegiance as well as his dual audience. 126  In 2.15.7, Polybius extols their martial qualities. 127  The list of   vices is from Kenneth S. Sacks (1975, p. 92). These traits make them ‘innately anti-social’, Sacks says (1975, p. 92), but I do not think Polybius blamed their deficiencies on their nature.

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Polybius’ later books is  exemplified by the presumed frequency of   moral lapses such as in Scipio’s command at New Carthage, where he ordered all citizens to be killed and instigated a terrible sack of  the city (10.15.4–5). Also, on Rome’s destruction of   Carthage, Polybius shows grave doubt (although he voices it in the words of  a Greek critic): Others said that the Romans were, generally speaking, a civilized people, and that their peculiar merit on which they prided themselves was that they conducted their wars in a simple and noble manner, employing neither night attacks nor ambushes, disapproving of  every kind of  deceit and fraud, and considering that nothing but open attacks were legitimate for them. But in the present case, throughout the whole of   their proceedings in regard to Carthage, they had used deceit and fraud. […]  this could only be justly described as something very like impiety and treachery. 128

Many of   Polybius’ criticisms of   Rome are not merely his own, part of   his grand analysis as well as his Greek background, but were in full agreement with what Roman statesmen like Cato the Elder were saying about conditions in the Republic. In Polybius’ lifetime, there was a general trend among aristocrats and con­ser­ vatives in Rome to point their fingers at the presumed loss of  the old virtues, and complaints about luxury and dissipation among the young were often heard. 129 This sceptical look at Roman superiority would become a topos in later years. 2.2.2. The Victory and Conquest Discourses In this period of   great expansion, victory in battle was the norm, but not guaranteed, and Cannae was not the only Roman defeat. Although defeat in war was not really a  discourse topic, it had to be accounted for. Jessica Clark has pointed to the routine of  excusing generals for defeats. Instead of   blaming it all on a general’s incompetence, a  military defeat could be explained by the lack of   fighting spirit among the soldiers, or the improper

 Polybius, The Histories, 36.9.9–11.   Champion 2004a, p. 237.

128 129

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conduction of   the religious ceremonies preceding battle. Also, defeat and victory were in the hands of  the Senate, which debated the outcome of   armed conflict. Defeats could be integrated in a  larger narrative that ended with victory, and the moment of  victory selected as a  particularly suitable point in time to cease hostilities. 130 The discourse of   the day points to military victory, however. Our sources for the Mid Republic – in the form of   monuments and statues, paintings, ancestral masks, and coins – aim to celebrate and justify the privileged positions of   successful aristocrats, in the context of  military campaigns. Two things stand out. First of   all, the ever-widening circle of   participants in the discourse. Achievements that demonstrate Roman success in warfare are shown to bring glory and fame for the individual, the family, the class and eventually the nation as a  whole. Second, Hellenistic examples serve as a  source of   imitation and inspiration. In  the section that follows, we shall discuss the language of   victory as it appears on monuments, paintings and coins. The monuments erected in the Mid Republic were often built with the spoils of  military campaigns. 131 From our written sources we know that temples were vowed in battle, built with the profits of   war, and dedicated in connection with a triumph. In the late third century, the Circus Flaminius was the site where Republican triumphatores commemorated their victories – it was a perfect setting, for at the Circus the troops were assembled, exhibits and booty for the procession were placed in order, and the final preparations for the triumph were made. 132 In the same period, statues were erected throughout the city, as another form of   self130  Clark 2014, p. 1; p. 8–11. Clark’s analysis builds on that of  Nathan Rosenstein’s 1990 study Imperatores Victi, which we shall return to in the following chapter. 131 The building of    monuments followed earlier, more modest practices of   building tombs (with funerary inscriptions) for war heroes, instigated by an aristocracy eager to promote its achievements and military glory, such as the Esquiline tomb, early 3rd century, with episodes from the Samnite War.  Early monuments include the Columna Maenia, set up in the Comitium by C. Maenius, the consul of  338 bc, to commemorate his victory over Antium. Another sign of  Rome’s early preoccupation with warfare is the creation of   the goddess Bellona, in the 4th century (Forsythe 2006, p. 340–41). 132  Holliday 2002, p. 14–15.

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promotion of   successful aristocrats. The most distinguished site was the Forum Romanum, particularly the area around the rostra and the comitium. 133 A famous monument with statue combined was Aemilius Paullus’ huge pillar in Delphi. It is atypical perhaps because it was not in Rome, but it tells us something about the way in which Greek culture became even more influential during the Roman conquest of   the eastern Mediterranean. Q uite literally so in this case, because the monument ‘originally commissioned by a Greek king for a Greek sanctuary to commemorate a Greek victory was modified [by Paullus] to celebrate Roman virtus’. 134 The rectangular pillar, almost 10 meters high, had an equestrian statue of  the victorious general on top, and an inscription at the base that read ‘L. Aemilius, son of   Lucius, set this up from the spoils which he took from King Perseus and the Macedonians’. The horse was in a  rearing position, Alexander-style, and evoked an image of  victory and triumph. On  a  frieze, details from the Battle of Pydna are depicted in a narrative, cartoon-like fashion. At the end of  the battle, victorious Roman infantrymen and cavalry stride over the bodies of   the fallen Macedonians. 135 Stylistically, J. J. Pollitt has noted, the frieze is  Greek, and does not stand out, but in subject, intention and function, it is Roman and it is a landmark. 136 It can be said that, just like in our written sources, a newly developing Roman discourse was grafted onto a Hellenistic tradition. 137 133  Here one could see, for example, the Curia Hostilia decorated with a battle-painting showing M. Valerius Maximus Messala defeating the Car­thaginians and King Hiero (Harris 1997, p. 20–21). 134  Holliday 2002, p.  120. Much later, Plutarch would suggest Paullus had said that ‘it was only proper that the conquered should give way to the victors’ (Plutarch, ‘Aemilius Paullus’, 28). 135   Holliday 2002, p. 94–95. 136  Pollit 1986, p. 157. 137  In painting, we find a similar development. According to Peter Holliday, the Romans learned how to use existing Greek patterns in their paintings from newly conquered Hellenistic peoples in southern Italy such as the Campanians. There are examples of  this early influence in Roman paintings in tombs in Apulia. They use the ‘Return of   the Warrior’ motif, in which a warrior returning from the battlefield is greeted by his wife. These paintings are infused with a military ethos that commemorates and affirms the status of   the deceased as part of   the class that produced warriors (Holliday 2002, p. 57). I think it is this class consciousness in the status building that should be emphasized in the Roman context. The war imagery employed at the time was made by and for the aristocracy.

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Of  the various visual modes of   expression, paintings with historical themes were popular and held in high esteem. They had a  lot of   narrative potential, of   course, especially with the large sizes used in triumphal processions. In  the material that is  extant from this period, it  is evident that, from early on, triumphal processions were part of   the ritualistic victory celebrations in Rome, but also that paintings depicting triumphs created a form of  ‘frozen’ memory of   a ‘live’ event that itself  recollected a major military feat. 138 Unfortunately, we do not have any contemporary paintings of   this type except for some fragments in tombs, such as the tomb of  the Cornelii Scipiones or the tomb of  Q . Fabius. 139 Paintings with scenes of   victory (as well as small statues and portrait shields) were also found in private houses, especially the public rooms used to receive guests like the atrium. This is where one would find portrait statues, ancestral portraits, depictions of  family trees and genealogical tables, and wax masks of  the family’s ancestors. Like the paintings in tombs, they tell us how the military victories achieved by the deceased radiated on the family as a  whole. In  this way, the images served to perpetuate the social status quo: they glorified the past but also justified the pre-eminence of   the leading families. 140 Earlier we saw how Polybius, in his famed digression (6.53) claimed that this idea was reinforced

138  The triumphal procession can be related to the route followed along the great monuments. Looked at this way, it was one of   the great examples of   how the Romans successfully created their lieux de mémoires, as cultural historian Pierre Nora calls them, physical representations of   the past in the present (see chapter 1). The triumph became a  monumental ‘memory’ that the procession passed on its route to the Capitol: the temples, columns, arches and statues, the ‘sacral landscape’ of   the city, as Hölkeskamp calls it (Hölkeskamp 2006, p. 485). Already in the Mid Republic, Rome had its ‘Hall of   Fame’ of   great men and heroic enterprises, starting with Romulus and including such victors as Furius Camillus, the conqueror of  the Gauls, and Fabius Maximus, the Cunctator, who saved the Republic from its great foe Hannibal (Hölkeskamp 2006, p. 480). 139  Some of   the fragments from the Scipiones tomb show a military procession in a scene that is commemorating a triumph apparently granted to one of  the Scipios buried in the tomb. Fragments from the tomb of   Q .  Fabius depict war scenes, presumably from the Second Samnite War, in which Sentinum was captured by a Roman consul triumphing in 322 bc (Holliday 2002, p. 36–38; p. 87). 140  Flower 1999, p. 210; p. 90.

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in the traditional funeral speech, which had a  similar function, as well as in the funerary epigraphy on sarcophagi. 141 It is  in coinage that we find the best evidence that victory imagery was conventional in the Mid Republic. 142 The earliest coins, introduced c. 300 bc, depicted a variety of   gods and goddesses selected by the moneyers, but also the Roman wolf  and twins and the head of   Roma. 143 Right from the start, military motifs appeared, most appropriately in so-called ‘war issues’, and victory was a  recurrent image. From the late 3rd century to c.  170  bc a  silver denomination, now known as the victoriatus was issued, distinguished by the image of   Victory crowning a trophy of  arms on the reverse. 144 Victory found its expression in images associated with figures like Hercules or Roma as well. On  silver coinage of   269–68, the head of   Hercules in the obverse may be that of   Hercules Victor, ‘highly suitable for a coinage struck from the spoils of  war and perhaps reflecting the Roman ideology of   military prowess’. We also find the head of   Roma/Victory with palm branch and wreath, or the head of   Minerva associated with an eagle on a thunderbolt on the reverse. 145 Overall, it can be said that in the early Mid Republic two themes recur throughout the coinage: the goddess Roma and the influence of   Alexander the Great. 146 As Minerva, Roma was identified with Athena – she also appeared in the guise of  Bellona and Diana. The iconography of  Roma, with her helmet and crest, was borrowed from that of   Athena. 147 We can see Alexander’s influence in the Phrygian helmet that Roma wore and the decorations with a coiled snake. Other examples are the use of  Hercules as the god of   victory, who was given Alexander’s features and usually depicted on the obverse of   coins, with a lion with a   Flower 1999, p. 157.   Cornell has pointed to the cultural role of  early coinage, which was minted for prestige rather than as an economic necessity. It  is  no surprise that, after all, coinage was a Greek device (Cornell 1995, p. 397). 143  Kent 1978, p. 15; Crawford 1974, p. 713–15. 144  British Museum, 71.1.8. 145   Crawford 1974, p. 714. 146  Burnett 1986, p. 67. 147  Burnett 1986, p. 68. 141 142

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broken spear in its mouth on the other side, or the Roman wolf  and twins. 148 These are all indications of   the Hellenization that was going on at the time. Some of   the images on coins can be related to specific events, such as battles in the Punic Wars. The Elephant/Sow bar, 149 for example, can hardly refer to anything except the battle of  Beneventum (275  bc); the bars bearing emblems of   naval success – Anchor/Tripod, Trident/Caduceus, and Hens/Rostra  150 – must surely relate to Rome’s naval triumphs against the Car­ thaginians in 260 (Mylae) and 256 (Ecnomus). As for the depiction of   gods and goddesses, the wide range of   the early period narrows at the end, and close to the Late Republic it  is rare to find gods other than Jupiter or Victory. 151 Whether allusions were to contemporary or legendary events, the standard theme was Roman success in war. In all, it can be said that, right from the start, the concept of   victory was important in the Roman war discourse that we see depicted on coins. This is more meaningful that it seems. Whereas the stories told in the written sources had a restricted audience, the visual sources like coins and monuments were accessible to the public at large. Even if  the masses did not comprehend everything they were looking at, the impact of  the self-glorification of  the elite, sometimes, in Foucauldian terms called ‘the politics of   truth’, 152 must have been enormous, if  only because of   its sheer size and intensity. The buildings, the decorations, the spectacle of   the triumph, in short ‘the force of   power’, all this contributed to the strong impression made on the ordinary citizen or the rural visitor. In this, the victory imagery was easy to read – it exuded power. As for ‘conquest’ as a separate feature, it must be pointed out, first of  all, that ‘conquest’ is a key term to encapsulate the Roman war effort in the Mid Republic. The offensive drive that characterizes this period – and remained at work in subsequent periods –   Burnett 1986, p. 72–73.   Kent 1987, ill. 3. 150  Kent 1987, ill. 5 and 6. 151  Kent 1987, ill. 36. 152  What is meant is the process of  constructing and attempting to monopolize historical truth by elites, a process that we find in many different social settings, of  course (Foucault 1980, p. 131–33). 148 149

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has been given a multitude of  interpretations, the most important of   which will be discussed in later chapters. In the Mid Republic, all the ingredients were in place: a huge military machine propelled by manpower obtained from defeated enemies; a strong competition for power and status among the nobility; and the repetitive cycle of   military success leading to new campaigns abroad. 153 This psychological incentive is  agreed to have been very strong and may explain the ‘relentless’ quality of  war-making that makes Roman warfare so distinct. 154 In the discourse, most of   these things were pointed out by Polybius, our best historiographical source of   the time. Perhaps his most valuable observation was the psychological explanation of   conquest. Successful military action served as a morale-boost, and success bred success. Because each victory underlined the victors’ superiority, the winners felt emboldened to undertake new campaigns and upscale their ambitions. The sequence turned into what could be called a ‘chain of   conquest’. 155 It was this psychological routine that, Polybius felt, dominated the Roman way of  thinking ever since the Second Punic War. 156 As for the narrative of   conquest itself, Polybius chose to begin with the moment that the Romans crossed the Straits of   Messina in 264  bc to conquer Sicily, 157 and to continue with the things that happened next, all to find out how the Romans pulled off the incredible feat of   ‘bringing under their rule almost the whole of   the inhabited world’. 158 The intention affirms Polybius’ ‘fundamental admiration of  Roman power’. 159 At the same time, he saw an aggressive drive underlying Roman conquest, and foresaw the evil consequences of  unbridled acquisition. The hegemony that the Romans achieved, the prosperity that foreign conquest brought, they would lead to extravagance and general moral deterioration. Ultimately, it would   Sage 2008, p. 268.   Goldsworthy 2007c, p. 92. 155  Polybius, The Histories, 3.32 and 6.50. 156 Polybius, The Histories, 3.2 and 1.6. 157 Polybius, The Histories, 1.5.1. The event is ‘consistently seen as one of  the most important in the history of  Roman imperialism’ (Prag 2013, p. 53). 158 Polybius The Histories, 1.1. 159  Baronowski 2011, p. ix. 153 154

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usher in the rule of  the mob. 160 In this stern moral lesson, part of  the digressive but ideological Book 6, Polybius is setting the stage for a debate about the virtues and vices of  Roman conquest. 161 By the end of   the Mid Republic, the two sides within the conquest discourse can be found in the works of   Cato the Elder (234–149  bc). In  most cases, Rome’s wars of   conquest were legitimate, Cato maintained, and provided Rome with legitimate rewards for its efforts. 162 In  his Origines, Cato tried to demonstrate that Rome’s enemies were responsible for the violent conflicts, not Rome, because they broke treaties (such as Carthage did). 163 And approval of   Rome’s expansionism was given in his speech ‘Dierum Dictarum de Consulatu Suo’, delivered in 191 or 190 bc. 164 It defended a campaign in Spain in 195 bc, when Cato was a consul himself, as being a punitive expedition against rebellious towns. On the other hand, the legality and morality of  conquest could be questioned as well. In  various speeches, such as ‘For the Rhodians’ (‘Pro Rhodiensibus’), Cato expressed disapproval of   Rome’s legal and moral motives in planning a  war. 165  Polybius, The Histories, 6.57.   Polybius’ treatment of   conquest is  not given the same qualifications by modern scholars. Although there is a tendency to consider Polybius pro-Roman in this respect, Millar and Eckstein find a more detached or even hostile attitude in the Histories, and Walbank a series of   shifting views. Momigliano’s Polybius is a collaborator who follows Rome rather uncritically (Baronowski 2011, p. 5–7). It is possible to find support for all these views in specific passages (such as 1.1 or 6.57) but this cannot change the overall impression of   Polybius’s approach to his subject, which is questioning, admiring, yet critical, but also changing, as Champion has emphasized. What we saw in earlier contexts applies here as well. For example, Rome’s conquest of  Aetolia clearly affected his overall anti-Aetolian stance: the Aetolians might be acting like barbarians, but when they were attacked by Rome, they were Greek victims defending their homeland (20.9.1–10-10.17). Also, there were instances of   Roman brutishness and arrogance during their Greek campaigns which made Polybius, in his discussion of   this period, a lot less enthusiastic about Rome as a conquering power (20.9.1–10.17). 162   Of  course, Cato had a reputation in the Senate as a hardliner, and most of  his extant speeches attest to this. Tim Cornell argues that Cato had an agenda in his support for Roman conquest, in that he had a concept of  Italy as a historical unit. The concentration of  military power in the hands of  Rome and its allies was the single most important political fact of  his time (Cornell 2013, p. 212–13). 163 Cato, Origines, in Baronowski 2011, p. 44. 164  Cato, ‘Dierum Dictarum de Consulatu Suo’, in Baronowski 2011, p. 44. 165  Cato, ‘For the Rhodians’ (‘Pro Rhodiensibus’), in Baronowski 2011, p. 45. The gist of  the speech was later given by Gellius. Cato spoke out against his fellowsenators, who were eager to to punish Rhodes because of  its presumed treachery. 160 161

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This sort of   criticism foreshadows future developments in the debate. It can be concluded that, as part of   the Roman war discourse, the theme of   supremacy came to a  gradual development in the Mid Republic. Military victories encouraged feelings of   chauvinism and superiority over subject enemies. Fueled by the political ambitions of  aristocrats, victories served their purpose of  enhancing family reputations in a  series of   related caches of   memory, from triumphs to statues and other more or less permanent objects. The imagery used was Hellenistic, and perfectly suited the intended grandiosity of  Rome’s success in war. In monuments and on coins, the elite could disseminate its glory in the form of  the story of   Roman power to a mass audience. As for conquest, it was a new topic of   interest in the discourse, and introduced by Polybius. Overall, it was given an ideological backing, albeit with legal and moral reservations that would be given more thought in later periods.

3. Conclusion The Mid Republic is a crucial period in the Roman war discourse in that it was formative in several respects. Above all, it gave Rome a collective past when the elite sought to give itself  pride of  place in a  long line of   ancestors that had served the nation with distinction. For this aim, a tradition was ‘created’ with the help of  Greek mythology, and put to writing in epic and historiography. The eastern link gave Rome an existing Hellenic pedigree, with the great benefits of   respectability and age. At the beginning of  the Late Republic, Rome had become conscious of   its history and of  the role of  the old stories in the contemporary setting. With the first written sources that are available to us, the Mid Republic offers the first clues about the war discourse at the time. In the loyalty theme, we find the development of   a sense of  patriotism. It  is  Polybius who pointed out that the Roman army, consisting of   citizens fighting for their own country, managed to ‘Cato rose and said that not a few of  the leading senators were angry at men who had been their best and most faithful allies because they wished to seize and possess their wealth’ (Gellius, Attic Nights, 6.3.7, my italics).

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overcome mercenary forces like Carthage’s that were sometimes strategically and tactically superior. The same goes for features like virtus and disciplina: in the Polybian reading, they can be held accountable for Rome’s success, for Roman soldiers combined a  true fighting spirit with the restraint and order imposed on them. The wedding of   virtus and disciplina was instrumental in changing the army from a fighting horde to a military machine. As for Roman virtus, its qualities were sung in the epics of  the time; however, its original meaning of  ‘manly conduct on the battlefield’ came to be paralleled by an aristocratic version of  obtaining glory in army command. This competitive aspect of   virtus, familiar from the Greek war discourse, was muted in Rome by the role of   the Senate as jury. After all, it decided on the status of   the outcome of   battle: whether victory could be declared and a triumph was warranted. Another development set in motion at the time, particularly during the transition to the Late Republic, was the topos of  decline, best expressed and explained by Polybius but characteristic of  the opinions vented by many conservative aristocrats. It was the beginning of   a long discussion of   the loss of   vigor and ambition, but also of  the old Roman values, a descent that, presumably, accompanied Rome’s enormous success in warfare. These doubts were voiced by the elite, however, in writing or in speeches before the Senate, in either case as a ‘senatorial concern’. But the discourse had two faces. To the ordinary Roman, it sent an unambiguous message of  sheer power, through widespread images of  victory. It may seem odd that the victory discourse, important as it is in later periods, only makes its appearance in the visual sources here but not in contemporary writing. There are explanations for this discrepancy. First of   all, as a  topic, victory could more easily be expressed in visual ‘code’ than in text. Also, historiography and literature in the Mid Republic were relatively young genres – at least in the Roman context – and were strongly focused on the creation of   a  Roman history and mythology, which was in the past, not in the present. It is only in the following period, the Late Republic, that we find an interest in contemporary events.

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1. Primary Sources and Their Genres The Late Republic, a  relatively short period – roughly between 120 and 30 bc – is not lacking in contemporary sources, but compared to the period that follows, their number and their range are limited. As in the Mid Republic, much that was written about the Late Republic dates from the 1st and 2nd centuries ad and can hardly be called ‘contemporary’ for this reason. The extant texts from the period that contain relevant information on the war discourse are mostly historiographical, with Sallust (80–c. 35 bc) as our major source. We also have Caesar’s commentarii, of   course, perhaps not history writing in the strict sense, but still important as first-hand accounts of  contemporary events. For the other genres, it can be said that Cicero’s treatises, orations, letters and other writings are crucial, and as far as the visual sources are concerned, it is the coins that were struck at the time of   the civil wars which give us ideas on the images of   military power that were used. Together they help us understand the war discourse in the Late Republic. By the end of  the Republic, a new form of  history writing came into being. Next to the annalist tradition, which was continued by Valerias Antas, Livy’s predecessor, histories began to be written about contemporary events, which, as already mentioned, led to the distinction between annales (about the distant past) and historiae (about contemporary events). 1 This divergence, recognized at the time, was also based on method: annals were chronological   Mehl 2011, p. 50.

1

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narratives that simply told the story, whereas histories were thematic treatments and interpreted events by giving causation and motive. 2 The two types should not be seen as completely distinct, recent scholarship likes to emphasize, and ‘annalistic’ does not suggest ‘factuality’; nor does it imply ‘formulaic literary fantasies’. 3 The dichotomy has long been accepted, though, and often presented in the pairing of   historians like Livy and Sallust, Livy being the historiographer in the annalistic tradition, Sallust representing the historia type. 4 Sallust’s main works, The Catiline Conspiracy and The Jugurthine War, address the theme of   moral corruption in Roman society. 5 Sallust has often been compared to Thu­cyd­id­ es because of  his ‘rough style’ and his careful analysis of   selected episodes to present his ideas. Some passages have even been directly copied. Also, his pessimism resembles the dark view of   Thu­cyd­i­des. 6 Sallust was also influenced by Cato the Elder’s archaic style and vocabulary, as well as his moral rectitude and appeals to ‘past virtue as the standard to which he wished to hold his contemporaries’. By following Cato’s example, Sallust aligned himself  with the Catonian tradition of  history writing. 7 Our other historian of  the era, Diodorus Siculus (c. 90 – c. 30 bc), wrote a Universal History based on works by many other authors and dealing with the history of   the then known world. Like Polybius, Diodorus played a significant role in the context of  Hellenistic historiography (as we

  Lintott 1994, p. 1.   Beck 2007, p. 263–65; Levene 2007, p. 278. 4  The annalistic tradition already had an interest in inventio, and used political and ideological issues of   their own time as a source of   inspiration to fill the holes in a  shadowy past. In  the 1st century, annalists used the same device and created their own fictions to attack or defend the Gracchi, and to praise or damn Sulla. Valerias Antias even did not shy away from inventing documents (Mellor 212, p. xix). 5   In the political arena of   the time, Sallust tended to be on the side of  the populares; it  is likely that Caesar was his benefactor. (However, in Catiline’s War 38.3 he condemns both sides for using disingenuous arguments.) Overall, Sallust scholarship has divided its attention between the historian as politician (the Mommsen tradition) and the historian as moralist (Wiedemann 1993, p. 49). The latter perspective is more rewarding, it seems to me, if  one looks at Sallust’s interest in character sketching and moral censure. 6  Grethlein 2006, p. 299. 7  Levene 2000, p. 170. 2 3

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saw) but, again like Polybius, his contribution to the Roman discourse is  even more important, although it  is only the last part of   Diodorus’ work that addresses Roman history in the period of   the Late Republic. Diodorus has always been considered a second-rate source, a copyist and an abbreviator, but his reputation has improved somewhat these days. 8 In the period of   the civil wars, historiographers became more self-conscious; following the rift in Rome’s ruling class between optimates and populares, they had to find their own position in sometimes contradictory views of   the recent past. 9 This is  why, in history writing, we also see an interest in biography, autobiography, and the commentarius, a  type of   ‘memoirs’. The latter offered the author an opportunity to present episodes from his life in order to describe and justify his lifestyle and behaviour. Well-known examples include the Deeds Accomplished (Res Gestae) by Sulla and (in the following period) by Augustus. And as for the commentarii, they provided politicians and generals with an opportunity to report back their activities and experiences while on duty, to render accountability to the powers-that-be in Rome, to edify their successors, 10 but also to advertise their own achievements. Caesar’s Commentarii are probably the best-known examples of  the genre. Turning from historiography to other sources, we can say that it is oratory that offers a wealth of   material. Public speaking was an important part of   Roman life, and rhetoric the crown of   education. In  the Late Republic, competing politicians addressed their peers but also the audience at large, and ‘civic visibility’ was particularly intense. The art of   public speaking was taught by Cicero (106–43 bc) (De oratore) and, later, in the 1st century ad, by Q uintilian (Institutio oratoria). As a literary source, important speeches were recorded. 11   Muntz 2012, p. 21–37.   Mehl 2011, p. 63. 10  Mehl 2011, p. 70. T. P. Wiseman argues that The Gallic War had a wider audience. Caesar addressed the Roman People at large, as can be deduced from various references in the text. Stylistically, there is a development from commentaries proper to full-scale historiography. In this choice, Caesar was motivated by the ‘ruthlessly polarized political ideology’ of  the time (Wiseman 1998, p. 4–6). 11   There has been a long debate about the difference between speeches that Cicero published (practically) verbatim and those he revised before publication. 8 9

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In oratory, Cicero stands out as our most important source by far. For an oral medium – Rome was still an ‘oral society’  12 – audience was key, and Cicero himself  pointed to the three major target groups for a speech: the Senate, the court, and the Populus, the people in assembly, 13 and the speeches that are extant have one of   these three audiences. By its very nature, a speech was not just a text but rather a performance, and was compared to other public performances where spectators and listeners expected a show. 14 In the political arena, orator and populace were engaged in a ‘dynamic process’, Andrew Bell says, for the two needed each other to take legislative action. 15 Then and now, oratory was classified into rhetorical subgenres, most of   which are not of   particular interest to us here, but contemporary rhetorical theory recognized speeches of   praise or blame as an important group. 16 Most of  the speeches we have used in the present study are ‘praise’ or ‘blame’ speeches, such as the ‘On  the Consular Provinces’, a  speech before the Senate which praises Caesar’s military competence, or the ‘Pro Archia’, a speech in court in defence of  a Greek poet living in Rome. On the other side, we have Cicero’s Philippics condemning Mark Anthony, or ‘Against Piso’, a speech in the Senate directed against a longtime political opponent. In Cicero’s other works we usually find a less ‘advocatorial’ or belligerent tone: his treatises, many of  which present comprehensive views on the state of   Rome’s institutions. They are of   great value to us here, in particular where they deal with the legitimacy of   warfare or the nature of   Roman virtues, and include treatises like The Republic, ‘On Duties’, and The Laws. In Cicero’s letters, It remains a matter of  speculation why Cicero changed some texts but not others. Riggsby believes the differences are merely stylistic (Riggsby 1999, p. 184). Deeply embedded as it was in Roman education, rhetoric also influenced the writing of  history, because stylistic skills were highly appreciated, and this resulted in the use of   formulaic scenes like death scenes, battle descriptions, trials and speeches (Mellor 2012, p. xxvi). Rhetoric in historiography went back to the ancient Greeks, of  course, but it took some time for the Romans to fully exploit it. 12  May 2002, p. 57. 13  Cicero, ‘De Oratore’, 3.23. 14   Cicero, ‘De Oratore’, 2.316–17; May 2002, p. 57. 15  Bell 1997, p. 1–2. 16  Riggsby 2002, p. 180.

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we find a  wide range of   subjects, differentiated mostly by the author’s relationship with the addressee. 17 Letters to intimate friends are the most relevant category here. Of  course, friendship was an important feature of   Rome’s social structure, and letterwriting a  vital medium, if  only because members of   the upper classes travelled a lot. 18 In many of   these letters to friends, such as to his friend Atticus, persuasion plays a  central role, in the sense that Cicero seeks understanding of   (and agreement with) his ideas. 19 A central concern in all of   Cicero’s work, finally, is his permanent effort to establish and maintain his auctoritas. After all, he was not just an observer of  contemporary events, but participated in the public arena as well. During the Hellenistic period, warfare had become the subject of   specialist study, as we have seen, and this tendency continued in the Roman era. Cicero spoke of   scientia rei militaris, 20 but, in Rome, military manuals discussing the technical details of  the art of   war were written only later, by first-century ad authors like Frontinus (Strategemata) and Polyaenus (Strategemata), and in the 4th century by Vegetius (Epitoma rei militaris). Because of  the nature of   these works, we can only use them as sources to a rather limited degree. Last, concerning the non-written sources, the coinage of   the time is  especially interesting in that it begins to show heads of  military leaders. We can see an inspiration coming from the Hellenistic tradition with its depiction of   monarchs, as well as a link with the cult of  the emperor of  later years. As for the imagery used, it expresses various aspects of   the Roman conquest and military victories. In paintings and statues, mostly relevant in the victory discourse, there is a tendency to replace the traditional idealistic, heroic, Hellenistic style by what is called ‘verism’, which depends on greater realism. 21   Hutchinson 1998, p. 9.   Hutchinson 1998, p. 17. 19  Hutchinson 1998, p. 21. 20  Cicero, ‘De Imperio. Cn. Pompei’, 28. 21  Their propagandistic aims are no less. According to J. Tanner, the interest in realism can be explained by the value that Roman culture placed on age and experience, as well as the interaction of   clients commissioning and patrons portrayed, notably in the East, in the late 2nd century, when Greek subjects found 17 18

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2. The Themes of  the Roman War Discourse as Seen in Genre and Time In the period of   the Late Republic, the war discourse is featured in three themes: legitimacy, loyalty and supremacy. They will be discussed in this order, starting with ‘legitimacy’, which encompasses a new discourse feature, the question of   how to begin and conduct a ‘just’ war.

2.1. The Legitimacy Theme 2.1.1. The Just War Discourse: ius in bello (How to Conduct a Just War) Within the theme of   ‘legitimacy’ it  is the ‘just war’ discourse that stands out in this period. It  gets full attention, no doubt owing to the civil wars of   the time; it must also have been the product of  an increasing sophistication in the art of  public debate, which gave us Cicero’s writings. In this, as well as in later periods, the aspect of   ius ad bellum, which looks at the legal grounds to start a  war, is  a  focus of   attention in the Roman war discourse. The aspect of   ius in bello, which includes the conduct of   soldiers during a war, corresponding with the Greek agonal war discourse, is not a Roman priority. 22 A distinction should be made between the discourse and actual conduct, however. Both Greeks and Romans used diplomacy in their attempts to resolve conflicts, but resorted to violence, sometimes in excess, whenever they believed the occasion demanded it. Thus, the brutality displayed by the Romans in Corinth in 146 bc has its earlier counterpart in Alexander the Great’s annihilation of  Thebes in 335 bc. 23 Rome’s relative lack of   interest in ius in bello does not mean that there was no code of   conduct. For a long time, the Romans held on (at least in theory) to a form of  agonal warfare, which separated the traditional, open way of  the Romans from the guile and deceit that was associated with barbarian warfare. The subject was new ways to confirm the special relationship with their Roman patrons (Tanner 2000, p. 20 & ff.). 22  Goodman 1997, p. 35; Cartledge 2004, p. 90. 23  Goodman 1997, p. 85.

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explicitly treated in later periods, for instance in military manuals, but also by historians like Florus and Tacitus. This was after the Augustan mood of  patriotic nostalgia had swept the nation, when it had become de rigueur to compare the shortcomings of   the Principate with the moral elevation of  the Republic. 24 In our period, we have some references to problems like unnecessary cruelty or brutality against enemies, but they are not very common. 25 Violent conduct was simply recorded without comment, and it affected all opponents – the barbarian enemy, frequently including women and children, but also Rome’s allies if  they were revolting. Cruelty to allies, for example, was a problem in the 120s, when harsh treatment of   the Latins fed rebellious sentiments that led to the Social War. 26 In  the discourse, these transgressions were condemned, but we need to turn to later authors such as Gellius to find details. 27 Using brutal force to put fear into an actual or potential enemy was a proven method, but it could sometimes backfire, as it did here. Cruelty to barbarians was routine. There are a few passages in Sallust, however, with implicit or explicit disapproval of   Roman conduct. In  the Jugurthine War, when Metellus was hunting Jugurtha, he captured a few fortresses and cities, ‘put the youth to the sword, and gave everything else as plunder to the soldiers’, Sallust comments. 28 In  another campaign, when the town of  Capsa surrendered to Marius, he still gave advice to burn the town, and ‘all the Numidians were put to the sword’, the civil24  Thus, we find Florus commenting on an event taking place in the Late Republic (129  bc), in which the consul M.  Aquillius poisoned the wells used by rebellious cities in Asia. Already at the time, this type of   warfare was strongly condemned as unRoman, violating ‘the laws of   heaven and the practice of   our forefathers’ (Florus, The Epitome of  Roman History, 1.35.5–7). The incident was clearly highlighted by Florus to underline its deviation from the norm. 25  It probably increased, compared to the preceding period, since plunder and pillaging of   entire areas became common practice. The relatively poor soldiers of   the Late Republic viewed plunder as an investment in their future, a sort of  pension fund. No doubt the level of  violence increased ‘when plunder went from a motivation to a goal in and of  itself’ (Serrati 2013, p. 164–65). 26   Dart 2014, p. 56. 27 Gellius, Attic Nights, 10.3.3. Gellius is  quoting from a  speech by Gaius Gracchus, ‘On the Promulgation of   Laws’, which gives instances of   ‘atrocious action’ by Roman magistrates in Latin cities. 28 Sallust, Jugurthine War, 54.6.

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ians were sold and the spoil divided among the soldiers. This act deserved explicit reprobation, since it took place after the town had surrendered. Sallust calls it ‘a severity, in violation of   the usages of  war’. 29 A special case is Caesar’s notorious use of   force in Gaul, with numerous examples of  brutality, but in particular the annihilation of   the Tencteri and Usipetes. In 55 bc, Caesar decided to attack these invading German tribes on the northern fringes of   Gaul. There is  a  discrepancy between what Caesar tells us about the campaign and what we know from other sources. In  Caesar’s own version, the Germans, during and after negotiations, showed deceit and double dealing. 30 In the alternative reading, he attacked his opponents during a  truce, and subsequently, after putting them to flight, totally wiped them out, women and children included. The latter part is confirmed by Caesar himself: Their consternation being made apparent by their noise and tumult, our soldiers, excited by the treachery of   the preceding day, rushed into the camp: such of   them as could readily get their arms, for a short time withstood our men, and gave battle among their carts and baggage wagons; but the rest of  the people, ‹consisting› of  boys and women (for they had left their country and crossed the Rhine with all their families) began to flee in all directions; in pursuit of  whom Caesar sent the cavalry. […]  The Germans when, upon hearing a  noise behind them, [they looked and] saw that their families were being slain, throwing away their arms and abandoning their standards, fled out of   the camp, and when they had arrived at the confluence of   the Meuse and the Rhine, the survivors despairing of  further escape, as a great number of  their countrymen had been killed, threw themselves into the river and there perished, overcome by fear, fatigue, and the violence of  the stream. 31

The action drew comments from contemporaries. Cato the Younger thought that Caesar’s conduct in this campaign was outrageous, and that he should be extradited to the Germans. 32  Sallust, Jugurthine War, 91.5–7.  Caesar, The Gallic War, 4.13. 31 Caesar, The Gallic War, 4.14.5; 4.15.2. 32  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Caesar’, 22.32; ‘Life of  Cato the Younger’, 51.1–2.

29

30

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It  must be added, however, that a  distinction should be made between Caesar’s alleged breach of   fides, i.e. by restarting a war during a truce, and his treatment of   the enemy, the thing later writers focused on: the way he indiscriminately massacred men, women and children during their flight. Nowadays, with its definition rapidly widening, ‘genocide’ is used in describing these acts of   terror, but, of   course, this is  a  modern reading of   past events, and, it seems to me, used too easily. 33 Cato’s indignation was certainly not directed at Caesar’s brutality, but at his breaking of   the unwritten rules on starting a war. Also, Caesar’s matter-of-fact recording of   events that we just quoted tells us that he did not feel any guilt; rather, he felt that, because of   their deceit, they got what they deserved. Although wanton cruelty was rejected, a  measure of  brutality was often taken for granted if it served a tactical purpose. Disobedience or breach of  faith would be punished, and punishment could be cruel, deliberately appalling as a warning, like Caesar’s punishment of   the Veneti, and Crassus’ mass crucifixion of   Spartacus’ followers. 34 Actually, for his day, Caesar was remarkably moderate – at least, if  we follow his own writing – and usually kept his soldiers under tight discipline. His clemency toward his defeated opponents was legendary. In  fact, the incident just mentioned was concluded with Caesar ‘grant[ing] those whom he had detained in the camp liberty of   departing’. 35 But since we only have Caesar’s own words here, perhaps this was a clever form of  public relations rather than anything else. 36 We shall come back to Caesar’s clementia in a later section.

33   van Wees uses the term ‘genocide’ to cover acts of   brutality in the whole of  antiquity, i.e., if they were applied as deliberate choices in an attempt to impress the opponent (van Wees 2010, p.  250; p.  257). Caesar’s atrocities in Gaul are called ‘genocide’ by the Dutch archaeologist Nico Roymans, who excavated a mass burial site in the Netherlands, near the Waal River. He also refers to Caesar’s own words in his planned actions against the Eburones (6.34.8) (Roymans and Fernandez-Götz 2015, p. 72). 34  Goldsworthy 2007a, p. 323. 35 Caesar, The Gallic War, 4.15. 36   Goldsworthy 2007a, p. 473.

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2.1.2. The Just War Discourse: ius ad bellum (How to Start a Just War) The other aspect in the just war discourse, the conventions surrounding the beginning of   a  war, was a  topic of   interest in the Late Republic. The sources that we have are the first to discuss the principles of  just war, which does, of  course, not necessarily mean that the discourse originated in this period. ‘The Romans make it a  point to embark only upon wars that are just, and to make no casual or precipitate decisions about such matters’, Diodorus Siculus said about ‘just war’. 37 The topic emerged because of   the civil wars that characterized the period and inevitably brought the problematic aspect of   the legitimacy of   war. Historians tried to come to grips with a form of   war that was generally detested but could not be ignored. Although, from a modern war historian’s perspective, it can be said that civil wars, common since the first century bc, kept the army in shape and accounted for the unparalleled skills of   Roman armies in pitched battle, 38 the aggressive nature of   Roman warfare, when exercised in internal struggles, made these wars vicious and destructive conflicts more than anything else. This is why it is no surprise that in contemporary writing civil wars were not celebrated and were not looked upon as ‘just wars’, but universally condemned. The first of   the series of   1st century civil wars, which brought Sulla to power, followed the slave revolts (the ‘Servile Wars’) of   around 100 bc. 39 For Diodorus, it was Marius who was ultimately responsible:   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 32.5.  Goldsworthy 2007c, p.  162. In  writing his commentarii, Caesar was, of   course, in a position to present a rationale for actions that could look unnecessarily cruel. In The Gallic War, Caesar accounts for his sometimes brutal acts – executions, sales into slavery, sacks and near-annihilation – by pointing to the enemy’s lack of  faith. 39   The Servile Wars were insurrections of   slaves that were put down with violence. Even though they were called ‘wars’, they cannot be seen as ‘real’ wars, and even at the time, they were not seen as civil wars. An example is in Cicero, who refers to Spartacus’ War (the third of  these wars) in his persecution of  Gaius Verres, a  magistrate on trial for his mismanagement of   Sicily in 70  bc. In  his defense at trial, Verres had apparently boasted that he had played a  part in Spartacus’ failed attempt to cross from the Italian mainland over to Sicily. Cicero attacked him for this as follows: ‘What will you say? That in the war of   the runaway slaves Sicily was delivered by your valour? It  is  a  great praise; a  very 37 38

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Therefore, foreseeing the impending war that Sulla would bring upon his country, [Marius] willingly departed from life; but he left behind him the seeds of  a grievous war, which involved his son and country in most dreadful calamities. His son, being forced to contend with an enemy more powerful than himself, perished most miserably in a vault, where he fled to hide himself. The people of   Rome and cities of   Italy descended into the cruel war that had long awaited them, and suffered many dreadful calamities. For the majority of   the senators, and the most eminent men of  the city, were slaughtered by Sulla, and no less than a hundred thousand soldiers were slain, either in mutinies or battles; and all these miseries were caused at the start by the greed of  Marius. 40

But the strongest condemnation of   civil war we find in later authors, during the Principate, when the wars were given a  retrospective, Augustan revaluation. Contemporaries like Caesar had their reasons to be more circumspect. In  The Civil War, employing his flawless, matter-of-fact style, Caesar restricts himself  to recording military action, with an occasional speech to his troops, such as the one at the beginning of   the war which reveals his true intentions – ‘Now I ask you to defend my reputation’. 41 Of  course, we do not see much of   the terrible slaughter in these despatches sent by a  commander to the Senate. Caesar’s defeat at Dyrrachium is  tersely summarized in the following words: ‘In these two battles on one day Caesar lost 960 soldiers and some notable Roman knights’. 42 At Dyrrachium, both Pompey’s and Caesar’s armies were afflicted by a  contagious disease, probably typhus, with terrible results, but we have to wait for later Roman literature to find a  more explicit and emotional treatment of  these events. There is no doubt that there were ideological origins in Rome’s civil wars of  the first century bc. The power struggle between Sulla honourable boast. But in what war? For we have understood that after that war which Marcus Aquillius finished, there has been no war of   fugitive slaves in Sicily. Oh! but there was in Italy. I admit that; a great and formidable war. Do you then attempt to claim for yourself  any part of   the credit arising from that war?’ (Cicero, Against Verres, 2.5). 40 Diodorus, Historical Library, 37.29. 41 Caesar, The Civil War, 1.7. 42 Caesar, The Civil War, 3.71.

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and Marius in the early 80s erupted into full-scale war when, after his return from his eastern campaign, Sulla emerged as winner, became dictator and strengthened the position of   the Senate at the cost of   the tribunate. In the conflict, Marius and his followers championed the cause of   the plebs, Sulla that of   the nobility. A few decades later, in Caesar’s civil war, the principles at stake were similar, with Caesar representing the ordinary people, and Pompey the senatorial class. The opposition between autocratic rule vs the liberty of  senatorial rule that followed was temporarily resolved with Caesar’s death. This ideological background of   the civil wars is confirmed by (near) contemporary sources. For Sallust, the Republic was split between a  nobility (the optimates) upholding their dignitas and the people (or their supporters), the populares, cherishing their libertas, with both terms having connotations of  political power. 43 However, in the contemporary discourse, the conflict of  ideas on ideal government is completely overshadowed by the discussion of   the ambitions of   the individual generals. Modern historians’ attempts to emphasize the ideological split are not always convincing. In his dissertation, Scott Ernest Hoaby tries to argue that the conflict between Caesar and Pompey was one of   ideas rather than ambition, but then freely admits that his argument is against the grain. 44 On the whole, our primary sources focus on the struggle for power. Of  course, to some extent this can be attributed to the general tendency to read history as a moral tale of   individual characters, which was quite prevalent among ancient authors. Sallust, for example, gives the following explanation for the civil strife of  the 80s: ‘For after those times (to dispatch the truth in a few words), no matter who stirred up the commonwealth on honourable pretexts (some as though defending the rights of   the people, others to maximize the authority of   the senate), each of   them, despite his pretence of   the common good, was competing for his own powerfulness’. 45 Cicero, in a letter to Atticus written just before the war of   the 40s, condemns both Caesar and Pompey for fail Sallust, Jugurthine War, 41.   Hoaby 2011. 45 Sallust, Catiline’s War, 38.3. 43 44

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ing in statesmanship and only wanting power for themselves, and creates a link with the earlier civil war: Pompey never had this notion and least of   all in the present cause. Absolute power is  what he and Caesar have sought; their aim has not been to secure the happiness and honour of  the community. Pompey has not abandoned Rome, because it was impossible to defend, nor Italy on forced compulsion; but it was his idea from the first to plunge the world into war, to stir up barbarous princes, to bring savage tribes into Italy under arms, and to gather a huge army. A sort of  Sulla’s reign has long been his object, and is the desire of  many of  his companions. Or do you think that no agreement, no compromise between him and Caesar was possible? Why, it is possible today but neither of   them looks to our happiness. Both want to be kings. 46

In later years, we see the civil wars linked with moral corruption and the decadence that Rome’s rapid expansion had brought, something that Polybius had predicted much earlier. In the Late Republic, this sentiment finds expression in such passages as the following, in which Diodorus presents wealth as the cause of   all civil unrest: Wealth, the subject of   so much dispute amongst men, sometimes causes great misfortunes to those who long to gain it. It  drives them to unjust and criminal actions; it provides fuel for licentiousness, and leads the unwise into shameful behaviour. Thus we see these men fall into the greatest misfortune, and bring disaster on their cities. Such is the pernicious power of  gold over men, when they foolishly over-value it. 47

46  Cicero, ‘Letter to Atticus’, 8.11. A good example of   where Cicero, in a letter, manages to detach himself  from a preset political position. We also see it at the end of   his life, when he looks back and sees the Roman dominion drifting away to an empire exploiting its subjects: ‘After Sulla’s victory, we have lost it altogether’ (‘On Duties’, 2.27). Tom Stevenson argues that Cicero’s misgivings here concern Sulla’s (and other strongmen’s) aspirations to tyrannical power, and that Cicero’s belief  in Roman expansion was unshaken (Stevenson 2013, p. 184–85). This sounds plausible, considering the general drift of   many of   his writings. At any rate, it can be safely concluded that, by the end of   the Republic, a Roman empire was taken for granted, but its nature became a focus of  discourse (Beness and Hillard 2013, p. 153). 47   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 37.39.

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Civil wars demanded high rhetorical skills, and in the discourse even appeals to the fatherland were not uncommon, for all parties sought backing from ancestors and patria. For example, in his narrative of   Catiline’s uprising, Sallust describes how Catiline himself  appeals to ‘the fatherland’ in raising the morale of   his followers: ‘Our struggle is  for fatherland, for freedom, for life; theirs is  a  superfluous fight for the power of   a  few’. 48 It  is  not hard to see that, in the context of   civil war, playing the patria card is the thing to do in a situation that is rhetorically challenging, to say the least. It was not the class struggle of   the Late Republic that made this period unique, Harriet Flower has argued convincingly, but the fact that the civil wars that characterized it were ‘the antithesis of  republican political culture’. After all, the essence of  the Roman Republic was its ‘cooperation, compromise, and the deliberate limitation of  individual ambition’. 49 It can, therefore, be said that Sulla’s rise to power marked the end of  the Republic. It was a radical departure because of   its rule by a strongman. The change was accompanied by an increasing reliance on the law and legislature at the cost of   the traditional mos maiorum, a  development that had grown out of  the early 2nd century enactment of  the lex Villia annalis, a law that formalized the proceedings in the cursus honorum of   officials, and the leges sumptuariae, legislation restricting extravagant expenditure. 50 Sulla’s dictatorship also brought in the practice of   self-advertisement in autobiographical writings and inscriptions as a new form of  recording one’s achievements. 51 Even so, the violent personal contests of  the first century bc were still public issues at the time, and were up for debate, like other issues such as the use of   the huge revenues of   conquests and the

 Sallust, Catiline’s War, 58.11–12. A.  T. Wilkins sees enough ambiguity in Sallust’s depiction of   Catiline to call him a  ‘self-proclaimed reformer’ who was more or less forced by political circumstances to start his uprising. If  this is Sallust’s Catiline, there is too much between the lines here (Wilkins 1994, p. 139). T. F. Scanlon’s assessment of   Sallust’s Catiline (‘a character justly despised since the beginning’) makes more sense (Scanlon 1987, p. 34). 49  Flower 2010, p. 155. 50  Flower 2010, p. 129. 51   Flower 2010, p. 169. 48

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future of   military expansion. 52 This would change before the century was past. 2.1.3. The Just War Discourse in Literature As said in the introduction, literature in the Late Republic covers an array of  genres, but has a limited output that has survived, with Cicero’s writings as its major contribution for our purposes here. As a general rule, it can be said that Roman thought was somewhat ambivalent about ‘just war’ where it concerned wars against outsiders: on the one hand, there were certain constraints, as formulated, for example, by Cicero, based on Greek ideas as found in the philosophy of   Plato, Ar­is­to­tle and Stoics like Panaetius. 53 On the other, each war fought by Romans was easily considered ‘just’, a bellum iustum, whether it was a defensive action or a punitive expedition, because the blame was always cleverly placed on the enemy’s shoulders, irrespective of  the actual conditions. 54 Cicero, who as a  magistrate was in continual debate with his peers and rivals, as well as the audience at large. represented groups within his own class when he voiced his opinion. As a conservative aristocrat, he defended the status quo and focused on the importance of   the moral fibre that individual magistrates could not do without (or were sometimes sadly lacking). 55 Legend had it, Cicero says, that moral uprightness had been implanted in the Roman people by the ancient King Numa, who had given the nation ‘a love of   peace and tranquillity, which enable justice 52   Millar 1993, p. 95; p. 125. Of  course, Millar has become famous for his emphasizing the role of   the people in the decision-making process. His ‘democratic model’ has been challenged by Jehne’s ‘symbolic model’, which sees the contios, the politicians’ speeches to the assembly as mere ‘consensus rituals’ (Mouritsen 2007, p.  16). Mouritsen makes a  useful distinction between the People as a political body, and the People as a sum of   individuals who were, in actual practice, largely excluded from the workings of   the assemblies (Mouritsen 2007, p. 16). 53  Riggsby 2006, p. 160. 54  Southern 2007, p. 171. 55  Steel 2001, p.  226. Such as Crassus’ campaign against the Parthians, for example which drew criticism from contemporaries because Crassus had a reputation of   greediness and self-gratification (Mattern-Parkes 2003, p. 387–96). But what made his war ‘unjust’ was the problem that the Parthians had broken no treaties – there was no just cause. This is what Cicero addressed in ‘De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum’ (3.22).

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and good faith most easily to flourish’. 56 In ‘On Duties’, Cicero rebuts an argument presented by Carneades which says that man by nature follows his own interests, and that Rome, in its imperial ambitions, is doing quite the same thing. Cicero points out that Rome’s wars had been just, and that world domination had been the consequence of  Rome defending its allies. 57 It is in Cicero’s Republic and in ‘On Duties’ that we find ideas on the concept of  ‘just war’ that could be classified as ‘theory’, but Cicero’s definitions give enough leeway to condone practically all forms of   Roman warfare. There are allowances for avenging wrongdoings, and preventing injuries, and Cicero, it has been pointed out, takes an important step in Romanizing traditional Greek ideas on ‘just war’ by moving away from the motivational requirement to a circumstantial one. That is, the intention of   the aggressor is  not decisive in legitimizing wars but the right context. For example, because of   the mere danger of   potential surprise attacks by the enemy (insidiae), pre-emptive action was warranted. 58 This enabled the Romans to fight in a ‘just war’ for the sake of   empire. 59 Of  course, Cicero was a politician as much as a thinker, and in his speeches legal principles were sometimes placed in a political context. For example, Rome’s military campaigns in Gaul were somewhat ingeniously defended by Cicero when he pointed to the fact that the revenge that the Romans were entitled to on the basis of   previous incidents had not yet sufficiently been exacted, or that the peace that had been established was not quite secure. 60 Cicero’s writings had their specific contexts and audiences, which explains the flexibility of  thought that we find in his ideas on just war. ‘On Duties’ was written as a letter to his son (but obviously intended for a more general audience), while ‘On the Consular Provinces’ was a  political speech made in mid-career. It was with good reason that Cicero preferred the Socratic dialogue in The Republic as his format for what could be considered  Cicero, The Republic, 2.26.   Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 1.34–36. 58   Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 1.35. 59  Riggsby 2006, p. 60–61. 60  Cicero, ‘On the Consular Provinces’, 32–33. 56 57

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controversial ideas by his political opponents. He could freely express his opinions and hide behind his speakers. Another complexity in Cicero’s writings is  his changeability in his relations with major contenders like Pompey and Caesar. Thus, Cicero’s long-standing support for Pompey was withdrawn when he became critical of  the violence used by the First Triumvirate, but was revived after his exile came to an end. Caesar was respected for his military savvy, but was also deeply distrusted because of  his political agenda, which leaned too far to the Populares, in Cicero’s view, and because of   his suspected dictatorial ambitions. 61 But, on the whole, Cicero tried to curry favor with both parties, as the situation demanded, seeking a balance and treading a  fine line between the two opponents, while at the same time trying to keep them apart. In this triad of   relations, Cicero saw himself  as the nexus, with the high status that this brought along. 62 Cicero’s thoughts on just war combine ethical, legal and religious elements. They also address different aspects: the war’s proper cause, its legal formalities and its conduct. Wars are morally just if  they are undertaken with a proper cause: ‘No just war can be waged except for the sake of   punishing or repelling an enemy’. 63 In effect this meant that just wars were fought either to defend the empire or to protect Rome’s allies. Retaliation was an important incentive in the ‘protection’ of   allies, for it implied a commitment to maintain faith (fides) between patron and client, and restore it with force if  it was broken. Wars of   self-defence were justified because of   Rome’s concern for safety or health of   the empire (salus). 64 But Rome’s wars could also be fought, Cicero argued, if  they were in the foreign nation’s best interest, i.e. if  this nation did not have the capacity to govern itself. 65 If disputes had to be settled, discussion was preferable to naked force – for Cicero, this distinguished man from brute. 66 And 61  In a letter to Atticus sent after Caesar’s death, Cicero even called Caesar’s murderers ‘heroes’ (‘Letters to Atticus’, 14.4). 62  Riggsby 2002, p. 178. 63 Cicero, The Republic, 3.35. 64   Sidebottom 2007, p. 25–26. 65 Cicero, The Republic, 3.36. 66  Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 1.34.

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even if  a  war was fought for supremacy or glory, it should start from the principles stated above in order for it to qualify as a just war. 67 This legalistic way of   reasoning made it easier to use violence as an option, if  only the right pretext could be found. But in such wars, Cicero emphasized, honesty should be strictly kept – ‘there must be no crimes, since out of  crime glory cannot come’. Dishonest methods, such as surreptitiously killing the enemy by poison (as a deserter from Pyrrhus had proposed to a Roman army commander) were unacceptable and unjust. 68 Also, promises made to the enemy should be kept, Cicero said, and he gave the example of   Regulus in the First Punic War.  Regulus was taken prisoner by the Car­thaginians and sent back to Rome on a mission, on a promise to return to Carthage. He chose to return to death by torture rather than break his promise. 69 There were also formal arguments to justify war, i.e. they can be identified as ‘legal’ even if  Cicero does not distinguish between the categories – in the Roman mind there was not really a categorization in the first place. Just wars have to be properly declared and proclaimed and can be conducted only if  ‘redress has not previously been sought’. 70 In the Roman tradition, these legal requirements were dated back to King Ancus Marcius, who supposedly enacted that every war that was fought in contravention of   the rules should be deemed ‘unjust and unholy’. 71 Most importantly, it was believed that Rome’s power made it unique in its freedom from external threats, such as Gallic incursions, and this is what Cicero argued, for such potential dangers had become ‘impossible for the Roman people whom the immortal gods have ordained should rule all nations’. 72 As for religion, for Cicero, the laws were clear – there were rules of   religion in war and there was a  role for priests, also in divination: ‘They shall give prior warning about omens to those who are engaged in the business of  war and state, and those groups

  Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 1.38.   Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 3.9. 69   Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 1.39. 70 Cicero, The Republic, 3.35. 71 Cicero, The Republic, 2.31. 72 Cicero, Philippics, 6.19. 67 68

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shall take heed of   them’. 73 Religious rules were strictly observed by following the old fetial procedures or a  procedure that was modelled on it. Formal declaration of   war could only take place after attempts had failed to come to reparations and after the gods had been invoked to punish unjust demands. 74 Divine approval appeared after the war was over and had been successfully concluded. Since the Romans were victorious most of   the time, the gods were on their side most of   the time. As for the fetial procedure, it had lapsed somewhat in the later Mid Republic, and divine approval came to be sought in augury. 75 As an intrinsic advantage, omens could be attributed with hindsight, if  need be. Diodorus describes how Sulla’s civil war was announced by the gods and, what is more, how this event could be interpreted as a revolutionary change in history: The civil war that broke out in Rome in the consulship of  Sulla was  […] heralded by many omens. When the sky was cloudless and perfectly clear, a  trumpet was heard making a sharp and plaintive sound, and all who heard it were struck with fear. The Etruscan soothsayers declared that this portent heralded a revolution in human affairs; they added that there are eight different races of  men, each differing in their character and manner of  life. The deity has assigned to each of  them a certain period of   time, which is the length of   a great year. At the end of   this period and the beginning of   the following one, there appears some miraculous sign, either on earth or in heaven, from which the sages immediately know that a race of   men has arisen with a different character and manner of   life, and that the gods have less care for them than for previous men. Whether this is true or not, is something that I will not discuss here. 76

Finally, for some Romans writing at the time, all wars were unjust – peace was the natural state – a sentiment that would find favour in the Augustan period. The Late Republican philosopher Lucre Cicero, The Laws, 2.21.   Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 1.34–36 or The Republic, 2.31. 75  Riggsby 2006, p. 168. Even though the fetial practices had been neglected, in Cicero’s days they still shaped Roman thinking on the proper way to start a war (Sage 2008, p. 275). 76   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 38.5. 73 74

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tius, who was an Epicurean and not a  Stoic, and hence did not subscribe to a deterministic worldview, opposed war and valued peace and co-operation. In his opus magnum De Rerum Natura (Of  the Nature of   Things) he described the origin and development of   warfare in gruesome detail. In the old days, ‘kings were slain  … and crowns, so splendid on the sovereigns’ heads, soon bloody under the proletarian feet’. 77 In  the Republican period, things went from bad to worse, because small-scale wars expanded into wars between nations: ‘This Discord sad  / begat the one Thing after other, to be / the terror of   the nations under arms / and day by day to horrors of   old war / she added an increase’. 78 We should keep in mind that this was a philosopher’s voice, the product of   a  perception by and for the elite. It  is  tempting to contrast it with what Cicero said about the general love of   the Romans for things military. In his view, the ‘passion’ of  the Roman people ‘for military glory […] is shown in the fact that we see their statues usually in soldier’s garb’. 79 2.1.4. The Legitimacy Theme: Conclusion The Roman just war discourse only took off in the Late Republic, when the Romans came to live with near-perpetual warfare at home. From the beginning it focused on the principles of  rightful warring, rather than the ‘rules of   engagement’ on the battlefield, the things that were central in Greek thinking. At the same time, most of   the discourse revolved around the civil wars, universally condemned, and linked with the ambitions and greed of  individual representatives of   the two rival political groups. This is how Diodorus and Sallust (and sometimes Cicero) present the events, as the consequence of  a deviation from the ancient norms. This moral emphasis in the discourse is  no surprise, for the ambitions of   individual politicians and military commanders had long been held in check by unwritten laws and tacit understandings, a  sense of   competition and co-operating within the framework of   the res publica. To contemporary observers, the  Lucretius, Of  the Nature of  Things, 5.  Lucretius, Of  the Nature of  Things, 5. 79  Cicero, ‘On Duties’, 1.61. 77 78

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breach must have been radical, affecting matters of  principle. The other just war discourse, relating to external warfare, only became articulate in this period even though wars had been fought ever since the foundation of  Rome. Of  course, the principles had been old and established, but only in Cicero’s writings do we find a set of   ideas that can be seen as the beginning of   a  just war theory. Cicero built on Greek foundations, but added a flexibility inevitably asked for in a country with a history of  war-making: Roman warfare could hardly be declared unjust in retrospect. In his thinking, Cicero’s background of   law and politics was a  great asset. His combination of   religious, legal and ethical arguments (in today’s terms) is impressive but more important still are the legal opt-outs that make it hard for Rome to fight unjust wars in the first place. After all, Rome was free from external constraints, Cicero said. The same goes for religious ritual: it is seen as important to obtain divine approval, but since the Romans are invincible, the gods are on their side. 80 It underlines Roman pragmatism – the ideal is based on the status quo.

2.2. The Theme of  Loyalty Discourse features like virtus and disciplina, which we encountered in the Mid Republic, continue to be discussed in the Late Republic, but now with a special emphasis on the character of  the general leading the forces. Loyalty was an important theme with a twofold application, since the Late Republic was a time of  conquest, when successful generals brought home the spoils, but also a time of   internecine conflict, when Roman armies fought other   But only if  the religious rituals are followed can the pax deorum be maintained. In the notorious live burials of  Greek and Gallic men and women in 228, 216 and 113 bc, the Romans resorted to such radical action to bring back the pax deorum. Unlike Várhelyi (2007) and Eckstein (1982), who see a connection between these live burials and military threats and disasters at the time, which presumably warranted drastic measures, Paul Erdkamp argues that this link is unsubstantiated in the sources, and that, instead, there is a strong connection with the live burials of  Vestal Virgins, following grave sexual misconduct, at the time. The subsequent ritual killing of  the Greek and Gallic victims, the sources tell us, should be seen as an act of  atonement that was required by the Sibylline Books to restore the pax deorum after the polluting act of   killing a Vestal Virgin. Only in a very general sense is it possible to make a link with military threats, in that, of  course, all military success depended on the pax deorum (Erdkamp, forthcoming). 80

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Roman armies, and the general, as warlord, was dependent on the loyalty of  his troops. It resulted in a shift of  loyalty from the state, the res publica – effectively the army leadership as representative of   the state – to the individual general as sole commander. This change can be called the major developments in the military history of   the Late Republic. Another discourse feature is the perceived loss of  virtus which, in its turn, can be related to the riches brought by eastern campaigns on the one hand, and the dire effects of   civil warfare on the other. Below, we shall look at the way in which these two trends – first, the decline of   virtus, next, the changing loyalty – can be traced in our primary sources. After that, we will see how, in the discourse, all these elements were used to enhance the image of  the great general. 2.2.1. Virtus and disciplina: The Perceived Moral Decay In the Late Republic, the virtus discourse became infused with the idea of   moral decay. For Sallust, who saw great moral decline in his own day, the best examples were given by the ancestors of  the regal period and the early Republic, when young men were still eager for glory in battle: ‘Each hurried to be the one to strike the enemy, to scale a wall and to be observed while doing such deeds. […] they wanted mighty glory, honourable riches’. 81 The old days set an example anyway, when soldiers and farmers were one and the same group. From the ranks of  farmers, the soldiers were conscripted to fight Rome’s wars while slaves and freedmen stayed behind to work in the fields. 82 But changes set in when Sulla sought to gain the army’s loyalty by treating the soldiers ‘luxuriously and generously’, Sallust believed, and material riches became a  source of   honor. 83 Like  Sallust, Catiline’s War, 7.6–7.   The idea of   the noble farmer-soldier went back to the days of   Cato the Elder and was echoed by Cicero in his ‘On Duties’ (1.151). In ‘On Agriculture’, Cato writes: ‘Our ancestors when they would praise a  worthy man, would call him a  husbandman, a  good farmer. […]  It is  from the farming class that the bravest men and the sturdiest soldiers come, their calling is more highly respected, their livelihood is most assured and is looked on with the least hostility, and those who are engaged in that pursuit are least inclined to be disaffectionate’ (Cato, ‘On Agriculture’, prologue). 83  Sallust, Jugurthine War, 96.2. 81 82

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Cicero and other authors of   the time, 84 Sallust saw character sketching as part of   the work of   a  historian, and his Roman protagonists (Metellus, Marius, and Sulla) are presented with some psychological depth. The result was somewhat ambivalent, yielding a  mix of   strong characters with admirable virtus yet morally tainted. For example, Metellus showed his virtus in the Jugurthine War, achieving victory in adverse terrain ‘through prowess’, as Sallust says. 85 In the same war, Marius obtained his great reputation. When the people had made him consul, Marius addressed his constituency and laid out his principles of   warmaking before departing for Africa. Rather than extolling the great ancestors and imitating the Greek models in rhetorical flourishes, Sallust makes Marius say that he believed in practical virtues: My words are not neat; but I place little value on that. Prowess itself  is its own adequate evidence. It is they who need artifice, to cover up in speech their shameful deeds. And I never learned Greek: there was little pleasure in learning it because it had brought no benefit to its teachers in terms of   prowess. But I am well taught in what is best by far for the commonwealth: striking the enemy, keeping guard, dreading nothing except a shameful reputation, tolerating winter and summer alike, resting on the ground, enduring want and toil at the same time. 86

At the same time, both Metellus and Marius (as well as Sulla) are united in a ‘single chain of   personal and general moral degeneration’. Metellus is shown abandoning straight warfare for treacherous devices, becoming Jugurtha’s moral equivalent. 87 Because of  his arrogance and class hatred, he also fails to accept his subordinate Marius as a competent soldier. In turn, Marius is possessed by unchecked ambition, and, like Metellus, drawn into hatred of   the opposite class, in his case of   the nobles. In Sallust’s view, Sulla, finally, follows the same, degenerative pattern of   a charac  Cicero, ‘On the Orator’, 2.63–64.  Sallust, Jugurthine War, 55.1–2. 86 Sallust, Jugurthine War, 85.31–33. 87 Sallust, Jugurthine War, 61.3. 84 85

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ter, this time marked by luxuria and voluptas. 88 Both Marius’ and Sulla’s character sketches are concluded with dark references to their future actions, promising little good. 89 The role of   character in the good general’s make-up was also emphasized by Cicero, who singled out knowledge of   military affairs, virtue, reputation and luck as key qualities. 90 On the whole, there was a  tendency at the time to measure the quality of   all leading men, including provincial governors and other magistrates, on the basis of   their moral uprightness rather than their competence. This is exemplified in Cicero’s attacks on governors like Piso and Gabinius, who were censored for their presumed moral depravity. In Cicero’s rhetoric this did not merely reflect the spirit of   the time, but, as C.  E.  W. Steel has argued, it also served strategic purposes: the Republican magistracy involved very few people, who had great discretionary powers, and by pointing to individual failings Cicero did not have to question the administrative system as such. 91 We see the same emphasis to put the general in the spotlight in a  passage by Diodorus that discusses the moral qualities that made Pompey the outstanding general that he was:  Sallust, Jugurthine War, 95.2–4.  Sallust, Jugurthine War, 63.6 and 95.4; Levene 1992, p.  111. Levene focuses strongly on Sallust’s treatment of   the frailties of   strong men and sees it projected into the future (i.e. the period following the end of  the narrative, which is inconclusive, Levene argues. Thomas Wiedemann finds a tension in the polarity of   concord and discord. Whenever army commanders like Marius and Sulla work together against external threats, ignoring class distinctions, they are successful. As soon as envy prevails over co-operation, discord arises and disaster follows. For Metellus and Marius the same holds: Metellus’ arrogance is fed by his jealousy of  the ‘new man’, and causes disloyalty (Levene 1992, p. 69; Wiedemann 1993, p. 49–55). Wiedemann is certainly right in pointing to Sallust’s treatment of   internal discord as ruinous to the well-being of   the Republic; it remains secondary to the historian’s obsession with the underlying moral decline. After all, discord was instigated by envy, avarice and the like, not the other way around. Jennifer Gerrish even believes that Sallust was writing a  new form of   historiography based on ‘anti-exempla’, because his exempla are morally ambiguous (Gerrish 2012, p.  249–51). I  think Sallust unwittingly got there through his source of   inspiration, Thu­cyd­i­des. 90  Cicero, ‘De Imperio Cn. Pompei’, 28. Cicero uses felicitas for ‘luck’, meaning good fortune as a  result of   divine benevolence, which emphasizes the role of   the commander’s piety and respect for the gods rather than Polybius’ tyche, which suggests fatum, a kind of  amoral intervention. 91  Steel 2001, p. 73. 88

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Gnaeus Pompeius devoted himself  to a  military life, and inured himself  to the hardships and fatigues of   war, so that in a short time he was acknowledged as an expert in military matters. Casting off  all sloth and idleness, he was always, night and day, doing something or other that was useful for the conduct of  the war. He was very sparing in his diet, ate his food sitting, and altogether refrained from baths and other such luxurious activities. He allotted fewer hours for sleep than nature demanded, and spent the rest of  the night in the concerns of   a general, relating to the problems that he faced during the day; so that, by his habitual planning for the uncertain events of   war, he became most accomplished in military activities. And therefore, in far less time than another could have prepared himself  to take charge of   an army that was already raised, in that time he raised an army, trained them, and disciplined them. 92

Discipline, mentioned in passing here, was the great Roman strength, but sometimes lacking. In contemporary historiography, the lack of  discipline in army units is a common topic. 93 Authors lament the general laxity and the abandonment of  standards: soldiers mingling with camp-followers, wandering about, pilfering and plundering, engaging in suspect business transactions with rations of  grain or wine, and so forth. For example, Diodorus credits Marius with disciplining the soldiers under his command who ‘loved their ease and avoided the unpleasantness of   fighting’. 94   Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 38.9.   John Serrati has pointed to the social context of   this phenomenon. The frequency of   warfare in the last decades of   the 2nd century had diminished, with a resulting lack of  training and discipline among the troops, as well as an elite less exposed to combat (Serrati 2013, p. 158). 94  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 35.38.1. But Diodorus censures Fimbria, a  partisan of   Marius, for releasing his troops during the First Mithridatic War, when they saw the rich rewards of   conquest lying in store: ‘Gaius Flavius Fimbria, having again crossed the Hellespont, encouraged his soldiers to commit looting and all kinds of   outrages. He exacted money from the cities, and divided it amongst the soldiers, who, without any control on their actions, had the power to do whatever they pleased. Lured on by the hope of   a  large profit, they held Fimbria in great affection, as one who had deserved extremely well of   the whole army. Moreover, when he captured any cities that resisted him, he gave them over to the plunder of   his soldiers, and in this way he handed out Nicomedeia to be plundered by the soldiers’ (Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 38.8). It  tells us that, in the absence of   competent leadership, the soldiers’ loyalty was to the commander that gave the best opportunity to plunder. 92 93

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And Sallust describes how Metellus tried to solve these problems in the Jugurthine War, by looking for practical measures to ‘toughen’ the army, focusing on prevention of  offences rather than on punishment of   offenders. 95 As a  successful general believed to act in accordance with ancestral custom, Metellus was highly esteemed by the Romans, Sallust says, but in his characterization he exposes a number of  serious moral flaws. 96 In literature, the genre of   satire proved to be an excellent vehicle for moral criticism of   army leaders and their officers. 97 In  his well-known Poem 29, Catullus satirizes the greed and lechery of   Caesar’s chief  engineer in Gaul, Mamurra. But since it was the loot that was brought into Rome by victorious generals like Caesar and Pompey that corrupted despicable characters like Mamurra, the poem is also an attack on the triumvirs and their ambitions. ‘You are enthralled by loot, lechery and the political game’, Catullus writes, ‘Was this the reason for the British venture?’ And, a  few lines on, ‘an unusual campaign  … an unusual general! Your celebrated munificence would appear to have been ‘misplaced’’. Catullus concludes with a sharp bite against Caesar and Pompey: ‘Was it for such a name [Mamurra], most wealthy father-in-law and son-in-law, that you have destroyed everything?’  98 Just like success in war could be coupled to the general’s moral qualities, his failure could and would be blamed on his lack of   them. In the previous chapter, we already saw that there was another way of   handling defeat, and it equally applies to the Late Republic. Nathan Rosenstein has convincingly argued that defeat in war did not necessarily lead to the end of  a general’s public career, something one would expect. The competitive, potentially self-destructive spirit among the aristocrats at the time, was tempered by a number of   mechanisms that sought to spread the blame for defeat. One way to deflect the general’s liability for accusations of  negligence or culpability was pointing to the qual Sallust, Jugurthine War, 45.2–3.  Sallust, Jugurthine War, 95. 97  It was a relatively new genre in Rome, taken up in the last quarter of   the 2nd century by Lucilius, and rapidly attained a distinctively public function and became a form of  expression for the aristocratic elite (Miller 2005, p. 15). 98  Catullus, Carmina, 29. 95 96

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ity of  the soldiers, or rather to the presumed lack of  it. An important cause of   defeat was ascribed to the breakdown of   discipline and the fighting spirit among the troops. Virtus was expected, more or less, but not always realized. 99 Another mechanism was even more effective. Since battle was always accompanied by an intricate set of   religious preparations that had to be scrupulously conducted, any omissions or mistakes could easily affect the outcome in a  negative way, and the large number of   ‘actors’ involved made it impossible to point a  finger at the culprit. 100 But by the time of   the great generals in the Late Republic, this set of   beliefs came to be replaced by a  new ideology which emphasized the special relationship between the general and the gods: through his personal fortuna, the general enjoyed a unique connection with the heavenly powers. 101 2.2.2. Loyalty to the Commander This brings us to our second thematic concern: the increasing role of   the army commander as the focus of   loyalty for their troops. It  can be argued that this began to take shape after the Social War. It was Sulla who first exploited the possibilities of  strengthening the ties between himself  and his soldiers. In his army, internal cohesion had increased after a  period of   sharing hardships, Paul Erdkamp has pointed out, and it was especially the common interest of  soldiers, officers and their commander to enrich themselves in profitable campaigns. 102 With financial rewards being alluring, the soldiers were increasingly willing to follow generals into war, regardless of   their political alignment, even into civil war if  need be. 103 The shift in loyalty runs parallel to an increased self-awareness among office-holders that we see in this period, and we shall now look more deeply into how loyalty, virtus and disciplina were all used, with great sophistication, for image-building. Roman generals, and all Roman aristocrats for that matter, were not averse   Rosenstein 1990, chapter 3.   Rosenstein 1990, chapter 2. 101   Rosenstein 1990, p. 162–63. 102  Erdkamp 2007b, p. 171. 103  Brunt 1962, p. 78. 99

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to presentations of   their qualities to the public in various forms of   self-promotion. The most obvious of   these, the triumph, had all sorts of   rituals, and was the most public and indeed dynamic way of   highlighting one’s success, but there were also inscriptions, paintings and sculptures. We shall return to these later. In documents, there is testimony in the form of  letters and autobiographical writings like commentarii. In the Republican period, we have examples in Sulla, Caesar and Cicero. Of  Sulla’s memoirs, only fragments survive, and paraphrases by other writers, but it seems that military narrative – in unmistakable service to Sulla’s triumphal self-fashioning – dominated the text, offering rich possibilities for lively and patriotic storytelling. Sulla included detailed depictions of   combat, including scenes of   individual heroism on the part of   his soldiers and less elevated but historically urgent particulars like specific dates, and casualty figures. 104 We already saw that, for soldiers, duty was to their army unit, their general and to the Republic, and was sometimes explicitly referred to in all three senses, as in Caesar’s Gallic War, when Caesar and his troops crossed the sea to Britain, and the carrier of   the Eagle of   the Tenth Legion admonished his fellows in the following words: ‘Jump down, soldiers, unless you want to betray our Eagle to the enemy – at least I shall have done my duty to the Republic and my commander’. 105 Loyalty to the army commander was required, of   course, but also actively sought by the general. With his ability to secure the affection of   his men, Caesar placed himself  in a  line of   charismatic generals, such as Marius, who, according to Sallust, encouraged his troops in Numidia with these words: ‘I will be with you personally in battle or in the column as both counsellor and partner in danger, and in every situation. I  shall treat myself  and you alike’. 106 The charismatic general was the central figure in the Late Republic, and much of   the discourse, we shall see, focused on his commanding capabilities but also his personal virtus. 107   Tatum 2011, p. 167.  Caesar, The Gallic War, 4.24. 106 Sallust, Jugurthine War, 85.47–50. 107  Virtus refers to the display of   personal bravery, of   course, its traditional usage, but it attains a  broader dimension in the Late Republican discourse to 104 105

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This is confirmed if  we look at the way Caesar addressed his soldiers in The Civil War. What references we have all focus on personal loyalty, victories and rewards that are promised, but hardly ever to the idea of   serving the state or the common good. In  1.9, Caesar defends himself, saying that he always had the interest of   the ‘commonwealth’ at heart, and that it was dearer to him than his life. It tells us that the focus of  interest is not the state but Caesar’s auctoritas, his moral make-up in comparison with his enemies. Just before, in 1.7, he asks his men to defend ‘the reputation and honor of  that general under whose command they had for nine years most successfully supported the state’. Here we have the general representing the state, but in Caesar’s presentation it is, again, mostly about himself. In  a  third example, from 1.17, Caesar promises the soldiers ‘lands out of  his own estate’, and in 3.6 (on embarking in Brundusium) he tells them they ‘might expect every thing from victory and his liberality’. 108 There is  no doubt that Caesar was successful in motivating the soldiers, and the loyalty of   Caesar’s soldiers became legendary. However, the sources we have, apart from Caesar himself, are from a later date and are often based on Caesar’s commentarii. In  discussing the aspect of   loyalty, they make no mention of  Caesar as representative of   the state. Appian, for example, writes that ‘every soldier was strongly attached to Caesar and labored zealously for him, under the force of   discipline and the influence of   the gain […] for he gave a lavish hand in order to mould them to his designs’. 109 When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, this act only confirmed what was already in place: the loyalty of   the soldiers had ceased to be with the res publica, not even symbolically. Nowhere do we get the idea that their loyalty was divided, or that they faced a dilemma. 110

include moral uprightness, respect for traditions and similar virtues. This will be detailed below. 108  To hammer home his message, Caesar adds that the soldiers cried out with one voice ‘he might give what orders he pleased, that they would cheerfully fulfill them’ (GW, 3.6). 109 Appian, Civil Wars, 2.30. 110 The event is  reminiscent of    Sulla’s undertaking a  few decades earlier (88  bc). When he marched on Rome, Sulla’s officers abandoned him because they believed his was acting against the public interest. As de Blois has pointed

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This phenomenon can be attested by looking at the development of  the taking of  the military oath. We know from Polybius that, during the Mid Republic, the sacramentum was taken; this is  confirmed by Livy. 111 Before Vegetius, we only have references but no actual text. These references emphasize, however, the loyalty to the commander, and loyalty to the state is merely implicit. In Polybius, the soldier taking the oath says that ‘he will obey his officers, and that he will execute their will as far as it is in his power’. In a description given by Dionysius of  Halicarnassus, loyalty is expressed to the consuls. Harmand has pointed to the application of  ‘illegal formulae’, used by individual generals in the Late Republic, in which the sacramentum was adapted to the needs of  the day, such as Sulla’s version (in 83 bc, after his return to Italy), which made the soldiers swear ‘to stand by him’, if  we can rely on Plutarch. 112 All this suggests the oath of  allegiance had long been phrased in such a way that obedience to the general was primary, and that loyalty to the state followed by implication. 2.2.3. Caesar’s Propaganda When we come to Caesar, we can only say that he is at the end of   a long line. According to our sources, Caesar was better than anyone else at creating complete identification of   the soldier with his general. The concept of   the Roman soldier ‘fighting for Rome “as a duty, a responsibility and a privilege” was dead’, as Pierre Cagniart says, 113 but whether Pompey’s soldiers were any different in this respect, as Cagniart suggests, remains to be seen. All we have is Caesar’s account in the Civil War, underlining Caesar’s great capabilities in attracting loyalty, and dismissing Pompey as incompetent in this respect, since his soldiers deserted him because they had no faith in his campaign. 114 It is significant, Caesar claims, that one of   Pompey’s lieutenants, Petreius, asks his men to take an oath saying that ‘they would not desert the out, Sulla had to use all his persuasive powers to secure his common soldiers’ loyalty (de Blois 2007, p. 271–72). 111 Polybius, The Histories, 6.21; Livy, 22.38.2–3. 112   Harmand 1967, p. 362 ; Plutarch, ‘Life of  Sulla’, 9.1–2. 113  Cagniart 2007, p. 93. 114 Caesar, Civil War, 1.7; 1.6.

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army and its leader and that they would not act individually in their own interests abandoning the others. 115 Overall, Caesar’s commentarii were skillfully composed and very successful in presenting himself. 116 The texts are frequently described as ‘propaganda’, but the term remains somewhat controversial. I think it is the right word. Although it is a 20th century label, defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as ‘information, especially of   a  biased or misleading nature, used to promote a political cause or a  point of   view’, it covers some of   the texts we are using here perfectly well. Unsurprisingly, ‘propaganda’ has gained currency among Caesar scholars these days. For example, in Jane  F. Gardner’s analysis of   Caesar’s treatment of  ‘the Gallic menace’, The Gallic War is  termed ‘propagandist’, 117 and the same perspective is  used in a  more recent contribution by Jonathan Barlow, which claims that the word ‘propaganda’ is  justified by Caesar’s word choice and character assessment – they clearly seek to influence the judgment of   his audience. 118 If  we combine this with Wiseman’s idea of   a  wide audience, ‘propaganda’ seems the perfect label. John Collins’ rejection of   the term is  unconvincing because of   his severe limitation of  its meaning. In  his perception, propaganda must show that the war in which one’s country is  involved is  a  war of   self-defence, forced by necessity. In De Bello Gallico ‘Caesar was under no such pressure’, Collins says. In my view, this reductive interpretation is not very helpful. 119 In the Civil War, there is a new, more challenging, situation. The loyalty of   the soldiers can only be invoked by appealing to their group solidarity. Caesar’s men have come through hard times, but now it  is the time to rally around their general, who presents himself  as a Roman city under siege: I have been your commander for nine years; under my leadership, your efforts on Rome’s behalf  have been crowned with good fortune; you have won countless battles and have  Çaesar, Civil War, 1.76.   Bell 1995, p. 767. 117   Gardner 1983, p. 187. 118  Barlow 1998, p. 158. 119  Collins 1972, p. 923. 115 116

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pacified the whole of   Gaul and Germany. Now, I  ask you to defend my reputation and standing against the assaults of  my enemies. 120

We know that Pompey had problems in keeping his men under control, like all commanders did at times, but these examples are clearly meant to undermine Pompey’s reputation as a leader. At the same time, Caesar’s uniqueness can be questioned, as Stephen Chrissanthos has done by critically re-examining the legend of   Caesar’s great suppression of   a  mutiny in 47  bc. Veterans from the Gallic expeditions billeted in Campania refused to move against Pompey and Caesar was said to have miraculously suppressed the rebellion by simply addressing the men as ‘quirites’ (‘citizens’) rather than the customary ‘fellow soldiers’. The men instantly begged for forgiveness. Caesar does not mention the incident, but it is later reported by authors like Suetonius, Plutarch and Appian. Chrissanthos has argued that their presentation of   the event is highly unlikely, perhaps apocryphal. The mutiny was much more serious than it was made out to be, and Caesar actually had to make concessions to the mutineers and change his plans. 121 The best of  commanders succeeded in combining the primary sense of   virtus, their personal bravery, with disciplina, the need for collective engagement, the two complementary elements we encountered before. Even for a  general like Caesar, the balance could be precarious, as he tells us himself  in The Gallic Wars (7.52) After the disastrous outcome of   the Battle of   Gergovia (against Vercingetorix and his joint army), Caesar collected his troops and berated them for their ‘recklessness’ and ‘passion’ in the fight, and their total lack of  discipline. When the signal was given to retreat, it was fatally ignored, Caesar says. The Roman soldiers had let themselves be carried away by their virtus, in other words. Andrew Riggsby has made a case for Caesar’s genius in ‘reinventing’ virtus by including self-restraint in the concept, and by avoiding the word ‘disciplina’ as a separate notion in his writing. Caesar’s narrative presents situations, Riggsby argues, in which  Caesar, The Civil War, 1.7.7.   Chrissanthos 2001, p. 63–75.

120 121

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a more aggressive style of  virtus would be detrimental to the individual hero as well as the Roman cause more generally. This is why a  ‘modified’ virtus, employing restraint whenever opportune, is Caesar’s remedy for such situations. 122 According to Riggsby, Caesar presents an example of  this modified virtus in 2.20.3. Because of   a surprise attack by the Nervii, most of  the army lost touch with Caesar. But, in the face of  these difficulties, two things saved the day: the knowledge and experience of   the soldiers, which enabled them to stay calm and control their emotions. An even better example would be in another encounter with the Nervii (5.43.4), where the Roman soldiers are under pressure but do not flee. Their virtus is such that it is characterized by a ‘mental toughness’, Riggsby says, which makes them do what is required of  them. 123 The passage runs as follows, in the translation by McDevitte and Bohn: But so great was the courage [virtus] of  our soldiers, and such their presence of   mind, that though they were scorched on all sides, and harassed by a vast number of  weapons, and were aware that their baggage and their possessions were burning, not only did no one quit the rampart for the purpose of  withdrawing from the scene, but scarcely did any one even then look behind; and they all fought most vigorously and most valiantly.

It seems to me that Caesar is  referring to Roman discipline by implication. 124 In  other passages, he comments on discipline or lack thereof  among Romans and Germans. The individual German warrior, he said, tended to follow his own instinct instead of  submitting himself  to discipline. 125 In this, the Romans, due to their ability to obey commanders under difficult circumstances, were vastly superior (2.20.3). Riggsby also builds his case of   ‘modified virtus’ on the words by a  Gallic leader named Critoquatus, who criticizes his men   Riggsby 2006, p. 105.   Riggsby 2006, p. 88. 124  The fact that Caesar uses the word ‘disciplina’ in his Gallic War only twice is not very meaningful in itself. 125   The Suebi, for instance, ‘having from boyhood been accustomed to no employment, or discipline, they do nothing at all contrary to their inclination’ (4.1). 122 123

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for wanting to break out from their defensive position (against the odds). This conduct is ‘softness of   spirit’, he claims, not virtus, for virtus is being able to wait a little while, showing endurance (7.77.5). Critoquatus goes on to suggest that, if  need be, they could resort to cannibalism, as some of   their ancestors had done before, in situations of  despair – the old men could go first. Caesar dismisses the plan as ‘cruel’. Since Riggsby largely bases his argument on Caesar’s idiolect, this makes it a semantic issue, giving individual words more weight than they can carry. And, if  Riggsby admits that his Caesarian version of   virtues is  ‘disciplinary’, his exercise is little more than linguistic gymnastics. 126 Finally, Riggsby maintains that Roman troops could be successful under substitute officers, and that this invalidates London’s thesis that virtus and disciplina are opposing forces. 127 This is not convincing. It only shows that having the best of  both worlds can be an option if  the circumstances are right. And, of   course, we should remember that discipline was not merely imposed; it was part of  a widespread mentality. 128 In the discourse, we are reminded that the passion for individual distinction was kindled by the competent commander, usually in the form of  an allocution. This rhetorical convention is followed by Caesar, who emphasizes his own excellence in this skill, and shows that he could adroitly manipulate his soldiers’ dedication to the task at hand. In a passage in The Gallic War, Caesar demonstrates his capabilities as a general when group morale is low. On his way to encounter the German leader Ariovistus in battle, he stopped at Verontio to replenish supplies. There the Roman soldiers threatened to mutiny, but after a speech by Caesar, order was restored. It is an interesting passage to look at in greater detail. Caesar included the episode in his commentary to illustrate his methods of  dealing with his army and displaying his command capabilities. The unrest was initially created by some of   the Gauls hearing stories about Ariovistus and his brave and experienced German   Riggsby 2006, p. 90.   Riggsby 2006, p. 90–92. 128  In an intellectual context, self-restraint was the great tenet of   Stoicism, the school of   philosophy that propagated indifference to cold, want, fear and everything that made life miserable. 126 127

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warriors, which put fear in the Roman soldiers. Caesar subsequently invited centurions of   all ranks to a  concilium, where he emphasized that the Germans had been defeated in the past. In other words, by giving historical exempla, Caesar revived the Romans’ own virtus and enhanced his reputation of   the perfect general. It was a minor incident and could easily have been omitted from the text, but, Bryan James argues, Caesar deliberately put it in to make a show of   revealing what he had done. Of  course, the pretended honesty and objectivity is  a  mask, for Caesar the writer ‘still selects, still elides certain facts, still colors his presentation’. 129 Finally, it must be emphasized that Caesar’s ‘self  focus’ was not unique. If  we look at Cicero, for example, we see that in one of   his Cilician letters, Cicero uses the same perspective to present his achievements as Sulla and Caesar. The general is center stage, and the soldiers are absent, Riggsby has pointed out, when Ci­cero describes how he ‘single-handedly lays siege’ to a  small hill-town:  130 I invested it with a ditch and rampart. I reinforced these with a large camp and six smaller outposts. I made an assault with a  ramp. Sheds and towers, and having used many artillery pieces, many archers, and much of   my own labor, I finished the business on the fifty-seventh day without any trouble or expense to our allies. 131

Image-building was part of   a Roman tradition. Nobles who distinguished themselves in the military knew they would, after death, be commemorated by their families and by the community at large, in paintings, statues, ancestral masks, and so on. In the Late Republic, the idea of   commemorating great commanders took a  new step in the deification of   Caesar. His divine status and cult was made visible in a statue with theomorphic imagery erected in his temple on the Forum. It  would serve as a  model for future leaders. 132   James 2000, p. 54; p. 64.   Riggsby 2006, p. 196–97. 131 Cicero, Epistulae ad Familiares (Cilician Letters), 5.4.10. 132  Pollini 2012, p. 8–18. 129 130

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It can be concluded that Rome’s wars of   conquest and its civil wars had an impact on the loyalty discourse of   the time, in three different aspects. First, there were the effects of   the new reality: the rich spoils hauled in from the East spurred ambitions that were given a free reign by competing commanders; they also encouraged greed in the ordinary rank-and-file. This development clearly affected the discourse. As the influential circles of   politicians and authors (like Sallust) saw it, the amassing of   great wealth had a corrupting influence on Roman society. It affected the famed virtus and disciplina that characterized the old Roman tradition in a negative way, as Polybius had foreseen and deplored in his own day. Second, the increasing independence of  operation by powerful generals led to a gradual ‘fading out’ of   the natural loyalty between soldiers and the res publica. In  Caesar’s Civil War, placed near the end of  our period, the tendency to place the general in the center as the focus of   loyalty – which had been strong for a long time – became absolute. It was the special relationship between army leader and soldiers that now was the motivating factor rather than the common goal of   serving the nation. A third development, again exemplified by Caesar’s Civil War, more or less followed as a  direct consequence. Traditionally, it was a  general’s moral character that defined his qualities as a leader. Now it was his charisma and his capability to deliver, as demonstrated by Caesar: his overt advertisements for himself  could be backed up by military victories. After he had defeated Pompey, and with the great power he had amassed, Caesar was in a  wholly new position, for his soldiers’ loyalty was no longer demanded but obligatory. And when his status became superhuman, the object of   a cult, this was the beginning of   a new definition of  what ‘loyalty’ really entailed.

2.3. The Theme of  Supremacy The supremacy theme includes a  number of   discourse features: the superiority discourse, which discusses the nature of   Roman and non-Roman relations in the context of  warfare; and the conquest and victory discourses, which offer Roman perceptions on the military conquests of   the era, and the celebrations of   victory that concluded successful campaigns. 342

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2.3.1. The Superiority Discourse On the whole, the ancient ethnographic tradition emphasized the Greek or Roman superiority over other people. Although the Romans never made the rigid distinction between themselves and aliens that the Greeks did, 133 they were fully aware of   the difference between themselves and non-Romans and were influenced by Greek thought. 134 The dividing line between Roman and barbarian started off  as a moral one: inside there was civilization and order (humanitas); outside there was savagery and barbarism. 135 The subject of   Roman-barbarian relations has been studied widely and has captivated scholars for some time. In the present study, we shall concentrate on the implications it had for the war discourse in the different periods and we will only deal with such aspects as ethnocentrism, ethnic labelling or moral categorization where they are relevant for our analysis. It is important to emphasize that the Roman idea of  superiority was ambivalent right from the start. With all their negative stereotyping of   outsiders, largely borrowed from the Greeks, the Romans were proud of   their mixed ancestry that had become part of   their image, and associated themselves freely with their eastern Mediterranean roots as seen in their myths of   origin. 136 What is more, they would be quite happy to take advantage of  the barbarians as auxiliary troops and, in later periods, incorporate soldiers of  barbarian stock into the army. This pragmatic approach, called ‘behavioral’ by Riggsby, underlines Roman interest in the barbarian’s actions rather than his identity. 137   Isaac 2004, p. 134.   Wherever they differentiate among aliens, the Romans tend to follow the Greek theory of  environmental influences: geography and climate make easterners clever, civilized and cunning, but also soft, decadent and perverse, whereas northerners are simple, crude and squalid, but also fierce and honorable (Isaac 2004, p. 439). The Romans also inherited the idea to link the East-West division with gender roles, with the West considered as male and the East as female, as seen, for instance in Aeneas vs Dido (Santosuosso 1997, p. 6). 135  Sidebottom 2007, p. 5. 136  Gruen 2006, p. 469; p. 462. In the previous chapter, we already referred to the Romans’ capacity for assimilation (‘From the start, the Romans were un-homogeneous, as they themselves were happy to assert’; Hoyos 2013, p. 14). 137  Riggsby 2006, p. 215. 133 134

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It is  in Caesar that we find the most extensive treatment of  the superiority discourse in the Late Republican period. Caesar’s method was both descriptive and argumentative – it included a ranking in martial valor of  barbarian groups and a discussion of  the need to put an end to their threat and pacify them. Caesar’s places the toughest adversaries at the longest distance from civilization. This is why the Germans are depicted as brave and aggressive, and among the Gauls it is the Belgae and the Helvetii who, living closest to the frontier, exceed the other Gauls in bravery and ferocity, because they are ‘embroiled in almost daily battles with the Germans’. 138 The Suebi were the purest ‘antithesis’ to the Romans, as Burns says, 139 but Roman pragmatism reigned: their ferocity made them, like other Germans, excellent mercenaries. Caesar mentions how, when this was opportune, he requisitioned cavalry and light-armed troops from peoples he had subdued in previous years. 140 Conversely, those Gauls living close to the Province (today’s Provence, Gallia Transalpina) had an abundant supply of   luxury goods, which made them weak and liable to being beaten in battle (‘such goods as make men’s courage weak and womanish’ (1.1). They were trading partners but no fighting material. Thus, from a military point of   view, Caesar is acutely aware of  the paradox of  civilization. The barbarian threat had been part of  Rome’s collective memory ever since the notorious sack of  Rome by the Gauls in 390 bc. The same happened when the Germanic Cimbri and Teutones threatened Rome at the end of  the 2nd century. The event was used by politicians like Caesar to call for action, and make sure that Rome was prepared to counter a foreign onslaught. 141 Once these barbarians were powerful in Gaul, Caesar implied, they would not hesitate to overrun the Province, just like they had done before. ‘These dangers’, he argued, ‘must be countered as swiftly as possible’. 142  Caesar, The Gallic War, 1.1.   Burns 2009, p. 128. 140 Caesar, The Gallic War, 7.65. 141  Burns 2009, p. 111. 142 Caesar, The Gallic War, 1.33. In this case, there was a discrepancy between the topos of  the rhetoric, and actual fact. The Cimbri and Teutones were a prob138 139

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After all, the Gallic War was a moral tale that served to instil into the reader the idea that, by bringing the barbarians to heel, Caesar had averted the possible disaster of   an invasion by hordes of primitive brutes. But aside from this political agenda, I  think it can be assumed that, like many of  his contemporaries, Caesar was convinced that barbarism had to be checked, harnessed, in order to protect civilization and humanity. In  this, Caesar’s method was quite in line with contemporary ideas on just war. 143 His campaigns in Gaul were meant to suppress rebellions, and his forays into Germany served to punish transgressions and to instil fear into any barbarians who challenged Rome’s dominion. We saw earlier that this ‘shock and awe’ method goes to the heart of   Roman warfare, aiming wholly at complete submission at minimal cost. In various passages, Caesar frankly admits to this aim. ‘Caesar set out once again to harass the Eburones’, he says, and, crossing the Rhine, one of  his ambitions was ‘terrorizing’ the Germans. When he thought he had achieved enough ‘in terms of   both honor and advantage’, he returned to Gaul. 144 In  other words, there were practical objectives, perfectly legitimate at the time, but, admittedly, also personal ones. Aggressive actions, such as the utter ravaging of   Ambiorix’s lands, ‘its citizens, buildings, and cattle’, were rhetorically sanctioned by an appeal to his dignitas. Since he could not bring Ambiorix under his control, Caesar ‘considered it the next best thing for his prestige to despoil the land’. 145 Dignitas was an essential quality of   a  Roman with authority. It  had the connotation

lem for the Celts living in Gaul, but not as much for the Romans. These drifting bands upset Celtic communities – it was internecine warfare rather than migrations and incursions that should be blamed, something which the Romans misunderstood (Burns 2009, p. 85–87). 143  Ever since the early 20th century, Caesar’s commentaries have been read with admiration, especially by literary scholars and, military historians, and with skepticism, notably on the part of   political scientists and cultural historians (Mommsen vs Syme, in Miriam Griffin’s terms; Griffin 2009, p. 6–8). Although it is hard to deny that Caesar was power-hungry, his defense of   the Gallic wars should not be dismissed as mere propaganda. Set against the standards of  his day, Caesar’s exposition is wholly convincing. 144 Caesar, The Gallic War, 6.43, 4.19, 4.19. 145 Caesar, The Gallic War, 8.24 (my italics).

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of   ‘personal power’ or ‘force’ (that Caesar could avail himself  of  in the given situation). 146 Caesar was not unaware of   the fact that his Gallic opponents were fighting what they considered a  war of   liberation. This dilemma was resolved pragmatically. On the one hand, the principle of   libertas, of   choosing one’s own course as an individual as well as a state, was undisputed and seen as a just cause for war. At the same time, the Gauls’ libertas and Roman ambitions were surely in deep conflict. We find this aspect treated in Caesar’s depiction of  his two great foes: Ariovistus, leader of  the Germanic Suebi, and Vercingetorix, the Arverni chieftain who, at this point, commanded a  joint force of   Gallic tribes. In  the Gallic War, both are described as competent chieftains, and the narrative is filled with instances where they display tactical skills and insight. We learn more about their personalities and ambitions in their speeches. During the brief  conference before the Battle of   the Vosges, Arioristus, speaking to Caesar, is presented as arrogant and proud, eager to place himself  on a  ranking of  equality with his opponent. In  his speech, Ariovistus outlines his position vis-à-vis the Romans, calling Roman friendship a ‘sham’ and emphasizing the rightfulness of   his actions, which were in line with the rules of   war (1.44). Caesar responds with a  similarly legal argument: the Romans had conquered Gaul, Ariovistus did not belong there, and the Gauls had been given freedom ‘to enjoy their own laws’ (1.45). By presenting the dialogue in this fashion, Caesar tries to convince the reader that he is objective, and that the reader, in the position of   the judge, will appreciate that Rome’s claims are more valid. A similar strategy is  followed in the depiction of   Vercingetorix. His speech to the joint Gallic forces sounds like a Roman adlocutio: accused of   treachery, Vercingetorix makes a  strong appeal to his virtue. He did not want to gain power from Caesar by treachery, since it could be gained by victory. Caesar adds that his audience was greatly impressed, and that his soldiers ‘had no doubt of   his honor’ (7.21). Somewhat later, just before the decisive battle at Alesia, Vercingetorix reminds his men that he had 146  It is telling that Cicero threatened to use his dignitas (‘For Sulla’, 46) when he warned one of  his critics (MacMullen 1986, p. 515–516).

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not started the campaign for his own benefit but ‘in order to win liberty for all’ (7.89). We are made to believe that Vercingetorix is not just an astute chieftain in battle, but also that he has the logic and eloquence of   a Roman orator. In his characterization of   Vercingetorix, Caesar adds an emotional aspect that cannot be seen in Ariovistus, for there is clearly admiration at the end, when Vercingetorix gives his men the option of   his death or his personal surrender to Caesar, thus sacrificing himself  for the common cause. In  the face of   an overwhelming Roman superiority, he pledges to continue the fight on behalf  of   the communis libertas. Since they are part of   the last words in the book, Erich Gruen has noted, they must have carried significance for Caesar. 147 When Vercingetorix urged the Gauls to take up arms against Rome ‘in order to win liberty for all’, in Caesar’s words, there is clearly some sort of  patronizing attitude. To Caesar, this young man’s abilities ‘were second to none’. 148 But Caesar added that the Gauls would be better off  as subjects because this would bring them peace. 149 This, again, illustrates Roman pragmatism, which is  now imposed on the Gauls. In  turn, some of   the Germans, once pacified, could make excellent mercenaries, such as the Suebi, who had already shown their qualities as auxiliaries in the Roman cavalry, while the pacified Gauls, less reliable as soldiers, would profit from commerce and trade. 2.3.2. The Victory Discourse Victory celebrations and all the trappings they brought to victorious generals had been established in earlier periods, as we have seen, but were also projected back by later writers to create a convincing narrative of   invincibility. For victory celebrations, it  is the period of   the Late Republic that is central, if  only because of  their size and frequency. They also became public events, with festivities surpassing the usual military routine, engaging the Roman population at large and creating a  strong psychological   Gruen 2011c, p. 154.  Caesar, The Gallic War, 7.4. 149  Burns 2009, p. 136. 147 148

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impact, as can be gauged from contemporary sources like Sallust and Cicero. 150 Banquets and other celebrations were competitive, with organizing individuals trying to outperform each other. They were also potentially controversial for this reason. Sallust reports how Metellus, returning from the civil war with Sertorius in Spain, was fêted by quaestor C. Urbanus and his friends, and how excessive the accompanying show was, exceeding Roman conventions ‘and even those of   mortal men’. Stages were constructed with moveable objects like a  descending Victory and a  thundering machine. But, Sallust remarks, the display detracted from his glory to a certain extent, especially in the eyes of   the elderly and upright men, ‘who regarded those things as haughty, grave, and unworthy of  the Roman Empire’. 151 Apart from being an event, an event that was frozen into Rome’s collective memory, the triumph was also an important discourse feature, for the values of  glory and military victory were discussed and challenged, or sometimes made ambiguous. A notorious example of   the latter phenomenon was in Crassus’ ambitions after he had suppressed the slave rising led by Spartacus. He had hoped for a proper triumph, but did not dare to ask for one, Plutarch tells us, and was even despised for accepting the minor honor of  an ovatio ‘for a war against slaves’. 152 For the spectators, there was a  dual focus of   competing elements: the victor on the one hand, the sometimes exotic display 150  How ‘victory’ had become an emblem can perhaps be best illustrated in its usage somewhat further removed from the war discourse. In  his Sententiae, Publilius Syrus, one of  Rome’s minor poets, included a number of  ‘mimes’, moral aphorisms, on victory in war: ‘Victory knows not rivalry’. ‘Victory is ever there where union of   hearts is’. ‘When an enemy is  destroyed, tears have no outlet’. ‘It’s a pleasant stain that comes from an enemy’s blood’ (Publilius Syrus, Sententiae, 633, 327, 326, 313). An unknown poet of   the first century bc sees the world in sharply defined roles of   victor and vanquished: ‘Such is the world’s way: the victor must love, the victor have the mastery in the shade, the victor must sleep on scented rose-leaves: the vanquished must plough, the vanquished must reap: fear must be his lord: never must he learn to rest his limbs on the cushioned ground’ (‘Elegies on Maecenas’). It is remarkable that the two roles are placed at opposite ends, and there is no trace of  the idea that victor and vanquished are both victims of  the tragic spectacle of  war that a modern audience would entertain. 151 Sallust, Histories, 2.70. 152  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Crassus’, 11.7–8.

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of   captives and loot on the other. In  the parade, ‘kings’ were the best of   prisoners on display: their magnificence added to the greatness of   Roman military power, but also created a  sort of  ‘dynamic tension’ in a competition to catch the attention of   the audience. 153 There are some detailed descriptions of   victory triumphs in Rome, but they are by later writers, and some of   them, like Appian’s famous narrative of    Pompey’s third triumph, referred to by Cicero without any details, may have gained in dramatic power over time. 154 Not all claims for triumphs were awarded, and some were the result of   complex political machinations that involved letter writing to members of   the Senate. 155 Eagerness on behalf  of   the victorious generals was frowned upon, and so were campaigns with too easy victories, but not seeking a triumph could be interpreted as an arrogant form of   showing disdain for respected Roman institutions. We find many of   these issues discussed by Cicero, with a critical eye. His vicious invective against Piso has become famous: Cicero claims that Piso was not even present at his victory, and pokes fun at his refusal to ask for a  triumph. 156 But Cicero’s vast correspondence reveals that he was not above manipulations himself  when he tried to collect enough votes for his own triumph. 157   Beard 2007, p. 111; p. 121.  Appian, Roman History, 12.17; Cicero, ‘For Balbus’, 9. 155   Pittenger 2008, p. 1. Most of   the incidents of   contested triumphs in the Republic were reported by later sources, such as Livy and his well-known dismissal of   M. Fulvius Nobilior in 187 bc, who ‘had more of   a struggle over his triumph than he had in the war’ (39.5.12). There was also a limitation to triumph-hunting through formal requirements imposed by the Senate and the intense aristocratic rivalry Aristocratic ambitions worked two ways: striving for success and preventing rivals from succeeding. According to Sherwin-White simple triumph-hunting was the exception, not the rule (Sherwin-White 1980b, p. 177–81). Perhaps one should say that obtaining a  triumph was not as easy as it seems, but triumphhunting was common, considering the many allusions in our primary sources. 156  Cicero, ‘Against Piso’, 51–64. 157  Cicero, ‘Letters to Atticus’, 5.20.4; 6.8.5; 7.2.6; 7.1.8. These issues appear to be part of   a tradition. Aemilius Paullus’ magnificent triumph to celebrate his victory at Pydna is  an early example of   how contentious the awarding of   the ceremony could be. Paullus was a competent general but was not popular among his troops, and, just before the triumph, commander and troops had fallen out over the soldiers’ share in the spoils. This was after the soldiers had unsuccessfully lobbied for a senate refusal of  the honor (Plutarch, ‘Life of  Aemilius Paullus’, 39). 153 154

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The role of  victory in the war discourse of  the time was pervasive and not limited to visual display in the triumph, important as it was, but can also be seen in other media. There is no doubt that this preponderance can be linked to the many civil wars, with competing generals all wanting to emphasize their achievements. We can see this in epigraphy, painting and sculpture, and in numismatics. There is a wealth of   material that cannot be discussed extensively here, but it can be noted that in all three categories there is  a  marked tendency to concentrate on the figure of   the victorious general, a  tendency that is  quite in line with the transition to autocratic rule that marks the period and chimes in well with the literary forms of   self-advertisement that we saw before. It  is  this particularly aspect that we shall look into here. There are about 30 inscriptions with references to military actions dating from the Late Republic, but we know some of  them only from reports in written sources. Most inscriptions are dedicatory and emphasize the role of   plunder after victory. They also tend to focus on the person of  the general conquering places or taking objects from battle scenes, with the ordinary soldiers absent from such representations, ‘as if  [the general] fought the war himself’. 158 One such example can be given from Diodorus, who records an inscription set up on behalf  of   Pompey after his Asian campaign. The words on the inscription form a list of  Pompey’s conquests, an itemized list of   possessions and achievements: Pompeius Magnus, son of  Gnaeus, imperator, freed the coasts of  the world and all the islands within the Ocean from the attacks of   pirates. He rescued from siege the kingdom of  Ariobarzanes, Galatia and the territories and provinces beyond there, Asia and Bithynia. He protected Paphlagonia, Pontus, Armenia and Achaia, also Iberia, Colchis, Mesopotamia, Sophene and Gordyene. He subjugated Dareius king of   the Medes, Artoles king of   the Iberians, Aristobulus king of   the Jews, and Aretas king of   the Nabataean Arabs, also Syria next to Cilicia, Judaea, Arabia, the province of   Cyrenaica, the Achaeans, Iozygi, Soani and Heniochi, and the other tribes that inhabit the coast between Colchis and Lake   Riggsby 2006, p. 196–97.

158

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Maeotis, together with the kings of  these tribes, nine in number, and all the nations that dwell between the Pontic Sea and the Red Sea. He extended the borders of   the empire up to the borders of   the world. He maintained the revenues of  the Romans, and in some cases he increased them. He removed the statues and other images of   the gods, and all the other treasure of   the enemies, and dedicated to the goddess {Minerva} 12,060 pieces of   gold and 307 talents of  silver. 159

Victory also figured prominently on paintings and sculptures that decorated public and private places, to pay respect to the military exploits of   the great pillars of  the community. There is a continuation of  the practices that we discussed in the previous chapter. 160 In the triumphal paintings, the campaigns of  victorious army were shown, and in the Late Republic the emphasis came to be placed on individuals – they were identified by name – rather than the army as a whole. Triumphal paintings were the ‘essence of  propaganda’, directed at a large audience. 161 The paintings show us the importance that was attached to the honor of   the triumph for the individual commander. 162 Finally, victory images can be found on coins. Overall, in the 1st century bc we can see a  break away from the standardized depictions of   Roma, Dioscuri,  etc., and an introduction of  ‘propagandist’ elements, a trend that received its greatest impetus at the time of   the Civil War. 163 This appears in the way in which victory images were used. Deities like Bellona were no longer common, 164 but the first issue of   Sulla, produced in 83, associ  Diodorus Siculus, Historical Library, 40.5.   For the Late Republic, we have to rely on descriptions given by later writers, like Appian (Civil Wars, 2.101; Mithridatic Wars, 117). 161   Evans 1992, p. 8–13. 162  Evans 1992, p. 13–16 Statues of   military heroes were often placed in the niches of   tombs, such as the tomb of   the Scipio family, which was redesigned in the 2nd century bc (Welch 2006, p.  507). The tendency to give the individual center stage was also part of   an interesting stylistic development. Whereas in most of  the period, veristic representation (which aimed at easy recognition) was the norm, in late years we see more ‘ideal’ versions, so that busts of   Pompey gave him the looks of  Alexander the Great. 163  Evans 1992, p. 8–13. 164  And neither were portraits of  heroes or kings (Bond 1967, p. 150). 159 160

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ated Venus Victrix with his military achievements. 165 Another goddess, Fortuna, of   fertility and military victory, gained some popularity at the time among successful generals, who vowed temples to her, especially during the civil wars, when her support was sought against competitors in the struggle for power. Sulla associated himself  with Fortuna by giving himself  the cognomen Felix (‘the Fortunate’). 166 But, on the whole, victory imagery on coins followed popular motifs like subjection and captivity, the victor’s triumphal entry, or the personification of   his qualities. In later years, a wholly new trend emerged, when war leaders had coins struck with their own image. The captive or subjection motif  shows specimens of  the enemy in a captive, subjected pose. Examples of  the type are a few denarii of   48 bc, depicting facial portraits of   a man and a woman, Gallic captives, to celebrate Caesar’s achievements in pacifying the wild barbarians. 167 Another, even more telling example is a silver denarius struck by Caesar in Gaul which depicts a bound Gallic warrior whose head is held between the letters CAE and SAR. 168 The same, wild barbarian hairdo stands out to underline the difference between victor and vanquished. 169 The triumphal motif  is  exemplified in issues by Sulla and Pompey. In 82/1 bc, Sulla struck a coin on which he was shown in a quadriga, in an explicit reference to his triumph. The emergence of   the imperator on his own coinage had a propagandistic value; the idea was taken up by Pompey, who placed his image on   Crawford 1974, ill. 359.   Allusions to Fortuna were also made by Caesar and Caesar’s avengers, Octavian and Mark Antony in the image of   Fortuna Caesaris with her cornucopia, and, after Actium, Fortuna Redux (the return of   Fortuna) appeared (Gagarin 2010, p. 212). The abstract form of   the deity, fortuna, is obviously related to Polybius’ tyche, and has the sense of  chance, luck, similar to fatum, ‘which always carries the implication of   some sort of   divine control’, the sense that Livy used to explain the rise of  Rome (Levene 1993, p. 33). 167   Shotter 1978, p. 157; Crawford 1994, ill. 448. 168  Burns 2009, p. 116–17. 169  Apart from the symbolic role of    captives in the victory and conquest discourse, there was a practical one as well. The more important captives like tribal leaders or their family were used as hostages in the patron-client relationship and the client kingdoms that the Romans commonly established. Thus submission was an important element in the process of   the Roman conquest, both literally and symbolically (Burns 2009, p. 101). 165 166

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a triumphal issue of  61 bc. Both of  these coin types show Sulla and Pompey crowned by flying Victories, indicating that this iconographic possibility was already a standard option in Late Republican commemorations. 170 Pompey’s outstanding achievement of  three triumphs was commemorated on a coin that had three small wreaths on the reverse (and a larger one, for good measure), with Hercules wearing a lion skin on the obverse, which reverberated famed Hellenistic predecessors and placed the commander in a respectable tradition. 171 An example of   personification is on the reverse of   a denarius made by the moneyer Marius Aquiliusin 71  bc. It  depicts an armed warrior dramatically giving aid to a kneeled female figure; the obverse features the helmeted bust of   Virtus. 172 The warrior is the moneyer’s grandfather of   the same name, who was consul in 101  bc and who brought the so-called Second Slave War in Sicily to an end, personally slaying the rebel leader Anthemion. He is  shown symbolically restoring the province personified by the fallen figure, identified with the inscription SICIL(ia) underneath. 173 With the beginning of   the civil wars of   the 40s, the heads of  military leaders like Caesar, Antony, and Octavian appeared on the coinage, in imitation of   the coinage of   Hellenistic monarchs. The message conveyed by both types and legends became less and less Republican and more and more imperial. A  late triumviral coinage of   Octavian was already imperial in character, 174 and the appearance of   the head of   the living Caesar in 44 was a decisive step towards the symbolism of   the monarchy. 175 Before that, coinage in the name of   Caesar had followed the normal pattern of   military coinages: types related to Caesar’s presumed divine ancestry or to his own achievements. 176 In the civil wars that followed Caesar’s assassination, both Antony and Octavian used their own portraits. They also tried     172   173  174  175  176  170 171

Crawford 1974, p. 367; Grueber 1970, p. ii; p. 464. Ghey and Leins 2010, p. 426; p. 4A. Crawford 1974, ill. 401/1. Burns 2009, p. 116. Crawford 1974, p. 712. Wallace-Hadrill 1986, p. 75. Kent 1978, p. 16–17.

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to link themselves with Caesar: Antony’s first issue bore his own portrait on one side and that of   Caesar on the other. 177 Popular themes at the time were libertas and victory. For example, part of   an issue of   Cassius records his capture of   Rhodes after the battle of   Myndus, and part of   an issue of   Brutus shows Victory trampling on a  broken sceptre and diadem. 178 It  is  clear that at this stage in Rome’s civil wars, the victory discourse had come to serve as an overt propaganda tool. From 37 onwards, Octavian’s name alone appeared on his coinage, and, as Crawford says, ‘there could be no clearer indication of  the arrival of  autocracy’. 179 The victory discourse remained dominant in the period when Octavian rose to power, but it had now become monopolized by the sole ruler. For example, after Octavian’s campaign in the east, a coin was struck celebrating his conquest of   Armenia, with an image of   Victory slaying a bull. 180 But by now we are entering the Augustan Age. 2.3.3. The Rhetoric of  Conquest The discourse feature of   ‘conquest’ appeared rather late, and for a full treatment of  the Roman empire-building we’ll have to wait for the Augustan period. 181 In  the Late Republic, conquest was apparently taken for granted, but, wherever it came up as a topic, it showed its two faces right from the start. On the one hand, it can be seen that, among pre-Augustan writers, praise of  conquest was relatively rare. There is Cicero’s well-known praise of  Caesar’s campaign in Gaul, but it should be seen in the context of  the day, when political tensions between Caesar and Pompey had temporarily abated and Cicero could afford a  pragmatic position, Hence, Cicero’s words reflect the public opinion of  his day rather than his personal opinion. In the speech, delivered to the Senate,   Crawford 1974, p. 739, ill. 488.   Crawford 1974, ills. 501/1–3 and 507/2. 179  Crawford 1974, p. 744. 180  Kent 1978, ill. 126. 181  What motivated the Romans to seek expansion will be discussed in the following chapter, the Augustan period, when the conquest discourse came to fruition. Our discussion will include contemporary views as well as modern contributions in the debate surrounding the conquest discourse. 177 178

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he conceded that personal feelings were necessarily secondary to the common good: But I see that the counsels of   Caius Caesar are widely different. For he thought it his duty, not only to war against those men whom he saw already in arms against the Roman people, but to reduce the whole of  Gaul under our dominion. Therefore, he fought with the greatest success against those most valiant and powerful nations the Germans and the Helvetians; and the other nations he alarmed and drove back and defeated, and accustomed to yield to the supremacy of   the Roman people, so that those districts and those nations which were previously known to us neither by any one’s letters, nor by the personal account of  any one, nor even by vague report, have now been overrun and thoroughly examined by our own general, by our own army, and by the arms of   the Roman people. Hitherto, O conscript fathers, we have only known the road into Gaul. All  other parts of   it were possessed by nations which were either hostile to this Empire, or treacherous, or unknown to us, or, at all events, savage, barbarian, and warlike; – nations which no one ever existed who did not wish to break their power and subdue: nor has any one, from the very first rise of   this Empire, ever carefully deliberated about our republic, who has not thought Gaul the chief  object of   apprehension to this Empire. But still, on account of   the power and vast population of   those nations, we never before have had a  war with all of   them; we have always been content to resist them when attacked. Now, at last, it has been brought about that there should be one and the same boundary to our Empire and to those nations. 182

This is an important statement. Cicero alludes to the days when Gaul was the hotbed of  barbarian attacks against Rome and Rome could only defend itself. But now, Caesar has pre-empted barbarian strikes (‘those nations’ includes Celts and Germans) by subjecting all foreign peoples and shifting the frontier (‘one and the same boundary’). In  this, the speech is  the eminent apology for   Cicero, ‘On the Consular Provinces’, 13.32–33. Overall, Cicero distrusted Caesar. In one of  his letters, he compared Caesar to the Athenian tyrant Pisistratus (‘Letters to Atticus’, 8.6.2). 182

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Roman conquest. In other places, Cicero’s position is reaffirmed. In his ‘Defence of   Archias’, for example, Cicero says that it is by victory in war that an individual Roman can obtain the greatest renown, and that this glory is shared by the whole people. 183 And of   all the nations, Rome is  the one that deserves the most love, he asserts in ‘De Oratore’. 184 This all goes back to Rome’s origin, he says, for Romulus ‘waged many highly successful wars against his neighbours; and, though he brought no plunder to his own house, he continually increased the wealth of  the citizens’. 185 Although battling the eastern barbarians had the appeal of  riches, the Gauls were just around the corner and throughout the Republic remained a threat. 186 And this threat, based on an ancient track record, served the Roman conquest discourse well. Rome’s relationship with eastern ‘barbarians’ was a  bit more complicated, had a  long history, and cannot be placed in the same discourse. Greece’s recognized cultural superiority was not matched by its military reputation There was certainly a  deep respect for the Parthian military capability, which had been held in high esteem after Crassus’ ignominious defeat at Carrhae in 53 bc. But the Parthians could not be made into a direct threat, like the Gauls. As ‘stock examples of   Rome’s enemies’, they were part of   the great eastern dominions that Rome had its eyes  on. For a general or an emperor intent on glory, Parthia was the big prize, like most eastern dominions, because of   its riches, reputed and real. This reputation was confirmed by Caesar’s detailed planning of   his intended campaign in 44 bc, and the losses that the Parthians later inflicted on Antony. 187 What the subjected nations thought about the Roman conquest remains a  matter of   speculation, but Greece and the Greek-speaking East, obviously in a  different category, remain an exception. Poets and so-called ‘prophetic authors’ of   the 2nd and early 1st century provided negative commentary, such as Polystratus and Antipater of   Sidon, who both lamented Rome’s   Cicero, ‘Pro Archia’, 21.   Cicero, ‘De Oratore’, 1.196. 185  Cicero, The Republic, 2.25. 186  Williams 2001, p. 3. 187  Campbell 1995, p. 217. 183 184

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destruction of   the city of   Corinth. But, underlying the critical reactions, there was a  general acceptance of   Roman hegemony, Donald Baronowski submits. Contemporary Greek writers did not see an alternative to the world order that Roman imperialism imposed, the very same thing that Polybius had pointed out. 188 All the same, the conquest discourse was ambivalent even in Republican days. Most of  the objections to Roman imperialism had moral, rather than political overtones. There was a  general recognition that the success of   Rome’s empire-building was undermined by the greed and corruption of   provincial magistrates. 189 There was also the idea that Rome’s unchecked growth encouraged internal discord since it had removed all direct external threats. 190 But most of   all there was a  widely shared conviction that the wealth that conquest had brought was undermining Rome’s moral fibre, that it had a corrupting influence. This feeling developed in the Late Republic and the period of   the civil wars – it was already foreseen by Polybius – and found full expression in the Principate. For the Late Republic, an example can be found in Sallust’s criticism of  the gradual weakening of  the strong Roman spirit immediately following the great conquests: But, when the commonwealth had grown through hard work and justice, and great kings had been tamed in war, and wild nations and mighty people subdued by force, and Carthage – the rival of   Rome for command of   an Empire – had been eradicated, and all seas and lands became accessible, then Fortune began to turn savage and to confound everything. 191

For Sallust, the corruption brought by conquest was a turn of  the wheel of   fortune. It was marked by the destruction of   Carthage in 146  bc. In  the same passage, Sallust continues: ‘Wealth and leisure […] brought misery. At first, the desire for wealth increased   Baronowski 2011, p. 39–45.   Sage 2008, p. 275. 190  Sage 2008, p. 275. As we have seen, similar observations had already been made by Polybius, as part of  his general views on the cycle of  history (6.57). 191  Sallust, Catiline’s War, 10.1. This metus hostilis explanation, linking Rome’s deterioration in the 1st century to the Third Punic War, was also picked up by later writers like Livy (1.19.4; 2.32.6, for example) and combined with the ‘wealth and greed’ consequences it had (Miles 1995, p. 77–78). 188 189

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and then the longing for power; these are the soil from which all evils grew’. 192 The idea that, at the height of  a period of  unchecked growth, Rome would be punished for its ambition was to become received wisdom in later periods. Some modern scholars argue that contemporary critics of  conquest, focusing on the moral consequences for Roman society, missed a  central point: what did Rome’s wars of   aggression do to the victims? From a distance, it is easy to see that the rhetoric of   conquest was employed by the victor, and that the conquered had no voice – they simply paid the price. This is  what David Mattingly has tried to underscore. Caesar’s campaign in Gaul is his case in point: no less than half  a million ‘Gaulish lives’ were lost, as Plutarch claimed (‘Caesar’, 15.5). Of  course, this figure cannot be taken at face value, but casualties in the Gallic campaigns must have been high. 193 Mattingly’s assessment may be valid, it is also anachronistic in its negative revaluation of   Rome’s empire-building. At the time, other criteria applied. 2.3.4. Caesar’s Clemency The clash between ancient and modern thought on warfare and morality can be exemplified by Caesar’s use of   the notion of  ‘clemency’. In  the Gallic War (2.28) he describes how he, in a battle, manages to wipe out the Nervii, whose 60,000 men were now reduced to 500. He continues with a  paragraph that has a remarkably different tone: Caesar was eager to preserve their safety and to be seen to exercise clemency towards the wretched people who were pleading with him. He ordered them to confine themselves to their own territories and towns, and commanded their neighbours to refrain from doing the Nervii and their people harm or injury. 192 Sallust, Catiline’s War, 10.1. The fateful event was foreshadowed in a debate between Scipio Nasica and Cato a  few years earlier, in which Nasica warned that Carthage’s destruction would sap Rome’s moral fibre in future years. All this because any external check on moral deterioration would be lacking, since Rome would have a  period of   prolonged peace, something that was believed to have a detrimental effect on the nation’s fighting capabilities (Livy, Parochia, 49; Florus, Epitome of  Roman History, 1.31.5). 193  Mattingly 2013, p. 24.

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It is  tempting for us to see Caesar’s self-avowed clemency as a positive trait of   character, a  capacity for pity and compassion. Caesar, however, is  treating clemency as the preferred routine after victory, leading to what the campaign of   conquest aimed to achieve: pacification. It  is  no longer in his interest to go on ravishing the enemy; what is required now is security and an end to hostilities. Clemency (clementia) should, therefore, be seen as a bridge to Pax, the great Augustan concept. There is no scholarly consensus on how to read Caesar’s appeal to his clemency, and how to interpret the references in the Continuation of   the Gallic War (in 8.0; 8.44: ‘Caesar’s clemency, as he knew, was familiar to all  …’) as well as (more frequently) in passages in the Civil War, where it  is exemplified by Caesar’s dealings with Pompey’s defeated supporters at Llerda. Caesar explains (1.85.1–3) that his clemency depends on his and the people’s desire for peace; in other words, he binds it to the duty of   protecting the state and its citizens. Justice is made subservient to peace, and the word ‘pax’ occurs five times in this context, as Luca Grillo has observed. 194 In other works, by his continuators, we find ‘clemency’ used as Caesar’s familiar policy ploy. 195 In The Spanish War (ch. 17, Caesar is reputed to have promised clemency to Pompeian troops surrendering in the same way as he was wont to do to conquered nations. Clementia was a recognized virtue in the Late Republic, but it was used in a very general way, like many other virtues, but Caesar seems to have been the first to ‘elevate it to the status of  policy’. 196 Many critics, including R. Syme (1958), J. C. Earl (1967) and B.  M. Levick (1975), have been skeptical about Caesar’s intentions when advertising his clemency. It was seen as a manifestation of  his tyrannical power, a transparent, condescending device to humble his opponents. 197 Matthew Roller has pointed to the negative use of   the ‘gift’ of   clemency in Caesar’s case, calling it a ‘political weapon’ and a form of  ‘symbolic violence’. 198 We find   Grillo 2012, p. 87.   Such as in The African War (ch. 88) where the citizens of   Utica are strongly advised to open the gates and count on Caesar’s reputed clemency. 196  Konstan 2005, p. 340. 197  Konstan 2005, p. 337. 198  Roller 2014, p. 183. 194 195

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this political agenda confirmed, Roller argues, in one of   Caesar’s letters: ‘Let this be a new way of   conquering, that we fortify ourselves with our clemency and liberality’. 199 Countering this somewhat cynical view, David Konstan has argued that the negative connotations that clementia held were obtained during the Principate and were based on Seneca’s famous treatise. Konstan finds no negative connotations of   clementia in texts written in the Late Republic, when clementia was a  virtue, a  goddess and was generally seen as a good trait in a leader. 200 There are some arguments to support the ‘cynical’ reading. Konstan’s argument that there is no proof  of  the ‘negative’ clementia in contemporary writing is not convincing, for neither is there absolute, unambiguous proof  of   a  ‘positive’ counterpart – the reading has to be between the lines. Perhaps more importantly, we should move away from semantics and relate Caesar’s use of  clementia to his behavior, which was always unmistakably opportunistic and self-promoting. Most significantly, after the Civil War, Caesar pardoned most of   his enemies. This clemency was useful policy, no innate character trait – we know that some people, like Cato the Younger, preferred death over pardon. 201 It is also quite interesting to note that ‘Clementia Caesaris’ later became a cult, spread through simple ceramic artefacts depicting scenes of  Caesar’s clemency. 202 We are dealing with an early example of   political branding of   a  successful general and politician. I think it can be said that, for Caesar, conquest meant that all-out aggression in campaigns could be followed by a policy of   restoring relations with the conquered. Clemency was the ultimate sign of   supremacy: by accepting it, the vanquished accepted Roman domination. It was a superior move by a superior general who knew that annihilation and revenge would not bring paci­fi­ ca­tion.

  Caesar’s letter to Oppius and Balbus (Cicero, ‘Letter to Atticus’, 9.7C). The letter was written in an early phase of  the Civil War. Caesar gives his rationale for sparing and releasing the defenders of   the town of   Corfinium after they surrendered. 200  Konstan 2005, p. 337–46. 201  Dowling 2006, p. 26. 202   Dowling 2006, p. 26. 199

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2.3.5. The Supremacy Theme: Conclusion Supremacy, in the Late Republic, was a complex theme. In Rome’s ongoing wars of  conquest, it remained a natural ingredient. Rome’s military superiority over barbarians in Gaul and beyond was a given thing, yet had to be secured in pre-emptive campaigns that, above all, meant to instil awe and fear, and result in submission. This was one aspect of   the discourse, and can be seen in Caesar and Cicero. Conquest, however, would turn out to be a threat in Sallust’s perception, quite in the spirit of  Polybius: its gain would be offset by a loss of  virtue and a great moral backslide. The same could be said of   the victory discourse, in which public display in celebrations and on coins would be good public relations for the army and their general. Showing humbled enemies and implying divine support for the victors were ways of  speaking to the public at large and calling for its admiration. At the same time, triumphs were objects of   intense jealousy and political machinations, our sources tell us. They had been so before, but in the Late Republic their political role intensified due to the self-centered mentality of   army commanders as displayed in writing, epigraphy and on coins. When the Principate approached, ‘supremacy’ as a discourse theme had become thoroughly personalized.

3. Conclusion The Late Republic, a  relatively short period between the many years of   the Early and Mid Republic and the two centuries of  Principate and Early Empire, is  characterized by great changes: political, social and military. The hundred years or so before Augustus’ rise to power witnessed great social mobility, with the middle class, the class of   knights, gaining more influence, and the political consolidation of   Rome’s expansion over the whole of  Italy. The increasing influence of  the equites can also be attributed to the fact that they obtained positions of   officers in the army and were given lucrative assignments by the great army commanders. The army was restructured and became more professional, led by experienced and competitive generals to conquer new peoples and bring home more riches. All these ingredients, and some more, created a volatile mix of  conflicting interests that fuelled a series of  unremitting civil wars. 361

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It is no surprise, then, that civil war was the canvas on which the war discourse of  the time was projected. But at the same time, the Late Republic was a  great period of   conquest – it laid the basis for what would become the enormous Roman Empire ruled by the emperors. The same generals who led their armies against each other in a fierce struggle for power would also build up their positions with foreign expeditions. Also, the civil wars made the general more important than ever before, and the general had a stake in continued warfare. The new relationship between troops and their generals put a premium on the qualities of   the army commander, and this can be seen in the discourse. The good general showed his virtus, and got the credit for the successful campaign. Lack of   virtus was generally blamed on moral deficiency. This duality between the losses and gains of   warfare in the Late Republic is reflected in the discourse. It focused on the three themes of  legitimacy, loyalty and supremacy, and they can be seen as legal and moral, psychological and political dimensions of   the military events of   the time. As for the legal and moral aspects, the tension between the evil of   war and its revenues was felt by Cicero, who combined ethical and legal high-mindedness with the pragmatic concerns of   the day, not least to suit his personal aims. After all, he argued that wars of   conquest could be legitimized as long as they were conducted in the right context, which, in the case of   Rome, was presumed. The same ambivalence in the discourse is  expressed by Sallust, but now more specifically in moral terms. In  his view, the great riches that conquest had brought and that were celebrated in triumphs, on monuments and on coins had also brought moral corruption and civil strife. In  this way, the civil wars and the wars of   conquest were intimately connected. The psychological dimension is found in the discourse in the theme of   loyalty. It was carried over from the Mid Republic, and was characterized by two features: first, the increased importance of   the general’s virtus, which had now shifted from personal bravery to his capabilities as a commander, his charisma and his abilities to gain the support of   the gods; secondly, the increased self-consciousness of  the same general, as expressed in his memoirs and commentaries. In the previous period, no such self-awareness 362

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existed. This development can be directly related to the third theme: Roman supremacy. The wars of   conquest had brought riches, and victory became a common discourse feature, especially in the visual sources, with the victorious general celebrating his conquests. Personalization is  the common denominator of   the Late Republic. In the periods that follow, the Principate and Early Empire, we see this personalization of   the war effort culminate in the institution of   one-man rule and reflected in the war discourse of  the time.

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1. The Augustan Age The Augustan Age is  generally agreed to be pivotal, ending the Republic and beginning the Empire. Augustus was largely responsible for the political and military transformations of  his day and age. He also increased the territorial extent of  what would be the Roman empire as it is commonly known. In fact, Augustus added more territory to the empire than anyone else ever did, and was proud of   it. 1 The booty that this expansion brought enabled him to create a monument for himself  in the new city of   Rome. The public flaunting of   pride dominates the political, military and architectural agenda. The obsession with military success that, I  feel, characterizes the period at hand is reflected in the war discourse of   the time. During the time when Octavian had become Augustus, a whole new ideology developed, which brought forth an entirely new order in the Roman world. It was an ideology of   peace and prosperity after victory, of   regeneration of   old Roman values lost in the days of   the civil wars. Augustus’ monumental contribution in legislative reforms, ambitious building programs and religious reform cannot be discussed here. In concentrating on the history of   mentalities and ideas with a direct bearing on warfare, we can chart the interesting mix of   continuity and change that characterizes even the most ‘revolutionary’ of  epochs. Although Augustus’ personality self-consciously advertises his innovations, some   As we know from the Res Gestae.

1

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developments were long in the making, such as the concentration of   power in individual army commanders and the language of  power that came to surround the supreme ruler. But they only came to fruition in the Principate.

2. Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources 2.1. Historiography Historiography in the Principate is – and has been – dominated by Livy’s massive History (Ab Urbe Condita), which presents an overview of   Roman history from its foundation to the time of   writing, the late 1st century bc and the early years of   the first century ad. We can and shall treat Livy as a  historian of   the Principate even though most of   his narrative concerns events of   times long past, since it  is his perspective that we are interested in. Livy scholarship was long the exclusive domain of   the Q uellenforschung school, whose scholars compared Livy’s rendering of   events of   early and Republican Rome with accounts given in other sources. The idea was to come to a  balanced judgment on his (and other authors’) historical reliability. 2 Large sections of   Livy’s work are derived from Polybius and annalistic historians like Piso, Antias and Claudius. 3 More recently, Livy’s History has been approached from new directions, such as his literary techniques and his originality as an author, 4 as well as his explicit or implied rhetoric, his rendering of   the ‘collective memory of  Rome’s great deeds’, as Gary Miles calls it, 5 his ability to visual-

  Miles 1995, p. 2.   Briscoe 2009, p. 461–75. The traditional idea that Livy merely compiled stories from earlier sources was first convincingly challenged by T.  J. Luce, who pointed to the careful arrangement of  his structure and design, and his conception of   Rome as the product of   development of   character and institutions, in a process of  ‘accretion’ (Luce 1977, chapter 7). 4  Miles 1995, p. 2. 5   Miles 1995, p. 18. For several decades, Livy scholars have debated the relationship between Livy and Augustus (or the regime) with widely varying perspectives, going from Republicanism (Livy as defender of   the old order) to Augustan apologism (Livy as the writer of   the ‘official’, state-sponsored history of   Rome). 2 3

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ize great events in Roman history, 6 as well as his reliability, with T.  J. Cornell taking the most radical position (‘there is  no reason to think’ that ‘any events were fabricated out of   nothing’). 7 Whether Livy is reliable or not is not the issue here – we are looking for the things that make Livy a  historian of   the period in which he lived. This is the Augustan Livy: the tradition that was long transmitted orally only had a relatively short written equivalent and, in his lifetime was given a new shape, for the great events of   the past could be fit into the Augustan ideological framework. In the ideology of  the time, the Romans were self-made; they ‘surpassed Hellenistic peoples in morality, practical wisdom and warfare’. 8 Because of  their lack of  cultural sophistication, the Romans could take full advantage of   their austerity and hardiness. This mix of  idealization of  the past and of  the simple country life, so common at the time, served Livy well in his vision of   Rome’s rise to greatness because of   its attachment to the examples of   virtue in action and the mos maiorum, the customs of  the ancestors. 9 It also fits in well with the Augustan program of  restoring the old order and reversing the pattern of   decline that had started in the Late Republic. Thus, for our purposes, Livy is interesting for his interpretation of   the Roman tradition and the role of   warfare in this tradition, rather than his (lack of) historical reliability. 10 The same could be said of  our three secondary historiographical sources: Dionysius of   Halicarnassus, Velleius Paterculus and Trogus. As a Greek working in Rome, Dionysius, somewhat like Polybius, tried to come to grips with Rome’s ascendancy in his More recently, the drift of   the discussion seems to move toward Livy’s stature as an independent historian (Feldherr 1998, p. 19). 6  Feldherr 1998, p. 9. This is what H. Tränkle aptly summarizes as ‘Polybius reports facts, Livy portrays them’ (Tränkle 2009, p. 487). 7  Cornell 1989b, p. 361. 8   Miles 1995, p. 149. 9  Beck 2011, p. 265. 10  This is not to say that the tradition was an object of   Augustan engineering, and Jan Felix Gaertner is  quite right in downplaying the Augustan drive behind Livy’s historiography somewhat. Many cultural values that Livy seems to highlight, like pietas, had Republican precedents, as can be seen in the Camillus legend, which had already been forged in the 1st century bc, based on an older version from the 3rd century bc (Gaertner 2008, p. 28–30).

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Roman Antiquities, which appeared around 7  bc and described the early days of   Rome leading up to the First Punic War. Even though he was a relative outsider, Dionysius fully participated in the general mood of   success and the conqueror’s pride. Velleius Paterculus’ History has an even larger scope, giving historical events to ad 29. Velleius was a military man and took part in campaigns in Germany and Pannonia under Tiberius, and the most interesting part of   his account, describing his own time, clearly reflects his loyalty to Augustus (and, later, Tiberius). Pompeius Trogus, finally, was a near contemporary of  Livy. His History was a  huge encyclopaedic endeavour that used Greek, rather than Roman sources. It has come down to us in later summaries and fragments, but it is not very useful for this study since in its present incomplete form it lacks a clear theme or agenda.

2.2. Literature As a genre, Roman literature was written by the elite for the elite, and certain tendencies can be elucidated if  we place literature in the context of   political developments. For a long time, there had been three different audiences: one using Greek, one using Latin, and a group that was conversant in both Greek and Latin, the last group consisting of   the educated, powerful elite. 11 In  the imperial period, the circle of  audience widened because authors recited their work to larger audiences than before. In  the days of   the Republic and the early Principate, the public was more select, but in the days of  Empire literature became a ‘marker of  elite status and [came] to dominate social life’. 12 When the political role of   the Roman elite dwindled, it sought some form of   compensation in its participation in culture. The popularity of  public recitation does not mean that reading had become irrelevant. We know from their Prefaces that Roman authors knew that their work would be read by people. Also, the role of  audiences outside Rome should not be ignored – in its written form, literature was disseminated throughout the empire. 13   Russell 1990, p. 1.   Meyers 2006, p. 440. 13  Fantham 1996, p. 10–11. 11 12

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We know that books were common in the Augustus’ days and the Principate. In  the 30s, public libraries were built, and bookstores became more common. Poetry in this time flourished, not least in the appetite for it and the quantity in which it was produced. 14 All the genres in this period (satire, love elegy, etc.) have multiple examples that are dedicated to influential people, usually from the entourage they mix with and whose patronage (or ‘friendship’) they seek. 15 Most poets came from the same elite as their friends, and writing was a common pastime in this milieu of   knights and senators. There were material and social benefits to success as an author, of   course, but the most important thing was that writing was a communal activity, done in a spirit of  close collaboration and competition. 16 This blurring of   the distinction between public and private roles, highly characteristic of   the time, created a  complexity in the relationship between poets and society. Poets like Virgil and Horace had close ties with Augustus, and it  is likely that the emperor had some influence on the writers of   his time although we do not know exactly in what way this influence was exerted. Traditionally, Augustan poetry has been treated as a  form of  state propaganda, or at least ‘court poetry’. Modern critics tend to dissociate themselves from this reading, which, they say, is an example of  an anachronistic interpretation, because such modern notions as ‘court poetry’ and ‘propaganda’ are placed on a different epoch. 17 Even if  this is true, and literary works from the period can be read as independent works of  art, they still have that strong relation with the political establishment of   the time, whether we want to use the word ‘propaganda’ or not. Like Greek epic, Roman epic was a grand genre, filled with a noble ethos, telling a great story, and expressed in an elevated style. Ennius’ Annales was an early example; it aimed to transmit the emergent greatness of   Rome, and influenced later writers including Virgil. And it was Virgil, of  course, who wrote the great Roman epic, the Aeneid, and who in doing so became Rome’s Homer.     16  17  14 15

White 2005, p. 324–25. White 2005, p. 326. White 2005, p. 327. White 2005, p. 335.

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The Aeneid combines an Odyssey of   travel with an Iliad of   war. Already when it was being written, the Aeneid was a  canonical poem with an influence both on popular culture and on official ideology. 18 With his Metamorphoses, Ovid created a  long epic history of   the world, beginning with its creation and ending with Julius Caesar. The poem is a celebration of   change, the hallmark of   the Augustan era in which it was written. As a (sub)genre, satire was introduced by Lucilius and was based on Greek models, but in Augustus’ time it was perfected in Latin by Horace. Satire was a literary medium, of  course, and should be read as such, as modern critics like to emphasize, but Horace’s exaggeration no doubt reflected the disillusionment of   a  conservative mind with the many changes of  its day. 19 As a potentially subversive genre, satire had a way of   protecting itself: butts of   satire were often dead or fictional, or polyvalence was used to create multiple interpretations about who and what was intended. 20 Just like epic, lyric had its Greek models, and various subgenres, and was distinct from epic in its briefness and polished style. Of  the subgenres, elegy became an important form in the Augustan Age.  It was practised most of   all as ‘love elegy’, such as by Propertius and Ovid. It  had a  strong personal tone, and a  ‘persona’ speaking in the first person. Sometimes elegy was chosen to write poems of   mourning the dead, notably by Catullus and Propertius. Odes, which elaborately praised or glorified events or persons were written by Horace and Catullus. It  is  obvious that the literature of   the time is  a  rich field for the treatment of   the war discourse in this chapter, if  only for its sheer quantity of   references to warfare; hence, literary sources play a major role in the sections that follow.

2.3. Visual Sources With the emergence of   the ‘German school’ of   the 1960s and 1970s, Roman art came to be studied as an object for social and   Tarrant 1997a, p. 56–57.   Meyers 2006, p. 430. 20  Meyers 2006, p. 441. 18 19

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cultural historians, not just for traditional art historians, who had always tended to focus on matters of   style and technique, of  originality and authenticity. Scholars like Hölscher and Zanker studied the Roman visual arts for its content, its explicit or implied messages, and it is in the Augustan period especially that their influence has been felt. This reading of   art as ‘Bildsprache’ (or ‘visual language’) has been called the ‘historic turn’ in Roman art scholarship. 21 In the various sections that follow, Hölscher’s and Zanker’s contributions have been considered wherever appropriate. Today’s scholars, like Tom Stevenson, John Pollini and Peter Holliday, favor an eclectic approach, which looks more closely at the diversified imagery of   the time. 22 Michèle Lowrie, for example, argues for this fresh look at Augustan art, citing an objection made long ago by the classicist W. R. Johnson, which criticized the general assumption of   ‘a stability for the regime and a  constancy of  attitude towards the regime that did not exist’. 23 Some of  the more recent scholarship finds a new interest in the semiotics of  Roman art, but now wholly focused on the question of  contemporary reception, the ‘reading’ of  the ‘narrative’ of  the image, especially by ordinary citizens. Peter Stewart has done this for Roman statues (preferring ‘statuary’ culture, to avoid strict aestheticism), and John Clarke for a  broad spectrum of   art. 24 These studies, understandably, try to redress the traditional focus on the elite Roman perspective, but the problem with their approach is that ‘imagined responses’ tend to be speculative, as Clarke admits himself. 25 In her introduction to the Blackwell Companion to Roman Art, Barbara Borg shows approval for the tendency these days to dissociate oneself  from the idea that Augustan art (or culture as a  whole) was part of   an ‘orchestrated programme’, a  sort of  ‘master plan’, in the words of  Peter Holliday. 26 Instead, it should     23   24  25  26  21 22

Borg 2015, p. 4. Stevenson 2010, p. 37–62; Pollini 2012; Holliday 2002. Johnson 1973, p. 172; cited by Michèle Lowrie, chapter 15. Stewart 2011; Clarke 2006. Clarke 2006, p. 12. Borg 2015, p. 4; Holliday 2015, p. 198.

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be seen as a combination and continuation of   existing heterodox styles that displayed youth, energy and muscular strength on the one hand, – the Greek-Hellenistic tradition – and what is often called the ‘Italic’ tradition of   ‘verism’, which displays cragged facial lines and sagging skin, giving an image of   maturity and dignity. 27 Within this variety of   imagery, we can still see a development to a  preferred mode, and this is  relevant for our discussion of  the victory and conquest discourses below. Once Octavian had become Augustus – the relevance of  the name-change is obvious – Augustan artists adapted the existing stylistic options to the needs of   the day. For the visual arts (or ‘visual culture’ as Borg prefers to call them, with some justification), it was important to resonate with the Roman audiences of   the time, since its social (and political) role required it. 28 Thus, we see continuity with Late Republican trends, such as the placing of   the ruler’s head on the state coinage, but also new departures. John Pollini has traced the changes in the imagery of  Augustus over the years, from depictions of  the great warrior à la Alexander the Great to those of  a mature statesman. 29 This development to what is  sometimes called the ‘Athenian’ Augustus is  exemplified by the statues that present Augustus in the role of  princeps, radiating authority. Their serenity and composure introduce a new model of   charismatic leadership, one that emphasizes the fruits of   victory (Pax) rather than the military glory traditionally attached to it. Also, their preferred ‘togate form’ shows the great leader as civilis princeps, as first among equals. Finally, in monuments, such as the Ara Pacis or the temple of   Mars Ultor, the same emphasis on the princeps’ authority and achievements can be found. 30 We shall come back to this in later sections.

  Tuck 2015, p. 110–11.   Borg’s label of   ‘visual culture’ is quite well-chosen, since it diverts today’s reader’s attention away from ‘art’ as a purely aesthetic phenomenon, which does not even apply today, and certainly not in antiquity. 29  Pollini 2012, chapter 4. 30   Pollini 2012, chapter 4. 27 28

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3. The War Discourse in the Augustan Period Augustan Rome, with its rich literary and cultural ambiance, offers a wider range of   views than we had before. Whereas previously, discourse elements were treated by a small number of  spokesmen, we now have more voices that sometimes contradict each other or show ambivalence. This can be seen in the way in which aspects like virtus or conquest are discussed: they are given greater depth, as well as less uniform responses. The cultural boom also gives us more visual material than before, expressing a wealth of  thematic variations. The war discourse of   the period revolves around the same three themes of   legitimacy, loyalty and supremacy that were identified before. Of  these three, the third is  by far the most prominent in our sources, not least because, throughout the Augustan Age, visual sources like monuments and coins give us great insight into the nature and development of   the discourse features within this theme, such as conquest and victory. In the sections that follow, I will argue that, within the theme of  legitimacy, the interest of   the Republic in Rome’s origin is  replaced by a preoccupation with destiny. Rome’s greatness now becomes its destiny, sanctioned by the gods, and mastering the globe has become Rome’s duty. As for the theme of  loyalty, it seems to me that the idea of  ‘patria’ is reinvented, with one man, Augustus, representing the new res publica, and the old virtues of  virtus and disciplina of   pre-civil war days held up as ideals for a new society. Finally, the supremacy theme constitutes two great changes in the discourse, I propose, the first of   which connects with the loyalty theme: the identification of  the glory of  victory and conquest with the sole ruler. The second, a  more distinct change, concerns the extension of  victory and conquest with peace (pax). In the celebration of   victory we see – for the first time – a wedding of   Victoria and Pax. This new pair marks the discourse in various places and the wedding of   the two is no doubt the most characteristic feature of   the period. In  the days of   Augustus, Roman expansion and military success could be combined with a sense of  order and stability, creating a unique blend that would not last. 373

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3.1. The Theme of  Legitimacy Our first theme, legitimacy, is  a  discourse theme that runs through many periods of   Roman history. Mauro Mantovani made an inventory of   real and potential pretexts for war in the period of   empire, based on contemporary discourse. He distinguished between religious, philosophical and legal motivations to start a war. Religious categories included sacral insubordination (desecration of   religious shrines or breaking of   religious laws) di propitii (divine approval), pietas inter consanguineos (redress of  wrongs inflicted on next of   kin), and – of   an unjust war – various forms of   civil war (‘Bruderkrieg’). 31 Philosophical motivations were negative, like Seneca’s pacifism, as we shall see in the next chapter, but also positive, viz. the natural right of  the strong to dominate the weak, which had a long history and can be seen, for example, in Livy. 32 And, finally, legal motivations ranged from self-defence to revenge and punishment, or the fight for liberty. 33 In our treatment of   the Late Republic, we saw that some of   Mantovani’s categories can be applied to Cicero’s writings. In  the period of   Augustus, there are quite a  few references to the legal and religious conventions surrounding the declaration of  war – the just war discourse – but what is more remarkable in this period is the interest in the idea of   destiny, based on ancient foundation myths and exploited by Augustan authors in line with the spirit of   the time. ‘Destiny’, as expressed in historiographical and literary sources, was another way to give legitimacy to Rome’s wars of   conquest. The creation of   ‘destiny’ was one of   the great innovations in the Augustan war discourse. 3.1.1. Legitimacy and Destiny In the second chapter, we saw how the Greeks accounted for the phenomenon of   warfare as a  necessity. I  would like to argue that, for the Romans, war was their destiny. The two explanations share an external, propelling force which gives a sense of   inevitability. There are marked differences as well. The Greek discourse   Mantovani 1990, p. 1–8.  Livy, History of  Rome, 5.36.5. 33  Mantovani 1990, p. 25–56. 31 32

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was inevitably inward-looking, since most wars were by Greeks against other Greeks. Republican Rome’s discourse, on the other hand, was outward-looking, and told the story of   the Roman wars against barbarians, outsiders, and outside threats. Where the Greek explanation emphasized the role of   the gods and the everchanging pattern of   war and peace, Rome’s focused on the role of  warfare in shaping its future greatness. The idea that Rome’s greatness was predestined is a recurrent theme in Roman literature and historiography. Rome’s imperial ambitions came to be presented as Rome’s fate or destiny, a more or less autonomous process once it had started to unfold itself. The existing foundation myths could be used to highlight the idea of  ‘Manifest Destiny’, to borrow a phrase from American history. Republican Rome had developed its foundation myths to give the ruling aristocracy a suitable pedigree and hence it is no surprise that the ‘destiny discourse’ was a very strong rhetorical device that could be exploited for political purposes, as indeed it was in the Augustan period. 34 It was a  novel idea to use the origin myths for more than a  social status-building device. Now, in the hands of   Augustan writers, destiny became a running motif  in their telling of  the old tales. Aeneas’ voyage from Troy emphasized both ancient ancestry of   great renown but also, more forward-looking, the foundation of   a  New Troy in Italy as part of   the old hero’s destiny. In  the Romulus myth, Rome’s expansion is  prophesized in Romulus’ liberal ‘immigration policy’ as well as his prowess as a  warlord. Both myths are popular material in contemporary literature. 3.1.1.1. Legitimacy and Destiny: Literature

In Augustan literature, various aspects of   the Romulus myth are touched upon. In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Romulus’ victory over the Sabines marks the definite beginning of   Roman supremacy, when Mars appeals to Jupiter to take Romulus from earth and set him in heaven: ‘The time is  at hand, sire, now that Rome’s fortunes are securely founded and no longer depend on one   The less known Evander myth has a  similar function. The stories about the supposed Greek founder of   Rome Evander and his heroic deeds underline the connection between Rome and Greece (McGeough 2004, p. 51). 34

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champion alone, to award the prize you promised, both to me and to your grandson who has well deserved it’. 35 And in Virgil’s Aeneid, Jupiter describes Romulus to Venus as the founding father of  Rome and predicts the city’s future greatness: Then one, Romulus, Reveling the tawny pelt of  a wolf  that nursed him, Will inherit the line and build the walls of  Mars, And after his own name, call his people Romans. On them I set no limits, space or time: I have granted them power, Empire without end. 36

In Book 6 of   the Aeneid, Aeneas descends to the underworld, where he speaks with the spirit of   his father and has a prophetic vision of   the destiny of   Rome. Aeneas’ father Anchises explicitly links the future brilliance of  Rome to Romulus, its great founder: ‘Under his auspices, watch, my son, our brilliant Rome will extend her Empire far and wide as the earth, her spirit high as Olympus’. 37 In the tale of  Aeneas, the destiny discourse had another focus. Of  course, the old legend established ancient roots for Rome and a  distinct, non-Greek pedigree, 38 but in Virgil’s Aeneid, the tale became a  true destiny myth. There are quite some allusions in the poem to Rome’s future greatness; in fact, the text is meant to celebrate the Rome of   Virgil’s own days, although it is common these days to look at the darker side of  the protagonist as well, or, as Michael Putnam says, ‘to acknowledge the presence not only of  suffering but of  evil in Aeneas’. 39 The two voices in the Aeneid have long occupied scholars ever since Perry’s essay in Arion in 1963, 40 and can be given the different yet related labels of   ‘proAugustan’ and ‘anti-Augustan’, optimistic vs pessimistic, or European vs American, as Ernst Schmidt has pointed out. 41 Supporters of   the pessimistic, anti-Augustan and American reading, the ‘Harvard School’, in other words, believe that the poem’s primary  Ovid, Metamorphoses, xiv.800–815.  Virgil, Aeneid, 1.329–34. 37  Virgil Aeneid, 6.896–903. 38  Cornell 1989a, p. 65. 39  Putnam 1995, p. 14. 40  Perry 1963, p. 66–80. 41  Schmidt 2001, p. 146–47. 35 36

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focus rests with the end, when the ‘angry hero kills his suppliant antagonist’. 42 Putnam sees Aeneas’ final act as incompatible with his presumed piety and the goal of   his mission: the foundation of  a realm of  peace and justice, and the melting of  the two nations of  Latins and Trojans. The European school, representing the old orthodox reading of   the Aeneid as a  celebration of   Augustan ideology, 43 tends to focus more on Aeneas as an obedient follower of  fate and destiny, and of   divine will. German scholars like Antonie Wlosok  44 and Hans-Peter Stahl  45 have more recently reformulated this view and argue that Aeneas’ killing of   Turnus was morally justified ‘according to the ancient philosophical ethics, traditional martial standards, and contemporary Roman feeling’. 46 Perhaps American and German interpretations can be linked to post-WWII American and German history, as Schmidt is  suggesting, which makes a  non-historicist reading more fruitful, concentrating on the Aeneid as a literary work that helped to refresh old conventions of   the epic genre. 47 However, it seems to me that the old historicist reading has a lot to commend itself, and that there is no need to come up with revisionist readings based on recent American and European experience. The poem’s ending should not be given the overbearing importance it sometimes gets, in my view; throughout the rest of   the poem, Rome’s destiny is  grand, and the overriding feeling is optimistic, all quite in line with a spirit that we recognize in other sources. Right in the very first lines of   the Aeneid, the destiny theme is introduced: ‘Wars and a man I sing – an exile driven on by Fate’. 48   Schmidt 2001, p. 150.   Even the existence of  such a thing as ‘Augustan ideology’ has been debated. Authors like D. C. Feeney and Duncan Kennedy have argued for a more ‘dynamic’ reading of   the notion of   ‘Augustan’, one that is changing in meaning over time and combines conflicting Roman values. There is  obviously some truth in this interpretation, but it makes the term ‘Augustan’ no longer meaningful if  taken at face value. With the traditional reading of   the term, at least we know where we stand (Feeney 1992, p. 1–25; Kennedy 1992, p. 26–58). 44   Wlosok 1990, Res humanae, res divinae. 45  Stahl 1990, p. 174–212. 46  Schmidt 2001, p. 164. 47  Schmidt 2001, p. 151–54; 169–71. 48  Virgil, Aeneid, 1.1. 42 43

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In the underworld, Anchises reminds Aeneas of  the Roman mission when he says: ‘But you, Roman, remember, rule with all your power the peoples of   the earth’. 49 When Aeneas is  entangled in his affair with Q ueen Dido of   Carthage, Jupiter himself  evokes Rome’s martial destiny, calling Aeneas ‘the one to master an Italy rife with the cries of   war, to sire a people sprung from Teucer’s noble blood and bring the entire world beneath the rule of  law’. 50 In  his battle with Turnus, Aeneas allies himself  with Evander, king of   the Turcans. In  joining forces with Aeneas, Evander makes a reference to Aeneas’ destiny: ‘It’s fate that called you on to our shores’. 51 And when the invincible Aeneas defeats king Latinus, his victory is  presented as predestined: ‘It’s clear, Aeneas comes by the will of  Fate, the word on high’. 52 Rome’s destiny is also predicted in Ovid’s version of  the Aeneas legend, the Metamorphoses. In the teachings of  Pythagoras, Rome will alter her form as she grows, and ‘will one day be capital of  the whole wide world’. 53 When Troy was destroyed, Aeneas was comforted by Helenus, son of  Priam: ‘A city I see there, even now, intended for Troy’s descendants, greater than any seen in the past, greater than any that now exists, or ever shall’. 54 The mechanism at work in the foundation myths – the past is created out of   the present, instead of   the other way around – is at work in the destiny discourse. Predictions of   Rome’s future greatness can only be safely made in retrospect, after the event. But then they are a  perfect instrument to glorify the ‘powers that be’ at the end of  the line. Romulus and Aeneas are sometimes seen as complementary heroes, with Romulus as the great warrior, the archetype of   Roman military prowess, and Aeneas as a  statesman, more socially responsible. In  this way they can be presented as exem Virgil, Aeneid, 6.981–82.  Virgil, Aeneid, 4.286–89. 51  Virgil, Aeneid, 8.563. 52 Virgil, Aeneid, 11.278–79; There is a remarkable absence of   triumphal emotions. Rather, there is ‘a sense of   revulsion at a war that should never have happened’, R.  J. Tarrant has noted, with some exaggeration (Tarrant 1997b, p. 179). 53 Ovid, Metamorphoses, xv.430–50. 54 Ovid, Metamorphoses, xv.430–50. 49 50

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plifying the two greatest Roman virtues of   virtus (Romulus) and pietas (Aeneas). 55 Duty, of   course, is  a  motivating force for Aeneas, and fate is  accepted through duty. At the same time, however, Aeneas is  a  warlike character throughout the second part of   the poem – indeed, the Aeneid ends with Aeneas killing his opponent Turnus. In both versions of   Rome’s origin, destiny is brutal and bellicose. It is also one of   the domineering elements in the Roman war discourse with some interesting aspects we shall deal with below in greater detail. 3.1.1.2. Legitimacy and Destiny: Historiography

In historiography, we find the same references to ‘destiny’ as an aspect of  Rome’s origin myth, but on the whole the focus is more on the role of   the gods, or of   Fate. As for the origin myths, the historian Dionysius of   Halicarnassus first emphasized Romulus’ political insight, a  theme that would be central in Livy. It  was Romulus’ idea to settle conquered lands and even grant Roman citizenship to former enemies, rather than pursuing traditional destroy-and-enslave policies. 56 This, of   course, was the foundation of  Rome’s later greatness, and it is interesting that the observation is made by a Greek historian who was perhaps more interested in the way in which the Romans differed from the Greeks. Dionysius, who had a  positive view of   Rome’s growth and development, built his historical construction on an idealized reading of  Rome’s early days, the time of  the kings. 57 Romulus is  also seen as the instigator of   a  great martial tradition. In  Livy, Book One, the warlike machine that is  set in motion is  presented as inevitable: the omens are favorable. The dead Romulus is  reputed to reappear from heaven and instruct his medium, Julius Proculus, as follows: ‘ “Go”, he said, “and tell the Romans that by heaven’s will my Rome shall be capital of  the world. Let them learn to be soldiers. Let them know, and teach their children, that no power on earth can stand against Roman arms” ’. 58   Galinsky 1996, p. 204.   Dionysius of  Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities, 2.16. 57  Fox 1996, p. 229–31. 58 Livy, History of  Rome, 1.16. 55 56

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More than Dionysius, whose approach is  conventionally historiographical and follows the history of   Rome more or less chronologically beginning with Rome’s ‘second foundation’ after the Gallic invasion, Livy follows a literary line, concentrating on topography, the city of  Rome, in cultural historians’ terminology its lieux de mémoire or Gedächtnislandschaft, as well as its institutions and religious practices. In this, Dennis Pausch has argued, Livy is part of   the ‘aetiological’ tradition established by Fabius Pictor that seeks some form of   ancestry for Roman culture. 59 But this is  all part of   Livy’s way of   exploring the ‘thematic and ideological value of   the stories’ rather than their historical reliability. 60 Instead of   focusing on Livy’s strengths as a  narrator, as modern critics do, 61 we should see Livy more as a myth-maker. For Livy, Rome’s destiny is part of  a cyclical process. This idea, adopted and adapted from earlier historiography, suits his scheme of  a unified Roman history well. It links the first founder, Romulus, to the second, Camillus after the Gallic disaster, who was given the title of   ‘parent of   the fatherland, and second founder’ and made Rome a  city ‘reborn’. 62 And, finally, it would link to the second refounding under Augustus, a  completion that was, of   course, just outside the scope of   his work. Seen from another perspective, Livy connects past with present but also future: his history is  an idealized version of   Rome’s past, meant to glorify the nature of   Rome’s qualities. ‘Seine Geschichtsschreibung ist von einer bestimmten Intention beherrscht und von Ideologie getragen’, Barbara Feichtinger writes, a commitment dedicated to what is the greatest feature of  Roman historiography: the building of  a Roman identity, ‘eine Suche nach (moralischer) Identität’. 63 The destiny discourse connects past and present (i.e. the moment of   writing), and it  is in the form of   exempla that Livy makes the connection in his narrative. 64 In  the preface to his work, Livy makes clear what his mode of  operation will be: ‘In the study of  history it is especially improving and beneficial to con  Pausch 2008, p. 41–43.   Miles 1995, p. 67. 61   Mineo 2014, p. xxxi–xxxix. 62 Livy, History of  Rome, 5.49.7; 6.1.3. 63  Feichtinger 1992, p. 20; p. 17. 64  Chaplin 2000, p. 3–4. 59 60

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template examples of   every kind of   behaviour, which are set out on a clear monument’. 65 Exempla, the guides of  conduct, are used to give the narrative’s characters guidance on whether to imitate or avoid historical precedent. 66 They are often recited in speeches, such as the famed Caudine Forks exemplum from one of  the Samnite Wars that is used – with slightly changing contextual interpretations – to tell the lesson of   Roman comeback after military defeat. 67 In 9.38, Caudium is held up as a mistake to be avoided; in 22.14, it  is given as an example of   perseverance in warfare. With some modifications, Livy presents a later event, Cannae, as a similar exemplum of  Roman resilience. 68 Thus, the destiny discourse was not limited to Rome’s origin myths. Rome’s destiny was also Rome’s fate, Livy points out right at the start of   his history: ‘It was already written in the book of  fate that this great city of   ours should arise, and the first steps be taken to the founding of   the mightiest empire the world has known’. 69 Signs of   the future greatness of   Rome are confirmed by the gods, as when King Tarquin decides to secularize all places of  worship and dedicate them to Jupiter alone: The new work was hardly begun, when, we are told, heaven itself  was moved to give a  sign of   the future greatness of  Rome’s dominions: for when the auguries were taken, the birds allowed the secularization of   all the places of   worship except the shrine of   Terminus. The fact that of   all the gods Terminus alone was not moved from his place or called to leave the ground which was consecrated to his worship, was taken to portend the stability and permanence of   everything Roman. 70

Rome’s great destiny is confirmed after the first cycle of   events, in Camillus’ speech at the end of  Book 5. It is important because it emphasizes the sacredness of   the site of   Rome – abandoning it is out of  the question – and the key Roman virtues that enable  Livy, History of  Rome, Praef. 10.   Chaplin 2000, p. 3. 67   Chaplin 2000, p. 41–47. 68  Chaplin 2000, p. 54–69. 69 Livy, History of  Rome, 1.3. 70 Livy, History of  Rome, 1.55. 65

66

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success in war: piety to the gods and adherence to rituals, fidelity and respect for the proper rules of   war. Finally, Livy also relates Rome’s destiny to the social need to wage war: without the community’s commitment to permanent battle, the state would fall apart. This can be illustrated in his description of   events in the year 303, which passed without any military engagement: However, that the Romans might not pass the year entirely exempt from war, a little expedition was made into Umbria. 71

Roman historians all agree that Rome’s later predominance was sanctioned by the gods from the very start. Divine favor showed itself  in good fortune or luck. Being lucky was one of   the most important virtues of   a successful Roman general, 72 and good fortune was often paraded – after all, success was divinely ordained. In omens the gods revealed Rome’s great destiny. 73 All this is not to say that the destiny discourse followed a uniform pattern. Even for contemporaries, the concept of   destiny could be complex. On  the one hand, Rome’s greatness was felt to be preordained; on the other hand, it was earned, or obtained as a  divine reward for virtue, for Roman merit, in other words. Dionysius of   Halicarnassus points to the innate qualities of   the Romans: Rome from the very beginning, immediately after its founding, produced infinite examples of   virtue in men whose superiors, whether for piety or for justice or for life-long self-control or for warlike valour, no city, either Greek or barbarian, has ever produced. 74

This aspect, finally, was not new, but derived from Polybius, who already contrasted the element of   fate with the innate quali Livy, History of  Rome, 10.1.4.   Goldsworthy 2007a, p. 65. 73 Sometimes a posteriori, as in Suetonius’ narrative of  the dream that Caesar reputably had. Caesar dreamt that he raped his mother, which was interpreted as his destiny to rule the world, since the mother he had raped represented Mother Earth. Even in its later years, Rome was still associated with its destiny myth, for as late as the fourth century the historian Ammianus claimed that Rome was forever, ‘a city destined to endure as long as the human race survives’ (Ammianus Marcellinus, Roman History, 14.6). 74  Dionysius, Roman Antiquities, 1.5.3. 71 72

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ties of   the Roman army in accounting for the rapid rise of   the empire. 75 But this only shows that, overall, ‘destiny’ as a concept is a very Augustan notion. 3.1.2. Legitimacy and bellum iustum (Just War) So far we have looked at the way in which the legitimacy theme was related to the destiny discourse. Legitimacy was also discussed in the ‘just war’ context, and in the Augustan period we can see the same Roman tendency to look back to religious and legal origins of   the ‘just war’ rather than to focus on matters of   principle or practical application. Again, it is Livy who is our main source, and his emphasis on the formal contexts of   the making of   war serves to underline the righteousness of   Roman warfare and the adherence to old traditions, a source of   pride that, as we shall see later, can be found in the Res Gestae as well. According to Livy, Rome’s legal formalities were adopted from another tribe, the Aequicolae, who had developed a ritual to formalize the tribe’s demand for redress after a hostile act. This demand was pronounced in a  formula on a  specified number of   days after the enemy had rejected what was asked. It included the words: ‘I call you [Jupiter] to witness that the people of  So-and-so are unjust and refuse reparation’. After the declaration was made, a  spear was thrown across the frontier. 76 Out of   this mythical beginning, a  strong legal framework was developed for Rome’s war-making, with a role for the Senate and the Assembly. For a long time a college of  special priests, the Fetiales, played a formal role in the actual declaration of  war and the concluding of   treaties. This formal procedure was strictly adhered to and not taken for granted. Apparently, Rome’s legalism in this was famous, as Livy illustrates when he makes Hannibal complain about Roman legalism, trying to twist this to his own advantage: For you claimed that you were not bound by the treaty that Gaius Lutatius first concluded with us because it was not  Polybius, The Histories, xx.  Livy, History of  Rome, 1.32–33.

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concluded with the sanction of   the Senate and at the command of   the people. As a  result, a  second, new treaty that had official approval was concluded. If  you are not bound by your treaties unless they are struck with your authority, and at your command, then Hasdrubal’s treaty, which he concluded unbeknownst to us, could not bind us, either. 77

We already saw that pretexts would be used to back up war declarations. A popular pretext for war was to give assistance to an ally who had been wronged. It is interesting that contemporary authors sometimes pointed to the gap between the published reason for war and the genuine motive. Dionysius underlines this discrepancy in his description of   the pretext that was used to begin the Third Samnite War: ‘The undisclosed reason and the one which was more cogent  […] was the power of   that nation [the Samnites], which had already become great, and promised to become greater still’. 78 The complaints were not restricted to specific wars, but are easy to find because of   the intrinsic aggression of  Roman warfare in the Republican period. As for the wars of   conquest in the Late Republic, writers were ambivalent about the wealth that conquest had brought, just like their predecessors – we shall come back to this in a later section – but on the whole they did not treat these wars as ‘unjust’. 3.1.3. The Legitimacy Theme: Civil War in Various Genres For Romans in this period, civil war was still an issue in the war discourse. Although the civil wars were just over, they were still very much part of   the collective memory, and had even become a  focus of   the Augustan obsession with restoration of   order. Also, the civil war discourse reflected the Augustan idea of   degradation of   society from a  grand but now distant past, an idea that was already expressed during the Republic by authors like Polybius and Sallust. In  this section, we will look at the most important representations in philosophy, historiography and literature.  Livy, History of  Rome, 21.18.  Dionysius, Roman Antiquities, 3.16.12.

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The seeds of   civil conflict were sown by excessive wealth and good fortune in the Late Republic. In the Augustan period, this idea, adopted from earlier authors, had become received wisdom. The historian Velleius Paterculus believed that problems started after Carthage had been defeated; at that point, Romans had abandoned ‘the path of   virtue […] for that of   corruption’. 79 Or, in other words, ‘the first Scipio opened the way for the world power of   the Romans; the second opened the way for luxury’. 80 This idea of  a ‘turning point’ or ‘watershed’ in Roman history now became commonplace among historians, and was articulated in various forms of   the war discourse, not just in the context of   the civil wars but also of   supremacy and conquest, notably by Livy, as we shall see later. From our literary sources, we can single out Virgil and Horace as exemplary. In the Aeneid, Virgil anxiously voices premonitions of   civil war through the spirit of   Anchises in the Underworld: ‘No, my son, never inure yourselves in civil war’. 81 In  some of  his epodes, such as Epode 7, Horace looks back on the terrible things that happened: ‘A bitter fate pursues the Romans, and the crime of   fratricide since the blood of   Remus ran on the earth, the bane of   his successors’. 82 With this reference to Remus, the conflict is given a mythological dimension and is thus framed in a long tradition. War’s foil, peace, was an essential topic in the same discourse. Peace was welcomed by Augustan poets as a blessing. Peace (otium, in this context, rather than pax)  83 had often been seen as a threat, a form of   idleness or indolence that would eat away the nation’s virtus and ambition, such as in some of   the poems of   Catullus  Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.1.1.  Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.1.1. 81 Virgil, Aeneid, 6.957–58. 82 Horace, Epodes, 7.17–20. 83 Like tranquillitas and concordia, otium and pax were concepts with positive connotations, and were frequently used in contemporary discourse. They denoted the absence of   strife. Otium had the additional meaning of   leisure and inactivity and was principally concerned with domestic affairs, whereas pax was traditionally perceived as the positive outcome of   entreaties to the gods for the good of   the state (pax deorum), and later transferred from human relations to interstate relations, particularly in the context of   foreign war (Cornwell 2017, p. 26–28). 79 80

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and, later, Juvenal (‘now the ills of   long peace afflict us’). 84 But peace now brought order and happiness, and the simple life: He lives well on a little whose family Salt-cellar shines amid a modest Table, whose gentle sleep is not dispelled By fear or base greed. 85

Virgil’s Georgics are filled with love of  Italy and a longing for peace. The narrator laments ‘so many wars throughout the world … the fields going to waste in the farmer’s absence’. 86 The same yearning for peace is evoked in the Fourth Eclogue. And Augustus explicitly included ‘putting out the civil war’ among his achievements in the Res Gestae. 87 Superficially, the restoration of   stability, as represented in peace and Concordia, was a source of   complacency, but the prominence of   this theme in the discourse also suggests a  concealed fear that peace could not be taken for granted, and, as John Lobur argues, remained ‘a potent argument for the continuation of  the regime’. 88 Before we conclude the legitimacy theme, a few observations could be made on a dimension which has become a new convention among today’s war historians but is  practically absent in ancient history: the perspective of  the common soldier. Whether wars are ancient or modern, the suffering of   soldiers remains. Although this ‘pity of   war’ was not a  very common feature in Rome’s war discourse, it could sometimes be heard. Virgil sometimes touches upon the anguish of   war, as in the fight between Latins and Trojans in Book 10 of  the Aeneid: Ruthless Mars Was drawing the battle out, dead even now, Equaling out the grief, the mutual slaughter. Victors and victims killing, killed in turn: Both sides locked, not a thought of  flight, not here. The gods in the halls of  Jove are filled with pity,

 Juvenal, Satires, 6.292.  Horace, Odes, 2.16. 86  Virgil, Georgics, i.505–7. 87 Augustus, Res Gestae, 34. 88  Lobur 2008, p. 94. 84 85

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Feeling the futile rage of  both great armies, Mourning the labors borne by mortal men … Here Venus, over against her, Juno gazing down, As Tisiphone seethes amid the milling thousands, That livid, lethal Fury. 89

And, in a moving poetic fragment, Propertius lets a dead soldier speak to a  wounded comrade-in-arms. Both in content and in spirit we are now far removed from the Roman war discourse as we have seen it: You who hurry to avoid a kindred fate, wounded soldier from the Etruscan lines, why at my groan do you roll those bulging eyes? I am your closest fellow-campaigner. So may your parents celebrate your safe return; Let your sister learn what happened from your tears: That I, Gallus, rescued from the midst of  Caesar’s swords, Failed to escape from hands unknown; And of  all the scattered bones she finds on Etruscan hills, Let her know that these are mine. 90

3.1.4. The Legitimacy Theme: Conclusion During the Augustan Age the legitimacy theme became infused with the destiny discourse. The traditional motivations to wage war – religious, legal, philosophical – were carried over from the Republic, but the destiny discourse was a new rhetorical device. It built on the foundation myths established during the Republic to serve the increasingly affluent elite. But the destiny discourse now became directed towards the greatness of  the city, the accomplishment of   the warlord-turned-princeps. In the Republic, legitimacy had been sought in Rome’s ‘invented’ pedigree, which aimed to give status to a young upstart city, but this looking backward was redirected to the present and, by implication, the future. In the ‘destiny’ discourse, two patterns emerge: first of   all, Rome’s rise to greatness was overseen and sanctioned by the gods; secondly, it was ‘earned’ in a cyclical process described by Livy, in  Virgil, Aeneid, 10.892–901.  Propertius, Poems, 1.21.1–10.

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which exemplary Romans had been the driving forces of   recovery after fall, all due to their upright moral conduct. These two patterns are related, in that, to some extent, the blessings of   fate could be seen as a reward for virtue. As for the civil war discourse, there is, again, continuity and change. Republican sources had already pointed to the seeds of   civil war in the excessive wealth and good fortune of  the Late Republic, and this idea of  a ‘turning point’ was picked up by an Augustan writer like Velleius. The idea of   ‘degradation’ in history, conceived in the Late Republic, was combined with the new idea of   ‘restoration of   order’ by Augustus, which had not just put an end to the chaos of   the civil wars but also to the laxity of   morals. Finally, there was a new spirit of   nostalgia, a yearning for the mythical Golden Age of   peace and stability. It  was a  metaphorical translation of   the period of   Gold that preceded the period of   Iron in a  perennial cyclical pattern.

3.2. The Theme of  Loyalty 3.2.1. Loyalty and patria As a virtue, loyalty to the fatherland had been part of  the Republican war discourse. In  the period of   Empire, patria came to be represented by the emperor, 91 and the identification of   emperor with Empire gave patriotism a strong boost. This took off  in the Principate, when, by invoking patriotism, Augustus succeeded in putting an end to internal discord and opposition. 92 It was part of   the Augustan program to ‘heal’ Roman society by renewal of   religion and custom, by demonstrating pietas or respect for tradition. The emperor became a strong symbol and also a unifying force in a  heterogeneous realm that had long ago expanded beyond the city limits. By extending citizenship to so many provincials, the Roman authorities generated loyalty to Rome. As Anthony Everett puts it, ‘it made people feel that they were not victims of   the Empire, but its stakeholders. They were members

  Eder 2005, p. 32.   Eder 2005, p. 32.

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of   an imperial community’. 93 This idea of   loyalty, of   being part of   the Pax Romana, was a  natural consequence of   the fact that most ordinary people benefited from the existence of  the Empire and the ‘Romanization’ of  the upper classes. 94 Although this is not the place to go into it too deeply, it should be added that the term ‘Romanization’ has become somewhat controversial these days. In  this study I do not intend to use ‘Romanization’ in its traditional sense of  the spreading of  Roman civilization through the Roman Empire, an idea first championed by Francis Haverfield back in 1912. It has currently found disfavor among scholars, who try to come to grips with a much more complex process that involved interaction of   different cultures and great regional variation. This is why alternative models focus on acculturation (two-way traffic), 95 on regional processes that cannot easily be translated into general trends, 96 or what today is called ‘globalization’. This is what Richard Hingley has aimed to do in his Globalizing Roman Culture. Hingley argues that Roman culture was not brought to conquered lands but freely adopted by local elites because there was a premium on education and speaking Latin for them since they were eager to advance in the world. 97 I do not follow Hingley’s recommendation to drop the term ‘Romanization’ altogether because of   its old, Romanocentric bias, but instead will use it to refer to a two-way process of  acculturation that took place during the imperial period. Also, in the present context we are more interested in the Roman perspective as such and though, of   course, the term ‘Romanization’ was not minted yet, the Romans did have a  Romanocentric view. They obviously did not regard cultural interaction as a  process between equal partners. There is little ancient theory on the matter, but we have the philosopher Themistius commenting that the Empire was the supreme parent, not just to all Romans, but to all mankind. It was an imperial duty, therefore, to educate all     95   96  97  93 94

Everett 2006, p. 326–27. Goldsworthy 2007c, p. 145. Webster 2001, p. 209–25. MacMullen 2008; Woolf  1998; Mattingly 2008, p. 5–26. Hingley 2005, p. 50.

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men and lead all barbarians into civilization, and to permanent peace and order, and phrased by Aeneas in Virgil’s Aeneid: To them [the Romans] no bounds of  empire I assign, Nor term of  years to their immortal line Even haughty Juno, who with endless broils, Earth, seas, and heaven, and Jove himself  turmoils; At length atoned, her friendly power shall join To cherish and advance the Trojan line. The subject world shall Rome’s dominion own, And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of  the gown. 98

This lofty interpretation of   Rome’s imperialist mission found few supporters, it must be admitted. 99 I think it can be argued, however, that the views on conquest and empire that we find expressed in this chapter can best be related to the patron-client principle that governed Roman society. Once foreign ‘kings’ had been subdued, they became clients with rights and responsibilities of   clientela, at least in principle. In the course of   time, i.e, in the periods of   Principate and Early Empire, with Rome reaching the zenith of   its power, the rights and obligations of   its new ‘allies’ were in practice ‘entirely defined and interpreted by Rome’. 100 Returning to the patria discourse, we can see that, for the common soldier, loyalty to the emperor was confirmed in the oath – the emperor was the symbol of   the nation’s father that the soldier could identify with. Campbell gives an example from a letter of   a recruit in Egypt, who applied for service in an auxiliary cohort so that he would be able ‘to serve under the standards of   the Emperor, our Lord’. 101 Like Augustus himself, many later emperors accompanied their armies on campaigns and it was not uncommon for them to personally lead the troops on the battlefield. Emperors on campaign – later emperors like Hadrian, Caracalla and Julian are famous examples – sometimes took great pain to join their soldiers and share their hardships. It greatly enhanced morale and the sense of  patriotism. The bond between father and son runs parallel to that other hierarchy, that of  patron and client,  Virgil, Aeneid, 1.294–301.   Burns 2009, p. 348. 100  Badian 1984, p. 113–14. 101  Campbell 2002, p. 41–42. 98 99

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which is also seen in the relationship between emperor and army, between general and soldiers. Loyalty to the state showed itself  as patriotism, and was encouraged in the great tradition of   tales and myths that illustrated Roman courage and resolution in adverse situations. The sacking of  Rome in 390 bc that followed a Gallic invasion is one such event. It  was felt to be a  national catastrophe and it made a deep and lasting impression on the people. The sack of   Rome was more important for Rome’s collective memory and as a rallying cry than as a disaster by itself. Most modern scholars believe its devastation must have been limited; at any rate, the Romans were able to restore their city to its former strength in a  short period of   time. 102 But for ancient historians like Livy, the event was momentous. After the invasion of   the Gauls, it was the legendary general and dictator Camillus who infused the Roman population with a patriotic spirit. Camillus had already done so after the Roman conquest of   Veii a  few years before, when he opposed the idea of   merging Veii and Rome into a single polity. ‘No force in the world will ever drive us to leave our homes and friends’, Camillus’ supporters cried out, 103 in Livy’s version of  the story. Here, Livy clearly projects later political and social turmoil (the Gracchi reforms) back to the Early Republic. One can see a rhetoric of  patriotism developing here, or perhaps chauvinism, with its love of   home and patria, the Roman fatherland. When Camillus was recalled from exile to defend Rome against the barbarians, he addressed the people in the following words that Livy gives him, and we see Livy’s patriotism at work: ‘In my absence, I thought of  my country, what I saw in my mind’s eyes were these hills and plains, the Tiber and this beloved countryside, and the familiar sky under which I was born and bred’. 104 It  is  interesting that words like ‘my country’ and the nostalgic feelings expressed give the episode a strong flavour of   patriotism. Of  course, the whole of  Livy’s History can be seen as one patriotic text – there is no attempt at impartiality and Livy unashamedly calls the Romans ‘the greatest people on earth’, not as a qualifier   McGeough 2004, p. 61.  Livy, History of  Rome, 5.24. 104 Livy, History of  Rome, 5.54. 102 103

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in an aside, but as a  factual statement to describe an encounter between diplomats. 105 The chauvinism here displayed is part of  the book’s ulterior motive: to tell the reader about Rome’s glorious past. In the Preface, Livy speaks of   Rome as ‘the greatest nation in the world’ and claims that its military success had been such that it could legitimately claim to have Mars as its ancestor. 106 It could be argued that the patria discourse was practically ‘reinvented’ in the Augustan period. In literature, we find various expressions of   forms of   patriotism, and we can trace its development into the Christian era. In Virgil’s Aeneid, the idea of   serving the fatherland stands out as Aeneas’ destiny to undertake his mission, as we have seen, but it is also his duty to his patria-to-be. In Carthage, Aeneas is reminded by Mercury, the messenger sent by Jupiter, that his mission is in Italy, not in Carthage: ‘You owe him Italy’s realm, the land of   Rome!’ 107 After giving up Q ueen Dido and sailing for Italy, Aeneas is  pius once again and he is now ‘driven by duty’. 108 Aeneas’ pietas is the future Roman ideal, a  mythical foreshadowing of   Rome’s profound sense of   loyalty to the fatherland. Devotion to the fatherland can be found in other poetry as well. Propertius writes his poem ‘To Tullus in praise of   Italy’ to celebrate the glories of  the Roman land: ‘’Fitter for war than friend of   felony this land  / Fame is  not ashamed of   Roman history  / For strong we stand through duty no less than by steel / In victory our anger stays its hand’. 109 Of  course, the poet has ambivalent views on these things, as we shall see below, and in another poem, ‘Letter to a husband at the front’, there is not a lot of   patriotism left. The wife tells her husband: ‘Please do not overrate the glory of   Bactra scaled  / Or finest linen looted from some perfumed chief’. The only thing that matters to her is  that her husband returns home safely. 110 There is  no ambivalence in Horace’s Ode 3.2 (Angustam Amice), perhaps the most patriotic verse of  all. It focuses on obe Livy, History of  Rome, 42.39.  Livy, History of  Rome, 1.1. 107  Virgil, Aeneid, 4.343. 108 Virgil, Aeneid, 4.495. 109 Propertius, Poems, 3.22. 110 Propertius, Poems, 4.3. 105 106

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dience, military bravery, and the virtue of   fortitude that allows a young soldier to die for his country. The passage on the brave soldier’s fortitude (and the coward’s disgrace) has become famous and has often been quoted: It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country And death harries even the man who flees Nor spares he hamstrings or cowardly Backs of  battle-shy youths. 111

The first line, ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori’, received an ironic twist when the British war poet Wilfred Owen used it as the last line in his famous anti-war poem ‘Dulce et decorum est’. It graphically describes the horrors of   the trench warfare of  World War I and effectively eliminates the lofty patriotism of  Horace’s poem. In the most general sense, loyalty to the fatherland was most effectively propagated through coins, since coins reached the largest number of   people, civilians and soldiers alike, and had long combined the function of   legal tender with that of   emotional appeal. Once again, we can see an identification of   the nation’s ruler with the state as a whole. Augustan coins transmitted varying aspects of  the new ruler’s ideology, some of  which (like victory and conquest) we shall turn to in the relevant sections below. 112 What is interesting here is the new imagery that was developed after Augustus had become sole ruler. These changes followed developments in the years of  civil wars, when attempts were made to identify personal and individual values of   the triumvirs with those of   the res publica. For the patria discourse, it is Augustus’ interest in family ties and kinship that is meaningful. As Olivier Hekster has pointed out, it served to establish a  direct lineage  Horace, Odes, 3.2.13–16.   Carlos Noreña has made a quantitative analysis of   the imperial ideology on coins. Personified virtues, like Piety, Fairness and Generosity were given specific emphasis under different emperors and correlated with the citations of   specific virtues in panegyric and biography (Noreña 2001, p. 153). In the Late Republic, helmeted Romas and heads of   Virtus made their appearance (Welch 2006, p. 531). On these coins, the message was military success, with Victory very often as its symbol. Victoria – or the victorious emperor surrounded by a  wreath of  laurels – was standing or seated, very often with a captive at her feet (Lee 2007a, p. 391–99). 111 112

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with Rome’s famed ancestry (and, at the same time, to create a  dynasty). Augustus’ patria was, quite literally, the land of   the fathers. But the imagery on the coins conveyed multiple messages that all served to confirm his power and to invoke loyalty. 113 Coins showed the imperial head on the obverse, and ‘supplementary’ images of   his power and glory on the reverse. The latter include his personal badges (sphinx or Capricorn), symbols of   public honor (oak wreath, laurels) or personal; deities (first Apollo, later abstract goddesses like Concordia). In the context of  patria, what is essential is that both sides of   the coin signalled that authority had now been monopolized. 114 This is how the propagated loyalty to the state became identical with loyalty to the emperor. 3.2.2. Loyalty and virtus and disciplina Seen from another, more strictly military perspective, loyalty to patria and emperor depended on the soldiers’ qualities of   virtus and disciplina, features familiar from earlier chapters. The following paragraphs will elaborate on the development of   the virtus and disciplina discourse during the Augustan era, both in historiography and in literature. 3.2.2.1. Virtus in Historiography

In the virtus discourse, contemporary historians cite the celebrated examples of   Roman valor to underline the intrinsic superiority of   their countrymen. We find Roman historiographers taking great pains to point to Roman greatness in past days, in a rhetoric of   virtus, both to create a link with the time of   writing and, occasionally, to emphasize the gap between the fighting spirit of   past and present, whether implicit or explicit. Also, the discrepancy concerned ordinary soldiers and their commanders alike. In  the (near) contemporary context, Velleius’ scathing comments on the lack of   virtus in Antony at Actium is  telling: ‘The soldiers had played the part of   the good commander while the commander had played the role of  cowardly soldier’. 115   Phang 2008, p. 194.   Wallace-Hadrill 1986, p. 85; p. 77. 115 Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.85.5. 113 114

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Another butt of   criticism, Varus, the Roman commander at Teutoburg in ad 9, was held responsible for the Roman defeat: ‘An army unexcelled in bravery, the first of  Roman armies in discipline, in energy, and in experience in the field, through negligence of   its general, the perfidy of   the enemy and the unkindness of  fortune was surrounded’. 116 On the other hand, Velleius held up Tiberius as a paragon of  virtus. When, in 9 bc, Tiberius replaced Drusus in Germany when the latter had died in a riding accident, he carried on the war ‘with his usual courage and success, and after passing victoriously through every part of  Germany without any loss to the army in his charge, […] he thoroughly conquered it as to reduce it to the status of  a virtually tributary province’. 117 When Roman historians of   the time turned to the more distant past, they found fitting examples of   virtus to hold up to a contemporary audience: the old single-combat culture (‘monomachy’), and the devotio, both of   which were idealized versions of  battle practice. They were usually based on Republican sources like Ennius and Fabius Pictor, who had followed Greek examples. The stories were suitably adapted to suit the new, Augustan vision. In Greece, single-combat tales had their own tradition, but Rome’s ‘monomachy’ had a  longer breath. 118 The formal duel is an example. It is reminiscent of  the Greek ‘Battle of  the Champions’, in which each of   the opposing armies was represented by a number of   its bravest warriors. In Roman legend as given to us by Livy, the Romans and the Albans fought each other in one such prehistoric, heroic battle. The two rival commanders proposed to have ‘three fight against three’, the outcome being decisive for the encounter. After the proposal was accepted, time and place were arranged and the contest began. 119 Unlike their Greek role models, these heroes were not presented as seeking personal glory but as trying to serve the common good – they were, so to speak, prepared to die for Rome. In this way, Livy managed to accommodate the old tale into a new ‘patria’ context.  Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.119.2.  Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.97. 118  Oakley 1985, p. 399. 119 Livy, History of  Rome, 1.24–25. 116 117

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Another residue of   the primitive heroic code was the devotio, in which a brave warrior pledged to sacrifice himself  to the gods in return for victory, usually in the face of   a  massive, superior enemy force. The devotio was an act of   defiance, of   ultimate virtus in a very public fashion, and it brought lasting renown. Acts of  devotio were known in ancient Greece, as we have seen, and they also became part of  Roman legend and Rome’s collective memory. The best known was that by father and son Decius Mus, the Decii devotiones. During the last war with the Samnites, in 295  bc, Publius Decius Mus, one of   the consuls, ‘spurred his charger against the Gallic lines, where he saw that they were thickest, and hurling himself  against the weapons of  the enemy met his death’, in Livy’s rendering. 120 It was a devotio in which he followed in his father’s footsteps. The elder Decius had pulled off  a similar feat during battle against the Latin rebels in 340 bc. The devotiones of   the Decii had become a topos in Roman history in Republican days. Ennius mentions the younger Decius’ act as a  religious ritual, with full regard for the conventions of   ritual language. 121 In Livy’s Augustan hands, the ritualistic act of   self-denial, is transformed into a celebration of   an individual act of   bravery. 122 Decius Mus is given a personal voice and a selfconsciousness that is lacking in the annalistic version. 123 A similar adaptation of   Roman legend was Livy’s retelling of   Horatius’ famous act of   bravado. The notorious Horatius Cocles stood on a  bridge over the Tiber River, confronting an Etruscan army at the time of   the early Republic (c. 500), challenging each and all to single combat. The Etruscans declined, however, and stepped forward to cross the bridge, which subsequently crashed. The Etruscan advance was checked while Horatius swam to safety. 124 Although Livy (like other historians) was sceptical about the incredible details of   the story, he used it to underline the role  Livy, History of  Rome, 10.28.  Ennius, Annals, 6.13 (191–93); Fisher 2014, p. 114 & ff. 122 Livy, History of  Rome, 8.9. 123  As a topos, self-sacrifice was not restricted to the well-known Decii devotiones. To use a  literary example, Virgil employed ‘self-sacrifice’ as a  narrative ploy to end the Aeneid, with Turnus preparing to sacrifice himself. Here, the death of  the great opponent enabled the founding of  Rome. 124 Livy, History of  Rome, 2.10. 120 121

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of  perseverance and virtus in dire circumstances. The actual defeat of   the Etruscans remains the context, of   course, but the soldier showing his mettle is the crux. 3.2.2.2. Disciplina in Historiography

During and after the Augustan period, the army became a world unto itself, separate from the rest of   society, with a sharp dividing line between soldiers and civilians. From funerary inscriptions we know that soldiers were very conscious of   their different status. The distinct social role of   the soldiery made it stand out in the epigraphic record, so that we know more about the military than about any other group of  professionals. 125 All this is in sharp contrast with the old days of   the early Republic, when soldiers and farmers were one and the same group. Most of   the men that enlisted now were from the lower classes and were looked down upon by the elite. In the upper-class view, soldiers were potentially dangerous, low-life characters who should not be allowed to rise above their station. 126 In a context like this, the relation between army and the ruling class became problematic: the army came to be looked at with suspicion, and had by now become a world all by itself. The loyalty of   the soldier tended to be to his legion and his comrades-in-arms rather than to the Roman state or the city of   Rome, even though state and emperor, through imagery on coins for instance, never went beyond the horizon. These changing conditions, as well as the civil wars of   the recent past, made disciplina a highly esteemed virtue. Of  course, when Livy alluded to the discipline of  Rome’s Republican armies, he was taking part in an established discourse, and basically continued along the lines that were laid out by Polybius in the Mid Republic, but now disciplina was an ideal, not an object of  impassive analysis. For example, Livy made special mention of  the consul Claudius Nero’s levy of   troops against the incursions made by Hasdrubal’s Car­thaginian army in 207  bc. It  was noted for its self-restraint. The ‘Defenders of   the Res Publica’, as they were called, showed a discipline that was ‘impressive’, perhaps too good to be true, for ‘they would not take anything beyond their meals.   Alston 2007, p. 192.   Campbell 2002, p. 33.

125 126

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There was no dawdling, no stopping and breaking formation to eat’. 127 More than ever, army discipline depended on the competence of   the general. Generals who were held in low esteem by their men could not be successful in battle, even if  they were competent in the field. In our sources, this idea had become pervasive, with exempla from days long past. Livy, for example, says of   Marcus Fabius that ‘he had more trouble with his own men than with the enemy’. 128 In another example, Livy explains how the total chaos that Appius Claudius encountered in his role as new commander in the war with Volscians and Aequians (5th century bc) was turned around with great difficulty. Appius ordered the men to line up, and ‘he then asked them individually where their weapons were, or their standards, as the case might be, and gave orders that every soldier who had lost his equipment, every standard-bearer who had lost his standard, every centurion, too, and distinguished-service man who had abandoned his post, should be first flogged and then beheaded. The remainder were decimated’. 129 As usual, the exempla were selected to show contemporary Romans desired behavior at a time when this could not be taken for granted, or so it seemed. 130 And virtues were contrasted with vices, such as the famed pair of  duty and idleness. In the discourse, idleness was one of   the great vices to be avoided at all costs. Long peace was therefore eyed with suspicion: it made soldiers lax. In  one of   his odes, Horace looked forward to the war with Parthia – it would restore old Roman military virtues: ‘Let the robust youth learn patiently to endure pinching want in the active exercise of  arms; and as an expert horseman, dreadful for his spear, let him harass the fierce Parthians; and let him lead a life exposed to the open air, and familiar with dangers’. 131 Velleius even suggests that Augustus undertook his military campaigns in Illyricum  Livy, History of  Rome, 27.45.  Livy, History of  Rome, 2.44. 129 Livy, History of  Rome, 2.60. 130  Jane Chaplin even calls this use of   exempla ‘a programmatic statement’, ‘a call to action’ (Chaplin 2000, p. 4). 131 Horace, Odes, 3.2.1–6. 127 128

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and Dalmatia ‘lest that thing most inimical to discipline, leisure, should corrupt the army’. 132 3.2.2.3. Virtus in Literature

In the treatment of   the virtus theme in Roman literature, a number of  different strands can be discerned. Virtus is a distinct motif  running through the Aeneid, and is dominant in the second half, the part that corresponds most with the Iliad. The heroism of  battle has strong echoes of  Homer, with its interest in the beauty of   war (‘squadrons gleaming bronze’) 133 and the magnificence of   Aeneas’ opponent Turnus (‘Triple-plumed, his high helmet raises up a Chimaera with all the fires of   Etna blasting from his throat and roaring all the more, its soaring flames more deadly the more blood flows and the battle grows more fierce’). 134 It is  Mars himself  who injects the Latins with the spirit of  war. Several passages in the Aeneid show the warriors’ keenness to engage in battle, a  lust for war. In  Book 9, for example, the Trojans are attacked by Turnus’ Rutuli, and two Trojan warriors, Nisus and Euryalus, go out on a raid. Even if  the poetic rendering is clearly Homeric, the rage and bloodlust of   the Romans-to-be is part of  Virgil’s new, invented tradition: Now out they go, Crossing the trench and threading through the dark, Heading toward the enemy camp, destined to die But make a bloodbath first. Bodies everywhere – They can see them stretched in the grasses, sunk In a drunken stupor, chariot poles tipped up on shore, Bodies of  fighters trapped in the wheels and harness, Weapons and winecups too are strewn about … […] Nisus, wild as a starved lion Raging through crowded pens as the hunger drives him mad, And he mangles sheep, dumb with terror, rips to shreds Their tender flesh and roars from bloody jaws. […]

 Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.78.2.  Virgil, Aeneid, 7.934. 134 Virgil, Aeneid, 7.910–13. 132 133

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The Rutulians reel, looking about, but now Nisus, All the bolder, watch, cocking another spear Beside his ear as the enemy panics – hurls and The shaft goes hissing right through Tagus’ brow, Splitting it, sticking deep in the man’s warm brains. Volcens burns with fury, stymied – where can he find The one who threw it? Where can he aim his rage?  135

In Book 10, the Etruscan king Mezentius kills one Trojan champion after another, but in the end he is no match for Aeneas, and in Book 12, Turnus sends a challenge to Aeneas to fight him man to man, in the Homeric tradition. Even if  there are two ‘voices’ in the Aeneid, as said before, the lasting impression when the poem ends is Aeneas’ triumph over Turnus: Aeneas, ‘flaring up in fury, terrible, in his rage  […] blazing with wrath, […]  plants his iron sword hilt deep in his enemy’s heart’. 136 Right from the start (‘Arms and a man I sing’) we know that the Aeneid is a war poem, and right from the start the story mixes Homeric conventions of   epic warfare with the civil wars of   the Republic and their memories in contemporary Roman literature. Virgil’s war poem had an impact on his contemporaries, such as Ovid, who transformed Virgilian battle scenes such as Perseus’ encounter with Phineus and his forces from a  description of   butchery and carnage into a tale of   metamorphosis, since the defeated warriors turn into a gallery of  statues. 137 In most other Augustan literature, plain manly valor, or the virtue of   fortitude (fortitudo) as it was sometimes called, is  celebrated as well, as in the Horatian odes, but often coupled with a  nostalgic longing for the old days, in a  tone that is  lamenting the waning of   military fervor. The following fragment from Horace’s Ode 3.6 (Delicta Maiorum) is a classic example: Degeneration of  Romans – loss of  warrior spirit: The generation that dyed the Punic Sea with blood and laid low Pyrrhus, Antiochus and Hannibal was not born  Virgil, Aeneid, 9.365–485.  Virgil, Aeneid, 12.1104–10. 137  Keith 2002, p. 120. 135 136

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Of  parents such as these, But of  manly comrades, yeoman soldiers Taught to turn the soil with Sabine hoes And carry cut firewood at a strict Mother’s bidding when the Sun Advanced the shadows of  the hills And lifted the yokes from weary steers, His departing chariot leading in The hours of  comfort. What does corrupting time not diminish? Our grandparents brought forth feebler heirs; We are further degenerate; and soon will beget Progeny yet more wicked. 138

Some poets, like Propertius and Tibullus, translated the virtus concept into private, sometimes amorous contexts, as they did with other subject matter such as the conquest theme. In one of  his elegies, Tibullus gladly renounces the soldier’s life for love, scorning both ‘wealth and want’, he says, ‘the toils and triumphs unto glory’; his persona prefers his own love’s campaign: I am a soldier and a captain good / In love’s campaign, and calmly yield / To all who hunger after wounds and blood  / War’s trumpet-­ echoing field’. 139 This is not the place to go into the literary merits of  the militia amoris convention. It suffices to say that, today, this debunking of  virtus is no longer seen as an attempt at escapism of  unwilling warriors. Hans-Peter Stahl, for instance, believes that Propertius’ ambivalence and seeming disrespect for authority can be taken to be ‘a cheeky expression of   devotion of   a court clown who knows that a  contiguous panegyric tone is  not expected from his lips’. 140 And Duncan Cloud has convincingly argued that Tibullus was an unlikely anti-militarist since he served in the army and was awarded the militaria dona for his valor in the Aquitanian War. 141

 Horace, Odes, 3.6.33–48.  Tibullus, The Elegies, 1.1. 140  Stahl 1985, p. 193–94. 141  Cloud 1995, p. 115–16. 138 139

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3.2.2.4. The Loyalty Theme: Conclusion

‘Patria’, ‘virtus’, and ‘disciplina’, the three main discourse features in this theme, were all three continuations from earlier periods. To start with ‘patria’, it can be concluded that devotion to the fatherland obtained a few new characteristics in the Principate. ‘Patria’ and the emperor have now become one and the same, so that the oath to the emperor gets a deeper meaning, also in the form of  a father-son relationship. It was made most visible in the form of   the emperor personally leading the troops. 142 ‘Patria’ is also extended on the basis of   the many new additions to the empire and the many new rulers who are now clients of  a mighty patron. The rhetoric of   patria employed at the time emphasizes the role of   loyalty to the res publica as part of   Rome’s collective memory: the idea was that, at critical moments in the past, such as the Gallic invasion of   390, the patriotic spirit had saved the day. In the virtus and disciplina discourse, the old dichotomy reappears: there is a gap between theory and practice, especially when it comes to discipline, and there is a gap between the good old days and the present. At the same time, there are changes. Discipline, in a professional standing army, is less limited to civic duty and more to the army unit, the individual soldier’s comrades and his loyalty to his general. Seen from another angle, this change resulted from the decline of  the military status with soldiers enlisted from foreign lands and Roman lower classes. These changes are reflected in the discourse. In  our literary sources, virtus and disciplina get a wide range of   treatments, from Homeric heroic (Virgil) to nostalgic (Horace) – and even aesthetic withdrawal (Tibullus). For Augustan poets, virtus and disciplina stand for the army as such, which now has become a  world all in itself, with values not necessarily shared by the cultural elite, or that at least could be used as suitable topics for poets to display their ingenuity.

142  In the case of    Augustus this is  somewhat ironic, since he preferred to delegate his military command to Agrippa and other relatives.

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3.3. The Theme of  Supremacy The third and last theme, supremacy, encompasses a variety of war discourses that are, again, related to Rome’s success in warfare: the superiority discourse, which addresses the issue of   Rome’s superiority over other peoples; the victory discourse, which celebrates (and sometimes questions) Rome’s great military achievements; and, last, the conquest discourse, which discusses the causes and effects of  the great imperial drive. In the sections below, I will go into these three aspects of  supremacy – superiority, victory and conquest – in some detail, focusing on the war discourse of   the Augustan Age. 3.3.1. Supremacy and Roman Superiority: Historiography In the previous chapter, the superiority discourse revolved around Caesar’s distinction between Gauls and Germans. In this section, we will discuss Livy’s retrospective interest in the Car­thaginians and in Gallic-Roman confrontations; in the following chapter we will continue with Tacitus’ more contemporary treatment of  the Germans and conclude with some general observations on the Roman perception of  barbarians and warfare. It is in Livy that we find the first extensive historiographical treatment of  Rome’s enemies in the context of  its many wars, and the reinforcement of   their stereotypes as primitive brutes. The notorious Gallic disaster of   390  bc was a  traumatic experience, although there are reasons to believe that the extent of  the damage done by the Gauls was exaggerated in the legends that were built later. In 225 bc the Gauls returned for more raids. 143 For Livy, the Gallic threat was a  moral tale: through their virtues (pietas, self-devotion, virtus and disciplina), the Romans could retake their city. And the Romans of   Livy’s day would regain their former strength by holding on to these ancient virtues. 144 It is interesting that in Livy the ‘fear factor’, which has often been associated with the Gallic incursions, does not play a major role. Among modern scholars, the psychological impact of   the metus Gallicus has given rise to serious scholarly debate. Heinz   Rosenberger 2003, p. 365.   Rosenberger 2003, p. 373.

143 144

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Bellen argued in his 1985 study that fear of   Gallic invasions became the great force behind Rome’s aggressive foreign policy, and the Bellen thesis has become widely accepted, especially in Germany. 145 Jörg Rüpke called the Allia Rome’s ‘historical psychosis’. 146 Taking a  different view, Jerzy Linderski has argued that fear of   the Gauls (or other enemies) was never a  motivating factor; instead, the Romans undertook wars from a position of  strength, when Rome was secure in its military position. 147 Veit Rosenberger has pointed to the lack of   contemporary evidence to support the Bellen thesis – what we are looking at is historical narrative from much later periods. 148 The Gallic threat can also be seen as a rhetorical ploy to legitimize Roman military power, as Paul Erdkamp has argued. It  was Polybius who presented the Gallic Wars as battles between civilization and barbarity. In this he followed Fabius Pictor, who placed earlier Hellenistic tales of  victory over the Galatians into a Roman context. 149 Also, in his exaggeration of  the Gallic threat, Polybius may have tried to smooth over the failure of  the Romans to defeat the Car­thaginians in Spain. 150 All this makes the fear factor somewhat unconvincing. Turning back to Livy’s treatment of  the Gauls, we find a common topos in the presumed lack of   stamina, of   bodily weakness, combined with the barbarian’s fondness of   physical pleasure and luxury, as well as a fundamental irrationality. Livy uses these characteristics when he discusses their late 4th century incursions: ‘They flamed into the uncontrollable anger which is characteristic of   their race and set forward, with terrible speed on the path to Rome’. 151 The Gauls of  the Mid Republic that Livy depicts are in all ways inferior to the Romans – that is, the Romans before they degenerated, of   course. In  the Roman discourse that is  extant, there is  a  primitive sort of   ‘wildness’ about them, as Martin

  Bellen 1985.   Rüpke 1990, p. 74. 147   Linderski 1995, p. 11. 148  Rosenberger 2003, p. 373. 149  Erdkamp 2003, p. 152. 150  Erdkamp 2009, p. 509. 151 Livy, History of  Rome, 5.38. 145 146

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Foulkes calls it, 152 which was manifest in their ‘insatiable appetite for blood’. 153 Finally, the Gauls had a poor record of   reliability. They were greatly distrusted, and a recurrent feature in the discourse is their presumed treachery. In Livy’s narrative of  the Second Punic War, for instance, Scipio the Elder was described as ‘wary of  the Gallic people because of   their many acts of   treachery’; he remembered ‘the recent duplicity of  the Boii’. 154 Earlier, Polybius had referred to the Celtic double-dealing with Rome and Hannibal. 155 Apparently, at the time of   writing, these images had become ‘received wisdom’. When Rome and Carthage confronted each other as regional powers, the Car­thaginians became Rome’s archetypal barbarians. After the disaster of   Cannae, the Car­thaginians and their allies, even though they had been Rome’s match, were made out to be true brutes. Livy gives Varro the following words in his address to the Campanians: ‘This is a Car­thaginian army, not even native to Africa, and [Hannibal] brings from the furthest limits of   the earth – from the waters of  the Ocean and the Pillars of  Hercules – soldiers who have no knowledge of   human law and civilization, and, one can almost say, of  human language. These men are bloodthirsty and brutish in their nature and customs, and their leader has further brutalized them by building bridges and dykes from piles of  human bodies and – one shudders even at the mention – by teaching them to feed on human flesh’. 156 The depiction of  the enemy, only to show Roman superiority, is not quite in line with Livy’s own description of   Carthage’s history and culture in his introduction to the narrative of   the First Punic War. This inconsistency only shows that the use of   clichés in these descriptions served rhetorical purposes. In Livy’s days, there was already a  tradition of   treating nonRomans with condescension. But at the same time, there was a marked appreciation of   the simple virtues they were supposed   Foulkes 1999, p. 74.  Livy, History of  Rome, 21.16. 154  Livy, History of  Rome, 21.52. 155 Polybius, The Histories, 3.69. 156 Livy, History of  Rome, 23.5. 152 153

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to cherish, like virility, family honor, simple dress, loyalty to leaders, and so on. These had been lost in Rome during its advance to civilization. 157 And these simple, uncouth adversaries could be tough opponents, like the Car­thaginians, with a clever leader, like Hannibal. Livy’s assessment of   Hannibal was mixed. He was cruel, treacherous, had no integrity whatsoever, and no fear of  the gods, as could be expected from a barbarian chief, but he was also courageous and resourceful, had great stamina and discipline, and was ‘by far the best soldier’ on horse and foot. 158 Of  course, even these qualities of   the great general remain ambiguous, since they made Roman superiority all the more impressive. For the Romans, just like for the Greeks, the Persians formed a special category. Roman sources usually include a series of  traditional clichés in their descriptions, which are all condescending: the Persians (as well as the Parthians) are soft, devious, unmerciful, and fond of   hunting, banqueting and excessive luxury. In  other words, the very same characteristics that can be found in the earlier Greek discourse. 159 Roman superiority includes the style of   combat. Livy even places the contrast in Rome’s early days, obviously as a rhetorical ploy to demonstrate that Rome had been superior right from the start. The Aequians, regional rivals in the fifth century bc, were ‘a tough crowd’, but avoided actions in the field, preferring quick raiding operations in small units, he suggests. 160 With so many clichés going round, descriptions tend to become syncretic. The result is that barbarian vices become interchangeable. For example, about the Parthians, Trogus says they are ‘proud, quarrelsome, faithless and insolent’;  161 the Germans, in Velleius’ treatment share that same faithlessness, for they are ‘extremely cunning, a race born for lying’. 162

  Burns 2009, p. 71; p. 134.  Livy, History of  Rome, 21.4. 159  Campbell 1995, p. 218. 160 Livy, History of  Rome, 3.3. 161  Marcus Junianus Justinus, Epitome of   the Philippic History of   Pompeius Trogus, 41.3. 162 Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.118.1. 157 158

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3.3.2. Supremacy and Roman Superiority: Other Sources In the period at hand, there is an interesting development in the representation of   defeated enemies, notably the Parthians, in the visual sources, notably in sculptures and on monuments. Aspects that are part of   Rome’s conquest and victory discourse will be discussed in special sections below, but what is  relevant here is the way in which the opponent is depicted. This is  exemplified by the Alpine trophy of   Augustus at La Turbie, commemorating the Roman campaigns in the Alps of  29–25 bc and 14 bc. There are two relief  panels on either side of   the inscription, featuring a trophy hung with arms and armor captured from the Alpine tribes subdued. Beneath both trophies we can see a pair of   barbarian captives, a man and a woman, the men having their hands tied behind their backs, and the women with their bound hands crossed in their laps. 163 Similarly, on an Augustan coin, a humbled Parthian is kneeling when handing back a  captured Roman standard. 164 And on Boscoreale Cup 1, Augustus receives the surrender of   barbarians and, with his right hand, makes the sign of   mercy (clementia). 165 Even in its details, the genre is full of   conventions, like the stereotypical ‘shaggy locks’ given to the captive, as on the Gemma Augustea. 166 However, the relations with the Parthians are indicative of  the changes in the discourse. Traditionally, the Parthians – like other enemies – were represented in poses of   subjugation, as Charles Brian Rose has said: they were painted or sculpted as fleeing the Roman army, as chained to a trophy, or as in the process of   dying. 167 In other words, the Parthian image, ubiquitous in monuments, coinage (and, to some extent, literature) was that of   the humbled savage. In  the course of   the Augustan period, this image was altered in favour of   a  more positive portrayal. On  coinage we see that the emphasis is  placed on what Rome   Ferris 2011, p. 189.   Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC I2 288; denarius, c.  19  bc (Campbell 1995, p. 127). 165  Kleiner 2006, p. 152. 166  Henig 1983, p. 156. 167  Rose 2005, p. 33. 163

164

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gained from Augustus’ conclusion of   the Parthian Wars: the return of   the standards and the rescue of   Roman hostages. Also, as a personification, Parthia is not represented as a female, which is remarkable, and even as a fairly tall figure, suggesting equality. 168 All this concurs with Benjamin Isaac’s conclusion that, in Roman sources, Parthians appear as redoubtable but distant enemies, and that the negative stereotypes the Romans adopted from the Greeks, were mostly attributed to other people that lived closer to them. 169 3.3.3. Supremacy and the Victory Discourse Victory and conquest are related concepts, of   course, but I think it is useful to treat them separately, since the victory discourse has greater symbolic power and also seems to carry its own weight, independently from the actual achievements and their consequences that are underlying. We shall first discuss victory, and treat the concept of   ‘conquest’ in a later section. With the military machine running ever since the early days, the victory theme had already developed and came to full bloom in the Late Republic. It was fully tied up with the successful completion of  military campaigns and the army commanders demanding the credit. When the Republic became Empire, victory came to be identified with the emperor. For emperors, victories were essential to validate their position. After all, wars were fought in their name and they were the living examples of   victorious heroes of   the past. It was in the Augustan Age that victory first gained its mystique surrounding res publica and emperor. The ruler’s victories ‘demonstrated his aptness for leadership’, so that victory perfectly fitted the ideology of  Augustus’ new order. 170 Victory had its own routine. In the context of  its time, Roman victory was relatively sophisticated, in spite of   the ruthlessness and aggression that characterized warfare. For Romans, victory in war was aiming for more than the ancient practice of   destroying   Rose 2005, p. 23.   Isaac 2004, p. 380. It should be added that Isaac addresses Roman-Parthian relations in general, not specifically the Augustan Age, and only uses written sources. 170  McCormick 1990, p. 13. 168 169

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the enemy by stealing his land, enslaving a large part of  the population, and taxing the rest. 171 These things did happen, but other aims prevailed. Victor and vanquished entered into a patron-client relationship, formalized in an alliance. This is why Augustus in his Res Gestae says: ‘I often waged war, civil and foreign, on the earth and on sea, in the whole wide world, and as victor I spared all the citizens who sought pardon. As for foreign nations, those which I was able to safely forgive, I  preferred to preserve them [rather than] to destroy’. 172 The key words here are ‘victor’ and ‘preserve’, which combine the joint aims of  victoria and pax. Pacification, then, the making of   peace (pax) was the result of  war (peace can only be obtained after war, Cicero had said  173) and to the Romans, today’s idea of   ‘peaceful coexistence’ with other nations would have been quite foreign. 174 The primary meaning of   pax was making a  pact after conquest. It  implied diplomatic activity that secured an agreement that was rhetorically and ideologically represented as advantageous to both parties, but that actually reinforced Rome’s supremacy. 175 The concept of   ‘peace’ had a  number of   different meanings. We have already mentioned this in our treatment of   the civil war discourse. It is worth looking at the interchange of  meanings in dealing with the concept of   pax, which is not related to civil warfare. After the civil wars, ‘peace’ became a  symbol of   civil harmony and concordia, and developed into a  true cult. An important symbolic representation of   peace was the ceremony of  the closing of   the doors of   the temple of   Janus. The doors were closed to signify peace in the realm. However, as Greg Woolf  has pointed out, although victories over foreign opponents may have been the occasions of   the ceremony, the ‘evocation of   civil harmony’ was an underlying motif. 176 It  was Augustus himself  who proudly recorded his achievement of   three closings of   the doors:

  Cowell 1956, p. 9.  Augustus, Res Gestae, 3. 173  Cicero, Philippics, 7.19. 174  Goldsworthy 2007b, p. 112–13. 175  Humphries 2007, p. 259. 176  Woolf  1995, p. 177. 171 172

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Our ancestors wanted Janus Q uirinus to be closed when throughout the all the rule of  the Roman people, by land and sea, peace had been secured through victory. Although before my birth it had been closed twice in all the recorded memory from the founding of  the city, the senate voted three times in my principate that it be closed. 177

Following Weinstock, Woolf  makes a  distinction between pax at home and pax abroad. The former depended on concordia, both between the orders and among the élite, and brought security in the domestic context. The other, foreign, version was connected with Rome’s civilizing mission, which spread humanitas over the newly conquered lands. 178 Both strands of   peace were united and identified by the concept of   ‘imperium’. This combined version constitutes the famous Pax Romana, a  strong ideological construct that historians have long used to refer to the long peace during the Principate. 179 3.3.3.1. Supremacy and Victory: Historiography

There are many ways of   looking at Roman success in war, as Brian Campbell has noted, with different factors contributing on different occasions, many of   which are not within the scope of  this study, such as resources, organization and manpower. 180 Ultimately, most modern authors agree that, first of   all, Rome’s success depended on psychological factors, such as the underlying ruthlessness and aggression that made a  powerful combination with determination and perseverance until total victory was achieved. Defeat in battle against the Romans often meant extermination or deportation of   all young men, and campaigns were conducted to achieve ‘the complete destruction of   the enemy’s ability to resist, and this included everyone who got in their way’. 181 The great tradition of   determined effort aimed at vic Augustus, Res Gestae, 13.   From a  distance, we can see this taking effect, with enormous implications. In contemporary discourse, this idea of  Rome’s civilizing mission is not very prominent, as we shall see. 179  Woolf  1995, p. 177–79. 180  Campbell 1995, p. 70. 181  Campbell 1995, p. 70. 177 178

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tory had resulted in a style of   war that pushed on until the end. Generals were not expected to engage in negotiations with the enemy, and peace treaties that did not make clear that Rome’s victory was total were taboo. 182 Among ancient authors, Rome’s aggressive reputation was long-established. 183 About Rome’s early conflicts with its neighbors, Livy says that Rome’s rival cities considered her ‘not so much as a  city as an armed camp’. 184 The practice of   pushing the war until the limit went back to Rome’s first expansion. ‘There is  no end but victory’, Appius Claudius tells the Roman people in a speech given by Livy, a wonderful expression of   the victory principle in the wars of  early Rome: To be worthy of   the Roman name and of   the valour of   your soldiers, you must look beyond the present campaign against Veii, and seek a reputation in the eyes of  the world which will stand you in good stead in other wars hereafter; what you do now will – believe me – make a  considerable difference to our future reputation: either our neighbours will think that no town which has succeeded in defending itself  against us for five minutes need have anything else to fear, or the terror of   the Roman name will be such that the world shall know that, once a Roman army has laid siege to a city, nothing will move it – not the rigours of  winter nor the weariness of   months and years – that it knows no end but victory and is ready, if  a swift and sudden stroke will not serve, to persevere till that victory is achieved. 185

  Goldsworthy 2007b, p. 96.   This does not mean that ancient authors invariably believed that victory, the agreed aim, could only be achieved through pushing on militarily. Augustus was seen to follow ‘a combination of  warfare, threats, the power of  his reputation, and occasionally his personal presence’ among the troops, to get what he wanted (Campbell 2002, p. 9). Thus, Pompeius Trogus wrote, that, in his dealings with the Parthians, Augustus achieved more through his grandeur of   his reputation than another commander through force of   arms’ (Pompeius Trogus, Justin, 42.5.10). In  later writers like Suetonius and Tacitus we find critical views on emperors who lack aggressive drive, as we shall see in the following chapter. Susan Mattern’s thesis of   ‘image building’ as a  key strategy, useful as an explanation of  Rome’s war drive, will be part of  that same discussion. 184 Livy, History of  Rome, 1.20. 185  Livy, History of  Rome, 5.6. 182 183

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With the victory over Veii, Rome’s most important rival in Etruria had been defeated, and the Roman commander Camillus returned to Rome for his triumph, which drew huge crowds. Simply because of   the length of   the war, Livy comments, ‘victory, when it came, seemed like a gift from heaven, and the joy it caused was beyond belief’. 186 Victory became a routine, expected and delivered, the chief  imperial virtue made public on representations and in displays, as we shall see. It  was the ultimate goal of   campaigns abroad for ambitious generals in nearly all periods of   Roman history. As a  feature of   Rome’s war culture it should perhaps not be seen as wholly irrational. Jeremy Black has pointed to the fact that the prestige that went with it also contributed to the keeping of   cohesion within the army, to the general political support within the empire, and also to respect from the out­sid­ers – in other words, it was a way to boost Rome’s public image. 187 This is  what we see in Velleius’ presentation of   Augustus’ return to Rome after the latter’s victory at Actium. He stresses the universality of   public acclaim, pointing to ‘the enthusiasm of  his reception by men of   all classes, ages and ranks and the magnificence of   his triumph and of   the spectacles he gave’. 188 But we see a new development here, for Velleius, admittedly an admirer of  Augustus, now makes the politically correct combination of  victory and pax, both domestically and abroad. The return to stability after the devastations of   civil war was the desired outcome of  Augustus’ civil war victories: There is nothing that man can desire from the gods, nothing that the gods can grant to a man, nothing that wish can conceive or good fortune can bring to pass, which Augustus on his return to the city did not bestow upon the republic, the Roman people and the world. […] The civil wars were ended after twenty years, foreign wars suppressed, peace restored, the frenzy of  arms everywhere lulled to rest. 189

 Livy, History of  Rome, 5.23.   Black 2009, p. 24. 188 Velleius, Roman History, 2.89.1. 189 Velleius, Roman History, 2.89.1–5. 186 187

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In describing foreign campaigns, some of   which he personally participated in as an army officer, Velleius makes other explicit links between victory and pax (‘the pacification of   the world by his victories’)  190 in places where he discusses the great conquests that Augustus achieved through his military success. We shall return to this in our discussion of   ‘conquest’ as a discourse feature. 3.3.3.2. Supremacy and Victory: Literature

In literature, the victory discourse presents itself  in different ways. First of   all, among poets that were part of   the Roman cultural elite and – often – of   the court coterie, victory was the perfect topos to acknowledge and reaffirm the special position of   the emperor, the symbol of   the empire and the patron of  the arts. At the same time, with its potential for satire, literature could give a  twist to the seriousness with which military victory was approached (and indeed had been since the Republican period). The emperor’s godlike attributes were given a poetic rendering ever since Ovid sang the praise of  the god and his son (Caesar and Augustus) in his Metamorphoses. 191 In a similar fashion, victories were celebrated by the nation’s poets in their victory odes. Horace wrote a number of   victory odes in the grand style, most of   them directly addressing Augustus, and celebrating his great victories in Spain and Gaul. Ode 4.4 lauds the victories of  Drusus, Augustus’ stepson (‘there is nothing that Claudian force may not perform’) and Ode 4.14 sings the praise of  victorious Tiberius: So with an all-out charge Claudius Destroyed the barbarians’ iron-clad columns: Mowing down van and rear, suffering No set-backs, the victor strewed the ground, Prevailing by your troops, your plan, and by Your gods. 192

 Velleius, Roman History, 2.89.5.  Ovid, Metamorphoses, xv.740–761. 192 Horace, Odes, 4.4.73–74 and 4.14.29–34. 190 191

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These two victory odes were commissioned, 193 and obviously make Horace very much ‘Augustus’ man’. We find the same happy celebration of   success in Horace’s Epistle 1.12: ‘But what of   Rome? Agrippa has increased her power in Spain, Tiberius in the East: Phraates, humbly bending on his knee, submits himself  to Caesar’s sovereignty; while golden Plenty from her teeming horn pours down on Italy abundant corn’. 194 In  his poems, Horace used many masks, however, as we saw earlier, and the changing tone and sensibility in his personae show us the poet’s craft just as much as his political sympathies. At the same time, sentiments expressed are no artificial literary constructs, but relate to a real world outside. In the same way we need to address Propertius’ political poems. He applauds Augustus’ victories (‘Even India bows her neck, Augustus, to your triumph  / And unexplored Arabia quakes before you’)  195 At the same time, Propertius also professes his greatest personal victory, which is victory in love (‘To me victory means more than Pathia conquered / Than booty, captive kings, triumphal chariot’)  196 But even if  we take the treatment of   the victory theme in poetry as a literary convention, its conspicuous presence is  relevant for our discussion here: apparently ‘victory’ was a ‘trending topic’ at the time. As in other subjects, Roman writers of  poetry and drama could offer down-to-earth versions of   lofty themes. Earlier, in his comedy Amphitryo, Plautus had given a  ludicrous version of   a  successful general coming back from the battlefield, and Propertius’ conversion of   military imagery into love poetry can also be seen in Ovid’s Amores. The persona is overwhelmed by the fire power of   love, surrenders unconditionally, and takes his place as a captive in Cupid’s triumphal procession. The role of   the lover as soldier, a  very common theme in the genre, is  now overturned, making the lover the defeated victim of  Cupid:  197

  Radice 1983, p. 32.  Horace, Epistles, 1.12. 195 Propertius, Poems, 2.10.15–16. 196 Propertius, Poems, 2.14.23–24. 197  Beard 2007, p.  113. In  Ovid’s Amores, the conceit of   the bed as battlefield is a literary product of   wit and ingenuity, rather than an exposé of   Roman 193 194

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A wreath for my brows, a wreath of  triumphal laurel! Victory – Corinna is here, in my arms – this bloodless conquest demands a super-triumph. Look at the spoils. 198

Mockery like this had its time and place, of   course, but, on the whole, the eagerness with which the Roman expansion was pursued was taken quite seriously, and was a literary topic as much as a historiographic one. 3.3.3.3. Supremacy and Victory: Visual Sources

In ‘material’ culture, it  is the period of   Empire that stands out, not only as regards sheer quantity but also in the cultural messages that it conveys. With the advent of   the Augustan ideology that sought to emphasize the central position of   the ruler, representations of   the emperor’s might became hard to miss. Following Noreña, I will read the abundant manifestations of   imperial power in art, architecture and numismatics as an articulation of   the theme of   legitimacy in its ultimate purpose. 199 Here, we will restrict ourselves to the explicit war discourse, however, and ward off  the temptation to go into a discussion of   the imperial ideology as such. On  the whole, the representation of   abstract ideals and values such as Libertas, Pax and Victoria are more relevant, therefore, than the personification of   imperial virtues. 200 And of   these three, Libertas played a minor role, certainly with the reduction of   foreign invasion in the course of   time. When Augustus restored it together with other Republican values in his Res Gestae, 201 it had come to mean different things to different people and lost its force: ‘like motherhood and apple pie, nobody was against it’, Galinsky quipped in one of  his articles. 202

sexual violence as a social corollary of   military violence, as L. Calhoun wants us to believe (Calhoun 1988, p. 307). 198 Ovid, Amores, 2.12.1–2; 5–6. 199  Noreña 2011, p. 18. 200   Noreña 2011, p. 59. 201 Augustus, Res Gestae, 1.1 (‘I restored Liberty to the Republic’). 202  Galinsky 2006, p. 3.

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Overall, the image that Augustus exuded was youth and vitality, the things that go together with a new age, and like Apollo, Augustus never aged in his portraits. 203 This went together with a taste for classical Greek aesthetics that was popular at the time. Also, next to the central feature of   ‘victory’, it was the peace that was achieved through victory that was celebrated. 204 It should be noted that, in the Augustan visual war discourse, features like Victory and Peace are not presented in battle scenes. In  fact, as Diana Kleiner has pointed out, battles scenes are relatively rare, and those that are extant are allegorical or mythological, and present Greeks vs Amazons or Apollo vs Hercules (standing for Octavian vs Antony). 205 Wherever we see victory and peace presented – on monuments and works of   art, on coins, gems and so on, we find a  change of  content and style. The victory monuments in the Republic had been unabashed forms of   self-advertisement for successful gen­ er­als, in the style of   Aemilius Paullus, who, as we saw, managed to outdo all previous display by building more dazzling structures in more prestigious locations. 206 This overt self-glorification changed with Octavian’s rise to power. Symbols of   peace and religious devotion became de rigueur – we see laurel trees and oak wreaths – and a new ‘pictorial vocabulary’ was articulated to decorate monuments. 207 The change was marked, it  is true, but we should not forget that this new vocabulary did not completely replace the old one. After all, temples and shrines were still built to honor Mars, the god of   war and the mythical ancestor of   the Roman people. On his new forum – an enormous complex of  buildings dedicated to Rome’s great military success and his own contributions – Augustus constructed a huge temple for Mars the Avenger, making an allusion to his own avenging of   Caesar’s murder. 208 This was not the only temple connected with victory in war: the temple of   Jupiter Feretrius had long been the center of   the     205   206  207  208  203 204

Kleiner 1992, p. 62. Kleiner 1992, p. 62–63. Kleiner 1992, p. 114–15. Welch 2006, p. 500. Zanker 1988, p. 85; p. 101. Alston 2007, p. 187.

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opima spolia ceremony; but there was also a Temple of  Victory on the Palatine Hill. 209 To represent victory, specific emblems were used, such as Victoria. It  had the shape of   a  winged female figure, and it was often represented in conjunction with the cornucopiae, to symbolize ‘prosperity through conquests and victory’, or, later, in a  seated, more peaceful position. 210 Images of   Victory abound, especially in statues, but also on coins and gems. A famous Victoria crowned the Capitol building in 29 bc, together with another Victory statue and altar in her honor inside. In former times the building had been topped by a 220-pound golden Victory, given as a  present by Rome’s ally Hiero  II, the Syracusan tyrant who during the First Punic War changed sides. ‘Sanctified in that citadel of   the city of   Rome, she would be gracious and propitious, and firm and constant, in her support of  the Roman people’, Livy wrote about the statue. 211 The image of   Victory also appears on the famous Gemma Augustea, a  large cameo from the last years of   Augustus’ reign. It is a good example of   how old and new motifs come together. Most of   the decoration on this gem is taken up by references to war, with Victory urging on her horses to take Tiberius, Augustus’ heir, to another campaign. 212 The central figure, Augustus, is  enthroned with Roma – Augustus holds in his left hand the staff  signifying imperial power and is crowned with oak leaves by Oecumene, the personification of   the universal empire, with the eagle at his feet, the Roman emblem of   legionary force. Roman soldiers are raising a  trophy to mark a  victory over barbarians, who are brought into submission. A  male captive kneels in supplication. There is  little ambiguity here: the tale told by the imagery is one of  imperial strength. What is  striking about Victoria and other emblems popular in Augustan Rome, such as the corona civica, the sphinx, the palm tree, the laurel tree, and the Amazon (standing for all barbarian peoples) is  their ubiquity. They were used as decorative   Campbell 1995, p. 140.   Galinsky 1996, p. 115. 211 Livy, History of  Rome, 22.37. 212  Galinsky 1996, p. 120–21. 209 210

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elements in furniture, as funerary reliefs, and in private art, and even on the armor of  gladiators, and, indeed, on the parade armor of   Roman soldiers. A  sword-scabbard found in Mainz that was probably used by a soldier on parade celebrates Tiberius’ victory over the Vindelici in 15 bc and shows an eagle and an Amazon with a double axe representing the defeated barbarian enemy. 213 On  the Boscoreale Cup 2, Tiberius rides a  triumphal quadriga holding a laurel branch and an eagle-tipped sceptre. 214 Sometimes the figure of  Victoria can be seen standing on a globe and holding a trophy (tropaeum). 215 Even though in many instances victory was given a traditional representation, with the goddess and her regalia as a focal point, Augustan iconography introduced new elements, such as the emphasis on pax. This can be illustrated best by the triumphal Arch of  Augustus on the Forum, where the emphasis is on peace, with the Parthians looking like contributors to peace rather than as opponents, 216 There is an echo of  the Parthian that is depicted on the Primaporta cuirass. The new trend fits in with the increasing role of   peace as a  theme in the Principate, all in agreement with Augustus’ own claims in his Res Gestae referred to above, that he preferred preserving peaceful relations over destroying the subject nations. These changes suggested that the East had been ‘domesticated’. 217 Thus, the emphasis on peaceful relations and the use of  pacific imagery was a direct consequence of  events in the East. 218 Of  course, the Parthian peace was one of   Augustus’ great claims to fame, and the change of   perspective no doubt related to the fact that the peace had been obtained through the force  Henig 1983, p. 151.   Kleiner 2006, p. 105. 215   Galinsky 1996, p. 272–73. 216  Rose 2005, p. 28. 217  Rose 2005, p. 36. 218  Pacific imagery was exemplified by the popular representation of    children on monuments, suggesting ‘continuity of  control’. It became quite common for Parthian rulers to send their children for their education to Rome: we know from the Res Gestae that this is what Phraates did with his children (Augustus, Res Gestae, 32). These young hostages served to promote political stability; they could be given a  proper Roman education, and return to their native lands as ambassadors of  Roman civilization. 213 214

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ful pressure of   diplomacy. As he said himself, the Parthians had ‘to ask as suppliants for the friendship of   the Roman people’. 219 The ‘victory’ was commemorated in the form of   a  statue constructed at Prima Porta around 20 bc. The statue’s style reflects the changing mood. The splendour of   victory is replaced by the simplicity and tranquillity of  the new aesthetics: the Augustus portrayed is  composed rather than triumphant. Even on the breastplate there are no signs of   the exigencies of   war, as if  the demons of  armed conflict have been laid to rest. 3.3.4. Supremacy and Conquest In the following subsections, the conquest discourse will be discussed: first in historiography, next in literature, and finally in the remaining sources. 3.3.4.1. Conquest in Historiography

It is  no surprise that the conquest discourse among contemporary authors only takes off  in the period of   Empire, when, in fact, the pace of  foreign warfare was slowing down, 220 During the Republic, the idea of   conquest and its military glory was taken for granted, part of   a common ground or consensus on cultural concepts called ‘doxa’ by the cultural historian Bourdieu. 221 In the Mid Republic, our only serious analyst was Polybius, who generally followed the offensive line – the Romans ‘deliberately chose to school themselves in such great enterprises’ – but at the  Augustus, Res Gestae, 29.2.   This process started in the Late Republic and continued in the Principate. A number of   explanations have been offered for this slowdown. The creation of   monarchy – military glory was mainly the prerogative of   the emperor after 19 bc the triumph was only reserved for members of   the imperial family. Tim Cornell argues that this caused the withering of   militarism in the elite (Cornell 1995b, p.  139–70). Harry Sidebottom brings up another aspect and argues that apart from glory, the other ‘expansion-bearing structure’ under the republic was the elite’s need to acquire ‘windfall’ capital to maintain and advance their position. Under the empire, this structure almost completely disappeared, since the elite now looked to benefactions from the emperor for ‘windfall’ gains. The emperor could still acquire wealth from conquest, but he had other source of  wealth open to him. Such as inheritance and confiscation. There was an internal financial circuit which removed the necessity for injections of   wealth from outside, and thus for expansion (Sidebottom 2005, p. 319). 221  Woolf  1995, p. 182. 219 220

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same time showed scepticism about the possibilities of  maintaining political and moral strength. 222 As we saw, ‘conquest’ developed this Polybian ambivalence, since the riches of   conquest could also be seen as the decline of   morals. In  the Augustan age, conquest became a complex topic, with a variety of   perceptions, but with a  unique and decisive turn in its identification with Pax, for all Romans to behold in the massive visual input of  the time. 223 The Greek historian and geographer Strabo was the first to link the result of   Rome’s successful conquests to Augustan rule: the Empire was now complete, for it included all that was worth conquering. From peripheral regions, uninhabited or inhabited by nomadic people, little profit could be expected. 224 Livy gives an early example of  conquest, and places it in a long tradition. It shows that Rome perhaps was less of  a ‘war machine’ than a  ‘power machine’, because conquest included a  number of  different processes: Collatia, and what land the Sabines had on the nearer side of  the collatia, was taken from them. ‹…› the surrender of  the Collatini took place ‹…› in accordance with this formula: the king asked, ‘Are you the legates and spokesmen sent by the people of   Collatia to surrender yourselves and the people of   Collatia?’ ‘We are’. ‘Is the people of   Collatia its own master?’ ‘It is’. ‘Do you surrender yourselves and the people of   Collatia, city, lands, water, boundary marks, utensils, all appurtenances, divine and human, into my power and that of   the roman people?’ ‘We do’’. ‘I receive the surrender’. Upon the conclusion of  the Sabine War, Tarquinius returned to Rome and triumphed. He then made war against the ancient Latins. 225  Polybius, The Histories, 1.63.   As a topic, ‘conquest’ has not lost its complexity. The nature of   Roman conquest, its drive, and its realization have all been fiercely contested, and some of   the debates on Roman ‘imperialism’ are still continuing. A full treatment of  the issues is  not within the scope of   this study, but relevant positions will be incorporated if  and when necessary. It  is  worth pointing out that, irrespective of   the debate, the general idea of   Rome’s military aggression is  still pervasive, if  only, John Rich has argued, it ‘accords with the common sense’ (Rich 1995, p. 41). 224 Strabo, Geography, 4.5.32. 225  Livy, History of  Rome, 1.38.1–4. 222

223

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But if  there was a war, it could only be ended with a deditio, an unconditional surrender. According to Livy, this was an old tradition that went back to the days of   the kings. 226 Surrender led to peace, and conquest was the result. The coupling of   war and peace – in Roman eyes, the two were extensions of   each other, not opposites – had a  mythological background that fit in well with the Augustan interest in pax as the result of  war. In the first book of   his History, Livy tells us how the rule of   war of   the first king, Romulus, was followed by the rule of   peace of   the second king, Numa. Although Rome ‘had originally been founded by the force of   arms, the new king now prepared to give the community a  second beginning: this time on the solid basis of   law and religious observance’. 227 It is telling that Livy places Romulus and Numa on an equal footing: ‘Thus two successive kings each, though in opposite ways, added strength to the growing city: Romulus by war, Numa by peace’. 228 To visualize the alternation of   war and peace, Numa built the temple of   Janus, with open doors (war) or closed doors (peace). Augustus was proud of   his achievement of  closing the doors after Actium, as Numa was, after he had secured peace through a number of  treaties of  alliance with neighboring communities. 229 Roman imperialism was not only equated with the right of  the stronger, or the principle of   utilitarianism, but also with the natural responsibility of   the morally superior. It was considered to be the Romans’ duty as ‘better’ and ‘more civilized’ people to rule their subjects. T.  J. Luce already pointed to the difference between Polybius, focusing on Roman institutions in his analysis, and Livy, who believes in the workings of   character that determine success and failure. 230 Livy mentions how, during the Second Punic War, some Campanian cities refused to surrender to Hannibal and, instead, give up their obedience to ‘a superior people’ that ruled with justice and tolerance. 231 We have a moral

  Dawson 1996, p. 116.  Livy, History of  Rome, 1.18. 228  Livy, History of  Rome, 1.22. 229 Livy, History of  Rome, 1.18. 230  Luce 1977, p. 230. 231 Livy, History of  Rome, 22.13. 226 227

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dimension here at work that was less conspicuous in earlier periods. The celebration of   Roman imperialism is truly exemplified by Augustus and the Augustan historians and poets who had joined the chorus of   protégés to sing the praise of   the new ruler. Even though the opinions expressed cannot be taken at face value, they illustrate how the conquest discourse in the Principate would take a different turn. First of   all, there is an increased volume of   passages that explicitly praise Rome’s conquest. Secondly, – and here I follow Greg Woolf  – the theme of   conquest has now entered the realm of   public discourse, which shows that it is no longer considered to be self-evident. At this point it is treated by authors as a  topic that invites discussion and can be dealt with as a matter of  opinion. 232 Much contemporary history has been lost, but some of   the work of   Velleius gives us great insight into the way in which Roman conquest of   the time was presented by historians of  the time. We already saw how Velleius coupled the notions of  victory and pax. In his descriptions of   Augustus’ (and Tiberius’) foreign campaigns, Velleius adds conquest to the list: victory bring pax and pax solidifies into conquest: Dalmatia, in rebellion for one hundred and twenty years, was pacified to the extent of  definitely recognizing the sovereignty of   Rome. The Alps, filled with barbarous tribes, were subdued. The provinces of   Spain were pacified after heavy campaigns. 233

As for Dalmatia, its pacification exemplified the Roman tradition to display strength and push on until complete surrender: ‘The Dalmatians were then at last pacified, not now under the mere generalship, but by the armed prowess of   Caesar himself, and then only when they were almost exterminated’. 234 Although clemency could be shown when opportune (Augustus was said to be clement to his opponents after civil war confrontations), the Roman army displayed its capacity for brutality when it came to   Woolf  1995, p. 183–84.  Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.90.1. 234 Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.114.4 (my italics). 232 233

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revenge. According to Velleius, following the notorious defeat of   the Romans in the Teutoburg Forest, Augustus’ successor Tiberius ‘made aggressive war upon the enemy; when his father and his country would have been content to let him hold them in check, he penetrated into the heart of   the country, opened up military roads, devastated fields, burned houses, routed those who came against him and, without loss to the troops with which he had crossed, he returned, covered with glory, to winter quarters’. 235 Conquest, and what it brought to Rome, was not universally acclaimed. The ambivalence that some Romans had in their attitude to the empire was expressed in various ways. Among historiographers, we find in Livy the best representation of   the old topos of   moral decay, already known from Polybius. With even greater pessimism than Sallust, Livy sought refuge in the sterling values of   the past, and treated the history of   Rome as a  history of  moral downfall. But, unfortunately, the Livy we have discusses the past, not his own days. This is why, in a way, Emilio Gabba is  right in calling Dionysius, not Livy, ‘the authentic historian of   the Augustan age’. 236 As a Greek, Dionysius’ cultural horizon was different, and more positive: he saw Rome’s rise in a universal empire. For Livy, the story of  Rome was one ‘in which the might of   an imperial people is  beginning to work its own ruin’, as he says in his Preface. 237 Good old Roman virtues were driven out by foreign influences, and the city of   Syracuse, with its Greek traditions, was a main source of  corruption. For example, in Syracuse, the great Roman general Scipio Africanus, greatly admired by all, is depicted by Livy as wearing Greek clothes, frequenting the gymnasium, and reading books, and his staff  enjoying ‘as much idleness and easy living’, in other words as showing unmilitary and unRoman conduct. 238 Manlius Vulso, the consul who held a successful campaign against the Galatians, was another butt of   criticism. When Livy describes Manlius’ triumph in detail, he adds that ‘foreign luxury was originally  Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.120.2.   Gabba 1991, p. 22. 237 Livy, History of  Rome, 1.1. 238 Livy, History of  Rome, 29.19. 235 236

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brought to the city by the army that had been in Asia’; it sowed ‘the seeds of  the luxury yet to come’. 239 The topos of  moral decay had its counterpart in the idealization of  the past. Polybius had already pointed to the dangers of  moral deterioration after a  state achieved uncontested supremacy, 240 and in this influenced Livy. It became a central issue in Livy, but also part of   a  general trend in his day which attempted to find a  new place for traditional values at a  time of   rapid change, or perhaps we should say for values that, in those days, were claimed as ‘Roman tradition’. In  contemporary literature, we find this temporal form of   nostalgia complemented by a  spatial form, in an idealized picture of  country life and pastoralism. 241 3.3.4.2. Conquest in Literature

The glorification of  Rome as world conqueror is a recurrent theme in Augustan literature. Augustus saw the enduring glories of   the Principate, the new order and his program of  moral regeneration celebrated by Horace and Virgil (as well as the historian Livy) – all three were part of   the entourage of   the princeps. Augustus was a  respected patron of   the arts, and the patron-client relation worked both ways, for the class to which the great authors belonged had a lot to gain from the new order. 242 In the historical pageant of   Book 6 of   the Aeneid, Augustus’ conquests are projected as the emperor’s achievements but also as the restoration of   Rome’s former greatness – here Augustus is  the man who brought peace and stability after the terrible civil war: Son of  a god, he will bring back the Age of  Gold To the Latin fields where Saturn once held sway, Expand his Empire past the Garamants and the Indians, To a land beyond the stars, beyond the wheel of  the year. 243

For the Roman authors of   Augustus’ days, Roman conquest was complete – it covered the whole world as it was known at the  Livy, History of  Rome, 39.6.  Polybius, The Histories, 6.57. 241   Miles 1995, p. 175. 242  Syme 1960, p. 464. 243 Virgil, Aeneid, 6.915–918. 239 240

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time, with only the fringes left. With our map of  the world today, this is  a  foreign conception. For Virgil, Rome was an empire without end; Propertius’ Rome was a city of  seven hills presiding over the entire orb; and Ovid’s Rome encompassed a  territory that was the world itself. 244 Conquest was the fulfilment of   all the promises made in the destiny discourse. The poet Horace is often seen as the great apologist of  Roman imperialism, but we should remember that he wrote literature rather than political treatises, and that in his odes he speaks through his personae. As Betty Radice says in her Introduction to Horace’s Odes and Epodes, ‘the Horace of   the Odes wears so many masks’. 245 In the odes, some of   which were commissioned and dedicated to Augustus or his adviser Maecenas, Horace (or his persona at any rate) speaks in admiration of  Rome’s imperial ambitions. Horace composed a  number of   ‘victory odes’ in a  grand style, many of   them directly addressing Augustus. Some odes make explicit references to Rome’s conquests, such as 1.35, in which the goddess Fortuna is  asked for help in new campaigns: Preserve our Caesar, soon to go out against ultimate Britain, Preserve our your recruits, soon to plant fear in Eastern Realms and along the Arabian seaboard. […] Fortuna, reforge Against the Arabs and the Massagetae On new anvils our blunted swords. 246

Ode 2.3 celebrates Augustus’ new addition to the Empire (‘The Parthian river swirling in lesser eddies now it  is added to the conquered realms’), and Ode 3.3 rejoices on Rome’s ‘dictating terms to the Medes and subject them to Triumphs’ and Rome’s ever-growing Empire (‘Feared far and wide, let her name extend to ultimate borders, where intervening waters part Europe from the Moors’.)  247 What we also see is a connection between con Virgil, Aeneid, 378–79; Propertius, Poems, 3.11.57; Ovid, Fasti, 2.683–84.   Radice 1983, p. 30. 246 Horace, Odes, 1.35.29–40. 247 Horace, Odes, 3.3.43–47. 244 245

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quest made and its revenue, usually in the form of   agricultural imagery: ‘On humbled knee, Phraates  / Had acknowledged Caesar’s control and authority / Meanwhile Plenty / Pours from her full horn a golden harvest over Italy’. 248 But in his first Epode, Horace presents the spirit of   apprehension that characterized Augustus first years, when peace was still precarious: the image of   the undefended nest of   chicks waiting for a  serpent hidden under the foliage. 249 Q uite in tune with the Zeitgeist, the military spirit that had dominated Roman culture for so long was sometimes transformed into the retreat into the countryside, the pastoral ideal. Pastoralism – as a belief  in the superiority of   the rural lifestyle – was not new. It had come to Rome from Hesiod’s Works and Days and Hellenistic poetry. In  the Augustan period, there was a  revival with Virgil’s Eclogues and Horace’s Epodes, which celebrate the escape from the busy urban life to a quiet Arcadia. It is in Ovid’s Tristia, poems composed in exile, that we find a strong contrast between the peaceful country life and the domineering military culture of  the day. Tomis, Ovid’s place of  exile, was unendurable, he writes, because it had been turned into a  military barracks: ‘I’ve no supply of   books here, to tempt and feed me; bows and armour rattle here instead’. 250 And, outside the walls, ‘the shepherd plays his reed-pipe glued with pitch under a  helmet, and frightened sheep fear war not wolves’. 251 Sometimes the retreat into the countryside is combined with call of   love as a  substitute for the call for arms. We already encountered this literary device in the virtus discourse. In  one of   his elegies, Tibullus points to the ‘greed for gold’ as the cause of  civil violence, and the quest for riches should be substituted by the primacy of   love and the pastoral life; after all, the true hero is the peaceful rustic who lives to old age: ‘Would I had lived / In that good, golden time; nor e’er had known / A mob in arms arrayed; nor felt my heart  / Throb to the trumpet’s call!’  252  Horace, Epistles, 1.12.27–29.  Horace, Epodes, 1. The image, already used by Homer, is also used in the Ara Pacis, as we shall see (Knox, 2011, p. 65–71). 250 Ovid, Tristia, 3.14.37. 251 Ovid, Tristia, 5.10.25. 252 Tibullus, Elegies, 1.10.12–16. 248 249

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A similar disdain for war is  shown in his Elegy 1.11 (‘War is a  Crime’). The poet’s persona harkens back to the good old days before Rome started to wage war, a  time of   happy peace, of   life in the fields. Peace is, as it often is, associated with the abundance of   crops, with corn and fruits. But, above all, we should read these phrases as a  poet’s craft, a  feeling that no doubt struck a chord but that could, within the hour, be replaced by a  different mood. What we find in Tibullus, therefore, is nostalgia rather than aloofness or disdain. 3.3.4.3. Conquest in Other Sources

Conquest and victory, as closely related concepts, are hard to separate in visual sources. What we can add to the things already mentioned in the section on ‘victory’ is based on references to conquest in inscriptions on monuments and on the legends of  coins. That there is  no doubt about the importance of   the conquest discourse in the Augustan era is exemplified by the preamble to the text of   the Ancyra Res Gestae. It  refers to Augustus’ great conquests and reflects the triumphalist mood of   its time: ‘the deeds […] by which he subjected the whole wide earth to the rule of  the Roman people’. 253 Augustus’ Res Gestae, which was not just inscribed on monuments in Rome but all over the Empire, usually at the instigation of   local elites, is  overtly boastful of   the many conquests achieved under the Princeps’ rule. 254 In its references to Roman conquest, I think it would qualify as an early example of   political ‘spinning’. 255 Augustus presents his accomplishments in a matter-of-fact, straightforward style, and relates conquest to the resulting pax: ‘I extended the borders of   all the provinces of   the Roman people with neighbored nations not subject to our rule. I  restored peace to the provinces of   Gaul and Spain, likewise Germany, which included the ocean from Cadiz to the mouth of  the river Elbe’. 256  Augustus, Res Gestae, Preface.   Cooley 2009, Introduction. 255  Everett calls it ‘an astute piece of   writing, of   which a modern manager of  public opinion could be proud’ (Everett 2006, p. 311). 256 Augustus, Res Gestae, 26. 253 254

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Among the many monuments of   the time, the Ara Pacis, already mentioned, deserves special attention. 257 Although the central motif  in the Ara Pacis is  pax, peace after conquest, the ‘text’ of   the monument is much richer. The focus of   attention is, of  course, Augustus himself, and with him his ancestry, as well as the Roman people. For this reason it can also be seen as an allegorical representation of  civic responsibility to state and family. 258 All  the same, the peace that Augustus has brought was gained by war, and we find Mars depicted in armor and helmet. Mars, the father of   Romulus, is  also the father of   the nation, and the god of  war. The decorations on the monument exemplify the other side of   Augustan iconography, for peace communicates a  sense of  abundance, of   fertility and a  new golden age. The richness of  decorations has inspired a  host of   analysts to speculate about the exact meaning of   the Ara Pacis, and we can only deal with a few of   the more relevant interpretations here. The first is based on the potential instability of  the new regime. The Ara Pacis was a relatively young monument, dedicated in ad 9, when the stability of  the new government was not yet guaranteed – two potential successors to Augustus had already died, which may account for the image of   the serpent hidden in the foliage waiting to devour a  nest of   unsuspecting chicks, as Peter Knox has pointed out, the simile used in one of   Horace’s poems that we encountered above. 259 This unexpected image could be interpreted as a call for support of  the new regime. The argument is ingenious but unconvincing – it is too contrived for a monument that was meant to propagate Augustus’ greatness to a wide audience. Seen from another angle, the monument can be taken to represent the new model of   Augustan imperialism, which promoted a ‘more restrained approach to victory celebration’, preferring monuments over the traditional triumph ‘with its requisite slaughter of   enemies’, as Kleiner and Buxton believe, since the 257  Of  course, the whole of  Augustus’ Forum with the central temple of  Mars Ultor was one big monument of  Augustus’ conquests. In Ovid’s Fasti (5.551–98) there is  a  long description of   the many military achievements that were represented on the Forum, in epigraphy and statues (Alston 2013, p. 205). 258  Galinsky 1996, p. 142. 259   Knox 2011, p. 65.

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complete pacification of  the known world was practically accomplished. 260 This is  not very convincing. It  could be countered by the argument that the de-emphasis of   the triumph in the Principate was based on cost effectiveness. Also, Augustus was no longer a general, and warfare had become restricted to border conflicts. Overall, the new iconography of   the Ara Pacis fits in well with the general trend to promote the idea of   ‘domestication’ that we find in other places, such as the Res Gestae. A third, somewhat dubious, reading focuses on the imagery of   the Golden Age that pervades the monument as well as the time when it was built. Peter Holliday links it to the philosophy of  cyclical recurrence that was generally accepted by the ancients, and argues that Augustus wanted to emphasize the principle of   regeneration that took place in a cycle of   upswing and downturn. 261 I think it is easy to overstate the role of   cyclical patterning. In Holliday’s reading, peace after war is made subservient to the general idea of   ‘promise of   better days to come’, an expected upsurge in a  process of   decline. What happens here is  that the belief  in the cyclicality of   historical events – which no doubt underlies classical thinking – is given an explicit role that we do not see anywhere else. Overall, interpretations that focus on pax are more successful in placing the monument in the context of   the time, because they do justice to the importance of   the concept and the nature of   the Augustan ideology, which sought new means of   celebrating the fruits of  the closure of  the many years of  war. In an article published back in 1960, Stefan Weinstock traced the development of   pax from the restricted meaning of   ‘pact’, which ended a  war and brought ‘submission, friendship and alliance’, to the later (dual) meaning of  domestic concordia and foreign conquest. Abroad, pax was no longer a matter of  peace between equal partners: it meant total submission, i.e. conquest. After Caesar had introduced Pax as a goddess, Augustus and his court established the cult of  Pax on monuments, coins and in literature. 262

  Kleiner and Buxton 2008, p. 86.   Holliday 1990, p. 542. 262  Weinstock 1960, p. 45–47.

260 261

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As for the Ara Pacis, Weinstock believed there were too many references to figures that had nothing to do with pax, notably Aeneas, Ascanius and the Penates, even to such a  degree that the object of   study could not be the actual Ara Pacis. This claim has been refuted by Toynbee  263 and also, very convincingly, countered by Rehak. 264 Rehak argues that the Aeneas relief, the panel that bothered Weinstock, in fact depicts King Numa sacrificing a sow with a foreign king to guarantee peace. This reading fits in with what we know of   this mythical king from Livy. As a  peace-maker, he served as a  model for others to emulate. We have, in fact, Livy’s juxtaposition of   Romulus the war-king and Numa the peace-king that we encountered before. If  we follow this interpretation, we have a  connection with other sources like Livy and the annalists, and we can make the monument Augustus’ own, because of  the balance between the exercise of  power (war) and the creation of  a valid status quo (peace), the very things that characterize Augustus’ rule. Finally, this reading is  straightforward and stays away from abstruse reasonings for a small circle of  connoisseurs, a reading that perfectly matches the public role of  the monument. In our discussion of   the conquest discourse, only the coinage of   the period remains. In  various coin types we can see the Augustan conquest discourse at work, sometimes in conjunction with the victory discourse. On  coins, conquest was represented in a number of   ways: in scenes of   combat, or with the name of  the nation conquered (CAPTA) or reconquered (RECEPTA), in the representation of   treaties with allies, a more indirect way, through the symbolic composition of   the seated emperor and the client king standing. 265 For example, the recovery of   the province of   Asia was proclaimed with ASIA RECEPTA on a quinarius, with Victoria holding a  wreath and a  palm. 266 Sometimes we see symbolic representations for conquered areas, such as the crocodile for Egypt, or, in the case of   Parthia, the legion263   Toynbee 1961, p.  53–56. Karl Galinsky later pointed out that nothing can be ‘proven’, but that, most of   all, the monument is about Augustus himself, as its name suggests (Galinsky 1969, p. 191–92). 264  Rehak 2001, p. 190–200. 265  Wallace-Hadrill 1986, p. 67. 266   Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC, 1, ii; Augustus, Res Gestae, 276.

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ary standards, together with kneeling Parthians, and the legend SIGNIS RECEPTIS. 267 Although Augustus’ record of   conquest actually eclipsed that of  all his predecessors, with an impressive expansion of  the empire from outlying parts of   Spain to the deserts of   Arabia, not all of  his expeditions were successful, and not all claims of   conquest were based on military victories. 268 Sometimes there is  a  strong divergence between presentation and reality. The legend ARMENIA RECEPTA, for example, suggesting a military victory, was actually referring to a  political solution, the restoration of   the client kingdom of   Armenia when a loyal ruler was placed on the vacant throne. And when, in Rome, Augustus proclaimed victory over the Parthians, celebrating conquest and military supremacy, symbolized by the return of  the standards, the result was actually the outcome of   a process of   negotiations with Phraates, the Parthian monarch, who managed to secure territorial integrity east of  the Euphrates River. 269 These examples underline that military victory had become an icon, with a simple message of   success for all Romans to understand, not necessarily in full agreement with actual events. 3.3.5. The Theme of  Supremacy: Conclusion In the Augustan Age, Roman supremacy was a feeling inherited from Republican days, but given new impetus and direction. Victory and conquest showed the strength of   the conqueror, who traditionally sought total surrender, it was believed, and whose superiority was not merely military, but, above all, moral. Livy points to the decisive role of   personal character in past conquests, and the great role models in the long history of   Roman warfare. They could and should be held up for emulation in Augustus’ New Order.   Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, p. 157.   Augustus’ claim that he expanded the empire into Arabia is at odds with what we know from other sources (Cassius Dio, Roman History, 53.29; Pliny the Elder, Natural History, 6.32; and Strabo, Geography, xvi, give accounts of  the failed expedition into Arabia Felix led by Aelius Gallus during Augustus’ reign). 269   Gruen 1990, p. 397. 267 268

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In the non-literary sources, the image of  victory and conquest was radically restyled. This change affected (1) the role of   the victor and (2) the incorporation of   pax as an ingredient. In the Republic, victory had brought self-glorification for the victorious general: in material gain and especially in status. Once Augustus had become sole ruler, the glory of   victory was channelled into recognition and respect for the princeps, for victorious general and ruler were no longer identical. It was part of   the larger program of  legitimizing the authority of  the new leader. Secondly, victory was coupled with pax. Augustan imagery, notably in visual sources, started to focus on the things that victory in war brought: the clientage of   subjugated peoples, peoples that had been ‘pacified’, and the promises of   stability and harmony in the new provinces. All  these things were overseen by a regime that exuded infinite power and was eager to project an impression of   vigor and dominance. In  the new victory and conquest imagery, the absence of   battle scenes is telling: after all, it is the result (peace) that counts, not the preceding war. In historiography and literature, this sense of  achievement in victory and conquest is equally strong (Strabo, Velleius, Horace), some dissenting voices excepted. They find the return of   the Golden Age in a retreat to the past or an escape to the countryside.

4. Conclusion The Augustan Age is  the age of   Augustus. It  is  the emperor, or princeps, who dominates not only politically but in the discourse as well. Although the discourse builds on that of   the Republic, we see marked changes that create a  clean break with the past. Within the theme of   legitimacy, it was the concept of   ‘destiny’ that gave a  new dimension to earlier efforts to create a  Roman identity. Once the roots of  Roman destiny had been firmly established, it could now be directed at the present and, by implication, the future. For historians and poets, ‘destiny’ made a perfect match with the status quo. It gave a rationale for Rome’s greatness, which had now become tangible in the architecture and layout of  a reshaped city. At the same time, Augustus’ ‘new order’ was presented as a  moral victory over the vices that were seen as the instigators 432

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of   the old civil disorder. The return of   the Golden Age was the product of   a cyclical process – all history was – but, as Livy construed it, the process was not mechanical; instead, it could be steered by virtuous Romans if  they heeded their illustrious ancestors. This is  how the promise of   Virgil’s ‘empire without end’ would be realized. If  we look at the other two themes, loyalty and supremacy, it is continuity with the previous periods that seems to predominate our impressions, for the celebration of   patria, of   virtus and disciplina, and the glorification of   victory and conquest are not new. What is new is, first of   all, that the emperor was the central point of  reference, both as a person and, increasingly, as a symbol. This domineering position of  the emperor would only increase in later periods, and can be related to the dissociation of  the military from civil life. When the army became a world in itself  and followed its own course, it only showed loyalty to the emperor. In the Augustan context, this tendency is  best exemplified in the various discourses within the supremacy theme: it  is the emperor who is  center-stage. Whether it  is in historiography, literature, epigraphy or other forms of  visual communication, the message is unequivocal, emphasizing different but not necessarily conflicting elements. On statues and coins, we find Roman superiority expressed, for example, in the submissive position of   the vanquished and in the gestures of  clemency by the emperor. Another ‘invention’ in the Augustan discourse is  the wedding of   war and peace. This could only happen after the conclusion of   the civil wars, which brought stability and a  new order. Conquest and victory, the old features of  military success carried over from the Republic, are now translated into a new combination of   Victoria and Pax.  Pax, the peace that follows the completion of   the military campaign, is essential here. It implies the restoration of  order as well as the acceptance of  Roman rule, and it is the explicit aim of   Roman rule, an aim that can be realized by diplomacy and power play, flexing military muscle or, if  need be, as the result of   a campaign. I believe it is this combination of  Victoria and Pax that is most characteristic of   the war discourse in the Principate. It  has its perfect representation in Augustus’ Altar of   Peace, the Ara Pacis. With its visual language it depicts the message of  the new ruler after he fought his wars and brought 433

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home peace as a dividend. The idea to place Mars on a panel and pastoral themes on another gave the Roman war discourse a new dimension: it gave the success of   the Roman war machine an explicit consequence. This duality, the juxtaposition of   Romulus and Numa in the old myth, was a translation of   the personality of   Augustus himself, the combination of   cold-blooded army commander and astute administrator. The combination was not to stay.

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THE EARLY EMPIRE (ad 14–193)

1. Introduction to the Period The Augustan period was the beginning of   what would later be called the Principate, the first part of   the period of   empire lasting until c. ad 285. In this study, the period that follows Augustus’ death (ad  14) and takes us through the Principate will be divided into two parts. The first of   these, here called the Early Empire, takes us through the 1st and most of  the 2nd century. It is a period characterized by relative stability, both at home (Rome) and abroad (the provinces). The second century, specifically the period between the death of  Domitian (ad 96) and the accession of   Commodus (ad 180), was even called the happiest epoch in the history of  mankind, and although this qualification by Edward Gibbon has often been disparaged, there is some truth to it. For the Roman army, developments that had started in the Augustan Age were continued. The legions now became stationary forces, settled in permanent camps close to the frontiers, and guarding the areas assigned to them for long periods of   time. 1 The role of   the army commanders changed as well. They were no longer magistrates with imperium, the authority to wage war, but since Augustus’ days they had become representatives of   the emperor with delegated authority. 2 This central control of   the army was pervasive, not just symbolical in the images of   the emperor that could be seen in many places, or in the oath that   Keppie 1996, p. 387.   Goldsworthy 2007c, p. 123–24.

1

2

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soldiers had to take to the emperor, but also in the bonus and the plot of   land veterans received on retirement, which were paid from the emperor’s treasury. 3 The emperor had become the central figure, even if  his locus of   control was no longer Rome but the place where he happened to be. The professionalization of   the army and its intimate relationship with the emperor severed what few attachments it still had with the old res publica. The consequences were grave, and are reflected in the war discourse of   the time. By the end of   the 2nd century, there were clear signs that the relative stability characteristic of  the time was gradually breaking down. Here, we shall take the civil war of  193–96 and the beginning of  the Severan Dynasty as a turning point. What follows next will be dealt with in the following chapter, the Third Century and the Emerging Christian Discourse.

2. Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources 2.1. Historiography In the period of   Empire, when the emperor became the center of   power and made the important decisions with his small circle of   advisors, the writing of   history largely became the writing of  the history of   the emperors. The old ruling class to which most authors belonged, now turned into a number of  competing elites, old and new, with complex internal relations and great social mobility, and the proximity of  the senatorial class to the emperor became less of  a natural thing. This affected the way in which the authors could obtain information and influence public opinion. With restricted access to information, historiographers resorted to informal, often unverifiable news about the emperor and his court. 4 History writing became ‘person-centered’ and psychological, focusing on constructions of   motivations and moral assessments. It is no coincidence that ‘biography as history’ originated

  Goldsworthy 2007c, p. 123–24.   Mehl 2011, p. 123.

3 4

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in a  time of   ‘acute political strife’, as Philip Stadter says, when strong competing personalities came to the fore. 5 It is to this period that famous writers like Tacitus, Suetonius, Plutarch and Appian belong. The trend towards biography is exemplified by Suetonius, whose Lives of  the Caesars fully focuses on the person of   the individual emperor, his actions and his character. Military campaigns and warfare are practically absent – they only play a role where they add something to the emperor’s personality. The same interest in issues of   character and personal morality can be found in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. Here, history has merged with literature, especially by today’s standards. Of  course, Plutarch stated himself  that he wrote biography, not history. 6 Plutarch’s reputation as a  historian has sunk dramatically over the years, although this assessment is  sometimes challenged, 7 and a distinction should be made between his Lives of  early Greeks and those of  Hellenistic and Roman protagonists closer to his own time. Among the historiographers of  the Early Empire, it is Tacitus who stands out as a source in the present study. This is due to his great psychological insight, his analysis of   motivation and the power politics of   a  society that forms the backdrop of   military actions of  the time, so that we do get a grasp of  some of  the ways in which contemporary events were viewed. His stature has not lessened over the years, particularly because of   his literary qualities and the impact he has had on political scientists. The debate between ‘Red Tacitists’ and ‘Black Tacitists’ of   the early 20th century has abated, but there are still diverging viewpoints about Tacitus’ political position. 8 We shall come back to this issue in   Stadter 2007, p. 540.   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Alexander’, 1. 7  Duff  203, p. 122. Of  course, as C. B. R. Pelling has pointed out, Roman historiography at the time was not so much about truth vs falsehood as about ‘acceptable vs non-acceptable fabrication’. On the whole, Plutarch belongs to the ‘more scrupulous’ authors, Pelling maintains, and writes about things that belong to Wiseman’s ‘must have been true’ category (Pelling 1990, p. 43–45; Wiseman 1981, p. 389). Plutarch’s moral and didactic aims were directly connected with his intended audience, the Greek and Roman political elite, not seldom his personal friends (Stadter 2014, p. 12). 8   Tacitus famously pledged to seek objectivity himself, to treat his material ‘without anger and without partiality’ (Annals, 1.1). The debate between Red 5 6

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our discussion of   perspectives used in the war discourse of   the time. The 2nd-century Greek historian Appian, who worked as a lawyer in Rome, wrote extensively on the civil wars and has become a major source for this period. Another historian from this period, Florus, composed the Epitome of   Roman History, based on Livy. He had the clear intention of   celebrating the greatness of   Rome. Of  the ‘minor’ historians in this period, Josephus and Gellius should be mentioned: they cannot give us what Tacitus does, but they still offer valuable insight into the current war discourse. First of   all, Josephus, a contemporary of   the Flavians, described the Jewish revolt he took part in himself, at first on the side of   the rebels, later on the Roman side. His account, intended for a Roman audience, is interesting for its complex perspectives on Roman and Jewish ideas and mentalities. Educated in Greece, Aulus Gellius worked as a judge in Rome, and compiled his Attic Nights encompassing a  range of   interests, including history. As  a  final source we have Polyaenus, a  2nd-century Macedonian author, not a historian but a writer of  a treatise on military strat­ e­gies, who shows the strong impact that traditional Greek and Hellenistic military expertise still had (or was supposed to have) on army commanders of  the Roman empire.

2.2. Literature The Early Empire was another period when Roman literature flourished, and often called the Silver Age to compare it with and Black Tacitists came alive in Italy in the 1920s, when competing ideologies were seeking historical backing. The Reds represented the supposedly left-leaning Republican (or senatorial) Tacitus, whereas the Blacks found support in the (presumably) right-leaning Tacitus, seen as a  mouthpiece for the ‘imperial’ powers of   the sole ruler. Most modern interpretations seek the middle ground and see Tacitus as ‘neither revolutionary nor reactionary’, but ‘steering a prudent course in dangerous waters’, as Daniel Kapust summarizes it (Kapust 2012, p. 524–25). Ronald Mellor says that Tacitus was ‘a Republican in his writing but a monarchist in practical politics’, which emphasizes the critical Tacitus without too much evidence, I believe (Mellor 1993, p. 89). Leaning more to the other side, Momi­ gliano sees Tacitus fundamentally as a conservative whose pessimistic outlook was shaped by the fact that he did not see an alternative to the existing state structure, even with its dire effects of  despotism. This is the Tacitus that I find in the texts (Momigliano 2012, p. 411–34).

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the Golden Age that preceded it. Within the overall genre of   literature, there is  a  range of   subgenres that are well represented: poetry (epic, lyric and satire), drama and, a newcomer, the picaresque novel. The great writers of   epic of   this period include Lucan, Statius, and Silius Italicus. The struggle between Caesar and Pompey, the great Civil War, is the subject that Lucan chose for his Pharsalia, an epic written around ad  60. It  is  a  bleak picture that Lucan sketches: the wrong side has won, the gods are absent. In the late first century, Statius wrote his Thebaid, greatly inspired by the Aeneid. Statius used Greek mythology and allegory to allude to contemporary events, such as Domitian’s military campaigns, and today is given divergent interpretations that are either flattering for, or critical of  the Flavian emperors. 9 A consul and orator close to the Flavian court, Silius Italicus has become known for his epic poem Punica, which tells the story of   the Second Punic War, inspired by and based on Virgil and Livy. Like the Thebaid, the Punica has passages relating to contemporary situations. It  openly eulogizes Domitian as a  great military commander, and uses the history of   the Punic War to display Roman virtue and the ability to overcome serious challenges through perseverance and courage. Virgil’s influence was also marked in the lyric poetry. Calpunius Siculus, for example, wrote bucolic poems (eclogues) in the Virgilian style. In the late 1st century, during the reigns of  Domitian, Nerva and Trajan, the poet Martial published short, witty poems satirizing the Roman city life that he knew so well as a socialite. And somewhat later, in the late 1st and early 2nd centuries, Juvenal wrote his critical poems, satirizing the mores of  the day. Even more so than epic poetry, lyric poetry should be read as fiction, of  course, and the ideas expressed by personae cannot be automatically identified with the author. 10 Apart from his philosophical treatises and letters, the statesman Seneca is known for his tragedies that expound the popular Stoic philosophy of  the time. 11   Hardie 2012, p. xx.   Braund 1998, Introduction. Braund follows W. S. Anderson in applying the persona theory to Roman literary genres (Anderson 1982). 11  Stoic ideas infuse The Meditations, written by the emperor Marcus Aurelius when he was on his military campaign in the Danube region. They are pri9

10

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And, finally, two stylistically eccentric writers have given us material that sheds a very idiosyncratic light on the nature of  contemporary discourse: Petronius and Apuleius. As a courtier during Nero’s reign, Petronius used his observations in The Satyricon, a satirical novel aimed to amuse and entertain the court. In the 2nd century, Apuleius wrote a picaresque novel, The Golden Ass, also known as Metamorphoses, in which the hero is  followed in a ludicrous confrontation with mystery and magic, popular topics at the time. Although both novels can be read as artful forms of  fiction, as they mostly are nowadays, they can also give us great insight into aspects of  the social reality of  the day. 12

2.3. Visual Sources With the steady build-up of   Rome with monuments, epigraphy multiplied. Inscriptions were associated with important events and names, and served to remind the people of  public and private history. From the start, the genre had a strong honorific character therefore. 13 According to Greg Woolf, the period of  Early Empire was the period of   ‘epigraphic boom’. 14 The role of   epigraphy in commemoration was to offer individuals ‘a chance of  evading complete oblivion after their deaths’. 15 Thus identities were preserved but also publicized. In this, epigraphy could find a balance between lifting the individual and avoiding transgression of  the social norms, because it used formulaic text and standardized style. 16 This creates a problem for us: personal monuments vate musings on how to perfect oneself  and cope with the vicissitudes of   life. It is remarkable that, given the place and time of   composition, warfare does not play a significant role in the text; warfare is treated as a given thing, as part of  the cycle of   life and death (‘Life [is] a warfare, a brief  sojourning in an alien land’) (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, 2.17). 12  The social criticism of   the two novels has been debated, with moralists and aestheticists at opposite ends. Both Fergus Millar and Elizabeth Greene have made a  strong case for a  reading that connects the fantasy of   The Golden Ass with contemporary reality; it seems to me that the same reasoning can be applied to The Satyricon (Millar 1981, p. 63–75; Greene 2008, p. 175–93). 13  Flower 2009, p. 68. 14   Woolf  1996, p. 22. 15  Woolf  1996, p. 29. 16  Woolf  1996, p. 32.

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invariably suggest stability and success, and can operate ‘ideologically’; they do not include failure or loss and do not do justice to those parts of   Roman society that did not participate in social mobility. 17 Since coins reached the largest number of  people, both civilians and soldiers, they were very effective in spreading the image of  Roman success. 18 Many of   the coins minted in this period carry images of   Victoria standing or seated with a captive at her feet, sometimes combined with images of   the enemy’s surrender, and sometimes with an image of   the emperor himself  instead of   the goddess, surrounded by a  wrath of   laurels. The combination of  Victoria and Pax that we know from the Augustan Age is continued as well. Finally, Roman art and architecture are especially relevant as a source for this period, when emperors sought to convey an image of   power and accomplishment. This representation of   imperial power was ubiquitous, in all urban settings, both in Rome and elsewhere. Triumphant arches, altars, fora – they all asserted the emperor’s presence and Rome’s pervasive strength. It  was, of   course, the sheer magnitude of   public works that impressed, but also the consistency of   style and the repetition of   emblems in decorative elements: the emperor’s portrait above all, but also the symbols of   victory and the well-known historical scenes. 19 In  this, the emperors came to embody a  set of   ideals developed during the Republic by the political elite, with some (but not much) individual variation, that can be called a state ideology. 20

  Woolf  1996, p. 38.   The role of  the emperor in coin design is not fully clear, however. B. Levick argued that the mint was responsible for the selection of   types and that designs were targeted at the emperor’s personal preference, not at the wider population (Levick 1982, p. 104–16). Later scholarship has taken an opposite view of   targeting, implying that the emperor and his advisors had more direct control over the images used (Sutherland 1986, p. 89–93; Wolters 1999, p. 292; Metcalf  2006, p. 42). But whichever perspective is used, the outcome is the same: coinage design emphasized Roman success and was flattering to the emperor. And, Clare Rowan has pointed out, textual evidence confirms that Romans believed that the emperor was responsible for his own coin types and that coinage formed an official statement (Rowan 2012, p. 20). 19  Stirling 2006, p. 76. 20   Hölscher 2003, p. 17. 17 18

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Among the monuments, two stand out and will be given special treatment in the discussion that follows: Trajan’s Column, of  around ad 113, which celebrates his Dacian campaign, and the Column of   Marcus Aurelius, erected in ad  192 and recording and memorizing his campaign against the Marcomanni. They are artistic masterpieces, but, what’s more, they tell us more about the ideology that underlies the message of  their images and the changing mentality of  the 2nd century. Art and architecture had a secondary role in keeping the collective memory alive, especially in statues and historical paintings. Public and private commissioning shaded into each other, with the great families taking initiatives and bearing the responsibility for setting up and maintaining monuments to celebrate victories and other events. This representation of  the past was Rome’s great backdrop, a mix of  public and private self-advertisement. 21 The discourse in these visual sources overall represents the official image that the emperor and his circle like to make public, but the mood and the tone of  these messages change over the years. There is a marked change in the later 2nd century, a time of  increasing instability as said, which will be part of   our discussion below. Among scholars, it is a moot point whether the unmistakable stylistic changes in art and monuments reflect the changing realities of  warfare at the time, as suggested by Zanker, or whether these developments should be explained by a different set of  programmatic choices, as argued by Dillon. 22

3. The War Discourse in the Early Empire In the course of   time, with the Principate acquiring its own history and the chronological gap with the Republic widening, the memory of  the Republican past lost its strength, especially in written sources. Alain Gowing has traced this process from the reign of   Tiberius to that of   Trajan. 23 At the beginning of   this period, the Republican memory was still fresh, with Velleius praising   Flower 2009, p. 73–74.   Zanker 2000, p. 163–74; Dillon 2006, p. 534–88. 23  Gowing 2005. 21 22

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Octavian’s new imperial program immediately after Actium. 24 By the time of   Trajan and the writings of   Tacitus, the Republic ‘for the most part had ceased to serve any serious ideological purpose’. 25 Perhaps Gowing is overemphasizing the idea of change – many of   the old institutions remained intact after all. All the same, the loss of  ideological commitment to the res publica is characteristic of   this period, as is, indeed, the strong presence of   the emperor, 26 but there are other changes that affect the war discourse. The geographical and mental separation between army and emperor on the one hand, and the participants in the discourse on the other – writers and artists, the reading audience and the public at large – had a  direct influence on the subjects that were tackled and the messages that were conveyed. Previously, the war discourse and the general public discourse largely overlapped; now, the urgency of   the former had lessened. There are no new discourse features in this period, and no radical departures from earlier developments. What we see instead is  that existing themes are given different treatments depending on divergent points of   view. Perspectives had varied before, so there is some continuity, but the differences now become much more pronounced. This is  why we shall discuss the war discourse of   the Early Empire by distinguishing between three points of   view that can be seen as characteristic of  the period: 1. the conformist perspective, which confirms the ‘state’ discourse or presents ideas that can be called ‘consensual’ or ‘conformist’. It  continues the Augustan emperor-centered, state-sponsored dissemination of  ideas and images, with some adaptations to the changing circumstances; 2. the critical perspective, which casts doubt on Rome’s past and present military accomplishments. It  continues the minor voice of   dissent that we saw in some Augustan writing, but now expressed more firmly, and at a  greater distance from the centers of  power;





 Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.89.3–4.   Gowing 2005, p. 6; Tacitus, Annals, 1.3.7. 26  As Gowing suggests, it has now become ‘seemingly impossible’ to discuss the heroes and events of  the Republic ‘without prompting, explicitly or implicitly, a comparison with the new emperor’ (Gowing 2005, p. 20). 24 25

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3. the dissociative perspective, which detaches itself  from contemporary events and turns to the old topoi from Republican Rome. It can be seen as a continuation of  a trend among Augustan poets to look for the bliss of   the Golden Age, with aesthetic rather than moral interests; it is quite in line with the Second Sophistic movement, popular at the time, which emphasized rhetorical flourish and literary polish in writing, preferring style over content. 27



In dividing the discourse into these three groups, I do not intend to classify authors but to identify and compare points of   view. Tacitus, for example, has opinions that are not always in agreement with each other. His method of   balancing out the positive and the negative in his depiction of   individual emperors makes it hard to classify him as either ‘conformist’ or ‘critical’ since he tends to combine both perspectives. On balance, however, I see Tacitus more as a  conformist than a  critic, although it must be conceded that there is  a  difference between his views on past events and those of  his own days. This division will appear in the individual sections below. In  these sections I will deal with the three perspectives consecutively. The discourse themes we have used so far – legitimacy, loyalty and supremacy – will be integrated in this structure.

3.1. The Conformist Perspective 3.1.1. Loyalty to the Emperor and the Army Unit In the previous chapter, we saw that, beginning with Augustus, the army’s loyalty that was supposed to be directed towards the res publica had shifted to the emperor. During the Early Empire, this trend continued; it is telling that it was not uncommon for emperors and their families to spend much of   their time among the soldiers, in the military camps across the empire. Apart from the tangible praemia militia, which were an important tool for the emperor to strengthen his bond with the army – an economic aspect which is  beyond the scope of   this study – various rituals, some of   them adapted from their Republican origin, served   Wright 1921, p. xix.

27

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to underline the special relation between emperor and soldiers. These included the acclamatio (the formal acclamation of   a new emperor), the adlocutio (the formal address to the troops) and the sacramentum (the swearing of   the oath). Unfortunately, we do not have a  lot of   information on the details and on specific events. For the sacramentum, for example, we only have one text, from a later work by Vegetius, and the references to adlocutiones on coins are most likely generic, not about specific addresses. 28 However, it can be said that rituals that served to boost loyalty were reciprocal, part of   a  constant exchange of   communication between both sides, since both emperor and army depended on each other. 29 The oral contract drawn up in this process was not unbreakable, of   course, as the events of   68 and 193 make clear. 30 Emperors would sometimes bestow honorific epithets upon specific army units that had excelled, such as in the repression of   mutinies, with the obvious aim to create a  special relationship between the ruler and the unit. 31 It  was Commodus who went to the greatest length by attempting to rename his legions ‘Commodiana’, as part of   his various acts of   self-glorification. 32 Although Commodus was not the first emperor to make a direct connection between the office and his person – we see it in Nero and Domitian, for example – he was the first to go far beyond what was conventional. 33 In this he influenced Severus and later   Bohec 2007, p. 531.   Hebblewhite 2017, p. 210 & ff. 30  Campbell 2002, p. 184; p. 30–31. 31   The extravagant use of   epithets for specific army units would not live long. Later emperors realized they would rapidly lose their mark of   distinction. Also, their effectiveness was limited, for epithets never outlived the death of   the emperor who had bestowed them. Not only did they lose their special meaning on the accession of  a new emperor, they could even become liabilities in the building of  new relationships (Hebblewhite 2017, p. 312). 32 Dio, Roman History, 55.23.4. The use of   epithets for army units, going back to the Republic, was revived at the time of  the emperor Nero and, specially, during the civil war of   68–69 when emperors and their rivals sought ways of  acquiring loyalty (Keppie 1998, p. 120). 33 Commodus the madman was a  contemporary construct, according to Olivier Hekster. Hekster emphasizes the rationality of   Commodus’ eccentric self-representation as a  ‘logical attempt to become the people’s princeps, by an ever-increasing personalization of   the role of   emperor’. This should be seen in the context of   his endeavor to limit the power of   the traditional social-political 28 29

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emperors, who badly needed a  strong public image, not just to shine as ‘the people’s princeps’ but for sheer survival. 34 The special position of  the emperor was affirmed in some contemporary sources, if  only to emphasize his role in creating cohesion. This was a relevant issue, of   course, in the early years when civil wars were no distant memory. In  one of   his essays, Seneca expressed this notion well, underlining the role of   obedience to the emperor in holding the Empire together: It is, accordingly, their own safety that men love when for one man’s sake they lead ten legions at a time to battle, when they dash to the front line and brave wounds with their chests, so that their emperor’s standards may not turn in defeat. For he is  the bond that unites the state, he is  the breath of  life drawn by all these thousands, who would in their own strength constitute nothing but a burden to themselves and prey to others, should that mind of  Empire be withdrawn. ‘If  safe their king, all have one mind / If  lost, they leave all loyalty behind’. Such a disaster will be the destruction of   the Roman peace, such a disaster will bring the fortune of   so mighty a  nation crashing down; such a  danger will not threaten this people as long as it shall know how to yield to the rein, but if  it ever breaks free from the rein, or refuses to accept the bit once more in its mouth, should some mishap shake it loose, this unity and this fabric of   an Empire most mighty will fly into many parts, and the end of  this city’s exercise of  power will be one with the end of  her obedience. 35

Panegyrics were ideally suited to show loyalty to the emperor. Among the panegyrics of   this period, Pliny’s Panegyric to Trajan has become well-known. It  was written and delivered when Trajan had just acceded. Like Seneca’s panegyric of   the emperor Nero, in his De Clementia (Of  Clemency), its praise of   the new emperor was mixed with exhortation. Trajan was urged to conelite of   the empire for the benefit of   his own personal favorites (Hekster 2002, p. 201–2). 34  Hekster 2002, p. 201–2. 35  Seneca, ‘On Mercy’, 1.4. The quote is  from Virgil’s Georgics, about bees and their devotion to their ‘kings’.

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tinue to exhibit his virtues of   humanitas and civilitas, Nero to employ the clementia attributed to him. Panegyrics were full of  conventions, and often prepared for a  new emperor’s accession; hence they are sometimes labelled as ‘accession literature’. 36 Inscriptions were made to honor the emperor, such as one set up by senators to praise the emperor Marcus Aurelius, which said that he ‘surpassed the magnificent deeds of   even the best of  emperors preceding him since he destroyed or disciplined extraordinarily warlike peoples’. 37 And, perhaps most importantly, loyalty to the emperor was sought in the dissemination of  his public image. To  begin with, his image was visually dispersed over the whole empire, as we know from Marcus Cornelius Fronto’s correspondence with Marcus Aurelius. 38 In  order to enhance the ‘charismatic’, superhuman power of  the emperor, imperial virtues were attributed to him, and these were widely proclaimed in panegyrics and through the mass-medium of   coinage. 39 Of   course, there was general agreement that the good emperor would avoid the trappings of   the emperor cult during his lifetime, especially in Rome. In principle, worship was not offered to a living human but to his genius and numen instead. 40 And, not to forget, from 36  Braund 2012, p. 98–105. Panegyrics at this time had a dual role, Braund maintains: not only did they serve to give accolades to the new ruler, but they could also ‘reflect or even prescribe a programme of   behaviour’. (Braund 2012, p. 105–6). 37  Hekster 2007, p. 350. 38   Fronto, ‘Ad M. Caes.’, 4.12.4. 39  The emperor was long thought to incarnate a fixed set of   cardinal virtues, a ‘canon of  imperial virtues’, such as virtus, clementia, iustitia and pietas. The role of   these special virtues was first underlined by Charlesworth in 1937, and subsequently picked up by German classicists like Wickert (in his ‘Herrscherideal’), but later also downplayed. Wallace-Hadrill argued that the depiction of   specific virtues on coin reverses could not have been aiming for the masses because of  their lack of   understanding of   these concepts, which derived from Greek tradition. Also, there was no set corpus of   virtues: the combination of   desirable attributes changed over the years, and, for a  long time, virtues and personifications on coins were relatively rare; they only became popular under Hadrian. For these reasons, one cannot speak of   a ‘systematic attempt to propagate imperial virtues’ (Wallace-Hadrill 1981, p. 299–311). All this does not diminish the value attached to the special qualities that elevated the emperor. 40  Wardle 2012, p.  307. Ittai Gradel argues that worship was to the living emperor, not to his genius (Gradel 2002, chapter 8). Like Duncan Fishwick, Gradel stresses that divinity should not be interpreted as a  religious concept

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the Early Empire, the emperor’s divinity was a  cliché and a  for­ mula used on coins and inscriptions, as well as in invocations and dedications, such as Valerius Maximus’ words of   dedication to the emperor Tiberius in the preface to his Memorable Deeds and Sayings: ‘Our faith in your divinity comes from your living presence and is  as sound as our faith in the stars of   your father and your grandfather’. 41 But overall, before Severus, personifications and virtues featured on a large part of   the coin reverses, and deities only played a  minor role; the message intended was that the virtuous emperor would bring blessing to the empire. In the later 2nd century, the emphasis shifted more to the divine, and the power wielded by the emperor was expressly sanctioned by deities. 42 The loyalty of  soldiers to the army unit and their commander, a  focus of   interest in the traditional virtus and disciplina dis­ course, was treated from different perspectives in this period, some­­times as part of  set patterns of  ideas – we shall see this later – but sometimes adapted to the changing times. It is especially the aspect of   disciplina that received attention rather than virtus. Of  course, virtus had been of  great concern in the old days, when soldiers were citizens, but in our period it had become less of   an issue at a  time when young males would prefer better careers than soldiering. In  a  passage, Seneca implied that the old idea of   army life as ‘civic duty’ could no longer be taken for granted, and commented on the various ways in which young men could fulfil their obligations: If  you devote to studies the time you have stolen from public duties, you will neither have abandoned nor refused your office. For he is  not the only kind of   soldier who stands in the line of  battle and defends the right wing or the left; there is  also the one who guards the gates, occupying a  post that is  less dangerous but far from idle, who maintains a  watch

(which is  a  Christianizing perception) but as a  social phenomenon. Fishwick relates it to status; Gradel sees it as part of  the system of  mutual obligation – honor was accorded in exchange for benefaction, and divinity was the highest honor (Fishwick 2002, p. 203; Gradel 2002, chapter 1). 41  Valerius Maximus, Memorable Deeds and Sayings, 1.0. 42  Rowan 2012, p. 5.

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through the night and is  in charge of   the armoury; these tasks may not risk bloodshed, but they count as the service of  a soldier. 43

Since disciplina came to be redefined as a form of   service to the army itself  rather than to the res publica, a trend set in motion in previous periods, it made the necessity for the general to control and maintain his men’s commitment (and not just their obedience) imperative. In principle, the allegiance of  the soldier was to his general. But, conversely, the general’s popularity among the soldiers was his key to survival. It  could even make him, willynilly, the new emperor. Vitellius followed Galba in the year of   the four emperors (ad  68–69), not least because of   his genial disposition towards the troops. ‘He would greet even private soldiers with an embrace’, Suetonius comments, and his conduct on the march ‘further enhanced [the soldiers’] good opinion of   him’. 44 Tacitus depicts how Germanicus during his campaigns inspected the army camps and tested morale and his own standing among the soldiers, enjoying remarks he overheard about his endurance and friendliness, and his equability under all circumstances. 45 In  his panegyric, Pliny the Younger commended the emperor Trajan: he knew nearly all his soldiers by name, and was in the front lines with the fighting. 46 Something similar was said about Trajan’s successor Hadrian, who not only took great pains to restore discipline among the troops, but bent over backwards to fraternize with his soldiers. Fragments from one of   Hadrian’s speeches survive in the Lambaesis inscriptions in the remains of   a Roman camp in Northern Africa. Even if  the text does not represent the actual words spoken but a  later reconstruction, it tells us something about the importance attached to discipline and training to keep 43  Seneca, ‘On the Tranquillity of   the Mind’, 3. Elsewhere, he made an implied statement on the lack of  motivation among the ran-and-file: ‘It is a poor soldier that follows his commander grumbling. So let us receive our orders readily and cheerfully, and not desert the ranks along the march’ (Seneca, Letters from a Stoic, 107). 44 Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, 9.7–8. 45 Tacitus, Annals, 11.12. 46   Pliny the Younger, Panegyric in Praise of  Trajan, 15.

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the troops in shape, and Hadrian can be credited with a detailed knowledge of   the military routine and skills in motivating the soldiers: You did everything according to the book; you filled the training ground with your wheelings; you threw spears not ungracefully, though with short and stiff  shafts. Several of  you hurled lancea spears with skill. Your jumping onto the horses here was lively and yesterday swift. Had anything been lacking, I  would note it; had anything stood out, I  would mention it. You pleased equally throughout the whole manoeuvre. 47

These examples underline the growing importance attached to the general’s capabilities in keeping up morale. Since many of  the emperors in the Early Empire personally led armies and spent most of   their time in army camps, their soldiers’ loyalty had now become a  ‘make-or-break’ condition. We saw that competent commanders would sometimes start campaigns to keep the soldiers in shape. Overall, indiscipline could be nipped in the bud, Seneca writes in one of   his letters, by giving the men work to do, such as expeditions ‘to keep them actively employed’. 48 However, maintaining discipline was an ongoing challenge, even for expert generals. Polyaenus set Scipio as an example when the latter successfully routed out the luxury and love of  ease he saw among his troops: Scipio expelled all prostitutes from the camp; bidding them go, and exercise their trades in cities, which were abandoned to ease and luxury. He ordered also to be sent away all couches, tables, vases, and the whole apparatus of   dinner, except a pot, a spit, and an earthen mug. And if  any one desired to be allowed a silver cup, he limited the size of   it to a  pint. The use of   baths he prohibited; and forbade those, who used unguents, to be attended by servants in their rubbings, observing that the servants might be much more usefully employed in taking care of   the cattle. He obliged the army to eat cold dinners; allowing the preparation of   hot meat only for suppers. He introduced the wearing of   the   Speidel 2006, Field 29, July 13, Ala I Pannoniorum.  Seneca, Letters from a Stoic, 56.

47 48

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Gallic cloak, and himself  used to wear a  black one; and in walking about the camp, if  he saw any of  the generals reclined on couches, he would lament the luxury of   the army, and their love of  ease. 49

We have conflicting messages here. Apparently, the image of  perfect discipline did not always conform to common practise. At the same time, it can be reasonably assumed that the various cases we see were exceptional enough to be included in the text and commented on. As for the role of   the emperor in the discourse so far, there is a marked duality. On the one hand, as the supreme ruler he had an elevated status and was endowed with a set of   special virtues. On the other, as the supreme commander he was supposed to stay close to his armies and show qualities of   leadership and charisma on location. 50 In one of   the letters written by Fronto to the emperor Verus, on a campaign against the Parthians in ad 164, Verus is addressed in the following words: ‘You have many assistants in your pursuit of   glory and distinction in warfare, many thousands of   men who have been summoned from every nation to assist you, and strive for victory on your behalf’. 51 I believe the fragment perfectly encapsulates and represents the tenets of   the conformist view: the emperor is credited with martial ambition (‘your pursuit of  glory’), his soldiers are close to him as commander (‘assistants’) but also serve him as emperor by yielding their victory to him (‘on your behalf’). 3.1.2. Roman Superiority The superiority discourse of   the Early Empire is a good example of   the conformist perspective. It  reaffirms the traditional positions with small adaptations and some reservations. Tacitus is our main source here, and we can see a change of   focus from  Polyaenus, Stratagems, 8.16.2.   Apparently, Augustus recognized this potential conflict. According to Suetonius, after the civil wars were over, he never addressed the soldiers by the title ‘fellow-soldiers’, but as ‘soldiers’ only (Suetonius, ‘Life of  August’, 21). 51  Fronto, ‘Ad Verum Imp.’, 2.1.3. 49 50

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Livy’s interest in the Gauls as Rome’s ‘barbarians’ to Tacitus’ focus on the Germans. Of  course, the times have changed, and the Gauls no longer form a military threat. This does not mean the Gauls have disappeared from the discourse: in a  way, they remain Rome’s favourite barbarians – they stay close in distance and time, and maintain their symbolic importance in Rome’s collective memory. The ethnographic conventions that Caesar introduced to dis­tin­guish Gauls from Germans were adopted by Tacitus and Seneca. 52 The basic idea was that tribes could be categorized on the basis of   their relative geographical distance from Rome. 53 This made the Germans perfect barbarians, and it shows in their record. They were unreliable, Velleius had already said, for ‘they are natural born liars, constantly involved in trumped-up litigation’. Fortunately, the superior Romans could ‘calm their barbarous nature’ by introducing the ‘strange new concept of   settling disputes with law rather than weapons’. 54 There was no such patronizing in the stereotype of   the German fighting spirit, which, as we know from Caesar’s commentaries, was generally admired. Tacitus recognizes German bravery as well, in Germanicus’ campaign described in the Annals, 55 and he also points out, in his Germania, that the name ‘German’ was first adopted by a  tribe called the Tungri in order to inspire terror. 56 Of  course, portrayals like this had rhetorical purposes in that they served to remind the Roman audience that the Germans, primitive as they were, were still morally upright and vigorous, and could well be held up as an example in this respect. 57 All the same, in Germania Tacitus is not simply censuring Rome’s loss of   virtus, for the shortcomings of   the Germans are given just as much weight as their virtues. 58

  Krebs 2011, p. 202–21.   Augustus had prided himself  on bringing Roman rule to the fringes of  the world – the Cimbri in the North, the Ethiopians in the South (Res Gestae, 26). 54  Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.108. 55 Tacitus, Annals, 2.20. 56 Tacitus, Germania, 2.24. 57  Wells 2011, p. 214–15. 58  Martin 1981, p. 49. 52 53

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As to the styles of   combat, barbarians in general were usually unfavorably contrasted with the Romans. Since barbarian armies were no match for the disciplined, professional Romans, they had to resort to less honorable tactics like ambushes, surprise, deceit and the like. 59 This is a recurrent theme in the treatment of  the enemy’s fighting styles in our sources. In his famous treatise Stratagems, Polyaenus begins his chapter on barbarians and warfare with a preface cautioning his Roman audience not to underestimate the enemy: In this book you will observe that even the minds of   barbarians are capable of  military stratagems, deceptions, and tricks. And therefore you will see that you yourselves should not hold them in too great contempt, and your generals must be similarly cautious. For there is  nothing against which they should guard more carefully than tricks, cunning and deception; the barbarians excel much more in these devices, than in military prowess. And nothing will protect them more effectively from the tricks of   the barbarians, than a constant distrust of  their promises and claims. By uniting this distrust with typical Roman valour, we can be still more superior to them, if  we also add a knowledge of  the stratagems which they have sometimes employed. 60

It was believed that, what barbarians shared in their way of   war as compared to the Romans was their tendency to put all their effort in the initial attack. ‘Natives are always full of   fight at the start, and if  successful they get out of   control’, Tacitus says of  the Batavians. 61 In  another passage, he gives this same idea where he ‘quotes’ Germanicus: ‘Physically, they look formidable and are good for a short rush. But they cannot stand being hurt. They quit and run unashamedly, regardless their commanders. In  victory they respect no law, human or divine, in defeat they panic’. 62 In this respect, barbarians were considered a lesser species, ruled by emotion rather than by spirit. They ‘rush into war   Velleius’ narrative of  German ‘craft’ in the Battle of  the Teutoburg Forest is a good example (Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.118.1). 60 Polyaenus, Stratagems, 7.0. 61 Tacitus, Histories, 4.23. 62 Tacitus, Annals, 11.13. 59

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randomly’, Seneca says, ‘whenever their fickle minds are stirred by the thought of  wrongs inflicted’. 63 The barbarian Britons received the same treatment in Tacitus’ application of  the ‘onion principle’ in his Agricola. On the whole, the Britons display more ferocity than the Gauls because they have not yet been softened by a  long peace. But the same process of   softening is taking place among the British Celts as well; that is, among the tribes that have been subdued by the Romans. The more northern tribes, which have been unexposed to Roman influence and which form the outer ring of   the onion, happily maintain the traditional, warlike character of   the more primitive barbarians. 64 It was part of   the process of   Romanization to teach barbarian forces that were integrated as allies how to adopt the more systematic, organized approach of   the Romans. Sertorius, a maverick Roman general who campaigned in Spain in the first century bc and changed sides, was greatly admired and loved by the locals because he introduced Roman methods and ‘did away with their frenzied and furious displays of   courage, and converted their forces into an army, instead of   a huge band of   robbers’. At any rate, this is  what Plutarch reports, underlining the familiar Roman stance. 65 The clash of   fighting styles dominates a  long period of  Roman history and Roman thought. Traces of   some form of   understanding for the defeated races are hard to find, but there is a noteworthy exception in the liberty topos that can be found in our sources, and that follows Caesar’s ambivalent but pragmatic views. The barbarian urge to rebel against the oppressor is  sometimes connected with the concepts of   freedom and slavery. For example, Tacitus puts the love of   liberty in the mouth of   Caratacus, chieftain of   the Catuvellauni tribe and leader of   the resistance against the Claudian conquest of  Britain: Caratacus, as he hastened to one point and another, stressed that this was the day, this the battle, which would either win back their freedom or enslave them for ever. He invoked   Seneca, ‘On Anger’, 2.  Tacitus, Agricola, 11.50–52. 65  Plutarch, ‘Life of  Sertorius’, 4.1–2. 63 64

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their ancestors, who by routing Julius Caesar had valorously preserved their present descendants from Roman officials and taxes – and their wives and children from defilement. These exhortations were applauded. 66

In contrasting the two well-known brothers Flavus and Arminius, who were on opposite sides in the Battle of   Teutoburg Forest, Tacitus presents this dilemma in very concrete terms: Then they argued their opposing cases. Flavus spoke of  Rome’s greatness, the emperor’s wealth, the terrible punishment attending defeat, the mercy earned by submission – even Arminius’ own wife and son were not treated like enemies. His brother dwelt on patriotism, long-established freedom, the national gods of   Germany – and their mother, who joined him in imploring that Flavus should not choose to be deserter and betrayer, rather than liberator, of  his relatives and country. 67

We do not see Tacitus taking sides here, but in another passage Tacitus resolves this dilemma. This is  when Cerialis, a  Roman commander addresses the Gauls during preparations for punitive action against the invading German tribes of   the Rhineland. For the Germans, liberty is just an excuse, he says, to wage war – what really drives them is their ‘lust, greed and roving spirit’: It is  always the same motive that impels the Germans to invade the Gallic provinces – their lust, greed and roving spirit. What they have really wanted is  to abandon their marshes and deserts, and gain control of   this rich soil and of  yourselves. But ‘liberty’ and other fine phrases serve as their pretexts. Indeed, no one has ever aimed at enslaving others and making himself  their master without using this very same language. 68

Tacitus’ apparent efforts to put the liberty discourse in perspective are confirmed later on, where he narrates the story of   the revolt led by Civilis, an attempt to unite various tribes against Rome  Tacitus, Annals, 12.33.  Tacitus, Annals, 2.9. 68 Tacitus, Histories, 4.73. 66 67

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and its allies. Liberty is  just one of   the rebels’ rallying cries, together with booty and honor: At their various command-posts, Tutor, Classicus and Civilis were spurring their men to battle, urging the Gauls to fight for liberty, the Batavians for glory and the Germans in the interest of  plunder. 69

In all these passages, Tacitus cannot help to take the Roman view and construct a  barbarian rhetoric that is  largely Roman. The opposition between Roman and barbarian that he presents to the reader should actually be seen as his way of   coming to terms with his own moral dilemma. How inferior are the barbarians that apparently manage to hold on to the old virtues that the Romans used to have and our now sadly lacking? To create a true opposition, barbarian leaders were given Roman rhetorical skills and Roman concepts like ‘liberty’ to advance their cause, unlikely features for petty warlords of  ever-changing war parties. 70 To conclude, it  is clear that, in the historiography of   the time, the superiority discourse was dominated by two things. Over a long time, descriptions of   barbarians in general and their fighting styles in particular were transmitted as stereotypes and were only slightly adapted. This is  what Christopher Krebs has recently argued. 71 Focusing on Caesar, Tacitus and Seneca, Krebs treats these authors as ‘borealistic’, northern versions of   Edward Said’s well-known ‘orientalists’. It is certainly true that they form a tradition, with Tacitus at the end of   this line. 72 He makes the Germans the new Gauls, ‘warriors once but now hotheads’, and  Tacitus, Histories, 4.78.   In this respect, Tacitus’ moral vision, which is firmly in the great Roman tradition of   historiography, is  different from Livy’s. Whereas Livy’s moralizing is  essentially optimistic, Tacitus’ is  not. The loss of   virtus and the other great virtues, bemoaned by nearly all writers, is only half  of  the bad news. There is little hope for redemption, for in his day and age Tacitus saw despotic emperors and their rule of  terror putting an end to all freedom, in the ‘despotism of  the present’ (Annals, 4.35). For Tacitus, the moral decline in the Early Empire could be attributed to the concentration of   power in the hands of   the emperors and their courts (Mellor 1993, p. 48; p. 60). 71  Krebs 2011, p. 210. 72   Of  course, earlier authors like Polybius and Livy are part of   this as well, and used as sources, and the line only ends with Tacitus in the present chapter. 69 70

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elaborates on their cardinal flaw, iracundia, uncontrolled rage, the weakness of   Caesar’s Gauls. In this, Tacitus’s borrows from Seneca, who, in his dialogues, describes them as such. 73 Conventions rule the texts. Apart from the stereotyping, it is rhetoric that marks the discourse, in that it is not just the subject matter of   the discourse, but also its presentation that is ‘Romanocentric’. This is best seen in the ideas held by opposing parties and the ways in which they were expressed in the speeches. Although it was obviously not new, it stood out in our period, when Roman encounters with new peoples on their northern borders increased, and authors like Tacitus covered them in their writings because they were high on the political agenda. In  Tacitus, who had a  sceptical eye, we find a  mix, however, since his Roman perspective is  combined with a critical mind. Roman superiority is now somewhat dubious. In  one of   our literary sources, Juvenal, this more balanced approach is followed – his persona cautions the Romans not to dismiss the Gauls as inferior barbarians: Take care not to victimize Men both desperate and courageous. Though you rob them of  all Their gold and silver, they still possess swords and shields, Helmets and javelins: the plundered keep their weapons. 74

In our visual sources of   the time, the way in which barbarians are depicted largely follows the same pattern, but in the later 2nd century there are marked changes that point to developments that will take shape in the 3rd century. In the earlier images we find the familiar scenes of   submission, the emblem of   Roman superiority, such as on Trajan’s Column, at the end of  the pictorial story of   the First Dacian War. Tonio Hölscher has pointed to the absoluteness of   Roman superiority as depicted here, for Trajan’s war in Dacia was against a single, isolated foe, while the Roman army was made up of   the whole world – his allies came from north (German club-warriors), east (archers from Palmyra),

  Krebs 2011, p. 208–9; Seneca, ‘On Anger’, 1.11.  Juvenal, Satires, 8.121–24.

73 74

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south (horsemen from Mauretania) and west (slingers from the Balearic Islands). 75 Trajan’s Trophy at Adamklissi (in today’s Romania) displays a different mood, but still uses the same perspective. It commemorates Trajan’s victory over the Dacians and was built over an altar inscribed with the names of   nearly 3000 Roman legionaries and auxilia – and their origins – who had died there for the Republic. 76 Trajan’s monument, erected around ad  109, first of   all symbolizes the revenge for the original defeat, as expressed in the dedication to Mars Ultor, Mars the Revenger. It is different from most other monuments of  the period in that it was built by local craftsmen and sculptors who used a  ‘barbarian’ vernacular in their style. As Jas Elsner suggests, this results in a ‘simplified’ and ‘humanized’ version of   the battle in the form of   a symbolic hand-to-hand combat. Romans and Dacians are both shown to be noble, whether in battle or in defeat. 77 The Dacian ‘barbarians’ that are depicted are even of  equal size to the Roman soldiers, and they are nude, in the heroic Greek style. 78 This aspect should not be overemphasized, it seems to me. Even if  the conquered keep their dignity, the brutality of   Roman conquest cannot be taken away from the monument. In a distant place like Adamklissi, the monument had a strong message for its target audience of  frontier soldiers and the locals: a message of  military power and the assertion of  that power. 79 The altar, built earlier on the spot, is also exceptional, for putting up war memorials to commemorate the fallen – something we take for granted today – was not a Roman tradition. It marks the loss of   soldiers’ lives, since it records the names of   Romans killed in a battle, 80 possibly a previous encounter during a campaign by the emperor Domitian. 81 The unique list of   names of  the fallen may be explained by the remote location, and if  Iain     77   78  79  80  81  75 76

Hölscher 2003, p. 11. Butler 2013, p. 277. Elsner 1998, p. 126. Kleiner 2006, p. 230. Ferris 2003, p. 67. Hope 2003, p. 91–92. Ferris 2000, chapter 3.

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Ferris for this reason qualifies Trajan’s monument as ‘intended to be a purely military memorial, by soldiers for soldiers’, this can just as well be said of   the earlier altar, I believe, and thus explain its nature. But overall, unless it concerned aristocrats with a track record in public service, mourning the battlefield dead was a family and private affair. 82 Usually, Roman soldiers killed in battle were cremated and interred in mass graves. There were no tombstones to mark their graves. This does not mean that no tombstones have been found – they were usually erected in peacetime, however, and they have been associated with campsites. This form of   commemoration is testimony to the idea that individual Roman soldiers were surrounded by ‘a supportive network of  military comrades who acted as pseudo-family’, 83 and underlines the importance of  the army as a social institution in those days. The late 2nd-century changes in the depiction of   conflicts with barbarians fell in with the troubles that started to brew at the end of  the Antonine Dynasty: political and military (uprisings on the frontiers), agricultural (bad harvests), disease (the ‘Antonine Plague’) and religious (the appeal of   Christianity and other new creeds). 84 These may well explain the new imagery that we find on the Column of  Marcus Aurelius in Rome, commissioned by Commodus and completed around ad 192. It commemorates Marcus’s military campaigns against the Marcomanni in 172–73, and the Sarmatians in 174–75. It has a number of  graphic scenes of   violence that are remarkable. The column shows executions of   German prisoners that had resisted Rome. To rub it in, the executions are by German troops still loyal to Rome. The emperor Marcus Aurelius supervises one of   these scenes of   Roman brutality. In  another scene, a  Roman soldier is  leading a  barbarian woman away who is using her body as a protective shield for her young son. 85 82   There is, however, an interesting passage in Tacitus’ Annals that tells us how Germanicus and his men, during their campaign on the German frontier, passed by the Teutoburgian Forest, where Varus and his soldiers ‘lay unburied’. They decided to pay a last tribute to their fellows, and ‘were stirred to pity at the thought of  their kindred, of  their friends’ (Annals, 1.60–61). 83  Hope 2003, p. 86. 84  Jongman 2007, p. 198–99. 85   Krierer 1995, p. 298.

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Without symbolism, allegory or allusion, this was a new way of   artistic expression, and scholars like Ferris, Pirson, Beckmann, Zanker and Dillon have come up with a  range of   analyses and explanations. Ferris believes it was not an example of  the harsher treatment of   Germans (as compared to Gauls) but rather the spirit of   Antonine Rome, which was crueler towards all barbar­ ians, not just Germans, and reflects widespread institutionalized violence in Roman society itself. 86 Pirson connects the imagery on the monument to the period when it was built, a volatile time of   barbarian incursions and diseases. He argues, quite convincingly, that the scenes of   violence should be seen as a  need for Roman ‘self-affirmation in insecure times’. This is  why more explicit messages were needed to create stronger expressive effects. 87 Beckmann follows another line, arguing that the basic function of   the monument was to show, by means of   a  mass of  military imagery, that Marcus’ achievements were equal to Trajan’s. 88 Although this may explain the grand scope of   the Column, it does not account for its new stylistic preferences. Indeed, the war scenes depicted are reminiscent of   the earlier Column of   Trajan, the decorations of   which told the story of  Trajan’s campaigns of   101–2 and 105–7 against the Dacians. The illustrations are vivid and realistic on the one hand, giving us a  few snapshots of   all sorts of   aspects of   the Roman way of  war, not just battle, and symbolic on the other. 89 Trajan’s Column, however, shows a more efficient, victorious army, one that is  less engaged in bloody encounters, whereas Marcus Aurelius leads a more struggling army that, as the column narrative shows, depends on the miracles of   the gods, thunder and rain, to turn the tide in its favor. 90 For Zanker, the difference between the narratives of   the two columns is based on the fact that the wars themselves were fundamentally different: Trajan conducted a war of   conquest, whereas Marcus Aurelius fought a  defensive war of   retribution, with a lot more at stake for Rome. 91 Against     88   89  90  91  86 87

Ferris 2011, p. 193–95; p. 185–86. Pirson 1996, p. 139–79. Beckmann 2011, p. 184. Bonanno 1983, p. 78. Kleiner 1992, p. 300. Zanker 1988, p. 127.

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the background of   volatile conditions, the Column of   Marcus Aurelius must be seen, I  believe, as a  very forceful expression of   Roman might and a  reminder of   the woeful fate that awaits barbarian aggressors. 92 As always, change went together with continuity. The notion of   clemency – we saw it in Caesar’s discourse – had become part of   the discourse. Here we find it expressed on three panels now in the Musei Capitolini that show Marcus Aurelius with a group of   vanquished Germans. He is  on horseback and surrounded by Roman soldiers. Two German prisoners are presented to the emperor. They are on their knees and stretch out their hands as a token of   submission. The emperor extends his right arm to indicate that he accepts their submission. In this case, clemency is emphasized – we can also see it on coins from the same period that have the legend CLEMENTIA AUG. Usually clemency is combined with the more conventional trampling of   the enemy, such as shown on the Column. Isaac believes images like this were meant to give the ‘realities’ of   war as the Romans liked to depict them, including the idea of  the emperor personally leading the troops against the enemy. 93 Clemency was a recognized virtue, but empathy was not. The brutality of   war, especially where it concerns children, in certain scenes on the column evokes the viewer’s empathy, but to what extent it was intended we do not know. Lacking contemporary evidence to posit it as a  discourse category, ‘empathy’ may well be a  modern concept. Therefore, linking the emotional impact of   war images with Marcus Aurelius’ philosophy or the ‘crisis of   confidence in the rational order of   the army and the state’, as Nancy and Andrew Ramage do, is too neat and out of   context it seems to me. 94 92  Using the perspective of   gender, Sheila Dillon comes to her own conclusion. The violence against women that is depicted on the monument is part of  the symbolic expression of   humiliation of   the opponent. This means that the vocabulary of   the images (in this case, rape) may be different, but the message remains the same (Dillon 2006, p. 262). In such general and abstract terms, this can be said of  almost all artistic changes. 93  Isaac 2004, plate 10. The combination of   aggression and forgivingness is certainly reminiscent of  Anchises’ forward-looking advice in the Aeneid, to ‘spare the conquered but subdue the proud’ (Virgil, Aeneid, 6.853). 94   Ramage and Ramage 1991, p. 276.

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Instead, a  connection with the emotional intensity of   Hellenistic victory monuments can certainly be made, but the relationship is  stylistic and aesthetic, and the message of   Roman supremacy remains unchanged. Although it dates from a  later period (c.  260), the Ludovisi Battle Sarcophagus is  an example that belongs to this era, for it is the latest object in a series of  sarcophagi with related motifs. It has battle scenes with Roman soldiers and their adversaries intertwined. The barbarians may be Goths, who were threatening Rome at the time, or they might perhaps be ‘generic’, standing for the barbarian world. 95 Anyway, the ‘ugliness of   pain and suffering is stressed by the dishevelled hair, the tormented eyes, the twisted mouth’, so that the emotional impact is strong. 96 In conclusion, the visual representations of  Roman superiority that we find expressed within the ‘formal’ discourse points to an underlying continuity (submission scenes, clemency as the ruler’s virtue) in a process of   change to apply more powerful and emotional imagery. 3.1.3. The Victory Discourse Whereas in the Republic victory was pursued in a  competitive spirit by members of   the aristocracy, in the Empire it became the ambition of   emperors or claimants to the throne. Emperors of   necessity pursued victories to confirm their supreme position and stay in the saddle, as Claudius did with his conquest of   Britain. If  military experience was unattainable, such as for the elderly Nerva, an experienced general – in his case, Trajan – could be adopted as son and successor. This is how Trajan became the next emperor. Personal involvement in warfare was helpful: it facilitated the symbolical role of   success in war in Roman society. In  the 3rd century, this development would come to a height. The visualization of  victory that we see in the Augustan period continues into the Early Empire, on statues, triumphal arches, and on coins. On the whole, the early years of   our period follow   Kleiner 1992, p. 389.   Strong 1995, p. 257.

95 96

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established conventions that pay tribute to the idea the Empire was a continuation of  the Republic. As time went on, the imagery of   victory became less personalized and more abstract or symbolic. This was a remarkable change, since it took leave from the traditional, Republican idea of   the ruler as triumphator in battle; instead, victories obtained by his generals were now dedicated and ascribed to him as emperor. In fact, in the course of   time it became the emperor’s office that obtained the charisma expressed by victory, a  development that was accelerated by Hadrian’s disinclination to seek further expansion, Clifford Ando argues: Victoria Augusti could now be invoked without military success since it referred to the favour of  the goddess Victoria to the position of  the emperor. 97 The way in which victory was visualized shows the importance attached to continuity with the past. The rededication of  the temple of   Aedes Castoris in ad  6 is  a  good example that, although it is properly part of   the Augustan age, points to the sentiment of   the Early Empire. The old temple, dedicated to the Dioscuri – the two young men Castor and Pollux who were traditionally seen as harbingers of   military victory – was rededicated in the names of   Tiberius and his deceased brother Drusus. In this way, the Republican bringers of   victory were related to the military feats of  Augustus’ successors. 98 Conventions characterize Trajan’s bust from the Collection of   Antiquities in Munich. It has, Gunnar Seelentag has pointed out, a number of   features recognizable for contemporaries: nakedness (signifying bravery), baldric (military accomplishments), crown of   oak leaves (the corona civica, awarded to him by Senate and People), and aegis (direct protection from Jupiter). 99 Although many of   these signals were quite orthodox, they had to be constantly reaffirmed since the political system of  the Empire was based on the principle that the emperor had to be accepted by three different social groups: senate, army and people, and that the emperor was expected to respect their individual interests. 100   Ando 2000, p. 278.   Sumi 2009, p. 167; p. 186. 99  Seelentag 2011, p. 76. 100  Seelentag 2011, p. 79. 97 98

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On statues, the emperor was frequently depicted in military dress and with the armor of   a commander. To evoke the idea of  ‘victory’, and give him all the honor of   military success, he was often represented as mounted, i.e. on an equestrian statue. But popular generals like Germanicus also had their statues erected for them; after Germanicus’ death, his statues were ‘almost innumerable’, Tacitus says. 101 The old lavish triumphs of   earlier days had now changed into smaller-scale processions, less costly and more practical affairs. Military honors were often conferred posthumously by means of   celebratory arches with the honoured general depicted on top of   a  statue in a  triumphal quadriga. These arches were permanent reminders of   the temporary triumphal gates through which the victorious generals had entered the city. Columns and their friezes, like the Column of  Trajan, played a similar role, with the figure of   Victory prominently symbolizing the outcome of   his celebrated Dacian War. Mythological representations have now fallen into disuse. On coins and on metal cups the trend towards symbolism was even more marked, in that the victorious general was not depicted as triumphator (in his chariot) but as victor receiving hostages and accepting lost standards, or by less triumphant imagery like laurels, the emblem of  Victory on a globe, and so on. In this way, the old Republican traditions could live on ‘in more practical and economical forms’. 102 What is  more important in our context, they also underwent a  form of   abstraction, for the more concrete triumphator became the more abstract victor. On coin reverses, Victory was by far the most common theme (as, in fact, in all periods of   Empire). 103 Apparently, the theme remained powerful in that it was believed to add lustre to the authority of   the emperor over a very long time. Many examples can be given to show the ubiquity of   Victory on coins, but a few will suffice. In  72–73, two coins were struck by Vespasian and Titus that commemorated a  victory with a  number of   military images – there is no doubt as to how Roman victories were real Tacitus, Annals, 2.83.   Kleiner and Buxton 2008, p. 86. 103  Wallace-Hadrill 1986, p. 69. 101 102

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ized. The first, struck by Vespasian has Victory inscribing VIC AVG on a shield on a palm tree, her left foot on a helmet. The second, issued by Titus, depicts ROMA VICTRIX, with Roma seated on a cuirass, holding Victory and a spear. 104 As late as the 3rd  century, many coin issues still had military representations, of  which the victory type was the ‘prevailing standard’. 105 Since victory and peace were so closely related, the Victory emblem is  sometimes combined with that of   Pax, who is  also represented as a female figure. Here we have a strong link with the Augustan period, when this idea was developed. On a coin struck by Trajan, Pax can be seen setting fire to a  pile of   captured Dacian arms. Both Victory and Peace could be personally associated with the emperor, to become, for example, Victoria Augusta or Pax Augusta. 106 The rich panoply of   Roman symbols, then, was ultimately subservient to the identification of   all they stood for with the emperor himself. It could be argued that the combination of  the image of  Pax – such as on the Ara Pacis’ peaceful procession – with that of   victory, of   Rome ‘enthroned triumphant on a  pile of   weapons’, was what Rome’s imperium was all about: it was symbolic rather than administrative or territorial. 107 The combination of   Victory and Pax in the Early Empire is not always synchronic – the two can follow each other in time, like Domitian and Trajan, who followed each other in time. Domitian’s coins emphasized the aspect of   victory, with Germania on the ground, ‘her spear broken in a gesture of   mourning’. Trajan’s coins did not simply claim conquest and victory, but also pacification, in the form of   the personification of   Security. On Trajan’s coins from ad 98, Germania is depicted sitting on a  pile of   shields, holding an olive branch, the attribute of   the goddess Pax. 108 It would be too facile to attribute this difference in emphasis to the opposing personalities of   the two emperors,

104  Coins of  the Roman Empire in the British Museum, VI (b) ii, 138, no. 625; II, 121, no. 565, respectively (Bond 1967, p. 150). 105   Manders 2012, p. 79. 106  Campbell 2002, p. 141. 107  Kleiner and Buxton 2008, p. 61. 108  Seelentag 2011, p. 90.

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the traditional ‘bad’ vs the ‘good’ emperor. 109 It  was, instead, a matter of  consecutive reigns with different conditions. The gradual change to more martial imagery at the end of  the period that we saw above can be traced here as well. Whereas in Flavian victory monuments, like Vespasian’s Templum Pacis, or Titus’ Arch, the army’s role in the victories is still implicit, in Trajan’s monuments (such as the Great Trajanic Frieze, a set on reliefs from an unknown monument) the soldiers have a prominent role, together with their commander. 110 3.1.4. The Conquest Discourse The special position that was given to the emperor as symbol of  the nation, developed in the Augustan era, was also continued in the conquest discourse: historians and poets identified successful campaigns with the princeps. 111 After Augustus, other rulers would follow suit. 112 Although there were (again) voices expressing doubts about annexations and the rewards of   imperial rule – we shall come back to this later on – emperors still liked to celebrate their successes abroad, and ‘military glory was still a desideratum’, as Greg Woolf  says. 113 Special features included the special 109  The poor record of   Domitian has come under review. Brian Jones has argued for a re-assessment of   Domitian as a cruel yet competent ruler who effectively laid the groundwork for the prosperous period that would follow. The negative press he has had was instigated by a  hostile senatorial class that was totally unrepresentative of   other ‘stakeholders’ like the people and the army (Jones 1992, p. vii–viii). 110  Hekster 2007, p. 343–44. 111   The identification of   conquest with the emperor acted as a brake on the competitive drive. Emperors were jealous of  successful subordinates and on occasion generals were recalled from potentially glorious conquests, such as Germanicus by Tiberius (Tacitus, Annals, 2.26). Susan Mattern believes that this explains the paradox: the great prestige that was attached to conquest caused its slow pace under the Principate (Mattern 2004, p. 188). Also, the risks and costs of   expansion made conquest a less attractive gambit (Woolf  2005, p. 121). 112  With Trajan as the example of    an emperor extending the boundaries of  the empire to its limits, whether driven by hunger for glory (Dio, Roman History, 68.17.1) or by the noble pursuit of   security for the empire’s borders (Pliny, Panegyrics, 12.1). Trajan’s military ambitions are still discussed by today’s scholars in these terms (Edwell 2013, p.  251). Perhaps  F. Lepper, writing in 1948, was right after all in arguing that Trajan’s eastern expansion was a costly mistake that Hadrian prudently undid (Lepper 1948, p. 106). 113  Woolf  1995, p. 183.

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honors given to the emperor such as deification after death and distinctive titles that referred to conquest. The emperor Commodus was an extreme case of  the trend that we have observed so far to usurp all possible symbols of  conquest. He had himself  deified, but also assumed titles such as Conqueror of   the World, Roman Hercules and All-Surpasser, and even renamed the 12 months of   the year after himself, and the city of   Rome as Colonia Commodiana. 114 As we know, all this would not last very long. The conquest discourse in contemporary sources is  not uniform. In  this section we shall have a  look at the discourse that follows established patterns and remains close to the state ideology. We will begin with the historiographical tradition, starting with Pliny’s conventional destiny topos, continuing with Florus and Appian, and ending with Tacitus. Subsequently, we shall discuss the non-written sources. The written discourse that we encounter here tries to give a  rationale for Roman conquest, or takes it for granted. In  visual sources, conquest becomes one of  the great symbolic assets of  the emperor’s office. Following Herodotus and the Augustan author Vitruvius, 115 the chauvinistic idea of   ‘Manifest Destiny’ is  given some scholarly backing by Pliny the Elder. Pliny writes that ‘Italy is  the most beautiful of   all lands, endowed with all that wins Nature’s crown. Italy is the ruler and second mother of   the world – with her men and women, her generals and soldiers, her slaves, her outstanding position in arts and crafts, her abundance of  brilliant talents’. 116 And all this resulting, again, from its geographical location and climate. 117 114   Speidel 1993, p. 109. Speidel sees this extravaganza as part of   an ongoing trend at a  time that was ‘seething with religious fervor and yearning for divine help’. Hekster argues that Commodus’ posturing as Hercules (and as gladiator in munera) was a  conscious promotion of   the legitimacy of   his rule by seeking acclaim from the general public rather than the Senate or the elite (Hekster 2002, p. 154). The two readings are not mutually exclusive. Perhaps Commodus was not as insane as often believed, and felt this form of  self-promotion was opportune at the time. 115  Vitruvius explained the qualities of  the people of  Italy – strength of  body and vigor of   mind – as the product of   Italy’s favorable climate. This is why the Romans have become ‘the masters of  the world’ (De Architectura, 6.1.11). 116  Pliny the Elder, Natural History, 37.201–2. 117 Seneca’s Stoic interpretation could be seen as a  philosophical version of  the old topos. He wrote that wars of   conquest were a continuous and a more

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There are no doubts about the benefits of  conquest in the history written by Florus, a great panegyric of   Rome’s greatness, in which the Romans ‘took up arms against other nations, first to secure their liberty, then to extend their bounds, afterwards in defence of   their allies, and finally to win glory and Empire’. 118 In  other words, there was the mix of   both defensive and offensive explanations, to use modern labels that we shall come back to later. Later historians like Tacitus and Cassius Dio did not even try to give explanations for Rome’s rapid expansion – they simply recounted what happened. 119 But the historian Appian, like Strabo, had a  utilitarian view on imperialism: ‘Possessing the best parts of   the land and sea, [the Romans] intelligently choose to consolidate their rule rather than extend it endlessly over destitute and unproductive barbarian people. I  have seen some of   them in Rome negotiating and offering themselves as subjects, but the emperor would not accept men who were going to be of   no use to him’. 120 This was not what Florus believed. He argued that conquering less rich and powerful peoples was an honorable thing to do, since the new provinces brought great titles and added to imperial splendor. 121 Florus was convinced that the Romans deserved their Empire because of  their perseverance and bravery in battle: ‘How well did the Roman people deserve the Empire of   the world and the favour and admiration of   all, both gods and men!’  122 This is  why Europe belonged to Rome, ‘by right of   conquest’, Florus concluded. 123 With Roman rule naturally following Roman power, for the enemy, submission was inevitable. From a  Roman perspective, accommodation of   the weak to the strong was practical and realistic. This idea was best expressed in The Jewish War, writor less autonomous process, the decree of   fate: ‘One [people] that drove out another from its land, has itself  been compelled to go’ (Seneca, ‘Consolation to Helvia’, 7). 118 Florus, Epitome of  Roman History, 1.1.7. 119  Campbell 2002, p. 133. 120 Appian, The Civil Wars, Praef. 7, quoted by Campbell 2002, p. 132. 121  Florus, Epitome of  Roman History, 1.47.4–5. 122 Florus, Epitome of  Roman History, 22.41. 123 Florus, Epitome of  Roman History, 24.7.

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ten by Flavius Josephus, who was not a Roman himself  but had a deep understanding of  the status quo, and the reality of  Roman supremacy. Thus, we see King Agrippa admonishing the Jews to give up their fight, since there is no point in trying to stand up to Roman might: ‘Will you alone refuse to serve the masters of  the whole world? […]  Why not face facts? Are you richer than the Gauls, stronger than the Germans, cleverer than the Greeks, more numerous than all the nations of  the world? What gives you confidence to defy the power of  Rome?’ 124 In the same vein, Tacitus, in his Annals, has the governor of   Lower Germany answer the German Ampsivarii that ‘men must obey their betters’. 125 But here, while there were many arguments for the benefits of  Roman rule, the philosophical basis was not just utilitarianism but ‘the moral and spiritual superiority of   the conqueror over the conquered’, to use the words of   Karl Galinsky. 126 Overall, Tacitus’ texts do not show much ambiguity about the blessings of  Roman conquest. In the speech by Cerialis, mentioned above, the benefits of   Roman occupation are spelled out. 127 The Romans did not conquer Gaul out of   self-interest, Cerialis tells his audience of  subdued Gauls, but because they were invited to put an end to internal disorder and Germanic invasions. The present expedition, just concluded, was undertaken to put an end to German aggression. As for the future, obeying Rome would be the best policy: We ourselves, despite many provocations, imposed upon you by right of   conquest only such additional burdens as were necessary for preserving peace. Stability between nations cannot be maintained without armies, nor armies without pay, nor pay without taxation. 128  Josephus, The Jewish War, 2.360–65.  Tacitus, Annals, 13.56. 126  Galinsky 1996, p. 134. 127  Cerialis’ speech is generally interpreted as ‘a firm apologia for the Roman rule’, as Syme phrased it (Syme 1963, p.  453). With great ingenuity but little conviction, S.  J. Bastomski tried to challenge scholarly consensus by arguing that Cerialis’ words were meant to be read as a sample of   Roman craftiness and double-dealing. What we are dealing with here is  an overwrought attempt to place Tacitus in the same league with Sallust and Cicero, as great moral critics of  Rome’s imperial mission (Bastomsky 1988, p. 415). 128 Tacitus, Histories, 4.74. 124 125

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The promises here are the Augustan peace after war. But conquest was first, and was sometimes excessively violent, especially in the case of   retribution. In Tacitus’ rendering of   the campaign of   ad  16 that Germanicus led against the German Cherusci, the aggression of   ‘total war’, fuelled by the Teutoburgian defeat a  few years earlier, is  taken for granted. It  was a  great victory, Tacitus says, ‘and it cost us little. The slaughter of   the enemy continued from midday until dusk. Their bodies and weapons were scattered for ten miles round’. It  was also fully clear that it had been total war, for Germanicus wanted the enemy’s total annihilation: ‘Germanicus, who had torn off  his helmet so as to be recognized, ordered his men to kill and kill. No prisoners were wanted. Only the total destruction of   the tribe would end the war’. 129 The detached, matter-of-fact style does not show any censure or approval. But at the end of   the campaign, Germanicus had a trophy erected, Tacitus says, with the ‘proud’ inscription: ‘Dedicated to Mars and the divine Augustus by the army of  Tiberius Caesar after its conquest of   the nations between the Rhine and the Elbe’. 130 As a moralist, Tacitus held a dim view of  human ambitions, especially those of  autocratic emperors, but in his account of  the German Wars, the idea of  conquest is not really questioned on moral grounds – it is simply a given thing. 131 In the context of   Roman superiority we already saw how the visual representation changed in the course of   time. A  similar change can be seen here: in the later 2nd century we no longer see the familiar ‘dejected captive’ mode, such as on the earlier Column of   Trajan. 132 In the reliefs dating to the reign of   Marcus Aurelius that were re-used in the Arch of   Constantine, the realities of   war get a different treatment. The war of   conquest against  Tacitus, Annals, 2.14–21.  Tacitus, Annals, 2.22. 131  As in the victory discourse, conquest did have its moral dimension in that it could become a  bone of   contention between successful generals and jealous emperors, as in the case of   Agricola, whose conquest of   Britain was destined ‘to incur the hostility of  any jealous emperor’, in Tacitus’ view (Agricola, 41.2–3). 132   Shaw 1996, p. 376. For example, on a silver denarius issued during Vespasian’s reign, Judaea (a woman) is on the ground, a Roman soldier standing next to her (Isaac 2004, plate 8). 129 130

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the Marcomanni is presented in a series of   ritual acts that exemplify a  whole range of   imperial virtues, as Tonio Hölscher has pointed out. A departure scene is meant to show the emperor’s virtus, a  purification ritual the emperor’s pietas, and they are followed by adlocutio (Fides and Concordia) and subjugation (clementia). This suggests that war is seen as a ritual system, part of   the old state ideology going back to Republican times that linked success in war to collective virtues and qualities that the leading elite fashioned for itself. After the Republic, these virtues became associated with the state ruler. 133 The emperor is now placed center stage. In the conquest discourse, we find the duality within the role of  the emperor that we saw before. On the one hand, the emperor is shown as the commander of   the troops, as first among equals, in the old tradition, and emperors like Trajan, Caracalla, or Septimius Severus are seen to make appeals to this idea. With the latter two we are entering the next period, the Later Principate. Caracalla was popular among the soldiery and was portrayed in contemporary sculpture as a  powerful military man, a  reborn Alexander the Great, who was his hero. In  the soldier-emperors of   the third century that followed him, we will find the same image. 134 At the same time, emperors became more interested in the role of   symbol of   imperial power than that of   general, somewhat along the lines of  the old Hellenistic tradition of  divine emperorship. This is exemplified by the last emperor of   the Early Empire. In  a  marble bust, now exhibited at the Capitoline Museum, 135 the emperor Commodus can be seen portrayed as a god on earth, in the form of   an incarnation of   the god-hero Hercules: he wears the lion skin of   Hercules carrying his club, as well as the apples of   the Hesperides, part of   the tale of   his last labor. 136 The message sent was unmistakable – Commodus wished to be regarded as ‘more than a mere mortal’. 137

    135   136  137  133 134

Hölscher 2003, p. 15–16. Kleiner 1992, p. 324; p. 393. Bust of  Commodus, Musei Capitolini 1120. Kleiner 1992, p. 352. Hekster 2002, p. 121.

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3.1.5. The Conformist Perspective: Conclusion A large part of   the discourse of   the Early Empire affirms the new status quo, of   the emperor as the center of   power. In  several of   the various discourse themes we can find the same tendency to pay tribute to the emperor and his office, in his dual role of   ruler and army commander: by paying respect to his virtues and attributed success (through epithets and coin images) and by honouring his real (or presumed) martial qualities and charisma in personally encouraging the troops, as in the case of   Trajan or Hadrian. In the later 2nd century, close to the end of   our period, some changes of   emphasis can be seen that can be related to the social and political problems of  the time. In the depiction of  the emperor, divinity is taking the place of   personal virtues. Roman strengths in conquest and in their confrontation with the enemy are increasingly associated with emotional effects like force and violence, or, as in the imagery used in the reliefs of  Marcus Aurelius, with ritualistic acts.

3.2. The Critical Perspective Some of   the discourse in our period was non-conformist and unorthodox, taking a  sceptical look at the official ideology of  the emperor and his environment, or the axioms of   Rome’s accomplishments in foreign wars. The critical perspective mostly addresses contemporary figures and events rather than the (distant) past, which gives it greater relevance as social commentary than the views that we see expressed in the section that follows. Three areas of   special interest can be distinguished here: (1) the role of   virtus under changing conditions; (2) perceptions on victory celebrations like the triumph, as well as on the process of   conquest and pacification; and (3) the failings of   the emperor as a ruler. As a discourse feature, virtus had lost much of   its relevance in the Early Empire, as we already saw, and turned into a useful subject for satirists. As an old-fashioned virtue, it could be invoked to take a jab at the listless young who no longer preferred army careers. We see this in Juvenal’s Satire 11, which compares the tough soldiers of   the Golden Age with the ‘art connoisseurs’ of  his own days: ‘These troops ate their porridge from plain earthen472

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ware bowls: any silver they had shone brightly on their armour’. 138 The old veterans of  those days were satisfied with ‘a bare two acres as a quittance for all their wounds’, and did not think of   charging the state with bad faith or ingratitude. With great cynicism, Juvenal comments on the possibility of   motivating young men for military service – they just want to make a  pile (‘the stink of   profit is pleasant whatever its source’). 139 Elsewhere, he holds up the famous devotio of  the heroic Decii as an example: Plebeian by name, plebeian in spirit, the Decii still Were accepted by the Earth-Goddess and underworld deities As a worthy self-sacrifice offered for the assembled host Of  legions and allied troops, the flower of  Latium. 140

In a different literary turn, the virtus ideal is completely ridiculed in Apuleius’ novel The Golden Ass. In this wry comedy, the conventional and somewhat lofty war-in-love metaphor is  turned into an obscene joke. Lucius, the book’s picaresque hero makes passes at Photis, the pretty maid, in a wayside inn: Lifting my tunic for a moment I showed Photis that my love could brook no more delay. ‘Have pity on me’, I  said, ‘and come to my rescue – fast. That war that you declared without any diplomatic overtures will break out any minute now, and you can see I’m standing to arms and fully mobilized for it. Since I got cruel Cupid’s first arrow right in the heart, my own bow has been strung so hard that I’m afraid it’s overstrung and may break. […] ‘Now fight’, she said, ‘and fight stoutly; I shan’t give ground or turn tail. Attack head-on, if  you call yourself  a  man; no quarter given; die in the breach. There’ll be no discharge in this war’. 141

The Golden Ass (or Metamorphoses) offers more than this lighthearted buffoonery. 142 These days, it is read for its social criticism,  Juvenal, Satires, 11.100–9.  Juvenal, Satires, 14.161–66; 14.193–204. 140 Juvenal, Satires, 8.254–57. 141 Apuleius, The Golden Ass, 2.16–17. 142  This is not to say that the comedy in passages like this is without its sting. Entertainment and satire go together, as in Juvenal’s poetry. Elizabeth Greene 138 139

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not just for its literary quality, as part of   a general trend to look at Roman life ‘from below’. Renata Garraffoni, for example, has investigated the connection between the robbers in the novel and their relation to the Roman soldiery, and found some interesting links. Lucius, magically changed into an ass, witnesses the robbery of   Milo’s house and, captured by the robbers, listens in on their talks and reflects on what he hears. This results in a discrepancy between the robbers’ tales of   bravado and Lucius’ interpretation of  them as violence and barbarism. The robbers plan their actions as soldiers do, as military operations, and conduct ceremonies to honor Mars. Some describe themselves as destitute ex-soldiers who have no choice but to operate as brigands. They even use military terms (such as ‘castra’ to refer to their hideouts), and freely bandy about words like ‘glory’, ‘courage’, ‘honor’ and ‘friendship’, esteemed military values that have now turned into objects of  scorn. 143 In the novel, the representation of   soldiers that are still serving is equally damning. In 9.39, Lucius-turned-ass is ‘confiscated’ by a  soldier from a  gardener, his new owner. The soldier uses deceit and violence to dupe his victim and gets away with it – it  is the gardener who is  arrested by the local authorities. To serve as the legionary’s baggage-animal, the ass is  arrayed in full military panoply, with a  brilliantly polished helmet and a shield ‘that was visible for miles’. 144 The scene reveals how soldiers can act as thugs, and with impunity. The ordinary Romans (represented by the gardener and the ass) are easy prey for lowlifes that have filled the ranks of   the army. Moreover, in his military outfit, with army paraphernalia, the ass is an object of  ridicule. M.  A. Doody calls the scene ‘anti-imperialist in the sense that asymmetrical power structures are displayed’, which may be true but somewhat overstated I would say. 145 I do not think it is is  quite right in pointing to the possibilities that the literary genre, the novel, offers to the author. There is greater license in this less serious literary tradition to provide social criticism. By speaking through a  fictional narrator and using an entertaining plot, the author places himself  in a safe position (Greene 2008, p. 187–93). 143  Garraffoni 2004, p. 367–77. 144 Apuleius, The Golden Ass, 10.1. 145  Doody 2000, p. 435–57.

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‘anti-empire’, but that it points to the social evils of   its time, the marginalization of   the poor and – what is  relevant here – the widening gap between soldiers and civilians. For the latter, the army had become an institution to be watched with fear and suspicion. 146 Ordinary people knew well how to deal with soldiers, as appears from one of   Epictetus’ sayings, written just a few decades earlier. It  actually gives the advice to give up one’s ass promptly when a soldier demands it, to avoid a beating. 147 Juvenal’s Satire 16 (a fragment) has this same critical view of   the relation between the army and society, an example of  Juvenal’s social (rather than moral) criticism. It  uses irony in extolling the advantages of   being a Roman soldier, mostly from the legal point of   view, since soldiers were practically immune from civil litigation in court. The poem effectively demonstrates how Roman civilians (togati and pagani alike) had become alienated from the army. Together, the army’s repression and its privileged position certainly increased the civilians’ distaste of   the military. 148 So far we have looked at the way in which virtus came to lose its meaning, and how this was part of   the changing image of  the soldier. Another butt of   criticism was the way in which victory and conquest were conventionally treated. The great celebration of  victory, the triumph, was now past its prime but was still held on to, especially in the early years of   this period, often by emperors without much military experience, who used it as a  prop to add lustre to their reputation. After all, the triumph as an institution had become linked to the emperor rather than the victorious general. 149 While emperors organized sham triumphs, Roman authors exploited the vocabulary of   triumphal discourse to ‘symbolize the emperor’s misconduct or to calibrate

  Millar 1981, p. 66.  Epictetus, Discourses, iv.i.79. 148  Courtney 2013, p. 542. 149   The process was not without friction, for occasions for glory were limited and competitors galore. According to Tacitus, Germanicus saw his ‘salutation as victor and the triumphal laurels’ thwarted by a jealous Tiberius, who even forbade him to complete his German campaign, so that his brother Drusus in his turn could earn victories. In the absence of   enemies elsewhere, Germany was the only place where Roman thirst for glory could still be quenched (Annals, 2.26). 146 147

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his impropriety’, as Beard says. 150 This form of   subversion was not a  new phenomenon, for we remember Sallust writing on a Republican extravaganza. But, at the time, Sallust voiced moral objections that traditional Romans had against these immodest shows. 151 Now, criticism became directed at triumphs that were deemed undeserved. For example, Antony’s controversial triumph in Alexandria (in 34  bc) and Nero’s eccentric triumphal ceremony of   ad 67 – a true parody – were both treated in hostile terms by authors in this period or shortly afterwards, like Suetonius and Dio. 152 Also, Claudius’ triumph in ad  43 came up for criticism. He had only spent 16 days in Britain and then ‘hastened back to Rome, sending ahead the news of  his victory’. 153 He was voted a triumph and received an arch erected later in his reign to celebrate a victory ‘with a minimum of  risk and effort on his part’. 154 As for Nero’s triumph, it can be said that, since he saw himself  as an artist rather than a  military commander, it  is obvious that he tried to convert the victory discourse to that of   his own battlefield, of   artistic competition in poetry, music and the theatre. Our two primary sources (Tacitus, Suetonius) report the acclamation that Nero received after his Greek tour on entering Rome. And Nero’s triumph itself  was correspondingly magnificent, a show of  a performer, 155 Suetonius noted with disapproval, ‘with an array of   his crowns, wooden boards inscribed with the names of   the games, then Nero himself  dressed in the purple robe, and gold embroidered cloak of   a  triumphator, in the triumphal chariot which Augustus had used, holding the pythian laurel’. 156 Even the most unwarlike of   emperors had to provide   Beard 2007, p. 271–72.  Sallust, Histories, 2.70. We find similar ideas about lack of   respect for tradition in Dionysius of  Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities, 2.34.3; Livy, History of  Rome, 39.6–7; and Pliny the Elder, Natural History, 34.14. 152  Dio, Roman History, 49.40; Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, 6.25. 153  Dio, Roman History, 60.22. 154  Wells 1995, p. 111. 155  Fantham 2013, p. 18–19. 156 Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, 6.25.1. This subversion of   triumphs, as given by authors like Suetonius, Tacitus, (and, later, Dio) has attracted widely different analyses among modern historians, Beard has pointed out. ‘Triumphlike’ ceremonies were not necessarily parodies of   the real thing; they may have been 150 151

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some sort of  military aura for themselves – a military background was part of  the emperor’s image. 157 Triumphal monuments invited the type of   commentary that sometimes accompanied triumphs as ceremonies. In  one of   his letters to a  friend, Pliny the Younger tells us (by implication) that not all of   the many victory statues to emperors and generals were merited: ‘Yesterday a  triumphal statue was decreed by the Senate to Vestricius Spurinna on the proposal of   the emperor. It  was not an award like those given to many who have never stood in the battle-line, have never seen a military camp, and in short have heard the din of   the trumpet only in stage-shows’. 158 Victory monuments had always been political advertisements, but in a period with greater cultural sophistication, critics could debunk them on various levels. For example, Tacitus grumbles about ‘trophies and arches for Victory over Parthia’ that were erected on the Capitoline Hill and voted by the Senate ‘while the war was still undecided’. 159 And, in his Golden Ass, Apuleius mocks the popularity of  victory statues in private homes. 160 Some of   the criticism, however, was more fundamental, and directed at the motivations for conquest (an existing theme) and, in a  new development, the problem of   pacification. In  Polybius and Livy, conquest was coupled with moral deterioration, i.e. its baleful effects, but in the Early Empire we also see it questioned from other, more philosophical and psychological angles. In one of   his satires, Juvenal connects the ideal of   conquest with fundamental human shortcomings. He takes aims at conquest and the craving for military glory, and uses Xerxes, Alexander the Great and Hannibal to illustrate how misdirected their efforts were. In the end, all they accomplished went up into thin air, for it was all vanitas, the great human vice, as Alexander’s fate testified: serious attempts to invent new ways of  employing battle ceremony for non-military purposes (Beard 2007, p. 269–71). There is little plausibility to this explanation if  one looks at the seriousness with which military victory was treated in all periods of  Roman history. Also, this intention cannot be derived from the victory discourse of  our primary sources. 157  Mattern 1999, p. 198. 158   Pliny the Younger, Letters, II, 7.1–2. 159 Tacitus, Annals, 15.17. 160 Apuleius, The Golden Ass, 2.4.

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One globe seemed all too small for the youthful Alexander Unhappily he chafed at this world’s narrow confines, As though caged on some bare rocky Aegean islet. Yet When he entered the city of  brick-walled Babylon A coffin was to suffice him. 161

This treatment is  reminiscent of   the way in which Martial, not afraid to mock Roman ambitions, exposes Roman arrogance in one of  his epigrams: German, this is our aqueduct And not the Rhine. Barbarian clot, How dare you elbow and obstruct A thirsty boy from drinking? What? Jostle a Roman from his place! This is the conqueror’s fountain, not A trough for your defeated race. 162

Satire turns into nihilism in Petronius’ picaresque novel of  Roman lowlife, The Satyricon, written in the mid-first century ad. The long poem that the character Eumolpus recites in the novel is a  catalog of   the viciousness of   conquest, the evils of   civil war and, indeed, of   all war, and ends in sheer cynicism, with Discord emerging from the depths of  Hell: You, Lentulus, Seek not to put an end to valiant war. And you too, divine Caesar, in your arms Why play the laggard? Why not storm the gates, Deprive the cities of  their walls, and grab Their treasures? Magnus, can you not defend Rome’s citadels? Then seek the foreign walls Of  Epidamnus, dye Thessalian bays With human blood. 163

In The Satyricon, Rome’s aggressive Empire-building is also driven by greed, by lust for wealth: By now the victorious Roman ruled the world, all seas and lands traversed by sun and moon,  Juvenal, Satires, 10.168–92.  Martial, Epigrams, 11.96. 163 Petronius, The Satyricon, 119.354–62. 161 162

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yet hungered still for more. His laden ships assailed the foaming deep. War was declared on bays remote, on lands which might discharge their yellow gold. The Fates allowed grim battles, the search for wealth went on. Familiar joys, pleasures well tried by common use, now palled. Soldiers on troopships praised Corinthian bronze; That metal’s brightness vied with heliotrope. 164

This moral dimension is  kept alive in our period. For example, Eumolpus, one of   the protagonists in The Satyricon, focuses on limitless greed as an agent: Foul usury and borrowed money spent Submerged the people, and destroyed their lives. No house stood safe, no person was unpledged. The wasting sickness silently took hold, Raging within them; cares barked loud outside. Despair breeds violence. The comforts lost In dissipation were recovered by the sword. 165

Even today, in our days of   poststructuralism and post-postmodernist literature, The Satyricon remains an eccentric work. The traditional reading, with its emphasis on Menippean satire, which we follow here, has lately been abandoned in favour of  ‘anti-moralist’, largely aesthetic interpretations that focus on form rather than content. 166 It is true that parody and burlesque, combined with fantasy and comedy make The Satyricon a complex and elusive literary work of   art. It  does contain elements of   the then existing genre of   Greek romance (with improbable plots) and it does play around with literary conventions that can only have appealed to a sophisticated audience. Yet it reflects the social reality of   Nero’s age, 167 and the frequent jabs at the mentality of   the day hit hard, even if  the line-up of   characters and the disjointed events are bizarre.

 Petronius, The Satyricon, 119.1–10.  Petronius, The Satyricon, 119.61–67. 166  Slater 1987, p.  165. In  fact, Slater’s 1990 study Reading Petronius was highly influential in the development of  the anti-moralist school. 167  Bracht Branham and Kinney 1997, p. xviii. 164

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Juvenal, Martial and Petronius were writers of   literature, and hence were relatively free to reflect on the nature of   Rome’s foreign undertakings, and to mix entertainment with sharp social criticism. For a  historian (and politician) like Tacitus, there were obvious constraints. In  a  famous speech in the Agricola, Tacitus voices the bitterness with which Roman conquest is condemned by Calgacus, a  Caledonian chieftain who fought Agri­cola and his army at Mons Graupius (83 or ad  84), on the northern fringes of   Britannia. This is  not the first time we encounter Tacitus’ handling of   barbarian rhetoric, but here the language of   Roman declamation ‘has a  bite that goes beyond the purely conventional’, as Ronald Martin says: 168 But there are no tribes beyond us, nothing indeed but waves and rocks, and the yet more terrible Romans, from whose oppression escape is vainly sought by obedience and submission. Robbers of   the world, having by their universal plunder exhausted the land, they rifle the deep. If  the enemy be rich, they are rapacious; if  he be poor, they lust for dominion; neither the east nor the west has been able to satisfy them. Alone among men they covet with equal eagerness poverty and riches. To robbery, slaughter, plunder, they give the lying name of  empire; they make a solitude and call it peace. 169

The main purpose of  the rhetoric here, I think, is to present Calgacus as a  worthy opponent. As seen before, aggrandizing the enemy can be useful in highlighting one’s accomplishments, and Agricola is here given his own Hannibal. On the other hand, the sharp words at the end fit in well with other fragments in the book that tell us that Tacitus had some understanding for Calgacus’ diatribe. In 21.1 he reflects on what he considers misguided attempts by the Britons to adopt Roman culture: ‘Gradually they [the Britons] were led astray by the attractions of   vice – the colonnade, baths, elegant banqueting. In  their ignorance they called it “culture”, when really it was a part of  their enslavement’. With these words, Tacitus went as far as he could (or would) go in casting a critical eye on Roman conquest. 170   Martin 1981, p. 44.  Tacitus, Agricola, 30. 170 I think Mattern dismisses the speech too easily as a  ‘rhetorical exer168 169

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The process of   pacification, since Augustus part of   the conquest discourse, was intrinsically problematic and this only increased with the years since the empire after Trajan’s campaigns had reached its limits of  expansion. The overriding starting point of   pacification remained, of   course, the enemy’s expected submission, right after the deditio, the unconditional surrender. Once the dediticii had surrendered, they had become part of  the Roman Empire, although they remained psychologically and culturally inferior. However, this was merely the beginning of   the process of   pacification, as Florus makes clear. After all, it was more difficult to ‘retain’ than to create new provinces; they were won by force, but they were secured by justice. 171 There was a difference between defeating a  barbarian tribe and subduing it, to put it in other words. In  reality, the ultimate aim of   conquest, ‘pacification’, was dynamic, not static, for most places had to be conquered more than once, sometimes several times. 172 It  only shows that making and keeping the peace remained a  constant process, even when the enemy had been defeated. Suppressing rebellions was one way of   keeping the peace. Both Josephus and Tacitus, imply that it was the primary, if  not only, function of   the legionary armies in their day. 173 The other, political approach was to support cooperative tribal leaders against their rivals and build a network of   clients. Leaders loyal to Rome received Rome’s cash and gifts to enhance their prestige; in exchange, they would recruit troops for Rome’s auxiliary forces and also guarantee some form of   stability in the region. 174 For barbarians who were pacified, peace meant admission to the Empire – they were allowed to ‘settle’. This was part of   the patron-client system, but it was much more. Peace also brought access to the world at large, through the common language, pubcise’, and argues that a  more plausible account would have included the aspect of  revenge, and the assertion and enhancement of   the honor and majesty of   the Roman empire (Mattern 1999, p.  208). These were essential features in the Roman discourse, it  is true, but could hardly have been put in the mouth of  a barbarian chieftain, however eloquent. 171 Florus, Epitome of  Roman History, 30.29. 172   Mattern 1999, p. 103. 173 Josephus, Jewish War, 2.466–83; Tacitus, Annals, 4.5. 174  Burns 2009, p. 324.

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lic monuments and the luxury and refinement of  Roman material culture. 175 In the course of   time, pax obtained a wider connotation, therefore, more than just the result of   a  treaty after war. It  acquired a  sense of   peaceful conditions, a  state of   order and security. Creating and maintain pax often implied the use of   force, however, sometimes excessive force. Although there were unwritten rules about the behavior of   victor and vanquished vis-à-vis each other, and about the keeping of   the peace among subjected peoples, the treatment of   the enemy after battle varied, and depended on the general’s personality and his control of   the troops. Although brutality was not the norm, there are many examples of   brutality after battle. Sometimes the rules were flexible, and sometimes theory and practice widely diverged. And sometimes the manner of   pacification posed a dilemma. Tacitus tells the story of   an incident during an expedition organized by Claudius against Mithridates VIII in ad 49. The Romans, after conquering the city of   Uspe, rejected the plea of  the vanquished for mercy. The Uspeans were asking for their free population to be spared in exchange for an offer of  10,000 slaves. Since it was hard to provide guards for such large numbers, the soldiers were ordered to kill and exterminate the town’s population – it was better that the townspeople ‘were slain in normal warfare’, the argument ran, since it was ‘barbarous to slaughter men who had surrendered’. 176 There is  no hint in the text that Tacitus considers the resolution of  the dilemma as morally reprehensible. Instead, he simply records that it ‘terrified the surrounding population’, and somewhat later concluded the narrative with ‘This was an important success for the Roman army’. 177 This tells us that, apparently, military actions of   this kind were easily condoned, and that they were even seen as part of  the effectiveness of   the Roman army. The phenomenon has been analyzed and explained by Susan Mattern, who believes that the Roman war machine was propelled by Rome’s in­sis­tence on maintaining its image and status by instilling fear in the enemy   Burns 2009, p. 169–70.  Tacitus, Annals, 12.16. 177 Tacitus, Annals, 12.16. 175 176

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– the aim was to ‘punish, to avenge and to terrify’. This resulted in the desired submissive state of   the ‘barbarian’ mind. 178 This psychological approach to Rome’s war making provides a convincing explanation for the ruthlessness of   the action that Tacitus describes and, indeed, similar scenes in an earlier author like Caesar. 179 If  the appearance of   strength was even more important than actual strength, this was evident in Rome’s relations with the Germans, for they were not conquered and remained a  threat. Occasional display of   power was the answer, rather than conquest, if only because the northern lands, primitive and unfit to be integrated into the empire, did not offer the potential riches than could be gained in the east. 180 Sometimes setting examples of  success in war coupled with military determination would make it possible to obtain the desired effect without actual fighting. 181 Display of   strength and power was a tool but image was what counted. In the conflict with Parthia over Armenia that Tacitus describes in the Annals, it is made clear that any show of   weakness on the side of   the Romans would negatively affect the dignity (decus) of   the state and strengthen the enemy’s arrogance. Arrogance (superbia) of  the Parthian king Artabanus necessitated   Mattern 1999, p. 117.   With her ‘status’ thesis, Mattern has placed herself  in an ongoing conquest debate, which so far has opposed defenders of   Rome’s aggressive (or offensive) intent, and the adherents of   the defensive (or reactive) drive. The issue has become one of   the major debates in studies of   the Roman empire, but it is too complicated and extensive to go into here in more detail. Perspectives vary with the period chosen (Republic or Principate, for instance) and sources and types of  discourse selected. The position taken by Mattern, focusing on the image projected by the Romans themselves, largely depends on a  comparison of   literary (or ‘rhetorical’) sources, on a discourse analysis in other words. It cannot be seen as conclusive in a broader context, however, because non-psychological intentions (which must have played a role) are, unfortunately, not documented and cannot be used. In this sense, Mattern’s argument is e nihilo, as Michael Peachin suggests (Peachin 2000). Also, Richard Talbert has pointed out, Mattern declines to make use of  archaeological evidence, ignoring for example the fortification works along the frontiers of   over two and a half  centuries. The role of   the army corps in the decision-making process of   war-making, attested in epitaphs, is  not sufficiently acknowledged either (Talbert 2001, p.  453). In  spite of   these objections, the relevance of  Mattern’s observations for our analysis of  the discourse is obvious. 180  Isaac 2004, p. 515. 181  Southern 2007, p. 52. 178 179

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Roman military action. 182 When the discourse is  dominated by notions like decus and superbia, the conflict between Rome and Parthia over Armenia (early 1st century) can be described as one about ‘status’. 183 Status has become power-play, and could be contrasted with the Augustan stick-and-carrot approach: display of  power whenever the occasion arose, but also efforts at integration, with foreign princes intermarrying prominent Romans and captive children taken in and raised by aristocratic families. 184 So far, as a topic of  criticism, pacification may not have yielded more than a (resolved) dilemma, it does have some relevance for our appreciation of   the role that image and status have in the war discourse. The same applies for our third and last aspect: the qualities of  the emperor as a ruler. The subject was sensitive, to say the least, that is, if  criticism was expressed rather than standard eulogy. Our sources are limited but revealing, since they attest to the potential despotism of  one-man rule. In the Annals, Tacitus shows his distaste for incompetent and erratic autocrats such as Tiberius, Claudius, and Nero, but this criticism was relatively safe, especially because of   the bad reputation attached to some of   these rulers, as well as the distance in time. For his own time, he complains that ‘my labours are circumscribed and inglorious; peace wholly unbroken or but slightly disturbed, dismal misery in the capital, an emperor careless about the enlargement of   the empire, such is  my theme’. 185 However, in the Agricola, Tacitus condemns the emperor Domitian in a wry, personal style: ‘The government imagined it could silence the voice of   Rome and annihilate the freedom of   the senate and men’s knowledge of  the truth’. 186 In 1.2–3 he criticizes Domitian’s regime (without naming him) as despotic. Tacitus wisely published the book after Domitian’s death. Even so, his criticism was mostly couched in general terms, such as his comparison of   his own days with those of   the Republic: ‘As the former age had witnessed the extreme of  liberty, so we witnessed the extreme  Tacitus, Annals, 6.31.   Mattern 1999, p. 176. 184   Suetonius, ‘Life of  August’, 48. 185 Tacitus, Annals, 4.31–32. 186 Tacitus, Agricola, chapter 2. 182 183

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of   servitude’. 187 Also, Tacitus knew that his negative characterization of   the former emperor was readily accepted by members of   the upper class who, like himself  had had to live through the frightful years of  Domitian’s reign. 188 Hitting harder, satirists would aim for the sacrosanct position of   the imperial ideology as well as that of   the emperor himself. It was made possible, Campbell has suggested, by the fact that the emperor’s regime was autocratic, but not totalitarian. 189 It  can also be related to the relative freedom of   the genre: as literature, it was judged on form rather than content. Although satire was mostly addressing the individual emperor’s personal weaknesses, it would inevitably take something away from the lustre of   his office. Seneca’s famous ‘Pumpkinification of   Claudius’ lampoons the emperor Claudius who attends his own funeral and is delighted to hear his funeral eulogy, praising his conquest of   Britain. 190 And in one of   his Satires, Juvenal ridicules the emperor Domitian’s council meetings, jabbing at the hypocrisy and lies of   courtiers and the workings of   imperial rule. In  the poem, a special council is convened to discuss the ludicrous problem of  how to prepare a big fish for the emperor’s dinner table. 191 For poets and historians of   the time, with a relative freedom to express their ideas, criticism directed at (former) emperors could be aimed at a variety of   perceived failings. Personal foibles and vices were popular butts since moral criteria dominated the biographies, but some of   the criticism would directly address the emperor’s status as a  military leader. The aspect of   display of  strength and power, being the hallmark of  Rome’s status as an empire and the necessary attribute of  the emperor, did not escape the critical eye of  authors like Suetonius and Tacitus. Even though he held an excellent military record under Augustus, Tiberius was depicted as lacking military courage and ambition once he had become emperor:

  Tacitus, Agricola, chapter 2.   Martin 1981, p. 47. 189  Campbell 2002, p. 149. 190  Seneca, ‘The Pumpkinification of   Claudius’ (The Apocolocyntosis of   the Divine Claudius). 191  Juvenal, Satire 4. 187 188

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He undertook no campaign after his accession, but quelled outbreaks of   the enemy through his generals; and even this he did only reluctantly and of   necessity. Such kings as were disaffected and objects of   his suspicion he held in check rather by threats and remonstrances than by force; some he lured to Rome by flattering promises and detained there, such as Marobodus the German, Rhascuporis the Thracian, and Archelaus of   Cappadocia, whose realm he also reduced to the form of  a province. 192

In a  similar vein, Tacitus presents Claudius as a  hesitant, fainthearted ruler calling back his general Corbulo after the latter’s effective campaign against the Frisians, jealous and fearful of  Corbulo’s increased status and potential rivalry. People were saying, Tacitus says, that ‘ “If  he is  successful, so famous a  hero will be a danger to peace, and a formidable subject for a timid emperor”. Claudius accordingly forbade fresh attacks on Germany, so emphatically as to order the garrisons to be withdrawn to the left bank of  the Rhine’. 193 As a  conclusion we can say that most of   the critical views expressed in this period came from the literary sources, and was mainly directed at the status of   the Roman soldier. The soldier’s virtus was unfavourably compared with that of   his Republican predecessor; the same holds for the quality of   the new professionals, usually coming from the lower classes of   society and sometimes hard to distinguish from robbers and brigands. Other aspects in the discourse that were addressed, such as victory and conquest, were denounced as morally dubious or even fundamentally erroneous. In  Tacitus, our main historiographical source, we find more balanced views, but where his criticism is outspoken, as in his denunciations of   individual rulers, he mostly censures emperors long dead.

3.3. The Dissociative Perspective In some our sources of   this period, the war discourse consists of   conventional subjects and treatments that are part of   a  long   Suetonius, ‘Life of  Tiberius’, 37.1.  Tacitus, Annals, 11.19.

192 193

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tradition, but without any clear relation with contemporary events or discussion of   contemporary issues, whether military, political or social. This ‘dissociative’ perspective as I call it, i.e. the deliberate steering away from current affairs, is characteristic of   much of   the literary output of   the day. For its subject matter, it turns to the Republican past; stylistically, it focuses on rhetorical effect or romantic and nostalgic sentiment. This development can be explained by the growing independence of   literature as a full-grown genre, as well as the changing literary fashion in the Early Empire. In the other genre, of  historiography, this detached perspective can be seen in a  continued interest in Republican topoi that are supposed to bring back memories of   the good old days of   virtuous heroes and famed discipline. We shall look at the way in which these treatments take shape in the contexts of  (1) civil war, and (2) virtus and disciplina. 194 Among the various philosophical schools of   the time – Stoic, Neo-Stoic, Epicurean and Cynic, all of   which were Greek imports  – Stoicism was the most influential. As we know from the Greek war discourse, it believed that war was an aberration from the natural, normal state of   peace. War was the product of  man’s greed. What is  interesting is  that, in the imperial period, the many wars that Rome had fought and was still fighting were linked to the emperor, whose moral supremacy justified all wars fought in his name. By defeating the enemy, the emperor demonstrated his moral superiority, the Stoics argued. 195 Because of  this ingenious new link with the emperor, it followed, by implication, that civil wars, many of   which had preceded the Princi194  For some other authors, a  link can be made with the Second Sophistic movement already mentioned, which flourished when Classical Greek culture came into vogue. It not only touched Rome but also the Romanized East, and emphasized Greek identity to an audience of   both Romans and Greeks (Whitmarsh 2006, p.  8). Authors relevant to us, like Onasander and Arrian, turned to the past for inspiration. Onasander’s Strategicus, a  treatise on warfare with philosophical and ethical advice for gentlemen-generals, relied heavily on earlier Greek texts like Xenophon’s Cyropaedia. According to Philip Rance, Onasander intended to highlight the Greek contributions to Roman military success (Rance 2000, p.  238–39). Arrian, writing his famous Anabasis on the campaigns of   Alexander, lived almost four hundred years later than his hero, whom he presented with great flourish in the tradition of  Homer and Xenophon. 195   Sidebottom 2007, p. 27–28.

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pate, belonged to the old order of   aberrations from the state of  normality. Overall, Stoic and other philosophical views on the nature of  civil wars followed the old pattern of  the long-established idea of   the peaceful Golden Age, a  primeval and pacific period that had been celebrated by Sallust in his introduction to Catiline’s War, 196 and by Ovid in his Metamorphoses. In the Early Empire, it can also be found in Seneca’s letters. 197 It must be added that, according to Seneca, all wars were unjust by definition, just like greed, anger or hatred. 198 Epictetus, a  Stoic with Cynic leanings, even believed that war was an irrelevance, to be discounted for a thinker as a topic, in favor of   real issues like happiness and unhappiness, success and failure, and so on. 199 In historiography, we can see that Florus, in his Epitome of  Roman History, restates the old axiom: ‘The cause of   this great calamity was the same which caused all our calamities, namely, excessive good fortune’. 200 But later historiographers like Tacitus and Appian have different, perhaps more interesting ideas. Even though all men denounce civil war as the cruellest of   all wars, Tacitus acidly remarks, it does not stop them from killing and robbing their relatives and friends: ‘They said to each other that a  crime had been done – and in the same breath they did it to themselves’. 201 It was greed that fuelled the civil war of  ad 68–69, Tacitus says, by ‘the appetite for spoil’ as well as by generals who were ‘frightened of   their own troops’. 202 Incidentally, according to Gwyn Morgan, the total upheaval that was reported by sources like Tacitus should be downplayed: there was loss of   life and destruction of  property, ‘but in most cases the damage was neither catastrophic nor irreparable’. 203 Civil war had obviously become a literary topos as well, and an object of  rhetorical flourish.

 Sallust, Catiline’s War, 1.5–2.6.   Seneca, Letter 90. 198  Seneca, ‘On the Shortness of  Life’ (De brevitate vitae). 199   Sidebottom 1995, p. 243–44. 200 Florus, Epitome of  Roman History, 2.13.7. 201 Tacitus, Histories, 3.25. 202 Tacitus, Histories, 3.26. 203   Morgan 2007, p. 258. 196 197

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Most contemporary observers agreed with Tacitus that civil war led to lack of   discipline, with all its dire effects. 204 Writing about the civil wars, Appian talked about ‘evil in ten thousand shapes’, and blamed ambition and lust for power. 205 Caesar’s civil war was a  fight between rivals for power who both ‘refused to give up control of   the armies entrusted to them by the people’. The civil conflict after Caesar’s death was between contenders who proceeded to ‘treat the government of   Rome as their private property and divide it between themselves’, only to subsequently quarrel over the division ‘as might be expected’. 206 But Appian also believed that fate determined the course of   events. The civil wars were a  dark tunnel of   violence, but at the end there was the glory of   Rome’s Empire. This was an optimistic version of   the story that Livy and other writers had linked to Rome’s moral decline. 207 For a historian such as Velleius, it was peace that was held up as the sane alternative to civil war, for it ‘brought back cultivation in the fields, respect for religion, and safety to men’. 208 In writing about the civil wars, the epic poets of   the 1st century ad heavily drew on Greek sources, quite following the taste of   the Silver Age, to create greater literary effect and polish. In his Thebaid, the poet Statius transformed the story of   Rome’s civil wars into a  mythological civil war between the sons of  Oedipus in Greece. In tune with the Greek tradition, the action would move from the world of   mortals to that of   the gods. 209 It  created a  kind of   detachment from the events of   the real world. In other epic poetry of   the time, the literary flourish that conventional taste demanded turned into a  different direction. Civil war came alive through graphic descriptions. For example, Caesar’s Commentaries, fairly dry and glossing over any problems, 210 should be contrasted with Lucan’s epic version of   Tacitus, Histories, 1.51.  Appian, The Civil Wars, 1.6. 206  Appian, The Civil Wars, 1.5. 207  Carter 1996, p. xxxiii. 208 Velleius, History of  Rome, 2.89.1. 209  Potter 2009, p. 215. 210 Caesar, The Civil War, 3.47–49. 204 205

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events, with its high-flown, rhetorical drive, aiming for emotional impact, first about what happened to the horses, then about what happened to the men: They strengthless lay Upon the mown expanse, nor pile of  straw, Brought from full barns in place of  living grass, Relieved their craving; shook their panting flanks, And as they wheeled Death struck his victim down. Then foul contagion filled the murky air Whose poisonous weight pressed on them in a cloud Pestiferous; as in Nesis’ isle the breath Of  Styx rolls upwards from the mist-clad rocks; Or that fell vapour which the caves exhale From Typhon raging in the depths below. Then died the soldiers, for the streams they drank Held yet more poison than the air: the skin Was dark and rigid, and the fiery plague Made hard their vitals, and with pitiless tooth Gnawed at their wasted features, while their eyes Started from out their sockets, and the head Drooped for sheer weariness. So the disease Grew swifter in its strides till scarce was room, ‘ Twixt life and death, for sickness, and the pest Slew as it struck its victim, and the dead Thrust from the tents (such all their burial) lay Blent with the living. 211

Lucan paints the violence of   civil strife and the way it comes from an internal rage: in the poem, Caesar’s violence against the Jupiter cult is  a  fight against himself, Sarah Nix has argued, 212 and this leads to destruction (‘he conceived in his heart vast upheaval and future war’ 213). Perhaps Nix gets carried away a bit here, but it is clear that Lucan’s rendering of   civil war is strongly involved and looking for emotional commitment. It is also clear that Lucan’s Caesar is an early Macbeth, and that the hero is not Pompey, who is less evil but still bruised, but Cato the Younger, who embodies the admired principles of   Stoicism, which rejects  Lucan, The Civil War (Pharsalia), 6.105–27.   Nix 2008, p. 283. 213 Lucan, The Civil War, 1.185.

211

212

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the whole idea of  civil war. 214 Civil war is useless war and uses up all the energy that should go into subduing Rome’s enemies:  215 ‘Whence, citizens, this rage, this boundless lust / to sate barbarians with the blood of  Rome? […] Why wage campaigns that send no laurels home? […]  Luxury – giving up ancient ways – seeds of   civil war’. 216 Here, Lucan reverts to the old topos: morals had slackened and this set off  a  chain of   events that plunged Rome into disorder. But in spite of   these words, the Pharsalia is  not a  moral tale, for Lucan’s interest is  in the drama of   the events, the macabre and gruesome, and in the supernatural. 217 The old days of   the famed first Golden Age were still invoked to contrast with periods of  turmoil. In one of  his Satires, Juvenal holds up the mirror of   the old days, when humans and gods still communicated with each other in times of  war: The Gods were on Rome’s side in the Golden Age: The power of  Godhead, too, was closer: witness that voice Crying through the silent City, about the midnight hour, That the Gauls were coming on us from the Ocean’s shores. Thus the Gods Performed the office of  prophet; thus Jupiter warned us, Such was his constant care for the welfare of  Latium, When his image was baked clay still, still undefiled by gold. 218

The romantic and nostalgic sentiment associated with Rome’s mythical past, expressed by Virgil in his Georgics, was used by later writers like Calpurnius Siculus and Seneca. Calpurnius, writing an Eclogue to eulogize the young emperor Nero, brought back to memory the happy, peaceful days of   King Numa, ‘who first taught the tasks of  peace to armies that rejoiced in the slaughter’. It  was the time of   peace that was sometimes associated with the mythical reign of   Saturn in Latium. 219 Finally, Rome’s first Golden Age was also put forward as Rome’s model of   tranquillity, of  felicitas in times of   trouble, by Seneca in one of   his let  Lintott 2010, p. 257–58.   Reed 2012, p. 24. 216  Lucan, The Civil War, 1.10–14; 1.178. 217  Braund 2009a, p. xxv. 218 Juvenal, Satires, 11.111–16. 219  Calpurnius Siculus, Eclogues. 214 215

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ters (‘weapons of  war were idle’), 220 and in the play Octavia – his authorship is now debated – which criticizes Nero’s moral degradation: Bring in a new and better generation Like that which walked upon a younger world When Saturn was the ruler of  the sky. That was the age when the most potent goddess, Justice, sent down from Heaven with Faith divine, Governed the human race in gentleness, War was unknown among the nations; arms, Shrill trumpets, cities guarded by strong walls, Were things unheard of; roads were free for all, And all earth’s goods were common property. 221

Virtus, a  major discourse feature of   all periods, was extensively discussed by historiographers of   the period, notably Florus, Gellius, and Plutarch, and, again, their interest was mainly in the famous exempla of   the Republican period. At the time, discussing the past by recounting the exploits of   the great and famous had not yet gone out of  fashion, and biography had even become increasingly popular. And, implicitly, the glory of   the past was compared with the shortcomings of  the present. Frequently, virtus is  treated as the one great military virtue that singles out the best in situations that offer external motivation, when immediate danger looms large and perdition is near. In other cases, especially in Plutarch, we find an internal motivation: virtus is part of  an excellent soldier’s psychological make-up. This could be seen as a  deepening of   Livy’s interest in exempla: the old exempla are still good enough, but they are given a greater input of   personality. The consolidation of   the topos tells us that it was undisputed. Since it lacked a  connection with contemporary events, it also tells us that it mostly served to bring back memories of  the old days, when the exploits of  the army were not yet removed from everyday life. When, in the Early Empire, authors retold the tales of   virtus that we know from the Republic, they focused on the same  Seneca, Selected Letters, 90.14.  Seneca, Octavia, 400–10.

220 221

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three narrative topoi: (1) devotiones, (2) single-combat tales, and (3) the bravery of   exemplary commanders. The historian Florus celebrates the devotio of   the famed Decii, for example. 222 And Gellius tells the less familiar story of  the military tribune Q uintus Caedicius. In the First Punic War, a Roman army was surrounded by a Car­thaginian force. In order to save the army from total annihilation, Caedicius occupied a nearby hill with his four hundred men, in the hope of  attracting the full impact of  the enemy attack. All  four hundred died, but the rest of   the Roman army could safely withdraw. 223 Finally, Frontinus presents another remarkable incident. In  the Second Punic War, after the loss of   his army at Cannae, Lucius Paulus, wounded in battle, was offered a horse with which to escape, but he remained seated on a rock until he was overpowered by the enemy and stabbed to death. 224 In the anecdotes of   single-combat tales, another topos from earlier periods, 225 it is, again, individual bravery and strength that is singled out, but now it is largely used to impress. In his version of   a  legendary incident between Gauls and Romans in which a Celtic warrior offered the challenge for a duel, Gellius says that no one else dared to pick up the savage Gaul’s gauntlet, and that Manlius would not suffer Roman valor ‘to be shamefully tarnished by a Gaul’. 226 In all these cases, we have examples of   the kind of  virtus that has external motivation. In 3.1.1 we already referred to the role of   the Roman general as a leader, a returning topic. It figures here as well, but seen from a  different perspective: the distant past. In  his Parallel Lives, Plutarch highlights the essential role of   virtus in commanders like Gracchus, Camillus and some others. But here the quality of  virtus is more personalized and internalized, not least because of  Plutarch’s method, which is largely biographical. Caius Gracchus, for one, made rapid advances in his career, ‘for he was fond  Florus, The Epitome of  Roman History, 12.7.  Gellius, Attic Nights, 3.7. 224 Frontinus, Stratagems, 4.5.5. 225  It must be added that this phenomenon was not restricted to early Roman warfare. In later encounters, the single-combat preliminary to battle can be recognized as well, as Philip Rance has pointed out (Rance 2007, p. 376). 226 Gellius, Attic Nights, 9.13. 222 223

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of   war’, Plutarch says. 227 So was Camillus, the Second Founder of   Rome, who was made censor after showing great bravery in battle: ‘dashing out on his horse in front of   the army, he did not abate his speed when he got a  wound in his thigh’. He dragged the missile along with him in its wound but still managed to engage the enemy and put them to flight. 228 By nature, Coriolanus (C. Marcius) was also ‘fond of   warlike feats’, and began to cultivate his own virtus as a boy, practising in every sort of  combat and imposing strict discipline on himself  to get used to hardship. 229 Coriolanus despised material gain and only sought his mother’s praise in pursuing virtus. All this was done in a spirit of  competition: It was in this spirit that Marcius vied with himself  in manly valour, and being ever desirous of   fresh achievement, he followed one exploit with another, and heaped spoils upon spoils, so that his later commanders were always striving with their predecessors in their efforts to do him honour, and to surpass in their testimonials to his prowess. Many indeed were the wars and conflicts which the Romans waged in those days, and from none did he return without laurels and rewards of  valour. But whereas other men found in glory the chief  end of  valour, he found the chief  end of  glory in his mother’s gladness. That she should hear him praised and see him crowned and embrace him with tears of   joy, this was what gave him, as he thought, the highest honour and felicity. 230

The passage is  characteristic of   Plutarch’s treatment of   virtus as a feature of  character, with an intrinsic motivation. Another example is Marcus Claudius Marcellus, the great general who defeated the Gauls in the Second Gallic War (c. 235 bc). He was the first of   his family to be called Marcellus, which means ‘Martial’, as Plutarch says, ‘for he was by experience a man of   war, of   a sturdy body and a  vigorous arm. He was naturally fond of   war, and in

    229  230  227 228

Plutarch, ‘Life of  Gracchus’, 1.4. Plutarch, ‘Life of  Camillus’, 2.1. Plutarch, ‘Life of  Coriolanus’, 2.1. Plutarch, ‘Life of  Coriolanus’, 4.2–3.

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its conflicts displayed great impetuosity and high temper’. 231 And, finally, there is  Plutarch’s idealized version of   Cato the Elder, who rose to immense heights because of   his prudence and wisdom. He was, above all, a  brave soldier in his young years, who showed great courage in combat: In battle, he showed himself  effective of  hand, sure and steadfast of   foot, and of   a  fierce countenance. With threatening speech and harsh cries he would advance upon the foe, for he rightly thought, and tried to show others, that often-times such action terrifies the enemy more than the sword. On the march, he carried his own armour on foot, while a  single attendant followed in charge of   his camp utensils. With this man, it  is said, he was never wroth, and never scolded him when he served up a meal, nay, he actually took hold himself  and assisted in most of   such preparations, provided he was free from his military duties. Water was what he drank on his campaigns, except that once in a while, in a raging thirst, he would call for vinegar, or, when his strength was failing, would add a little wine. 232

Cato’s virtus is generic, as the fragment emphasizes, and does not need a specific occasion to show itself. All these excerpts show that contemporary interest in the principle of   virtus was still strong, but that the tendency to personalize it brought it back to the old Greek discourse, where virtus was assigned to a special class of   people. By treating virtus as an individual quality, a character trait, writers like Plutarch gave it a general and moral dimension, and dissociated it from the military context of  battle. 233 In literature, a  good example would be Silius Italicus’ long poem, The Punica, on Hannibal’s War. It was written in the Greek style that was popular in his age, the late 1st century. The whole war was treated as a duel between two great nations, with parallel   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Marcellus’, 1.1 [my italics].   Plutarch, ‘Life of  Marcus Cato (Cato the Elder)’, 1.6–7. 233   Although Plutarch valued the Roman peace, the order that the empire had brought – not least to the cities of   Greece, where he lived – he had mis­giv­ ings about the Roman obsession with wealth and imperial expansion. As for the emperors, he morally questioned the behavior of   many of   them, ruthlessly competing for the throne, as well as the dangers of   an uncontrolled, unleashed army (‘Life of  Galba’, 1). 231 232

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dissensions among the gods. The numerous battles are in the best Homeric tradition and conducted as single combats. In a similar, Greek fashion, Roman gods send down their heavenly powers, and so does the goddess Loyalty to give virtus to the poor people of  Saguntum, who are threatened by Hannibal: The austere goddess sped down the light ether and, burning with anger, made for Saguntum and found it struggling with doom. Taking possession of   their minds and pervading their breasts, her familiar habitation, she instilled her divine power into their hearts. 234

In The Punica, virtus is  alive and well, but we are looking at a battle fought in long-past days. The poet Florus, probably Publius Annius Florus, the same man who wrote the Epitome of  Roman History, composed a short, witty poem, dedicated to the Emperor Hadrian, confessing that he (or his persona) had no ambition to serve in the army: ‘ I’ve no mind to be a Caesar / Strolling around the Britons / Wandering about Pannonia / Victim of  the Scythian hoar-frosts’. 235 Incidentally, Hadrian answered with an even wittier riposte: ‘I don’t want to be a Florus, please / To tramp around pubs / To lurk about eating pies and peas  / To get myself  infested with fleas’. 236 The feigned withdrawal from army life that Florus displayed, and his overt lack of   interest in the quality of   virtus were not new but related to strands in Augustan poetry, like Virgil’s pastoral Georgics, or the introspective militia amoris poems by Horace and Propertius. In the period at hand, this feeling is also touched upon by Statius in his epic poem Achilleid. In the true spirit of  Epicureanism, he celebrates – in passing – the tranquillity and luxury of   the life led by Rome’s aristocrats in their private villas, ‘away from the turmoil of   politics and war’. 237 But these objections to war are the aesthete’s rather than the politician’s or the philosopher’s.

  Silius Italicus, The Punica, 2.513–18.  Florus, Poems, 1. 236 Lendering n.d. 237  Konstan 1997, p. 83–84. 234 235

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As for the aspect of   disciplina, in some of   our authors, traditional views that go back to the past prevail. For example, Aelius Aristides, a 2nd-century orator, glorified Rome’s great empire by praising the Roman army’s self control and organization in a manner reminiscent of  Polybius: ‘Your military organization makes all others childish. Your soldiers and officers you train to prevail not only over the enemy but over themselves. The soldier lives under discipline daily, and none ever deserts the post assigned him’. 238 Although he visited Rome, Aristides was a Greek, and looked at Roman institutions from his home in Smyrna, availing himself  of   clichés. We find the same subject explained in the same Polybian terms in a passage from Josephus. It is less of   a stock image here, for Josephus was a first-hand witness; still, there is the same non-Roman distance: They do not wait for war to begin before handling their arms, nor do they sit idle in peacetime and take action only when the emergency comes – but as if  born ready armed they never have a  truce from training or wait for war to be declared. Their battle-drills are no different from the real thing; every man works as hard a his daily training as if  he was on active service. That is  why they stand up so easily to the strain of  battle: no indiscipline dislodges them from their regular formation, no panic incapacitates them, no toil wears them out; so victory over men not so trained follows as a  matter of   course. It  would not be far from the truth to call their drills bloodless battles, their battles bloody drills. 239

To conclude, the fragments we have dealt with all share the tendency to retreat into the past. They also share the absence of  any relation with the present, the time of   writing, which gives them a  lack of   urgency. The subject matter treated – civil war, virtus and disciplina – is  conventional, stock material, chiefly used to show literary craftsmanship and to appeal to the reader’s sentiment. Alternatively, the topics are part of   a  traditional, Livian discussion of   exempla, but with the special interest in the psychology of  an individual’s character, typical of  the age and seen in Plutarch and Suetonius.   Aelius Aristides, ‘The Roman Oration’.  Josephus, The Jewish War, 3.70.

238 239

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4. Conclusion If  the Augustan period is  the period of   Augustus, the Early Empire is the period of  the emperors. It covers almost two centuries, from ad 14 to ad 193, a lot longer than the relatively short Augustan Age, and virtually all the great emperors’ names from the history books figure in it. In the war discourse, most of  the issues revolve around the role of  the emperor, and this can be seen in the various discourse themes. But the most important distinctive element of   the period is the loss of   the unifying factor that Augustus could be in his time, which reflected on the cohesive discourse of   the Augustan Age.  In the Early Empire, the traces of   the Republic were gradually erased and the distance between the producers of   discourse (the senatorial elite, mostly) and the center of   power, the emperor and his inner circle, increased, so that we do not have writers with direct access to the relevant information, or, as in the Republic, participated in the political process themselves. At the same time, the official, ‘state’ discourse continued unabated, represented in statues, on monuments, on coins, and in ‘court discourse’ like panegyric poems and speeches. Hence, the discourse of   the period cannot be easily discussed as a  monolithic block; instead, it offers a  number of   divergent perspectives. In many cases, issues of  war and peace remained part of  a long Roman tradition that went back to its early days. This was especially so in the various literary genres. Because of  their interest in style and rhetorical effect, characteristic of   the Silver Age, poets resorted to the old themes of   virtus and glory in battle that had become stock repertoire. The treatment is not ‘morally contrastive’ – implications for present situations are largely absent – but rather ‘diverting’ or even ‘entertaining’. In  other sources, more critical views are expressed, especially aimed at the lack of   identification of   soldiers with the authority of   the res publica, and, worse, their dismal reputation among the civilian population. In  this sense, the discourse of   the Early Empire can be seen as best be represented by the escapism and grandeur of   the Punica, as well as the farcical social criticism of  the Golden Ass. Although they use totally different angles, they share a  complete detachment from the status quo, if  only because of   their old-fashioned or eccentric literary formats. 498

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But this is  not the full story. Much, if  not most, of   the discourse was in full agreement with the opinions expressed and images conveyed by the emperor’s inner circle, and had the dual role of   the emperor as its main topic. There was, therefore, no equality in position for the three perspectives that we discussed, since orthodoxy ruled. As for the aspect of   conquest, it can be concluded that, as a  goal, conquest was replaced by pacification and that pacification was considered a  necessity. It  could be enforced with brutal strength in order to impress the conquered nations. Since the principle was hardly questioned, this gives support to Mattern’s thesis – the psychological pressure that she posits as a cornerstone is certainly corroborated by Tacitus. Finally, our discussion of   the Early Empire has ad 193 as its terminus, but the changes that follow are not abrupt, and some of   the premonitions in the late 2nd century have been touched upon here as well. First, the emperor has now created for himself  a special status as a being in between gods and humans – any illusion of   his position of   princeps, notably in a relation with Senate and People, has been irretrievably lost. 240 Second, in our visual sources, the allusions to force and violence have clearly increased and can be related to the changing military conditions of   the time. The contrast between Trajan’s Column and the Column of  Marcus Aurelius speaks volumes: in the former, the way in which the Romans show themselves to be masters of  the world is characterized by simplicity and realism; in the latter, it is depicted with violence and gruesome detail – campaigning has become a ritual act with the emperor as high priest. At times of  unrest, such as the late 2nd century, the emperor had to be seen as flexing his muscles. This change of   mentality would be a  herald of   3rd century developments.

  Although the term ‘principatus’ was still used on the emperor’s accession of   office until the end of   the 5th century, as we know from Hydatius’ Chronicle (154, 157, 162, for the emperor Marcian). 240

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1. Introduction to the Period The period that we shall discuss here covers the later Principate and the beginning of   the Dominate: it starts with the Severan Dynasty and ends with the rule of  Constantine the Great and his sons. It  is  a  long period that is  characterized by political, social and religious turmoil, and important developments in the discourse with the increasing role of   Christian thinking. The terminus, c. 360, is chosen because by then the Christian perspective in the discourse is beginning to become dominant, opening the new period that today is  called Late Antiquity. This will be the topic of  the tenth and final chapter. In the period at hand, the Roman empire faced a number of  challenges with far-reaching consequences. First of   all, the problem of   insecure borders intensified, on most of   its frontiers, with successive incursions by barbarians in the west and north, and the renewed confrontations with the Parthians on the east. This implied a  major change of   priorities, for Roman warfare had always been offensive and Romans were used to conduct campaigns in locations of   their own choosing – now they were trying to maintain the status quo. 1 It also became an increasing burden for the army and the state, both financially and logistically. 2 Increased fighting necessitated the recruitment of  trained   Campbell 2002, p. 20.   This is not to suggest that the Roman armies of  the 3rd century had become inferior as a  fighting force. Battle performance had not dramatically worsened, 1 2

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troops, which was only possible in the form of  barbarians, usually Germanic, mercenaries. For some time the army had no longer been a  tempting career for young Romans in the first place. At a time when the army was afflicted by a combination of   military disasters and of   devastating pandemics, the fall in recruitment had to be compensated elsewhere. 3 Also, internal strife demanded manpower, for usurpers needed soldiers on an acute basis to help them fight other Roman armies. Thus, the traditional distinction between legions and auxilia started to fade. 4 Secondly, political instability resulted in constant internal warfare, and success in war became the only foundation for imperial legitimacy. With increased pressure along the frontiers, the relationship between emperor and army changed, because emperors now had to take personal command of   the troops. The court in Rome moved to the army, so to speak, and the emperor literally distanced himself  from the political world of   the Senate and Rome. 5 Since the emperor could also be held directly accountable for campaign results, failure had grave implications. The imperial field army and its elite officers became the true center of  the emperor’s power, but at the same time a constant threat, for anyone in charge of   a  field army was a  potential usurper. 6 Before, dynastic succession had created stability, for the best men were selected through the system of   adoption, Also, emperors had sought compromises with the Senate concerning their prerogatives and the legality of   their actions, formalized in the Lex de Imperio Vespasiani. 7 Later, when most of   the emperors were and there was more continuity in the 3rd century than change in this respect (Strobel 2007, p. 281). 3  MacMullen 1980, p. 455. 4  Strobel 2007, p. 280. What also aided this process was the practice of  awarding auxilia with Roman citizenship after their term of   service. It greatly enlarged the number of   citizens in frontier hinterland areas and made the old distinction between citizen and non-citizen obsolete. 5   This was both geographically and politically. Until the 230s, most emperors had undergone a senatorial career if  they belonged to the class of   patricians, or else they had worked themselves up through military posts and other positions in the military service as part of  the cursus honorum. After 235, emperors like Maximinus Thrax could rise from being common soldiers in a strictly military career (Mennen 2011, p. 28). 6  Strobel 2007, p. 270. 7  Ando 2000, p. 8.

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military men, military concerns were prioritized over non-military matters, and the close ties with Roman institutions (like the Senate) were loosened. Increased militarization came to a height in the mid-third century, in what is  often called the ‘third-century crisis’, the exact nature of  which has become hotly debated. 8 The problem persisted for a  long time and was only (partially) resolved by Diocletian’s reforms and the relative stability of   the House of   Constantine. By that time, a more centralized administration and a  higher level of   administrative organization had placed the empire on a new footing. 9

  The controversy surrounds the principles of  continuity and change within this period, and the gravity and uniqueness of   the change in particular. A  full treatment of  the issue would take us far beyond the scope of  this study, but a brief  discussion of   the arguments is in order. It seems fair to say that, these days, the ‘continuists’ seem to have the upper hand, with K. Strobel arguing that the Roman world of   the 3rd century was actually relatively stable (Strobel 1977, p. 347) and C. Witschel pointing to the fact that in structural aspects as well as in material culture the 3rd century did not undergo radical changes (Witschel 1999, p.  24; p. 377). Clifford Ando points to ‘continuity of  the system’, which was ‘depersonalized, and even the repeated contest about the ruler’s position did not change that, for the contest was never over the system itself  (Ando 2000, p. 225–26). Other scholars, however, are not averse to thinking in terms of   ‘crisis’, but according to L. de Blois, the word ‘crisis’ should be reserved for the later part (249–84) only (de Blois 2002, p. 204–17). A restriction to specific years has also been suggested by M. Christol (L’Empire Romain du IIIe siècle), but his third century spans a huge period (193–325, the ‘long third century’), which can easily accommodate a new perspective. The accumulation of   the groups of   years suggested makes it hard to dismiss A. Watson’s point that it is difficult to apply the term ‘crisis’ to half  a century or more (Watson 1999, p. 2). W. Liebeschuetz counters the ‘continuist’ view by pointing to the traumatic nature of   many of   the events of   the period and the difficulty with which the empire survived and, barely, recovered (Liebeschuetz 2007, p.  17–19). Whether one wants to stress continuity or change depends on the selection of   data. It  is  clear that there was continuity in many respects: for example, regional differences are marked, and the impact of   ‘crisis’ was not the everywhere the same. Also, political and social structures did not collapse. Senatorial top positions still remained in the hands of   the traditional elite (Mennen 2011, p. 81). And, not to forget, cultural expression in mosaics and the art of   coin design flourished, together with philosophy (Neoplatonism). All the same, the overwhelming evidence of  a number of  coinciding developments cannot be ignored: the intensification of   actual warfare, ensuing devastation, epidemics, and a deterioration of   actual imperial authority (de Blois 2007, p. 507). It is also the persistence of  this accumulation of  problems that make the period stand out in any comparison, not just with the tranquil 2nd century, as Watson suggests (‘the 2nd century was anomalous, not the 3rd’) (Watson 1999, p. 4). 9  Strobel 2007, p. 282. 8

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Third, the religious landscape changed fundamentally and made it possible for Christianity to gain influence, with long-lasting effects, making a  full impact on all matters concerning Roman society as a whole in the late 4th and 5th centuries. 10 Roman religion was a  complex phenomenon, and religious developments took place on multiple levels. The official state religion had a specific army variety which emphasized cultic actions (like the sacra­mentum, the sacrificing ritual, the triumph, etc.). In the 3rd century the emperor cult, an important part of  it, came to be the heart of  the army religion. 11 At the same time, the private form of  religion saw a fundamental change in the way of  thinking about religion, as Clifford Ando has pointed out, which now saw conversion as a meaningful thing, preparing the way for Christianity, a new cult that did not accept integration into the existing paradigm. 12

2. Genres and Methodological Problems in Using Primary Sources What is characteristic of   this period is the fact that our primary sources are fragmentary and limited. 13 Especially for the time between 235 and 284, there is a dearth of  material, either because none existed at the time, or because what did exist has been lost. To make bad things worse, some extant information has been subjected to deliberate falsification by contemporary or later authors. This does not mean that we are facing an abrupt end to a historiographical and literary tradition. Even with lacunae, it can be argued that there are more lines of   continuity within this period than dividing lines. Perhaps this is due to a maturing civil service, but what legal and literary texts we have suggest that there was continuity in many respects. If  one looks for historical reconstructions, the idea of   continuity makes sense, but in the context of   the history of   mentalities and ideas other conclusions can be drawn. The sources that     12  13  10 11

Ando 2000, p. 3. Stoll 2007, p. 452. Ando 2000, p. 123. Elton 2007, p. 271.

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are available do show a break with tradition. First of  all, and here I follow Alföldi, it can be seen that the sense of  crisis that came in ‘waves’ of   misfortune was deeper than ever before in the Roman discourse, and continuity would – in this perspective – not be the right word to describe it. Secondly, thanks to the gradual development of   Christian writing, we do have contemporary material to fill us in on the history of   ideas. Even though Christian writers were hardly interested in military events of  present and past, they created a new paradigm for the relationship between traditional institutions like the military and the new creed. The advent of  Christianity actually brought a wholly new concept of   history and the practice of   history writing. The past was given new meaning, a theological one, and Roman history became incorporated into a larger framework that went back all the way to God’s creation of  the world. This is not the place to discuss the full implications of   this change of   paradigm, which took a long time to take effect, but the influence that Christianity had on some of   our primary sources is  an essential element in the discourse of  the time. 14

2.1. Historiography: The Emerging Christian Discourse In the course of   the third century, the writing of   history was no longer pursued with the intensity of   previous times, and our historiographical sources are minimal. For the early 3rd century, however, we have Cassius Dio, who wrote in Greek, like Plutarch before him and some of   the other historians of   our period. He combined a biographical interest with an annalistic framework to produce his massive Roman History. The perspective of   his time, a dark period in Roman history, influenced his writing, and made it difficult for him to establish ‘teleological’ principles for his history, as Martin Hose says, for the success stories of   Polybius,   In the new form of   historiography, truth prevailed over discursive form, and transparency and simplicity over rhetoric and aesthetics, the very things that characterize classical history writing (Walker 1993, p.  353–77). In  the period that follows, ‘veracity replaces verisimilitude, and theology replaces rhetoric’. Also, the ban on fiction was total, and in the new form of   historiography, hagiographical narrative, fictionality would never be acknowledged (Bowersock 1994, p. 141–42). 14

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Florus or Livy no longer applied. 15 Another historian of  the early years is Herodian, whose History of  the Empire covers the years up to ad 238. For a later part of  the 3rd century Dexippus’ Chronicle, only surviving in fragments, offers valuable contributions. Dexippus was a  statesman and general, and wrote about the Roman wars with the Goths in the late 260s. Our last source, Aurelius Victor, wrote much later, near the end of  our period. A governor of   Pannonia under the emperor Julian, he became known for his De Caesaribus, a number of   succinct emperor biographies in the subgenre of  breviaria or short overviews. 16 However, the later part of   our period also saw the emergence of  three new historiographical genres, which would have an enormous impact on the periods that follow. The first was the ‘ecclesiastical history’, bringing together the most important events in the history of   the Church of   Rome and its followers, a tradition that was started by Eusebius. The second new genre was the ‘chronicle’, a year-by-year recording of  events in a particular place that was based on Hellenistic examples. Chronicles were written by bishops and scholars for the benefit of   their peers. 17 Eusebius’ Chronicle, for example, begins with Abraham and ends in the author’s own lifetime. It was a massive undertaking, incorporating ‘the whole of   human history, Christian and pagan, into a single grid’. 18 A third newcomer in historiography, the life of   a  saint, or ‘hagiography’, fit in well with the long-existing popularity of  biography; this could now be channeled into a Christian variety of recording the past in order to seek emulation of  new exemplary   Hose 2007, p. 464. Dio saw his own time as one of   decline, but decline that would be arrested if  emperors returned to an enlightened style of  government. As a senator, Dio was naturally interested in the relationship between emperor and Senate, and held up Augustus as the example of  the good ruler (Swan 2004, p. 13–17). 16 The Historia Augusta, a collection of   imperial biographies stretching to the late 3rd century, has been and still is the subject of   great controversy concerning its authorship and authenticity. For our discourse analysis it is, despite its dubious status, of   some value and has been used incidentally. There were also a number of   ‘epitomators’, writers of   succinct overviews, at the end of   our period, like Eutropius and Rufus. As pagans, they preferred to emphasize Rome’s secular history and military glories rather than recount its Christian conversion and cultural transformation. In our study of  discourse, they are of  limited value. 17  Croke 2007, p. 574–80. 18  Croke 1983, p. 125. 15

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characters. The saints’ lives, such as Eusebius’ Life of  Constantine, were modeled on the early Life of   Antony by Athanasius, and would be the beginning of  a long tradition that greatly flourished in the Middle Ages. 19 Saints’ lives incorporated elements of  popular folklore and used standard themes and a lot of   repetition to give the reader an easily recognizable framework, making it possible to convey the intended moral lesson. 20 The new genre of   hagiography was based on the tales of   martyrs that dated back to the middle of   the second century, when Christian communities began to collect and preserve stories of  the suffering that martyrs endured for their faith. 21 There were various types of  saints’ lives, the life of  the ascetic holy man being one of  the commonest, but our interest goes out primarily to the type of   the military martyr. It  was developed during the third century and reflected the growing presence of   Christians within the army, intending to address the particular concerns of   Christians serving within a largely pagan institution. 22 Within the new genres, Christian Roman authors continued to use classical historiographical models. Since many Christian writers were converts from the educated class and were trained in classical rhetoric, their discourse was not wholly lacking of  rhetorical principles, as Averil Cameron has pointed out, but they wished to separate themselves from the old tradition and adapt it to a new way of   telling the story. 23 In sum, Christians adapted old themes and styles to suit their own purposes. 24 The same thing happened to the moral values that their pagan predecessors had applied to qualify and characterize people and events. They were now incorporated into a Christian framework, and in spite of   what it officially proclaimed, Christianity adopted many traditional moral values that changed next to nothing, especially in the mid-fourth century, so that transitions to the Christian era were very gradual. But the recognition of   ‘gradual transition’ is,

    21   22  23  24  19 20

Croke and Emmett 1983, p. 2. Elliot 1987, p. 55–58. Noble and Head 1995, p. xix. Shean 2010, p. 195. Cameron 1993, p. 86. Cameron 1993, p. 146.

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of   course, the benefit of   hindsight, a  perspective missing in our contemporary sources. Even though Christian history writing had a  classical background, it showed some conspicuous differences with traditional historiography. First of   all, it was lacking in stylistic elegance – it had little interest in the principles of   composition and rhetorical embellishment, the things that characterized classical writing. Secondly, it was strongly text-based, filled with quotations from the Bible, letters and other documents written by the early Church Fathers. The interest in the spoken or written word was the immediate consequence of   the central importance of   Holy Scripture in the new creed. 25 Third, and already mentioned, the leading principle behind the writing of   history, which had long been moral and instructive in a broad sense, was now more narrowly theological. Or, perhaps more precisely, in the words of  Cameron, it was ‘referential or figural; it signified’. The writing of   history now became the recording of   religious truth, and this truth presented itself  in the form of  signs and symbols rather than that of   rational argument. This explains why Christian writing prefers the use of   metaphor and image, and of   parable-inspired narrative. 26

2.2. Other Sources In our analysis of   the discourse of   this period, in which Christian viewpoints emerge but have not yet gained the domineering position of   the late fourth century, we will be using a variety of  contemporary Christian sources, ranging from Clement of   Alexandria, Cyprian, Hippolytus and Origen in the third century, and Eusebius and Lactantius in the fourth. In  order to trace the development of   the discourse, second-century writers (both pagan and Christian) like Tertullian, 27 Athenagoras and Celsus   Winkelmann 2003, p. 7.   Cameron 1993, p. 43–48; p. 89. 27   Tertullian was a prolific writer and, in his Apologeticum, one of  the staunchest defenders of  early Christianity in the Roman Empire. He greatly influenced later Christian authors like Cyprian and Jerome, and boldly gave the Roman authorities notice that Christians had the power to fight the empire, if  they wished so (Apologeticum, 37.4). Somewhat of   a maverick, Tertullian had relations with the Church that were changeable, but the issue is debated (Rankin 1995, p. 3). 25 26

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will be included as well, although, properly speaking, they do not belong to this period. As for the Christian authors of   the fourth century, their work was mostly directed at fellow-Christians, but sometimes at the unconverted, the so-called ‘apologetic writings’, such as Lactantius’ Divine Institutes, which defended the Christian faith and ethics against pagan beliefs and institutes, and his On  the Deaths of   the Persecutors, which tries to show how God revenged the persecutions by bringing the responsible emperors to their miserable ends. Generically, most of   the written work in the group of   ‘other sources’ cannot be classified as historiography and is quite diverse. It ranges from panegyrics to philosophical tracts, homilies, letters and religious apologetics, and expresses the features of   the genre in which they are written (and can be expected), but also the personal interests of  the authors. 28 Among non-Christian sources, panegyric was, as it had been before, a  popular genre, usually a  form of   official propaganda, praising the emperor or another potentate, on festive occasions like the birthday of   the ruler, the anniversary of   his succession, the return from a successful campaign, and the like. 29 From the time of   Gordian III onwards, i.e. the first part of   the 3rd century, panegyrics hailed the emperor as restitutor orbis or with similar epithets. 30 This does not mean the genre was just a  rhetorical exercise, with authors as mere mouthpieces for the emperor and his court. 31 Unlike most historiography, panegyrics give us contemporary views on contemporary events. For the 4th century, we have a codex of   twelve Latin panegyrics, offered in honor of  the emperor Constantine and a few emperors ruling before him. They celebrate the restoration of  order after a long period of  chaos and the successful campaigns by Constantine. Perhaps the most important of  them, the ‘Trier panegyric’ of  313, gives interesting

28   Alföldi 1974, p. 90–91. Traditional secular writing remained the stylistic standard for both pagan and Christian authors. Cyprian, for example, used the eclogues written by Calpurnius Siculus as a  source of   inspiration for his letter ‘Ad Donatum’, which is about the blessings of  Christian baptism (Winterbottom 2007, p. 195). 29  Nixon 1983, p. 88–99. 30  Alföldi 1974, p. 96. 31   Nixon and Rodgers 1994, p. 30–31.

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details on the emperor’s Italian campaign and the pagan author’s perspective on Constantine’s conversion. 32 Apologetic writing went together with the spread of   Chris­ tianity during the second century. It  attempted to define the Chris­tian position towards the Jews and the Hellenistic world and reflected early controversy among and within the Christian communities, what later would be labeled ‘orthodoxy’ vs ‘heresy’. 33 One of   the earliest apologetics was Tatian, a  disciple of   Justin Martyr. It is indicative of  the lack of  consensus among Christians concerning the tenets of   their faith that both of   them, master and pupil, were considered heretics after their deaths. Apologetics responded to anti-Christian attacks by pagan intellectuals like Samosata, Fronto, Celsus and Porphyry, who became convinced that Christians posed a threat to the order of   the empire since they turned away from the gods, the emperor and the ancestral traditions. In  countering these attacks, the Christian writers combined defensive stances – defending the faith – with more offensive approaches – condemning the traditional cult and mythology. 34 Contrary to expectations, the third century was a time of  continued cultural flourish in fields like rhetoric and philosophy (Neo-Platonism). By far the most influential philosopher of   this period was Plotinus, the third-century founder of  Neoplatonism. With Plotinus, we are in the pre-Constantinian era, and as a Stoic his views on warfare were ‘classical’, part of   the great tradition, in which, on the whole, war was taken for granted, as one of   the things of   life. Plotinus considered war to be very much part of  the order of   things (‘men attack each other: all is  war without rest, without truce’) and he thought it advisable to fight in order to survive, as a Darwinian avant-la-lettre. 35 This idea fits in with the modern assessment of  Roman warfare as relentlessly focusing on Rome’s image of  strength, using vengeance and retribution to

  Odahl 2012a, p. 8.   Hunt 2003, p.  10–11. These concepts only emerged later, in the course of  the 4th century, when the Catholic stream in Rome gained the upper hand and could spread its influence outward into Greece and Asia Minor. 34  Kofsky 2002, p. 5–6. 35  Plotinus, The Enneads, III.2.8; III.2.15. 32 33

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keep potential rebellions down. 36 Philosophically, it would only be affected after 600, when philosophy and Christian theology had merged, and Roman warfare had given way to medieval warfare. 37 Also in the arts (mosaics) and numismatics (coin designs), there was continued development. From these ‘secondary’ sources, coins should be singled out as especially valuable for our purposes, in particular for discourse aspects like ‘loyalty’ and ‘victory’, since other sources are scarce, and, fortunately, Roman imperial coinage was ‘uninterruptedly minted from the beginning until the end of  the Empire, even in periods of  crisis’. 38 Third-century coinage was analyzed by Erika Manders, who looked at the reverses of   coins minted during the 3rd-century that are catalogued in the RIC. A  large number (22.5%) had a  military character, and 21.8% had a connection of  the emperor with the divine. 39 On the whole, coinage in the period can be related to the dynastic concerns that obsessed many emperors, 40 and ever since the Severans the idea of   divine support for their rule had taken hold. 41 And emperors who had no proper dynasty would avail themselves of  all sorts of   dynastic symbols to emphasize their function as guarantor of   military and civil stability. They would, for example, appoint their sons to the rank of   Caesar or Augustus, with ref­ er­ences to a  PRINCEPS IVVENTVTIS, a  young heir who was attributed with military virtues and leadership skills. Sometimes they would also depict deities like Sol or Mars, who were used as ‘fake family’ or ‘fake co-rulership’. 42 This use of   deities was not widespread, but common under the emperor Probus   Rosenstein 2007, p. 229.   The strong, classical continuity of  the 3rd century had its downside, David Potter has argued, for the ‘assumption that foreign wisdom was essentially Greek did not help people understand the world at large. […]  It inhibited an ability to realize that situations that had been static for centuries were on the verge of  change, and perhaps to see clearly what was happening with the empire itself’ (Potter 2004, p. 213). 38   Manders 2007, p. 229. 39  Manders 2007, p. 285. 40  Only one dynasty (the Severan) would successfully be established between 193 and 284. 41  Rowan 2012, p. 5. 42   Horster 2007, p. 297. 36 37

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(ad  276–82) who promoted his heavenly co-ruler Sol, the god ensuring the security if  the empire. 43 As for monuments, the victory monuments to Severus and Constantine stand out. They span almost the whole of  our period and give great insight into the development of  the war discourse.

3. The War Discourse of  this Period Historically, this chapter covers two distinct periods: that of   the so-called ‘crisis of   the third century’, beginning at the end of   the second century with the assassination of   Commodus and the ensuing civil wars; and that of  the establishment of  the Dominate by Diocletian and the subsequent reign of   Constantine and his heirs. As for the war discourse, however, we cannot make a clear separation in time. What we find is a confrontation but also a dialogue of   viewpoints. On  the one hand, we have the traditional (‘pagan’) perception; on the other, the emerging Christian discourse, which often mirrors established conventions with a Christian super-layer, but also introduces clearly diverging views. 44 Since the two discourses run parallel lines throughout our period and their opposition dominates all the submerged themes, I  will concentrate on this duality and discuss the major theme of   ‘loyalty’ as it  is presented in the two competing ‘modes’ of  thought. Other themes like ‘legitimacy’ and ‘victory’ have not disappeared, but they can be seen as part as ‘loyalty’ in the present chapter, it seems to me, for in most of   our sources the focus of   attention is  on the relationship between the emperor (and the office he represents) and the army. The nature of   this relationship is central in both the traditional, pagan view and in the upcoming Christian alternative. The two perspectives will be treated consecutively in the sections that follow.   Kent 1978, p. 548.   ‘Pagan’ is a problematic term, only used because of   it being common and conventional. In our discussion of   ‘pagan’ perceptions, it is good to repeat John North’s observation that there was no ‘pagan’ religion at the time, since pagans had no religion in our sense of  the word. There was no organized system of  beliefs, and ‘pagan’ as a  label was invented later, to refer to non-Christians. In  effect, ‘pagan’, ‘traditional’, ‘secular’, or ‘non-Christian’ all refer to the same idea and will be used as such in the present study (North 1997, p. 57–68). 43 44

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3.1. Loyalty and the Emperor: The Pagan Tradition In the 3rd and early 4th centuries, loyalty became a  key theme. The political changes in this period are broad and deep, and cannot be dealt with here in great detail, but they had been prepared for during the Augustan period and the Early Empire. What is important for us here is that, for some time now, there had been a  majority of   soldiers without attachment to the city of   Rome (or even to Italy). Their loyalty naturally went to their own army and their own region, and the size of   his army could make a general the highest bidder, the most powerful commander, irrespective of   his ethnic background. Once the central role of   the army in the process of   imperial succession had become the rule rather than the exception, the traditional loyalty of   the troops to the emperor, their fides, more than ever came to be related to emperors with martial capacities rather than dynastic qualifications. 45 Although this ideology was heralded by Commodus, the change can no doubt be related to Severus’ rise to power, which was ‘through the ranks’, in the context of   a  war of   succession. The claimant to the throne could not appeal to ancestral rights and was in dire need of   this alternative form of   support. The decisive role of   the army in the making and breaking of   emperors is attested by our sources reporting about events in the first quarter of   the third century. The chaos they depict give support to the idea that the political and military issues of   the time were the onset of   an actual crisis, and that ‘crisis’ is  appropriate as a term. In the discussion of   the theme of   loyalty in the (pagan) discourse, I will follow a number of  different but related developments as found in contemporary assessments: (1) the emperor’s potential in obtaining his army’s loyalty and his use of   the concept of   virtus; (2) the role of   ‘victory’ as a  discourse feature in reinforcing the emperor’s position; and (3) the role of   religion as a tool in establishing the ruler’s credibility.

  The efforts at projecting military images were part of   an ongoing process of   increasing militarization. Emperors like Vespasian and Septimius Severus had already obtained the purple through military acclamation. The 3rd century intensified this process, which resulted in ever-shorter periods of  office (Hekster 2008, p. 58). 45

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3.1.1. The Emperor and His Army’s Loyalty For contemporary authors, the chaotic state of   the empire in the third century could be traced back to Severus’ rise to power after the civil war of   193–96. 46 Born in the Roman province of   Africa, Septimius Severus made excessive expenditures on the army, and, as Dio complained, placed his hope of   safety ‘in the strength of   his army rather than in the good will of   his associates in the government’. 47 This set a bad example for his successors. Like Severus, Caracalla was said to be fond of   spending all his money on the military, at the cost of  everything else. In Dio’s words, ‘he made it his business to strip, despoil, and grind down all the rest of   mankind, and the senators by no means least’. 48 The problem of  utter reliance on the soldiers engendered a capricious, whimsical army that could manipulate its commanders at will. For example, the fatal ending of   the emperor Macrinus’ ill-conceived Parthian expedition was attributed to the utter lack of  discipline of  the soldiers and the lack of  respect for the emperor’s office: The soldiers were becoming turbulent. They were angered by their reverses, for one thing, but, more important still, they would no longer submit to any hardship if  they could help it, but were thoroughly out of   training in every respect and wanted to have no emperor who ruled them with a firm hand, but demanded that they should receive everything without limit while deigning to perform no task that was worthy of   them. […]  For, while the Parthians killed a  few soldiers and ravaged portions of   Mesopotamia, these men cut down many of  their own number and also overthrew their emperor; and, what is still worse than that, they set up a successor just like him, one by whom nothing was done that was not evil and base. 49

  To a lesser extent, it was also linked with the events of  the late 2nd century: the military catastrophes under Marcus Aurelius, and the civil wars that followed the collapse of  the Antonine monarchy (Alföldi 1974, p. 93). 47 Dio, Roman History, 75.3. We should, of   course, take into account that Dio was strongly biased against the Severan dynasty. 48 Dio, Roman History, 78.9. 49  Dio, Roman History, 79.28–29. 46

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Among the pagan authors, we find more radical criticism in Herodian. He saw the period after Marcus Aurelius as an unmitigated catastrophe, and even foresaw a collapse of   the Empire. 50 Returning to the old order was not realistic, Herodian believed, because in the state of   chaos only tough soldier-emperors who were dependent on the whims of  the army could hold the empire together. 51 This ‘rule of   the soldiery’ spelled little good, he thought, for the soldiers were corrupt, ambitious, and despised their rulers. 52 Army loyalty had become extremely volatile. When the soldiers tired of   their emperor, they looked for better alternatives, especially when campaigns did not bring the results that were expected. 53 Herodian tells us about the plot to kill the emperor Severus Alexander and proclaim Maximinus, who was believed to be a  more competent general. 54 The rising discontent with Alexander made it easy for Maximinus Thrax, a  barbarian from Thrace and a more aggressive fighter, to overthrow the emperor and put an end to the Severan dynasty: Maximinus’ army was now in sight and the young recruits began to call out [to the other side], urging their fellow soldiers to desert their ‘mean little sissy’ or their ‘timid little lad tied to his mother’s apron strings’ and to come over to the side of  a man who was brave and moderate, always their companion in battle and devoted to a life of   military action. The soldiers were persuaded, and abandoning Alexander, they joined Maximinus who was universally acclaimed as emperor. 55  Herodian, Roman History, 2.8.4.  Herodian, Roman History, 1.1.2. Problems went back all the way to the late 2nd century, Herodian thought, when Severus had ‘undermined the discipline of  the army’ because of  his largesse and indulgence: soldiers were allowed to wear gold finger rings and live with their wives. All  this ‘weakened their respect for their superiors’ (Herodian, Roman History, 3.8.5). 52  Herodian, Roman History, 2.6.14. 53  This lack of   military success against the Persians and the Germans played an essential role in the army’s diminished loyalty, A. Ziolkowski has argued. The military lost faith in the imperial purple due to increasing security concerns on the borders. The power of  the emperor depended on the army’s perception of  his handling of   these barbarian threats. Herodian’s history certainly gives credence to this explanation (Ziolkowski 2011, chapter 5). 54 Herodian, Roman History, 5.8. 55 Herodian, Roman History, 6.9.5. 50 51

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The soldiers were elated, but, Herodian makes clear, the citizens were not. Maximinus used his power ‘savagely, to inspire great fear’, and institutes a barbarous autocracy, terrorizing the people and placing the city of  Rome ‘under siege’ with a massive presence of  troops. 56 Army loyalty came and went. Probus’ career is exemplary, as can be seen in Aurelius Victor’s account. In 276, Probus came to power with the enthusiastic support of   the soldiers. He was considered a second Hannibal because of  his great knowledge of  warfare and his versatile training of   the soldiers and his toughening of  the young recruits. But already in 282, the loyalty of  the soldiers was lost after he had successfully ‘pacified’ rebellious regions and, Aurelius Victor suggests, his lack of   new military commitments hastened his demise. 57 Overall, Victor saw unmitigated disaster in this time: ‘While [the emperors] preferred to fight among themselves, they threw the Roman state as it were into a deep decline, and good men and bad men, noble and ignoble, and even many of  barbarian background were put into power indiscriminately’. 58 And, when warfare was followed by an outbreak of   the plague, in 251, ‘unbearable anxieties and spiritual despair’ arose among the subjects of  the empire. 59 The precariousness of  the emperor’s position and the changing nature of  army loyalty became an attribute of  the imperial office. Thus Saturninus, supposedly one of  the short-lived emperors who were called the ‘Thirty Tyrants’, was credited with the following observations: ‘You little know what a  poor thing it  is to be an emperor. Swords hang over our necks, on every side is the menace of   spear and dart. We go in fear of   our guards, in terror of   our household troops’. 60

 Herodian, Roman History, 6.1–3.   ‘When all these regions had been recovered and pacified, it is reported that he stated that in a  short time soldiers would be unnecessary’ (Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus, 37.1.3). 58  Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus, 24.9. 59  Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus, 33.5. 60  The words are attributed to one of   the obscure usurpers of   the mid- and later 3rd centuries that were labeled the Thirty Tyrants to parallel the Greek Thirty Tyrants of  Athens. Although the citation has an uncertain authenticity, it is a perfect illustration of   the insecurity of   the emperor’s office, and has been included 56 57

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Not all contemporary accounts were equally bleak, however. It is true that writers like Ulpian and Philostratus pointed to signs of   decay, but they included traditional bogeymen like physical degeneration. 61 Besides, Philostratus believed that the balanced order of   the past could well be restored. And, even in the ‘barracks-emperors’ and their notorious predecessors, certain qualities were still admired. Herodian praised Severus’ courage (‘one could not easily name his equal’) and Aurelius Victor was impressed by his success as a  leader in battle (‘he left no battle except as victor’), while Herodian also singled out Caracalla for his willingness to share military hardship, something ‘worthy of  admiration’. 62 It tells us that the old ideal of   virtus was still alive and recognized for some rulers of   this period. As we shall see, it was certainly a desired trait that emperors liked to advertise for themselves. As for sharing hardship, loyalty had always been great with an emperor who would fight with the troops, as commilito, and closeness to the military would convey an image of   power that could be publicly promoted. Before 235 claims of   commilitium were largely rhetorical, according to Campbell, but after 235, this changed. 63 As Herodian has it, Maximinus himself  led the troops in pursuit of   defeated enemy, to treacherous marshlands. His troops ‘grew ashamed to betray an emperor who was fighting for them, and they gained the courage to wade into the swamps’. 64 Perhaps Herodian underlined this as a  rhetorical device, or because it was untypical at the time – even Caracalla never fought in the front line. 65 In official panegyrics, virtus remained a rhetorical topos throughout our period and was employed to boost the emperor’s badly needed status. In the late 3rd century, when Diocletian’s colleague Maximian campaigned on the Rhine, his presence was given high for this reason (Historia Augusta, The Lives of   Firmus, Saturninus, Proculus and Bonosus, 10.2). 61 Ulpian, Digesta, 50.6.3; Philostratus, Gymnasticus, 1F, 44. 62 Herodian, Roman History, 3.7.8 and 4.7.7; Aurelius Victor, The Caesaribus, 20.23. 63   Campbell 2002, p. 56. 64 Herodian, Roman History, 7.2.6.7. 65  Campbell 2002, p. 69.

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accolades in a  panegyric written at the time: ‘What need of  a multitude, when you yourself  took part in the fray, when you yourself  did battle in each spot, and over the whole battlefield, and you yourself  ran to counter the foe elsewhere, both where he resisted, and where he gave way and fled’. 66 In the promotion and distribution of   the emperor’s martial image, coins remained an essential medium. Between 235 and 284, virtus was emphasized, 67 whereas before, in the period between 193 and 235, qualities like aequitas (fairness) and pietas had been key. 68 During the 3rd century crisis, the prominence of   virtus on coins was especially striking among emperors who had little or no military record, such as Q uintillus or Florianus. 69 This lack of   relation with actual achievements underlines the role of   ‘branding’ of   an image of   martiality that coins fulfilled. On coins, emperors were depicted clad in a cuirass or a military cloak, emphasizing their military rather than civilian role. Cuirass and cloak were often combined with spear, sceptre, shield and helmet. 70 In Florianus, who was emperor for three months, we find these aspects well represented. Florianus was chosen by the western army in 276, while the eastern army elected its own emperor, Probus. The military confrontation that ensued resulted in Probus’ victory and Florianus’ assassination by his own troops. There is  a  coin showing Hercules crowning Florianus and celebrating the new emperor’s eternal life (AETERNITAS AUG.). As an emperor, Florianus is ready for battle, attired in full military dress. 71 The suggestion of   military strength and the message of   longevity of   rule are in glaring contrast with the tragic events that followed. At the same time, it was essential to create an impression of  loyalty. It  is  no surprise that, especially during the 3rd-century crisis, coins emphasized the army’s fidelity in explicit terms. 72     68   69  70  71  72  66

67

Panegyrici Latini, 10 (2).5.3. Manders 2012, p. 133. Noreña 2001, p. 146–68. Hebblewhite 2013, p. 73. King 1999, p. 133. Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC, V/I 005.5 (F). Manders 2012, p. 96.

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Legends read, for example, FIDES MILITUM or CONCORDIA EXERCITUS, in line with the idea of   continuous acts of   legitimization of   imperial rule. 73 These messages were aspirational claims, and usually had no real basis. This is why de Blois calls them ‘the most honest ideological acknowledgement of   the relationship of   power that underpinned the Roman Empire during the 3rd century crisis’. 74 A common theme was the invocation of   dynastic credibility: emperors tried to secure their own legitimacy among the soldiers as well as that of   their successors, the ‘princes’, but usually without much success. 75 During the reign of   Maximinus Thrax, the legend PRINCEPS IUVENTUTIS, which had been used before to suggest the ruler’s youthful, warlike virtus, was combined with exclusively military imagery. 76 This military image building can be explained by the fact that, at the time, a  dynasty could only survive if  the army believed it offered stable military leadership. 77 Until the establishment of   the Tetrarchy, all attempts remained short-lived. 3.1.2. Using ‘Victory’ as an Emblem to Secure Loyalty At a  time of   shifting army loyalty, emperors inevitably needed a  mix of   military images to project their martial qualities, and apart from virtus, ‘victory’ was a  dominating motif. Our main sources are coins, monuments and statues, and – in writing – panegyrics, and they tell us that references to Victoria remained frequent throughout our period, sometimes in combination with virtus. On  coins, for example, we see a  link between VIRTUS AUGUSTI and VICTORIA AUGUSTI. This can be explained in that, by grace of   his virtus, the emperor achieved victories.   Hedlund 2008, p. 100.   de Blois 1976, p. 110–11. 75  Hebblewhite 2013, p. 41. 76  Maximinus’ son Maximus was regularly proclaimed as PRINCEPS IUVENTUTIS and was displayed in military garb holding a spear and a globe (Hedlund 2008, p. 188–89). 77  Another example, a coin of  the young ‘prince’ Philip II, shows him in military garb with a captive at his feet, proclaiming an active military role. Again, the idea is to show that the young heir is a suitable future emperor (Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC IV, iii, Philip II, n. 217). 73 74

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And, conversely, an emperor who failed to bring Victoria could not be emperor, since he had no virtus. 78 The proclamation of   Victoria on coins was often propaganda and did not guarantee historical veracity. For example, in the absence of   actual victories, the emperor Florianus went as far as claiming VICTORIA PERPETUA. 79 Even in Constantine’s days, victory, as a martial image remained advertised next to the emperor’s divine lineage. This is  why examples on coins show that, in this way, Constantine ‘manufactured’ military legitimacy for his sons. 80 After 324, Constantine had enough confidence to present himself  simply as CONSTANTINUS AUG., but he still added the image of   Victoria, seated on a throne holding a globe and cornucopiae, for good measure. 81 Of  course, the Battle of   Chrysopolis, in which Licinius was finally defeated, had occurred only a short time before. In the titulature of  acclamations, the same trend towards militarization can be seen, in that there were more emphatic statements of  military prowess or victories earned. Names of  defeated enemies were used more and coupled with MAXIMUS, such as, for instance, GERMANICUS MAXIMUS III, used by Gallienus. 82 During the 3rd century, ‘invictus’ became commonly used, and even its superlative ‘invictissimus’, such as by Aurelian and Tacitus. According to Storch, it was a convenient label since it was unspecific and military success was often lacking at the time. 83 The use of   victory epithets continued into the 4th century: after defeating the Goths in ad  329, Constantine could add GOTHICUS MAXIMUS to the earlier distinctions like GERMANICUS MAXIMUS and SARMATICUS MAXIMUS. Also, bronze medallions were issued over the next few years depicted the emperor crossing the Danube with Victoria beside him and bowing Goths beneath him, and legends like VICTO-

  Hedlund 2008, p. 73.   Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC, v, I, n. 23, 42. 80   Hebblewhite 2013, p. 44–45. 81  Bruun 1966, p. 53. 82  Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC, v, i, Gallienus sole rule, n. 63. 83  Storch 1972, p. 202–2. 78 79

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RIA AUGUSTI. 84 In  our focus on Constantine’s religion, we often forget that, above all, he was one of  the most accomplished military commanders. Although the sons of   Constantine mostly fought among themselves, military campaigns against Goths and Parthians of   the 340s and 350s continued to be commemorated in the traditional style, with victory imagery and legends. They meant to reassure the army that nothing had changed after Constantine’s death – on the battlefield, his sons would emulate their father. 85 Victory figured prominently on monuments like the victory arch of   Severus Septimus in the Forum Romanum, erected in ad  203 after Severus’ Parthian campaign. Its iconography is a continuation of   the Column of   Marcus Aurelius of   ad 192, discussed in the previous chapter, a monument reflecting the volatile conditions of  Marcus Aurelius’ war effort and foreshadowing the troublesome time to come. In  its imagery, the arch depicts the same tough military supremacy with soldiers center-stage, ‘as  a  fighting machine, with the emperor at its head’. 86 We also see images of   Parthians marching in chains, and the destruction of   their cities by triumphant Roman troops. 87 This is  strongly reminiscent of  earlier images of  defeated Gauls and Germans. More than a  hundred years later, in the great Arch of   Constantine, dedicated in ad  315, we find ‘victory’ still a  powerful motif, but the setting is different, for the tetrarchy has restored a  measure of   political stability and the Senate revived. This is  reflected in the iconography; it presented ‘the pagan senatorial view of  the first Christian emperor’. 88 There is a mix of  scenes taken from the great Roman past, many of   them from the 2nd century. We have images from Marcus Aurelius’ Marcomannic Wars, but also scenes from Trajan’s Dacian Wars and allusions to the reign of   Hadrian, all deliberately chosen to compare Constantine to Trajan and the ‘good emperors’ of   past times. 89 Constantine himself  is  presented as the LIBERATOR URBIS,     86   87  88  89  84 85

Odahl 2012a, p. 226–27. Hebblewhite 2017, p. 204. Hekster 2008, p. 39. Rose 2005, p. 66–67. Odahl 2012a, p. 141. Odahl 2012a, p. 141.

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liberator of   the city, and as the FUNDATOR Q UIETIS, founder of   peace. With the near absence of   religious references, and thanks to the senatorial commitment, we are still firmly in the pagan tradition. Military prowess was given expression in statues, with emperor busts that displayed strength and vigor. The soldierly look, with closely cropped curls and a stubble beard, was introduced by Caracalla, 90 and followed in the 3rd century. The bronze statue of   the emperor Trebonianus Gallus (r. 252–53) is a perfect example. 91 It  is  a  larger-than-life depiction of   the emperor as a  muscleman delivering an adlocutio, alluding to heroic figures like Alexander the Great. Since the head is disproportionally small, the viewer’s attention is  drawn to the bulk of   his torso, which underlines the importance of   the image of   power that is  exuded. Another aspect of   the changed discourse sentiments of  the time is the treatment of  battle scenes in the famous Ludovisi sarcophagus, already mentioned in the previous chapter. The topic is classical and conventional: the triumph in battle of  the deceased (on horseback) over barbarians. But the composition is chaotic and teeming with disordered movement. The victory obtained is hard won, a sign of  the troubled times when the sarcophagus was commissioned, c. 250. Only by the end of   the 3rd century and beginning of   the 4th century do we see a change of   style, less military, more abstract and simple, to represent emperor’s heads. 92 Last, it was through panegyric that martial excellence was promoted. Panegyrics recognized the fact that in the 3rd century, the army had in effect taken over the role of   the sovereign Roman people. This was actually proclaimed by the orator Symmachus when praising Valentinian  I’s appointment as emperor in 364: ‘the military Senate [i.e. a  group of   officers] approved a man distinguished in war’. The army was an ‘electoral assembly

  Such as on the marble bust 40.11.1a in the Metropolitan Museum.   Metropolitan Museum, 05.30. 92   Elsner 2007, p. 11–18. The porphyry group of  the Four Tetrarchs is often seen as a stylistic turning point. Art historians do not agree about the rationale behind this change, but the changing status of   the emperor – to be discussed in the following section – must be an important influence it seems to me. 90

91

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entirely worthy of   the Principate of   such a great empire’. 93 And, after Constantine  I’s proclamation in 306, a  panegyrist later wrote that ‘the soldiers [put] the purple on your shoulders’, and ‘you are even said to have tried to escape that passion of  the army that was demanding you’ 94 Avoiding the purple was the conventional recusatio of  the new emperor. In a  panegyric to Maximian in 289 by a  Gallic rhetor, the emperor was congratulated on the recent accomplishments of  his generals: ‘Under the leadership of   such men, taking advantage of   your most blessed auspices, that treacherous and deceitful race of   barbarians received the treatment it deserved. This praise is yours, my emperor, yours: for all that is achieved through others, begins with you’. 95 The excellence shown by the generals is  attributed to the emperor, not uncommon in the 3rd century. It shows that appearance was more important than reality, and that emperors tried all they could to impress the people. If  there was no obvious victory, an emperor could still show his military valor by depicting himself  in military gear. He could also manipulate the presentation of   events in his favor. When the emperor Philip Arabs, for example, was forced to buy off  invading Persians in ad 244, his coins presented this as the establishment of  ‘proper peace’ (PAX FUNDATA CUM PERSIS). 96 We have seen before how important it was to create an image of   invincibility, and the idea is certainly not new to the 3rd century, but the urgency to construct a  parallel reality was greater than ever before. Much of  it was propaganda with feeble foundation. Image-making was also practiced in reality, as it always had been, in the traditional battle confrontation, such as the way in which Caesar tried to terrify the barbarians. In our period we have a magnificent example supplied by the Greek historian Herennius Dexippus. Describing an embassy to the emperor Aurelian by the Juthungi, an invading barbarian tribe that Aurelian had chased out of   Italy, defeated, and driven back across the Danube in 270, Dexippus writes as follows:  Symmachus, Relat.   Pan. Lat., VI.(7).3.8.3. 95  Pan. Lat., II.(10).11.4–5. 96  Hekster 2007, p. 249–50. 93 94

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[Aurelian] arranged his army as if  for battle, in order to strike terror into the enemy. When the troops were well drawn up, he mounted a tall platform, standing high above the ground, resplendent in purple. The army was arrayed on either sided of   the emperor in crescent formation, beside him stood the military commanders, all mounted on horses. Behind the emperor were gathered the standards of   the army – the golden eagles, the imperial images, the army lists emblazoned in letters of  gold – all of  these mounted on silver lances. Only when all was arranged in this way, did Aurelian give the order for the embassy of   the Juthungi to approach. Stupefied by the sight, they remained for a  long time in silence. 97

As Jás Elsner says, this description could be seen as the ‘textual counterpart’ to many imperial ‘icons’, like some of   the reliefs depicting Marcus Aurelius in his campaigns; although they go back to some 100 years before Aurelian’s encounter with the Juthungi, they were used again about 40 years after Aurelian’s death in 275 on the arch of  Constantine. 98 3.1.3. Using Religion as a Tool to Maintain Loyalty The third century was a watershed in the role that religion played in Roman society and, more specifically, in the relationship between religion and the position of   the emperor. The stability that the state religion had provided came to be assailed in the anarchy of   the third century. Political and economic decline can be related to the decline in dedications to most of  the traditional gods in the pantheon as witnessed in the epigraphic evidence in the second half  of  the third century. 99 It is in this period that a measure of  military and political order returned, and that we find a marked interest in religious backing for rulership. Until then, emperors had focused all their attention on their virtus and victory, with few exceptions, among whom Elagabalus was the most notorious. His bizarre religious practices, 97 Dexippus, Scythica, fr. 6, 456–60. Q uoted and translated by Elsner (Elsner 1998, p. 32). 98  Elsner 1998, p. 32. 99  Odahl 2012a, p. 27.

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commented upon by Herodian (5.5–6) and, in particular, Dio, were seen as aberrations then and now. 100 At the same time, they tell us something about the far-reaching effects of   the volatility of  the times. At any rate, in the course of   the third century, these conditions may account for an increased interest in alternative (albeit less eccentric) religious sources such as the One of  Neoplatonism, the Logos or Divine Reason of   the Stoics, Jupiter of   the Olympians, Mithras of   the mystery cults, or Sol, the generic sun god. They would be identified separately or together, in a  syncretic form. At the same time, there was a tendency towards ‘henotheism’, the placing of   one single of   these old or new deities in a  supreme position. And, of   course, to meet the more personal desire for eternal salvation, there was Christianity, another newcomer that demanded exclusivity. 101 Thus, in a panegyric to Maximian and Constantine in ad 307, an allusion was made to the same quality of   rule between Jupiter and the senior emperor: ‘It is proper for you, Father, to oversee the world you share from the very height of   empire and with a  celestial nod to decide the outcome of   human affairs to give the auspices when wars must be waged and fix the rules for making peace’. 102 This association with Jupiter, at the time of   the Tetrarchy, brings us to a  second change in the role of   religion. It  was part of   the transition from Principate to Dominate. Whereas the Principate had still clung to vestiges of   republicanism, with a nominal role of  the Senate, in the period after ad 285 the emperor became the sole power, acting as a  true monarch, issuing his own edicts without senatorial corroboration. The autocratic position was seen as god-given and superhuman and it was made explicit. Instead of   the traditional references to virtus and victory, we now find ‘deus et dominus’, with a greatly expanded court ceremony and public worship. 103 This process,   Cassius Dio used words like ‘barbaric chants’, ‘secret sacrifices’, ‘unholy rites’, and ‘extreme absurdity’ in describing Elagabalus’ worship of   his own god (Dio, Roman History, 73.11). 101  Odahl 2012a, p. 28. 102  Pan. Lat., VI (7), 14.1. 103   Woolf 2013, p. 246. This is not to say that traditional references from now on wholly disappeared. Images of   Victory on a globe appeared on the obverses, 100

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foreshadowed by Aurelian, came to maturity during the Tetrarchy; it continued under Constantine. Supreme imperial power was now backed by supreme religious power. 104 This elevation of   the emperor’s office was presented as a resumption of   the old Augustan tradition. After all, Augustus’ regime was also autocratic and legitimated by divine sanction. In fact, Augustus had even claimed a special affinity with Apollo, a  deity invoked by the emperor Aurelian as his special protector. To Aurelian and his contemporaries, it established a clearly desirable continuity, and it was later followed by Constantine. In the Trier panegyric, Constantine was said to have had a revelation in which he recognized himself  in the likeness of   Apollo, as the saving figure by whom ‘the divine songs of   the bards’ had prophesied his ‘rule of   the whole world’  105 By presenting himself  as Apollo’s chosen one (and, implicitly, Sol, his syncretic association), Constantine effectively claimed a  higher source of  sanctioned power than the dynastic succession of   his predecessors. This was an important moment, paving the way for later developments in his religious convictions. So far we have looked at two distinct developments in the sphere of  religion: first, the rising popularity of  new cults; second, their application as religious’markers’ to define and support the highest office. They became highly characteristic of   the changing cultural landscape of   our period. A  full reconstruction of   what happened would carry us too far away from our central concern, the war discourse, but an exception should be made for the ascent of   the cult of   Sol Invictus, since it played a  crucial role in the interaction with Christian thought in the 4th century. Also, the role of   the army in the dispersion of   the new cults should be underlined. At a  time when traditional Roman religion was in a  state of   flux, the itinerant army officer corps brought new deities and and references to Victory as well as to the courage and the glory of   the army can be found on the coinage of  Constantine’s sons. Other coins at the time depicted classical imagery like Hercules the Victorious and Jupiter the Preserver. 104  In the Tetrarchy, Jupiter was adopted as Diocletian’s protector, and Hercules as the heavenly father and guardian of   Maximian; the Caesars got their own divine patrons: Sol for Galerius and Mars for Constantine (Odahl 2012a, p. 41–48). 105  Pan. Lat., VII (6), 2.3–20.

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new cults wherever they were posted, 106 and many scholars today agree that the Roman army played a  crucial role in the growth of   these new creeds. 107 Religion played a crucial role in an environment that forced recruits, isolated from their family and their village, to take on a new identity. ‘Indoctrination’ into the new faith was an effective way of  creating unit cohesion. In the development of  the cult of  Sol, syncretism and henotheism were at work, and this first became visible under the emperor Aurelian, who began to reinstate the special relationship between the emperor and the divine in the later 3rd century. He was sometimes represented as Jupiter’s vice-regent, used the term deus instead of   the common divus to apply to himself  and, in the last part of   his reign, came to feel a special affinity with Sol. His military victories were attributed to the sun god, whose radiate crown (long associated with Hellenistic rulership) was adopted. 108 After his defeat of   Palmyra in ad  274, Aurelian founded a  temple of   Sol, with a  new College of   Pontiffs specifically for the administration of   its worship. 109 On coins, the legend SOLI INVICTO became common. They depict Sol standing, radiate, holding up a  globe or a  whip, and with his right hand in benediction, a few captives at his feet. Other coins show Sol greeting Concordia or Fides holding a  military standard in each hand, and some are more explicit about the special role of  Sol, and carry the legend SOL DOMINVS IMPERI ROMANI. 110 With his military success, Aurelian is  thus presented as bringing stability to the empire, under the auspices of  the sun god. There are traditional elements (such as the captives) but there are no references to Aurelian’s virtus in battle. The cult of  Sol Invictus was continued by emperors like Probus and Carus, as their coinage shows, with depictions of  emperor and   Shean 2010, p. 41.   The manner in which Christianity (and, for that matter, rival creeds like Mithraism) spread is still debated. Simon Price argues for dispersal through personal contact rather than along linear lines (seas, rivers, etc.). That the Roman Army was an important vehicle is not really doubted (Price 2012, p. 16). 108  Watson 1999, p. 189. The radiate crown was already en vogue at the time, as can be seen in coins issued by the emperors Valerian and Gallienus (Watson 1999, p. 189). 109  Woolf  2013, p. 246. 110  Watson 1999, p. 191. 106 107

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Sol together. 111 Somewhat later, after ad 310, its usage was revived by Constantine, when, on his coinage, he dropped his patrons Hercules and Mars and replaced them with his new favorite Sol, holding the globe of   power and carrying the legend SOLI INVICTO COMITI, ‘to the unconquered sun, [the emperor’s] companion’. 112 Sol would be used in subsequent years, even far into the 4th century, often in syncretic forms with new, Christian imagery. We shall come back to this in the following section, in which the appeal to heavenly protection by Constantine, first to Sol, later to the Christian God, will be discussed. Before we turn to the growth of   the Christian tradition, it must be added that there is  no scholarly consensus on the role and importance of   the cult of   the sun in our period. The traditional view that the cult originated in the Hellenistic East and can be seen as a first step towards monotheism has recently come under attack from two German scholars, Martin Walraff  and Petra Matern. They argue that the Invictus epithet had a Roman, not a Syrian origin, and that Sol Invictus as a god was new and Roman, rapidly coming to prominence in the late 3rd century. 113 Countering this view, Stephan Berrens and Steven Hijmans have underlined the continuity of   the cult and argued that Sol Invictus was not a new god, just a new manifestation of   a longexisting Roman god. Berrens, concentrating on numismatic evidence throughout the 3rd century, sees a development from a god associated with military success on Severan coins (as PACATOR ORBIS) to a  dual role by the end of   the century, as guarantor of  victory in battle and as identifier of  the divine character of  the emperor, quite in tune with the spirit of  the time. 114 Hijmans has argued that the importance attached to the role of  Sol should not be exaggerated. There was no attempt to elevate one god to a privileged position, or create a stepping stone towards monotheism. 115 Sol was just one of   the many Roman gods, Hijmans maintains;

  Berrens 2004, p. 134–36.   Odahl 2012a, p. 95. 113  Walraff  2001, p. 32–35; Matern 2002, p. 35–42. 114  Berrens 2004, chapter 3. 115  This was the view originally put forward by Halsberghe in 1972, in his description of  the cult of  Deus Sol Invictus (Halsberghe 1972, p. 155). 111 112

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what Aurelian did was not to introduce a  new god but, as the conservative that he was, to incorporate an existing deity. 116 Even if  eastern roots cannot be proven, and Sol was not the harbinger of   a  coming monotheistic creed, Hijmans’ (and, to a  lesser extent, Berrens’) attempt to demonstrate religious continuity is not entirely convincing, since it downplays an existing trend to embrace religious alternatives and to give special status to a chosen deity. It also ignores the rapidity of   the ascendancy of  religious fashions at the time, whether homespun or imported. Even if  Sol only started as one of   the gods in the 3rd century, its cult increasingly took on monotheistic aspects when, in the early 4th century, it merged with Christian images into manifestations like ‘Sol Christus’. And this syncretic form would continue to exert its influence on the later representations of  Christ. 3.1.4. The Pagan Tradition: Conclusion Loyalty of   the army was and had been a key issue for all emperors and reminds us of  Tiberius’ famous dictum of  ‘holding a wolf  by the ears’. However, it was especially so in the 3rd century, when the army firmly demanded that an emperor had military competencies if  he wanted to gain and keep its support. Willynilly, the emperor had become the head of   a  military machine, and he had to advertise these competencies. In  the discourse, the Severans were blamed for this negative development. During the greater part of   the 3rd century, virtus and victory had to be proclaimed, in panegyrics and on coins, to keep emperors in the saddle. Honorific epithets were, more than ever, tools of   propaganda since the relation between claim and achievement had become tenuous. By the time of  the Tetrarchy, there were marked changes in the way in which loyalty between emperor and army was sought. The emperor was no longer depicted as the tough general, but as the supreme lord. Obviously, the political stability that was restored played a  role, but in the discourse there is an interesting relationship with the great changes in religious sensibility of   the time, in which new forms of   expression made their appearance, and henotheism became a trend. It would give   Hijmans 2009, p. 2–18; p. 20–25; p. 385–86.

116

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greater credibility to the supreme ruler by giving him the backing of   the supreme religious power, in the shape of   Sol Invictus, for example. Well into the 4th century, this blend of   virtus, victory and divine support would characterize the traditional discourse surrounding army loyalty. It  would also create a  large measure of  continuity in a time of  great changes.

3.2. The Beginning of  a Christian War Discourse It is  the emerging Christian discourse of   the 3rd and early 4th centuries that put a stamp on the era and the development that would follow. In our period – and we need to start a bit earlier than ad 193 to get the full picture – our Christian sources can be seen to go through a process of   accommodation that came to completion in the age of   Constantine the Great. After Constantine, the relation between Christians and the military changed profoundly. This is why John Yoder speaks of   ‘a Constantinian Shift’. 117 In this section, we shall follow the issues that Christian authors dealt with in their treatment of   the impact that the new religion had on Roman institutions, specifically the army. Thematically, the reign of   Constantine is  the central point of   this period: before the Constantinian dynasty, Christian writing was deeply concerned with the loyalty issue. This early phase, called ‘pacifist’ in Roland Bainton’s division of  the discourse, deals with the theory and practice of  Christians participation in the army. 118 The dilemmas inherent in the ultimate choice between Caesar and the Christian god were gradually resolved in the 4th century, the second phase, when Christianity became not only tolerates but even privileged, and Rome and Christianity were seen as acting together against the barbarian and the infidel. The latter was the outcome of   a  process of   several decades, not a  radical turnaround after Constantine’s vision in ad 312. Below, I  will first discuss the issue if  ‘loyalty and pacifism’ as can be traced in early Christian writing; next, I will go more deeply into the ‘Constantinian Shift’ and its consequences. In both   Yoder 2009, p. 59.   Bainton 1979, p. 81–83.

117 118

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phases, I will focus on what seems to me is the common denominator in the Christian discourse of   this era: the spirit of   antagonism. 119 It  was not the special Christian liturgy, the relation between priests and their flock, its ethics, not even its monotheism that made the Christian discourse unique, but its unrelenting antagonism against other creeds and their followers. Ultimately, it was a discourse of  exclusion. 3.2.1. Loyalty and Christian Pacifism According to Bainton, the pacifist attitude marks the first phase of  the development of  a Christian war ethic. The early church was ‘pacifist’ until the time of   Constantine. 120 Within this pacifist attitude, there were varieties, two of   which had a  great impact. The first, legalistic and eschatological, was represented by Tertullian’s thinking. The rules were strict: Christians must obey God, stay out of   the army (and other places where they would meet idolatry), and leave everything to the Lord, who would mete out justice at the Last Judgment. The second variety, represented by Origen, was pragmatic and redemptive. Origen argued that Christians might reject war and still be useful to society. Because of   their prayers, Christians could fight a  spiritual, more important war, against the demons, the true originators of   war. Thus, Christian warfare would supplant political warfare. 121 But in both versions, the heart of   the matter was the same: the loyalty problem. During the second century, the early ‘legalists’ included Tatian, Athenagoras and Tertullian, and they rejected all soldiering. Tatian, for example, said that he did not want ‘to rule, become wealthy, or to soldier’. 122 He believed that wars were inspired by demons. 123 Athenagoras wrote to the emperor Marcus Aurelius 119  MacMullen mentions this somewhere in passing (MacMullen 1984, p. 19) but I think it deserves a more prominent position. 120  Bainton 1979, p.  14. After the closing of   the gap between Church and state under Constantine, the second phase, ‘just war’, dominated the discourse in the late 4th and early 5th centuries. Bainton’s third phase, ‘crusading’, belongs to medieval history. 121   Bainton 1979, p. 82–83. 122 Tatian, Address to the Greeks, 11.1. 123 Tatian, Address to the Greeks, 19.2–4.

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condemning the use of   war for political ends. 124 Of  the authors writing in the second century, Tertullian was the most vocal on the issue, but his opinions, especially on the loyalty of   Christian soldiers to the emperor and the army, were not always consistent. As for warfare as such, the use of  war as a means of  conquest was strongly condemned: Kingdoms and empires are acquired by wars, and are extended by victories. More than that, you cannot have wars and victories without the taking, and often the destruction, of   cities. […] houses and temples suffer alike; there is  indiscriminate slaughter of   priests and citizens; the hand of   rapine is  laid equally upon sacred and on common treasure. 125

This is not necessarily an approach instigated by Christian ethics, for we have encountered objections to this type of  warfare in earlier, pagan, sources. However, in his Treatise on Idolatry, Tertullian became more sceptical about the possibility of   Christians to join the army as a matter of  principle. 126 And in De Corona Militis, he exhorted Christians to withdraw from political and military life, because the symbols of   institutions like state and army were essentially idolatrous. 127 The position taken is not based on a pacifist reading of  scripture, but on the conflict between religious rituals. At the time, the question whether Christians could serve two masters and participate in both ‘pagan’ and Christian rituals had become contentious. Also, Tertullian meanwhile had joined the Montanist movement, with its strong ascetic inclinations. In On Idolatry, Tertullian makes the separation between pagan and Christian conduct explicit, and makes clear that it involves all aspects of   life, not just the military. Proper Christian conduct excluded certain occupations, like teaching, because secular studies were tainted with idolatry, and prohibited participation in holidays and festivities, public spectacles and such occasions that had the same pagan associations. 128

 Athenagoras, A Plea for the Christians (Leg. pro Christ.), 11.35–37.  Tertullian, Apologeticum, 25.14. 126  Tertullian, Treatise on Idolatry, 20. 127 Tertullian, De Corona Militis, 3.93–101. 128 Tertullian, Treatise on Idolatry, 10 and 13. 124 125

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This rigorist thinking encouraged the commonly held idea that Christians formed a sect and were placing themselves outside the community. Tertullian’s exhortations also tell us that, apparently, Christians did not necessarily heed all these rules. There was already a significant Christian presence in the army, as we know from funerary epithets, archaeological finds, literary sources and inscriptions. 129 In fact, most early Christians in Rome readily participated in military life. 130 This discrepancy between theory and practice does not mean that there was no conflict of   loyalty. That it was an issue is confirmed by the pagan author Celsus, who had argued that Christians were essentially disloyal to the empire because of   their pacifist inclinations. If  everyone adopted Christian pacifism, then the empire would soon be overrun by its enemies, Celsus warned in a pamphlet, On the True Doctrine, which was written around 175. 131 Yet at the very same time that Celsus was accusing Christians of   ‘social parasitism’, stories were circulating among the Christian community which told with great admiration about the exploits of  Christian soldiers in the service of  the empire. 132 There is, for instance the story of   the Thundering Legion. In  the story of   the Thundering Legion, which participated in campaigns conducted by Marcus Aurelius along the Danube, Christian soldiers pray to their God when the legion, assailed from all sides, runs out of   water and suffers from thirst. Suddenly, the story goes, a thunderstorm appears which relieves the soldiers and hits the enemy with flashes of   lightning. The legend of   the Thundering Legion, the XII Fulminata, was well-known at the time and had, next to the Christian version a pagan one. 133 It shows that Christianity was one of  the options at an early stage, and that, apparently, Christian miracle-making in the army found admirers within the Christian community. Thus, there is  a  duality of   exclusion and inclusion in this early period, as Tertullian observes himself: ‘We live together   Shean 2010, p. 19.   Shean 2010, p. 57. 131 Origen, Against Celsus, 8.73. 132  Shean 2010, p. 188. 133  Shean 2010, p.  91; Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 5.5 and Dio, Roman History, 71.10. 129 130

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with you in this world, including the forum, including the meatmarket, the baths, shops, workrooms, inns, fairs and the rest of  commercial intercourse, and we sail with you and serve in the army and are active in agriculture and trade’. 134 There seems to be a paradox here, MacMullen has observed, for in their secular lives, Christians appear not to have been in the least ghettoized – as Christians, ‘they preferred to keep apart and to keep others from approaching; but simply as neighbors, they were naturally everywhere’. 135 On  the one hand, this dualism was total, Yoder maintains, but it was also practical and unsystematic. 136 This practicality fully corroborates Tertullian’s observation that Christians could be good citizens. 137 Early Christian writers were fully aware of  the intrinsic duality in their writing. It is telling that their oldest documents tended to be for internal consumption, and had the form of   homilies and letters. Later, ‘apologetic writing’ became an important subgenre, intended for their opposite numbers, the world of   non-Christians. Tertullian’s use of   ‘you’, in the passage above, shows us that he is seeking common ground here, not division. Apologetic writings, Yoder says, were a sign that the Christians were beginning to care about the non-believing world. 138 Somewhat later, in the third century, a  writer like Clement of   Alexandria was more pragmatic in his views than the earlier writers. Clement shared Tatian’s belief  that wars were caused by the intervention of   demons. Although he did not oppose warfare per se, Clement stressed that Christians were trained in peace, not in war: ‘The trumpet of   Christ is  his gospel. He has sounded, we have heard. Let us then put on the armor of  peace’. 139 Clement’s follower Origen continued on this line, arguing that Christians should be exempted from military service because, just

 Tertullian, Apologeticum, 42.2.   MacMullen 1984, p. 40. 136   Yoder 2009, p. 46. 137 Tertullian, Apologeticum, 30–33. 138  Yoder 2009, p. 50 (‘Being an apologetic meant accepting a degree of  identification with the surrounding culture’). 139  Clement of  Alexandria, Protrepticus (Exhortation to the Heathen), 3.42.3; 11.116.2. 134 135

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like pagan priests, they prayed for the success of  the Roman army and in this way would fight a spiritual battle:  140 And none fight better for the king than we do. We do not indeed fight under him, although he require it; but we fight on his behalf, forming a  special army – an army of   piety – by offering our prayers to God.

In the same period, however, Hippolytus held on to the more principled position, and saw no role at all for Christians in the army: 17. A soldier who is in authority must be told not to execute men; if  he should be ordered to do it, he shall not do it. He must be told not to take the military oath. If  he will not agree, let him be rejected. 18. A military governor or a magistrate of  a city who wears the purple, either let him desist or let him be rejected. 19. If  a catechumen or a baptized Christian wishes to become a  soldier, [i.e. a  volunteer] let him be cast out. For he has despised god. 141

When they discussed the loyalty issue for Christians in the army, the writers of   the early, pacifist period focused on two key problems: the traditional taking of   the oath and the cult of   the standards. Both rituals had long been part of   an established method of   enhancing the loyalty of   the soldiers to the unit and emperor, but had become objectionable in Christian eyes because of   their pagan nature. The problem had already been discussed by Tertullian, who took a dim view of   Christians serving as soldiers because of  this very ‘pagan’ routine: But now the question is whether a believer can become a soldier and whether a soldier can be admitted into the faith, even if  he is a member only of  the rank and file who are not required to take part in sacrifices or capital punishments. There can be no compatibility between the divine and human sacrament [the military oath], the standard of   Christ and the standard of  the devil, the camp of  light and the camp of  darkness. One soul cannot serve two masters – God and Caesar. 142

 Origen, Against Celsus, 8.73.  Hippolytus, The Apostolic Tradition, 17–19. 142 Tertullian, Treatise on Idolatry, 19. 140 141

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Participation by Christians in the army was especially objectionable, Tertullian thought, because of   the cult of   the standards, which instilled loyalty to the unit, the emperor, and the state. 143 In fact, he saw the worship of   the standards as the essential religion of   the army: ‘the religion of   the Roman camps is totally the veneration of   the standards; it swears by the standards, and puts the standards before all other deities’. 144 However, in the Apologeticum, written for a pagan audience, Tertullian went out of  his way to express loyalty to the emperor. 145 A good Christian could bow to the emperor, who was subject to God’s will and not a divinity himself: But why should I enlarge upon the scrupulous regard and loyalty of   the Christians towards the emperor? For we are bound to look up to him as one whom our God has chosen. And I might with justice claim him as especially our Caesar, since he is appointed by our God. […] But I subject him to One to Whom I do not make him equal. For I will not call the emperor a god, both because I cannot lie, and also because I dare not mock him, and because not even he himself  would wish to be called a god. 146

Again, we find this mix of  exclusion and inclusion, in varying dosages, depending on the target audience. Here Tertullian emphasizes the positive contributions of  Christians to the empire, their loyalty to army and emperor, and their willingness to fight: Without ceasing, for all our emperors, we offer prayer. We pray for life prolonged; for security in the empire; for protec  In the mid-3rd century, this was a moot point for Christians, but also for the Roman authorities, who expected Christians to be loyal to the gods and the emperor. In 249, the emperor Decius formally required all citizens to participate in the Roman ceremonies, while at the same time tolerating Christian religious practices (Burns 2002, p. 1). It shows that religion and politics were inextricably bound to each other. 144 Tertullian, Apologeticum, 16. 145  Tertullian followed the distinction that was made between swearing by the emperor’s genius and swearing by the emperor’s safety (salus). The former was a  ‘demon’, and swearing by it meant treating it as a  divinity; this was contrary to Christian belief. On  the other hand, the oath to salus was merely a  blessing (Apologeticum, 32). R. Beare argues that Tertullian was right in following this distinction, which is sometimes denied (Conrat Cohn 1897, p. 55) on the grounds that Salus could be seen as a personified divinity (Beare 1978, p. 110). 146 Tertullian, Apologeticum, 33. 143

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tion to the imperial house; for brave armies, a faithful senate, a  virtuous people, the world at rest, whatever, as man or Caesar, an emperor would wish. 147

At the time, the idea that Christians could be loyal soldiers was not shared by the unconverted. We already saw how the sceptical Celsus had wondered how the empire could survive with pacifists. He also argued that once soldiers had been converted to Christianity, they would eventually turn out to be disloyal to the empire and would spread pacifist ideas, which in turn would make the army vulnerable to barbarian attacks. 148 To conclude the period of  Christian pacifism and the dilemmas of  conflicting loyalties, we need to address the problem of  enforced loyalty. As a group of  outsiders, Christians faced social and political hostility that sometimes erupted into persecutions, such as the notorious persecutions under Decius (ad  250) and Diocletian and Galerius (ad 303–11). 149 They had an enormous impact on the Christian discourse, becoming rich sources for hagiography, with great potential for combining deeply felt suffering and moral superiority. 150 Some of  these tales are set in a military context and  Tertullian, Apologeticum, 30.  Origen, Against Celsus, 3.7. 149  Not within this timeframe, there had been persecutions before, such as under Nero and Diocletian. Later, anti-Christian policies were not always strictly enforced, as we know from the correspondence between Trajan and Pliny, then governor of   Bithynia. The 3rd century persecutions became a  Christian topos, of  course, magnified after the Age of  Constantine. Church historians emphasized martyrdom, but this was probably rare in many parts of  the empire (Woolf  2013, p. 262). From the perspective of  the authorities, Christian ‘intransigence’ was hard to understand, and it is remarkable how often officials refrained from punishment (Woolf 2013, p. 138). Seen from the other, ‘pagan’, side, the issue is more complex. By issuing their edicts, emperors were trying to associate themselves with traditional values and reinforce formal religious commitment from all citizens, irrespective of  their personal beliefs (Ando 2000, p. 262). But even if  imperial edicts were actually aimed specifically against Christians, this was not wholly irrational if  one takes the pagan perspective. For Diocletian, the rising influence of   Christians in his time, after the toleration decree of  Gallienus in ad 260, was threatening, especially their conspicuous public worship, a testimony of   their incompatibility with Roman tradition (Odahl 2012a, p. 63). Clifford Ando suggests, on the basis of   comparative evidence related to Manichaeism, that the ‘near eradication of  Christianity was not an unrealistic aim’ (Ando 2000, p. 263). 150  Some Christian martyr acts have drawn directly on official and/or unofficial notes from the martyrs’ trials, so they must have been written shortly after. 147 148

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are relevant here, but they are only indirectly related to the great persecutions. They are the so-called Acts of   the Military Martyrs, stories with varying degrees of   verisimilitude but with an interesting insight into the changing mentality of   the time. 151 In  all these stories, a Christian soldier is faced with the dilemma of  following his faith or obeying his military superiors and join in the official pagan practices of  the Roman army. 152 The tales in the Acts of   the Military Martyrs take place in the third and early fourth centuries, at the time of   the great persecutions, in particular the general persecution of   all Christians on February 23, 303, the feast of   the Terminalia. It is from this period that the greatest number of   Christians was martyred, including the military martyrs. 153 The Acts follow the same pattern: a  soldier, joining the army or coming up for promotion, refuses to participate in the prescribed rituals and is court-martialled with a death conviction at the end. This is what happened to Marinus, about to be promoted to centurion: he ‘presented himself  before the judge and showed even greater loyalty to the faith, and immediately, just as he was, he was led off  to execution, and so found his fulfilment’. 154 The last words are in full agreement with Eusebius’ strong conviction that a  Christian

Two extant texts have Severan dates, such as the famous martyrdom of  Perpetua and Felicitas set in Africa probably in ad 203. It has been described as the archetype of  all later acts of  the Christian martyrs. Similar is the martyrdom of  Potamiaena and Basilides set in Alexandria sometime between ad 205/6 and 210. The prayers of   Potamiaena convert the soldier who leads her to her death, Basilides (Whitmarsh 2007, p. 68). 151  In fact, it seems to have been common for hagiographers to ‘invent’ soldiersaints ‘out of   whole cloth’, or to ‘impose military pasts on martyred civilians […] as a narrative device’ (Smith 2011, p. 77 n. 29). 152   Shean 2010, p. 195; Herbert Musurillo collected a number of   these tales (together with other ‘martyr acts’), such as The Acts of   Maximilian, The Acts of  Marcellus, and The Acts of  Marinus (Musurillo, ed. 1972, p. 240–59). 153  Shean 2010, p.  207. There are good reasons to cast doubt on the scale of  persecutions of  Christians in the Roman empire, and we can see myth-making by later Christian authors at work here. Most cases were politically rather than religiously motivated, Candida Moss suggests, so that ‘prosecution’ is more appropriate as a  term than ‘persecution’ (Moss 2013, p.  7–8). T.  D. Barnes believes there is no evidence at all of  Christian civilians being executed for their beliefs in the last four decades of  the 3rd century (Barnes 2010, p. 106). Martyrs were often contumacious and condemned for their stubbornness (Edwards 2007, p. 416). 154  The Acts of  Marinus, 243; Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 7.15.

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soldier’s loyalty should be with the Lord in heaven, not the emperor. 155 In the Acts of  Maximilian, the soldier, Maximilian, particularly objects to the symbolism of   a lead seal, which probably had the bust of  the emperor struck on it, and refuses to accept the seal. 156 The choice between God and the emperor is  very explicit here. But it is also a very personal choice, for his judge makes clear that many other Christian soldiers saw no problem in taking part in the traditional religious ceremonies. Finally, in the Acts of  Marcellus, the protagonist of  the story breaks his vine switch, the symbol of   the centurion’s authority, saying that he could not do service under any oath other than the one he had taken to Christ. 157 According to Shean, the martyrdom of   the soldier saints was a ‘voluntary act’ of  individuals who formed ‘the more rigorist and rejectionist wing of   the Christian movement, the one that was also willing to restrict membership to only those groups and individuals deemed worthy of   salvation, which meant they remained a relative minority within Christianity’. 158 Perhaps this is taking it a bit too much as a political ruse. To me it seems that, along with all the other martyrs, the military martyrs served the same rhetorical function in the emerging hagiography of   the time: they were used as exempla to set the high moral standards that the authors liked to hold up for themselves and the religious community. 159 155  In the case of  a Christian emperor, like Constantine, there was no dilemma. Eusebius had no problem with the Roman empire: ‘[B]y the express appointment of  the same God, two roots of  blessing, the Roman empire, and the doctrine of   Christian piety, sprang up together for the benefit of   men’ (Oration in Praise of  Constantine, 16.4). 156  The Acts of  Maximilian, 244–49; Helgeland 1974, 57–58. The bust on the seal was not a detail, for the bust of   the emperor, a ubiquitous image, was of   the highest symbolic value. It represented the emperor like the idols represented the deities. Both were worshipped and treated with the greatest respect. 157   The Acts of  Marcellus, 250–59; Helgeland 1974, p. 60–61. 158  Shean 2010, p. 238. 159  In this I follow Clark and Castelli, who read the Christian sources as history and rhetoric, rather than as theology, as many other scholars do. The early Christian historians were out to produce a  Christian collective memory, and created the story of   persecution and martyrdom (Clark 2004, p.  125; Castelli 2007, p. 25). For example, Origen, in his Exhortation to Martyrdom, articulated what could be called’a theology of   martyrdom’, in which martyrdom functioned as an expiatory, atoning sacrifice (Origen, Exhortation to Martyrdom, 30).

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At the same time, they perfectly illustrate my claim that the early Christian discourse was deeply antagonistic. Where compromises were on the table, the martyrs preferred to hold on to their principle. In  the issue of   military loyalty, the problem of   respecting the cult of   the standards and the ritual of   the oath was translated into a  black-and-white choice between God or emperor. What seemed to be a persistent dilemma between inclusion and exclusion (Can Christians be good citizens or not?) was usually resolved by discouraging participation in Roman society in all its walks, not just in the army. This spirit of   antagonism of   the early centuries was mutual, for both Tertullian and Celsus rejected the idea of   inclusion, albeit from opposing perspectives. 3.2.2. Loyalty and the ‘Constantinian Shift’ The early 4th century is  a  watershed in the Christian discourse. It was brought about by the conversion of  the emperor Constantine and his acceptance of   the Christian God, at first as a  valuable addition to the existing pantheon, later as the supreme deity of   the privileged faith. This enabled the subsequent process of  fusion between the interest of   the Church and that of   the state, the essence of   what, following Yoder, we shall call the Constantinian Shift. In this section, I will first turn to the catalyst of   the development of   this period, Constantine’s conversion. Next I will go more deeply into the contemporary discourse. Although Constantine was the instigator of   the process, the shift in the discourse can largely be attributed to his biographer, Eusebius, and his influential writings. As a churchman, Eusebius was mostly interested in the things that Constantine achieved in order to strengthen the position of   Christians and the Christian church. In  the discourse, the other, secular aspect cannot be neglected, however; it revolved around Constantine’s accomplishments as army commander and was expressed in a  conventional victory vocabulary that was given Christian elements. I  shall conclude with a brief  discussion of   Constantine’s more practical commitment to issues concerning the organization of   the church. They were the ultimate proof  of   his aspirations to come to an integration of  Church and state. In the discourse, it is Eusebius who gives us his hagiographical perspective on Constantine’s role in this 540

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process, a role that has two faces: that of  mediator between opposing Christian schools of   thought, and that of   implacable enemy of  the perceived heresy of  Arianism. Constantine’s conversion is  interesting for two reasons: its duration and its motivation. As for its duration, it can only be said that it took a  long time; as for the motivation, it was and still is, contested. Although the turning point in Constantine’s religious outlook was later associated with his victory over Maxentius on ad 312, his religious allegiance had been shaped before, in the years of  decline of  the Tetrarchical political system. We have already seen how the cult of   the sun had gained support over time and how Constantine had adopted Sol Invictus to replace his earlier favourites Hercules and Mars. This was politically astute, for Constantine needed new divine patronage, for he was looking for a restoration of  the old system of  dynastic succession. To serve this purpose of   religious renewal, he chose the syncretic version of   Apollo and Sol Invictus as his source of  divine power to back him up. 160 All this can be traced in the Trier panegyric. It was offered at the court in Trier by an orator in 310. It summarizes Constantine’s recent military success in Gaul, but it also establishes an ancestral bond with his father and with the emperor Claudius Gothicus, the first emperor to restore order after years of   crisis in the 3rd century. The Trier panegyric mentions a  vision that Constantine had during a  visit to a  temple of   Apollo when he was on his way to Trier, a vision that had given him promises of  ‘rule of   the whole world’: ‘Constantine, you saw your Apollo, I  believe, accompanied by Victory, offering your wreaths of  laurel  … you recognized yourself  in the appearance of   him to whom the poets’ verses have prophesied that rule over the entire world is  owed’. 161 Shortly after, in ad  312, Constantine had   Odahl 2012a, 94–95.   Pan. Lat., vii (vi) 21.3–4. This vision of  Apollo has not received the attention it deserves, since it does not go well with Constantine’s Christian vision that follows two years later. Eusebius, of   course, does not mention it. T.  D. Barnes dismisses the episode as an orator’s fiction (Barnes 1981, p. 36). It is given some prominence in Peter Weiss’ article ‘Die Vision Constantins’, which argues that the Apollo vision and the Milvian Bridge vision are two manifestations of   the same ‘heavenly sign’, a solar halo, which was witnessed by Constantine at the time. This metereological explanation found some support but more skepticism. Apart 160 161

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another vision, as Eusebius tells us, in which the Christian God makes his appearance and hands him the tools to defeat his opponent Maxentius in battle. 162 It is the legendary first step in Constantine’s conversion, told and retold in stories, prayers, sacred signa or coins. 163 It can be concluded, therefore, that Constantine’s adoption of   the Christian God did not come out of   the blue. Cultural toleration, inherited from his father, helped him to open up to Christian influences, and, more importantly, solar syncretism had made him ‘a seeker of   the highest god’, in the words of  Odahl. 164 In a sense, the actual process of   conversion was already under way before 312. A  true understanding of   the tenets of  the new creed would grow over the years, to be concluded with baptism on the emperor’s death bed. The other aspect, of   Constantine’s motivation, has long puzzled scholars. 165 Was Constantine’s conversion the result of   his from its credibility, one could wonder whether this scientific observation is relevant in the first place (Weiss 1993, p. 143–69). 162  Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 1.29. 163  Odahl 2012a, p. 106. 164  Odahl 2012a, p. 106. 165  After Edward Gibbon had confirmed the existing image of  Constantine as religiously inspired, J. Burckhardt, the great cultural historian of  the 19th century, was the first to emphasize that Constantine became Christian to further his political ambitions. The Burckhardt thesis, long dominant, was challenged in 1929 by Ronald Baynes, who argued that Constantine was a true believer, and sincerely thought that God had given him a mission. This dichotomy (religion vs politics) has remained with us ever since and the debate is still flourishing, new contributions being added each year. Among modern critics, T. D. Barnes basically follows Baynes’ line of  thinking, maintaining that Constantine was true to his belief  but also that he could operate in an environment in which Christianity was already fully developed (Barnes 1981). Barnes readdresses his position in his 2011 study Constantine: Dynasty, Religion and Power in the Later Roman Empire, painting an image of   Constantine as an expert manipulator of   desirable truths and not at all the champion of   religious toleration. In his Pagans and Christians, Robin Lane Fox takes the opposite position concerning the stage of   development in Constantine’s days, arguing that the growth of  Christianity had virtually come to a standstill at the time of  Constantine’s rather unexpected conversion (Fox 2006a, chapter  12). More convincingly, Paul Stephenson (Constantine: Unconquered Emperor, Christian Victor) has recently argued that Christianity was already on the rise and that Constantine simply was on the right place at the right time (Stephenson 2009). Charles Odahl’s assessment is quite balanced. On the one hand, Constantine must have reasoned that if  the Christian God’s signs were more powerful than

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political expediency or was it genuinely felt and religiously inspired (as Eusebius was the first to argue)? In the view of   Barnes, Constantine was probably about as Christian as any layman of  his time and his comprehension of   Christian theology grew over time. 166 We do know that he took great interest in political or organizational matters like the deepening rift between Roman Catholipagan rites, the Christian divinity must be the deus summus, so a shift of   loyalty was warranted. On the other hand, Constantine soon showed he was prepared to do more than mere legal recognition of   Christianity (Odahl 2012a, p. 106–14). More recently, scholars have avoided the middle ground, it seems to me, and followed or opposed Barnes’ influential work, which essentially saw Constantine as a vigorous promoter of   Christianity. Of  the former, Klaus Girardet and Paul Veyne should be mentioned. Girardet (2010) sees Constantine as the emperor with a mission of   Christianization, with a well worked-out plan; Veyne (2010) has a similar interpretation of  Constantine’s reign and, like Girardet, heavily relies on Eusebius to back it up. Among the scholars who depart from Barnes’ explicitly Christianizing Constantine, we can seen a number of   varying perspectives that share common elements. There is a greater interest in Constantine’s political and military motivations, and, where it concerns his religious policies, Constantine is seen as more tolerant towards paganism. Stephenson, already mentioned, presents Constantine’s personal belief  as a  merger between paganism and Christianity; Randall Morris (2014) and Elizabeth DePalma Diseger (2000) emphasize Constantine’s religious policies of   tolerance and concord with polytheism, and so does Thomas Grünewald in his Constantinus Maximus Augustus. In all these studies, Constantine is  less overtly Christian than he is  in Barnes (Grünewald 1990, p. 78–86). Other scholars take further steps in highlighting Constantine as a  political pragmatist. Hartwin Brandt (Brandt 2007, p. 65) refers to Constantine allowing himself  to be depicted offering sacrifices (on the Arch) because he was a political pragmatist and a realist. As early as her critical review of  Barnes’ Constantine and Eusebius, Averil Cameron pointed to the problem of  following Eusebius too closely (Cameron 1983, p.  184–90). In  his Constantine and the Bishops, H.  A. Drake emphasizes Constantine’s attempts to come to broad religious consensus and his general tolerance. Whenever this policy floundered, it was because of   the influence of   the bishops, who could be adamant in persecuting heretics (Drake 2000, p. 305–8; p. 348). Finally, Raymond Van Dam makes a strong argument for putting an end to what he considers fruitless speculation about the depth of  Constantine’s personal beliefs and, rather, turn to other aspects altogether. What makes Constantine more interesting than his faith, he argues, is his rise to power and its legitimacy, the way he solidifies his power both domestically and abroad, and his efforts to create an imperial dynasty (Van Dam 2009, p. 3–6; p. 11). Van Dam’s political approach, somewhat against the grain, is refreshing and level-headed, it seems to me, and brings the debate back to the political arena (‘before Constantine was a Christian emperor, he was a typical emperor’, Van Dam puts it, 11). Q uite rightly, it is the nature and the working of  his emperorship that should be central to an ancient historian’s investigation, not the nature of   his conversion and his faith. 166  Barnes 1981, p. v.

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cism and rival schools of   Christianity, like Donatists and Arians, and that he attempted to bring back the unorthodox sheep to the fold at the Council of  Nicaea in 325. 167 Even allowing for Constantine’s growing belief, I think it can be argued that his support for the Roman Church had political motives as well, and was based on his belief  in military protection by the Christian God. Eusebius quotes the following words from a letter that Constantine presumably wrote to the Persian King Sapor: ‘This God I reverence, whose symbol my army, an army dedicated to God, bears upon its shoulders’. 168 In  his view, for the emperor as soldier, the power of   the faith would be judged by his ability to secure success in battle, and military victory would always be the final determinant in deciding the religious allegiance of  soldiers in general. Also, his earlier transition from preferred deities to solar syncretism and soon after to Christianity suggest his religiosity was fundamentally ‘pagan’ at this stage, quite in tune with the traditional, inclusive nature of   Roman religion. It is not surprising he kept on using an amalgam of   religious symbols after his conversion. In addition, Constantine may have had practical reasons for favoring Christianity as well, for the Church possessed a sophisticated organization which complemented that of   the imperial government. 169 In sum, I think it is somewhat misleading to see Constantine as the initiator (or ‘agent’) of   a  historical change based on his adoption of   a  new religion. Instead, it would be more appropriate to see him as the mediator in a complex process that combined political and military experience with new religious trends. 170 167   This was a crucial event. At Nicaea, under Constantine’s leadership, the prevailing orthodoxy was established. In  the period that followed, it would be defended by the emperor and led to the alliance between Church and Empire, for the bishops – that actual policy-makers of   the Church – would turn to the emperor to enforce their decisions. Bishops had local power bases and the infighting among various streams, although it had religious legitimacy, was a  political struggle (Drake 2000, p. 8; p. 30). 168 Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 4.9. 169  Grant 1998, p. 150–55. 170  It can, of   course, be argued, as H. A. Drake does, that in ancient Rome religion and politics were hard to separate (‘In the Roman world, spiritual power is  secular power’), which invalidates the Burckhardt thesis and even makes the

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Whatever lay behind Constantine’s personal decisions, his conversion led to a major change in the discourse. Until 312, the Christian discourse was mostly internal; it addressed an oppressed minority about community concerns or tried to convince the unconverted of  its good intentions and, most of  all, its righteousness. After 312, it could join the mainstream and would accompany Constantine’s continued military success, in the civil war with Licinius in the 320s and the campaigns against barbarians in Gaul and jn the former province of  Dacia of  the 330s. The victory at the Milvian Bridge was seen by contemporary authors such as Eusebius as the first of   a series of   events in which the Christian God and the Roman emperor had become allies. 171 Where Constantine successfully suppressed revolts and stemmed enemy incursions, Eusebius provided a religious purpose to his efforts: issue of   Constantine’s motivation seemingly spurious. However, the position that we take here, of   a politically driven Constantine, does not postulate a strict separation of   religion and politics (Drake 2000, p. 17). As for Constantine’s role in the historical change, Jill Harries rightly calls Constantine more ‘responsive’ to the developments around him than ‘the initiator’ (Harries 2012, p. 135). 171  The battle at the Milvian Bridge, following Constantine’s reputed vision and dream, was (and perhaps is) still seen as one of   the great transformational moments in history. In  this perspective, ‘nothing counts for more than the year 312’ (MacMullen 1984, p. 102). Raymond Van Dam has illustrated (2011) how this battle, unremarkable in the ‘litany’ of   civil wars in which Constantine was engaged between ad 310 and 324, was turned into myth. Eusebius described Constantine’s vision and the ensuing battle in his Life, but he met Constantine only long after the event (ad 324, at Nicaea, at the earliest), after the story had become known through various sources (the Trier panegyric, ad 313; the dedication of   the Arch, ad 215). In other words, Constantine himself  reacted to an existing narrative, and was influenced by it (Van Dam 2011, chapter 1). The Constantine that we know was unwittingly constructing ‘Constantin imaginaire’, a myth of  himself (Van Dam 2011, chapter 1, note 22). Not all scholars have been impressed with Van Dam’s conclusions. Charles Odahl, in a review of   Re­mem­ bering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge, dismisses his myth-making and his critical treatment of  Eusebius (Odahl 2012b, p. 8–13). Just like the role of   Constantine in the Christianizing process is debated, so are the events surrounding the Milvian Bridge, with divergent opinions on their meaning (between epochal and meaningless – or even fabricated, to improve the soldiers’ morale, as in Harris’ view) (Harris 2005, p. 494). Although the question of  the emperor’s conversion at the Milvian Bridge is still held to be ‘the Constantinian question par excellence’, as Noel Lenski says in his ‘Introduction’ to the Cambridge Companion to the Age of  Constantine (Lenski 2006, p. 3), what matters more than ad 312, Van Dam argues, is the momentous joint letter of   Constantine and Licinius of  ad 313 proclaiming religious tolerance, often (‘misleadingly’) called the Edict of  Milan (Van Dam 2011, chapter 1, note 7).

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[Constantine] campaigned against the land of  the Britons and the dwellers at the very Ocean where the sun sets. He annexed the whole Scythian population, which was in the far north divided into numerous barbarian tribes, and once he had also extended his Empire in the extreme south as far as the Blemmyes and the Aethiopians, he did not treat the acquisition of  what lay in the orient as beyond his scope, but illuminating with beams of  light of  true religion the ends of  the whole inhabited earth, as far as the outermost inhabitants of   India and those who live round the rim of   the whole dial of   earth, he held in subjection all the toparchs, ethnarchs, satraps and kings of  barbarian nations of  every kind. 172

This is plainly more than the familiar celebration of   the emperor’s restoration of   order. In this treatment by Eusebius, the conventional panegyric of   conquest is ‘reframed’ and given religious motivation. 173 In  a  letter written to the inhabitants of   the eastern provinces, recorded by Eusebius, Constantine tries to show that in his campaigns secular and religious goals coalesce, for as a Christian general he ‘removed every form of   evil’ and ‘through [his] instrumentality’ the people would be ‘recalled to a  due observance of   the holy laws of   God’. 174 Whenever Constantine’s victories were observed through a  Christian lens, they could easily be explained as the result of   the use of   Christian symbols. Thus, Eusebius explains the causal effect of  the appearance of  the Standard of  the Cross on the battlefield: Indeed, wherever this appeared, the enemy soon fled before his victorious troops. And the emperor perceiving this, whenever he saw any part of   his forces hard pressed, gave orders that the salutary trophy should be moved in that direction, like some triumphant charm against disasters: at which the combatants were divinely inspired, as it were, with fresh strength and courage, and immediate victory was the result. 175  Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 1.8 [my italics].   In his Oration, Eusebius turns Roman vs barbarian into Roman vs pagan: ‘Before this [Sign] the hosts of   his enemies have disappeared: by this the powers of   the unseen spirits have been turned to flight: through this the proud boastings of   God’s adversaries have come to nought, and the tongues of   the profane and blasphemous been put to silence. By this Sign the Barbarian tribes were vanquished’ (Eusebius, Oration in Praise of  Constantine, 9.12). 174 Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 2.38–40. 175  Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 2.7. 172

173

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The same could be said for the effect of  prayer. Before battle commenced, Constantine would pray to the Christian God, and the ensuing battle would predictably end in victory: And making earnest supplications to God, he was always honored after a  little with a  manifestation of   his presence. And then, as if  moved by a  divine impulse, he would rush from the tabernacle, and suddenly give orders to his army to move at once without delay, and on the instant to draw their swords. On  this they would immediately commence the attack, fight vigorously, so as with incredible celerity to secure the victory, and raise trophies of   victory over their enemies. 176

In the rendering of  Eusebius, a special relationship between Constantine and the Christian god had been established, and Constantine was in direct communication with Him, as Eusebius shows in the following excerpt. Constantine sees himself  as the intermediary between God and the Roman people, and as acting under His command: I entreat you now, O almighty God – be gentle and kind to your people in the regions of  the east, to all your people in these provinces worn down by prolonged misfortunes, and bring them healing through me, your servant. I  do not ask these things without good reason, O  Lord of   all, holy God.  For by your direction I have put in place and effected measures conducive to salvation, I have led my victorious army everywhere with your symbol in the vanguard, and wherever any public needs demands, I advance against the enemy accompanied by the same signs of  righteousness. 177

Constantine’s statement ‘For by your direction I have put in place and effected measures conducive to salvation’ is  crucial. In Eusebius’ words, Constantine places himself  directly under a supreme commander, in a chain of   command. 178 As a Christian,  Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 2.12.  Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 2.55.1–2. 178   Lactantius described the Christian deity as ‘the eternal mind’ of   the cosmos, and characterized him as a heavenly ‘general’ maintaining balance in the universe as a supreme commander keeps order on the battlefield. Lactantius’ analogy fits in well with the reasoning seen in the fragment from Eusebius (Lactantius, The Divine Institutes, 1.3). 176 177

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Constantine could not represent himself  as a  god, but he did refer to himself  as the thirteenth apostle. Even the title augustus was reconfigured within a  Christian context. The emperor could hold on to his role of  intermediary between the human and the divine, a  role with old roots of   course, and now rephrased as the link between the Christian God and man. And, by implication, the true Christian would serve God by also serving the emperor, even when participating in a  military conflict. And, even more, the emperor would bring a  perfect state of   bliss to the empire, an end to warfare, because the pagan gods would be no more. 179 So far we have looked at the discourse in the extant written sources. In the non-written sources, the process of   the Constantinian Shift can be traced as well, but the picture we get is more complex since the imagery is  directed at the Roman world at large, which in the first part of  the 4th century is still largely pagan. We should keep in mind that, during the reign of   the House of  Constantine, there remained a  strong continuity with the past. Traditions were virtually untouched by the emperor’s conversion. Victory celebrations went on, ‘out of  the streets and into the circus’, as Michael McCormick says. There were still triumphal entries, addresses to Senate or People, horse races, and panegyrics by delegates from other cities. 180 The coinage of   Constantine illustrates how the process of  Christianization was very gradual and sometimes inconsistent and ambiguous. The use of   Christian symbols on coins only became common in the 5th century. 181 Constantine was cautious and did not want to alienate the army, Peter Brown has suggested. His Christianity was expressed more indirectly, especially after ad 324 when he had become the undisputed ruler, and he

179 Eusebius, Oration in Praise of   Constantine, 8.9. Excessive claims like this can be expected in a  panegyric. With the help of   the Almighty, every enemy, Eusebius writes, was utterly removed: and henceforward peace, the happy nurse of   youth, extended her reign throughout the world. Wars were no more, for the gods were not: no more did warfare in country or town, no more did the effusion of   human blood, distress mankind, as heretofore, when demon-worship and the madness of  idolatry prevailed’. 180  McCormick 1990, p. 35. 181   Shotter 1978, p. 158–59.

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could speak silently by not associating military successes with the ancient gods. 182 Still, we do have some interesting examples of   how Christian imagery was introduced in the coinage of   the early years. In the first instances after ad  312, the associations are still fully with Sol.  For example, a  gold medallion struck in 312 shows busts of   the Emperor and Sol. 183 The armed figure of   Constantine bears a shield ornamented with Sol’s chariot, and the legend gives him the unusual title Invictus, Sol’s characteristic epithet. Once again, this underlines the importance of   victory in the approaching acceptance of   Constantine’s conversion: if  the Christian God brought victory, he could be added to the pantheon. 184 This is what happened. It is around 315 that Christian symbols like the Chi-Rho make their appearance on coins. On  a  silver ‘miliarensis’ medallion of   around 315, Constantine holds a sceptre and a  shield ornamented with a  traditional Roman symbol, the she-wolf  suckling Romulus and Remus. Constantine is portrayed on the medallion as a Roman officer with horse and protective arms and armor. On the reverse, an adlocutio to his troops is  depicted, but there is  also the Chi-Rho emblem. This makes Constantine, above all, a  Roman soldier in the tradition of   soldier-emperors like Trajan. 185 A subtle Christogram was placed at the top front of   the war helmet the emperor wears on the Ticinum silver commemorative coin for the Decennalia in ad  315. The other features are traditional, inscriptions honoring the safety of   the state and the emperor depicted as commander of   the cavalry. 186 Few of   these   Brown 2013, p. 61.   Kent 1994, plate 629. 184  Paul Stephenson, one of   Constantine’s recent biographers, is right when he concludes that, ultimately, Constantine’s conversion was accepted because it could be explained in the existing victory discourse (Stephenson 2009, p. 25). 185  Kleiner 2006, p. 434–35. A coin struck in 317 has the Chi-Rho on the front of  Constantine’s imperial helmet (Kent, plate 648). A little later, a ‘centenionalis’, a large bronze coin of  the newly founded city of  Constantinople, depicts a standard, a labarum, bearing on its banner the effigies of  Constantine, Constantine  II and Constantius  II, surrounded by the monogram of   Christ and thrust through the serpent of  evil (Kent 1994, plate 649). 186  Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC vii. T 36 (Staatliche Münzsammlung, Munich). 182 183

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coins exist, because they were issued in a  limited edition for selected individuals, Jonathan Bardill has pointed out, and there was obviously no imperial policy to promote Christianity. 187 Perhaps one could even say that the prime object for Constantine was Constantine himself, the force of   his victory, the force of   the divinely inspired Constantine. 188 Sometime later, in the coinage of   Constantine’s sons, we find this idea confirmed. Although his sons adopted the Christogram on their coinage, they used an image that by the 350s had become so empty of   religious meaning that it could be displayed by a non-Christian, the pretender Magnentius, in issue after issue for years. By then, the image stood for ‘victory’ and had lost most of  its religious connotation. 189 David Shotter has pointed to the ambivalence of   interpretation that enabled the Christian perspective to enter the victory discourse in the first part of  the 4th century. Victory is still associated with pagan gods like Jupiter, Mars or Sol Invictus, but what Christian symbols were used would be meaningful to Christians and non-Christians alike. For example, the standards with the Chi-Rho monogram could be given a  Christian interpretation – the sign of   the protective power of   God – or a  neutral one, a simple reference to Constantine’s victory standard. In the same way, the figure of   Victoria on the coinage of   the time could be seen as the traditional pagan goddess but also as the Angel of  God. 190 And, until the 320s, Sol Invictus remained an important deity that blended well with the Christian God. 191

187  Bardill 2012, p.  221. The examples given are important, but not representative of  the coinage of  the period, which was mostly traditional, like the coin minted at Trier in 317. It depicts a laurelled bust of  the emperor on the obverse, and the image of   Sol on the reverse, with the legend SOLI INVICTI COMITI (‘To the Invincible Sun, companion of   the emperor’) (Mattingly and Sydenham 1923–1994, RIC vii. 13). 188  Lee 2007a, p.  391–92. The famous ‘upward gaze’ or ‘prayer pose’ with which Constantine was sometimes depicted on later coins is  another example of   possibly intended double meaning. It  was interpreted by Eusebius as a  sign of   piety (Life of   Constantine, iv.15). According to Alan Cameron, it was actually a type of  ruler-portrait with a long classical history (Cameron 2010, p. 64). 189   MacMullen 1984, p. 47. 190  Shotter 1978, 158–59. 191  Odahl 2012a, p. 168 (‘Between 318 and 321, Sol was removed from most of  the coins produced by the mints’).

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Finally, ambiguity in the representation of   victory can also be illustrated by the imagery used in monuments like Constantine’s Arch. We already saw that it is characterized by a traditional pagan narrative. It also emphasizes solar worship – Sol is depicted in a quadriga, paralleled by Luna in a biga – but for Constantine Sol, Jupiter and the Christian God were on an equal footing. The frieze narrating the Battle of   the Milvian Bridge portrays Constantine’s troops carrying images of   the sun god. This shows that, at the time, the introduction of   Christian worship was through a process of   syncretism. For example, the new style was foreshadowed in the Julii chamber in the Vatican cemetery built just before this time. It  had a  ceiling mosaic depicting a  radiate Christ in the chariot of   the sun god. 192 Also, the statues that Constantine commissioned for himself  in the new city of   Constantinople in 330 attest to Constantine’s eclecticism, for both Apollo and Sol Invictus are his close associates. 193 After the civil wars ended, Christian concerns gained prevalence, however. This had an impact on the direction of  the (written) discourse, which came to focus on the new enemy, the heretic. From a very early beginning, schismatics and heretics had threatened the developing unity of   the Church, but the problem had been internal. In the late 2nd century, the Gnostic variety of  Christianity had already been dismissed as heretical, 194 and in the course of   the 3rd century, Montanism, a  Pentecostal sect, defended by Tertullian but highly controversial, gradually lost its influence. In Constantine’s days, it was the Donatist movement that caused furious debates, and at the Council of   Arles of   314, Constantine mediated in order to put an end to the schism. 195 At this early point in time, Constantine’s issuing of   the Edict of  Toleration (313), permitting freedom of   religion, was no doubt influenced by the problem that there was no orthodox form   Odahl 2012a, p. 143.   Bassett 2007, chapter 2. 194  Of  course, ‘heresy’ is an arbitrary (and anachronistic) term for early Christian varieties like Gnosticism. Christians were scattered geographically but also ecclesiastically and the orthodoxy of   Catholicism had not yet been established. As early as 1934, Walter Bauer argued that what came to be called ‘heresies’ were in fact the earliest manifestations of  Christianity (Bauer 1934). 195   Odahl 1993, p. 134. 192 193

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of   Christianity yet, certainly not in the East, where there had already been a long tradition of  theological debate. In the development towards an orthodox form of   Christianity, the Council of   Nicaea (325) played a crucial role, and so did Constantine as the sponsor and chair of   the conference. By that time, the danger posed by dissent and religious separation came from the Arians, and throughout the rest of   the 4th century and into the 5th, Arianism was synonymous with heresy. In a letter to Alexander the Bishop and Arius the Presbyter written in October 324, Constantine made clear he wanted the disagreements to end and restore Church unity: ‘I feel compelled to address you in this letter, and to appeal at the same time to your unity and discernment. I call on Divine Providence to assist me in the task, while I interrupt your dissension as a minister of   peace’. 196 We can see here that the positions of   Empire and Church are beginning to be perceived as congruous, 197 and that Constantine sees the need to take charge rather than mediate. The Council of   Nicaea led to the creation of   orthodoxy and the rejection of   Arianism. In a letter to every province, Constantine urged obedience to the resolution adopted (the Nicaean Creed). It  uses simple terms to emphasize the need to abide by the new rules, but the words are Eusebius’ of   course: ‘As soon, therefore, as you have communicated these proceedings to all our beloved brethren, you are bound from that time forward to adopt for yourselves, and to enjoin on others the arrangement above mentioned’. 198 The tone is remarkable because, in the discourse that follows, Eusebius presents the emperor as highly antagonistic towards Arians and other heretics or schismatics. In  another letter, the Edict against the Heretics, written in ad  332 and recorded by Eusebius, Constantine harshly condemns the dissenters as the ‘enemies of   truth and life’ who follow ‘pernicious errors’ which lead to ‘destruction’. He forbids them from worshiping in public or in private, and orders that their communal meeting places   Constantine, ‘Letter to Alexander Bishop’, 515–18.   The same congruity was seen in the contemporaneity of   Augustus and Christ. 198 Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 3.20. 196 197

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be surrendered to the Catholic Church or be confiscated by the Roman state. He encourages them to return from ‘darkness to light, from vanity to truth, from death to salvation’ and to ‘unite in holy fellowship’ with the Catholic Church. 199 In a later letter, written to Arius and his followers in ad 333, the tone is downright abusive: Lend your ears and listen a little, impious Arius, and understand your folly. O  God, protector of   all, may you be well – disposed to what is being said, if  it should admit of   faith! For I, your man, holding to your propitious providence, from the very ancient Greek and Roman writing shall demonstrate clearly Arius’ madness, which has been prophesied and predicted three thousand years ago by the Erythraean sibyl. […] But you appear to take thought from your own self. Oh, excessive madness! Turn now to your own destruction the Devil’s sword. … Come now, tell, where are your august consuls? Wash yourself, then, in the Nile, if  possible, you fellow full of  absurd insensibility; and indeed you have hastened to disturb the whole world by your impieties. […]  Do you understand that I, the man of   God, already know all things? But I am in doubt whether I ought to remain or to depart, for I no longer am able to look upon this person and I am ashamed at sin, Arius. You have brought us into the light; you have hurled yourself, wretched one, into darkness. This has appeared the end of  your labors. 200

In Eusebius’ rendering of   events, Constantine has now completely identified with the orthodox Church, the mainstream version that is still facing a major opposition in Arianism. Until the Nicaean Council an Arian himself, Eusebius demonstrates the fierce conviction of  a recent convert in his emphasis on heresy. 201 As a discourse topic, ‘heresy’ was made possible by the success of   the supporters of   orthodoxy, but it had a link with the pagan tradition as well. Traditionally, the form of   Roman religion that  Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 3.65.   Constantine, ‘Letter to Arius and His Followers’, 18–38. 201   The process of   the rejection of   Arianism took some time as well and was not immediately successful. After all, Constantine himself  was baptized by an Arian bishop, and both Constantine II and Valens had Arian sympathies. This explains the continued animosity in so much of  the discourse. 199 200

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was practised according to the rules (religio) had been contrasted with superstition or magic. In  this way, a  distinction was made between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ religion. Pious Romans saw the workings of   evil demons in the exercise of   bad religion, and Christians adopted this association. And demons became gods in their definition of   ‘bad’ religion, viz. paganism, heathen gods demanding human sacrifice. 202 In  his Oration in Praise of   Constantine, Eusebius decries rejection or distortion of   the true faith through demons ‘more cruel far than barbarians’, 203 and in his Ec­cle­sias­ti­cal History, he turns against heretics: It is my purpose also to give the names and number and times of   those who through love of   innovation have run into the greatest errors, and, proclaiming themselves discoverers of  knowledge falsely so-called, have like fierce wolves unmercifully devastated the flock of  Christ. 204

Distortion of   the faith is  now introduced as a  marker of   religious and cultural distance, next to polytheism. 205 In the Christian perspective, religious orthodoxy became all-important and would become identified with the new standards of   civilization and humanity; conversely, polytheism and heresy (‘religious deviance’) would be automatically linked with immoral and inhuman behaviour. 206 The heretic was the enemy, and the fight of  the pious could be seen as a military conflict. It is no coincidence that Eusebius describes the early conflicts with heretics in military terms: St Peter is the ‘noble commander of   God, clad in divine armor’, with ‘innumerable fellow-laborers, or “fellow-soldiers”, as he called them’. 207   Rives 1995, p. 77–78.  Eusebius, Oration in Praise of  Constantine, 7.2. 204  Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 1.2. 205  The obsession with deviation that characterizes the Christian discourse in this period was not wholly new, but foreshadowed by the in­sis­tence on the distinction between ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ belief  that was characteristic of   Diocletian’s time (Harries 2012, p. 85). 206  Rives 1995, p. 82. 207 Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 2.14.6; 3.4.4. Army terminology rapidly made its way into the Christian discourse. The many military metaphors used by Christian writers have attracted attention since Adolf  von Harnack’s Militia Christi (1905). An early example is  in the writings of   Cyprian, who compared 202 203

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These are the first steps taken towards a  Christian doctrine of   just war. We have seen that this was not because, with the acceptance of   the Christian faith, previous attitudes could be reversed but because there was a development of   certain strands of   Church thought. Since the world was seen as a battleground against evil, wars could be just. When the emperor Constantine started to use the sign of  the cross, ‘the sign of  salvation’, he used it as a ‘safeguard against every adverse and hostile power’, Eusebius said, ‘and [he] commended that others, similar to it, should be carried at the head of   all the armies’. 208 There are few reservations in these words: Constantine’s armies wage just wars because they fight on behalf  of   the Christian God.  At the beginning of  the 5th century, this idea would be fleshed out into a Christian doctrine of  just war in treatises by Ambrose and Augustine. In closing, it  is good to place the Christian war discourse as it developed until the mid-4th century into perspective. Despite all the fervent Christian propaganda, the Roman army was still largely pagan. Not a  lot had changed since Constantine had defeated Licinius. Then, in an acclamation with which the emperor was greeted, the soldiers said: ‘Constantine Augustus, may the gods preserve you’. 209 Also, two-thirds of   Constantine’s government at the top were non-Christians. 210 To Christians and non-Christians alike, Constantine was, above all, a  competent emperor. He was the ruler who had defeated barbarians, expanded the economy, and nourished his subjects. He was hailed as a liberator of  the city of  Rome. 211 And, overall, the rule of  the House of   Constantine would be more ‘Constantinian’ than ‘Christian’. Eusebius mentions somewhere that the labarum featured a  portrait of   Constantine and his sons. 212 It  would take almost two hundred more years for Roman fighting forces to adopt the

the Church to a  military camp; just as the Roman army trains its soldiers, the Church ‘trains’ the soldiers of   Christ, who is ‘the commander’ of   soldiers (just like the devil commands the army against them) (St Cyprian, Epistles 50 and 25). 208 Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 31. 209  Jones 1962, p. 116 [my italics]. 210   MacMullen 1984, p. 48. 211  MacMullen 1984, p. 48. 212 Eusebius, Life of  Constantine, 1.31.

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Christian symbols for their banners, and to chant ‘kyrie eleison’ and ‘Deus nobiscum’ when they marched into battle. 213 3.2.3. The Christian Tradition: Conclusion The Christian discourse developed in two distinct phases. Before Constantine, it had a  rather limited scope and audience. Its early pacifist leanings were not so much a  matter of   principle – although this played a role in some authors – as of   pragmatics, for it rejected Christian participation in the Roman army. Good Christians were not expected to join the presumed idolatry of  Roman war rituals. Rigorist thinkers like Tertullian declared military service off-limits while moderates like Origen emphasized alternative ways for Christians to contribute to the well-being of  the state, such as by prayer for the emperor and the army. From the early beginning of   the Christian discourse in its Roman context, the 2nd century, authors, Christians and pagans alike, were concerned with the central issue of  loyalty, and we can see a combination of  attempts at exclusion as well as inclusion, attempts to segregate the Christian ideology from the non-Christian tradition, as well as to integrate it as much as possible into the mainstream of  Roman society. On both sides, exclusion became decisive and the spirit of   antagonism prevailed, culminating in the stark choices offered to the military martyrs during the persecutions. After the Constantinian Shift, a new paradigm came into being, for the minority creed, formerly dismissed as anti-social, became accepted and was even made the emperor’s preferred religion. The interests of   the state and the Church started to coalesce. In this process, the discourse played a crucial role. In our visual sources, such as coinage, we can see that Constantine’s conversion, the crux of   the ‘Shift’, was actually a gradual and slow process. Our principal written source, Eusebius, who presents an account from the perspective of   a Christian bishop, makes the transition total and radical, cutting through Constantine’s pagan roots. In the Christian discourse, Constantine’s success as a general in protecting the borders is no longer relevant, since, as a Chris213  According to Maurice’s Strategikon, a military manual written in the late 6th century (Haldon 1999, p. 204).

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tian emperor, he had the more important role of   administering Church affairs. In  the latter role, he was seen as a  mediator between schismatics and Catholic Orthodox, the ruler who tried to maintain unity in the Church as much as he did in his military campaigns for the state. After the Nicaean Council firmly established the future course of  the Church, Constantine was no longer presented as a  neutral arbiter but as the defender of   the true faith against all heretics. In this process, Donatists and especially Arians became the Christian equivalents of   the old ‘bad religion’, the forms of  pagan worship frowned upon by the establishment. In this way, the now growing tradition of   antagonism in the Christian discourse was continued.

4. Conclusion On our final assessment, we can be brief, for some of  the relevant conclusions have already been made ad interim. The period at hand was long, but not longer than that of   the previous chapter, but it contains a  unique bifurcation. In  the Early Empire, the discourse had become fragmented into a number of   distinct perspectives, creating a heterodox treatment of  themes. In the 3rd and early 4th centuries, there were clearly two more or less independent discourses. Although they did occasionally overlap and responded to each other, they mostly followed their own course. On the secular, traditional discourse, there is strong continuity until the very end of   our period, the time of   Constantine’s sons, when Constans and Constantine II were still conducting frontier campaigns. There were still dedications to virtus and victory, and succession remained a contested issue. In many ways, as confirmed in the visual sources, the pagan discourse continued with marginal changes. At the same time, the rising influence of   the Christian thinking had come to expression in the discourse. What is remarkable is not the voice of   dissent – we have seen it before. What distinguishes the Christian discourse from dissenting opinions in earlier times is its exclusivity, its refusal to share common ground by seeking positions outside of  the mainstream. In the early days, this was done by presenting the problem of   loyalty as a simple choice between God or emperor. Later, on gaining the emperor’s favor, 557

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the trend in the discourse was to antagonize all groups that were deemed to hold heretical or schismatic views. Now, the role of  the emperor, as intermediary between God and His people, was to lead a  single-minded campaign to defend the orthodox Church against its enemy, the Donatist and the Arian. The infidel had replaced the barbarian. Seen from the perspective of   our terminus, c. 360, the Christian discourse still had a  negligible impact on the Roman perceptions of   warfare, or, more broadly, the existing army culture. Just over a hundred years later, however, by the end of  the 5th century, the Christian discourse would no longer be a separate strand. It had become fully integrated in the mainstream debate, and the loyalty issue had been given a firm theoretical footing.

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1. The Later Fourth and Fifth Centuries The period here called ‘Late Empire’ covers the last century and a half  of   the Roman Empire in the West. The term ‘Late Antiquity’, which is  more in vogue today, has been avoided since it usually implies a  continuation after ad  500, which is  the traditional boundary marker and my terminus. Around 500, ‘Central Romanness’, as Peter Heather calls it, 1 had gone and given way to smaller units of   power in the West, 2 and the East had started to develop its own course as a continuation of   the Roman Empire. Consequently, the Roman war discourse became fragmented into new forms that, more often than not, can hardly be called Roman, even if  Roman influences remain visible for quite some time. For this reason, the end of  the 5th century will be our boundary. We begin this chapter at around ad 360, about the time when the Constantinian Dynasty came to an end. At that point, Christianity had risen from a minority creed, small but ‘noisy’, to borrow MacMullen’s term, 3 to the preferred religion of  the emperor. Even so, the population was still largely pagan, and so was the army, and the process of  the ‘Constantinian Shift’ was still unfinished. In this context, important developments would take place in the last part of  the 4th century. The period of   Late Empire was marked by barbarian incursions and Roman military (re)action with shifting alliances, but   Heather 2006, p. 432.   ‘Little Romes’, Peter Brown has called them (Brown 2013, p. xxvi). 3  ‘The readiness and capacity to attract attention’ (MacMullen 1984, p. 84). 1 2

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when parts of  the West came to be controlled by regional leaders, the pattern of   warfare that had been followed before – punitive action in reaction to emerging crises – was no longer effective. Threats became continuous, and military operations were no longer affordable. There were few attempts to take the initiative and expand territory or even to regain lost ground. 4 At a certain point, barbarian tribes were able to regroup, make coalitions with other tribes, and, eventually, to establish independent kingdoms. 5 By 500, the old Roman empire had broken up into a number of  autonomous units. 6 They were still ruled in the Roman tradition, but had become more militarized, because the traditional secular elite had lost its status – the new hierarchy was purely military. 7 Together with the segmentation of   the empire, this new military culture marks the beginning of  a new period in history. What also characterizes our period is the co-existence of   Romanization of   barbarians – some of   them long settled – and the barbarization of  the Roman Empire, mostly through the military careers of   barbarian recruits. 8 This phenomenon created what Wickham calls a  ‘dynamic relationship’ between ethnic groups and Romans, 9 which makes the term ‘barbarization’ too one-­ sided. 10 On  the one hand, the Roman army became stronger   Elton 1996, p. 181.   Terms like ‘Germanic’or ‘German’ to denote these groups have fallen into disuse, especially in the context of   Late Antiquity. Walter Goffart has rightly emphasized that none of   the peoples intended saw themselves as ‘Germanic’, and even late Roman observers would rarely use this term. ‘Germanic’ would suggest a  sort of   national self-consciousness which was nonexistent (Goffart 2009, p. 187). Guy Halsall makes a similar point: Germanic-speaking barbarians ‘did not share a unifying ethos or culture’ (Halsall 2014, p. 157). Also, the word ‘tribe’ could be somewhat misleading – in reality groups were in a constant state of  flux, changing their composition as time progressed. 6  Brown 2013, p. xxvi. 7  Wickham 2010, p. 105. 8   Wickham 2010, p. 150–51. 9  As T. Stickler has pointed out, there is some evidence that ‘some barbarian officers “wandered” between the Roman and the barbarian worlds’, and that the dual allegiance of   Germanic aristocrats was not necessarily harmful to the effectiveness of  the Roman army in this period (Stickler 2007, p. 499). It was especially in Gaul that this led to ‘mixed civilizations’, in what has been called the ‘reichsfrankisches Kriegsmilieu’ (Böhme 1993). 10  With its connotation of   degradation, ‘barbarization’ no longer an appropriate term for a complex phenomenon, and the idea that the Roman army lost 4 5

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because of   the foreign contribution; on the other hand, the ethnic populations became thoroughly militarized and attached to a single leader. 11 After Theodosius I, Roman emperors no longer personally led the troops, 12 which enabled military commanders to gain more political influence, and many of   them were of   barbarian stock, 13 certainly after the first part of  the 5th century, when the Roman army, led by commanders like Stilicho, Boniface and Aëtius, showed that it was still a force to be reckoned with. 14 The relation between barbarians and Romans, and especially the impact of  barbarian migrations in the period at hand, has given rise to a debate that has been going on for decades now. Reducing the issue to its essence, and ignoring the details, one could say there are two opposing camps. On one side, ‘continuists’ like Goffart and Brown have debunked the idea of   large-scale Germanic migration: the peoples moving were not yet conscious of  themselves as ethnic groups, and their numbers were comparatively small. Barbarians mingled with established populations and only caused a  gradual change in (local) Roman life and institutions. On the other side, ‘catastrophists’ like Heather and WardPerkins believe there was more than gradual change. They argue that the state of   equilibrium that had existed between Romans and barbarians was shattered with the coming of   the Huns, in the late 300s, which set a  chain of   events in motion that drove large numbers of  barbarians across the limes (and that ultimately, caused the empire’s collapse). 15 ita traditional qualities during the Late Empire has been sufficiently dismissed. Hugh Elton argues that ‘barbarization’ did not affect the efficiency of   the late Roman army. M. J. Nicasie, in his comprehensive study of   the late Roman army, comes to a similar conclusion (Elton 1996; Nicasie 1998). 11  Wickham 2010, p. 151–52. 12  With some mid-5th century exceptions, like the emperors Avitus and, especially, Majorian. The latter was a successful army commander in Gaul and Spain. 13   Lee 2007b, p. 379–423. 14  The Battle of   the Catalaunian Plains (ad 451), in which Aëtius and his Gothic auxiliaries defeated a Hunnic force led by Attila, is often (and popularly) seen as Rome’s Last Stand. After Aëtius was eliminated, Ricimer became the ‘king-maker’ in the final decades of  the Western empire. 15  Goffart 1987; Brown 1989; Heather 2006; Ward-Perkins 2006. The debate centers around the question of   the so-called ‘Migration Age’. With his ‘clash of  civilizations’ interpretation Ward-Perkins argues that migrating barbarian armies knocked down a  healthy Roman Empire in the 5th century, causing

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Recent contributions to the debate have been made by Guy Halsall, and, somewhat less explicitly, by Henning Börm and Roland Steinacher. Some time ago Halsall argued that barbarian migrations were the consequence of   corrosion within the empire, not its cause. 16 In  a  more recent article, he emphasizes the idea that the Roman empire as such facilitsated barbarian migrations since Romans and barbarians were not antagonistic in principle but mutually dependent, in a sort of   symbiotic relationship that is now often treferred to as center-periphery. Halsall concurs with John Drinkwater in that what contemporary authors claimed as barbarian threats were rhetorical ploys rather than factual reports. 17 As  for the issue of   barbarian migration, immigration was common throughout the period, ‘integral to the imperial world’, Halsall argues. In fact, when the frontiers collapsed, this effectively diminished immigration. 18 In Westrom: Vom Honorius bis Justinian, Henning Börm follows a  similar line of   thought, in that barbarian migration is  seen as an internal, not an external phenomenon, and can be linked to the state of   civil war that was endemic in the period of   Late Empire. What Börm calls the ‘Bürgerkriegsparadigma’ cannot explain everything but is  central: what we call ‘barbarian peoples’ were troops, accompanied by women and children, looking for food and plunder and joining Roman factions to fight other Roman factions. This is why barbarian gentes were not really a ‘people’ or ‘nation’ but ever-changing groups with overlapping and merging identities. 19 a  rapid decline in comfort and prosperity. Heather adopts a  similar approach, acknowledging the complex interactions of   Roman and northern barbarians over many centuries and Roman control of   barbarian settlement during that time. He argues that the Hunnic onslaught starting in South Russia in the 370s shattered this equilibrium. At the opposite end of   the spectrum, Walter Goffart debunks the idea of  a Germanic Migration Age, arguing that the 5th century newcomers were sedentary people uprooted by immediate causes. Goffart focuses not on barbarian migration but on the terms of  barbarian settlement on Roman territory. Peter Brown has argued that it is misleading to speak of  a Migration Age, for the barbarians did not have the numbers or the force to destroy the Roman empire in the West. Roman power declined due to internal causes, creating a  power vacuum filled by barbarian newcomers invited by Roman officials to settle in certain areas in return for military service. 16  Halsall 2006, p. 230. 17   Halsall 2014, p. 519–20; Drinkwater 1996, p. 20–30. 18  Halsall 2014, p. 528. 19  Börm 2013, p. 115; p. 164.

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This more dynamic approach to barbarian groups can also be found in Roland Steinacher’s study Rom und die Barbaren. Steinacher focuses on three lesser-known ‘tribes’ – Gepids, Herules and Rugians – in presenting the larger picture of   conflict that was largely ‘interrömisch’ as he calls it. 20 Barbarians took part in Roman civil warfare while following their own agendas. What we used to call ‘Germanic tribes’ like Burgundians, Goths and Vandals should be seen as ‘Militärverbände mit einer angeprägten ethnischen Identität’. 21 Overall, it seems that recent scholarship tends to follow an ‘inclusive’ and ‘dynamic’ approach to the great issues of   the Roman-barbarian relationship and the barbarian migration, stressing interaction rather than antagonism. As we shall see below, this is not the image presented in the war discourse. The cultural implications that Walter Pohl describes, i.e. the development of  what I would call an ‘explicit barbarian mindset’, only took off in the 6th century, i.e. beyond the scope of  this study, when local communities started to create their own identities in a kind of  ‘societal bricolage’, based on divergent sources and with the clear stamp of   long interaction with Rome: ‘They used what they could find, including ancient myths and symbols, Roman ethnography, classical mythology, and biblical history to assert and delineate their difference’. 22 To conclude the aspect of   continuity and change, it  is still a given fact that, for the late 4th and 5th centuries, we still depend on our Roman sources when we focus on the discourse. And with what evidence we have, the picture is not fully clear. Many of   our primary sources from the first half  of   the 5th century portray a period of  social and religious unrest, which is supported by archaeological finds that suggest a form of  disruption and decline. On the other hand, the works of   Sidonius Apollinaris, the most   Steinacher 2017, p. 15.   Steinacher 2017, p. 15. 22   Pohl 2003, p.  223. It  is  interesting that the coalescing clans and tribes that, with the help of   the Roman authorities, were evolving into the successor states started to give themselves an ethnic identity, even though in most cases this was entirely artificial, since most of   them were mixed in their origins. It was the Romans, again, who had given these tribes the idea that they should see themselves as ‘nations with their own rex’. They now needed their own genealogy and history (Collins 2010, p. 107). 20 21

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prolific writer of   the second half  of   the century, imply ‘almost total continuity with the imperial past’. 23 In the discourse, continuity and change are not equally balanced, however, because of   the radical changes in Christian thinking, especially around ad 400.

2. Primary sources Even at times of   great changes, there is continuity, and what we can see, especially in the later 4th century, is  a  great diversity of  genres that are co-existing. Traditional history writing continued with writers like Ammianus Marcellinus, although most of   the reading public was more interested in biography and summaries or epitomes, as supplied by Eutropius and Festus, and in the case of  biography, in the Historia Augusta, of   disputed authorship, composed either at the end of   the 4th century or the beginning of  the 5th. It  is  a  complex and still controversial combination of   contemporary issues and the lives of   2nd- and 3rd-century emperors, but useful for our purposes here. 24 In  a  different category, of  military manuals, we have Vegetius’ Epitome of  Military Science, also known as De re militari. It was written in this period in the antiquarian tradition so that it does not wholly reflect the 23  Wood 1993, p. 20. A possible explanation for this divergence is in the idea of  ‘local Romanness’, an idea that has gained ground in recent years and strongly relates cultural continuity and change to local (i.e. regional) conditions. Jonathan Conant has pointed to the changing implications of  the concept of  ‘Romanness’ in the course of   the 5th century. Instead of   the fractured politics of   the time, it was culture and faith that came to define Romanness. It was the office-holding aristocracy (to which men like Sidonius belonged) that naturally felt the strong identification with the empire and its institutions (Conant 2014, p. 157–66). 24  Since it  is one of    the few primary sources we have for this period, the Historia Augusta continues to attract scholarly attention. One of   the persistent debates concerns the date of   composition and the authorship, ranging from single to multiple authorship or multiple authorship with a final editor (as argued, for example, by Daniel den Hengst in his Emperors and Historiography. More interesting for the present study is the debate surrounding the work’s genre and purpose, which tends to focus on its literary rather than its historiographical aspects. In this view, the Historia Augusta is a clever composition of   parody and satire, mocking other works of   historiography. Recently, David Rohrbacher has taken this idea one step further by arguing that we should take the Historia as a playful work of   entertainment, with no serious political (or religious) agenda, but filled with all sorts of   allusions meant for the educated reader to pick up (Rohrbacher 2016, chapters 1 and 2).

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military practice of  its day; all the same, it is a useful source in our analysis of   the discourse. 25 The less-known document De Rebus Bellicis, dating from the 360s and written by an unknown author has been hard to contextualize. It advocates a series of   social and military reforms and outlines a  number of   military inventions that were supposed to improve performance in battle, but its exact purpose is  debated. 26 Last, the Notitia Dignitatum (Register of   Dignitaries) should be mentioned. It is a list of   regimental names, as well as the location of   headquarters for border troops and the allocations of   specific regiments to armies, dating from around 395 (and later, for the West) and providing us with much of  our knowledge of  the Roman army of  this period. 27 In the genre of   oratory and rhetoric, Libanius, a  teacher of  the Sophist School, lived and worked in Antioch, and in his orations and letters defended traditional paganism in an increasingly Christianized world. The lapses of   morality, the corruption 25  The exact time of  writing, set between 383 and 450 has been the subject of  a long controversy. Most modern scholars opt for an early date and a dedication to Theodosius I, such as T. D. Barnes and N. P. Milner (Barnes 1979, p. 254–57; Milner 1997, introduction). Others believe a later date and a dedication to Valentinian III are more plausible (Goffart 1977, p. 65–100; Charles 2007). It seems to me that Vegetius’ optimism about the potential the empire still has makes a later date (the time of   Aëtius) more likely. There is greater consensus on the nature of  Vegetius’ Epitome: it gives a picture of   an ideal army based on past conditions from a mix of  periods, but one that is still supposed to give guidance in improving present shortcomings. Hence, it should be read as a political tract rather than as a traditional military manual (cf. Milner 1997, p. xxviii). 26  Cameron 1993, p. 25–26. Interpretations of  the Rebus Bellicis vary, usually concerning the degree of   seriousness with which we should the two parts of   the text (reforms and inventions). E.  A. Thompson has dated the text to the joint reign of   Valentinian I and Valens, and believes the anonymous author wishes to present rational and scientific solutions to solve problems of  the day (such as taxation) as an alternative to what he saw around him as ‘speculations and whimsies’ (Thompson 1952, p. 17; p. 31–32). An altogether different theory is offered by W. Liebeschuetz, who reads the text as a piece of  contemporary satire, specifically addressing political developments in Themistius’ Constantinople (Liebeschuetz 1994, p. 119–39). 27 The Notitia Dignitatum does have some bearing on the present study. Peter Brennan has argued that the document did not have an administrative purpose at all, but was meant to illiustrate and emphasize the unity and coherence of   the Roman empire at a time when this was rapidly fading. The new approach, therefore, is  to see the Notitia as antiquarian with an ideological purpose (Brennan 1995, p. 147–78). M. Kulikowski follows this ‘ideological’ interpretation, but still believes the text contains relatively reliable information for the East (Kulikowski 2000, p. 358–77).

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in high places and the deterioration of   the liberal arts were the objects of  his sharp censure. 28 In oratory and letters, the classical, pagan tradition set an example for Christian writers, sometimes quite literally, as in the case of   Libanius, who was the instructor of   John Chrysostom, a Christian orator. In their format and style, and in his use of   metaphors and similes, Chrysostom’s sermons – hortatory or invective – are unmistakable products of  the ancient rhetorical schools. 29 The same continuation of  generic features can be seen in correspondence: the letter remained an essential genre for the cultural élite, the old as well as the new, such as influential bishops like Basil and Gregory of  Nissa. 30 In historiography, we have Zosimus’ History, probably written in the early 6th century during the reign of   Anastasius  I, 31 but in the 4th century it is Ammianus who still stands out as our most important source because of  the quality of  his work and his position as the representative of   traditional Roman historiography. This was sufficiently made clear in the 1989 study by John Matthews, but Matthews has been followed by more critical authors like Timothy Barnes, who finds an anti-Christian bias in Ammianus, and Gavin Kelly, who has focused on the subtle manipulative allusions in the text that have traditionally been overlooked. 32 Kelly’s Ammianus presents his history with great   Cribiore 2013, p. 1–24.   Liebeschuetz 1972, p. 35; Mayer and Allen 1999, p. 4–5. 30   Liebeschuetz 1972, p. 21. 31  As one of  the last non-Christian sources, Zosimus is valuable for his views on the decline of   the empire as he perceived it. In the Proem to the History, he explicitly compares his endeavor with that of   Polybius, who charted Rome’s rise (History, 1.1). Scholarly attention has mostly gone to the lack of   originality in the History, which was largely based on earlier histories by Eunapius and Olympiodorus. In the introduction to his translation of  the History, F. Paschoud credits Zosimus with minimal originality, and largely re-hashing his sources (Paschoud 1971, p.  lxi–lxii). Unlike Paschoud, W.  Liebeschuetz sees the connection that Zosimus makes between the decline of   traditional religious practice and the general decline of  the empire as Zosimus’ own contribution (Liebeschuetz 2003, p. 177–218). 32  Matthews 2007b; Barnes 1998; Kelly 2008. Ammianus scholars (and other historians) are still divided over the relationship between autopsy and allusion in his work. Matthews tends to emphasize Ammianus’ reliance on personal experience as a  ‘self-revealing author’ (Matthews 2007b, p.  55). War historian Kimberly Kagan follows this idea in stating that Ammianus, in his accounts of  battle, focuses on the experience of  the soldiers, in a way that only an eye witness 28 29

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sophistication, mixing autopsy, i.e. eyewitness testimony, with traditional allusions to ancient history, using staples of   extant narrative, anecdotes and speeches, usually in the form of  exempla. 33 Of  course, as a military man, Ammianus could get at first-hand reports and was well acquainted with the military affairs of   his day. 34 Apart from this, Ammianus (like Libanius), was an eastern Greek who took a  skeptical view of   the moral degradation that he saw. Ammianus was one of  the last Roman historiographers of  the classical style, 35 at the ‘opposite end of  the scale’ compared to the form of   history writing preferred by Christian authors, which largely consisted of   biographies and chronicles. 36 Writing in the same tradition as Ammianus were historians like Aurelius Victor, Priscus, Eutropius and Festus, the first of   whom worked in the mid-fourth century and bridges two of   our chapters. In a period of   revival of   old Roman institutions – the second half  of   the 4th century – these historians continued to tell the great story could do (Kagan 2006, p. 27–29). In Barnes, and especially in Kelly, it is rhetorical conventions and authorial skills that get more attention. Kelly even suggests that autopsy, undeniably part of  Ammianus’ method, was actually used as a rhetorical device, for it served to enhance the author’s credibility and authority (Kelly 2008, p. 38). This way of  working perfectly fits in the classical tradition of  history writing, of   course, and is hard to disprove, and we can only speculate on the reason why Ammianus could not (or chose not to) deviate from the clichés and stereotypical conventions in his descriptions of  Rome’s enemies. Another issue concerns Ammianus’ pagan or Christian position. Barnes makes a strong case against the traditional view of  a ‘neutral’ Ammianus, without a specific religion, an adherent of   a  ‘neutral monotheism’, neither a  Christian nor a ‘committed believer in the old gods’, as he quotes from an old German source (Barnes 1998, p.  80). His case is  based on a  perceived contradiction between Ammianus’ use of   Christian terminology and his anti-Christian bias (‘polemic’) (Barnes 1998, chapter 8). The argument is  ingenious but contrived. I  think Ammianus’ personal creed does not come into play in his writing, which is decisively part of   the classical (or ‘pagan’, in the context of   this chapter) tradition, which was the ‘grand style’. Here I concur with Alan Cameron, who points out that it  is the genre that marginalizes Christianity in parts of   the text, not the author (Cameron 2010, p. 211). 33   Kelly 2008, p. 55–59. 34  Austin 1983, p. 54. 35  That is, if  we restrict ourselves to the Western Roman Empire. The tradition lived on in the East until the Persian Wars of   the early 7th century. Eastern authors writing within the time scope of   this study, like Eunapius and Priscus, are part of  the corpus, of  course. 36  Sabbah 2003, p. 61.

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of  Rome from its foundation right up to their own days, underlining the presumed permanence of  Roman institutions and military prestige. 37 Indeed, they echo (or foreshadow) Ammianus famous statement that Rome, the eternal city, ‘will live as long as there are men’. 38 Authors writing historical works from a Christian perspective included Salvian, Orosius, Theodoret, Socrates Scholasticus, Rufinus and Sozomen. 39 They put a new moral stamp on the events they described. Military occurrences were not linked to the grand tradition of   Roman superiority, but explained as ‘symptoms of  the moral quality of  individual emperors’. 40 This is why the defeat of   Adrianople proved that God had turned away from Valens, that is to say, from his type of   Christian adherence, and the victory at the Frigidus was evidence for God’s support of   Theodosius. In their selection of   military matters, these authors looked at religious allegiance most of   all. The distinction between civil and external wars was not very sharp: a triumph over a usurper could be just as valuable as a  victory against barbarians. Of  all these writers, Orosius was the most revisionist Christian, reviewing the whole of  Roman history from a Christian perspective and coming to negative conclusions about the greatness of   Rome. He paved the way for the new, Christian historiography that we find in the early Middle Ages, in Bede, Isidore of   Seville and Gregory of  Tours. 41 Another new Christian genre, the chronicle, the origin of  which we discussed in the previous chapter, was also continued in the present period. Although chronicles were patterned on the old consular annals, they were distinctly Christian in their outlook and their sense of   the direction and meaning of   history   Bonamente 2003, p. 85.   Ammianus Marcellinus, Roman History (Res Gestae), 14.6.3. 39  Socrates Scholasticus, Sozomenus (or Sozomen), and Theodoret (or Theodoretus) were the ‘continuators’ of   Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History. They wrote in the mid-5th century. In  Theodoret we find many references to Arians and Nestorians, two of   the major groups of   dissenters, or ‘heretics’, in Theodoret’s perception. 40  Leppin 2003, p. 243. 41  Rohrbacher 2002, p. 149. P. van Nuffelen (2012) emphasizes the classical, rhetorical aspects of  Orosius’ history that are often neglected when we see Orosius as a theologian. A. T. Fear (2010) is in the traditional mold. 37 38

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had radically changed. 42 Authors like Jerome and Prosper of  Aquitaine continued Eusebius’ Chronicle of   the mid-4th century, which only survives in fragments. Later examples are the anonymous Chronicle of  452, and the chronicle of  Hydatius. In the period of  Late Empire, the idea that history progressed in ‘stages’, with various ‘turning points’ (rather than an evolutionary process, as we see it today) was not yet abandoned. For example, Orosius interpreted the coming of  Christ as a true turning point, but this time a positive rather than a negative one. But then again this, in turn, can be given a ‘continuist’ reading: apparently, with its own ‘turning points’, Christian historiography did not change old principles, just their applications. 43 In  ad  417 Orosius wrote his history against the pagans, in which he tried to prove that the defeats of   the empire could not be blamed on the abandonment of   the old gods by Christian Rome, since the misfortunes of   Christian times paled on comparison with those suffered in the pagan past. 44 Although there is  a  lack of   contemporary literary works for the time that are still extant, it does not mean that there was no literary output; in fact, it is likely that there was some form of  continuity, as van Hoof  and van Nuffelen have argued. 45 Unfortunately, few works have survived, of  which the best known are the poems by Ausonius and Prudentius, both writing in the fourth century, and, most of  all, Claudian, a late fourth-century (pagan) poet who wrote panegyrics, such as The War Against Gildo in   Croke 2001, p. 168.   Mehl 2011, p. 247. 44  Christian historiography, like Orosius’, has not received the serious attention due since scholars like Goetz saw their writing of  history as a form of  theology (Goetz 1980). A lot of   studies of   Christian writing have departed from this idea, ignoring the literary and rhetorical qualities of   the Christian output, and (falsely) implying that, for more ‘objective’ historiography, non-Christian sources are preferable. However, ‘having an agenda does not disqualify someone from being a historian’. This is what Peter van Nuffelen has, convincingly, argued in his Orosius and the Rhetoric of  History (van Nuffelen 2015, p. 2–13). 45  Van Hoof  and van Nuffelen 2015, p. 3–15. Contrary to the stereotypes of  the barrenness of   the 4th century, literature (letters, panegyric, poetry) still had a role in the social debate and rhetorical skills were still appreciated at the highest level of   society: the emperor and his court. Peter Brown, in his World of   Late Antiquity, already referred to the revival of   literary output (Brown 1989, p. 115–25). 42 43

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praise of  the military commander Stilicho. Ausonius’ bucolic and pastoral poetry is hardly pertinent to this study, but Prudentius’ allegory Psychomacho is  an interesting merger of   classical and Christian sentiment, and will be dealt with below, in the context of  the loyalty theme. The old panegyric was still in vogue, to celebrate formal occasions such as the return of   the emperor from a  successful campaign, the adventus or the accession, and in our period we have two interesting sources, both from the Panegyrici Latini: Claudius Mamertinus’ panegyric honoring the emperor Julian (362), and Pacatus’ panegyric in honor of  Theodosius I (389). 46 In Claudian’s panegyrics such as the one on Stilicho, just mentioned, and his panegyric on Honorius, we find the best examples of   the old tradition, which lingered on in mid-5th century Gaul, when Sidonius Apollinaris, although he was a  Christian, remained a  staunch follower of   the classical genre, such as in his panegyrics on the emperors Avitus and Majorian. 47 In the course of   the 4th century, panegyrists turned from the conventional eulogy to more outright forms of   political propaganda. When the audience was still largely pagan, in particular the Senate, this form of   discourse remained an important genre, affirming traditional values, but in an increasingly Christian context it lost its appeal. After all, it would not blend well with Christian interests – unlike the more hybrid iconography in the visual sources. In fact, it constituted a complete breach with the classical tradition: the spectacle of  the victory in battle was completely lacking, and the link with the great names of   the Roman past was replaced by one that established the impact of   the Old and New Testaments. 48 Another important literary genre, hagiography, further developed from its start in the 3rd and early 4th centuries, as we saw in the previous chapter. While it began as a  record for poster  Nixon 1983, p. 89.   Harries 1995, p. 2. 48   MacCormack 1976, p. 51–53. There was an attempt at creating a Christian version of  panegyric, in Paulinus of  Nola’s praise of  Honorius after his victory over Eugenius, and in Ambrose’s Consolatio on Theodosius, but it did not catch on at the time (MacCormack 1976, p. 65). 46 47

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ity of  the suffering of  the martyrs, it turned into a self-conscious form of   ‘pious fiction’, to use the words of   T.  D. Barnes. 49 According to Barnes, this process started as early as the last great persecution of   303–13. For the period at hand, the most important representatives are The Life of   St  Martin, written around 400 by Sulpicius Severus, and The Life of   St Germanus, by Constantius of  Lyon, written around 480. As for contemporary drama, theatrical performances were periodically banned at the time because they were seen as hotspots for riot and unrest, a  threat to the ruling order. Sometimes the ban was temporarily lifted because of   strong popular demand. When Christianity gained political and cultural influence, it encouraged sanctions against the theatre exploiting the traditional anti-theatrical sentiment and moral conservatism. It took some time, but the theatre gradually disappeared. 50 What remains is  the vast output of   ‘patristic’ writing by the early Church Fathers like Ambrose, Augustine and Jerome (who, together with Gregory the Great, formed the ‘Latin Doctors of   the Church’), as well as the works written by John Chrysostom, who had an enormous reputation at the time that has lost some of   its lustre today. All of   their work, consisting of   sermons and homilies, exegesis, letters, apologetic writing, and so on, was composed in a  relatively brief  space in the late 4th and early 5th centuries. For our assessment of  the contemporary discourse they are of   immense value. They give us full insight into the ongoing attempts to define the position of   the Church as antagonistic towards pagans and dissenters, and, in the case of   Ambrose and Augustine, in the development of  a Christian just war doctrine.

3. The War Discourse of  the Late Empire The division that we saw in the previous chapter, between the pagan and Christian perspectives, can be maintained for the present period, but there are new developments. In  an increasingly Christian context – the last phase of   the ‘Constantinian   Barnes 2010, p. 155.   Denard 2007, p. 141.

49 50

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Shift’ would be completed by Theodosius I’s prohibition of   public pagan worship in ad  392 – Christian writers continued on a path struck by Eusebius, which was to place people and events in a theological framework, irrespective of  their nature. They also felt the need to formulate a new morality concerning warfare and the army, since the old loyalty dilemma had been resolved with a Christian emperor in charge. At the same time, the pagan discourse continued to discuss the old classical concerns, such as the decline of   morals, the lack of   order and the deficiency in virtus and disciplina, but it also held on to the old superiority topoi about Romans and barbarians. 51 The role of  Christianity in the last period of  the Roman Empire has been controversial ever since Gibbon, and, to some extent, overlaps the debates about the periodization of   Late Antiquity and the decline vs transformation of  Roman civilization. The issue revolves around the impact of  Christianity on the process of  continuity and change. Momigliano saw Christianity as the cause of   enormous changes that enabled the transition from ancient to modern civilization, with Church organization replacing the imperial one. 52 On  the other hand, the historian A.  M. Jones downplayed the influence of  religion in the institutional changes of   the period. 53 In his ground-breaking World of   Late Antiquity, Peter Brown emphasized the gradual process of  syncretism rather than a  radical Christian impact. Since the 1990s, influenced by Averil Cameron’s Christianity and the Rhetoric of  Empire, scholars have become more interested in the aspect of  discourse – the text and language that Christians used to create their own universe. 54 This is  the line I will follow here. Although there are signs of  continuity and longue durée, I  think it can be argued that the impact of   Christianity actually came in fits and starts, that periodization is essential, and that the decades around ad 400 were formative.

  The flourishing of   the pagan tradition in the later 4th century is  often referred to as ‘the pagan revival’, but this label is contested, as we shall see. 52  Momigliano 1963. 53  Jones 1964. 54  Testa 2017, Introduction. 51

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In the sections that follow, I will first turn to the continuity in the pagan, or rather ‘classical’ discourse, then deal with the development of   Christian thinking in its ‘theological framing’, as well as its first steps towards a Christian just war theory. Last, I will look at the interesting phenomenon of   co-existence of   pagan and Christian discourse features. Although the pagan discourse faded away in the course of   the 5th century, it did so very slowly. This tardiness cannot be related to Christian attempts to come to terms with pagan traditions. On  the contrary, the long survival of  classical culture tells us something about the tenacity of  deeply rooted traditions, even in the face of   an uncompromising new creed.

3.1. Classical Concerns in the Pagan Tradition For historiographers and panegyrists writing in the classical tradition, continuity prevailed over change, and any problems the empire was facing could be given an analysis and remedy familiar from earlier crises. A number of  topoi are recurrent especially in historiography: the idea that the status quo was pitiful and vastly inferior to the good old days; the badly needed strength of  military leadership; the qualities of   virtus and disciplina, as well as the emperor’s commilitium as a  general, and, finally, Roman superiority over barbarians. In  specific genres, such as chronicles and panegyrics, the changing conditions of   the 5th century have an impact and result in marked changes. In  the subsections that follow, I  will discuss the traditional topoi first; next, I  will address the developments that can be seen in panegyric and poetry. 3.1.1. The Topic of  Decline Ammianus believed that the fourth-century empire had reached a peak and had transcended earlier conflicts. Under Julian, Rome demonstrated continued power and the achievement of   the classical republican spirit. 55 The implied idea here is that before Julian

  Rohrbacher 2002, p. 180–81.

55

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decline had set in under the Christian Constantine, 56 with the corruption of  a vain and idle upper class who ‘presumably do not know that their ancestors, who were responsible for the expansion of   Rome, did not owe their distinction to riches, but overcame all obstacles by their valour in fierce wars, in which, as far as wealth or style of   living or dress was concerned, they were indistinguishable from common soldiers’. 57 In  a  digression in Book 28, Ammianus elaborates on his critical view of   the aristocracy and common people of   Rome. What he sees in his own time is corruption, decadence and a general lack of   discipline. In this he harkens back to the criticism of   the great Roman moralists of   past ages like Sallust, Livy and Tacitus. 58 The historian Zosimus saw his work as a foil to Polybius’: instead of  explaining how, almost overnight, the Romans mastered the world, he would show how, ‘by their ill management, in as short a  time they lost it’. 59 As a  fervent pagan, he squarely blamed the Christian emperors for it. For Ammianus, Julian’s reign was a happy return to the classical standards of   conduct. Following the public ceremony at which he was proclaimed Caesar, Julian reported to the palace in Milan, Ammianus says, constantly whispering to himself  a line from the Iliad, ‘wrapped in my death’s purple by all-powerful fate’. 60 Julian’s two great historical models were Alexander and Marcus Aurelius, and he named them together at the start of   his Letter to Themistius, probably written in 356, and made an implicit reference to them in The Caesars, which he wrote in 362. This latter, a work of  satire, evaluates Roman emperors from Julius Caesar to Constantine and his sons, in the form of   a dialogue describing a  banquet that Romulus gave for the gods to celebrate the Saturnalia. 61

  Barnes 1998, p. 176–83.  Ammianus, Roman History, 14.6.7. 58  J. den Boeft has commented on the remarkable tone of   moral indignation in Ammianus’ last six books (den Boeft 2007, p. 295). 59 Zosimus, History, 1.28. 60 Ammianus, Roman History, 15.8.13. 61  Barnes 1998, p. 147. 56 57

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3.1.2. The Strong Military Leader and the Role of  virtus and disciplina In his Breviarium, a  short summarizing history, another writer, Eutropius, focuses on the role of   strong military leaders for the expansion of   Rome, such as Trajan, who had extended the empire’s borders, which, after Augustus, ‘had been defended rather than honourably enlarged’. 62 By contrast, emperors like Caligula were unsuccessful because of   their lack of   bellicosity. Caligula ‘undertook a war against the Germans, but after entering Suebia, made no effort’. 63 And Jovian’s loss of  territory in the east was the greatest disaster ever to happen, in Eutropius’ view. 64 His Breviarium, written to support the planned eastern campaign of  Valens, should therefore be read in the context of   traditional Roman ideology, as Rohrbacher has pointed out. The short history written by Festus shows the same mentality of   holding on to past achievements. 65 Likewise, the idea of   personal commitment of   the emperor as general continued to be highly appreciated, but this did not last. In the 4th century, the emperors Julian and Theodosius were acclaimed for their commilitium. Julian’s commitment was legendary, of   course, and Ammianus, who was admittedly biased, specifically singles out his qualities as charismatic commander. It was because he shared all hardships with his troops, Ammianus says, that he was better able to control them. 66 By the end of   the 4th century, commilitium fell into disuse, when campaigns were left to ever more powerful army commanders. Theodosius was the last emperor to conduct campaigns. His commilitium was praised by Pacatus in a panegyric: No, you would be the first, or among the first, to meet all your military obligations – to stand in the front line, to keep watch according to the lot, to hammer in the stakes, to choose in advance a place to give battle, to go out to scout, to measure

 Eutropius, Brevarium, 8.2.3.  Eutropius, Brevarium, 7.12.2. 64  Eutropius, Brevarium, 10.17.2. 65  Rohrbacher 2002, p. 55–56. 66 Ammianus, Roman History, 25.4.12. 62 63

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out the camp, to be first to advance in battle, and the last to retreat from it, to be a  general in counsel and a  soldier by example. 67

Some of   the claims in this fine piece of   rhetoric are more convincing than others, of   course, but even with all skepticism due, it can be assumed that Theodosius was directly involved in some of   his early campaigns. Emperors like Julian and Theodosius were not just projected as ‘co-soldiers’, they also had to figure as leaders. Therefore, in the traditional discourse, good generalship included the expert handling of   adlocutio, something that Julian was reputed to excel in, such as at the time when his army prepared for battle at Strasburg. In a speech, he encouraged the troops to seek immediate battle with the Alamanni. 68 This was all according to the book. This is how Vegetius theorized  69 about the role of  a good adlocutio for an emperor as army leader: An army gains courage and fighting spirit from advice and encouragement from their general, especially if  they are given an account of  the coming battle as leads them to believe they will easily win a victory. 70

The complex interplay of   virtus and disciplina, characteristic of  many previous accounts of   the fighting capacity of   the Roman army, did not come to an abrupt halt in the discourse of   this period. For an experienced soldier like Ammianus it was a priority. On the one hand, disciplina was indispensable in maintaining the fighting spirit of   the army, or restoring it whenever it lapsed. Ammianus’ characteristic interest in this feature can be illustrated by the way in which he presents Julian’s actions on his succession of   Constantius. The new emperor initiated reforms at the court in Constantinople and in the army, to root out ‘shameful defects in discipline’, for the soldiers had got used to a  life of   luxury,   Pan. Lat., 2 (12)10.3–4.  Ammianus, Roman History, 16.12.29 (yet part of   his cavalry ran away on first-contact and Julian needed to rally these again). 69  Of  course, Vegetius presents the army of   the early Empire as the standard that should be restored in his own days. The text records patterns and practices of  the past (Livens 1994, p. 211–12). 70  Vegetius, Epitome of  Military Science, 3.12. 67 68

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were ‘brutal and greedy in their behaviour to their own people, and weak and cowardly in the face of  the enemy’. 71 In another example, disciplina is discussed in its relation with virtus, where it is acting as a brake in an effort to hold troop impetuosity in check. Just before facing the Alamanni at Strasbourg, Julian cautioned his troops in an attempt to resolve the conflict of  virtues: Comrades, I will explain as briefly as possible that it is regard for our common safety and not any loss of   heart which prompts me, your Caesar, to beg you, confident though you are in your stout and tried valour, to choose the path of   caution rather than of  haste and risk in meeting or repelling what we have to expect. It  is  right that warriors should be active and bold in situations of   danger, but they should also, when occasion requires it, be obedient and deliberate. I will tell you briefly my opinion, and I hope that you will go along with it, in spite of  your justifiable impatience. 72

But the men were so eager to fight that they persuaded Julian not to wait any longer, and give directions to advance: ‘Give us a lead, like the lucky and brave warrior that you are’. The Alamanni were defeated. 73 Apparently, there is strong continuity in the treatment of  virtus and disciplina by Roman authors. 3.1.3. Roman Superiority A typical feature of   the classical discourse, the topos of   Roman superiority, saw continuity in this period, but also change, and the discourse reflects the changing conditions of   the interaction of   Romans and barbarians. As a favorite topic in studies of   Late Antiquity, it has become extensive and has been debated for a long time. We can only go briefly into its major issues and will do so after discussing what our primary sources tell us about Romanbarbarian interaction. At the outset of   our period, traditional Roman perceptions of   barbarians would still hold on, based as they were on the long  Ammianus, Roman History, 22.4.  Ammianus, Roman History, 16.12. 73 Ammianus, Roman History, 16.12. 71 72

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tradition of   rhetorical topoi we encountered in previous chapters. Ammianus, for example, used these topoi in an ethnographic excursus on the Gauls, where the Belgae are described as ferocious and the Aquitani as effeminate, all in line with the onion principle that Caesar employed: the more distant from Rome, the more barbarian; the closer, the more ‘civilized’. 74 The warlike spirit was the one common denominator for all the barbarians living in or near the distant parts of   the realm. Ammianus called the Huns ‘quite abnormally savage’, 75 and his descriptions of   Alans and Moesians, both living on the eastern rim of   the empire near the lower Danube, are also quite typical: [The Alans] take as much delight in the dangers of   war as quiet and peaceful folk in ease and leisure. They regard it as the height of   good fortune to lose one’s life in battle; those who grow old and die a natural death are bitterly reviled as degenerate cowards. Their proudest boast is  to have killed a man no matter whom, and their most coveted trophy is to use the flayed skins of   their decapitated foes as trappings for their horses. 76

As for the Huns, they were not only ‘savage’, but also devious, Ammianus points out: ‘You cannot make a  truce with them because they are quite unreliable and easily swayed by any breath of   rumour which promises advantage; like unreasoning beasts they are entirely at the mercy of   the maddest impulses’. 77 Incidentally, the same Ammianus does not see a problem with Roman double-dealing when it comes to despatching barbarians. 78 It  is  interesting that the idea of   ‘savagery’ is  somewhat ambiguous. We have seen before that barbarians were sometimes admired for their virtus, unaffected as they were by the corrupting influence of  riches.

74 Ammianus, Roman History, 15.9.12. Of  course, in his day, many Gauls had also become Romans and ‘civilized’ as he says (‘Throughout these regions men gradually grew civilised and the study of  the liberal arts flourished’, 15.9.8). 75  Ammianus, Roman History, 31.2. 76 Ammianus, Roman History, 31.2. 77 Ammianus, Roman History, 31.2. 78 Ammianus, Roman History, 28.5.

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Ammianus’ description of   the Gauls at the time of   Julian’s campaign in the west follows this line of   thought. There are no echoes of   the trauma of   the old Gallic Fury here, not even of  Caesar’s Gauls: ‘They are fit for service in war at any age; old men embark upon a  campaign with as much spirit as those in their prime; their limbs are hardened by the cold and by incessant toil, and there is  no danger that they are not ready to defy. No one here ever cuts off  his thumb to escape military service, as happens in Italy’. 79 At this point, the Gauls have come to be depicted as noble savages ‘representing the values of   an earlier age’. 80 However, in this, Ammianus merely followed conventions that mixed high-flown images of  individual warriors with an overall negative impression of  their capabilities as a group. 81 As far as Ammianus’ rather negative depiction of   the Huns, it should be contrasted with that of   Priscus. In his study of   Attila the Hun, Christopher Kelly casts a  sceptical eye at the old Roman stereotypes, by emphasizing that the Roman perception of   the Huns was not as monolithic as we think. Kelly compares descriptions given by Ammianus with the long ignored History of   Attila by Priscus. The latter view is much more balanced, less hostile than Ammianus’, and more convincing, Kelly argues, than Ammianus’ ‘selective and overdrawn account’. 82 Of  course, barbarian societies must have had their own, internal concerns that motivated their actions, and some of   the interaction with the empire cannot be explained in terms of   Roman-barbarian rivalry or hostility. 83 Some of   the raiding expeditions by northern barbarian tribes were attempts by their leaders to display their courage and ability, and to strengthen their positions as ‘warlords’, not just to obtain booty. 84 Unfortunately, we do not have any insight into the barbarian discourse,  Ammianus, Roman History, 15.9.   Cunliffe 2011, p. 194. 81   It is interesting that the Gauls were still seen as ‘barbarians’ even if  they were technically Romans and imperial provincials by that time. 82  Kelly 2009, p. 28. 83  Humphries 2007, p. 241. 84  As a  term, ‘warlords’ is  not very precise, of   course. In  Late Antiquity, it  is sometimes used for local, landless rulers (Liebeschuetz 2015, chapter 5; MacGeorge 2002; Wijnendaele 2015). 79

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so that a  discussion of   motivation remains highly speculative. Also, we should always keep Goffart’s advice in mind, which says that ‘literature does not directly mirror everyday reality’, for ‘sheer aversion was not a practical attitude in an age of   rapid social and cultural change’. The incorporation of   ‘elite barbarians into the Roman military elite was an established fact in the third century and only increased as time on’. 85 Ammianus’ treatment of   barbarians has not gone unnoticed in modern scholarship. 86 His descriptions of   northern and eastern barbarians are considered Herodotian – they are often exotic and exaggerated, such as we saw above, but how should we read his views of  the Persians and the Gauls? An explanation could be found in the tension, already mentioned, between the principles of   autopsy and allusion that we find in his writing. Ammianus had first-hand knowledge of   military campaigns in Gaul (under Constantius II) and in Persia (under Julian). Even though he had mixed feelings about the Persians, he clearly admired the political and military system of   the Sassanians; in the same way, he acknowledged some of   the qualities of   the Gauls. Nevertheless, as a historian he worked in a tradition with ethnic lore that was considered encyclopaedic, and the stereotypes offered in the digressions were expected from him by his readers. Also, at a time when barbarian incursions threatened the stability of  the empire, the much-cherished Roman order, there were good reasons for casting the enemies of  Rome in the old mold. If  we turn to the strictly military context, we can see that, in the discourse at least, Roman superiority was still associated with discipline and training, as it was in the days of  the Republic. This idea was best articulated by Vegetius in his handbook Epitome of  Military Science (De Re Militari): Victory in war does not depend entirely upon numbers or mere courage; only skill and discipline will insure it. We find that the Romans owed the conquest of   the world to no other cause than continual military training, exact obser  Goffart 2009, p. 192.   Jan Willem Drijvers has investigated the image of  the Persians in Ammianus (Drijvers 2011, p. 67–78). Greg Woolf  focuses on Ammianus’ treatment of   the Gauls (Woolf  2011, p. 104 & ff.). Both seem to verge towards ‘allusion’ rather than ‘autopsy’ in Ammianus. 85

86

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vance of   discipline in their camps and unwearied cultivation of   the other arts of   war. Without these, what chance would the inconsiderable numbers of   the Roman armies have had against the multitudes of   the Gauls? Or with what success would their small size have been opposed to the prodigious stature of  the Germans? The Spaniards surpassed us not only in numbers, but in physical strength. We were always inferior to the Africans in wealth and unequal to them in deception and stratagem. And the Greeks, indisputably, were far superior to us in skill in arts and all kinds of  knowledge. But to all these advantages the Romans opposed unusual care in the choice of  their levies and in their military training. They thoroughly understood the importance of  hardening them by continual practice, and of   training them to every maneuver that might happen in the line and in action. Nor were they less strict in punishing idleness and sloth. The courage of  a soldier is heightened by his knowledge of  his profession, and he only wants an opportunity to execute what he is convinced he has been perfectly taught. A handful of   men, inured to war, proceed to certain victory, while on the contrary numerous armies of   raw and undisciplined troops are but multitudes of  men dragged to slaughter. 87

It should be borne in mind, of  course, that Vegetius did not describe the state of   affairs in the Roman army, but gave a ‘prescription of  [an] army as wished for’. 88 In fragments like this, he looked back on the days of   conquest. The manual does not give recommendations for achieving conquest, but rather for retaining it. 89 And as a political and strategic tract (rather than a Greek- or Hellenistic-style military manual), the Epitome should be read as both looking back and pointing to the future, enabling Rome to learn from its mistakes. Vegetius makes this intention explicit: ‘One thing is to be said above all in this enterprise – that no one should despair of  being able to do what was once done’. 90  Vegetius, Epitome of  Military Science, 1.1.   Rance 2007, p. 345. 89  ‘Its principal lesson is how to secure the territory one has’ (Goffart 2009, p.  93). The Epitome focuses on defensive warfare, for this reason, which is  not the kind of  warfare of  the good old days held up as a standard. Goffart’s idea that Vegetius tried to formulate an ‘Augustinian just war of  defence’ is a bit exaggerated, for the moral compass in his work is not very strong (Goffart 2009, p. 93). 90  Vegetius, Epitome of  Military History, 3.10. 87 88

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In the course of   the 5th century, changing conditions are reflected in the discourse, for what we see is a more defensive posture and a greater focus on the effects of  barbarian incursions. The main genres here, chronicles and panegyrics, occasionally complained about barbarian violence. As for chronicles, they would become part of  a long tradition that lasted into the Middle Ages, when chronicles recorded the evils that Vikings and other invaders brought. In 451, for example, the anonymous Gallic Chronicle of   452 noted that, after 405–6, ‘the madness of   hostile peoples tore all Gaul to pieces’. 91 Observations for later years, such as 452, convey the same pessimism – the empire is falling apart because of   foreign invasions and domestic revolts. 92 In the same vein, the Vandal invaders of   Africa were described by Possidius as ‘a huge mob of  diverse savage enemies’. 93 It is not surprising, therefore, that the barbarians could be used as ‘bogeymen’, in order to legitimatize military effort and expenses. John Drinkwater has recently argued that emperor, military and civilian populations alike needed the idea of   a ‘barbarian threat’ to justify their own existence. The threat of   invasion justified high rates of   taxation, and it explained why the empire needed a powerful and well-paid military class. Above all, it secured the emperor’s position as the defender of  civilization. 94

  Gallic Chronicle (Chronica Gallica) of  452, years 406–7.   Gallic Chronicle (Chronica Gallica) of  452, year 452. 93 Possidius, Life of  St Augustine, 28.4. 94  Drinkwater 2007, p. xiv. It is clear that barbarian violence and destructiveness were part of   an intense anti-barbarian rhetoric. Whether barbarian attacks were actually as violent as played up in the texts remains a moot point. Walter Pohl believes that ‘the violent barbarians in our sources were a social and textual construct’, and that the rhetoric does not correspond with the actual level of  violence (Pohl 2006, p. 24–25). Ralph Mathisen follows a similar line: the rhetoric served to justify expenditure and to boost the image of  the emperor as victor (Mathisen 2006, p. 27–36). Wolf  Liebeschuetz, however, argues that modern scholars are too eager to redress the bias of   primary sources against barbarians: the successor kingdoms were in fact a lot more violent than the Roman empire (Liebeschuetz 2006, p. 37–46). We are not dealing with the successor kingdoms here, of  course, but Liebeschuetz’s complaint about today’s crusade against Romanocentrism is justified, it seems to me. 91 92

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3.1.4. Developments in Panegyric and Poetry Overall, in the genre of   panegyric, changes are more subtle than in chronicles, which typically relate barbarian incursions. If  we compare an early example, Mamertinus’ Panegyric to Julian, with Claudian’s panegyrics some decades later, they are remarkably similar. The Panegyric to Julian was delivered before the Senate to give thanks to his consulship of   362 and praised the emperor, emphasizing the personal qualities of   Julian and his popularity among the troops rather than the usual epithets ex officio: Maidens, boys, men, women, trembling old women, tottering old men thunderstruck and not without great dread gazed at the emperor as he sped on his long journey under the weight of  heavy armor, his breathing more rapid as he hastened without any sense of   fatigue, rivulets of   sweat dripping down his strong neck, and amid the coating of   dust which covered his beard and hair his eyes flashing starry flames. 95

When, some decades later, by the end of  the 4th and the first part of   the 5th centuries, the poet Claudian was successful as a panegyrist during Honorius’ reign, the times had changed, and once again demanded great rhetorical virtuosity, for emperors needed to stress their dynastic claims since their military success had been delegated to powerful generals such as Stilicho, Boniface and Aëtius. As de facto ruler of  his age, one could say that Stilicho used Claudian as his mouthpiece, and others would follow: generalissimos like Boniface and Sebastian had a Gallic panegyrist to sing their praises, while their rival Aëtius was immortalized by the Italian soldier-poet Q uintianus and the Spanish poet Merobaudes. 96 Merobaudes composed panegyrics honoring the emperor Valen­ tinian  III and his general Aëtius. In  Panegyric  I, Merobaudes praises almost incessantly ‘the merits, virtues and deeds’ of   the great general, part of  this new trend to honor high officials in the imperial administration rather than the emperor. 97 Claudian’s panegyric on the third consulship of   Honorius focuses on the presumed basis of   Honorius’ legitimacy – his  Mamertinus’ Panegyric to Julian, 3.1, 6.4, 14.3, 24.6.   Gillett 2003a, p. 93. 97  Clover 1971, p. 359. 95

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descent from Theodosius, 98 but the one on the sixth consulship dating from ad 404 goes at great length to praise the courage and tactical instinct of  Stilicho, the great general: The bugle had already summoned the soldiers to the first watch when glorious Stilicho arrived from the frozen north. But the enemy held the road between my father-in‑law and myself, and the bridge whose obstructing piers churn turbid Addua to yet fuller foam. What was Stilicho to do? Halt? My danger forbade the least delay. Break through the enemy’s line? His force was too small. In hastening to my aid he had left behind him many auxiliaries and legionary troops. Placed in this dilemma he thought it long and tedious to wait for reinforcements and, putting aside his own peril, was eager only to deliver me from mine; inspired by the courage that is born of  love, heedless of  his own danger, he broke through the enemy’s midst and, sword in hand, cutting down all who sought to bar his passage, he passed like lightning through the barbarians’ camp. 99

In his War against Gildo, Claudian composed a panegyric to Stilicho to give him full credits for suppressing a rebellion by Gildo. 100 In this poem, Claudian introduced the goddess Roma, who feared the city’s total destruction, and her savior Jupiter, who breathed life into Roma: ‘Straightway her former strength returned, and her hair put off its grey of  eld; her helmet grew solid, upright stood the plumes, the round shield shone once more, and gone was every trace of   rust from her winged, gleaming spear’. 101 The poem was written not long after the death of  the emperor Theodosius I, but

  Gillett 2003a, p. 93.  Claudian, Panegyric on the Sixth Consulship of  the Emperor Honorius, 470– 500. The same praise of   Stilicho characterizes Claudian’s earlier poem Against Rufinus (In Rufinum I). He presents the western regent ‘in heroic terms’ and his adversary ‘as a protégé of  demonic forces’, perhaps an indication of  Christian influences in some of   his work (James 1999, p. 151). Claudian’s ‘pagan’ imagery is nowadays mostly seen as a literary device, not as an expression of  belief. All of  his poems were written for Christian patrons and performed in front of  overwhelmingly Christian audiences (Cameron 1970, p. 208). 100  Alan Cameron has convincingly argued that Claudian was not just a court panegyrist, but also and above all Stilicho’s official spokesman (Cameron 1970, p. 30 & ff.). 101  Claudian, The War against Gildo, 115. 98

99

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even the Christian Theodosius would have been happy to accept comparison with Hercules and Jupiter as a  living deity, a  clear legacy from the pre-Christian realization of  the emperor cult. 102 In the fourth-century poet Prudentius’ Psychomachia we find an elaborate structure of   military metaphors in an extended allegory. The poet’s subject is the battle between good and evil, personified by Virtue and Vice, with characters like Luxury, Wrath and the like, all reminiscent of   a  genre that would come to full bloom in the Middle Ages. 103 In  the battle between Virtue and Vice, the army of   Virtue surrenders to Love. What makes the allegory particularly interesting is the interplay of  pagan and Chris­ tian elements, underlining the idea that Christianization in the fourth century was a very gradual process. In the excerpt of  a battle scene below, the influence of  Greek epic is unmistakable: So Long-Suffering abides undisturbed, bravely facing all the hail of  weapons and keeping a front that none can pierce. Standing unmoved by the javelin while the monster that shot it rages in ungoverned frenzy, she waits for Wrath to perish by reason of  her own 102  The cult of  the emperor was slow to change. Around 400, Christian influences were noticeable, for instance in the replacement of  traditional panegyrics by the bishop’s sermon, and, of  course, in art and on monuments, but most of  these changes were superficial. In  the Roman army, the conventional loyalty to the emperor remained, but the oath sworn to the emperor changed, with minor adaptations. In his handbook, Vegetius uses the Christian version of   the oath sworn by new army recruits: ‘For it is God whom a private citizen or a soldier serves, when he faithfully loves him who reigns by God’s authority. The soldiers swear that they will strenuously do all that the emperor may command, will never desert the service, nor refuse to die for the Roman State’ (Vegetius, Epitome of  Military Science, 2.5). The next step in the Christianization process would take us to the 6th century, when a military manual like Maurice’s Strategikon described the rituals that the Roman army would practise before going into battle: ‘On the day of  battle prayers, led by priests, are to be said in camp before any of  the troops go through the gates. All of  those present should then chant “kyrie eleison” for some time in unison and then shout “nobiscum deus” three times as the army marches out of   the camp’ (Maurice, Strategikon, 2.18). A similar process can be observed in the context of  imagery on coins, as we shall see. 103  Military metaphors were also used in the newly emerging ‘miles Christi’ topos that would be standard repertoire in medieval literature. The virtue of  the pious Christian was compared to the loyalty of   the Roman soldier, and the soldier’s battle translated into a  spiritual struggle. Early examples are in the Commentaries on the Epistles of   St  Paul by Origen and St  Jerome (Smith 2011, p. 19–20).

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violence. And when the barbarous warrior had spent […] the strength of  her unconquerable arms and by showering javelins tired out her right hand with no success till it was useless, since her missiles, having no force in their flight, fell ineffectual, and the shafts, all idly cast, lay broken on the ground, her ruthless hand turned to her sword-hilt. Putting all its strength into a blow with the flashing blade, it rises high above her right ear and then, launching its stroke, smites her foe’s head in the very middle. 104

When we come to the mid-5th century, and look at the panegyrical work of   Sidonius Apollinaris, once again, new conditions apply. The empire is fragmenting, the old borders disappearing and longheld territory lost. 105 In the southern parts of   Gaul, the Roman influence was old and deeply ingrained, and members of  the elite like Sidonius tried to hold on to their Roman identities as long as possible, even against the grain. 106 It is telling that Sidonius was a Christian. For him, and his circle, there was no conflict, however, between Christianity and paganism but between classical civilization and barbarism. This makes him a unique representative of  the classical tradition surviving in a specific region. Sidonius’ panegyrics, such as his panegyrics of   the emperors Avitus, Majorian and Anthemius, delivered in 456, 458 and 468 respectively, are somewhat unattractively presented as tableaux interspersed with monologues and set-piece descriptions, as Watson says, 107 but they are worth looking at for two reasons. First, they tell us how much Sidionius was interested in the subject of   Romanitas. Both Avitus’ supporter Theodoric II, a barbarian, and the emperor Anthemius, a  Greek descended from a  noble family in Constantinople and a son-in-law of   the emperor Marcian, had to be presented as ‘Roman’ in order to fit the cultural bill. In circumstances in which barbarian support was sought and  Prudentius, Psychomachia, 289.   Important military developments in this period include the end of   the Roman presence on the Rhine in 406 and, especially, the loss of  Africa, the disastrous result of  the expedition of  468. 106  Harries 1995, p. 243–50. 107   Watson 1999, p. 182. 104 105

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accepted to avert other barbarians, cultural continuity had to be emphasized above all. 108 The panegyrics celebrated the emperors’ presumed exploits in battle, but apart from this, Sidonius placed great importance on treaties as strategic tools, something we have not seen a lot before. Thus, Avitus’ success in battle is  associated with his ability to make treaties. 109 Avitus was praised for controlling Theodoric not through victory in battle, but because of   his renewal of   a treaty with him: ‘When there was no defence anywhere and no recourse was left to your leaders, Rome, you, Avitus, renewed the treaty; your letter, when read, subdued the fierce king’. 110 In  the panegyric of  Anthemius, treaty-making gets the same accolades. 111 It is worth pointing out that Sidonius could not claim dynastic ties for Avitus and needed to resort to his military accomplishments, but it is even more interesting that in doing this he focused on Avitus’ qualities as a diplomat in his contacts with the Goths. We now have come a long way from the traditional celebrations of   the emperor’s success in warfare. 112 According to Andrew Gillett, the shift that we see in Sidonius’ method can be related to the fact that, by the mid-5th century, Rome had regained its position as imperial seat for the Western emperors and that the senatorial aristocracy, the panegyrist’s prime audience, had recovered some of  its former influence. 113 Traditionally, the end of   the 4th and the beginning if  the 5th centuries were seen as paganism’s ‘last stand’. This idea was built on a thesis by Robert Markus, saying that the pagan ‘opposition’ of   the time was driven by an aristocracy holding on to its traditions and attachment to its taste in classical literature. 114 Alan Cameron has countered this idea, arguing that pagans (and Christians) did not see classical culture as ‘pagan’, but rather as

  Watson 1999, p. 196.   Sidonius Apollinaris, Panegyric to Avitus, 214. 110   Sidonius Apollinaris, Panegyric to Avitus, 306–9. 111  Sidonius Apollinaris, Panegyric to Anthemius, 82, 230. 112  Treaty-making was always part of   the menu of   course, but was not really advertised as success in warfare. 113  Gillett 2003a, p. 90. 114  Markus 1974. 108

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something universal. This is confirmed by what we saw in the work of   Sidonius, but it can also be seen in Ammianus’ lack of   interest in Christianity as a  cult, and in Libanius’ Oratio 30 (Pro Templis), which asks Theodosius to intervene and halt the destruction of   pagan temples and shrines. Paganism is  equated with civilization, the civilizing process started by the forefathers, rather than a religion. Libanius suggests that violent campaigns were a  direct threat to the capacity of   any emperor, pagan or Christian, to perform his role. 115 Last, Symmachus’ traditional depiction as champion of  the cause of  paganism and opponent of  Christianity is false, Cameron argues. Symmachus’ attachment to the Altar of   Victory was ‘rhetorical and psychological’ – he was actually a moderate man, eager for compromise. 116 It is tempting to follow Cameron’s attempts to downplay the conflict between pagans and Christians in this period. Seen from the pagan perspective, his argument certainly makes sense, for there are practically no indications that pagans saw themselves in a conflict with Christianity, and it can be said that, over time, paganism ‘petered out with a whimper, not with a bang’. 117 Seen from the Christian perspective, things are different, and Cameron does not give full credit to the radical Christian signals that can only be interpreted as strongly antagonistic. 118 In fact, the period around ad 400 can be seen as the cradle of   religious conflict and religious violence. It was not related in any way to a ‘pagan revival’ – there was no such thing – but it was no doubt related to the

 Libanius, Oration 30 (Pro Templis); Sizgorich 2008, p. 93.   Cameron 2010, p. 37–42. 117  Cameron 2010, p. 12. 118   Cameron dismisses the conventional (religious) interpretation of  the Frigidus River Battle as mythical, because he believes there is no contemporary evidence for this (Cameron 2010, p.  6). This is  true; the only non-Christian version we have, by Zosimus, treats the battle like any other battle, in purely secular terms, and does not mention Christian prayer or pagan rites (Zosimus, History, 4.57). This does not mean that it  is mistaken to see Frigidus as a  religious conflict. Apparently, it was seen as such by Christians at the time. Cameron also selects a sermon by John Chrysostom, written in Antioch in ad 378–79, which says that ‘no one has ever made war on them [the pagans]. Nor are Christians allowed to use force or violence to combat error’ (Chrysostom, In Babylam, 13). It is an early sermon, however, and in no way typical of  Chrysostom’s position vis-à-vis pagans and dissidents. 115 116

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anti-pagan measures that were taken by the emperor Theodosius I. 119 But, what is more important here, in the discourse it was the result of  an existing mode of  antagonistic Christian thinking, which now came to full expression in writers like Ambrose and Chrysostom. This will be our topic in the following sections, but first we shall look at a  general trend in the Christian discourse which aims to provide a new paradigm for Christian writing.

3.2. Theological Framing in the Christian Discourse Around ad  400, the process of   Christianization reached a  new stage, in what Yoder calls the last phase of   the ‘Constantinian Shift’. Church and empire had become united, and this was celebrated in Christian sources. 120 The promises of   peace in the New Testament were now realized in the Christian Pax Romana, Jerome argued. 121 Orosius saw Christ, the Redeemer, as a  true Roman since he was born during the peace of   Augustus, when the doors of   Janus were closed. 122 And the poet Prudentius extolled the fusion in the following lines: Joined by one right, one name, one brotherhood … Triumph on triumph gave to Rome the earth, And laid the road on which the lord should tread …

  There is  an interesting idea behind Charkes Freeman’s comparing and contrasting the years 313 and 381. To Freeman it seems 381 was a pivotal year in defining the new, central role of  Christian doctrine. Theodosius I, in 381, issued a  decree defining Christian orthodoxy and in doing so placed pagans and heretics beyond the pale. In this way he attacked the two pillars of   Graeco-Roman civilization: the tradition of   free speech between thinkers of   all hue and color, pagan and Christian alike; and, second, the great classical tradition of   religious tolerance (Freeman 2009). Edward J. Watts sees ad 392 as the watershed in the breakup of  the pagan tradition, or rather what Bourdieu calls the ‘habitus’ of  the social group, its unspoken rules of   custom and tradition. In 392, the Serapeum in Alexandria was destroyed after violent brawls between pagans and Christians; it was the culmination of   a series of   riots between these groups. Until that time, the social elite of  both pagans and Christians had participated in the same cultural habitus, but in the course of   the 360s and 370s a new generation of   Christians grew up that rejected the careers of   their fathers and took up careers as bishops and ascetics (Watts 2015, chapter 1). 120  Bainton 1979, p. 87. 121  Jerome, ‘On Micah’, 4.2. 122 Orosius, History, 7.3–4. 119

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And now, o Christ, a world prepared takes thee Linked by the common bond of  Rome and Peace. 123

The fusion of   Pax Romana and Pax Christiana enabled Christian authors to place common, secular events in a  theological framework, and this phenomenon is highly characteristic of   the discourse of   the time. We shall look at three instances where the effect can be seen and that can be used as representative examples. First, the narration of   the Battle of   the Frigidus River; second, Ambrose’s treatise of  encouragement for Gratian; and, third, the practise of   chronologists and other writers to explain misfortune and iniquity as God’s punishment. The famed battle at the Frigidus River took place in 394, when the emperor Theodosius defeated the allegedly pagan usurper Eugenius; it became a  cause célèbre for Christian authors who were eager to give a theological explanation for the victory. They suggested that the emperor won because he was a pious Christian: he threw himself  on the ground at a critical moment, and began to pray. In these versions of   the event, Eugenius’ party was presented as pagan, even though Eugenius himself  was a Christian. The historians Theodoret, Socrates Scholasticus and Sozomen give different versions of   this miraculous event, but all the tales serve to underline the superiority of   the Christian god. 124 The confrontation at Frigidus is  also portrayed as a  battle between two opposing religious loyalties in the history written by Rufinus of   Aquileia. The problem of   Eugenius’ Christianity was deftly solved by presenting the pagan Nicomachus Flavianus as Theodosius’ real foe. According to Rufinus, Theodosius’ men prayed and sought help from martyrs and saints, whereas the pagans went through the old rituals of   performing animal sacrifices. After the pagans were defeated, Rufinus says, they were ashamed at the failure of   their gods. 125 Nicomachus Flavianus committed suicide, not because of   his defeat, but because he realized that  Prudentius, Contra Symmachum, 2.586 & ff.   Theodoret (Theodoretus), Ecclesiastical History, 5.24.3–17; Socrates Scholasticus, Ecclesiastical History, 5.25.11–14; Sozomen (Sozomenus), Ecclesiastical History, 7.24.3–9. 125 Rufinus, Ecclesiastical History, 11.32–33. 123 124

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his gods were false. 126 This inclination to give theological interpretations to military events would dominate the period that followed – the defeat at Adrianopolis, for example, would prove that God did not take the side of  Valens. 127 The second example is a forecast of  things to come. It is a religious version of  the battle waiting for the emperor Gratian in his preparations for a campaign against the Goths. It was written by Ambrose, Bishop of  Milan, and close advisor to Gratian. Ambrose assures the emperor of   victory, saying that it had been foretold in the sayings of  Ezekiel in the Old Testament: Go forth, sheltered, indeed, under the shield of  faith and girt with the sword of  the Spirit; go forth to the victory promised of  all time, and foretold in the oracles given by God. No military eagles, no flight of   birds here lead the van of   our army, but Your Name, Lord Jesus, and Your worship. […]  [The believer in the True Power and Wisdom of  God] may, upheld by Your Might Supreme, win the prize of   victory for his faith. 128

In his treatise, the Exposition of   the Christian Faith, Ambrose compares Ezekiel’s arch-enemy, the satanic and apocalyptic Gog to Gratian’s enemy, the Goth. Ambrose’s hope, he says, is based on Gratian’s piety. Furthermore, all disasters encountered can be explained as God’s punishment for the faithless. This idea – that there is a theological context for secular events – was common in the chronicles written at the time (and would remain a  characteristic feature in the centuries that followed.) An example is the Chronicle written by Hydatius in 5th-century  Rufinus, Ecclesiastical History, 11.18–32.   Socrates Scholasticus, Ecclesiastical History, 4.38; Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History, 6.40; Theodoret, Ecclesiastical History, 4.32. Noel Lenski analyzed the contemporary discourse following the Adrianople ‘disaster’. At first, the defeat was glossed over in favor of   a  general spirit of   long-term optimism (Ambrose, De Fide, praef. 3; Ausonius, Gratiarum Actio, 2.7), but when Theodosius failed to gain victories and had to grant concessions to the Goths, Adrianople came to be seen as a tragedy (Themistius, Oratio, 16.207), and criticism was leveled at Valens, the army as a whole, specific commanders, and, finally, Valens’ Arianism and his persecution of  Nicenes (Ambrose, De Fide, 2.141–42). For Libanius, however, Adrianople was the result of   ‘the gods’ anger’ over the unrevenged death of  the emperor Julian (Oration 24) (Lenski 1997, p. 129–68). 128  Ambrose, Exposition of  the Christian Faith, 2.16. 126 127

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Spain, which is  deeply pessimistic due to the author’s millenniaristism. 129 The narrative climax of   his account is the sack in 456 of   the Suevi capital at Braga by the Visigothic king Theodoric II, who was acting in the service of   the Roman emperor Avitus. The events of   456 clearly appeared catastrophic from a  Gallaecian perspective, but Hydatius provides them with Christian teleology: they are meaningful. Hydatius compares the Gothic sack of   Braga with divine wrath against Jerusalem. It  is  also a reminder of   the approaching apocalypse, which Hydatius reckoned to take place in 482. 130 In Salvian’s treatise On the Government of  God, written in 439, the miseries that afflict the Roman world are God’s punishment for the neglect of   His commandments and the sins that are committed in all walks of  life: If we examine in this light our customary argument that our misery and weakness show God’s neglect of   human affairs, what do we really deserve? If  he permitted us, living in such vice and wickedness, to be exceedingly strong, prosperous and completely happy, then perhaps there might be some ground for suspicion that God did not see the evil-doing of   the Romans, if  he allowed such wicked and abandoned men to be happy. Since instead he bids such vicious and evil men to be most abject and wretched, it  is perfectly evident that we are seen and judged by God, for our sufferings are fully deserved. 131

The critical period of  the decades surrounding ad 400 was a crucible for Christian thinking. Next to the coloring of  secular history, it was the confrontational attitude of   mainstream versus dissent-

129 Hydatius, Chronicle. Hydatius’ apocalyptic beliefs have been explored by Richard Burgess (Burgess 1996, p. 319–30). 130  Kulikowski 2004, p. 159; Gillett 2003a, p. 48–49. 131 Salvian, On  the Government of   God, 4.12. Another fifth-century Christian writer, Sulpicius Severus, presented, in his Chronicle, the whole of   human history as a series of   divine punishments from Adam and Eve onwards. Salvian also lashes out against immoral spectacles like the theater and the circus, and the worship of   the old gods (Salvian, On  the Government of   God, 6.11; 8.2). We have heard complaints like this before, but they have now been given a Christian coating.

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ers that dominated the discourse and would continue to do so in the course of   the 5th century, and it is to this aspect that we shall turn now.

3.3. The New Enemy: Antagonism in the Christian Discourse What Yoder calls the third phase of  the Constantinian Shift is, roughly, Ramsay MacMullen’s third period in the process of  Christianization of   the empire, but MacMullen’s perspective is more political and social. 132 First of   all, during the last decades of the 4th century, ‘a very short and decisive period’, various forms of   violence came to be used against non-Christian worshippers and their places of   worship, both from mobs, ‘zealots of   conversion’ and from the authorities, often in the form of  non-intervention. 133 Soon the class of   non-believers came to include not only pagans but also dissenting Christians. 134 The seeds of  the hostility promoted by the radical orthodox, sown in the Age of   Constantine now came to fruition, when Catholicism, the Nicene version of  Christianity, was in power. Thus, the spirit of  antagonism that characterized Christian thinking during the struggle for recognition could give free reign to zealous extremism, sometimes violent, against all outsiders. This radical approach came from the fringes, William Gaddis has suggested, but also from the center of  power, now Christian, and eager to defend orthodoxy against any and all rivals, by violent means if  need be. 135 The Christian discourse of   our period shows a  strong interest in the definition of   the true Church and the exclusion of   all other forms of   belief  (or deficiency in the true faith), in a  new version of   the old ‘Us vs Them’ dichotomy. 136 It is both in Gaddis’ ‘extremist’ and ‘centrist’ sources that we find new ways of  cre  MacMullen 1984, p. 118–19.   MacMullen 1984, p. 118–19. 134  Yoder 2009, p. 59–62. 135  Gaddis 2005, p. 5–7. 136  The idea of    a  divided society was intentionally created by Christians, as Robert Markus has pointed out: ‘The image of   a  society neatly divided into “Christian” and “pagan” is a creation of   late fourth-century Christians’ (Markus 1991, p. 28). 132 133

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ating an image of   the enemy, with an appropriate vocabulary of  violence and battle. In the following section, this Christian discourse of   antagonism will be looked at more closely. 137 After that, in the subsequent part, our discussion of   perspectives on Christian violence will expand into more theoretical concerns. At a time when the Catholic brand of  Christianity had obtained a position to exclude all potential or perceived rivals, the army, still largely pagan, lagged somewhat behind, until the 430s, when the Theodosian Code barred non-Christians from enlisting. For Christian thinkers, the relationship between army and the Christian faith was now placed on a new footing and this invited new questions. It is in this context that we find the first attempts in creating a Christian ‘just war’ discourse. We shall explore this in section 3.3.2. 3.3.1. From Barbarian to Infidel In the period at hand, the long-existing superiority discourse that separated Roman from barbarian was translated into a  Christian   There is a rising interest among modern scholars in this topic, but since it can be covered by historians as well as theologians, the debate is conducted by scholars who do not engage in exchanging viewpoints. Theory-building is severy hampered by the preconceptions of  contributing scholars, most from America and with a clear Christian or theological bias one side, and with an atheist and often accusatorial agenda on the other. Recently, William Cavanaugh has tried to show that the presumed violence of  religion is a myth, but his argument is wholly based on a selection of   historical events and incidents, such as the Islamic jihad of   the seventh century, the Christian Crusades and the Thirty Years’ War, which can all be coupled, with varying degrees of   success, to social, economic and political explanations. To Cavanaugh, violence between Christian sects in the Late Roman period does not seem to worth considering (Cavanaugh 2009). Most recent work by historians treats religious violence of   Late Antiquity as religious in origin and drive, a deviation from the traditional view that it was a disguised form of   class struggle, secular politics or ethnic nationalism. Timothy Gregory, for example, points out that ‘our sources only work with religious explanations’. Secular and religious concerns cannot be separated, since both are expressed in religious terms (Gregory 1979, p. 203–6). And Brent Shaw concludes that a major conflict he studies, between Catholics and Donatists in North Africa, had no concealed economic driving forces at all (Shaw 2011, p. 793). According to Michael Gaddis, there is no new, overall paradigm yet to replace the earlier interpretations. If  the violence was actually driven by religious motives, as it seems to be, and it can only be linked to the representatives of   intolerance and antagonism in the Christian Church, as I would like to argue, it marks a new development, since traditional Roman religion did not hold these exclusionary options as a matter of  principle. 137

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dichotomy that opposed the true faith to disbelievers. For the Christian poet Prudentius, writing around 400, the gulf  separating Roman from barbarian was comparable to that between man and beast. What is remarkable is that he continued the analogy with the opposition of  Christian and pagan: Roman and barbarian stand as far Apart as quadruped from biped, or As dumb from speaking: as thus far apart Stand worshippers of  God from senseless cults. 138

This new version for an existing pattern fell in with the Christian rephrasing of  the idea of  conquest, as Rohrbacher says, 139 for the idea of   ‘conquest by war’ came to be replaced by the idea of  ‘conquest by conversion’. It  was Orosius who carried this argument one step further when he argued that Rome’s superiority over the barbarian had become Christian superiority over the pagan. 140 But, what is more important, it was Rufinus who first suggested that the threat no longer came from barbarians outside, the traditional ‘Other’, but from internal subversion from the enemies of  the orthodox faith, such as Arians. 141 When the antagonism mostly came to be directed against fellow-Christians, the tone of   the discourse was intensified, and terms like ‘conversion’ and ‘superiority’ are not very useful to describe the contemporary Christian discourse. Christian thinking showed itself  to be exclusionary, separatist and inflexible, and confronted all those who were deemed unorthodox with great animosity. Ammianus had already commented on the Christian obsession with heresy and its aptitude for infighting: ‘No wild beasts are so deadly to humans as Christians are to each other’. 142 This was very unlike the classical Roman tradition, which could be very hostile and violent to outsiders, but after subjection would try to accommodate them.

 Prudentius, Contra Symmachum, 2.16–19.   Rohrbacher 2002, p. 234. 140  Orosius, History, 7.37. 141  Rohrbacher 2002, p. 234. 142 Ammianus, Roman History, 22.5.4. 138 139

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As MacMullen has pointed out, a measure of  antagonism was an inherent characteristic of  the zeal of  the early Church Fathers, a feature that was mostly absent from other cults. It showed a readiness for battle and battle metaphors already found in Saint Paul’s words where he exhorts his readers to ‘take up the shield of  faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of  the Evil One’. This was animated by the underlying vision of   the world as wicked – it was filled with demons and other followers of   the devil, who were out to defeat all good Christians. 143 It is no surprise that, in the discourse of   animosity, the invective was a popular genre. It could be written, as it usually was, but also used orally. in addressing church congregations. In an early example from this period, we find a  violent outburst directed against the pagan emperor Julian, written by Gregory Nazianzen when paganism was still seen as a threat to Christianity: Didst thou war against the sacrifice of  Christ with thy abominations, against the blood that cleansed the world with thy offerings of  blood? Didst thou wage war against Peace? Didst thou lift thy hand against the Hand that was nailed for thee and through thee? Against the Gall didst thou set thine own liking; against the Cross, a  trophy; against His death, subversion of   religion; against His Resurrection, thy rebellion; against the Martyr, the want of   martyrs? Thou persecutor next to Herod, thou traitor next to Judas, except so far as not ending thy life with, a  halter, as he did; thou murderer of  Christ next to Pilate; thou hater of  God next to the Jews!  144

In the 380s, a celebrated incident occurred which placed Christians opposite pagans, just before the focus of   antagonism was directed against the unorthodox. It revolved around the Altar of    MacMullen 1984, p. 110.   Gregory Nazianzen, Oration 4, First Invective Against Julian the Emper­or, 68. It  is  worth comparing the discourse of   animosity with the everyday reality of   the mid-5th century, when in spite of   the confrontational explanations offered by Christian authors, religious loyalties co-existed, and could be exchanged if  need be. The emperor Julian’s return to the old gods is  exemplary. In  spite of   the large segment of   Christian soldiers in his army, Julian gained the support of   his men without much difficulty, and they accepted his changes in religious policy without demur (Lee 2000, p. 186). At the same time, once successive emperors (such as Jovian) went back to Christianity, this did not raise any serious objections either (MacMullen 1984, p. 46). 143 144

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Victory, when leading Christians and pagans quarreled about its restoration to the Senate House. Pagan senators tried to approach the emperor Gratian with a request for restoration, but after the intercession of   Ambrose, bishop of   Milan, their delegation was prevented from presenting their case. After Gratian’s death in 383, they decided to try again by approaching the emperor now responsible for the western half  of   the empire, Valentinian  II, then aged only 13. This was an occasion for a  document written by Symmachus, then Prefect of   Rome, pleading for religious tolerance. In a Letter, Ambrose responded to this plea, pointing out that the pagan gods had abandoned the Romans on various occasions ‘Hannibal made a  mockery of   the Roman rites for a  long time, and while the gods fought against him, he reached the walls of  the city undefeated’. ‹…› ‘What shall I say about the Senonian Gauls? ‹…› See what sort of   guardians Roman temples have! Where was Jupiter at that time?’  145 Symmachus’ plea was also rebutted by the poet Prudentius, the author of   Psychomachia, who supported the case against the old gods in his Libri contra Symmachum (Books against Symmachus). What success Romans could be proud of  were not instigated by the pagan gods: Shall I tell you, Roman, what cause it was that so exalted your labours, what it was that nursed your glory to such a height of  fame that it has put rein and bridle on the world? God, mashing to bring into partnership peoples of  different speech and realms of  discordant manners, determined that all the civilised world should be harnessed to one ruling power. 146

Later invective was aimed at the hated groups of   schismatists and heretics. In his sermons, John Chrysostom uses inflammatory language to warn his followers against all impious outsiders, whether Jews, pagans or Christian dissenters. 147 In  Against the Jews –  Ambrose, Letter 73, 18, 3–8.  Prudentius, Contra Symmachum, 53–54. 147  The rising antagonism between religious groups has caught the attention of   recent scholarship in Late Antiquity. Isabella Sandwell has investigated the creation of  religious identity among Christians in the later 4th century, and com145 146

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Oration 1, Chrysostom’s anger is directed against Christians who watch or even participate in Jewish holidays, something quite common in places like Antioch at the time: ‘the synagogue is not only a resting place for robbers and cheats, but also for demons’. 148 In  the military context, he points out, soldiers on campaign in Persia should be wary of   being benign to the Persian barbarian, for Since, then, you are Christ’s army, you must make it your business to investigate scrupulously whether a foreigner has infiltrated your ranks, and you must point them out – not so that we may execute them as they do in the army, nor so that we may punish them or avenge ourselves on them, but so that we may free them from error and impiety and make them entirely ours. 149 pared and contrasted Chrysostom and Libanius. The two had different assumptions about the appropriate role of   religious identity. Chrysostom, she argues, pressed for an all-encompassing Christian identity, while Libanius sees religious identity as part of   a  complex of   social and civic identities, part of   Bourdieu’s habitus. Chrysostom and other Christian preachers were interested in clearcut religious rules and obligations, and defined Christian against Jew or pagan (i.e., ‘Greek’, Sandwell’s preferred term) (Sandwell 2007, p. 61–88). Sandwell has a  compelling explanation for this Christian need of   self-identification. When, in the course of   the 4th century, Christians were losing their position as a persecuted minority, they had to work harder to define what it meant to be Christian. In  other words, Chrysostom had to ‘construct’ Christian and Greek identities where they did not objectively exist. For Chrysostom, people had to choose a religious identity – Christian, Greek or Jew – there was no room for ambiguity. This was a novel idea, unheard-of  in the Roman (and Greek) tradition, and occasionally met with resistance from his audiences (Sandwell 2007, chapter 3). Focusing on a notorious incident in Alexandria in 486, Edward Watts makes a similar comparison of  religious groups in conflict with each other: pagans, Christian orthodox (Chalcedonians) and Christian dissidents (anti-Chalcedonians). A riot erupted after a Christian student, Paralius, was beaten up because he had questioned the authority of   his pagan teachers. At the time, many teachers in Alexandria were still old-fashioned Platonists, while students were usually Christians, followers of   the anti-Chalcedonian movement that was affiliated with a local monastery. The ecclesiastical authorities were mostly orthodox, or, like the bishop of   Alexandria at the time, steering a middle course. Watts focuses on all three participants in the conflict and shows how they interacted. The bishop, for example, availed himself  of   the conflict to shore up his position by challenging paganism in his city, which led to the destruction of  the shrine of  Isis at Menouthis. But pagans and anti-Chalcedonians also created their own versions of   what happened, transmitted through the oral tradition or in writing, as in the account given by Zacharias Scholasticus (Watts 2010, chapter 3). 148  John Chrysostom, Against the Jews – Oration 1. 149 Chrysostom, Against the Jews – Oration 1 [my italics].

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The barbarian is, above all, an infidel who must be convinced of  his erroneous views. Later, when Chrysostom got himself  entangled in all sorts of   controversies which were political rather than religious, 150 he managed to present himself  and his followers, under threat from the authorities, as the flock of   the righteous, persecuted and martyred, whose sacred meeting place was desecrated by violence: ‘the soldiers, some of  whom as we understand were unbap­tized, having entered the place where the sacred vessels were stored, saw all the things which were inside it, and the most holy blood of   Christ, as might happen in the midst of   such confusion, was spilt upon the garments of   the soldiers; and every kind of   outrage was committed as in a barbarian siege’. 151 In this account (and in other accounts) the experience of   violence is modeled on the earlier pagan persecutions of   the Christians. 152 Apart from the allusions to the things that happened in the days of   Christian persecution, it is interesting that Chrysostom takes great pains to associate the soldiers with the barbarians of   yore. His assertion that ‘some’ of  the soldiers were not baptized is part of  this rhetorical ploy. Religious extremism worked both ways. In  the long-lasting conflict with the Donatists, violence erupted when the sect of  Circumcellions, at first a movement of  social agitation, allied itself  with the Donatist cause. What started as anti-pagan violence, in search of   martyrdom, as Augustine suggests with disapproval, 153 became directed against mainstream Catholics. Catholic clergymen were ambushed and badly beaten up, such as Restititus, Maximian of   Bagai and Possidius, whose sorrowful tales were told by con-

150   The political complexities of   this period in Constantinople have been debated by Liebeschuetz and Cameron. Liebeschuets sees a  political struggle between military and civilian factions, with a  dominant civilian, ‘demilitarized’ and more stable East as a  result, which does not rely on barbarian soldiers and generals like the West (Liebeschuetz 1990, part II). Cameron does not subscribe to this idea of  division: there were no opposing factions, he argues iustead, there was no purge of   barbarians in the East after the notorious Gainas’ Revolt, and barbarians continued to hold important offices in the East (Cameron and Long 1993, p. 10–11). 151 Chrysostom, Letter to Innocent, Bishop of  Rome, 3. 152  Gaddis 2005, p. 72. 153  Augustine, Against Gaudentius 1.28.

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temporary authors. 154 Apart from attacks by radical Donatists, there were violent confrontations driven by aggressive monks and ‘holy men’, who because of  their lives of  asceticism and the miracles they wrought, at least in the public eye, believed they possessed direct spiritual authority from God. It enabled them to ignore the normal rules of  conduct and act without authorization. 155 In one of  his letters, Chrysostom describes a frightful encounter with a mob of  monks when, on his way to his exile at Cucusus in 404, he made a stopover at the Cappadocian town of  Caesarea: Suddenly towards dawn a rabble of  monks (for so I must call them, indicating their frenzy by the expression) rushed up to the house where we were, threatening to set fire to it, and to treat us with the utmost violence unless we turned out of   it. And neither the fear of   the Isaurians, nor my own infirmity which was grievously afflicting me, nor anything else made them more reasonable, but they pressed on, animated by such fierce rage that even the proconsular soldiers were terrified. For they kept threatening them with blows and boasted that they had shamefully beaten many of  the proconsular soldiers. The soldiers having heard these things, sought refuge with me, and entreated and beseeched me, saying ‘Even if  we are to fall into the hands of   the Isaurians, deliver us from these wild beasts’. 156

It turned out that even the governor was unable to disperse the monks, who were acting on the instructions of   Pharetrios, the local bishop, and who had probably been driven off  from their cells by the Isaurians besieging the city. 157 Chrysostom, fallen into disfavor after a  quarrel with the empress and the court, found himself  caught by secular and episcopal authorities. 158 154  Restitutus: in Augustine, Ep. 88. Maximian: in Augustine, Ep. 185.7.27. Possidius: in Augustine, Against Cresconius 3.43. According to Brent Shaw, the dreadful acts of   the Circumcellions were largely the product of   propaganda by church officials eager to convince the authorities to suppress heretics and, later, troublesome monks: the ‘violent wandering monk’, the ‘vagrant religious huckster’ (Shaw 2006, p. 179–96). 155  Gaddis 2005, p. 152–54. The phenomenon of  the holy man’s special position was first discussed by Brown 1971, p. 80–101. 156  Chrysostom, Letters to Olympias, 14.2. 157  Gaddis 2005, p. 213. 158  Chrysostom was controversial, even among his followers, and his audi-

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Two famous holy men, Rabbula and Eusebius, were reported to enter pagan temples and with great zeal smash idols. They believed they were divinely inspired and expected to become martyrs: ‘They went there not expecting to come back again alive, but in the hope of  being martyred and killed, to bear witness through their deaths’. 159 This active pursuit of  martyrdom, at a time when persecution of   Christians was long gone, tells us something about the nature of   religious extremism and the way in which it was practiced. It should be added that, for our information, we depend on hagiography, and that many of   the episodes credited to holy men are no doubt exaggerated and unrealistic. Even so, as William Gaddis says, the stories not so much represent actual historical events as ‘a sort of   wishful thinking on the part of   the hagiographers and their Christian audience’. 160 In the spirit of   religious extremism of   the time, secular and ecclesiastical leadership would not stay aloof. In fact, the authorities or their proxy, either directly or indirectly, habitually condoned aggression against dissenters. Since heresy and schismatics threated unity, both in belief  and in organization, they had to be forcefully repressed, and Christian repression can be said to have started as early as ad 316, when Constantine instituted the persecution of   the Donatists. 161 During a period in the 380s, when internal strife had abated, Christian leadership could assemble forces against symbols of   paganism, like temples and shrines, appealing to mobs and armed forces. 162 Thus, as bishop of   Constantinople, John Chrysostom, trying to stamp out paganism in Phoenicia, ‘got together certain monks who were fired with divine zeal, armed them with imperial edicts and dispatched them against the idols’ shrines’. 163 This provoked resistance and bloodences in church gatherings did not follow him blindly. Sandwell points to this complex relation between Chrysostom and his flock. Very probably they acted in very different ways to the doctrine established in his preaching. After all, the tradition of  dealing flexibly and practically with religious issues, in the way of  Libanius, was very strong among the majority of   all people, including perhaps ‘large sections’ of  Chrysostom’s audiences (Sandwell 2007, part 5). 159  The Life of  Rabbula. 160  Gaddis 2005, p. 154. 161   Ste. Croix 2006, p. 217. 162  MacMullen 1984, p. 97. 163 Theodoret, Church History, 5.29.

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shed on both sides. That a lot of  violence was used in such actions is attested by archaeological evidence. 164 Sometimes the state took action to neutralize opposition. Intervention could take many forms. In ad 448, a law (Cod. Iust. 1.1.3) stipulated that the writings of   Porphyry (a Neoplatonist) and Nestorius (a Christian dissident) were to be burned. 165 In other cases, the army could be used to suppress a  rebellious group, in confrontations that were sometimes bloody. Notorious examples include the military action taken to support Proterius against the Copts in Alexandria, and the attacks on the Johannites or Johnites (the followers of   Chrysostom after his exile). 166 The account of  the latter by Sozomen is a good illustration of   how religious and secular concerns merged: [The followers of  John] refused to hold communion, or even to join in prayer with him [i.e., Arsacius, the new bishop of   Constantinople appointed in John’s place], because the enemies of   John were associated with him. And as they persisted […] in meeting together in the further point of  the city, he complained to the emperor of   their conduct. The tribune was commanded to attack them with a body of   soldiers, and by means of   clubs and stones he soon dispersed them. The most distinguished among them in point of   rank, and those who were most zealous in their adherence to John, were cast in prisin. The soldiers, as is  usual on such occasions, went beyond their orders and stripped the women of   their ornaments, their golden girdles, their earrings and their jewels. 167

As Philippe Buc puts it, bishops might now draw on the help of  the ‘secular sword’ for the physical coercion of  those they thought were heretics. 168 This was the ultimate consequence of   the Constantinian Shift: it enabled Christian rulers to use their authority to compel heretics back into orthodoxy. 169

  MacMullen 1984, p. 100–1.   Lee 2000, p. 151. 166 Evagrius, Church History, 2.5; Sozomen, Church History, 8.23. 167 Sozomen, Church History, 8.23. 168  Buc 2015, p. 24. 169  Buc even argues that ‘the Constantinian turn initiated both Christian holy war and terror’. There is, of   course, some truth in this slightly overstated 164 165

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3.3.2. Towards a Christian ‘Just War’ Theory What we have seen in the Christian discourse so far is (1) a tendency to place secular events into an all-encapsulating religious paradigm, and (2) a new convention to use a bipolar, antagonistic mode of   thinking vis-à-vis the world, in which the good (the orthodox Nicene creed) and the bad (everything else) are in constant battle. The two are causally related, in that the exclusive and exclusionary message of   the new religion invited intolerance and suppression of   non-believers and dissenters. All this started early – we saw it in the previous chapter – but only became fully articulate at the end of  the 4th century. By the time Christianity became the state religion, these two features made a strong impact on the development of   a  Christian just war doctrine. This is  the topic we shall turn to now. The early development of   a Christian ‘just war’ concept was long associated with the conversion of   Constantine, for the adoption of  Christianity by Constantine would make it easier for the Christian establishment to welcome participation of   Christians in the Roman army, it was thought. The idea was that, in light of   its newly favoured status, the Church would be inclined to identify itself  with the Roman state and is  institutions. 170 But L. J. Swift has convincingly argued that ordinary Christians did not change their views on war and violence overnight. In spite of   the negative views expressed by early Christian authors – we saw them in the previous chapter – Christians saw no problems in enlisting in the army and taking part in military campaigns. This was largely due to the fact that there were no ethical constraints felt at the time, for ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ was not interpreted as anti-military but anti civilian homicide. 171 According to J.  T. Johnson, basing himself  on the writings of   Clement of  Alexandria, the true beginning of   the Christian just war concept followed the acceptance of   the idea that the Second Coming of  Christ was not imminent, and that, in the meantime, the Roman

idea, but events in the 5th century cannot yet be called the beginning of  a Christian ‘holy war’ (Buc 2015, p. 24). 170  von Harnack 1981, p. 68–104. 171  Helgeland 1985, p. 37.

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state, now increasingly Christianized, was well worth serving, in order to defend Christian values. 172 Thus, the early, more rigid pacifist traces in Christian thinking were accommodated within a new, more practical framework, a process that was not always easy. 173 The Bible was equivocal about how to deal with warfare. On the one hand, the New Testament only gave general precepts for human conduct, no specific instructions on what to do in war. 174 On the other hand, the Old Testament presented an image of  God as the commander of  armies that were used against the enemies of  his Chosen People. Feats of  arms were accomplished by many of   the biblical figures like Abraham, Moses, David and Samson, and nowhere is warfare condemned as unethical. 175 Among contemporaries of   the 4th and 5th centuries, this ambivalence is  characteristic of   their attitude. The anonymous chronicler of   the 5th century writing the Chronicle of   452, a pious Christian, was greatly disturbed by barbarian success and the Arian fallacies they brought with them, so much that he called for a type of  strong man of  the old tradition. 176 Once the idea that the defense of   the empire coincided with the defense of   the faith was taken for granted, 177 a  Christian ‘just war’ ethic could be developed, and this is  what happened in the writings of   St Ambrose. 178 For Ambrose, war was accept  Johnson 1981, p. xxi & ff.   This is reflected in the correspondence between the African general Bonifatius and St Augustine. Bonifatius, converted to Christianity, expressed anxiety about the compatibility of  Christian belief and military service (Wijnendaele 2015, chapter 2, ‘Soldier of  Christ’), Augustine responded by laying out the conditions that a Christian should respect in engaging in war, the basic ideas that he outlined in his just war theory. ‘Do not think that it is impossible for anyone to please God while engaged in military service’ (Augustine, Epistle 189). 174  Russell 1977, p. 11. 175  Contamine 1986, p. 263. 176   Muhlberger 1998, p. 85. 177  Even around ad 400, there were still Christian thinkers opposed to the idea of   Christians participating in the army. Paulinus, bishop of   Nola, in one of  his letters said that ‘if  we love the world more, and prefer to be a soldier for Caesar rather than for Christ, we shall later be transported not to Christ but to hell, where the cause of   the princes of   this world rests … Therefore do not any longer love this world or its military service, for Scripture’s authority attests that “whoever is a friend of  this world is an enemy of  God” ’ (Paulinus of  Nola, Letters, 25.1.3). 178  Bainton 1979, p. 91. 172 173

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able if  it served to defend the fatherland and to combat barbarians and outlaws of   society. 179 Moreover, in a treatise addressed to the emperor Gratian, he said war was even a sacred duty when protecting the orthodox Christian faith. 180 This is a crucial statement. What we see here is that a link is made between heresy, or perfidia as Ambrose termed it, and the well-being of   the Roman state. Heresy would inevitably lead to attacks on the empire. The Roman state and the Roman Church were in this together. 181 By sanctioning state action against all outsiders, pagans and unorthodox Christians alike – many barbarians were Arians – Ambrose constructed an ethical framework for Christian warfare. This critical junction has often been underestimated by scholars who focus heavily on the later contributions by St Augustine. Instead, it is with Ambrose, I would argue, that we stand at the beginning of  the Christian just war ethic. Somewhat later, St  Augustine addressed these issues in his City of  God (De Civitate Dei), and developed a Christian just war doctrine that became highly influential and would even dominate Christian thinking on warfare during a large part of   the Middle Ages. 182 Inspired by the Old Testament, Augustine believed that wars were a manifestation of  God’s judgment, and that wars punished peoples for their sins and their crimes. 183 This idea of   just war as a penal sanction for moral transgressions was new. In the 179  Contamine 1986, p. 263. Louis Swift believes that Ambrose was the first to formalate a Christian ethic of   war. He was in an excellent position to do so since he had held high civil offices before he became Bishop of   Milan, enabling him to unite conflicting principles of   patriotism and religious integrity: martial courage and the ‘interior spirit of   love’ were not mutually exclusive (Swift 1970, p. 533–43). 180 Ambrose, On  the Christian Faith, 2.14.136–43 (the emperor Gratian would be God’s chosen instrument to bring back the Arian Goths to the fold). 181   Russell 1977, p. 14. 182  The literature on Augustine is  vast, and mostly written by theologians. From a  historical perspective, there is  scholarly agreement on the impact of  Augustine’s ideas on just war in his own day and especially the Middle Ages. There is some disagreement on whether his thoughts on the issue can be called a doctrine or ‘theory’ of  just war (Wynn 2013, p. 31). The most recent treatment by John M. Mattox is somewhat ambivalent, attempting to find a coherent whole while conceding Augustine’s unsystematic approach (Mattox 2006). Robert Holmes has more strongly argued that Augustine’s precepts were only put together in a theoretical frame during the Middle Ages (Holmes 1998, p. 323–24). 183 Augustine, City of  God, 5.22.

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traditional Ciceronian view, the goal of   just war was to return to the status quo ante, with compensation in view rather than punishment. Russell calls Augustine’s just war ‘total and unlimited in its licit use of   violence’, for it did not only avenge the violation of   existing rights. It  also aimed to avenge the opponent’s presumed infringement on the moral order. After all, the other party had committed a sin, i.e. had broken God’s law. 184 Although Augustine’s doctrine incorporated Roman elements, such as the procedural aspects like formal declaration by authority, the new ethical dimension became overriding: the just war was based on the good intentions of   the ruler. A just war could not be motivated by cupidity or the desire to dominate – these were the wrong reasons. The good reasons were avenging wrongs, recovering ‘goods unjustly removed’, 185 and repressing heresy and other erroneous beliefs. We find these grounds expressed in Augustine’s Q uestions on the Heptateuch: Just wars are usually defined as those in which injustices are avenged if  any nation or city, attacked in war, either neglects to avenge what was done wickedly by its own, or to recover what was taken away unjustly. But also this kind of   war is without doubt just, which God commands. 186

This is  an important statement and an important step that follows earlier sayings by Ambrose. Whatever we define as ‘just’ in ‘just war’, it can be applied in secular as well as religious contexts. War was a penal sanction executed by a prince who played the role of   God’s scourge. To Augustine, warfare was a  human activity, and moral demands made by war were not different from other moral demands ‘made on a  just man by an immoral society’. 187 In The City of  God, he explicitly condoned war that aims to restore peace, and in one of  his letters to Bonifatius, the comes Africae, he even justifies the use of   force against dissident Christians. 188 This negative view on religious unorthodoxy, inspired by Ambrose,   Russell 1977, p. 19.   Contamine 1986, p. 264. 186  Augustine, Q uestions on the Heptateuch, 6.10. 187  Markus 1991, p. 204. 188 Augustine, City of  God, 19.12–13; Augustine, Epistle 185. 184 185

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is an important aspect of  Augustine’s reasoning since it had practical consequences. 189 Since heresy was considered a  sin rather than an error, persecution had the Lord’s blessing, and given the fact that the Church could not be expected to take up arms, bishops had the right and duty to seek assistance from secular authorities to enforce orthodoxy and, to put it bluntly, to wage religious wars. 190 Looking at traditional Roman warfare, Augustine took pains to dissociate himself  from the old Roman values, which he condemned as immoral. He strongly rejected such notions as ‘honor’ and ‘victory’: ‘What use is  it to give as an excuse the splendid titles of   “honour” and “victory”? Take away the screens of   such senseless notions and let the crimes be seen, weighed and judged in all their nakedness’. 191 War was sometimes necessary, but never to enjoy greater riches or achieve an extension of   the empire: ‘To make war and to extend the realm by crushing other peoples, is good fortune in the eyes of   the wicked; to the good, it is stern necessity’. 192 As for the duration and outcome of  wars, it all depended on God’s decision: ‘It rests with the decision of   God in his just judgement and mercy either to afflict or console mankind, so that some wars come to an end more speedily, others more slowly’. 193 As for the question of   ‘peace’, it was a  rightful objective in warfare (‘Peace is not sought for the purpose of   stirring up war, but war is waged for the purpose of  securing peace’). 194 But peace must be a  ‘true’ peace, that is, a  period of   rest based on justice, which in turn is seen as a harmonious ordering of  rights and duties among men and between men and God.  Only then does peace qualify as the objective of   a  just war. 195 In  a  sense, Augustine’s   Around 400, Augustine’s religious coercion was directed at ‘remnants of  idolatry’ at Carthage. After 405, he shifted his attention to the Donatists (Brown 1964, p. 109–10). 190  Christian emperors had an unquestioned right of   cohercitio, i.e. the right to punish, restrain and repress those impious cults over which God’s providence had given them dominion (Augustine, Contra Epistulam Parmeniani, viii.15). 191 Augustine, City of  God, 3.14. 192 Augustine, City of  God, 4.15. 193  Augustine, City of  God, 5.22. 194 Augustine, Epistle 138 (to Marcellinus). 195 Augustine, City of  God, 19.13. 189

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peace is the Augustan pax: it restores order. More fundamentally, it is different because it adds moral precepts like justice and rights and duties between man and God.  To conclude our discussion of   Augustine’s ideas, it should be emphasized that Augustine’s thoughts on just war were the product of   a struggle to reconcile opposing elements: the ethics of  the New Testament, opposed to killing in war, and the necessity of  restoring and keeping order in the city and nation. Eventually, a resolution of  this tension could be realized when Augustine could see a connection between the legal and moral orders: delict and sin were ultimately the same, and restoring the legal order implied restoring the moral order. 196 In staking out new territory in the just war discourse, Orosius, a  Spanish historian and theologian, was the most radical of   the Christian writers of   his time. His criticism stretched over the whole of   Roman history, and unlike Jerome and Augustine, who were prepared to follow classical historians like Sallust and Livy on events of   the Republican period, Orosius dismissed all periods of   Roman history and resolutely placed a  Christian mental framework on all periods, even that of  the kings, totally rejecting the idea that Rome had fought legitimate wars: ‘Rome conquers happily, to the extent that whoever is outside Rome is unhappily conquered’. 197 And traditional Roman religion was downgraded to a belief  of  peasants, pagani, men of  the land. 198 But at the same time, for Orosius, the transformation by Christianity affected his judgment. For example, Alaric’s Goths were Christian (albeit Arian, not long afterwards persecuted as ‘heretical’). With his people, Orosius suggested, Alaric was simply looking for a place to settle, 199 and when he invaded Rome, Alaric gave orders to his warriors to restrain from bloodshed and respect all church treasury. Orosius even presented Romans and barbarians as singing a Church hymn together. 200

  Hartigan 1966, p. 199–201.  Orosius, History, 5.1.3. 198 Orosius, History, 1.9. 199 Orosius, History, 7.38.2. 200 Orosius, History, 7.39.3–10; but it is telling that Orosius makes clear that another Goth, the pagan Radagaisus ‘is soundly beaten as a  sign that the cult of  the idols is vain’ (van Nuffelen 2012, p. 164). 196 197

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By the end of   our period, we can see a renewed aversion to all forms of   engagement in military affairs. This appears most of   all in the hagiography of   the late 5th and early 6th centuries, which shows a  certain detachment from secular and military virtues. According to Steven Muhlberger, this change can be explained as cultural: the clerics felt superior to the ‘rough and disorderly men’ who formed the army and who were Arians besides. Also, at a  time of   chaos and destruction, the idea of   spiritual rather than military victory did not fall on deaf  ears among the population at large. 201 On the other hand, and more importantly, the opposition between Christian and secular roles diminished when, in the new order that gradually emerged, men from the old Roman elites entered into the ecclesiastical hierarchy in order to hold on to the power they wielded. Especially in the 5th century, bishops often had a  secular background, which included the Roman army, and in their role of   bishop used prayers to guard the population of   their sees against raids and incursions, but would not hesitate to take up arms. 202 In the first part of  the 5th century, for example, Germanus of   Auxerre not only spoke out as a bishop against the heretical Pelagians, but was even reputed, on one of   his visits to Britain, to have led an army of   Britons to a  miraculous victory over Saxons and Picts, without actual fighting. 203 Another example is  Synesius of   Cyrene, who used the resources of   his see to defend it against marauding tribes. 204 Some of  these bishops, in their role of  defenders of  the people of   their cities, were credited with miraculous powers and given the status of   ‘saint’. It  should be added that the image of   the ‘soldier-bishop’ seen in the examples that follow was a rhetorical phenomenon, part of  the larger narrative rather than a reflection of   the actual situation. The ‘military bishop’ was certainly not typical of   the era, but as a  discourse feature he was. Anianus of  Orleans was one such miracle worker. Legend has it that he used his saintly powers to defy Attila and his Huns until a  Roman     203  204  201 202

Muhlberger 1998, p. 89. Noble and Head 1995, p. xxvii. Constantius of  Lyon, Life of  St Germanus of  Auxerre, 3.15.16. Shean 2010, p. 306.

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relief  force arrived. The phenomenon of   the warrior-bishop continued into the 6th century, according to Gregory of   Tours, one of   the chroniclers of   that time. 205 The miraculous powers of   soldier-saints were also recorded in the saints’ lives. In  the Life of  St Martin of   Tours, written around 400 by Sulpicius Severus, we find an illuminating episode in which Martin, a  soldier in the Roman army who has just converted to Christianity, does not want to divide his loyalty between the emperor and God, but achieves a military victory all the same: There [at Worms, Julian] began to distribute a bonus to the soldiers. They were called up one by one in the usual way until Martin’s turn came. But he thought it would be a suitable time for applying for his discharge, for he did not think it would be honest for him to take the bonus if  he was not going to fight. So he said to the Caesar: ‘I have been your soldier up to now. Let me now be God’s. Let someone who is going to fight have your bonus. I am Christ’s soldier; I am not allowed to fight’. These words put the tyrant in a rage and he said that it was from fear of   the battle that was to be fought the next day that he wanted to quit the service, not from religious motives. But Martin was undaunted; in fact he stood all the firmer when they tried to frighten him. ‘If  it is put to cowardice’, he said, ‘and not to faith, I will stand unarmed in the battle line tomorrow and I will go unscathed through the enemy’s columns in the name of   the Lord Jesus, protected by the sign of   the Cross instead of   by shield and helmet’. So he was ordered to be removed into custody so that he could prove his words and face the barbarians unarmed. The next day the enemy sent envoys to ask for peace, surrendering themselves and all they had. Who can doubt in these circumstances that this victory was due to this man of   blessings and was granted so that he should not be sent unarmed into the battle? The good Lord could have kept His soldier safe even among the swords and javelins of   the enemy, but, to spare those hallowed eyes the sight of   other men’s deaths, He made a battle unnecessary. For Christ could not rightly have granted any other victory for the benefit of   His own soldier than the one in which the enemy were beaten bloodlessly and no man had to die. 206   Noble and Head 1995, p. xxvii.   Sulpicius Severus, The Life of  St Martin of  Tours, chapter 4.

205 206

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The description of   the incident is  remarkable in that we have a direct confrontation between a Christian soldier and an emperor, which, unrealistic as it may be, highlights the familiar dilemma. Next, the Christian author has it both ways: the soldier-saint is not presented as disloyal or cowardly, but with the full virtus of  a Roman warrior, while at the same time adhering to his spiritual Lord. What a saintly bishop can do to defeat the enemy is well illustrated in the Life of   St Germanus of   Auxerre, written around 480 by Constantius of   Lyon. Germanus followed a  secular career with civilian and military responsibilities. After he had turned Christian, he was made bishop by popular demand, and when Aëtius, the supreme military commander at the time, wanted to punish the Armoricans for their rebellions and insolence, Germanicus came to their help and miraculously and single-handedly stopped an Alan force that had been sent by Aëtius in a punitive expedition: A deputation from Armorica came with a  petition to the weary prelate. For Aetius the magnificent, who then governed the state, had been enraged by the insolence of   that proud region and, to punish it for daring to rebel, had given Goar, the savage king of   the Alans, permission to subdue it; and Goar, with a  barbarian’s greed, was thirsting for its wealth. … Since the march was in progress when the meeting took place, the priest was opposed to a warlord clad in armor and surrounded by his bodyguard. First he made requests, through the medium of   an interpreter. Then, as Goar disregarded them, he went on to rebuke him. Finally, he stretched out his hand, seized his bridle and halted him, and with him the whole army. The wrath of   the savage king at this was turned by God to marveling. … the mediation of  the bishop, and his holiness, had restrained a king, recalled an army, and delivered a province from devastation. 207

This is divine intervention in the new, Christian format. Through his mediator, the saintly Germanus, the Christian God is believed to radically change a  military threat. This is  essential: it was all God’s doing, for the miraculous powers were not held by the   Constantius of  Lyon, The Life of  St Germanus of  Auxerre, chapter 28.

207

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saints themselves. They only acted as God’s tools. It is interesting that the word virtus was still used to describe the saints’ actions as directed by God, in a  Christian adaptation of   a  traditional Roman notion. 208 Of  course, in all these sources the Christian message overlays the content. 209

3.4. Victory and the Adaptation of  Christian Imagery Paganism, more a culture than a religion, did not disappear when pagan cults were outlawed, 210 if  only because it survived in feasts and festivals, in customs and habits of   the common people, and they might well be called ‘secular traditions’ that co-existed with the new Christian calendar. In the discourse, classical or secular elements would not yield to the overwhelming force of   Christianization. We already saw how, in poetry and panegyric, the old conventions remained intact. In  our visual sources, the classical vocabulary would continue to be used, but sometimes side by side with Christian imagery, and this is why we shall deal with them in a separate section. This juxtaposition was not because pagans and Christians entered into a  dialogue – there was no attempt to come to a  new, hybrid language. Rather, it was the result of  the choices made by Christian patrons of   the visual arts, i.e. to employ classical molds for new expression. For this reason, I prefer ‘adaptation’ of   imagery over ‘hybridization’ or ‘blending’, which would suggest a  kind of   fusion. However, the lines were drawn by the dynamics of   the Christian discourse, not by any form of  interaction. For Christian artists working on their new commissions, imperial art served as a model. Where this can be seen is in the image of   Christ as an emperor. A good example would be in one   Noble and Head 1995, p. xv.   The original meaning of   ‘virtus’, manliness in battle, does not wholly disappear, certainly not in the East, as Michael Stewart has pointed out. ‘Much of   the Byzantine literature that survives from the 4th to the 6th centuries articulates long-held notions of   heroism and masculinity, whereby Roman military men represented true examplars of   Roman virtue and manliness’ (Stewart 2016, p. 38). 210   Official Roman paganism effectively ended with the disappearance of  the priestly colleges in the early 5th century (Cameron 2010, p. 783). 208 209

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of   the earliest surviving Christian mosaics in Rome, on which Christ is depicted with his apostles in the style of   emperor and senate. 211 Peter Brown has pointed to the Christian sarcophagi of   the late fourth century that depict the deceased as ‘small figures, bowing before Christ, their emperor’. 212 The imagery of  Christian devotion was apparently derived from the court and the military. Christians were servants of   Christ, their emperor, but also soldiers in the army of  the Lord. Conversely, the traditional image of   the emperor could be given a  Christian version and be given a  saintly image. Since the late 3rd century, the emperor had already been presented as an isolated figure, sanctified. The solar radiation associated with Sol Invictus, adapted to depictions of   Christ in the course of   the 4th century, now became a  halo given to the emperor as well. With the introduction of   the image of   the ‘enthroned Christ’, a  formula borrowed from depictions of   Roman emperors, 213 it was a small step to use the halo as a symbol of   sanctification, in other words as the iconographic marker that was to become the standard for the portrayal of  saints, as Jay Elsner has explained. 214 In  a  portrait of   Theodosius  I, the last emperor of   the fourth century, this can be illustrated. Theodosius is  made larger than life, adorned with diadem and halo, and sits all by himself  in a large niche. The image is depicted on a silver missorium (a large ceremonial dish) that commemorated the emperor’s decennalia in 388. 215 In the 4th century, Christian symbolism had been used sparingly and without great impact, 216 but this changed in the 5th century, especially on coins. 217 The emperor Theodosius II played a strong role in this. He reinstated Constantine as the champion of   Christendom, and gave the use of   Christian symbols a strong   S. Pudenziana, late 4th century (Cameron 2010, p. 103).   Brown 2012, p. 253. 213   Schiller 1972, vol. II, p. 5–6. 214   Elsner 1998, p. 84. 215  Elsner 1998, 84. 216  We already saw that there was no official policy to promote Christianity yet. And, in the 360s, the Christogram had become a cliché without much religious meaning. 217  Shotter 1978, p. 159. 211 212

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boost. The True Cross of   Calvary played a  distinct and important part in this process, as did the tradition that it had been discovered by Helen, the mother of   Constantine. In  the earlier sources there had been no references to a vision of  a cross in 312. Only in the early 5th century did the cross come to be used as Constantine’s main attribute: it had now become the direct association with his vision before battle. It  greatly enhanced Constantine’s reputation as the first Christian emperor, 218 and it was important for the build-up of  a new, Christian tradition. A combination of   Christian and pagan imagery is characteristic of   the early 5th century. 219 A good example would be the depiction of  the young emperor Honorius on an ivory diptych of  the consul Probus, made to celebrate his tenure of   office in 406. Honorius holds an orb, surmounted by a  winged Victory and a banner with the Christogram. On an inscription it says that his conquests are in the name of   Christ. The emperor is given a halo and is isolated in a niche. He is a sanctified figure detached from the world of  battle that he is honoured for. 220 On an ivory plaque of   ad  406, Honorius holds an orb surmounted by an image of   Victory, and a standard with the words ‘In the name of   Christ, may you always be victorious’. 221 Elsner has pointed to the changed image of  a triumphant emperor here: the ‘majestic equestrian sweep’ of  Trajanic imagery has gone; this emperor’s victory is  distant and abstract, unrelated to an actual event, and its representation is  filled with the markers of   ico-

  Bruun 1997, p. 56–58.   According to Elsner, in iconography, blending was the norm, so that one should not only speak of   the Christianization of   the Roman world, but also the Romanization of   Christianity. The famous break between Roman art and early medieval art is ‘a modern rhetorical fantasy’ (Elsner 1998, p. 259). It is clear that there was a mix of   Christian and classical elements, and perhaps ‘blending’ was the result. Since Christian elements were inserted into an existing mold, the interaction involved unequal partners, I would argue, one dynamic, one receptive, so that Elsner’s ‘blending’ is inappropriate as a term. For example, on mosaics of  this period, one could see Christ and his Apostles juxtaposed to images of   Roman emperors, Nero included, the goddess Diana hunting a stag, and a lion attacking a centaur (Drake 2006b, p. 9). This is not ‘blending’ but ‘Christian adaptation’, I submit. 220  Elsner 1998, p. 84. 221   Ward-Perkins 2006, p. 47. 218 219

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nography that would become the standard in depicting saints. 222 These changes fell in step with the increasing detachment of   emperors from actual battle – around 400, it was no longer common for emperors to lead the troops in battle. Among the new ceremonies was the adventus, the formal entry of   the emperor in the city. Other rituals were now conducted in church. By then, victory had become ‘firmly connected with Christian worship’, in the words of   Michael Whitby, although it must be conceded that the full Christianization of   the rites preceding campaigns and battles would only take place in the 6th century, in the East. 223 But, overall, in the visual sources that we have, continuity is  just as strong as change, and in the course of   the 5th century there is even a tendency to hark back to imagery that is reminiscent of   pre-Christian days. Above all, it must be stressed that Victory as the ultimate symbol of   Roman power never lost its importance, something quite understandable at a  time of   great military challenges. 224 Also, as McCormick has suggested, victories over usurpers were treated as equally important to victories over barbarians. 225 Continuity of   design can be seen on 4th century coinage, where emperors were depicted in strong military contexts, for example, in the act of   dragging captives. They were portrayed as defenders of   the frontiers, with legends like FEL TEMP REPARATIO or GLORIA ROMANUM, 226 and, in the late 4th and early 5th centuries, as ‘restorers of  the state’. Victorious rulers were hailed as ‘the state’s salvation’. 227 In Honorius’ coinage, we still find references to ‘eternal, invincible Rome’, which suggests that the old sentiment was not lost. 228 Around 440, when the Empire gained its last great military victories under army commanders like Aëtius, traditional celebrations of   victory received a new boost. When, in 439, Aëtius returned to Rome after a number of  successful campaigns in Gaul,     224   225  226  227  228  222 223

Elsner 1998, p. 84. Whitby 2007b, p. 338–39. Swift 2007, p. 280. McCormick 1990, p. 82–83. Shotter 1978, p. 157. Kent 1978, p. 57. Kent 1978, p. 59.

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the Senate had a  golden statue erected for him in the Atrium Libertatis, with an inscription that praised him for his victories and his return of   Gaul to the empire. 229 And as late as the late 5th century, we find the Ostrogothic king Theoderic, founder of  an Italian kingdom in Ravenna, depicted on the ‘Senigallia’ me­dal­lion, bearing the orb and Victory, with an inscription on the reverse that says: ‘King Theodoric victor over foreign peoples’. 230 With the old empire divided and besieged from all sides by ‘foreign’ elements, the revival of   traditional imagery comes as no surprise. For the 5th century, apart from the genre of   panegyric, especially valuable for the perspective on the emperor’s position, our best sources for the new victory discourse are coins. They give us mixed messages. On  the one hand, Christian symbols are used more frequently; on the other, traditional imagery is  equally strong and reminds us of   the old days of   conquest: emperors are still depicted in military outfit, wearing cuirass and chlamys. 231 It is especially in the first half  of   the century that the cross and Christogram are combined with images like Victory, wreath or globe. A good example is the large, jewelled cross held by Victory on the solidus that was introduced by Theodosius  II in 420. What coins we have from later years depict a  seated Roma, a standing emperor or the image of   Victory. Whether in the guise of   Victory herself, by the victorious emperor, or by a  Christian emblem in the victor’s wreath of   laurels, ‘Victory is the abiding theme of   the coinage’. 232 On  the bronze coins of   the time, the message is  military and brutal. Instead of   the emperor stepping

  Brown 2012, p.  45. Aëtius’ victories over the Huns were later qualified as ‘miraculous good fortune’ by Cassiodorus in his Chronicle, written in 519 (Cassiodorus, Chronicle, ad 425). 230  Ward-Perkins 2006, p. 73. Spurred by the disgrace of   Adrianople (378), the psychological need for public display of   victory, at times when military success had become uncommon, was sometimes pathological. Even political murders were considered fitting opportunities to call for victory celebrations, as in 415 in Constantinople when the assassination of   the king of   the Visigoths in Spain was treated as an imperial victory. In  416, in Ravenna, a  triumphal entry was held for Honorius on the occasion of   the capture of   the usurper Priscus Attalus (McCormick 1990, p. 55–57). 231  Lee 2007a, p. 393. 232  Kent 1994, p. 54. 229

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on a  human-headed serpent representing ‘the enemy’ at large, barbarians are speared, trampled on, or dragged away by the hair. It is clear that, in this presentation, the enemy consists of  a horde that has to be forcefully eliminated. 233 What is  especially interesting is  the constancy in the role of  Victory. Throughout our period, it remains in use, notably the Theodosian type we just saw, minted from 450 onwards, after the accession of   the emperor Marcian. There is  also a  version of   a  fully clothed Victory, inscribing a  Chi-Rho on her shield, which is  sometimes taken to be the first example of   a  Victoria transformed into an angel. The image can be found on a  coin series of  the usurper Votranio. 234 Even if  the complete Christianization of   Victoria is  still a  century away, 235 the adaptation process has run its course. In the difficult circumstances of   the late 5th century, the Victory image remained the most important coin theme, 236 which means that, as a  discourse feature, it survived through many ages, including that of  Christian Rome.

4. Conclusion The period of   Late Empire is filled with contrast and contradiction. To begin with, the contrast between the beginning of   our period (c. 360) and the end (c. 500) is immense, and follows the radical developments that took place in the empire, such as the growing divergence between East and West, 237 and the fragmentation of   the West into smaller, ever-changing ‘kingdoms’. Not only had the Roman empire as we know it from earlier periods formally ceased to exist, the sharp and long-standing distinction between Roman and barbarian had blurred. At the same time, Christianity had become the dominant ideology, imposing a new   Grierson and Mays 1992, p. 16.   Bellinger and Berlincourt 1962, p. 62–63. 235  This is what Grierson and Mays contend: it was first seen on the coins of  Justin I (518–27) (Grierson and Mays 1992, p. 82). 236  Doyle 2015, p. 169. 237  The idea that, in 395, there was a formal division between East and West is  false. The institution of   two emperors instead of   one was not new, and for several periods in the 5th century, there was, again, a  single emperor (Sandberg 2008, p. 199–213). 233 234

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religious but, more generally, also a political and cultural framework on contemporary thinking. It is  especially in this context that the idea of   total change is  not exaggerated and confirmed in the discourse. When, after ad 400, Christianity was firmly established as the state religion, pivotal changes could be made. After all, the ground had been prepared: the new religion demanded exclusive loyalty and banned all forms of   dissent, and much of   the discourse was focused on (if  not obsessed with) identifying and condemning the enemy. With the rightful Church and its adherents prepared for confrontation, often even seeking it, a formal approach to the Christian way of   war was in order, and it was supplied at the beginning of  the 5th century. First, Ambrose, then Orosius and finally Augustine came to see the order of   the state and the well-being of   the emperor as a  Christian’s duty to protect and defend, if  necessary in arms. Since the state now was a Christian institution, protecting it was tantamount to protecting the faith, against non-believers and heretics alike. This was not just a theoretical position. In Christian legend, an emerging genre at the time, battling the enemies of   God would not be merely spiritual, or metaphorical – it could well include physical confrontation. A second feature of  the developing Christian just war doctrine was the emphasis on punishment for infringements of   the legal or moral order. In this it was radically different from the Ciceronian approach, which focused on the restoration of   the order that had been violated and the compensation that could be expected. Last, the Christian just war discourse saw rightful warfare as a  moral instrument, not a political one: it could not be used to conquer new lands or gain glory. Altogether, these changes entail a  radical redefinition of   the concept of   just war and the idea of   legitimacy of   warfare. They would dominate the medieval war discourse, but it must be said that around 500 the process was not completed yet, since military confrontations in the chaotic West – the East was beginning to run its own course – did not neatly conform to religious confrontations: not all Romans were orthodox, not all barbarians pagan or Arian. There are other aspects that should be weighed in as well, related to the long continuation of   classical culture, including 618

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the discourse of   war. It is clear that, over the period 350 to 450, from the days of   Ammianus to the time of   Sidonius, traditional or conventional concerns were still strong and sometimes even prevailed. Late fourth- and fifth-century sources are replete with opinions and images that express a traditional, pagan view on Roman values, both in and outside of   the context of   warfare. For example, the great pessimistic tradition of   seeing decline and moral laxity that we know from we know from writers like Sallust and Tacitus was revived in the late 4th century. These concerns also include the perceived lack of   order, as compared to the state of   affairs under the ‘good emperors’, as well as the lack of   virtus and disciplina, two other stock subjects. In the relations between Romans and barbarians, we find a continuation of   the old attitude of   superiority of   Roman qualities. Even though military campaigns were more defensive than offensive, as a rule, the old spirit of   Roman military greatness had not disappeared. Writers like Eutropius, Festus and Aurelius Victor displayed the familiar mentality of  conquest and victory. The old genre of  panegyric to sing the imperial glory was alive and well. Around 400, Claudian celebrated General Stilicho’s success in war by comparing him with Jupiter’s breathing of   life into the goddess Roma. In other words, by 400, all the cards were still on the table, and the increasing influence of   Christianity had not yet resulted in control of  the discourse on issues like just war, expected loyalty to Church or state, the role of  the emperor, or the celebration of  victory. Of  course, all this would change after 400. However, deeply sunk imagery could not easily be erased, and would survive in Christianized frames, such as the Victory symbol. In the process of  Christian adaptation of  the existing iconography, it could remain part of   the Roman inventory, so that Victoria and the Christogram happily lived together, and in no way was the importance attached to Victory as a symbol diminished. All things considered, it is the celebration of   Victory that has remained the one permanent feature in the Roman war discourse over the centuries, even after the Christian turn.

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Inspired by scholars like Keegan, Hanson and Lynn, this study has moved beyond the military historian’s interest to identify the cultural influences on a soldier’s conduct in battle, the ‘war culture’ as studied by theorists like Martin van Creveld. From the perspective of  the military historian, conduct in battle is the central issue, since, if  push comes to shove, warfare can be equaled with battle. In the wider context of   cultural history, however, cultural influences affect much more than the reality of   warfare. They do have that impact, but they also play a role in the wider, social context, by mirroring as well as by responding to ideas, concepts, dogmas and beliefs, the grand total that is sometimes called the Zeitgeist. The aim of  the present study is to make a contribution in this field by making an inventory and subsequent analysis of   features in Greek and Roman discourse that relate to warfare, looking for patterns and developments over a long time. The enormous scope, both in time and in place, has offered challenges and posed limitations (such as the lack of  space to go into greater detail where this could be interesting), but it has also yielded a number of   insights into the ways in which such an important subject as war has been perceived and how these perceptions lived on and changed over time. In  this concluding chapter, I  will report my findings by answering the research questions that underlie the central aim just stated:

1. Placed in the four major historical periods (Greece, Hellenism, Roman Republic, Roman Empire), what are the major parameters (‘features’) of   the discourse and how do these parameters develop over time? 621

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2. Are there any ‘paradigmatic shifts’ within this development and can they be related to recognized historical junctures? 3. To what extent does the ancient war discourse create perspectives that conflict with what we know (or assume) about the reality of  warfare at the time?



In answering the first of   these questions, we shall apply a  diachronic analysis to the conclusions made so far, which resulted from a  synchronic treatment: the individual discourse features were placed in the context of  their own time, the only option we had to give meaning to expressions of  concepts and ideas that are relative to contemporary events. For the diachronic analysis that follows, I have selected a number of   these parameters that appear to recur. Instead of   summarizing the ‘themes’ that I used so far – like ‘legitimacy’, or ‘supremacy’ – which were useful for the individual periods, I prefer to identify some ‘discourse strands’, Jäger’s term, to emphasize the selected items’ diachronic nature. 1 Of  the many discourse parameters, some stayed over time but some came and went. The liberty discourse, for example, which played an important role in the chapter on Greece, was inextricably bound to the spirit of  excellence and competition that characterized the image of   Greek warfare with its relatively small-scale encounters between political rivals. It lost its momentum when Hellenistic warfare vastly expanded the theaters of   war. On the Roman side, the destiny discourse, crucial in the development of  Roman identity during the Mid Republic, did not live on after the Augustan Age, when the (re)assessment of   Rome’s greatness had been completed. Finally, ‘just war’ exemplifies a feature that lacks continuity but still shows development over time, from the mostly implied agonal conventions in Greece to Cicero’s writings and those of  the Church Fathers of  the early 5th century. Other parameters showed greater continuity. The oldest of  them all, the bravery discourse, which figured as early as Homer, remained prominent in the subsequent Greek discourse – together with its companion ‘courage’ – and reappeared as virtus and disci­ plina in the Roman discourse. The same goes for the ‘superiority’ discourse, which has a  long pedigree (Greeks vs barbaroi) and   See Chapter 1.

1

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CONCLUSIONS

stays with us until the end of  the 5th century ad, when the perennial opponent was recast as the ‘infidel’ or the Christian dissenter. What, then, are the main ‘strands of   development’ in the ancient war discourse? I think it can be concluded that there are three. They are clearly distinct but at the same time they interact with each other in the various discourses that we have looked at so far. The first of  these is the complementary pair of  bravery and courage, of   virtus and disciplina, the two martial virtues that, in a variety of   treatments, can be followed throughout our period. For the second, I  will pair liberty and patria, two features that revolve around the loyalty of   troops to higher goals – the polis, the res publica, the warlord, or the emperor. Last, the pair of  superiority and victory, which pervades the discourse of   all periods, until the end, and gives us the contemporary views on the cultural drive behind military campaigns – the assessment of   the nature of   the enemy, and the importance attached to military victory. I will go into all three of  them to give an indication of  the developments I have seen. The first of   the strands, which has some psychological and moral overtones, combines ‘bravery’ and ‘courage’, virtus and disciplina. Both in the ancient Greek and in the Roman war discourse, bravery in battle was admired and advertised. But bravery, a  highly individual trait, as well as heroism – its extreme form – came to be accompanied by a type of  martiality that is required in a group. The latter generally took precedence, even if  the former remained admired, and was celebrated as ‘courage’ (arete) by the Greeks. In  the Greek war discourse, the two forms of   heroism on the battlefield are dramatically represented by Achilles and Hector in the Iliad: although Achilles is  the ideal aristocratic warrior, he only seeks glory for himself. But Hector is the new man, the hoplite fighting for his community (Ch. 2, 2.4.1.1). Whereas bravery is  celebrated in epic, courage, its public equivalent, is a  favorite topic in lyric poetry, like Tyrtaeus’ marching songs and Simonides’ epitaph to the Three Hundred of   Thermopylae. Courage (arete) prevails over bravery (agathos) and can be linked to the development of  the polis, which puts a premium on competitive excellence for the public good. The importance of  obtaining honor from courage is affirmed in Plato’s claim that ‘the nobler a man is, the more is undying fame and immortal arete the spring 623

CONCLUSIONS

of  his every action’ (Ch. 2, 2.4.5.3). In the visual arts, this idea can be traced in the way the ideal hoplite is shown: in the nude, without armor but with helmet, spear and shield, the shield covering the warrior himself  but also the man next to him (Ch. 2, 2.4.3.2). In the Roman discourse, a  similar phenomenon takes place, quite independently. Disciplina can be seen as the Roman soldier’s desired courage, but now with an emphasis on obedience. In the Republican Roman discourse it is not just the ethic that governs the soldier’s commitment to the army (and the res publica) – we shall come back to this later – but here it is the interaction between the responsibility of   the troops and that of   the commander, for disciplina can be expected but has to be enforced as well. This is  part of   Polybius’ analysis in Book  6 that addresses the quality of   the Roman military machine in its practical operation (Ch. 5, 2.2.1.2.1). As for virtus, it was a virtue that was celebrated but more or less expected as well in the image created by Mid-Republican aristocrats of   their family’s martial excellence. It  could not be enforced, obviously, but was made dependent on the individual’s moral character, and in later periods routinely projected back to construct a pedigree of  family and the Roman people as such. This is illustrated by the longevity of  the devotio topos, which went back to Fabius Pictor and his Fabian gens but also by the popularity of   the genre of   epic of   the Homeric tradition, in Ennius and Naevius, pointing to its Greek roots. It was built around the theme of  bravery in battle. In later periods, virtus and disciplina remained popular topics, but, beginning in the Late Republic, they came to be identified with the qualities of  the successful general. Caesar attributed virtus to himself  in his Civil War, and, during the Principate, at a time when the army had become an organization of  professionals who had no emotional attachment to the ideal of   virtus, it was writers like Livy who used it to bring back the golden days of   yore. In fact, it could easily become the butt of   satire for civilians who looked down on the soldiery as a class. Disciplina followed a similar course: it was enforced by the successful commander and, as much as virtus would be his moral asset, disciplina was a  mark of   his leadership. When the emperor became the sole source of  power, virtus was a desired trait for a ruler claiming legitimacy and it became a rather hollow ideal. It was a stock ingredient in the panegyrics and coins of   the time, especially during the cha624

CONCLUSIONS

otic 3rd century among emperors who had little or no military record. It  served to brand the emperor’s image of   martiality so badly needed when the legitimacy of   rule was disputed or highly insecure. In the Late Empire, virtus was still advertised in panegyrics to emperors like Julian, and, in the 5th century, to victorious generals like Stilicho who had become the true power brokers. In  the later decades of   the 5th century, however, the virtus of  the successful commander came to be associated with Christian virtues like ‘piety’ so that it lost its primarily military ethos. It can be concluded that, in its development, virtus came to be associated with generals and emperors rather than the rankand-file, and ended up as a rather empty honorific. When it was given a new, Christian meaning, it had totally lost its original connotations of   personal bravery in battle. The original sense would only return centuries later, in the Germanic tales and poems of   the early Middle Ages. As for disciplina, it would long remain an almost forgotten feature of   warfare, but it was brought to life again in the 16th century, in the so-called ‘Military Revolution’, by Machiavelli’s Art of  War and Maurice of  Nassau’s innovations in battle formation. The second strand, which has a  social and political nature, follows the principle of   loyalty of   warriors to a common good, the community, the fatherland, or the representation thereof, in the function of   the ruler. It is not unrelated to the soldier’s courage and disciplina discussed above, which could also be expected to be more than self-serving, but now we are moving out of   the direct context of   the army unit and its commander, to a more abstract level and a higher goal. This type of  loyalty seeks a connection with social and political goals the soldiers were expected to cherish: the idea of   liberty, for instance, as for the hoplite warriors fighting for their polis, the idea of   patria, the ‘fatherland’ in the prenation sense, the res publica in the Republic or, later, the emperor as a symbol of  the empire. In the ancient war discourse, this is an important subject, with a strong presence in practically all of   the periods studied. In the Greek war discourse, it was the idea of  liberty that pervaded the important source of  historiography: early Greek history was a history of   war, with Greek cities fighting other Greek cities for land, goods or slaves, but ultimately for the independence 625

CONCLUSIONS

of   the community. When other enemies appeared, such as the Persians, the liberty discourse was extended to ‘barbarians’ and incorporated the new idea of   Greek superiority over the Other. Thu­cyd­i­des’ small wars, ‘local affairs’ between neighbors as he called them (Ch. 2, 2.4.3.1.1), were already in Homer’s Iliad, with Hector defending the liberty of   Troy. But it  is in Per­ic­ les that we have the representative of   the Classical ideal of   defense of   liberty. At least, that is how sources like Thu­cyd­id­ es want us to see him. In Diodorus’ perception, the ideal of   fighting for the fatherland reached its heights in the Spartan commander Brasidas and his death. In the context of   the polis, the liberty and patria discourse became most explicit in defensive warfare, when the existence of  the polis was at stake. In the Hellenistic Age, Greek cities lost much of   their autonomy, but the idea of   liberty did not disappear overnight, and had to be negotiated from a defensive position against powerful warrior-kings, who saw Alexander as their model but did not share his enthusiasm for multiculturalism. Antagonism against barbarians of   all kinds (Persians, Galatians and remote groups on the frontiers), on the other hand, remained strong, and even reached mythical proportions during the Galatian incursions during the 3rd century bc. The victories of   Hellenistic kings over these barbarians were celebrated in monuments, in contemporary travelogues and fictitious ethnography (Ch. 3, 3.3.2). These narratives, literary and visual, identified liberty and patria with the kings’ monarchic prestige, but in doing so virtually erased their existence as distinct discourse features. In the Roman discourse, the idea of   patria was reinvented rather than revived. It followed its own course, in which paternal authority came to be associated with the Roman state, or rather, the Roman republic. When Cicero defined patriotism as the commitment to the community of  citizens, this was the state of  affairs as it had been described in the Mid Republic by Polybius: loyalty to the fatherland was the decisive reason why Roman soldiers, who were citizens, could defeat strong opponents like Carthage, who relied on mercenaries to fight for them (Ch. 5, 2.2.1.1). From adlocutios by generals given in sources like Dionysius, we know the importance attached to the bond between soldier and res publica. The coupling of  virtus and patria that we saw in Classical Greece is now also established in the Roman context. This 626

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happened mostly during the Late Republic, when it was thrown back in time to create an idea of  tradition. The concept of   patria depended on the definition of   who belonged to it, at the cost of   the outsider, often the enemy. Our earliest written sources in Rome, like Ennius, constructed condescending and inimical images for contemporary opponents such as Gauls and Car­thaginians to celebrate a developing sense of  nationhood. In Polybius we find a connection of  these images with older, Greek sources. His analysis gave the dichotomy a more rational footing: it is the order of  the state (rather than innate inferiority) that makes the difference between Romans and their barbarian enemies. But the order was fragile and had to be defended against corruption from the inside (Ch. 5, 2.2.2.1). As for patria as the focus of   loyalty of   the soldiery, this began to dwindle in the Late Republic when the army commander took over the role of  patron. Short-time financial rewards in profitable eastern campaigns provided a  great stimulus for this. The change in commitment is confirmed in the discourse, such as in Caesar’s Civil War. The general presents himself  as the object of  loyalty, and the state has a less prominent place in the narrative (Ch. 6, 2.2). By now the two great driving forces of   army loyalty, liberty and patria were no longer effective. In volatile times, such as the Late Republic and later periods of   civil warfare, loyalty went to the highest bidder. If  and when order was restored, it went to the emperor. In the Augustan Age, when the greatness of   Rome was celebrated, the empire became the new patria: emperor and state were joined together. Empire, the new patria, was welcomed in Virgil’s Aeneid (‘The subject world shall Rome’s dominion own / And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of  the gown’) (Ch. 7, 3.2.1). But, overall, patria was the subject of   myth-making, by Livy and others, who reinvented the greatness of   the nation’s glorious past, as in the popular Camillus legend. It  was part of   the conventional Augustan rhetoric in which devotion to the fatherland, including military sacrifice, was propagated. The high-mindedness of  Augustan rhetoric did not last. In later years, the link between emperor and state changed, for the idea of   ‘state’, the res publica, was made subordinate to that of   the emperor’s office. The new driving force of   loyalty was the sacrosanctity of   the office, the emperor no longer being the princeps, the first among equals, but the mediator between men and the gods. In the discourse, pan627

CONCLUSIONS

egyrics and coinage became the major sources for state-sponsored views. Sanctioning by the state was replaced by sanctioning by the gods. At the same time, the discourse became more divided than before: dissenting voices could be heard, particularly where it concerned Rome’s alleged moral superiority over outsiders. This is  the beginning of   a gap in the discourse between the official perspective and a number of  alternative views, a gap that was to last. Hence, autocratic rule, inviting other sources of   legitimacy, did not provide a solid background for liberty and patria as discourse features. We saw this happening twice: first after Hellenistic monarchs established their kingdoms and sought ways to aggrandize themselves. Second, when Roman emperors got rid of  the vestiges of   Republicanism. In  the fragmented Late Empire, alternative forms of   legitimacy had become devoid of   meaning, resulting in a vacuum that the new, Christian discourse with its reluctance about military affairs could not fill. When, in the 5th century, religious and secular rule came together – the role of  some bishops as army leaders (duces) is telling – the old Roman empire was fragmenting into a number of  regional centers of  Roman culture. This was the final blow to the idea of   patria. On  the one hand, Christianity’s appeal was universal, not national (or even ‘imperial’). On  the other, and this is made clear in the discourse, matters of  war and peace – the war discourse – were becoming regional issues, or were disappearing altogether. In the former case, the Lives of  the soldier-bishops like St Germanus of   Auxerre exemplify the regional impact, for they present their protagonists as holy saviors for their local communities, acting against invaders. In the latter, the Lives lose their military (and all secular) qualities altogether – these qualities are not in agreement with the overriding religious concerns of  the clerics who provide most of  the discourse at the time. The third strand, which relates to the victory and conquest features, has a modest beginning in Greece. In the Greek discourse, competition, the great agonal agent, implied excellence and the awarding of   prizes. Success in competition, transferred to battle, was expressed in the setting up of  trophies as a mark of  victory and a way to commemorate the achievement. Victory was commemorated but so was defeat and so were the fallen in war, as descriptions of   monuments by Pausanias attest; in epitaphs and lyric 628

CONCLUSIONS

poetry we get the same impression of  respect for all martial valor. Generally, the Greeks focused more on bravery in battle, irrespective of   the outcome, than on the idea of   victory as such. In the Hellenistic period, however, military excellence as the key feature gave way to ideals of   conquest and victory. Military conquests required large numbers of  soldiers, a lot of  them mercenaries, from a large catchment area, which resulted in an emphasis on practice and training, the practical side of   military management. We find this in Aelian, in Polyaenus, and – now as a  butt of   satire – in New Comedy. Although ‘victory’ as a theme was not new, it came to be the outstanding feature in the visual war discourse of   time. Representations were full of  action and drama, and there was little inhibition in showing violence, as exemplified by the Great Altar of   Pergamon. Victories served as collective memories of  superiority of  Greekness over barbarians. Commemorative statues express control over the defeated enemy, with graphic details of  barbarians slain or in submission. On coins, Alexander is depicted as the great source of   inspiration, and associated with victory in battle. The obsession with military success to a  degree not seen before – at least, not in Greece – can be related to the chronic warfare between competing successor states. The rulers were warrior-kings and needed to display their only quality that counted, that of  wielding supreme power. During the Roman Mid Republic, although defeats in war had to be accounted for, and integrated into a larger narrative, everything points to the ultimate goal of  victory. The victory discourse is mostly found in visual sources – monuments, statues, and coins in particular, just like in the Hellenistic period, but there are some new developments. The monuments sing the military glory of  Roman aristocrats, not kings, and participation in the discourse is consequently much wider: it is the individual victor that is honored, but also his family, his class, and, ultimately, the res publica. Victory and its consequence, conquest, were given more critical treatment by such authors as Polybius, who questioned the Roman ability to withstand the extravagance of   riches and the ensuing moral deterioration. Cato the Elder’s assessment was ambivalent: although Roman conquest was mostly legitimate – the enemies were the breakers of   treaties, not the Romans – there were morally reprehensible actions, like Rome’s treatment of  the Rhodians. At the time of   the Late Republic, with its many military cam629

CONCLUSIONS

paigns, victory celebrations had become routine affairs, quite lavish and competitive, but also criticized by authors like Sallust for the overt self-glorification of   individual generals. Triumphs were dramatic and enjoyed by the spectators at large even though we know from later sources that some were contested. What is important in the development of  the discourse is that, increasingly, victory imagery began to serve the individual commander, as part of   a changing loyalty that we have just discussed. As for the aspect of   conquest, it was given a theoretical footing for the first time. Conquest, in the Republican age, was seen as natural, as Rome’s calling. In Cicero’s speeches, we can see this, but, even in contemporary Greek writing, the laments on Roman aggression are muted by a  general acceptance of   Roman hegemony. However, there was also doubt on the moral acceptability of  conquest in literary sources, who could afford to use more idiosyncratic perspectives. Catullus’ ‘Satire 29’ is an example of  how greed and corruption were seen as having taken hold of   victorious generals like Caesar and Pompey. Beginning with Sulla and Caesar, the discourse obtains a new perspective, that of   the victorious general advertising his own accomplishments to advance his political career. This type of  rhetoric was continued by Augustus. Victory thus came to be identified with one person. More importantly, victory was also given a form of  military and political extension. It was Caesar who insisted on his supposed clemency for subjected enemies, and Augustus, who emphasized that victory would lead to pax, the enemy’s acceptance of   Rome’s domination. The extension of   victory was not wholly new but made more explicit; it can be related to Rome’s relentless pursuit of   victory that we find in many sources, not just in Velleius and in Livy’s account of   Rome’s war with Veii – it was pax that the Romans were after, not just victory as such. In this sense, I believe the Ara Pacis monument is the paramount emblem of  Roman ambition. During the Principate, victory and conquest were celebrated, criticized, satirized and given highly idiosyncratic treatments, all in line with the Zeitgeist and the cultural boom. After that, military overtones return, often graphically explicit, and during the long 3rd century they were all focused on the position of   the emperor. As the only source of   legitimacy, the army was courted and pampered, and victory imagery was placed in a central position 630

CONCLUSIONS

to enhance the emperor’s status. The language of   victory dominated the discourse. The more concrete ‘triumphator’ we know from Republican days became the more abstract ‘victor’, routinely praised in formal panegyrics and in conventional images on coins. With Eusebius’ rendering of  events at the Milvian Bridge, victory began to attain a Christian flavor. From then on, a gradual reframing of   pagan reasoning takes place, and prayer takes the place of  sacrifice, and the Chi-Rho is added as a newcomer to the existing symbols. However, by the end of   Constantine’s reign, victory and conquest come to be reformulated as strictly Christian concepts rather than as variations on an old theme. The theological translation – victory was now achieved in the form of  conversion to the true faith – does not mean that secular forms were falling into disuse. This is reflected in the continued tradition of   panegyrics dedicated to the victories of   emperors, and, after 400, of   their proxies, powerful generals like Stilicho, Boniface and Aëtius. But after that time, the military connotations of   ‘victory’ are starting to wear off. Secular, i.e. non-Christian, Rome only survives with great difficulty in some regional contexts, and with it, the secular war discourse fades. What has not been addressed so far is  the role of   perspective in the three strands that we identified. I  argue that overriding these strands there is  a  development in ‘discourse perspective’. To begin, for all periods studied, it can be said that the target audience of   the different discourse features varied from ‘restricted’ (in historiography, for example) to ‘wider’ (epic and lyric poetry) and ‘general’ (monuments, coins), and that the small numbers in restricted audiences was compensated by their disproportionate influence. Whatever the audience, the discourse was ‘made’ by a small, homogeneous elite, members of  the aristocracy mostly, and explicit or implicit ‘carriers’ of   the status quo. Indeed, much of the discourse was meant to confirm a shared perception of  the broad outlines of   reality. However, during the cultural boom of  the Augustan Age, this common ground began to break up into segments, and what we see in the Early Empire and the periods that follow is that competing views of   reality transcend the traditional themes of   the (war) discourse. First, we have a  parting of  the ways in conventional, critical and ‘dissociative’ (i.e., regres631

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sive) perspectives, creating a  tripartite treatment of   discourse issues. Later, the increasing influence of   Christianity imposed a duality of   perspective of   Christian and traditional. This means that in both cases, the war discourse turned into sometimes overlapping, sometimes competing war discourses. Among all the developments that we can trace in this analysis, this is most fundamental. That the second break-up can be linked to the impact of   the Christian faith is obvious; for the first, a causality is much harder to establish, and would merit further investigation, but I think the general cultural development in the Early Empire – with its increased literacy and its widening of   a  participating cultural audience – no doubt plays a role. After sketching the identity and the development of   the major discourse features over time we shall now turn to the second research aspect: does the discourse as it progressed show any paradigmatic shifts, and if  so, what are they? Perhaps the Kuhnian ‘paradigmatic shift’ implies a  change that is  too radical and too embracing for our purposes here. Most of   the changes were relatively gradual, and those that were revolutionary occurred at pivotal moments that I would like to call ‘junctures’ to emphasize the concurrence of  options. Apart from the ‘Constantinian Shift’, the last pivotal point in our discussion, which could be called a ‘shift’ in the Kuhnian sense, the changes are not radical enough: they simply blaze new trails in a  landscape that remains largely unaffected. They could be compared to Foucault’s ‘discontinuities’, but Foucault sees all historical discourse as a combination of  elements of   continuity and discontinuity, which is theoretically sound – it is what history is all about – but somewhat downplays the enormous impact that the most important of   these changes had. 2 For our purposes, I  posit the following four junctures in the classical war discourse:

1. The emergence of   ‘conquest’ as a  concept and the related interest in the personality cult of   the ruler that can be seen with the emergence of  the Hellenistic period – success in war becomes personalized; 2. The reaffirmation of   Rome’s martial identity in the Augustan Age, based on developments that can be traced back to



  Foucault 1972, p. 225–48.

2

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the Mid Republic. Rome’s mission of   victory, conquest and pax was now made explicit and given mythological backing. Pacification, and re-pacification after revolts, the driving force behind Roman military activity, was given a solid ideological basis. It accompanied the traditional spirit of  aggression with regard to the outside world. At the same time it was the fulfillment of   Rome’s destiny, and this is how the Romans saw it. It was the realization of   Romulus’ mythical inclusion of   foreign elements as part of  the creation of  a new city; 3. The divergence between the official, state discourse all focused on the supreme position of   the emperor on the one hand and the alternative, critical, personal or nostalgic perspectives on conquest and war, initiated during the Principate; 4. Another divergence, this time between the official, state discourse and an emerging Christian discourse in the course of   the 3rd and early 4th centuries, followed by the ‘Constantinian Shift’ of   the later 4th and 5th centuries. This paved the way for the dominance of   a Christian discourse. It gave the war discourse a new footing with the start of  a Christian just war discourse and a  reconstruction of   traditional elements in a Christianized version.

If  we go back to where we started, and look at our whole period of   study, some conclusions can be added. I  argue that there are three shifts that surpass the changes just mentioned, seen for the period as a whole: (1) the shift from a collective to an individual emphasis; (2) the shift to an emphasis on victory as a leading principle and (3) the shift from exclusion to inclusion and back to exclusion again of   those seen as outsiders, barbarians, or infidels. I will briefly elaborate on all three shifts. First, the spirit of  collective battle. A key principle in the Greek discourse, that of   ‘courage’ for the benefit of   the community, reappeared in the Roman world, notably the Republic, when loyalty to the state was high, but it was given new definitions when Republic changed into Empire, and the supremacy of  one person, the general or the emperor, made the spirit of  collective endeavor obsolete. The same happened with the idea of   agonal warfare –  it  could only survive in a  competitive context of   competing cities obsessed with the idea of   liberty. The notion of   ‘patria’ survived, but with competition gone, patria was identified with the ruler, and liberty was replaced by loyalty. In this process, the period of   Alexander the Great played a  crucial role. Beginning 633

CONCLUSIONS

with Alexander, the discourse shifted to conquest as its major feature, and Alexander became a  paragon for later rulers, like Augustus, who all imitated his personality cult. In this, a pattern was set for centuries to follow. As for the second shift, I think the personality cult can be considered to be the catalyst in the Roman fascination with victory. Victory and conquest were the twins of  Roman warfare, but even when conquest ceased to be a mission, victory retained its position in the discourse. Even in times of   civil wars and usurpers to the throne, of   punitive and reactive military action, victory remained a requisite symbol for survivors in the power struggle. It  survived the process of   Christianization, but lost its secular, military flavor in the final days of  empire. Finally, there was the Greek superiority discourse that set a  pattern that would be adopted and changed to suit Roman needs. Via Hellenistic imagery of   subjected Galatians, the Greek barbaroi became Rome’s barbarians. But unlike the Greek barbarians, Roman barbarians could be incorporated into the Roman world, in a  process of   conquest and pacification – the onion principle with layers of   closeness and remoteness that we find in Caesar and Tacitus. Where Greek warfare was essentially competitive and tended to exclude non-Greeks, Hellenistic and especially Roman warfare aimed at subjugation and inclusion of  foreigners. In this, the superiority discourse follows two fundamentally different paths. It is worth comparing Greek and Roman perceptions of   their great Eastern foe, the Persians (or Parthians). 3 The Greeks remained condescending, treating the Persians as given to ‘luxury’ and as slaves to their despot monarchs. For the Romans, the Persians were a  potential threat to their supremacy in the eastern lands, but, if  at all possible, a  supine Persian foe would be happily incorporated into the Roman empire. There is clearly a more pragmatic approach at work here, symptomatic of  a general divergence between Greece and Rome. Never do our Roman sources reporting on Roman-Persian confrontations match the biased accounts we have in Greece on, for example, the Persian Wars. Even if  we accept the contextual differences – for Greece, a  lot 3  The term ‘Parthian’ is no longer precise after the 3rd century and should be read as ‘Sassanid’.

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CONCLUSIONS

more was at stake – the superiority felt by the Greeks is remarkable. However, in Rome, during the process of   Christianization, the discourse took a  departure from the established spirit of  inclusiveness. Inclusion came to be for co-religionists only – for outsiders, it implied conversion. In our sources, now Christian, warfare was no longer a  topic of   interest. Wherever it was discussed, it was subjected to religious concerns. Legitimate wars were condoned, and sometimes encouraged, against the new barbarian, the infidel. A final question needs to be answered. This study has mapped out the patterns of   cultural features of   warfare in classical antiquity, which, naturally, implies a  concentration on concepts and opinions, on mentality in successive periods. What the discourse tells us is the result of   a complex interaction with reality. It may reflect the impact of  political events and run parallel to them, but it may also create a reality of  its own that is more desirable, a rhetorical reality that happily ignores or contradicts the facts of   life. In this concluding paragraph, I would like to point to a few glaring discrepancies between discourse and reality seen in the previous chapters, without going into details – the question would merit a  study in its own right. First, in the Greek chapter, the spirit of  competition and combat according to the book – the agonal rules – was largely a rhetorical construct. But it still had its impact on the conduct of   war, even if  it did not mirror it, by fostering a  striving for excellence and by putting a  premium on group cohesion in fighting with one’s peers. Second, from a  cultural perspective, the Hellenistic war discourse was a  harbinger of   what would follow in Rome: victory monuments celebrating the ruler’s supreme power. However, the ideals of   conquest attributed to these monarchs are largely based on later sources like Plutarch (his image-building of   Pyrrhus is exemplary). In the Roman perspective, this Romanization of   the spirit of   conquest made perfect sense – it created a pedigree. In  reality, Hellenistic wars, unlike Rome’s, were chaotic affairs of   advance and retreat, of   changing coalitions and sheer survival. Third, during the Roman Republic, the strong emphasis on virtus and disciplina that we find in the discourse, as well as the 635

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worries about their decline, served the interests of   the elite: collective success in warfare was claimed by a small group of   aristocrats suspicious of   an emerging class of   social rivals. In  the end it was wholly appropriated by competing generals struggling for power and had little relation to the army at large. This tendency would be reinforced in the Principate: soldiers became professionals, with decreasing social esteem, and the virtues of   loyalty and military accomplishments were directed at and monopolized by the emperor. The relation between military virtues and the performance of  soldiers and generals had now faded into empty rhetorical clichés. Fourth, the ruler’s status as mediator between humans and gods constantly demanded reaffirmation and reinforcement in the official discourse, and in time of   crisis like the 3rd century came to be wholly based on his qualities as a  military leader. This made the concept of   victory more than a  source of   honor – it was a precondition for survival. The gap between rhetoric and real life was enormous, with imperial claims that had no realistic basis whatsoever. A final example of  friction between the discourse and everyday reality is in the Christianization of  the Roman world that accelerated in the 5th century. By studying the sources one might get the idea that the issue of   warfare had become a theological concern only. On a certain level, it had, but it cannot be said that the military campaigns of   this period were religious wars. In actual fact, local centers of  Romanness, largely but not wholly Christianized, defended themselves against motley crowds of   intruders, pagans and unorthodox Christians alike. The clear-cut division that we find in our sources did not exist on the ground.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

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714

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES

Acts of Marcellus, 538–539 Acts of Marinus, 538 Acts of Maximilian, 539 Aelian, 211–213, 219, 629 Various History, 212, 219 Aelius Aristides, 497 ‘The Roman Oration’, 497 Aeneas Tacticus, 73, 103, 147 Poliorcetica, 73, 147 Aeschylus, 102, 152, 170, 174–176, 178–181, 183–184 The Oresteia, 170, 184 The Persians, 102, 152, 170, 174, 176, 178, 180–181 Seven Against Thebes, 170, 174– 175, 179–180, 183 Aesop, 195 Fables, 195 ‘Aethiopis’, 118 Alcaeus, 130, 137–138 ‘Fragment 140’, 138 Ambrose, 555, 570–571, 589–591, 597, 604–606, 618, 708 Exposition of the Christian Faith (De Fide), 591, 605 Letter 73: To Irenaeus, 597 Ammianus Marcellinus, 382, 564, 566–568, 573–580, 588, 595, 619, 657, 659–660, 684, 691, 702 Roman History (Res Gestae), 382, 568, 574, 576–579, 595 Ancient Near Eastern Texts relating to the Old Testament, 698

Appian, 213, 335, 338, 349, 351, 437–438, 467–468, 488–489, 664 The Civil Wars (The Roman History), 335, 349, 351, 468, 489 Apuleius, 440, 473–474, 477, 669, 672, 675, 677, 701 The Golden Ass, or Metamorphoses, 440, 473–474, 477 Archilochus, 102, 130, 137–139 ‘Fragments 1, 3 and 6’, 138–139 ‘Fragment 67’, 139 Aristophanes, 36, 76, 102, 170–171, 187–189, 689, 698, 706 The Acharnians, 187–188 Peace, 188 Lysistrata, 188 Wasps, 189 Aristotle, 36, 91–92, 103, 106, 112, 154, 157, 163, 181, 190–191, 193–196, 189, 193–194, 196, 198–199, 295, 321 Ethics, 106, 194, 196 The Politics, 91–92, 190–191, 193–196 Arrian, 112, 126, 140, 213, 217, 219, 225, 229–231, 234, 487 The Campaigns of Alexander, 112, 126, 217, 225, 229–231, 234, 487 ‘Events after the Death of Alexander’, 219

715

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES

Athenaeus, 235, 647 Deipnosophistae, 235 Athenagoras, 531–532 A Plea for the Christians (Leg. pro Christ.), 508, 532 Augustine, 555, 571, 582, 599–600, 604–608, 618, 650, 662, 680, 682, 691, 704, 714 Against Cresconius, 600 Against Gaudentius, 599 City of God, 605–607 Epistle 88 (To Januarius), 600 Epistle 138 (To Marcellinus), 607 Epistle 185 (To Boniface), 600, 606 Epistle 189 (To Boniface), 604 Q uestions on the Heptateuch, 606 Augustus, 241, 247, 309, 361, 365– 366, 368–370, 372–374, 380, 386, 388, 390, 393–394, 398, 402, 407–419, 421–435, 444, 451–452, 463, 466, 470, 476, 481, 485, 498, 506, 526, 552, 575, 589, 630, 634, 663, 670 Res Gestae (The Deeds of the Divine Augustus), 309, 365– 366, 386, 409–410, 415, 419, 427, 452 Aurelius Victor, 506, 516–517, 567, 619 De Caesaribus, 516–517 Ausonius, 569–570, 591 Gratiarum Actio, 591 Babrius, 222–223 ‘Battle of Frogs and Mice, The’, 117, 128 Caesar, 58, 93, 307–308, 310, 314–315, 317–319, 323, 332, 334–342, 344–347, 352–356, 358–361, 370, 382, 403, 413– 414, 416, 422, 425–426, 429, 439, 452, 454–457, 461, 470, 478, 483, 489–490, 496, 511, 523, 530, 535–537, 574, 577– 579, 604, 610, 624, 630, 634,

650, 657–658, 665–666, 676, 678, 685, 695, 701–702, 707, 711, 713 The Civil War, 317, 336–338, 489 The Gallic War, 309, 314–316, 334, 339, 344–345, 347 Callinus, 137, 168 ‘Exhortation to Battle’, 137 Calpurnius Siculus, 491, 509 Eclogues, 491 Carmina Epigraphica Graeca (CEG), 168, 679 Cassiodorus, 616 Chronicle, 616 Cato the Elder, 249, 262, 265, 293, 297, 304, 308, 315, 328, 495, 649–670 On Agriculture, 328 Catullus, 332, 370, 385, 630 The Poems, 332 Celsus, 508, 510, 533, 535, 537, 540, 647 On the True Doctrine: A Discourse Against the Christians, 533 Chrysostom, John, 566, 571, 588– 589, 597–602, 688, 692 Against the Jews – Oration 1, 598 Correspondence with the Bishop of Rome, 599 In Babylam (On St Babylas), 588 Letters to Olympias, 600 Cicero, 58, 258, 263, 275–276, 278, 307, 309–312, 316–319, 321– 330, 334, 341, 346, 348–349, 354–356, 360–362, 374, 409, 469, 622, 626, 630, 658, 661, 667, 672, 683, 691–692, 701, 706–707, 710 ‘Against Piso’, 349 ‘Against Verres’, 317 ‘De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum’, 321 ‘De Imperio Cn.  Pompei’, 311, 330 ‘De Oratore’ (‘On the Orator’), 310, 329, 356

716

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES



‘For Archias’ (‘Pro Archia’), 356 ‘For Balbus’, 349 ‘For Sestius’, 263 ‘Letters to Atticus’, 319, 323, 349, 360 ‘On the Consular Provinces’, 322, 355 Epistulae ad Familiares (Cilician Letters), 341 On Duties III, 322–326, 328 The Laws, 275, 325 The Nature of the Gods, 710 Philippics (The Orations of Marcus Tullius Cicero), 324, 409 The Republic, 258, 322–325, 356 Claudian, 413, 454, 469–570, 583– 584, 619, 664, 683, 701 ‘Against Rufinus’ (‘In Rufinum’), 584 Panegyric on the Sixth Consulship of the Emperor Honorius, 584 The War Against Gildo, 569, 584 Clement of Alexandria, 508, 534, 603 Protrepticus (Exhortation to the Heathen), 534 Constantinus, Flavius Valerius (Constantine the Great), 470, 501, 503, 507, 509–510, 512, 520– 521, 523–526, 528, 530–531, 537, 539–557, 574, 593, 601, 603, 613–614, 631, 636, 644, 656–657, 663, 670, 674, 677, 684, 687, 694–696, 706–707, 709, 713 ‘Letter to Alexander Bishop’, 552 ‘Letter to Arius and His Followers’, 553 Constantius of Lyon, 571, 609, 611 The Life of St  Germanus of Auxerre, 611 ‘Cypria’, 150, 189–190 Cyprian, 508–509, 554, 661, 663, 713 Epistles, 555 Decree of Ilium, 224–225 Decree of Pergamum, 235

Dedications by Attalus I to Athena at Pergamum, 240 Demosthenes, 79, 101, 190, 214, 714 ‘Funeral Speech’, 79 Dexippus, Herennius, 506, 523–524 Chronicle, 506 Scytica, 524 Dio, Cassius, 279, 431, 445, 466, 468, 476, 505–506, 514, 525, 533, 632 Roman History, 279, 431, 445, 466, 476, 514, 525, 533 Diodorus Siculus, 81, 87–89, 93, 108, 111, 139, 146, 153, 160– 161, 163, 179, 206, 213, 220, 222, 227, 230, 234–236, 308– 309, 316–317, 319, 325–326, 330–331, 350–351, 626, 690, 694 Historical Library, 81, 87–89, 108, 111, 146, 153, 161, 163, 179, 206, 220, 222, 227, 230, 235, 316–317, 319, 325, 331, 351 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 153, 249, 253, 277–278, 293, 336, 367–368, 379–380, 382, 384, 423, 476, 626, 674 Roman Antiquities, 249, 379, 382, 384, 476 ‘Elegies on Maecenas’, 348 Ennius, Q uintus, 262–264, 272, 286–289, 293–294, 369, 395– 396, 624, 627, 673 Annales, 263–264, 272, 286– 289, 294, 396 Ephippus of Olynthus, 225 Epictetus, 475, 488 The Discourses, 475 Euripides, 76, 84, 102, 152, 170– 180, 182–188, 192, 703 Andromache, 177, 184–185 Hecuba, 177 Helen, 186 The Heracleidae, 176, 178 Heracles, 172

717

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES

Iphigenia in Aulis, 179–180 The Phoenician Women, 182– 183, 187 Rhesus, 84 The Suppliant Women, 186–187 The Trojan Women, 173–174, 179, 185 Eusebius, 506–508, 533, 538–548, 550, 552–556, 568–569, 572, 601, 631, 657, 685 Ecclesiastical History, 533, 538, 554–555, 568 Life of Constantine, 542, 544– 547, 550, 552–553, 555 Oration in Praise of Constantine, 539, 546, 548, 554 Eutropius, 506, 564, 567, 575, 619 Brevarium (Abridgment of Roman History), 575 Evagrius, 602 Church History, 602 Florus, 313, 358, 438, 467–468, 481, 488, 492–493, 496, 506, 687 The Epitome of Roman History, 313, 358, 468, 481, 488, 493 Poems, 496 Frontinus, 219, 311, 493 Stratagems, 219, 311, 493 Fronto, Marcus Cornelius, 447, 451, 510 ‘Ad M. Caesarem’, 447 ‘Ad Verum Imp.’, 451 Gallic Chronicle (Chronica Gallica) of 452, 582 Gellius, 304–305, 313, 438, 492– 493 Attic Nights, 305, 313, 493 Gregory Nazianzen, 596 Oration 4, First Invective Against Julian the Emperor, 596 Herodian, 506, 515–517, 525 History, 515–517 Herodotus, 25, 76, 78, 85–87, 100, 106, 112, 132–133, 139, 141,

149–152, 154, 157, 178, 180– 183, 185, 283, 467, 669, 673– 674, 689, 701 Histories, 76, 78, 85–87, 112, 132–133, 149, 151–152, 178, 183 Hesiod, 99–100, 104, 107, 117, 119– 120, 125, 128, 130, 139, 149, 199–200, 426, 709 ‘The Shield of Heracles’, 120, 128 ‘Theogony’, 119, 125, 200 ‘Works and Days’, 107, 125, 200 Hippolytus, 508, 535 The Apostolic Tradition, 535 Historia Augusta, 506, 517, 564, 701 The Lives of Firmus, Saturninus, Proculus and Bonosus, 517 Homer, 68–69, 83–84, 94, 99–100, 104, 107, 110, 112–119, 121– 122, 124–128, 130, 139–140, 144, 149, 163–164, 180, 182, 250, 272, 288, 369, 399, 426, 487, 661, 678, 685–686, 709, 711 The Iliad, 83–84, 100, 114, 116– 117, 121–122, 124–128, 144, 164, 182, 288 The Odyssey, 118, 149 Horace, 369–370, 385–386, 392– 393, 398, 400–402, 413–414, 424–426, 428, 432, 496, 652, 685, 699 Epistles, 414, 426 Epodes, 385, 426 Odes, 386, 392–393, 398, 400– 401, 413, 425 Hydatius, 499, 569, 591–592, 663 Chronicle, 499, 591–592 Isocrates, 91, 101, 140, 154–157, 230 Speeches and Letters (Panegyricus), 91, 140, 154 Jerome, 508, 569, 571, 585, 589, 608 ‘On Micah’, 589 Josephus, 438, 469, 481, 497

718

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES

The Jewish War, 469, 481, 497 Justinus, Marcus Junianus, 406 Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus, 406 Juvenal, 386, 439, 457, 472–473, 475, 477–478, 480, 485, 491, 667 The Sixteen Satires, 386, 457, 473, 478, 485, 491 Lactantius, 508–509, 547, 669 The Divine Institutes, 547 Libanius of Antioch, 231, 565–567, 588, 591, 598, 601, 667 Speech XI (Antiochicus), 231 Oration 24, 30 (Pro Templis), 588, 591 Life of Rabbula, 601 ‘Little Iliad’, 116, 122–123 Livy, 58–59, 93, 213, 259, 263, 268, 275, 307–308, 336, 349, 352, 357–358, 366–368, 374, 379– 385, 387, 391–392, 395–398, 403–406, 411–412, 417, 420– 421, 423–424, 430–431, 433, 438–439, 452, 456, 476–477, 489, 492, 506, 574, 608, 624, 627, 630, 662, 665, 672, 674, 687, 689, 692–693, 697, 709 The History of Rome, 259, 358, 374, 379–384, 391–392, 395– 396, 398, 404–406, 411–412, 417, 420–421, 423–424, 476 Lucan, 439, 489–491, 656, 661, 688, 692, 695, 700, 708 The Civil War (Pharsalia), 490– 491 Lucretius, 326 Of the Nature of Things, 326 Mamertinus, 570, 583 Panegyric to Julian, 583 Marcus Aurelius, 439–440, 442, 447, 459–461, 470, 472, 499, 514– 515, 521, 524, 531, 533, 574, 658, 669, 697 The Meditations, 439–440

Martial, 439, 478, 480 Epigrams, 478 Maurice, 556, 585, 625 Strategikon, 556, 585 Memnon, 181, 228, 232 History of Heracleia, 228 Mnesimachus, 229 Philip, 229 Naevius, Gnaeus, 250, 262, 271– 272, 288, 624 The Punic War, 288 ‘Oath of Dreros, The’, 228 ‘Oath of Plataea, The’, 162 Origen, 508, 531, 533–535, 537, 539, 556, 585 Against Celsus, 533, 535, 537 Commentaries in the epistles of St Paul, 585 Exhortation to Martyrdom, 539 Orosius, 568–569, 589, 595, 608, 618, 672, 676, 696 History, 589, 595, 608 Ovid, 370, 375–376, 378, 400, 413– 415, 425–426, 428, 488, 664, 672, 684 The Erotic Poems (Amores), 414– 415 Fasti, 425, 428 Metamorphoses, 370, 375–376, 378, 413, 488 Tristia, 426 Panegyrici Latini, 518, 523, 525– 526, 541, 570, 576, 695 ‘Parian Marble, The’, 215 Paulinus of Nola, 570, 604 Letters of St  Paulinus of Nola, 604 Pausanias, 87, 167–168, 214, 232, 235, 246, 628 Description of Greece, 168, 232, 235 Petronius, 440, 478–480, 651, 661, 705 The Satyricon, 440, 478–479

719

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES

Philostratus of Athens, 517 Gymnasticus, 517 Philostratus and Eunapius, 714 The Lives of the Sophists, 714 Pindar, 130, 134–135 The Odes, 134–135 Plato, 76, 78, 92, 103, 148, 155, 190, 192–193, 195–196, 198–199, 295, 321, 623, 703 ‘Laches’, 193 Laws, 78, 155, 189, 191–192 ‘Phaedo’, 190 The Republic, 92, 148, 190, 195– 196 ‘The Symposium’, 193 Plautus, 271, 289–295, 414, 688, 711 Amphytrio, 292 Bacchides, 291, 294 The Forgery (Curculio), 291 Persa, 291 The Prisoner, 292 Pseudolus, 291–292 The swaggering soldier, 289–291, 711 Truculentus, 290 Pliny the Elder, 295, 431, 467, 476, 680 Natural History, 431, 467, 476 Pliny the Younger, 449, 466, 477 Letters, 477 Panegyric in Praise of Trajan, 449 Panegyrics, 466 Plotinus, 510 The Enneads, 510 Plutarch, 59, 80, 85, 87, 89, 93, 108, 111–112, 132, 139, 148, 162– 163, 182, 191, 198, 213–214, 216, 225–226, 230, 234, 243, 247–248, 254, 263, 281, 299, 314, 336, 338, 348–349, 358, 437, 454, 492–495, 497, 505, 635, 650, 697, 706 ‘Life of Aemilius Paullus’, 299, 349 ‘Life of Agesilaus’, 111, 162

‘Life of Alexander’, 112, 230, 234, 437 ‘Life of Aristides’, 87 ‘Life of Caesar’, 314 ‘Life of Camillus’, 494 ‘Life of Cato the Elder’, 495 ‘Life of Cato the Younger’, 314 ‘Life of Coriolanus’, 281, 494 ‘Life of Crassus’, 348 ‘Life of Demetrius’, 225 ‘Life of Demosthenes’, 214 ‘Life of Galba’, 495 ‘Life of Gracchus’, 494 ‘Life of Lycurgus’, 85, 132, 148, 162 ‘Life of Marcellus’, 495 ‘Life of Nicias’, 191 ‘Life of Pericles’, 163, 182 ‘Life of Pyrrhus’, 226, 247–248 ‘Life of Sertorius’, 454 ‘Life of Sulla’, 336 ‘Life of Theseus’, 108 ‘On the Fortune or Virtue of Alexander the Great’, 243 Polyaenus, 219, 311, 438, 450–451, 453, 629 Stratagems, 311, 451, 453 Polybius, 81, 83–84, 88, 93, 139, 143, 153–154, 194, 211, 213, 215–218, 220–224, 228–230, 233–234, 238, 249, 264–270, 273, 276–280, 282–286, 293, 296–297, 300, 303–306, 308– 309, 319, 330, 336, 342, 352, 357, 361, 366–367, 382–384, 397, 404–405, 419–421, 423– 424, 456, 477, 497, 505, 566, 574, 624, 626–627, 629, 657, 665, 668, 670–671, 690, 703, 709–710 The Histories, 81, 83–84, 88, 143, 154, 211, 217–218, 220, 223–224, 228–231, 268, 276–277, 280, 282–283, 285–286, 297, 303–304, 336, 383, 405, 420, 424, 566 Possidius, 582, 599–600

720

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES

Life of St Augustine, 582 Propertius, 370, 387, 392, 401, 414, 425, 496, 674, 683, 706 The Poems, 387, 392, 414, 425 Prosper of Aquitaine, 569 Chronicle, 569 Prudentius, 569–570, 585–586, 589– 590, 595, 597 Contra Symmachum, 590, 595, 597 Psychomachia, 586 Publius Syrus, 348 Sententiae, 348 Q uintilian, 309 Institutio Oratoria (Institutes of Oratory), 309 Rufinus, 568, 584, 590–591, 595, 601 Ecclesiastical History, 590–591 Rufus, Q uintus Curtius, 112, 140, 213, 506 The History of Alexander, 112 Sallust, 281, 307–308, 313–314, 318, 320, 326, 328–330, 332, 334, 342, 348, 357–358, 361– 362, 384, 423, 469, 476, 488, 574, 608, 619, 630, 675, 677, 687, 697, 703, 712–713 Catiline’s War, 281, 308, 318, 320, 328, 357–358, 488 The Jugurthine War, 313–314, 318, 328–330, 332, 334 Histories, 348, 476 Salvian, 568, 592 On the Government of God, 592 ‘Select Epigrams from the Greek Anthology’, 136 Seneca, 360, 374, 439, 446, 448– 450, 452, 454, 456–457, 467– 468, 485, 488, 491–492, 661, 685 ‘On Anger’, 454, 457 The Apocolocyntosis of the Divine Claudius, 485

‘Consolation to Helvia’, 468 Letters from a Stoic, 449–450 ‘On Mercy’, 446 Octavia, 492 ‘On the Shortness of Life (De Brevitate Vitae)’, 488 ‘On the Tranquillity of the Mind’, 449 Selected Letters, 488, 492 Sidonius Apollinaris, 563–564, 570, 586–588 Panegyric to Anthemius, 587 Panegyric to Avitus, 587 Silius Italicus, 439, 495–496 The Punica, 496 Simonides, 130, 133, 136–137, 176, 623 ‘Fragments’, 137 Socrates Scholasticus, 568, 590–591, 687 Ecclesiastical History, 568, 590– 591 Sozomen, 568, 590–591, 602, 687 Ecclesiastical History, 568, 590– 591, 602 Strabo, 149, 214, 254, 420, 431– 432, 468 Geography, 420, 431 Suda, s.v. Basileia, 2, 226 Suetonius, 247, 257, 338, 382, 411, 437, 449, 451, 476, 484–486, 497 Lives of Eminent Grammarians, 257 The Twelve Caesars, 247, 449, 451, 476, 484, 486 Sulpicius Severus, 571, 592, 610 The Life of St  Martin of Tours, 610 Chronicle, 592 Symmachus, 522–523, 588, 597 Relationes, 523 Tacitus, 313, 403, 411, 437–438, 443–444, 449, 451–457, 459, 464, 466–470, 475–477, 480– 486, 488–489, 499, 520, 574,

721

INDEX OF PRIMARY SOURCES

619, 634, 656–657, 666, 684– 685, 691–693, 696, 703, 708 Agricola, 454, 470, 480, 484– 485 The Annals of Imperial Rome, 437, 443, 449, 452–453, 455–456, 459, 464, 466, 469–470, 475, 477, 481– 482, 484, 486 Germania, 452 The Histories, 453, 455–456, 469, 488–489 Tatian, 534, 683, 510, 531 Address to the Greeks, 531 Terence, 271, 289, 676 The Self-tormentor, 289 Tertullian, 508, 531–537, 540, 551, 556, 638, 640, 644–645, 650– 651, 693, 700 Apologeticum, 508, 532, 534, 536–537 De Corona Militis (The Chaplet), 532 Treatise on Idolatry, 532, 535 Thebaid, The, 126, 439, 489 Themistius, 389, 565, 574, 591 Oratio 16, 591 Theocritus, 245 Idylls, XVII, 245 Theodoretus, 568, 590, 687 Ecclesiastical History, 568, 590 Thucydides, 37, 82, 85, 88–90, 100, 139, 143–146, 157–160, 167, 175, 184, 190–191, 267 History of the Peloponnesian War, 37, 82, 85, 88–90, 143–146, 159–160, 167, 175, 184, 190– 191 Tibullus, 401–402, 426–427 The Elegies, 401, 426 Tyrtaeus, 102, 130, 133–137, 168, 623, 689 ‘Fragment 6D’, 134 ‘Fragment 10’ (‘Martial Elegy’), 134, 136 ‘Fragments 11 and 12’, 137

Ulpian, 517 Digesta, 517 Valerius Maximus, 299, 448 Memorable Deeds and Sayings, 448 Vegetius, 311, 336, 445, 464, 565, 576, 580–581, 585, 657, 665, 676, 688, 693 Epitome of Military Science (De re militari), 311, 464, 565, 576, 580–581, 585 Velleius Paterculus, 367–368, 385, 388, 394–395, 398–399, 406, 412–413, 422–423, 432, 442– 443, 452–453, 489, 630 History of Rome, 385, 394–395, 399, 406, 412–413, 422– 423, 443, 452–453, 489 Virgil, 272, 369, 376–378, 385–387, 390, 392, 396, 399–400, 402, 424–426, 433, 439, 446, 461, 491, 496, 627, 680, 685, 691, 697, 699, 708 The Aeneid, 376–378, 385, 387, 390, 392, 396, 399–400, 424–425, 461, 627 The Georgics, 386, 446, 491 Vitruvius, 295, 467 De Architectura (The Architecture), 467 Xenophon, 78–79, 82, 89–90, 100, 139, 152–153, 155–157, 166, 168, 190, 209, 218, 230, 487 The Education of Cyrus (Cyropaedia), 79, 155, 166, 168, 487 A  History of My Times (Hellenica), 78, 82, 89, 153, 156– 157 The Persian Expedition (Anabasis), 90, 155, 487 Zosimus, 566, 574, 588 History, 566, 574, 588

722

INDEX OF CULTURAL PARAMETERS

agonal warfare, 27, 74–77, 79–80, 83, 86, 90–91, 95, 115, 143, 164, 166–167, 172, 175, 197, 199, 212, 220–221, 312, 633 bravery, 95, 105–107, 111, 116, 118, 131, 134, 141, 197–198, 216, 220, 246, 258–259, 277, 279, 281, 283, 334, 338, 344, 362, 393, 395–396, 452, 463, 468, 493–494, 622–625, 629 Christian (war) discourse, 436, 505, 512, 530–531, 537, 540, 545, 554, 556–558, 573, 589, 593– 595, 603, 612, 628, 633 civil war, 138, 184, 192, 317, 319– 320, 325, 333, 348, 351, 360, 362, 373–374, 384–386, 388, 409, 412, 422, 424, 436, 439, 445, 478, 487–491, 497, 514, 545, 562 commemoration, 50, 91, 95, 107, 111, 130, 141, 164, 166–168, 172, 176, 197–198, 212, 216, 233, 235–238, 293 competition, 48–49, 63, 74, 87, 91, 93, 95–97, 102, 130, 141, 148, 164–166, 171, 197–201, 212, 217, 233–235, 246, 263, 281, 286, 303, 326, 349, 369, 476, 494, 622, 628, 633, 635 conquest, 18, 34, 36, 57, 70, 102, 150, 156, 210, 220, 223–224, 230, 233, 243, 247–248, 257,

270, 273, 291, 293, 297, 299, 302–305, 311, 327, 331, 342, 352, 354, 356–363, 372–374, 384–385, 390–391, 393, 401, 403, 407–408, 413, 415, 419– 425, 427–433, 454, 458, 460, 462, 465–472, 475, 477–478, 480–481, 483, 485–486, 499, 532, 546, 580–581, 595, 616, 619, 628–635 courage, 18, 33–34, 43, 68, 76, 93–95, 105–107, 131–135, 141, 158–162, 168, 172, 189, 192– 194, 197–198, 216–218, 233, 241, 259, 272, 277, 280–281, 283–285, 339, 344, 391, 395, 439, 454, 474, 485, 495, 517, 526, 546, 576, 597, 580–581, 584, 605, 622–625, 633 destiny, 144, 150, 250, 274, 287, 373–383, 387, 392, 425, 432, 467, 622, 633 disciplina, 18, 34, 57, 258–259, 273– 274, 278–280, 286, 288, 293, 306, 327–328, 333, 338–340, 342, 373, 394, 397, 402–403, 433, 448–449, 487, 497, 572–573, 575–577, 619, 622–625, 635 divine intervention, 95, 115, 117, 120–121, 123, 199, 611 Greek superiority, 95, 141–142, 155, 157, 181, 190, 197, 212, 227–228, 239, 626, 634

723

INDEX OF CULTURAL PARAMETERS

honor, 32, 34, 40, 48, 52, 76, 81, 93, 95, 106, 109–110, 114, 116, 131–133, 136–137, 139, 141, 143, 158–160, 162–166, 168, 175, 177, 187, 189–194, 198, 216–217, 224, 234, 263, 282– 283, 328, 335, 345–346, 348– 349, 351, 394, 406, 416–417, 447–448, 456, 464, 474, 481, 509, 570, 583, 607, 623, 636 just war, 35, 57, 103, 216, 220, 223, 312, 316, 321–324, 326–327, 345, 374, 383, 531, 555, 571, 573, 581, 594, 603–608, 618– 619, 622, 633 liberty, 43, 59, 141–145, 147–148, 157, 162, 172, 178–179, 187, 197, 199, 212, 223, 227–228, 292, 315, 318, 347, 374, 415, 454–456, 468, 484, 622–623, 625–628, 633 military excellence, 106, 108, 164, 194, 198, 212, 216, 218, 225, 233, 235, 280, 522–523, 622, 624, 629 pagan tradition, 513, 522, 529, 553, 566, 572–573, 589 patria, 18, 57, 139, 273–275, 277– 279, 285, 290, 320, 373, 388, 390–395, 402, 433, 623, 625– 628, 633 Roman superiority, 258, 295, 297, 343, 347, 403, 405–407, 433, 451, 457, 462, 470, 568, 573, 577, 580

the two faces of war, 77, 95, 123, 129, 181, 197 victory, 18, 36, 57, 80, 84, 86–87, 100, 102, 112, 120–121, 123–124, 129, 135, 149, 167, 175–176, 181, 194, 212, 215–216, 220, 224, 235, 238–242, 245–247, 252, 259, 266, 271, 273, 282, 286, 291–294, 297–303, 306, 311, 319, 329, 335, 342, 346– 352, 354, 356, 359, 361, 363, 365, 372–373, 375, 378, 392– 393, 396, 403–404, 407–408, 410–419, 422, 425, 427–428, 430–433, 441, 451, 453, 458, 462–466, 470, 472, 475–477, 486, 497, 511–513, 518–526, 528–530, 540–541, 544–551, 557, 568, 570, 576, 580–581, 587–588, 590–591, 597, 607, 609–610, 612, 614–617, 619, 623, 628–631, 633–636 virtus, 18, 34, 57, 258, 263–264, 272–274, 278–291, 293, 295, 299, 306, 327–329, 333–334, 338–342, 353, 362, 373, 379, 385, 393–397, 399, 401–403, 426, 433, 447–448, 452, 456, 471–473, 475, 486–487, 492– 498, 513, 517–521, 525, 527, 529–530, 557, 572–573, 575– 578, 611–612, 619, 622–626, 635

724